180 Terra (Forty-Two, Enemy of Vengeance)

Ionid Hill is punching a Daemon in the head. 69§hµx.¢ðm

It was one of the accomplices summoned by the Word Bearers, enormous and extremely ferocious. As soon as it appeared, it launched an attack on the Ultramarines —and that was forty-five seconds ago.

Now, its body is riddled with fist-sized holes, which continue to erupt. Its flesh is shattered, like a fruit violently smashed, its juices spilling out.

But it never died. To hold the position, Hill made a dangerous decision twenty seconds ago. Three seconds ago, he successfully executed it.

At this very moment, he was landing—falling vertically from the five-meter-high Daemon's head, and without hesitation, tumbling face-first into the ruins, rolling and hiding behind a half-stone slab, the whole action completed in one smooth motion.

Two seconds later, a huge sound suddenly erupted.

Hill got up and unfastened his gun from the magnetic buckle on his belt. Biometrics didn't stop him from taking his weapon; the Power Armour was still functioning reliably, but his helmet was tattered and mangled.

The culprits were a group of Word Bearers had recently launched a surprise attack on them using Warp magic. His mouth was now filled with the taste of dust floating in the air, a taste that had completely numbed Hill's tongue and lips.

He raised his gun and opened fire indiscriminately on another group of so-called "Word Bearers Auxilia." There was no discipline or anything else to speak of, only the deepest hatred.

The war had changed him, but Ionid Hill had also adapted to this new kind of war and even established a new set of rules.

Kill all enemies, by any means, at any cost.

He ran out of bullets, killing most of them. Their blood began to glow on the ground, and the eight-pointed star marks etched on their skin but seeping into their flesh and even bone marrow began to flicker, as black mist descended.

Hill knew that in a few seconds, another wave of Daemon would burst out. He drew his sword; the weapon from Primarch Primarch's armory had already been turned in, though Roboute Guilliman believed it should be kept as a reward, but Hill didn't want to use it.

It was a strange kind of stubbornness, stemming from such an unusual Ultramarines, yet it seemed perfectly natural.

The Displacer Field of the Power Sword was activated, and Hill strode towards the still-forming black mist. Explosive bombs whistled through the mist, striking within it; someone was providing support. Hill glanced in his five o'clock direction and saw a dozen or so hazy, dispersed blue shapes.

Without further hesitation, he began to run, thrusting his sword into the black mist. With a scream, a Daemon, its flesh and form still solidified, was stabbed out—an explosive bomb immediately struck, smashing its head.

But this was just a drop in the ocean; many more undead were pouring out of the black mist. At the same time, a tremendous noise came from the other end of the position.

While fighting the flying bat-winged Daemon with his sword, Hill took the opportunity to observe the situation over there. He had expected the sound of a tank exploding, but he didn't see any shattered machinery billowing black smoke, only a giant with eyes radiating a blazing Radiance.

That was his Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, and he was currently with...

Hill saw the enormous Shadow clearly, and his heart skipped a beat until he heard Roboute Guilliman's calm announcement.

"I will kill you as many times as you are reborn, you wretched creature."

The Lord of the Thirteenth Legion coldly uttered his oath, Sincere Short Sword plunged viciously into Lorgar Aurelian's chest.

The skin was pierced, but what flowed out was not blood, but a black, gelatinous substance. A nonchalant smile appeared on the face of the Great Word Bearers.

"You really think you killed me, brother? In truth, you never killed me. Even when you beheaded me last time, you only briefly returned me to the realm of the gods. How is Macragge now, my dear Roboute Guilliman? It seems I have triumphed."

Roboute Guilliman did not respond to that remark, but it was clear to everyone that he was furious.

A thunderous drumbeat erupted wildly from his chest, and the Radiance in his eyes illuminated Lorgar's skin, revealing all the demons and monsters beneath it.

Lorgar Jia chuckled and waved the scepter in his hand, revealing a violent power that, though only for a moment, was enough to make Roboute Guilliman retreat.

The Macragge grimly gripped his short sword to parry, then swung a punch with his other hand, the Hand of Dominion cruelly dislocating Lorgar's jaw.

Blood and bone flew everywhere, but the black gel helped to keep the chin, which should have flown off, hanging crookedly on the face, while the smile on the Great Word Bearers's face remained.

After this bizarre smile appeared, a flame emerged from behind him and transformed into a roaring beast that attacked Roboute Guilliman.

Without even glancing at it, the Macragge man swiftly beheaded it with a single, decisive strike. The strike was perfectly executed, without any twists or build-up; it was simply the most straightforward and direct move, yet it cleanly and decisively cleaved the flame in two.

The Great Word Bearers watched this scene in astonishment, then used the tip of his scepter, which was burning with human skulls, to straighten his chin and glue it back together.

The face of Lorgar Aurelian returned, and he smiled slightly, raising his arms as if enjoying himself. "Brother, you seem to have changed. In that case, what I've done for you hasn't been in vain."

Roboute Guilliman looked at him calmly, without uttering a single unnecessary word. He raised the hand holding the sword, slowly clenching it into a fist. The Sincere Short Sword creaked in his hand, making one wonder if it was about to shatter at any moment.

The Victrix Guard, which was fighting the elite of the Word Bearers around him, also saw this scene. As if inspired, they began to fight with even greater courage.

Lorgar Aurelian looked at him with a puzzled expression, his smile vanishing for the first time.

He took two steps back, put down his scepter, poured it into the ground, and took out a blood-stained book from his waist, actually trying to read it.

"Oh, this is interesting," he muttered to himself. "I never expected something like this to happen."

Roboute Guilliman's response was a loud, thunderous roar.

"For Calth!" He charged toward Lorgar, thunder roaring around him. "For Macragge! For the Five Hundred Worlds! For Terra!"

The blade slashed down like flowing water, the Hand of Dominion firing at just the right moment, a punch that would turn Lorgar's face into a bloody mess, or break one of his bones. The Sincere Short Sword pierced through his chest, Roboute Guilliman twisting his wrist to widen the wound, his arm not trembling in the slightest.

The Great Word Bearers staggered back in pain, but his right hand gripped the scepter. He was still trying to turn the pages, but the Macragge didn't give him the time. They launched a terrifying onslaught that seemed to last until the end of time, and Lorgar could only silently endure it.

A dozen seconds later, he finally reacted somewhat slowly—as Lorgar uttered blasphemous and Chaos words, the ground they stood on suddenly transformed into a gurgling swamp.

Roboute Guilliman pulled his leg out of the dark mud without wavering, and continued toward Lorgar.

"I know what you're capable of," he said calmly as he walked away. "You can only use tricks to salvage a semblance of dignity. Strip away these laughable illusions, and you're nothing—just something that could be defeated in an instant by Vulkan and Perturabo."

"Look down and take a good look at yourself. Do you really think you're Lorgar Aurelian? His scepter was meant to smash the heads of his enemies, not to be held like a crutch by you."

"Oh, provocation." Lorgar gave a slightly nostalgic smile. "Both you and Perturabo seem to have intended to use it to provoke me, but not this time, my dear brother. The gods have revealed more to me. I have already seen the future of Terra and you; you will die by my hand."

"I'll rip you open before that happens," Roboute Guilliman said. "I'll use your head to pay tribute to all the dead, and the real Lorgar Aurelian will laugh heartily at your death."

"Lorgar Aurelian" winked at him, then suddenly said in a completely different voice, "No, Roboute Guilliman, he can never laugh again."

The Macragge finally let out a low growl of pure rage, but he did not lose his mind.

He turned his Hand of Dominion, aiming it at his feet and around him, and the slung-mounted Boltgun began firing continuously, sweeping through the swamp and turning anything that tried to block his way into mincemeat.

The Great Word Bearers opened his arms again and calmly began to walk on the mud. He walked barefoot, his skin glowing with gold, the mud unable to cling to his feet or even hinder his movement. At first glance, it seemed as if he were walking on water.

He looked down at Roboute Guilliman, who was sinking deeper and deeper into despair, and sighed softly, his face full of pity.

"The war has progressed to this point, and you still haven't seen the whole truth." He spoke slowly, the world still noisy, but his voice drowned out everything.

The Ultramarines were eager to rescue them, but the Word Bearers held them back. The Blessed Sons plunged into their midst, fighting with a complete disregard for their own lives. Their purpose was very simple, and anyone could see it, including Marius Gage.

The First Chapter Master stared with bloodshot eyes as the so-called "Lorgar Aurelian" slowly drew a gleaming dagger from his waist.

"I'm tired of preaching to the world, brother. It's pointless; you wouldn't listen anyway," he said, his expression a mixture of pity and intense disappointment.

"Even when the truth is right in front of you, you won't listen. Instead, you foolishly follow one after another, dying meaninglessly, for the sake of the world's biggest liar. So many precious lives are wasted in such a worthless way."

"Do you really think he would feel even half a second of grief over this? Your lives should have been spent on better things. If these dead had been handed over to me, humanity would probably have already ascended to a new realm! At that time, why would we need this so-called Great Crusade to rekindle our past glory?"

He slowly approached Roboute Guilliman, who was half-submerged in the mud, and pressed the dagger against his neck.

"Farewell, brother," the imposter said. "I'll save a seat for you."

Roboute Guilliman stared at him calmly, while the imposter frowned.

A mudslide occurred.

The Hand of Dominion hummed as it emerged from the mud, shattering Lorgar's skull with a single punch. The swamp surged violently, its filth screaming with all its might.

"Think about one thing before you use those evil spells!" Roboute Guilliman roared at the headless corpse. "Think about Power Sword, Power Fist, and how they work! Think about how the weapons humans have held throughout history have operated! Daggers can be thrown, you fool!"

His eyes Radiance brightly, the mud began to melt, and under the extremely high temperature, it emitted blue smoke and turned into black ashes. The Macragge man was thus easily freed. He threw his Sincere Short Sword, piercing the twisted corpse through the chest.

The short sword hummed, its immense force piercing through the robe and sternum, exiting from the back and pinning the corpse to the ground. The corpse, already headless, now let out a genuine scream.

Maggots born from the Warp gushed from the blood vessels in place of blood, limbs twitched, the scepter fell to the ground, and the face on the book cover also wailed, before quickly turning to ashes.

Ollanius Persson watched all of this with a serious expression.

"It seems he doesn't need our help," Constantine Valdor said calmly, quickly assessing the battlefield situation. "Neither of them needs it."

The "they" he was referring to were naturally the Ultramarines —who had nothing left to worry about after the Primarch's victory.

Thus, the destructive nature of the War-Born, driven by their desire for Vengeance and rising rage, began to resurface, leading the Ultramarines in rampages.

Although there was a significant gap in high-end combat power between the two sides—a single Blessed Sons could often kill a dozen or so Ultramarines in succession—they were united in purpose and showed no fear, and surprisingly began to turn the tide.

"What?" Ollanius Persson frowned, clearly disagreeing. "What are you talking about?"

"They don't need our help," Valdor repeated. "As you can see, Roboute Guilliman and his sons are brave Dreadnought warriors; they have their own ways of dealing with these enemies, and they don't need reinforcements of just two men."

Ollanius Persson shifted his gaze to the spear in his hand.

"What are you trying to say?" Valdor asked.

"Don't you think the Primarch needs a weapon like this more than you do?" Ollanius Persson shrugged. "You said this is the outer wall of the Imperial Palace. Although I've never been here before, I at least know his preferences."

"A place that can be called Imperial Palace must be incredibly large. If they're responsible for the entire outer wall, they'll face countless fierce battles. This weapon doesn't seem to be of much use to you anymore. You'll be leading the way, won't you?"

"So?" the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal asked, enunciating each word clearly.

"Well, what I mean is—" Ollanius Persson said carefully, "A warrior deserves better weapons than a messenger, don't you think?"

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal turned and left, too lazy to face such an insult. In the connection, his lord was persuading him to set aside his prejudices and treat Ollanius or Ollanius Persson with a more equal and calm attitude.

But Valdor could never swallow this insult. Putting aside how ungrateful Ollanius Persson was in his eyes, the mere fact that he had betrayed the Master of Mankind had already made Valdor want to kill him countless times.

Of course, what he didn't realize was that he was now subtly disobeying his lord in a way. The Master of Mankind saw all of this but made no reaction, and even seemed secretly pleased.

Ollanius Persson reluctantly caught up with him and began to walk behind him. It was naturally very difficult to find a way to their destination through the ruins of the Imperial Palace walls, but Valdor knew more.

For example, at the very beginning, Ollanius Persson was actually less than thirty minutes away from his destination. However, he couldn't just get there so easily. At least not until the jewel hanging around his neck truly became a "jewel."

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal pondered these matters, but suddenly gripped his spear tightly. He warily shielded Ollanius Persson behind him, Apollonian Spear transformed into a beam of light as he thrust it forward.

In the sudden onslaught of thick, dark fog, a huge, ferocious claw was instantly pierced through him. However, the spear ultimately failed to generate enough recoil to stop it, and the giant claw struck Valdor with undiminished momentum, sending him flying.

Ollanius Persson was slightly taken aback when he saw a huge, hairy beast head emerge from the darkness. It chuckled and spoke in human language, and although there were still sword marks on its face, it acted as if it didn't care at all.

"Samus! Samus is here!" it roared with maniacal laughter. "Hello, Ollanius!"

It knows my name?!

The thought flashed through Ollanius Persson's mind, but there was no time to think about it any longer. His instincts kicked in once more, forcing him to duck and roll, dodging another strike from the Daemon.

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal returned to the battle, brandishing a longsword, his expression unwavering, as if he had always remained so. The Daemon began to approach them step by step in the darkness, exuding immense pressure, yet abruptly halted at the crucial moment.

It grumbled and lowered its head, its body stiff as it glanced at the spear still wedged between its claws. A pair of hands, wrapped in the lightning patterns unique to Nostramo Adamantium, grasped it, and Shen's face glowed pale in the darkness.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked coldly.

The Daemon grinned, and behind it, the roar of Angron Tai immediately followed.

For Aurelian!

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