Terra (36, The Stubborn Stone Breaks Free, Reinforcements Land)

Rogal Dorn left a trail of footprints on the red sand. 6̾9̾s̾h̾u̾x̾.̾c̾o̾m̾

The wind and sand lashed at our faces, the sky was closing in, and the moon in the night sky was still emitting a faint light. On this pitch-black curtain that was completely soaked in ink, its presence was becoming stronger and stronger. Daylight had not come for a long time, nor had that blood-red setting sun.

Dorn understood that all these scenes were actually just a collection of various abstract concepts.

For example, the red desert he was in was a kind of symbol, a prison forged by something that humans could not yet understand through the power of the Warp.

Humans forged swords to kill their enemies. The thing, however, built a cage to torture him.

However, Dorn had also noticed something else.

He lowered his head and turned his gaze to the sand itself.

Two centuries ago, the crimson disappeared, and since then, the true nature of the desert has gradually revealed its fangs to him.

At first, there was only a slight sense of unease, like soft whispers carried on the wind. Then, this feeling of unreality intensified, and he began to hallucinate. He would see one face after another he had never seen before as he carved his name.

Some were dark-skinned, some pale; some wore ceremonial robes offering no protection, while others donned ancient and primitive bronze armor. Stone spears, blood-stained and broken arrows, rusted and blunt swords.

Dorn probably only discovered who they were a century ago—the dead, belonging to the blood-red dead.

For tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of years, countless victims have been eternally tormented by blood in an endless cycle of time.

The corpses lay intertwined, weapons piercing deep into each other's bodies. They bled eternally, their wounds never healing. Their blood was a precious offering to please the crimson, and therefore He would not allow them to heal or lay down their weapons.

In other words, they are this red sand.

Every grain of sand represents a dead person.

They shouted in his ear, demanding that he lead them out of the desert, demanding that he become their general. They even poured all their energy into the breeze, carrying it to his ear.

They said the crimson was gone, and the moonlight was awakening them. They also said they had never felt so free.

Then they pleaded.

Rogal Dorn, be our leader! Lead us in our Vengeance against that cruel false god! Pierce His heart with your blade, make Him suffer, make Him repent, make Him understand that humanity is not a slave He can casually throw into the arena.

Frankly, these words and the truth were very appealing, but Dorn had to refuse.

He was already a general, the Primarch Imperial Fists of the Seventh Legion of the Imperium of Man, and a Royal Guard of Terra. He already had duties to fulfill. Moreover, he now harbored another hope.

In the past, his hope was to persevere. Now, his hope lies in a second voice carried on the wind, a voice distinct from the murmurs of the dead, and the scent of Phosphex flames to prove he is not hallucinating.

So Dorn began his search, searching in the endless red sands for a hope that might exist, yet could not.

It must be understood that hope is a dangerous poison, especially for a prisoner serving a life sentence. But he was not alone; he remembered all the names, and new names...

For example, right now, look, look at Rogal Dorn crossing a sand dune.

He took a step with his left foot, touched the ground, then took a step with his right foot, and touched the ground again. He repeated this process thousands of times. It was tedious and monotonous to the extreme. But as he took his first step, a name echoed in his mind.

Yonetro.

He had never met Yonetro, but Yonetro had already introduced himself to him.

I am one of your sons, Father. I come from the edge of the Dark Stars, and I have fought for the Imperium and humanity for one hundred and twenty-two years. And now, I fight for you.

Left foot lands, right foot lifts, the second step, and a new name slowly emerges.

Gell Morukhorn.

I am not a role model, nor do I possess any honors, Father. But I still inscribed my name on the bone fragment, not so that you might remember me, but so that you might remember my brother, your champion Danors. I promised to set foot on the land of Terra with him.

Name, name, name. A person's name is the first thing they receive after birth, sometimes given by their father, sometimes gently uttered in their mother's tender embrace as her cheek is lightly stroked.

For decades to come, his name would remain with him, spread, and mentioned by others. But Dorn learned of his offspring's name only through death.

He got those names from their corpses.

And those words followed closely behind, emerging from the depths of his heart. It was as if he were not seeing one corpse after another, but one loyal descendant after another, whom he was proud of and who would not be afraid to die for.

They introduced themselves to him properly.

How strange this was! Yet, at this moment, Dorn felt a sense of peace. He walked straight to the next hill, when suddenly a golden light shone in the sky.

Dorn looked up and saw a twinkling star. He didn't understand what this newly emerging abstract concept meant, but he didn't seem to need to, because many more stars were shining.

One after another, the curtain suddenly lit up, the darkness vanished, and even the moonlight quietly disappeared. The stars shone brightly, then began to burn, flow, and drift away. The dark curtain was gradually ignited and torn to pieces in this sudden meteor shower.

Dorn stared intently as they sailed away, a sudden surge of emotion welling up within him.

His intuition began to shout. It leaped and thrashed about, striking the rocks and creating a dull echo in his heart.

Dorn then knew that they had come for him.

They came from ten thousand years in the future, and then faced death without regret, all for a few brilliant seconds of this moment.

The light continued to shine, and the curtain was completely torn apart. The illusion of reality vanished in an instant, and a towering, burning pillar of light appeared behind the curtain. Starlight rushed toward it, and everything under its illumination took on a different appearance than ever before.

The red sand beneath their feet transformed into an endless sea of blood, where corpses floated and sank. The darkness above them turned into a burning Terra sky, with Astronomican reaching the heavens and illuminating every corner.

Dorn looked out at the endless stone walls, only to find them gradually weathering and dissolving. Countless hours of hard work over nine centuries were turning into burning Embers carried away by the wind.

He strode forward, each step more resolute than the last. He walked for thirteen minutes, and his sense of time returned silently—so it was exactly thirteen minutes, no more, no less, not a second off.

He approached a section of the wall that was still relatively intact, raised his hand, and climbed up. He slowly closed his eyes, countless thoughts swirling in his mind.

The first question that arises is: How long have I been here? And then comes the answer: 975 years, nine centuries and seventy-five years.

Without any hindrance, the answer appeared immediately. Dorn smiled, silently, and the wall collapsed with a crash at his gentle touch, the sound like shattering glass.

Then came a human voice, followed by the solemn sound of armor clashing, and suppressed deep breaths.

"Rogal Dorn." Constantine Valdor stood behind the wall, a surprising smile spreading across his face. "Long time no see."

"Long time no see, Valdor."

The freed prisoner opened his eyes, looked at him, and also at the group of Astartes behind him.

"Also, nice to meet you, I am Rogal Dorn."

--

The first question we need to consider is: how long have we been walking?

We came from other worlds, from the very edges of Imperium. We traversed countless man-made hells, witnessed countless worlds ablaze, yet we did not cease our journey. How much have we sacrificed to return home?

Let's think about it later.

We've arrived.

Roboute Guilliman drew his short sword, Angron gripped his axe, Vulkan silently fastened his belt, Kolus Corax calmly rubbed his claws, Konrad Curze Curze put on a mask, and Perturabo pulled down the lever.

The hatch was slowly pulled down, and a gale rushed into the boarding deck. The clouds burned, night fell, and endless darkness surged across the ground. Yet another burst of golden light surged forth from the depths of the clouds, intertwining with the darkness on the ground like mist. They could no longer see any trace of Terra's former glory; all they could see was destruction and war.

So, this is it. The end of the journey.

So, it's time now. Is there anything else to say?

Roboute Guilliman looked up at his brothers.

"Follow the discussion, brothers, shall we? Our primary objective is to find the survivors."

He began to tirelessly repeat what he had said countless times, or rather, to admonish. His white hair fell backward in the wind, but his eyes shone like a furnace already ablaze.

"We must unite with anyone we can find, even a Servitor that is about to break down, who can contribute to this war after emergency repairs. Remember, do not venture deep behind enemy lines, and do not fight alone. We must stand united."

"Have I ever told you that you're actually quite verbose, brother?" Vulkan asked with a touch of humor.

The Lord of Drakes is smiling; he is about to step into the most terrifying hell in history, yet he appears relaxed and at ease.

"I think you've said this many times already," Roboute Guilliman laughed. "But I just want to be a bit more verbose, at least half as much as you. Is that not allowed?"

"I have no objection," Angron said. "You two are indeed quite long-winded."

Golden light surging from the depths of the clouds illuminated his face, the gale whipped the Butcher's Nails, forcing them to tremble, and his steel braids danced wildly like silver snakes.

This should have brought even more brutal torment, should have made his lips twitch, his muscles tremble, and his eyes widen and narrow nervously. This terrifying appearance was the most common expression he had seen throughout the journey, but now his face showed only calm.

"That's a hurtful remark, Angron." Vulkan and put his arm around the Nuceria's shoulder. Roboute Guilliman nodded beside him, also feigning sadness.

"You should write a book, Roboute," Corius Corax chimed in casually, making a joke. "Your rambling habit won't be a problem in a book; you'd better keep our steel patient."

"I'm very patient," the Lord of Iron said without turning his head. "Whether it's books or you."

He stood at the very edge of the boarding deck, gazing downwards. He held Warhammer in his hand, and a tulip carved from steel was pinned to the neck guard of his specially designed Terminator Armour.

The edges of the petals are incredibly sharp, and each petal is adorned with meticulously carved natural patterns. However, if someone were to lift it up at a specific angle and gaze at it from below, these patterns would combine to form a name.

"Yes, you are very patient."

Konrad Curze Curze nodded, then gave a soft, mocking laugh from behind the skull mask.

"You're practically itching to jump right in and join the fight, bro—oh, was that drop pod you just flashed past your legion? Ah, I understand now, it's no wonder you're so impatient, Abo."

The Primarch burst into laughter.

Perturabo didn't turn around, only letting out a dismissive snort, "Telling you this story while drunk that day was my biggest mistake."

"Perhaps," the Night Haunter chuckled. "But whatever the truth of the matter, you shouldn't stay standing there any longer. Come back, Commander, and issue your orders. How about we share the same drop pod?"

Perturabo remained silent for a few seconds, then slowly turned around and, amidst the solemn, respectful silence of his brothers, slowly raised the Warhammer in his hand.

"Then let the war begin," he said. "For humanity, for Holy Terra."

Burning meteors shattered the clouds, streaking across the sky behind him in a continuous stream. Drop pods painted in different colors were plummeting rapidly: Ultramarines, Salamanders, Midnight Blade, War Hounds, Death Guard, Raven Guard, and Iron Warriors.

The Astartes, fueled by terrible rage, led the vanguard, as always. Legion transports and various gunboats followed closely behind, followed by the Auxilia's vehicles, with secured tanks, armored vehicles, and civilians impatiently awaiting landing on trembling decks.

Some prayed, some meditated, and some were giving pre-battle pep talks. Standard-bearers repeatedly polished their flagpoles, infantrymen gripped their rifles tightly, their toes twitching inside their boots. The Tech-Priest shared the supreme glory of Omnissiah with binary prayers for every Secutarii and Combat Servitor about to enter the battle.

Everyone understood where they were going and what fate awaited them.

Except for one person.

Apart from Ollanius Persson, or rather, Ollanius, or rather, the company commander of the 78th Infantry Company of the Osiris Armoured Regiment Ultramar Auxilia Force.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt an urge to vomit. The helmet he had been given seemed a little too tight; his temples throbbed, and each beat made his head throb even more.

He pulled his sleeves up to his elbows, his fingers inside his combat gloves were already drenched in sweat, but his gun was in excellent condition. Calm and secure, it rested in his arms, bound by those two sweaty hands.

His second-in-command, a young man named Jorias, noticed his nervousness and asked a question amidst the deck trembling and the bolts beneath his seat caused by the rapid descent.

"Are you alright, Company Commander?"

Ollanius Persson turned to look at him and replied curtly, "No, I'm not good."

He certainly wasn't feeling well—anyone who was about to land for battle and had to wear a large, heavy gem around their neck would probably not feel good.

"I remember you were a combat hero, Company Commander." The young man blinked. "Why are you so nervous? We're going to defend Terra."

Stupid Ollanius Persson sighed, ultimately refraining from uttering that crude yet helpless curse.

Similarly, he didn't tell the young man some of the other things he was thinking about. The other man was too young and full of enthusiasm; there was absolutely no need for him to know what he was thinking.

However, he couldn't help but wonder: if even Terra needs to be protected, then just how critical is the situation?

"I'm not a war hero," Ollanius Persson told him matter-of-factly. "I'm just a poor old man who survived the Battle of Calth."

"However, Lord Roboute Guilliman's commendation clearly states that you displayed bravery and killed enemies in the Battle of Calth— "

"--I didn't kill anyone, they just ran into me and died." Ollanius Persson interrupted wearily. "Look at me, Jorias, do you think I'm the kind of person who would shoot someone?"

He raised his hands, and his trembling fingers fell precisely into the young man's eyes, causing his expression to fluctuate rapidly, with a fleeting hint of doubt in his eyes.

Ollanius Persson chuckled to himself. "That's it, kid. Throw away your unnecessary fantasies. I'm not some hero; I just want to..."

He took a deep breath, his thoughts instantly interrupted.

A flash of inspiration struck him, instinctively giving him a premonition of what was about to happen. In the past tens of thousands of years, Ollanius Persson's intuition had never been so sharp—at least, not since the Verdun incident.

He swiftly unbuckled the six seatbelts, grabbed the emergency safety valve on the ceiling, and used it to stand up abruptly. The gun in his arms fell naturally, its straps causing it to strike his thigh, bringing a sharp pain that could leave a bruise.

Jorias stared at him, seemingly completely bewildered by what was happening, but Ollanius Persson knew. At that moment, no one in the world knew better than him what was about to unfold.

The first second passed, and he turned around to see the porthole, filled with golden light, shattering under immense pressure.

Two seconds later, Ollanius Persson shouted, "Everyone, hold on tight!"

His voice sounded utterly ridiculous amidst some terrifying, shrill cry. He wasn't sure how many people heard him at that moment, but he had to shout.

Just like in the third second, he screamed loudly, as if he were about to vomit his lungs out.

"Stop standing there, you idiot!" Ollanius Persson roared, reaching out to hold Jorias down. The young man struggled helplessly, but Ollanius Persson's strength was astonishing, firmly pinning him to the seat.

What happened next can be summed up in two words: explosion and darkness.

In the final second before darkness fell, in the fourth second, Ollanius Persson grasped the jewel on his chest with his right hand.

It was still digging into his sternum, causing weight and pain. Logically, he should have thrown it away, but he didn't. He threw himself on top of Jorias, protecting him, and pressed the jewel beneath him as well.

In that instant, he wasn't thinking about anything.

Then came darkness, endless darkness.

Based on everyone's feedback, the chapter titles will be updated to include numbers for easier navigation. This chapter is 3k words, and there's another 5k-word chapter that I'll upload as soon as possible.