177 Terra (38): Crossing Hell on Foot

First, I need a gun, just one is enough. -(••÷[ ]÷••)-

The gun doesn't need to have a superb caliber, nor does its overall design need to be perfectly ergonomic. But it has to be a gun, a live-fire weapon. I don't want some damn Lasgun. Give me a live-fire weapon, and then—

Ollanius Persson heard a wet sound.

He turned his head and happened to see a Shadow buried deep in the ashes, an ugly, skinless, lifeless being.

Muscles, nerves, and blood vessels throbbed and coiled around its smooth body. It bit a human arm, and Ollanius Persson's own face was reflected in the two scarlet fly compound eyes.

It tilted its head and sized him up, behaving like a wary canine, but it was definitely not a dog. Dogs don't have such long, twisted limbs, and dogs don't eat people.

Oh no, that's not right. Dogs eat people.

Ollanius Persson raised his gun.

But all the dogs that ate people died.

He pulled the trigger, and a strong recoil came from the gun, but Ollanius Persson's hand Stone. The interaction of forces is mutual, and this should be an indestructible law, but it suddenly disappeared in his hands.

Flames erupted from the muzzle, time seemed to stretch and slow down; the thing opened its mouth, and a bloody hand slowly fell out as three explosive bullets spun toward it.

All hits.

The creature staggered from the blow, but wasn't dead yet. It opened its mouth wide and let out a silent roar, and what happened next was exactly what Ollanius Persson knew best.

He rushed forward and began stabbing and hacking at the creature's body with a bayonet. It tried to bite him with astonishing speed, but never actually managed to bite him.

Ollanius Persson isn't a superhuman; he just lives a long time and can keep living. So he knows how to protect himself when facing something like this—the most crucial point is that you have to be courageous.

Ollanius Persson may or may not have the courage, but he is currently very angry and exhausted.

Moreover, the gem on his chest was extremely hot.

He spent several minutes dismembering it.

Sitting amidst pools of blood and convulsing limbs, Ollanius Persson slowly rose to his feet. He went back to pick up the gun he had thrown down and began to move in a certain direction again. He was alone; this was his own choice.

This is what he told the Imperial Fists company commander named Fafnir Lane.

"You mean I have to cross about four positions and then walk across a bridge to reach my destination?"

"That's about it," Fafnir Lane said to him, head bowed. "The problem is, how are you going to get there, Ollanius Persson? We'll all help you here."

He pointed to his brothers and himself. Their bright yellow armor, stained with blood and covered in dust, had long lost its former luster, and the soldiers' faces were covered with blood and the wounds left by war.

They all looked at Ollanius Persson as if he were some kind of savior.

"You're from Astartes," Ollanius Persson thought to himself at that moment. "You see me as a savior?"

He had intended to ask the question directly, but his messenger interrupted him, along with the men he had pulled back from the trenches and the battlefield amidst the flying gunfire. They walked in silence and gathered behind him.

Each and every one of them, though utterly numb from the torment of this hellish place, still managed to unleash an unexpected expectation and brilliance from within that numbness.

They looked at him. He didn't say a word.

"And us, sir." The messenger saluted him first, his overcoat revealing an empty chest. "We are ready to take your command."

But Ollanius Persson said, "No, you stay here and continue fighting."

He said it lightly, but resolutely. He had made his choice, and now he was bowing his head, crouching as he advanced through the trenches that were now filled with the dead, his hands gripping his gun tightly, his breath almost a murmur, creating tiny ripples in the air.

He carefully stepped over a corpse and pulled it up; he didn't like seeing a soldier lying face down in the mud. Because if left too long, the dead man's face would freeze solid in the cold mud, forming a crust, and the things in the mud would burrow into their lifeless flesh and begin their feast.

Ollanius Persson was willing to put in some effort to make him face the sky.

He continued walking, his toes inside his boots numb, and the surroundings were deathly silent and icy cold. Fog drifted out, mingling with the darkness and blurring his vision. Even if he still had the needle gun, the scope would probably be of little use now.

"Great, "Ollanius Persson thought. "Look what you've turned Terra into! Is this what you wanted to do?"

What a grand ideal! I told you long ago, your ambition and impatience will kill us all. I don't care about death, but what about these people?

You let them die, old friend. You let them die, and then they'll be eaten by dogs.

He sounded like he was complaining, grumbling, and condemning, but that wasn't the case. Ollanius Persson knew who had turned Terra into this state, and who had turned these living people into bloody corpses.

But he still has to blame him.

He turned left, used his rifle to support himself as he climbed up the two-meter-high trench, and left the area.

The battlefield was covered with a thick layer of ash; everything looked gray, and that was the color of war. Somber and hazy, even the bloodshed was gray.

Ollanius Persson continued walking, with utmost caution. He didn't actually know the way, but he had a special guide—the jewel on his chest.

It will burst into a crimson light when Ollanius Persson goes astray, dispelling the darkness that tries to devour him and leading him back to the right path.

The problem is that the right path is usually not the easy path.

Ollanius Persson stopped, looked at what was in front of him, squeezed out a low curse, and then asked a question.

How do I get through this place?

The gem did not answer, but Ollanius Persson's face was illuminated by a surge of crimson and orange light, so bright that it hurt his eyes.

He silently bent down, spat into his hand, grabbed a handful of thick ashes, and kneaded them into a small ball. He raised his hand and threw the ball straight out.

It traced a graceful arc, silently falling into a bubbling mass of molten lava, and was instantly melted.

Ollanius Persson looked up at the golden Radiance in the sky.

"How am I supposed to get there?" he asked earnestly. "Tell me, how am I supposed to get there?"

There was no answer, only churning fog and howling wind.

He stood there, waiting a while longer, but still received no answer. So he turned and walked away, but the gem on his chest suddenly emitted a heat so intense that he almost thought he would be scalded.

Ollanius Persson couldn't help but cry out in pain. He reached out and grabbed the chain, tearing out the gem, his face full of rage. It then floated up and dragged him forward by the neck.

Thus, a comical scene was created. Few things in the world are as absurd as this, and it's even difficult to describe—how do you describe a man fighting with a gemstone?

Let's start with the details.

The gemstone shone with a fiery Radiance. It was set perfectly in a rough metal base, while the chain, forged from scrap iron, was quite sharp and had already left small bloodstains on the man's neck.

The man stood with his back to the gem, trying to walk back, gun in hand, his face completely tense. The gem, however, bound him with chains, making him float in place, attempting to lead him towards the boiling, burning lava lake.

The stalemate lasted for a total of twenty minutes.

Ollanius Persson finally turned around, utterly exhausted.

"What exactly do you want?" he asked again. "I'm out of options, can't you see? You dumped this mission on me without any explanation, do you think this is fun? Fine, fine, I'm here, I'm back on Earth, so what?"

He raised his hand indignation, pointed to the lava lake, and his tone became extremely agitated.

"I'm not one of those superheroes you created, nor do I have the protection of Power Armour. I can't ignore this lava. Accept reality, old friend. You and I both know this lava didn't form naturally; they placed it here."

"They probably knew I was coming here tens of millions of years ago, which is why they placed this lava lake on my only path. There's only this one path, but I can't get through it. I gave up, and that was it."

The gemstone remained silent, simply letting its brilliance fade away.

It is colorless and should be transparent and clear, but sometimes it looks like a mirror, like it does now. It reflects Ollanius Persson's face so that he can see a pair of tired and lifeless eyes, and a long face that talks incessantly and complains.

Enraged, Ollanius Persson grabbed it and yanked hard, completely forgetting the chain's existence. He stumbled from his own pull and fell comically into the thick dust.

For a long time, he lay there as if he were dead, unwilling to get up.

Only when some sounds he shouldn't have heard drifted from the mist and reached his ears did he manage to get up. At that moment, the gem lit up again, floated up, and led him towards the direction from which the sounds came.

It's almost like finding another way for me. Ollanius Persson thought to himself, "You really are kind-hearted, sir."

He deliberately ignored the fact that he had actually chosen this path of his own volition.

He clutched his gun, tucked the gleaming gem into his chest, and walked through the mist, gradually becoming certain of one thing—the voice that had awakened him was no sound that could be produced by nature.

Of course, there is probably no such thing as "nature" on Terra now. Ollanius Persson listened intently to the sound, trying to discern its meaning.

The first sound he recognized was the faint scraping of a blade against flesh, followed by continuous screams, and finally, due to the distance, the muffled thud of Boltgun.

Are you taking me to another battlefield?

The gem still did not answer, nor did it announce that he had gone astray with its burning, so he had no choice but to continue walking.

Ollanius Persson trudged through thick ash, climbed over two charred Titans, and walked for several kilometers on shattered Servitor before finally seeing a color other than gray.

It was a somber blue, with flickering lightning bolt patterns. Of course, there was also jet black, scarlet, and a tiny, insignificant touch of gold. To be honest, it was a rather flamboyant color scheme, almost too much for armor.

Especially considering that they are currently engaged in a battle between two armies.

Ollanius Persson knew who they were, and who their enemies were.

--It's the Word Bearers, of course it's the Word Bearers! What other beasts in the galaxy besides the Word Bearers would wear scarlet armor?

However, they looked somewhat different from the traitors he remembered.

The vast majority of these Word Bearers are not humanoid; their armor does not possess the cold hardness of Ceramite, but rather has smooth curves like flesh. Their hands no longer hold weapons; claws, pincers, or blades formed by extensions of their arms have replaced them.

Many of them looked like mutated, giant insects, their green eyes resembling eyelids that blinked behind long, stiff hairs.

Ollanius Persson shut his mouth in embarrassment, his Adam's apple bobbing.

He had seen many disgusting things, such as men or women being boiled alive, and poor children being sacrificed to so-called gods by ignorant priests wielding sharp knives.

These events, along with another, fundamentally destroyed his hopes and desires for human society. If it weren't for some unforeseen changes, he probably would have buried himself somewhere and lived a life of seclusion long ago.

However, these Word Bearers are different; they are something else that should not exist.

Ollanius Persson accepts the existence of evil people and Daemon in the world, but he cannot accept evil people and Daemon being one and the same.

This is blasphemy.

He picked up his gun, his boots, stained with mud, blood, and dust, breaking through the fog and carrying him into it.

The first person to notice his arrival was Night Lords Company Commander, who was wearing his helmet properly. He was probably a company commander; Ollanius Persson could never quite tell their exact ranks. The man looked at him for about half a second before turning back to continue firing his Boltgun.

Ollanius Persson ignored the meaning behind the meaningful gaze and focused on pulling the trigger.

His chosen enemy was a Word Bearers with fleshy wings, and as always, he was very accurate. Unfortunately, the Boltgun in his hand was not very effective against that thing.

The explosive bomb swept across like flowing water, exploding on its fleshy wings, staining them with a deep crimson and leaving many charred marks. The mutated and twisted traitor let out an angry growl, leaping from the chaotic battle and charging right up to Ollanius Persson.

It seemed he couldn't tolerate being harmed by someone he considered a mortal—but that was all he could do. His claws had barely been extended and hadn't even reached Ollanius Persson before they were precisely cleaved in two by a blade.

A dark blue Shadow flashed by, followed by a roar, blood, and an unbearable shriek. The whole process took only two seconds, but in Ollanius Persson's eyes, it could be divided into several specific steps.

The Word Bearers roared and injured the company commander. He clearly saw the thing plunge its other claw into his chest, but the company commander seemed unmoved. He didn't even bother with the injury, and simply swung his sword.

The Power Sword, with unparalleled precision and immense power, sliced open the Word Bearers's abdomen, shoulder, and glowing green eyes. Blood splattered out, followed by a burst of black flames that burned fiercely on the mutated body.

The company commander raised his hand again, severing the claw, and took a step back. The Word Bearers, now without its claws, fell to the ground and began to emit a shriek that almost made Ollanius Persson wonder if he had gone deaf.

He stared blankly as the thing crackled and popped in the flames, its body melting and dissipating like grease, and felt a chill run down his spine.

"Hello, Ollanius Persson Or Persson," Night Lords called affectionately in his ear. "Time to snap out of it. Don't keep staring; the firelight is bad for your eyes."

Ollanius Persson looked up at him, then struggled to regain his senses as the man had suggested, and immediately asked a question.

"Do you know who I am?"

He nodded, and a voice emanating from within the breathing grille sounded amused, "Your tone is quite interesting, Company Commander. Bow your head."

Ollanius Persson bowed his head.

A sharp, armored finger slowly tapped his chest, or more precisely, a piece of white knitted fabric on the upper left corner of his chest.

It was sewn onto his military uniform, on which his name and rank were written.

However, he tore off the knitted fabric as soon as the uniform was issued to him. Long before, while he was still on the Macragge's Honour, he had already burned the fabric with his name and rank on it to ashes.

And now.

"I am Adebiman Basley, adjutant of Night Lords's Third Company," Night Lords introduced himself. "You look confused, Ollanius Persson. Where are your troops?"

"I don't have a unit, but shouldn't you be a company commander? Please forgive me if I'm wrong; I've never been able to tell your ranks from the armor markings." Ollanius Persson replied, barely managing to come to his senses.

He tried to make his tone more natural, obviously to build rapport with the company commander and pave the way for his next questions. However, Ollanius Persson received an unexpected answer.

"I'm not the company commander," Adebiman Basley said softly, his tone quite gentle.

He lowered his head and reached out to pull the claws lodged in his chest. Behind him, the figures of the Word Bearers were gradually obscured by the mist and soon disappeared from sight.

A hoarse voice sounded from behind him, tinged with anxiety. "They've gotten away again."

"We'll keep chasing them," Adebiman replied without turning his head, his crimson visor still fixed on Ollanius Persson. "As long as we get them before their next sacrifice, there's no need to rush, Aresta."

"Understood, Company Commander."

"I'm not the company commander, Aresta. The company commander of the Third Company can only be Fer Zalost. I'm still just an adjutant."

"Say what you will." Night Lords, known as Aresta, shook his head and walked away. Adebiman Basley chuckled and shrugged at Ollanius Persson.

"My brothers are always very offensive to me, but it's still better than being alone, Company Commander Ollanius Persson. Don't you think it's a bit pathetic for a soldier to fight alone?"

Ollanius Persson felt inexplicably nervous; he sensed there was something more to the man's words. So he nodded stiffly and followed Adebiman Basley's lead, saying, "Yes, I think so too."

Then, a hand reached out and rested on his shoulder.

"Then I suggest you join us first," Adebiman Basley said. "You won't have any objections, will you?"

Ollanius Persson glanced down at the unmoving gem and nodded even more stiffly.

This chapter is 5.3k words long. There's another chapter before midnight. I'll write as much as I can.