142 Terra (XVII)

Dissipate, everything is dissipating, becoming nothingness that cannot be observed or touched. ♤💚 ➅➈ 🍟🎅The light is swallowed up, then the shape, and the last thing that dissipates is the sound.

Amidst the deafening roar of the crashing warship, the world before Rogal Dorn began to distort.

He wasn't in the center of the fall, he was only on the edge, but the unexpected still found him. The stubborn rock stared as darkness descended, and then flames erupted.

The ground trembled. Obsidian, polished smooth enough to be used as a mirror, concealed the muddy flesh and blood. Narrow walls suddenly rose from the scattered dust, transforming into a narrow passageway that surrounded him. Mutated skulls hung on the stone walls, their tops wide open, torches stuck in them. A putrid stench began to spread from their burning.

Dorn looked down and saw a blurry silhouette.

The smooth obsidian reflected his image, creating a distorted and bizarre scene, with flames leaping on the wall and his appearance changing accordingly.

The skin dissolved, revealing its true form: a Daemon face with spiraling, menacing horns atop its head. A highly abstract skull symbol gleamed on its forehead, reaching deep into the bone marrow, its bloody light terrifyingly bright and crimson, its eyes like torches.

Dorn lifted his foot and ran over it.

A hoarse hissing sound came from the communication channel; someone was trying to contact him, but without success.

The instrument is reporting an error, and it has been doing so for a while now. Judging from the repeated error codes, there is only one reason why the communication line cannot be successfully established, and it is very simple—signal instability, nothing more.

Dorn didn't care about the matter and simply carried Storm's Teeth forward slowly.

This Chainsword came from his hometown of Inwit, and was patiently crafted in the snow and ice by hardworking and skilled craftsmen. It is a truly terrifying weapon.

Only the Primarch can wield such a massive weapon with one hand. Its teeth and motor are specially designed to tear apart almost anything, including Adamantium. Therefore, he has no worries if enemies appear.

Even though he is now all alone, even though the fortress he built has been completely destroyed.

Dorn recognized the crashed warship, and he could pinpoint its location. Its destination was the Imperial Palace, the entire Himalaya Mountains, and most of the continental plate occupied by the Imperial Palace.

It has fallen, so the Imperial Palace is now in ruins, and the carefully prepared fortifications and fortresses have naturally vanished into nothingness.

However, it doesn't matter.

He is the fortress. The last fortress.

Dorn turned around and smelled a stench far stronger than before.

"Hello, brother," Horus Lupercal greeted with a smile.

Wanshi slowly lowered the Chainsword from his hand.

"Hmm?" Horus raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Why did you lay down your weapon?"

Dorn stared at him indifferently, without saying a word. The contempt in his eyes was almost tangible.

"Ah, you're still so perceptive," Horus shook his head wistfully. "You know, Rogal? On the way back, I kept thinking about what had led us to this point, and I couldn't figure it out, but I saw you—or rather, you all."

"I saw Terra carnage on Terra before I even gave the order to crash it, even though we were floating in the Warp at the time—how could you let those civilians take up arms on the battlefield?"

He asked in a questioning tone, a hint of anger in his eyes.

"Where is your backbone, Rogal?" he asked. "This is a battle of honor, a battle for true warriors. I can tolerate you filling your battlefield with Imperialis Militia; they may be weak, but they are still a part of the war. But why are you dragging civilians into it?"

"Why not?" Dorn asked calmly.

What use are they in the war?

Horus returned the question in kind, and then immediately began to speak at length, as if he had not had such a peaceful conversation with anyone in a long time.

"Most of them don't even know how to shoot correctly, which is a complete waste of their weapons. Their tactical hand signals and tactical awareness are absolutely nonexistent, not to mention their terrible combat skills."

"You're basically sending them to their deaths, Rogal. You hand these civilians a gun and send them to the front lines to be killed in the most dangerous places. It's despicable, brother, absolutely despicable. This isn't something you would have done before. What have you been through?"

He asked the question sincerely, his eyes filled with regret.

His posture suggested he still considered himself an elder brother, a capable general. It was as if they weren't in a hellish place, fighting like brothers, but rather having a debate about war in a quiet room.

Just like before.

"Go to hell," Dorn replied with unusual calm.

The phantom of the fake object laughed and vanished. He turned around and continued on his way.

He had already learned from Fulgrim what had happened on the Vengeful Spirit: Horus Lupercal was long dead, his spirit, soul, and memories completely devoured by the evil beings in the Warp.

The thing that was standing opposite him and talking to him was just an imposter. Beneath its skin lay endless Chaos evil power.

You can easily detect this without seeing, smelling, or touching it.

But none of these things matter.

It can steal his brother's body, steal his name, steal everything he has. It can use this to wage war, displace countless people, and pulverize them in flames.

But Rogal Dorn will Vengeance his brother.

He will Vengeance Horus Lupercal.

In the darkness, the stubborn rock stands tall, walking alone.

--

"Frea Friel!" Fulgrim roared in anguish.

Then he swung his sword—the blazing blade swiftly and effortlessly cleaved dozens of Daemons in two at the waist. The flames immediately began to scorch their flesh, clinging to it and carrying their souls to the gods for Judgment.

Phoenix was still not satisfied with this.

His once flawless, pearl-like skin was now deathly pale, veins bulging on his face, his handsome features utterly distorted, devoid of any civilized elegance, only the savagery of violence.

He clenched his teeth, blood and saliva dripping from his mouth, like a mindless, raging beast. Rage boiled in his eyes, relentlessly burning his soul. His burning white hair spun with each step, ashes falling from the ends and floating upside down into the air.

The countless wronged souls, returning from hell, whispered, wailed, wept, screamed, urged, and roared in his ear.

Vengeance us, Vengeance us. This is your destiny.

So he roared out another name. §.•´¨'°÷•..× ×,.•´¨'°÷•.§

"Septatus!"

The sword blade struck, unleashing billowing black flames. The ground melted and cracked. Ghost crawled out from within, millions of skeletal hands holding jagged fragments of white bone.

They rose silently, raising their hands high, and handed the fragments from the depths of hell to the human world, placing them on the head of Fulgrim.

Just a hair's breadth away from placing these fragments on his head and forging a crown, but a wisp of darkness hidden inside the Phoenix Armor forcefully pushed them back into the world of the unjustly killed.

It roared at them menacingly, warning them not to do so, not to place the crown belonging only to the Vengeance on the head of the human named Fulgrim, even though it was still broken and not yet whole.

Although it also really wanted to see this scene, it had made a promise to Karyl Lohars, so it would definitely keep its promise.

The Ghost dispersed in disappointment. They were ultimately powerless against the Daemon named Laerhe.

Fulgrim, however, remained oblivious to this, continuing to uphold the oath he swore when he made the pact. He would Vengeance every wrongfully killed person until the end of time.

Their names flashed through his mind, and their grievances and endless resentment poured into his heart. Under such immense pressure, Phoenix had long forgotten where he was.

This is why he was indifferent to the fall of the Vengeful Spirit. If he had even a shred of lucidity, he would have noticed the change in his surroundings, but he couldn't bring himself to his senses.

He was already enveloped by a spiral of hatred.

Malcador was extremely disappointed by this.

The psychic energy of the Sigillites carried his soul, which drifted aimlessly. The fall of the Vengeful Spirit had only occurred a minute ago, yet he had already seen all of Terra and witnessed tens of thousands of deaths in that time, without even feeling any burden.

He had never used his psychic powers so boldly before. In the past, out of caution, he had always suppressed them. Until now, until his lord demanded it.

The Sigillites sighed and stretched out his hand, gently clenching his fist with an air of transcendence beyond the mundane world. A burst of psychic energy suddenly erupted, enough to briefly elevate a mortal to a higher realm, with half of the blue light mixed with gold.

Malcador watched this scene silently, knowing full well that his lord was still involved—he had asked him to stop interfering in these matters, but the giant in golden armor only weakly shook his head.

A burst of light, like the blazing sun meeting snow, melted away all the Daemon. Their flesh hissed, tumors grew from their bones, nerves spread, and their corpses surged and twisted, forming a huge web of flesh and blood.

They want to continue existing in this way until Malcador has to leave, so that they can continue to drag Fulgrim into Vengeance, preventing him from ever regaining his senses and from ever doing what he truly wants.

The Sigillites the seal narrowed his eyes, and the anger hidden deep in his heart finally erupted. Although it was only for a brief moment, it completely dissipated—but his power was ultimately insufficient to truly kill these evil spirits.

They are fragments of the gods, born to turn the world into hell. His current actions can only be considered as exorcising them.

But that's enough; he's bought himself some time.

The Sigillites clenched his fists again, digging deep into Fulgrim's heart with all his might, seeking only that last glimmer of clarity—his efforts were not in vain, for amidst a host of highly abstract and terrifying images, he found the Chemos.

He was in a dark corner, silently gazing into his memories. Before him lay a stone wall, on which various images flashed by: a blood-soaked giant furiously attacking another giant with an axe in one hand.

It was Angron, the Sigillites recognized him at a glance. He sighed, a bitter feeling welling up inside him. Although he already knew of the sacrifice of the Son of the Mountains, seeing it with his own eyes still shocked and saddened him.

"Fulgrim," the Sigillites called softly, "It's time for you to wake up."

The phoenix suddenly turned its head, its white hair flying wildly, and its eyes blazing with fury. Dark red and decadent black intertwined within the flames of fury, and not a trace of its former violet color remained.

He bared his teeth, and it took him a while to recognize Malcador. The man who was once as pure as a jewel now resembled a wild beast, utterly frenzied.

What happened?

He asked hoarsely, bloody tears slowly streaming from his eyes, sliding down to his chin and forming a winding trail of blood, like the terrifying patterns that ancient Norse berserkers of Terra would paint on their faces before going into battle.

The only difference is that berserkers do this to instill fear in their enemies, while Fulgrim does not.

He simply hated his own incompetence.

Malcador witnessed all of this, but offered no comment or advice, only a simple account.

"The Vengeful Spirit fell upon Terra, bringing with it Chaos sorcery. It was originally an altar, and now it resonates with Terra. It has merged with Terra, and is gradually becoming a part of Terra— "

"--Is it there too?" Fulgrim suddenly interrupted him. "Is it there, Malcador?"

"Yes, right here," the Sigillites truthfully reported. "In a few minutes, the Vengeful Spirit will be completely absorbed into Terra, altars overlapping each other, and from then on, there will be no more distinction between Terra and the Vengeful Spirit. But you will not be able to see it."

"Why?" Fulgrim asked.

His expression was calm, without the slightest dissatisfaction, as if he were asking an extremely simple question.

A bitter smile finally appeared on the face of the Sigillites.

"Because it doesn't want to," he said.

I will find it.

"No, you can't. And even if you could, you couldn't defeat it. It's the collective choice of four false gods, a Chaos gateway existing in our world. The current spiral of Vengeance, affecting the entire galaxy, was created by it; the spiral of hatred originated from it."

"So?"

"So you can't defeat it," Malcador said. "You need reason to fight it, just as a human needs reason to fight a beast. But the moment you see it, you'll completely lose your reason; the people who died unjustly will crush you."

Fulgrim remained silent for several seconds, tears of blood still streaming down his face, staining his withered lips. However, when the silence ended, he laughed.

"Perhaps, perhaps things really are as you say, Malcador. But you've got one thing wrong."

"What's up?"

"Humans do not fight wild beasts with reason," said the phoenix.

He raised his hands, black flames ignited, and a sharp blade materialized. A gust of wind swept in, ruffling his white hair, the ends of which flickered as if burning. In the blink of an eye, they were back in the real world.

Phoenix, panting, knelt on the ground, feeling an unprecedented weakness and a strange fullness.

His hands were so tired he could no longer lift them, yet the strength within his body seemed inexhaustible.

The more exhausted he felt, the more he could perceive that inhuman, icy power—like a call, earnestly urging him to shed his human skin, discard his memories and everything else, and become a true, mad beast existing solely for Vengeance.

No, not now. He told himself.

He looked up and saw a drifting Shadow.

"Malcador."

"I am here," the Sigillites replied, his voice slightly altered, but the Chemos seemed oblivious.

"How did it and Vengeful Spirit arrive in Terra?"

"They started preparing for the Warp jump long ago. They jumped directly from the far end of the Sol System to Terra's near-Earth orbit, and then began their descent."

"And it could never have come alone," Fulgrim muttered as he rose from the ground. "That means Terra will have to contend not only with its attack but also with attacks from the sky."

"I don't think we need to worry about that," Malcador said. "The Phalanx and the Emperor's Dream are already prepared, and the various cosmic defense lines that Rogal set up in advance can also be deployed to provide support."

Golden light dappled his eyes, and Fulgrim saw it clearly, making it impossible for him to remain calm any longer. He closed his eyes and bowed his head amidst the burning corpses.

"Father."

The light flashed and vanished in an instant, Malcador's form quietly dissipated, revealing his true appearance: a pair of tired and sorrowful eyes looking at the phoenix. The warm light shone on his shoulder, as if in response.

Fulgrim knew that the Sigillites had already departed the moment he was awakened, and that it was the Emperor answered those questions in his place.

"I'm so sorry, Father," the Chemos said with his eyes closed. "I've accomplished nothing; I've let everyone down."

"Don't blame yourself," said the Master of Mankind. "No one will blame you."

The phoenix did not answer, but simply reached out his hand, like a blind man seeking support. The Emperor instinctively extended his right hand, offering him support. The phoenix grasped that hand tightly, like a drowning man clutching a straw. He lowered his head, unwilling to say another word.

After a while, hot tears slowly fell.

"They're coming," The Emperor quietly, gently, yet with immense weakness. "Your brothers will be here soon, but I can't see where they are. Especially that reckless wolf, Russ, who should be following my orders but has broken free."

What did he do?

"Sacrifice," The Emperor said. "Perhaps."

"Then he's just like us, Father. I don't think you should blame Russ for this."

"I have never blamed him," said the Master of Mankind. "The mistake was my doing, and only I bear the responsibility—so, go ahead and kill, Fulgrim."

His support gradually faded into the distance, as did his voice, which resembled thunder above the clouds, containing boundless rage.

"Kill it," The Emperor commanded.

The phoenix opened its eyes and smelled a horrifying stench. In the darkness, colorful wing membranes slowly opened and vibrated.

Two cloudy white eyes appeared in the darkness, and a giant clad in rotting armor slowly emerged before him, a huge gash in his waist as if slashed. He seemed very weak and surprised to see Fulgrim here.

"Ah, this is beyond my expectations." He took a deep breath, a hoarse echo coming from the respirator, as if speaking from hell. "Brother, long time no see."

"Don't call me that." Phoenix raised her sword, black flames burning within.

"Why not?" Mortarion asked.

The phoenix answered with a sword.

This chapter is 5.3k words long, and there's one more chapter to go.