145 Terra (20)

No words can describe this melee—at least not Gabriel Santo. ♨🐺 🍬💋

He twisted his waist, propelling his arms, and swung his Warhammer, smashing the heads of several zombies. This wasn't his first time fighting these creatures, but it was the first time he found them difficult to handle. Their heads were far harder than before; even the power of the Thunder Hammer couldn't destroy them in a single blow.

But he had no time to think. He quickly turned around and stood next to a Psyker with a White Scars. They had their own name, Storm Seer, but Gabriel preferred to simply categorize them as Psyker.

So many different kinds of psychic powers, each manifesting in different ways, but aren't they all ultimately psychic powers? Just like the killing right now, he used a hammer, while that person used lightning, but they arrived at the same goal through different means.

Blue light flashed in the Storm Seer's eyes. He roared, and his hands suddenly became as bright as daylight. Terrifying chain lightning bolts shot out from between his fingers. At first, they were just electric currents, but they quickly formed a true storm.

Where lightning raged, countless zombies were reduced to corpses, yet even more bodies swarmed in from the darkness.

"Get up!" Gabriel pulled the Storm Seer, who had collapsed to his knees from exhaustion, to his feet. "Get up, Yesugei!"

The Storm Seer looked up at him with a deep gaze, blood flowing from his nose.

The White Scars Psyker enjoy a quiet reputation within the Imperium. Although few people have had much interaction with these mystics among mystics, it is a consensus that they are different from ordinary Psyker or Librarian.

Thousand Sons had once commented that they had bound themselves, and only now did Gabriel realize the regret hidden behind those words.

"I suggest you turn back," said the Storm Seer, the blue light in his eyes still undiminished.

The company Iron Hands, his face grim, threw him down and, without hesitation, turned and swung his hammer—bang!

In the strong wind, a vile beast bit the hammerhead, its six sharp spikes on its abdomen menacingly raised towards him.

Its power was truly immense, and the quality of its flesh and blood was far beyond that of ordinary Daemon. Even Thunder Hammer was temporarily locked in a stalemate with it, but Gabriel remained calm and composed, simply releasing his grip and drawing his plasma from his waist to fire a shot.

He was no longer surprised by such changes; he was the kind of person who wouldn't fail a second time.

"Yesugei!" he roared, and the plasma blasted a hole through the thing's head.

The Storm Seer charged at him from behind, no longer using psionic energy—he had used too much, otherwise why would he be so weak? He swung his scimitar, unleashing a series of truly storm-like slashes that shattered the Daemon's head.

The Thunder Hammer fell straight down, Yesugei's left hand. He turned around and, using the recoil, quickly threw the Thunder Hammer into the air. Gabriel spontaneously spun around, starting to spin back-to-back with him, his plasma firing thirteen times in a row without overheating.

As if he had foreseen this, he raised his right hand, caught his weapon, and then brought it down with one hand.

"Boom--!"

With a sound like a bomb exploding, the immense kinetic energy that had been building up raged violently in the darkness, and the brilliant light it emitted even caught the attention of Ferrus Manus on the other side of the battlefield.

He certainly hadn't expected his company commander to cooperate so seamlessly with the White Scars' Librarian, but now wasn't the time to concern himself with that. That thing—the thing the snake demon called its master—had been mentioned for thirty minutes, and He had even been mentioned.

Ferrus already had a guess in his mind, but they still needed to hold out for those thirty minutes before He actually arrived.

Countdown: 25:05

"What are your plans, brother?" Ferrus asked.

"No," Jaghatai said. "At least not now."

The Khan squinted, his White Tiger Dao spinning and slashing, creating a hellish scene. Countless Daemon had perished under his blade in the past few minutes.

Absolute precision, absolute speed, like a proud eagle constantly swooping down from the sky to attack its prey; its sharp talons can take a life with just a light touch.

He was fast enough, fast enough to dazzle, but compared to the obscene things constantly emerging from the swirling pink mist, he wasn't fast enough.

The Khan, of course, did not understand what was happening, nor did he hear the words of the shadowy figure—but Ferrus knew, Iron Hands understood, that thing was desperately trying to tilt the battle in the direction it desired.

He couldn't help but look up to the other side, just in time to see a wisp of burning flame drifting and landing on the shoulder of a strong arm.

The pink fingers turned slightly white at the tips, and a curved blade slashed down straight towards the Chemos man's head without mercy.

Fulgrim defended with his sword held horizontally, the tip slightly wobbling, deflecting the blade, and then launched a fierce thrust with his backhand. However, at the same moment, three other blades thrust forward, forcefully blocking the Sword of Wrathful Flame.

A contest of strength naturally ensued, as a pair of moist, agate-like eyes began to gaze into another pair of dry, cracked, burning eyes.

"I can't believe it," the beautiful snake demon suddenly spoke, her scent as intoxicating as orchids, her voice like an alluring melody. "I can actually be so righteous?"

"This is not justice," Fulgrim corrected him, seemingly patiently.

"Really? What is that?"

The phoenix did not answer, but simply rotated its wrist and took a step forward.

Offense and defense occurred simultaneously in an instant. The sword spun, actively withdrawing from the struggle. Raging flames surged, engulfing the three blades and forcing them out of the duel. He then exerted force again, the sword tip piercing through his body, the Sword of Wrathful Flame cruelly piercing the serpent demon's chest.

"Ah," it vomited blood, sighing, whispering, praying. "I feel no joy. I have killed myself! My lord, what are you thinking?"

The phoenix ignored its blasphemous words, and simply rotated its wrist again—the basic principle of wielding a sword: swing the arm, rotate the wrist, move the feet. Every step was so important, every part indispensable.

With a simple backslash, the phoenix severed the snake demon's head.

But it still didn't die.

The flesh and blood quietly healed, and it turned around leisurely. Its lips, covered in its own blood, curved slightly, revealing a slightly jealous smile.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" it suddenly asked. "Look at me like this, why don't you cherish yourself? Stop fighting me, go out and save your Imperium or your brothers."

"You degenerate bastard, you're not fit to teach me anything," Phoenix replied calmly. "Your appearance is utterly repulsive."

"No, I'm serious."

It said, its expression suddenly turning serious. The four hands then released their grip, letting the blade fall to the ground.

"Russ was trying to get himself killed. When Jaghatai was besieged by Horus's fleet, it was Ruth who quietly boarded the ship from the rear, giving Horus a new kind of amusement. Otherwise, why do you think he would let Jaghatai go? He is no longer the glorious man you and I know, just like me."

It raised its hand, began to cry again, and covered its face.

"Let me die, let me die!" it howled at the darkness. "My lord, why are you so cruel! You take away my pleasure, take away my depravity, take away everything from me, leaving me only with the purest love, forcing me to grieve and be consumed by sorrow!"

Phoenix's cheek twitched.

He could not bear it any longer—he could no longer bear it. The vision he had seen in the ocean of Vengeful Spirit now appeared before him in an even more horrifying way: a corrupted version of himself.

Although he had anticipated its appearance, and it had even appeared in his dreams several times, turning peaceful meditative dreams into nightmares, he was still filled with uncontrollable rage when he actually faced such a thing.

Perhaps you're just afraid.

Four hands quietly opened, and through the gaps between the fingers, a pair of agate-like eyes silently gazed at him.

"But you don't have to be like me. You can never be like me again," it said quietly. "I am a product of error, a monster repeatedly defeated by desire. You are not. You have conquered yourself, Fulgrim."

The phoenix cleaved down its raging flames.

Its head lolled to the side, and a horrific wound appeared on the serpent demon's tall, kneeling body. It remained quietly in place, awaiting death—and then, once again, its wound healed.

"You can't kill me," it said with a mournful laugh. "None of you can kill me. My master is watching this place. There are probably only two ways for me to die: either wait for Him to arrive, or please Him."

"I choose the third option," Fulgrim replied.

Once again—he did it knowing it was impossible.

He has done this many times before.

Phoenix did the same thing back on the Vengeful Spirit, and what were the consequences of his actions?

Angron severed his own arm, and his father, brothers, and sisters all perished. Kolaus Corax pleaded earnestly, expressing his own pain. And then there was the passing of Horus Lupercal's last remaining soul.

The same thing happened on the way back to Terra. He repeatedly asked to join the battle while still recovering from his serious injuries, but time and again, because his movements slowed down, he watched his offspring die before his eyes in order to avoid being injured.

If one has the strength or will, to do something knowing it's impossible is courage. If not, it's foolishness, incompetence, and an unforgivable incompetence.

It is Fulgrim of Chemos.

But not now. He has power—even if it means trading his remaining life and soul for it, he is willing. He can no longer bear the pain of watching everything happen helplessly.

He knew he was going crazy, and he knew the obvious illogicality in his thinking; he had refuted himself hundreds of times. He tried to convince himself: You haven't done anything wrong, you deserve to be forgiven.

However, no.

He couldn't forgive himself, otherwise he would be something even lower than trash. Otherwise, he would never dare to face the departed souls again, never dare to walk with his head held high.

Go ahead and be crazy.

Phoenix grinned maliciously, suddenly releasing his grip, and the giant sword vanished. He charged forward, grabbing the snake demon by the throat, his eyes blazing, and Black Rage erupting from him, almost forming a surging shadow behind him.

Once again, the unjustly killed reached out their arms, willingly offering fragments of bone to Fulgrim's head. And this time, no matter how much Laerhe roared, they did not stop.

Because this time, it was the agent of Vengeance who took the initiative to request it.

Laerhe despairingly realized that it couldn't stop it—in fact, it even began to passively contribute to the ritual.

Power responds to all calls; it cannot defy power; it is born of its own will and that of someone, both of whom are masters.

This means that it will break its promise.

I'm going to kill you.

Fulgrim was completely unaware of this, or rather, he heard Laerhe's screams but chose not to pay attention. He simply leaned close to the basilisk's ear and whispered.

I will kill you here.

What is it?

The serpent demon panted, its long pink tongue lolling out, its eyes rolling upwards. It couldn't utter the next two words; Fulgrim choked them back with his hands.

Flames climbed down his hands and began to scorch the snake demon's body. However, this was merely an outward manifestation. The true act of slaughter was still carried out by those savage hands.

Death by suffocation is almost a form of punishment, originating from humanity's ancient past. Countless Vengeance have used this method to kill their enemies, and now, it's Fulgrim's turn.

--If that hand that belongs to Ferrus Manus doesn't reach out.

Countdown: 18:25

"Stop, Fulgrim," Ferrus Manus said sternly, carrying the Forgebreaker. "Don't do that."

I have to do it.

"Listen to him, put his hand down, Fulgrim!" Jaghatai roared from a short distance away, his greatsword still flashing in his hand. "I don't know what's going on, but you'd better not act rashly!"

"And what do you know, Jaghatai?" Phoenix asked with a bitter laugh. "Have you experienced what I've experienced?"

"Of course I don't know what you've been through—" the Khan laughed angrily. "But I know you're a willful bastard! You always do what you want, and every time you do, it causes something bad!"

"You're right, but not this time, Jaghatai, believe me," Phoenix insisted, her voice almost a whisper. "Believe me."

His hands were still exerting force, and the crown was about to heal. Laerhe cried out for help helplessly—though it was Daemon, it was born knowing the weight of oaths.

Seeing that it was about to be crushed by the terrible weight, Ferrus Manus came to its aid. He couldn't hear Laerhe's cries for help, but he could clearly and simply judge the current situation. After all, in the days since returning to Terra, Fulgrim had not hidden anything.

Therefore, Iron Hands's solution to this matter was actually quite simple: he simply took a step back, raised the Forgebreaker, and smashed it onto the snake demon's head.

Blood and flesh splattered everywhere.

"No!" Fulgrim roared. "No!"

Iron Hands glanced at him, said nothing, simply kicked away the healing corpse, and pulled Fulgrim up from the ground. He then threw a punch, pulled him up again, and then threw another punch.

Phoenix looked at him, bewildered and hurt.

"The first punch was for you betraying the perfect path we both chose," Ferrus said calmly. "The second punch was simply because I couldn't stand by and watch you, you fool."

But I--

"--Shut up!" Ferrus cursed. "Summon your damn sword and then survive the remaining seventeen minutes!"

But... however.

Fulgrim's lips trembled with helplessness, yet he instinctively summoned the greatsword. It felt almost tangible, its heavy weight suddenly entering his hand, instantly bringing him back to his senses.

"Stop with the 'buts,' damn it!" Ferrus cursed again, but stood behind him. "Don't betray my armor."

A sigh came from not far away, and the snake demon slowly stood up, looking at them with jealousy.

The surroundings were chaotic, yet this place was deliberately left blank. The Daemon summoned by the power of the Slaanesh obeyed their master's will and did not interrupt this spur-of-the-moment, yet meticulously prepared drama.

A rotting giant wanted to join the battle, but its body, which had only recently recovered from the putrid miasma, was completely unable to advance through the barrage of bombs from the White Scars.

It could only stand there in a rage, clumsily wielding its scythe to push the zombies forward, using it as its own shield, completely forgetting that it could easily use the power of the plague to destroy White Scars's defenses.

Amidst the Chaos tide, the obese and decaying sighed helplessly.

"Stubborn," He remarked, yet made no other move, surprisingly amiable.

To this, the Slaanesh laughed gleefully—"Yes, yes, don't spoil my fun."

What war? What Terra? It's all just a part of a drama. He's already a god, victory is within his grasp, so naturally I'll enjoy it to the fullest.

His body's heart began to beat, a long-dormant throbbing compelled it to pound. He knew what this feeling was—fear.

He naturally felt no fear, but His body would experience something different. His personal presence, which would normally be a casual act, now brought a completely new kind of enjoyment.

In just over ten minutes, the pleasure He derived from this mortal body was far more stimulating than the dull enjoyment He had experienced over the past thousands of years.

Come quickly! He laughed maniacally at the darkness and called out. Come and kill my body, come and tear open my chest, gouge out my heart, devour my flesh and blood, eat me dry bit by bit, and make me your food!

Bliss. He thought so, and trembled as he shed a pool of meandering, foul blood.

In the far reaches of darkness, a god, stripped of his human skin and reduced to mere bones, walks towards us.

He is not in a hurry, for he feels almost no emotion, only pure tranquility. Fear rejoices in his hands, celebrating its return, but He pays no heed. He is the god of hatred and Vengeance, the Throne a testament to eternal power, and fear is not contained within him.

So, why could He use it?

The answer may lie with the Winter Armor, known as Blade, and with an Ancient Terra who is burning his own power.

This chapter is 5k words, I owe 1k more, I'll pay it back tomorrow. I have to get up at noon to attend a banquet, so I can't write anymore.

Oh, right, please quickly check out the setting guide created by the author, Geisha, for this book. It includes everything from the specific settings of the Night Lords Clan to the various world-building introductions currently being written. The former is in the book review section, and the latter is in the setting guide on the book details page.

Thank you all for your support!