185 Terra (43): Wearing His Skin

"So, this is actually a pilgrimage?" Ole Persson asked breathlessly.✌🎁 ❻9Ŝ 👍💲

He shouldered the gun, planting its once-intact butt on the ground. He had to; otherwise, he wouldn't be able to stand. Ollanius Persson's back was so tired he could barely straighten it.

The path Constantine Valdor chose was becoming increasingly treacherous; they ventured into ruins, delved deep underground, and eventually even had to climb a colossal mountain of corpses formed by twisted metal and undead figures still alive.

At this moment, Ollanius Persson's uniform was covered with blood-red handprints, marks left by the dead.

Valdor didn't answer, but instead looked around warily. Ollanius Persson wasn't sure if Waldo hadn't heard him or was deliberately ignoring him.

Having gained a preliminary impression and understanding of Constantine Valdor's character along the way, he spoke again, asking a second question.

Is this a pilgrimage?

There was still no response, so Ollanius Persson raised the gun and began to examine its condition. He sincerely hoped that this Boltgun could stay with him a little longer, but the situation he discovered after careful observation made his heart sink.

The sling was worn down to the point that it could no longer be hung on the shoulder, and the sturdy composite rope had been corroded and weathered to the point that it looked like an antique.

There were many irregular spots on the barrel, which looked like dried blood. Ollanius Persson hurriedly tried to wipe them with his sleeve, but they never disappeared. Instead, his dark green sleeve turned a dull rust red.

"No," Constantine Valdor finally answered, his voice carried away on the breeze. "This is a journey of betrayal."

Ollanius Persson looked up from his busy schedule, then came to a conclusion. "Did he say something to you again?"

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal turned around and began to observe the ground of Terra from their current height.

I suggest you take it easy.

Ollanius Persson muttered to himself as he lowered his head and continued wiping. He didn't seem to care how dirty his sleeves had become.

"He always says things to confuse you and achieve his own goals. Could you please remove this from my neck?"

Constantine Valdor looked down expressionlessly, and only after half a minute did he slowly move the Apollonian Spear away.

"There must be no next time."

"I think," Ollanius Persson said slowly, glancing up at him, "Even if he did, there's nothing you can do about it. So, let's be frank—what did he tell you?"

The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal suddenly felt an urge to punch and smash his eye socket, and only a third of a second later did he realize how unbelievable it was.

He harbored murderous intent towards the mission target, something that absolutely could not be allowed.

Valdor quickly looked away, hastily focusing his attention on his instincts, and began trying to find out where the next path was.

Terra in such a state of chaos that it is truly alarming; it is like a giant, complex Rubik's Cube, concealing countless secrets and paths.

Valdor could not possibly grasp everything; perhaps only the Emperor or Malcador could truly find every hidden secret on Terra at this moment. But Valdor did not need to grasp it; he only needed to sense it.

A few seconds later, the crimson cloak behind the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal began to flutter again. He silently walked down the other side of the mountain of corpses, and Ollanius Persson hurriedly followed, walking with great difficulty.

The descent is far more difficult than the ascent, especially since the mountain they are on is not a natural formation of rocks and soil.

With a furrowed brow, enduring the groans emanating from beneath his feet and the firm yet soft and hard texture of the corpse, Ollanius Persson slowly caught up with Constantine Valdor, who was gradually slowing down.

Then, to his surprise, he heard a reply.

"Yes, this may indeed be a pilgrimage," the Adeptus Custodes Guard reluctantly admitted, as if he had been forced into it.

"But we are not pilgrims," he emphasized. "We are just... no, you are just a traitor."

Ollanius Persson looked down at the bulge on his chest; the gem and its metal base were tormenting his chest.

He held the gun in his left hand and gripped the gem firmly in his right to keep it from wobbling. A warmth emanated from his palm, bringing a touch of comfort.

Ollanius Persson tightened his expression and spoke in a low voice.

"In the past, some devout monks believed in the doctrine of original sin. They believed that humanity owed a debt to God and was therefore born sinful, requiring extreme piety to atone for it."

"They would do anything to show their piety, such as donating all their wealth to help the poor, or taking knives, riding horses, and charging into the so-called pagan cities, killing all the men and burning all the women at the stake."

"They also claim it's a pilgrimage, albeit an armed one. Under the protection of religion and so-called deities, they are free to do whatever the doctrine permits. Compared to this, murder is the least sinful thing."

"But you also have religious beliefs," the Adeptus Custodes said pointedly. "You also believe in a fabricated god, Ollanius Persson."

"Do you know how many gods Terra has had in the past?" Ollanius Persson immediately countered. "A single land could give birth to thousands, even tens of thousands of gods. There could be dozens just for those bearing the name of justice."

"However, the definition of justice is very broad. A knight knighted by the church can claim to possess justice while burning, killing, looting, and bullying the innocent. Humanity has always been like this; gods are merely clay figures created and can be redefined countless times."

"Therefore, what's wrong with me believing in a benevolent god that I myself created?"

Valdor did not answer that question, but suddenly stopped and plunged the Apollonian Spear in his hand into the chest of a dead man.

Her small body immediately stopped convulsing, and her cries ceased as well. She stared blankly at the sky, her cloudy, dark eyes reflecting Ollanius Persson's wrinkled face.

The old soldier sighed, and with difficulty, he knelt down on his rusty knees and closed his eyes.

A few seconds later, the Apollonian Spear was slowly pulled out without drawing a single drop of blood, and this was not because of Valdor's superior skill.

It's simply because she had bled out.

"Keep moving forward," the Adeptus Custodes Marshal said in a low voice. "We still have a long way to go. Also, you can continue."

"What? You're interested in this kind of topic? I thought you'd never talk to a traitor like me." Ollanius Persson stood up, deliberately becoming gruff. "What do you want to hear me say?"

"Continue with the topic of the gods, Ollanius Persson," Valdor said, ignoring his provocation.

"I think I have nothing more to say," Ollanius Persson refused. "Also, please tell him that if he wants to hear these clichés I've said countless times before, he should come to me himself."

"It's what I want to hear," Valdor said calmly. "It has nothing to do with my lord."

Ollanius Persson stared at him in surprise, momentarily speechless, an awkward silence slowly spreading. When the silence finally broke, the matter was abandoned, and they stopped mentioning it, focusing only on their journey.

Sweat streamed down Ollanius Persson's face like rain. He struggled to control the trembling of his legs and tried to observe the ground only with the corner of his eye. He didn't want to look directly into the eyes of any more dead people; that mutual staring was too agonizing.

Several hours later, they finally returned to the ground. By then, the sky was completely shrouded in darkness, with only faint golden light attempting to pierce its obscurity.

Valdor gripped his spear tightly, his face grim, and shielded Ollanius Persson behind him as he cautiously moved forward. Ollanius Persson gulped down the smoke-filled air, trying to calm himself.

They looked like two blind men, trying to fight against the darkness with their congenital defects. Several times, Ollanius Persson wanted to ask Valdor —where have you led us?

But he didn't ask the question aloud, because the gentle breeze had already given him the answer instead of the Adeptus Custodes.

From the wind, Ollanius Persson caught a scent he had only recently become familiar with: the distinctive aroma of burning Phosphex. He twitched his nostrils, inhaling the possibly toxic odor with an unusual sense of comfort.

They walked and walked, and time lost its meaning once more. Both remained silent, beginning to endure this torment.

This wasn't the first time they had experienced the consequences of time chaos. It felt like being in an infinitely large prison, surrounded only by darkness, sentenced to endless walking. The only way to complete the punishment was to walk until time ended.

But the warden didn't tell you the exact time, nor did he give you any means to figure it out. All you had was darkness, aching knees, exhaustion from sweat, and parched lips.

Ollanius Persson abandoned his cursing, grasped the gem, and began to pray in a daze.

I know you can hear me, and I know you probably can't answer me, but are we really on the right track?

You haven't given me any guidance through the gems in a long time. If we're on the right path, please shine your light. That way, even if something tries to rush out of the darkness and tear my insides apart, I'll know I died a worthy death.

You've messed up Terra terribly, you know that? You really should have been more careful.

The gem began to heat up slightly, and a bright light shone through the gaps between Ollanius Persson's fingers. A sudden gust of wind forced Ollanius Persson to close his eyes, followed by a sound—a deafening noise so loud it almost made one's head explode.

"Forward!" roared one of them. "In the name of Mortarion, break through these barriers! Lord Vulkan and the brothers of the Salamanders need our support!"

Ollanius Persson opened his eyes and saw a group of Astartes clad in greyish-white armor. Constantine Valdor silently reached out and pulled him towards him, the force so strong that Ollanius Persson almost thought he was going to be thrown away.

However, just a second later, he began to wish he would actually be thrown off.

Amid the ground shaking, he saw a shell land beside him and Valdor.

Being directly hit by a shell on the battlefield isn't terrible, because you'll die without even realizing it. But if it lands next to you, you'll likely endure a brief yet almost eternal torment. To the wounded, everything in the world seems to slow down.

Most people will scream in agony immediately and become oblivious to their surroundings. Others will stare blankly at the sky, seemingly unconscious, just bleeding erratically. Only a very few will be able to quickly escape the pain and buy themselves a chance to survive.

Ollanius Persson didn't know which one he was in. After the violent explosion ended, he could only lie on the ground, clutching his head and groaning softly. He felt as if all his internal organs had shifted, and he was also suffering from persistent tinnitus and a piercing pain in the back of his head.

One hand gave him no time to catch his breath, lifting him up again roughly. Ollanius Persson barely managed to look up and saw Constantine Valdor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, striding forward expressionlessly.

Flames soared into the sky, and the surroundings were filled with dust and a putrid stench. At this moment, the true face of war opened its ferocious claws on Ollanius Persson, engulfing him completely.

Ollanius Persson began cursing loudly and instinctively put his finger on the trigger of the Boltgun in his hand. Strangely enough, despite being shaken to this state by the shockwave of the shell, he didn't drop the gun. Not only that, he even started firing.

Valdor released his grip, allowing Ollanius Persson to land. The veteran, dressed in a blood-stained uniform, despite having blood on his forehead, still began aiming and firing in a standard kneeling position.

His vision was blurry, with only simple patches of color. But this also indirectly enhanced his clear distinction between friend and foe: those wearing gray-white armor with occasional green and gold accents were his own people, while those in sickly dark yellow or dark green were naturally the enemy.

He fired with such single-minded focus, as if he had entered a state of primal savagery. The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal looked down at his target and felt a sense of absurdity—just who was this traitor?

As he pondered, he gripped the spear tightly, turned the tip, and pierced something behind him. The soft, sticky texture and the awful stench failed to shake Valdor's cold thoughts.

He turned and strode back, his spear trembling, instantly lifting the enemy, spinning him around, and slamming him heavily to the ground. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Valdor drew his Apollonian Spear, stepped back, raised his left foot high, and brought it down heavily.

With a dull thud, a head was crushed under his foot. The flesh encased in the decaying dark green armor immediately began to disintegrate, and thick, pus-like blood and bits of flesh gushed out through various openings in the armor, a truly nauseating sight.

→

Valdor frowned, feeling slightly dizzy. He saw something unpleasant, so bad that it made him wonder if he had taken the wrong path.

Then he saw Vulkan, and the thing that was fighting him.

Valdor hesitated; he wasn't sure if he should call this a battle.

Vulkan knew that this was not a battle, but merely destruction, like using engineering machinery to demolish dilapidated buildings in an old town.

The Warhammer roared past, shattering the air and destroying everything in its path with immense force, finally striking a twisted and swollen breastplate. The thing that was hit did not react at all, looking just like a corpse.

His armor and body trembled for several seconds from the blow, and a huge, visible hole appeared in his chest, with his internal organs and bits of flesh suddenly gushing out, but there was only death in his cloudy eyes.

He swung a massive scythe, striking Vulkan with equal force. The Lord of Drakes raised his left hand and punched the scythe away before it could hit him.

He swung his hammer again, calmly and resolutely shattering the corpse's kneecap.

He fell to the ground, and foul-smelling miasma and acid gushed from his wounds, instantly polluting the surroundings. Maggots rolled and frolicked in the blood-soaked mud.

Vulkan remained unmoved. He raised his hand, then smoothly lowered his arm, and the Warhammer slammed down violently, shattering the corpse's head completely. However, the hand gripping the scythe showed no sign of letting go.

It was swung again, and the angle even forced Vulkan to take a step back; with just that one step, the corpse stood up once more.

Crushed and flattened armor was embedded in its body, hanging on its broken bones and juicy entrails. Two colorful, insect-like wings swiftly unfolded from its back and began to vibrate.

The corpse's eyes had fallen out of their sockets, and its chin and shattered face were stubbornly held together by the mycelium entwined within its flesh.

His eyes, devoid of any self-awareness, were fixed on Vulkan. His pupils were becoming diseased, cloudy to the point of appearing as double pupils, but upon closer inspection, one could see that the densely packed things filling his eyeballs were actually all insect eggs.

They are multiples of seven, and also a sum of three; they are eyes, decay, endless cycles, or a word, a name.

To Nurgle.

Constantine Valdor, who witnessed this scene, felt an urge to vomit. Almost instantly, he gripped his spear, ready to rush out and tell Vulkan to stop, but a voice from within the connection told him to calm down.

So he watched as the corpse, its wings still vibrating, took to the sky, the continuous buzzing never ceasing.

Vulkan whirled around and began his charge. His dark face and lava-like eyes transformed this charge into a mythical tale of world destruction, for the Lord of Drakes was the god of destruction responsible for annihilation, and every step he took was enough to make the earth tremble.

He was already fast, at least faster than he used to be, but he still couldn't outrun that flying corpse.

He smashed through the dark clouds, his scythe spinning and slicing, instantly killing a dozen or so Death Guard who were fighting. Mycelium spread from his body, deeply enveloping the shredded corpses.

As if they possessed self-awareness, they spontaneously bypassed the armor plates, penetrated deep into flesh and blood, and devoured the essence of the Mortarion to replenish themselves.

The corpse's face suddenly began to return to normal.

Someone roared behind him.

Vulkan charged in, knocking him away with a single blow and slamming him into the earth by the foot. The Lord of Drakes gripped his Warhammer tightly with both hands and began destroying wings in the crater he had created.

The first hammer blow landed on his spine, shattering the left wing into pieces. The second blow struck his waist, splitting the entire corpse in two. The third blow, however, could not be delivered; the corpse blocked the attack with its scythe, and its last remaining wing began to vibrate again, lifting him to his feet.

Vulkan caught up and punched him in the swollen face, rupturing his recently healed skin once more.

With a single punch, Vulkan twisted the corpse's head, leaving it hanging strangely on its left shoulder, its eyes slowly oozing out like fragments melted by intense heat.

"Die," Vulkan began pleading in a whisper completely out of place with his size. "Just die already."

He punched again, blowing the head off completely. Then, dragging the flailing body away from the pit, he found the head. He crushed it with his foot, then raised his Warhammer and began to swing it numbly and mechanically, pressing it again and again onto the horribly mutilated body.

Each strike creates a deep crater, each blow enough to kill many creatures that could be considered immortal.

However, he was immortal. He had no head, his spine was completely shattered, his armor and flesh were fused together, his two knees were turned into dust, and the only remaining half of his wing was torn off by Vulkan and thrown aside.

But he didn't die; he couldn't die; he had no life to begin with.

The Lord of Drakes, covered in blood, took a half step back. He was exhausted; anyone could see his fatigue.

Long before this moment arrived, he had already killed the corpse countless times, yet he could never kill something that was inherently lifeless.

Then we'll have no choice but to destroy him.

Vulkan changed tactics and began fighting with all his might, trying to destroy the corpse. He used Phosphex flames, plasma, and even tried to lure it into a trap and immobilize its limbs.

But Phosphex cannot destroy his flesh, plasma energy clusters cannot evaporate anything about him, and traps have no effect on him. He can sever his bound limbs, torso, and even head himself. Then he will crawl out and stand up again.

Then everything boils down to the last resort—the simplest, most direct, and purest form of violence.

Vulkan began to murder his long-dead brother with his bare hands, again and again, with no end in sight.

He was the one who inflicted violence, but he also suffered greatly in the process.

Whether Primarch possess humanity has long been a contentious topic. Opponents argue that they are merely laboratory creations of the Emperor, and their handsome appearance and imposing stature only prove their ruthlessness.

Proponents, on the other hand, would cite numerous examples to support their arguments, such as Roboute Guilliman's effective governance of the Five Hundred Worlds, and Vulkan, Lord of Drakes.

There's no need to say anything; just mentioning his name will suffice. And now, even if someone who truly believed in this matter stood before Vulkan, he probably wouldn't believe the Primarch possessed humanity anymore.

So, this time, did he succeed? By abandoning his humanity, erasing superfluous emotions, and discarding kindness, brotherhood, and everything he once upheld, did he successfully kill the corpse?

Vulkan gripped his Warhammer tightly, but found no answer. The Warhammer slammed down again. A series of dull echoes reverberated from the deep crater, clearly audible even in the chaotic battlefield.

The Death Guard, battling their own traitors, noticed it; the Salamanders, venting their anger on the Gene-Father with flames, sworn to bring peace to the civilians, noticed it; Daemon, traitors, and even the echoes of darkness noticed it.

Constantine Valdor had never looked away from Vulkan from the beginning; he had been staring at him until now, when he saw the Lord of Drakes' eyes, which held nothing but numbness and death.

And the mycelium that silently drifted to the back of his head from within the deep pit.

The Adeptus Custodes moved and began to run wildly.

Ollanius Persson shouted after him, "Where are you going?!"

He was unaware that the jewel on his chest was gleaming with a barely perceptible Radiance.

Valdor did not answer, but charged forward. His Auramite armor had long lost its former luster, covered in blood that, after drying, resembled rust. But the Apollonian Spear was not like that; it was forever bright, forever dazzling, the blazing sun of the Apollonian Spear, hope itself.

Faster, Valdor told himself. He had to go faster, or it would be too late.

Unbeknownst to him, his emotions were boiling. The emotion was called anxiety, but if one were to dig deeper, it would be discovered that it was merely a trigger, something the Adeptus Custodes Guards inherently lacked: empathy, or rather, compassion.

In other words, Constantine Valdor was unaware that he was sympathizing with Vulkan's plight and feeling regret and sorrow for his misfortune.

He simply ran, just kept running, and in the process, he reversed the spear and pointed it at his chest. He leaped into the pit and shouted, his voice as loud as thunder.

"Vulkan!"

The Lord of Drakes turned his head slightly.

"Bang!"

With a muffled thud, Vulkan's Warhammer fell into the deep pit.

His face showed a hint of bewilderment, for he didn't understand two things. First, why was Constantine Valdor here and had shot down his weapon? Second, where did the Grand Marshal of the Adeptus Custodes get his power, enough to disarm him of a weapon he had already gripped so tightly?

But he had no time to ask the question. Before he could finish, a spear was handed to him by the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal, then transformed into a streak of light and pierced deeply into Constantine Valdor's chest.

Vulkan saw a pair of golden eyes, felt a warm connection, and then heard his father's voice.

However, the voice was filled with anger. The language he used was beyond Vulkan's comprehension; was it truly language? Could a language created by humankind possess such majesty, such power?

The Primarch was shaken to his core, dizzy and disoriented, and felt a terrifying sense of insignificance, as if he were nothing more than a rock facing the waves—it wasn't until much later that he realized his father wasn't roaring at him, but at something else.

His father was observing the world through his eyes and roaring at the thing inside Mortarion's corpse with his voice.

"You killed my son! You stole his body! You deprived him of peace!"

The Master of Mankind roared hoarsely, his voice a cacophony like the shouts of ten thousand men. He pulled the spear from Constantine Valdor's chest with Vulkan's hands.

The corpse did not answer, but opened its mouth, and three bright yellow eyes burst forth from its throat. Time stood still, darkness was pierced by Radiance, and Ollanius Persson saw a golden bolt of Thunder silently erupt from the deep pit, without sound, only a terrifying power that nearly destroyed the entire battlefield.

Radiance enveloped him, and he thought he was dead, so he closed his eyes and knelt down.

He thought it was over, until a terrible pain shot through his knee.

Ollanius Persson opened his eyes in pain and heard a cough. He turned around in a daze and saw an Astartes with a blood-covered face walking up behind him, staring blankly ahead. After a while, he seemed to notice Ollanius Persson's gaze, so he bent down and helped him up.

"What's your name? Ah, Company Commander Ollanius Persson? You have an insignia on your uniform." The man nodded to him. "I'm Nathaniel Garro, Death Guard. We've won; you can put your gun down for now."

Ollanius Persson turned to look ahead and saw the Lord of Drakes kneeling in the deep pit, his body as large as a mountain. He couldn't see his face, but judging from the expression of Constantine Valdor, who was also bowing his head, they must be in mourning.

"We won?" Ollanius Persson murmured to himself.

"Temporary," Garro said. "It will return, I know it will return, but we will stand forever."

He touched the eagle insignia on his hand, smiled slightly, and then, as if remembering something, asked again, "Have you ever seen the Emperor's Children? One of them is a company commander named Sol Tavitz. Have you seen him, Ollanius Persson?"

Ollanius Persson shook his head.

--

"Anyway, he told me to give you his regards if I see you," said Ollanius Persson. "Anyway, Nathaniel Garro gives you his regards, Company Commander Sol Tavitz."

The Emperor's Children nodded, touching the eagle emblem on his right arm guard. Ahzek Ahriman handed him a loaded grenades Boltgun from behind. Thunder was sharpening his knife, while Sigismund and Bjorn stood together, gazing into the distance.

Constantine Valdor raised his spear expressionlessly.

"Let's go now that you've delivered the message," he said. "We still have a long way to go."

Ollanius Persson sighed, shrugged, and said, "He's practically like my jailer."

Sol Tavitz smiled silently, "Good luck, messenger."

"I'm not a messenger." Ollanius Persson stood up, clutching the gem at his chest. "I think I'm just a damn bastard."

He turned around and left with the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal.

Update complete, 8k