176. Terra (37, Oll Persson's Great Adventure)

Ollanius Persson opened his eyes and saw the burning sky. 😾♗ 🍟♟

The stench of sulfur assaulted his nostrils, he felt himself swaying, or perhaps the ground was shaking, and people were shouting around him.

After a while, the world before his eyes finally cleared up. Things that should be remembered, and his own name, emerged from the depths of his mind.

His eyes widened, and he immediately raised his right hand to grab his chest. The heavy weight in his hand made him breathe a sigh of relief, but the scream that followed sent chills down his spine.

He remembered where he was.

Ollanius Persson rolled over, his body aching all over, especially his chest. Despite his confused state, Ollanius Persson made a plausible deduction.

The explosion and subsequent fall probably brought him back to life once or twice, and the pain was naturally caused by the gem under gravity.

He glanced down at his blood-stained, charred military uniform and suddenly realized the blind spot in his assumptions—the explosion should have completely burned off his clothes; he could be resurrected, but his clothes clearly couldn't.

So, what's going on here?

His thoughts didn't last long; a burning sensation in his chest immediately brought Ollanius Persson back to his senses. He glanced around, and instinct began to urge him to act. So, his body moved before reason returned.

Ollanius Persson began to run at full speed. The stench of war, unique to war, brutally assaulted his nostrils from the sweltering wind, increasingly reminding him of where he was and what he was doing.

He had no time to deal with those things now; his immediate priority was to find a weapon. From the trenches covered in thick ash, he retrieved a combat shotgun in decent condition from a soldier who had been dead for some time.

It was a heavy machine, but a good one too. He crouched in the trench, pulled out its drum magazine, and looked inside; it was packed full of shot.

This incident made Ollanius Persson look up again at the dead man who had generously given him the equipment. The man's ruptured chest and blank expression revealed how he died—unintentionally killed by a stray bullet.

The most common and cheapest way to die on the battlefield. After the invention of machine guns and the doctrine of firepower superiority, this kind of death became commonplace for infantrymen.

Ollanius Persson sincerely mourned for him for a moment, then carried his gun and marched through the trenches.

At this moment, he could hear very few sounds, but each one was extremely intense. They mixed together, creating an unbearable, cacophony.

Savage shouts, maniacal laughter, falling shells, and whistling gunfire echoed in Ollanius Persson's ears, making his head throb again, and his temples pounded with each heartbeat.

So familiar, so terrifying—everything he had spent his entire life trying to escape had now returned to him because of his own choices.

"War," Ollanius Persson sighed bitterly.

He turned his head to look at the mist spreading from the other end of the trench, then raised his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger without the slightest hesitation. Everything was as smooth as Eastern silk, almost unbelievably so.

He smashed the chests and heads of two Cultists dressed in human skin, while a third charged forward wielding a long bone blade. His face was filled with fanaticism, and his gaunt, unrecognizable face showed no trace of human rationality.

Ollanius Persson glanced at him, calmly waited for him to approach, and pulled the trigger again before he could swing his knife.

"Boom!"

Gunfire, louder than cannon fire, erupted again, the devastating power of the combat shotgun turning the entire upper body of the enemy trying to approach him into a cloud of blood mist.

Ollanius Persson put down his gun, walked over, and stepped on the long bone knife. He looked at it for a while, but finally decided to pick it up and use it. Having a knife was very important; in some situations, a gun would be useless—that was his experience.

However, the moment the blade touched his hand, the gem on his chest blazed up again, and a fiery light burst forth from his chest, flashing and disappearing in an instant, burning the entire sword to ashes.

"."

Ollanius Persson clenched his fist silently, revealing a patch of pale ash inside his blood-stained combat glove.

He said nothing, and simply kept walking.

He didn't know where he was going, nor where the troops that had fallen with him were; he was only focused on moving forward.

He could swear to God—or that God—that he had no intention of going back to his old ways, nor did he intend to be a good company commander. But when he came to his senses, he found himself with a force of nearly four hundred men.

They all obeyed him, and two standard-bearers followed behind him, raising the blood-stained flag high.

"Keep going!" he heard himself roar, and the slogan truly came out naturally. "For Holy Terra!"

"This is unbelievable," Ollanius Persson thought to himself.

But the truly bizarre events were yet to come, because Ollanius Persson learned from the surviving soldiers that they were now stationed on the eastern front of the Imperial Palace, numbered thirty-six.

To be honest, when he learned about this, Ollanius Persson was stunned.

How could it be such a coincidence? How could it be such a coincidence? What makes it such a coincidence? He almost shouted out his anger and questioned that person. He knew that the person could see and hear him, and was probably watching him.

But in the end, he didn't do it.

"I still have work to do," Ollanius Persson thought indignantly. "Unlike you, you bastard, who's just burning my knife for no reason."

He leaped from the trench, gun in hand, followed by a crowd shouting. They advanced more than 600 meters while firing, and finally reached the reinforcements the soldiers had been talking about.

It was a squad of Imperial Fists engaged in a chaotic battle with Daemon and traitors, and their numbers were dwindling. Ollanius Persson immediately chose a relatively high spot and used the corpses of two Cultists and some mud to build a makeshift defensive fortification.

He crouched down and used a sniper rifle he had picked up to observe the situation in the chaotic battle. Thanks to the power of the scope, he easily identified the leaders of both sides. The leader of the Imperial Fists was a burly giant wielding two axes, while the enemy leader was a Word Bearers wearing heavy armor.

"Prepare to advance," Ollanius Persson calmly told his messenger. "Have those with heavy weaponry move to the front. We'll fire one volley, then charge, but don't engage. Just harass these damned bastards from a distance."

"Also, fucking keep your distance this time, don't let any Daemon get close. Get the grenade launchers ready, if the enemy can't wait to mess with us, just give them a good taste of Grox shit."

"Understood, sir!" his messenger roared.

Half a minute later, his orders began to be carried out. For a unit that had lost its ability to communicate with modern technology, this efficiency was astonishing.

Ollanius Persson, however, had no time to concern himself with this sacred ninth wonder of the world. He was filled with regret, not understanding why his manner of speaking had reverted to its previous state.

He now sounds exactly like a veteran, not "devout Ollanius Persson," not the retired soldier who lived on Calth.

"Ah, Calth," he sighed. "I miss you."

He really missed that wonderful place; there were few places like it in this galaxy, but it was all gone, all thanks to those damned Word Bearers.

"My land," Ollanius Persson began, gritting his teeth. "My cotton."

He brought his cheek close to the butt of the Needle sniper rifle, patiently and calmly slowing his breathing, and observing the enemy through the scope.

The Needle Gun is a counterintuitive, long-range weapon that produces absolutely no gunshot. Its ammunition is a hardened, deadly toxin crystal propelled by a laser, ensuring an instant hit upon firing. While it lacks armor-piercing capabilities, it's perfect for picking off unsuspecting fools.

Through the scope, he located the double-axe warrior of the Imperial Fists once more, and slowly moved the barrel, aiming at the traitor Word Bearers who was fighting him.

He put his finger on the trigger.

"Be careful, "Ollanius Persson told himself. "You have to be careful, because that Imperial Fists isn't wearing a helmet either."

He pulled the trigger.

The Word Bearers suddenly froze for a moment. He looked very confused, a confusion stemming from his inner bewilderment and a sharp pain on his right cheek.

But he had no time to think about what was happening. The intense weakness that surged after the stinging pain made him suddenly kneel down. The Imperial Fists didn't waste the opportunity and immediately swung his axe to decapitate him.

In the following seconds, the headless corpse began to tremble violently, gushing blood. The Imperial Fists then strode toward its next target.

Ollanius Persson smiled with satisfaction. He knew that the Word Bearers had long since sided with the Dark Gods of the Warp, but they still possessed physical bodies, so there was no way they could be immune to neurotoxins.

He moved the barrel of his gun, began to follow the movements of the Imperial Fists, and shot down the enemies who tried to get close to him one by one.

The man quickly realized he had the help of a sniper, but instead of immediately rallying his troops to escape from the encirclement of enemies who outnumbered them several times over, he charged alone into enemy territory.

Seeing this, Ollanius Persson couldn't help but curse aloud.

He had experienced many kinds of wars, some primitive, some filled with cannons and aerial bombardment. Therefore, he knew very well what the Imperial Fists intended to do—to find the enemy general directly and kill him to boost morale.

"Why are you Astartes always like this?" Ollanius Persson muttered to himself. "I really don't understand why you superhumans lose your intelligence at this crucial moment and start fighting the enemy one-on-one like idiots."

"Wait, what?"

He looked up from the scope, then leaned closer to carefully confirm that what he was observing was correct.

"Am I insane?!" he roared. "That idiot actually agreed to a one-on-one duel?!"

"Sir!" The messenger ran towards him breathlessly. "Do you have any orders?"

"All company, advance! Forget about ammunition, kill these bastards!" Ollanius Persson roared at him, then stood up, gun in hand, and began to run.

He had to get closer to increase his chances of hitting. He didn't know if the Imperial Fists could win, but he would do everything in his power to ensure his victory.

On such a battlefield, only Astartes could help him do what he needed to do next.

As he ran, the jewel on his chest burned intensely, forcing him to grimace, filled with resentment, and uttering curses.

--

Fafnir Lane slightly raised his right hand, letting gravity cause the axe handle to slide naturally down his hand.

He gripped the middle of the axe handle—not the way to maximize its lethality, but the way he needed most right now. At the same time, he lowered the axe in his left hand slightly, assuming a downward slashing motion.

"Bring it on."

The Word Bearers standing opposite him spoke thus, his voice, emanating from within the Terminator helmet, was extremely somber.

"I will enjoy every second of slaughtering you, Imperial Fists."

"Enough with the nonsense, you traitor."

Lann raised his chin disdainfully, his blood-stained face unable to conceal his arrogant expression. But this was merely a trap, and it had successfully ensnared the Word Bearers.

He let out a cold snort and raised the power hammer high in his hand. Without hesitation, Lann charged straight at him.

His fighting style differs from most Imperial Fists; he is very aggressive and prefers to attack most of the time. In light of this, some have jokingly suggested that he probably underwent further training within the War Hounds.

But the truth is that even the War Hounds were very surprised by his dual-wielding of Power Axe and bluntly said that Lann was a madman in some way, just like their Eighth Company Commander Kharn.

Lane certainly knew who Kharn was, but did Kharn know who he was? He didn't know; he only knew that he should now swing both axes at once. This wasn't a chopping motion, but a downward smash.

Two muffled thuds echoed, arcs of electricity crackled, and sparks flew, leaving two deep marks on the Word Bearers's crimson shoulder armor. He roared, swinging his hammer back to force Lann back, and simultaneously pressing down on the hammer handle with immense force.

This wasn't a ring, but he could still use this method to reduce the space Lann could dodge. Lann took a deep breath, weighed his options for a moment, and began to dodge with nimble footwork, crossing his arms and simultaneously swinging his double axes to deliver a powerful combined attack.

His enemy saw through his movements and, instead of dodging, charged straight at Lann, relying on the superior defense of the Cataphractii Terminator and its almost unscathed agility. The human skin on the scarlet shoulder armor gleamed in the blood, and the pained face made Lann's eyes twitch.

He was starting to get angry.

"Brute!"

The Imperial Fists roared, neither dodging nor avoiding, but raising its double axes high and slashing fiercely at the Word Bearers's head, which was firmly protected by a neck guard and shoulder armor, with a side arc.

He struck, but he was also struck. He was sent flying, and the Word Bearers staggered after him. The visor of his helmet was damaged, and Lann's left axe was deeply embedded in it.

"Loser!"

The Word Bearers let out a harsh, cold laugh, raising his power hammer once more, without holding back. This would be a terrifying, powerful swing, with only one purpose: to kill Lann in an instant.

He intended to use this strike to shatter the armor on Lann's abdomen and cause his internal organs to splatter out, becoming a sacrifice to the gods.

Faced with such a perilous situation, Lann gave his answer in an instant—he did not dodge, but rolled to the side, letting the power hammer strike his intact left shoulder armor, while simultaneously throwing the axe in his right hand.

It traced a precise arc, striking the already shattered visor of the Word Bearers. The mad, blood-red eye beneath it widened instantly, and the Imperial Fists caught a glimpse of a flash of white light in that instant.

A smile appeared on his blood-covered face.

Half a second later, with a loud thud as the axe struck the helmet, the power hammer that the Word Bearers had raised again froze in mid-air.

Lann leaped into the air, sending shards of shoulder armor flying as he lunged at his weapon. He gripped the axe with both hands, pinning the Word Bearers's head down, and began to apply pressure to the axe with knee strikes.

The dull thuds echoed across the battlefield. Many people noticed what was happening, but they had no time to pay attention because grenades were landing at their feet, and a large group of ordinary people with blackened faces rushed out from who-knows-where.

To correct myself, it refers to mortals wielding heavy logging rifles, Boltgun, and trench shotguns—a range of weapons sufficient to threaten Astartes' firepower.

Correction again: A group of reckless mortals.

Eleven minutes later, they had all killed them.

Ollanius Persson, panting heavily, walked up to Fafnir Lane, who was sitting on the corpse of an enemy. He looked up at the man, and Lane looked down at him. A few seconds later, the two spoke at the same time, almost as if by unspoken agreement.

"Who are you?"

"Ollanius Persson."

Lann paused for a moment, then nodded. "So you are Ollanius Persson Perez."

"What?" This time it was Ollanius Persson's turn to be surprised. "You know me?"

"You've been assigned a task by the Sigillites, Malcador. Everyone else is here; you're the only one missing, Ollanius Persson."

Lann spoke slowly, shaking his head. He raised his right hand, the blood-stained yellow armor looking rusty, but his expression was calm and persuasive.

"Go east for about 1,200 meters, and you should be able to find them."

"I don't want any 'probably' or 'should'!" Ollanius Persson suddenly roared. "I don't have any mission! I'm just here to deliver something!"

"That's none of my business. By the way, you're a very accurate shooter." Lann grinned at him. "Also, now that you're here, does that mean our reinforcements have arrived too?"

Ollanius Persson didn't answer the question; he was now full of complaints and resentment—however, a sound of footsteps behind him interrupted his self-pity and anger towards someone. He turned around and saw his messenger and standard-bearer.

"Reinforcements, sir?" The messenger looked at him expectantly. "We have reinforcements?"

Ollanius Persson sighed, not answering immediately, and began to organize his thoughts, wondering how he should tell them that a total of six Primarch and seven Legions had come to their aid.

But he soon needed to say nothing more, for people began to shout, and Fafnir Lane stood up instantly. He stared at the mist spreading from their right and gave a genuine smile.

Amid the somber declaration, "We came for you," the Imperial Fists calmly let out a long breath.

"This is going to be good." He grinned maliciously, glancing down at the corpse of the Word Bearers on the ground. "Don't you like skinning people?"

He couldn't help but burst into laughter.

This chapter is 5.3k words long, bringing today's total to 16,000 words. Update complete.