154 Terra (25)

Without warning, without any credible evidence, but Fenris's Wild Bear knew immediately—or rather, Fenris's Bjorn knew immediately. 🍓 ⋆ 🍦 🎀 🎀 🍦 ⋆ 🍓

He learned something, but what language could describe it?

Confused, he drew his fist blade, but the battle axe in his right hand still swung with undiminished force, cruelly severing a helmeted head. The crimson headless corpse immediately trembled and knelt down.

Blood splattered, Bjorn staggered back two steps, experiencing a startled hallucination. He felt as if he were standing on water, not in this dark ruin filled with traitors and Daemon.

A thin mist was emanating from all around, not the foul-smelling mist from Warp, but rather the mist that belonged to early morning or dusk.

The fog of rebirth and end.

He looked down and indeed saw a patch of water, but he also saw his own face reflected in the water—a bloodstained face with furrowed brows.

Then, a sharp pain struck him, not the kind of pain from muscle spasms or a sudden malfunction of an organ. If he had to describe it, it was as if someone were piercing his chest with Lightning Claw.

Why Lightning Claw?

Bjorn howled, tears streaming down his face, overwhelmed with grief as if he were witnessing his father's death—and indeed he was. He collapsed to his knees, his head bowed uncontrollably, gurgling in his throat as he trembled like someone having an epileptic seizure.

In this torment, he suddenly saw four gleaming claws protruding from his chest, and then an idea came to him.

An idea that came from who-knows-where, yet was extremely serious and earnest.

Leman Russ Russ's ideas.

And there's the voice of Leman Russ Russ.

"I know I'm wrong and I'll correct it, but I can't right now. What will you all do after I'm gone? Who will take my place? Ah, whatever you do, don't let Gunnar come. That stubborn, honor-obsessed bastard will probably take you all on a hunt all over the galaxy."

"But I don't want that, please don't. Wolves don't mourn the dead. Their purpose is to protect each other, to survive in the harsh cold, so that the pack can continue. So, who will?"

"No, no, never mind, it's none of my business. You can decide for yourselves. But—"

A moment of silence followed.

Bjorn slowly raised his head and saw Leman Russ Russ.

"--Don't be sad." He said to Bjorn with his head bowed, his voice peaceful as if he were a different person. "Remember to tell my story, for I will return. See you next winter."

Snowflakes were falling in his eyes, the snow of Fenris. As he had said, Bjorn obeyed the command. He felt no sadness, no anger, not even mourning; he simply bowed his head and uttered indistinct sounds.

"See you next winter!" he shouted, suppressing all his emotions. "See you next winter, Russ! See you next winter!"

The illusion vanished at a speed far beyond what ordinary people could comprehend. Bjorn silently shook his head, then suddenly rolled over instinctively, dodging a burst of bullets aimed at him.

He struggled to his feet, but the ground was still trembling—not because of the ground, but Bjorn himself. He couldn't stand; extreme sorrow and fear rushed in from the darkness, like a bloodthirsty wolf biting into his throat.

He can cover them up, but they won't disappear. "I'm sorry, Russ, but I know I'm wrong, "Bjorn thought.

And so, everything began to slowly disappear at that moment.

Memory, reason, thought, even his own name—in the intense pain, he even lost his name. He roared at an unbelievable volume, his teeth clenched tightly, veins bulging on his neck.

Instinct began to drive this strong, savage body toward the direction of the gunshot. A fist thrust forward, cruelly slicing open the chest of something. Blood smeared his face and eyes, turning everything crimson, and then came more carnage.

In the blood, he heard Fenris's wolf howl. He listened and listened and listened until the howling stopped, Bjorn barely manage to retrieve his name.

At that moment, he discovered that there were already twelve corpses lying around him.

Or rather, thirteen bodies, because one of them is still alive.

He was cut in half at the waist, his overly young face filled with terror, as if he had witnessed something incomprehensible. Bjorn exhaled a breath of air tinged with blood, then suddenly realized there was something in his mouth.

He looked down and coughed up blood, which included some teeth and bits of flesh that appeared out of nowhere. His teeth were perfectly intact, meaning he had just bitten something.

The Space Wolves chuckled and walked toward the young man, but instead of killing him, he kicked away his weapon first. Then, he began to observe him closely, even sniffing him several times.

Ultimately, he came to the conclusion that this young man was not Word Bearers.

The Word Bearers are a group of fanatical religious fanatics, a group of highly trained and excellent warriors. They would never succumb to fear so easily. In fact, they are so fanatical that they don't even know what fear is.

Moreover, this person was too young; he even carried a scent that belonged only to mortals. Bjorn reached out and, amidst the other's screams, picked up a piece of internal organ, looking at his bones.

He weighed the spine on two fingers, then reached down and pulled the man's lower body, striking the crimson armor with his fist. After doing this, Bjorn raised his axe.

"Get away! Monster! Get away!" the young man cried. "Stay away from me."

"Defective product, shut up." Bjorn looked at him with amusement. "You can wear their armor, wear their coat of arms, but you are not them. I'm going to kill some real Word Bearers, you understand, traitor?"

He swung his axe.

Blood splattered as he stood up and began sniffing the darkness, trying to find the scent of the wolves.

It has always been this way; a member of a wolf pack never worries about one day being separated from the tribe—until now.

Bjorn realized with frustration that he could only smell the stench of the Warp; he couldn't track down his people. And a long time had passed since the Vengeful Spirit began their descent—at least a long time.

Wait, how much time has passed? Bjorn frowned.

"Time? Time?!" he growled again, sounding even more agitated.

He couldn't remain rational, for he realized that time had become chaotic. More importantly, where were the Sons of Horus? Where had those damned traitors gone?

We are in Terra, and so are they. They are here too.

"This can't be," Bjorn told himself. So he bent down and began searching for what he needed.

He found a Boltgun engraved with an eight-pointed star and three fully loaded magazines. Bjorn destroyed the mark with his fist and then walked into the darkness with the gun.

He was about to embark on a solo hunt, which didn't matter, because he was in Terra —he could never fight alone.

However, fate seemed to enjoy playing tricks on him.

Minutes, hours, or years after he began walking, Bjorn stopped. He saw a person struggling in the collapsed ruins.

He was blind, his eyelids drooping, and he was a rare Astartes blind man—he wasn't wearing armor, but a cloth robe, and he was doing his best to prop up his back to protect a book beneath him.

"Idiot!" Bjorn cursed, walked over and pulled him out, not forgetting to take the book out as well.

The blind man shakily steadied himself, panting for a few seconds before suddenly asking, "Wild Bear, is that you?"

"It's Bjorn."

"What?"

"It's Bjorn, the Wild Bear is Bjorn, you idiotic bookworm."

"No, you don't understand—" The blind man waved his arm, taking the book from his hand. "I swore an oath to Lord Russ that I would protect this book."

"So?"

The blind man turned his head blankly toward Bjorn.

"So?" Bjorn repeated, sounding impatient. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be on the ship?"

"Yes, that's how it should be, but..."

The blind man, or rather, Ahzek Ahriman of the Thousand Sons, slowly frowned.

"Something—no, Daemon. Daemon from the Warp attacked your ship. I can hear the sounds of battle everywhere. I wanted to join the fight, but a violent impact knocked me unconscious."

He shut his mouth, looking somewhat ashamed. Bjorn glanced down at the crippled Astartes; he hadn't held back when he struck, and now he didn't regret it, only feeling even more irritated.

"You're not fit for battle," he said coldly. "You're already a cripple."

Ahzek Ahriman opened his mouth, hesitated, and raised his hand. A bolt of lightning slowly flashed from his fingertips. It had barely taken shape when, less than half a second later, Bjorn kicked him to the ground, and an axe was already pressed against Ahzek Ahriman's neck.

"If you dare use it, I'll kill you right now," Bjorn said. "Don't forget why your father died."

"I want to help!" Ahzek Ahriman roared immediately. "I can help!"

"Come on," Bjorn scoffed. "Help? Have you forgotten what happened last time you helped? Your father's death and the destruction of your legion are both inextricably linked to you, you—"

"What are you doing?" a voice asked. "Hands up."

Bjorn whirled around and saw a tall warrior in blood-stained gold armor slowly approaching him from behind, sword in hand. But the one who spoke was not him, but another Astartes in tattered purple-gold armor.

The lone wolf, alone, narrowed his eyes, his nostrils twitching a few times, and suddenly asked, "Sol Tavitz? Sol Tavitz, the Emperor's Children?"

"That's right," the man said. "And who are you?"

Bjorn grinned.

"I've never fucking missed you proud bastards this much!" he laughed heartily. "I'm Bjorn! Bjorn of the Third Company of the Wolf Pack!"

There's one more chapter.