160 Terra (29)

Fafnir Lane has a question, and he's going to ask it directly. 🐝ൠ 😝🌷

"Where have the Sons of Horus gone?" he asked.

No one answered, so he used the axe in his right hand to lift up one of the Word Bearers who was not yet dead.

He bent down closer to him; the traitor's eyes were bloodshot, and his skin, covered in black dust, was streaked with congealed blood. A deep, bone-revealing tattoo gleamed quietly on his forehead.

Lann was enraged—in that instant, his anger surged, prompting him to throw the man back to the ground.

"And Horus Lupercal's pack of dogs?" he asked, using a more insulting term.

"Where are they, traitor?" he asked coldly. "Or are you just cannon fodder they've sent out yet again? It's astonishing how the Sons of Horus is known for the Imperium's tactical system—always sending allies to the front lines."

The man didn't answer, only breathing weakly. Blood foam seeped out from his tightly clenched teeth. He had no lips; the lower half of his face and a large chunk of flesh had been torn away by some kind of weapon, probably a chainsaw, but certainly not the two Power Axe in Lann's hands.

If it were him, he would have been more decisive; he wouldn't have given this traitor a chance to survive, and he had no interest in torture. But now is not the time to discuss whether morality and compassion should be involved in battle.

Therefore, when he asked the question again, it was still sincere and not out of any intention to amuse or insult.

Where have the Sons of Horus gone?

Then the Word Bearers winked at him.

"You'd never guess," he replied hoarsely, more blood and foam spilling from the corner of his mouth, accompanied by large clumps of pink bubbles and fragments of internal organs.

There was a strong sense of unwillingness on his face, and Lan En suddenly knew the answer.

"Cannon fodder." He laughed. "Is that really how it is?"

A fierce, cold wind swept past, and the black snow fell upon their heads, most of it blocked by a burning Titan. The small amount that fell melted into the scalding shell casings and muddy ground.

Corpses littered the ground, loyalists and traitors intertwined and dying together, seemingly indistinguishable at this moment. Regardless of the color of their armor, regardless of their bravery in life, they were now dead.

But in the realm of the dead, there will naturally be those who weigh their souls.

"For some reason, I'm not surprised at all," Lann said.

He deactivated the disintegration field and hung the axe back on his waist. The traitor's breathing became rapid, as if he were gathering strength—this realization surprised Lann; he hadn't expected to actually encounter an enemy willing to say something.

However, this unexpected turn of events was quickly shattered by another ridiculous absurdity: he discovered that under the traitor's head was a piece of rubble, with a line of small characters carved into its side.

"Blessed by the Emperor." Lann laughed. "How interesting, Word Bearers."

"They—" the traitor gasped, exhaling the last breath from his lungs, forcing out his final words. "—They've gone mad. They'll do anything. Kill them, Imperial Fists, just like you killed us."

Lann stared at him mercilessly until he died.

"A traitor actually begs me for Vengeance?" He shook his head, looking up at the crimson sky. "What has this world become?"

He certainly wouldn't have the answer. In fact, even if we moved the timeline back to a Terra era and shifted the perspective to the eastern front of the Imperial Palace, which he and his troops had painstakingly reached, he still wouldn't know the answer.

At that time, he would be deeply involved in the fighting. He would be busy tearing each other apart with the Word Bearers amidst the concrete and brick ruins, switching back and forth between defensive and combat positions.

The Imperial Fists's long-standing traditions are being gradually abandoned, and everyone who is still alive has been transformed in this war, including them.

Fortunately, the sons of Dorn have not forgotten how to wage war. In the intervals between their dog-like struggles, they will try their best to hold onto every inch of land they have reclaimed, then keep pushing forward, uniting all forces, and fighting little by little against traitors and Daemon.

The battle has turned into a heavy war of attrition and a protracted struggle.

They were still the garrison, but this time, they had no city walls to rely on, no excess supplies, and no saturation bombardment capable of accurately striking every enemy—sometimes they didn't even have tanks, and the Auxilia had to charge forward with their bodies under heavy artillery fire.

In that instant, Fafnir Lane would realize something, or rather, a question. He would look at the mortals lying beside him and ask them from the bottom of his heart.

Why are you all so brave?

We have Ceramite, superhuman strength, and reaction speed to dodge bullets. What do you have?

He certainly didn't have an answer, just like Ezekyle Abaddon. The only difference was that Fafnir Lane could ignore these things, but Ezekyle Abaddon couldn't; he cared, and he cared to the point of madness.

"I want Erebus dead," he said angrily. "Do you understand, Cole Fallon? I want him dead!"

"If I could, I would too," the company commander of the Word Bearers answered truthfully. "Unfortunately, neither of us can do it. He didn't come to Terra; he disappeared into the vast sea of stars with one of our fleets."

As he said this, Cole Fallon's expression remained perfectly calm, without the slightest fluctuation. Unlike Ezekyle Abaddon, he wasn't angry, at least not outwardly.

"Given the current situation, I believe we need more sacrifices," Cole Fallon continued. "Although Terra has become a demonic realm where Daemon can freely enter and exit, our Auxilia cannot."

"We need to find a way to send them to the ground; otherwise, even if we gain the advantage, we won't be able to hold it, let alone expand it."

"Advantages? Auxilia?"

Abaddon's forehead suddenly bulged with veins.

"You're talking to me about advantages, about tactics? Do you even know what kind of bastards and beasts your Auxilia are serving? I've never seen barbarians devour each other before a battle, not even animals do that."

"Isn't that possible?"

Cole Fallon answered with a chilling nonchalance, while the so-called "Blessed Sons" behind him took a step forward.

Abaddon took a deep breath and began to try to control his anger.

"If the goal is to win, then we can talk about anything. But the problem is, the Warmaster's goal has shifted from winning to something else, and that's all thanks to Erebus. Just like your Primarch, Cole Fallon. Where is Lorgar?"

"He's right here," the company commander said with a dry laugh. "He's in Terra."

Upon hearing this, Abaddon suddenly lost interest in continuing the conversation. He looked at the company commander of the Word Bearers and once again felt a genuine sense of doubt.

Cole Fallon was an old man, unlike most Astartes, the marks of time were very evident on him. He was already very old when he underwent the modification surgery, but Lorgar insisted that his adoptive father accompany him on the journey to the stars.

So the Emperor's skilled craftsmen performed other surgeries on him: implants, drugs, and specially modified Power Armour. All of these combined made him look like Astartes, but he wasn't at all.

Such a person became a company commander in a corps, just like him.

Abaddon shook his head.

I have gotten to where I am today through my own military exploits and loyalty to Horus. What does Kol Faren have?

An answer arose in his mind.

So, this is Lorgar Aurelian's Legion.

A laughable legion that, through sheer luck, can rise to the top and still hold a firm seat; a laughable legion that plunders mortals among the stars, using them to create flawed Astartes to replenish its forces; a legion that, even now, still insists on sacrifices and that ridiculous faith.

Even more tragically, this legion was their only ally—at least materially.

"A sacrifice?" After a long silence, Abaddon spoke again. "Is this what you wanted?"

"That's what I want."

Cole Fallon paused, then fell silent. He was thinking; without a doubt, he was doing this valuable thing.

His brows were furrowed, and the Colchis tattoo on his skin seemed to writhe, taking on an unsettling texture. His face was paler than ever, almost inhuman. His thoughtful expression became nauseating because of this repulsive face.

However, this did not prevent Ezekyle Abaddon from patiently waiting.

He didn't know what Cole Fallon really wanted, but with the Alpha Legion not arriving as promised and support from Mars unable to arrive immediately, he would do everything in his power to win over the Word Bearers.

The Warmaster might not care whether they win or not, but Abaddon does. He will do everything in his power to win this victory for his father, just as he always has.

However, after this silence ended once again, Cole Fallon laughed silently.

"What I want, you cannot give me, Lord Ezekyle."

The Word Bearers smiled and shook his head, burying all his emotions in some way.

"However, as promised, the Word Bearers will obey every command issued by the Warmaster —even if he does not wish to wield that power now, we will obey the orders of the Mournival."

"And now the Mournival is down to just me," Abaddon said coldly, pretending not to catch Cole Fallon's veiled implication.

"So, what are your new orders?" the Word Bearers asked.

The expression on his old face began to change. His flesh grotesquely bulged together, and his narrow eyes stood out starkly against his pale face, coldly like two artificially inserted spy windows.

The malice that followed then controlled the face, which wore a fawning smile that almost made Abaddon want to vomit.

He swore to Horus that he was just a hair's breadth away from vomiting, but he didn't.

For the sake of victory, he held back. For the sake of victory, he went to Cole Fallon and began to discuss with him how to gain the upper hand, what tactics to use, and where to deploy the Auxilia and the Word Bearers' recruits.

For a moment, he despised his own hypocrisy.

--

Malcador reality. That's what I'm doing right now.

This is true; he is indeed manipulating reality. One could even say it more arrogantly—reality is now a plaything in his hands.

Vast power poured forth from his fingertips, creating a thick, dark cloud in the Warp where the war had not yet reached—a path twisted and compressed.

Some people are already on this path, though they don't yet know who designed it, but they've already started. With its help, they will return to Terra before it's too late.

The false gods, however, were indifferent to this matter, even the most boisterous one among them. Moreover, he was subtly instigating it from behind the scenes.

Malcador was fully aware of this, but he didn't expose it.

He had seen through the true nature of these false gods. Although they appeared to possess joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, they were in fact slaves to power. They were merely four highly Cogitator with pre-programmed reactions, used to muddy the waters of the world.

But the question is, how could Malcador have done this so easily?

Yes, he is the Sigillites, the supreme ruler of the Imperium second only to one person. To others, he is also a Perpetual, possessing unimaginably powerful psychic abilities.

But none of this is enough to explain what he is doing right now. The Warp is by no means a gentle place, so how could Malcador manipulate it at will without paying any price?

The answer may lie in a pre-prepared instrument.

If someone were to turn their gaze to the depths of Terra at this moment, and were lucky enough, they might find a small room among the intricate labyrinthine structures beneath Terra— a room with wooden floors and stone walls.

The room was completely empty, without even a window. The only piece of furniture it contained was a chair—a chair meticulously prepared, a test piece meant for a single use, and now, Malcador sat in it.

His black robe draped securely over his frail body, his scepter resting on the right armrest of the chair. His head was bowed, his face blurred, obscured by a dazzling golden Radiance that transformed his features into a surging, ever-flowing Radiance.

He didn't pay the price, because someone else had already borne it for him. The purpose wasn't for him to pay a hundredfold later, but simply to let him live.

"You must outlive everyone else, Malcador," the man said. "You must live until victory comes."

"I will, my lord," the Sigillites thought silently.

His thoughts rushed like lightning into the dark cloud in the Warp.

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