189 Terra (Forty-Seven): Steel Bears the Load, Stubborn Stone Makes the Wall

Dantioch's lungs are burning.

Nothing can save me; nothing can pull me out of this hell.

Once again, he realized this with perfect clarity, and so he began to run. According to the plan, if the first district fell, then anyone still alive—or rather, anyone with a chance of survival—would have to do this.

Evacuation, that's all.

They retreated behind the lines, went back, turned away from the corpses of their brothers, and began to run amidst the taunts of the traitors.

Turning your back to the enemy is a major taboo, but what if the enemy doesn't even care whether you're leaving?

They were not a disciplined army; in fact, Dantioch even began to doubt whether these charlatans Word Bearers were truly human beings beneath their skins.

He exchanged a glance with a Word Bearers whose lifeless gray eyes held no emotion, only a murky and filthy fanaticism, as if he were born with it, rather than human flesh and blood.

The Warsmith felt a chill run down his spine for no apparent reason at that moment. The war had progressed to this point, yet he could still learn something new from it.

Hours ago, he noticed their Gene-Father caressing a steel flower. Now, he understood that the Word Bearers were no longer the legion he knew.

Even traitors, back when Roboute Guilliman's Five Hundred Worlds were burned, were still traitors with reason. They killed out of hatred. But what about these people now?

They have nothing, they are nothing.

Dantioch stopped and leaned against a low mud wall, turning to look. He saw Captain Gonzofried of the Imperial Fists being dismembered. Two men were holding him down, slicing open his chest with daggers and trying to cut off his head.

Captain Gonzofried was still trying to fight, his left hand still gripping the Boltgun, but he no longer had the chance to fire; he had lost the strength. His finger was on the trigger, but he couldn't pull it; it could only tremble.

The traitors burst into laughter at him.

It was all so terrible, and so unfortunate for the soldier. But the god who controlled fate seemed to have some Mercy; He ultimately did not take away all the captain's luck.

In his final moments before dying, Gonzofried saw Dantioch.

This was the only stroke of luck he could have, and also the greatest misfortune for the Warsmith.

The captain nodded almost imperceptibly.

His heart was slowly ripped out by a pair of hands after this nod, and held high, while someone praised the so-called Chaos Gods in a loud voice.

After the Warsmith retreated back into the mud wall, he pressed a certain spot on his arm armor, pressing it very hard. Otherwise, it wouldn't start.

Having done that, he immediately resumed his steps, without any desire to linger.

He resisted the urge to fight back. A voice that didn't belong to war came from behind him, like the arms of ten million monsters, trying to drag him back into the darkness.

War is the sound of gunfire and the clash of blades, the sound of artillery bombardment, not like this. Everywhere there is laughter, everywhere there are savage roars, mad screams, and the omnipresent praise of the gods.

Dantioch used his willpower to sever all those arms, and then began to desert.

After running for eleven seconds, a dazzling and intense wave of flames rose slowly from behind him. The flames did not penetrate the Power Armour's defenses and harm his back, so Dantioch did not feel its heat at all; he could only feel a chill.

Every nerve in his brain was trembling, yet his thoughts remained as cold as ice.

He ran around the next corner and slapped his right arm guard again, or rather, hammered it.

The fuse, which could not be heard or seen, began to burn slowly. Eleven seconds later, the explosion rose again. Five hundred meters was nothing to an Astartes, but it took Dantioch almost a minute to slowly move away.

He now stood at the border between the first and second districts, head bowed, inspecting his weapons. Dark shadows fell overhead, and the severed heads of the dead stared at him listlessly.

The Jingguan city wall, sculpted by the Iron Warriors and the Imperial Fists, continuously drew the enemy's attention, and Konrad Curze Curze was right: carving the Imperial Aquila was indeed effective.

These walls should have been incredibly fragile, easily breached by traitors, but the Imperial Aquila changed everything. This meaningless symbolism made them hesitant and even trembling. They had no choice but to find another way to enter the trenches and fight them to the death.

Perturabo and Rogal Dorn had already anticipated this, so all those methods were eliminated, leaving only one, the last one that was deliberately left out.

An exit, or an entrance.

The only one.

Want to kill? Come in. Fight us under the gaze of your fallen comrades, in the shadow of the Imperial Aquila.

Dantioch raised his head and began to take a deep breath.

Does he still remember them?

He kept repeating "Gonzofried, Fasatone, Tolaros, Ennelly Mannock" until he met Forrix "behind the wall" in the second district, and he blurted out one name.

"Gonzofried," said the Warsmith.

He paused, clearly taken aback. Forrix, gripping his Warhammer, looked at him without comment, simply waiting. It took Dantioch several seconds to recover.

"Sector One has fallen," the Warsmith reported. "If nothing unexpected happens, I'll be the last survivor."

"No surprises, we saw fire," Forrix said. "You held out in the 500-meter trench for forty-two minutes, that's enough. Go get the ammunition, Dantioch."

"Understood." The Warsmith answered Forrix with the same habit he had when he wasn't a member of the Trident.

The breacher looked up at the towering walls of flesh and blood, and suddenly revealed a slightly cruel smile.

He said, "You know what? Horus's pack retreated immediately after their first wave of attacks, hiding nearby to watch and leaving the battlefield to the cannon fodder they brought in. Their habits haven't changed, but I'm more curious when they'll remember they have artillery."

Forrix's smile gradually faded.

"Five hundred meters, Dantioch, five hundred meters. Let's see how many we can kill."

The Warsmith nodded silently, then turned and left.

One hour and fifty-one minutes later, he and Fafnir Lane of the Imperial Fists dragged Forrix, who had lost an arm and had his abdomen pierced, back to the Third District.

Behind them followed a six-man squad, making a total of nine men. They were the last surviving garrison of the Second District. Compared to the First District, this was much better, but it was still an unacceptable number, at least for Fafnir Lane.

Dantioch leaned against the mud wall of the third district, staring at him through the hole in his helmet. After a long while, the Imperial Fists finally let out a second sound besides a growl.

"We can't hold it," he said. "The Third District will fall too; they have too many of them."

"Whatever," Dantioch said. "Where's your explosives?"

Lan En raised his head and tapped his chest.

"Remember to detonate it," he said succinctly.

Dantioch said nothing, but simply thumped his chest.

Seven minutes later, their enemies began charging towards the third district from the still-flaming second district. The five Imperial Fists on guard duty were the first to spot them and immediately opened fire.

The trench wasn't actually narrow; twelve meters wide was enough for an armored vehicle to pass through. However, for the enemy, those twelve meters were far from a gentle obstacle.

They began to fall, their heads smashed, their bodies pierced, and burned by flames. Blood and flesh splattered as the defenders began to kill them in the simplest way possible—all they needed to do was pull the trigger; they didn't need to think about anything else.

They were running low on ammunition, so they decided to use it all. The crimson corpses at the border of the second and third districts began to pile up, until they covered the entire ground, turning into another mound of corpses.

More inferior soldiers in scarlet armor climbed up from behind, stepping over the corpses of their comrades, their faces covered in blood, chewing on fresh meat of unknown origin. They too were smashed to pieces, flesh and blood flying everywhere, and then someone began throwing fragmentation grenades.

In confined spaces, it is always the most lethal choice. Dantioch had read many books and knew that this design existed long before Terra was unified.

It is a timeless and highly effective law of killing, like a blade, a hammer, and a spear.

And an axe.

Fafnir Lane chopped one Word Bearers to pieces with his axe, another swung his Chainsword at him, and Dantioch killed him with his hammer. They looked after each other, fighting back to back in the blood-soaked, muddy trenches.

Everything slowed down, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of burnt corpses, just like their current predicament.

They ran out of ammunition and grenades, and the prepared spike traps and booby traps around the corners had killed some Word Bearers, but this still couldn't stop them from stepping over the corpses and continuing their charge.

Then everything falls into place.

The Iron Warriors and the Imperial Fists were doing this in tacit agreement, looking out for each other. Iron gray and bright yellow flashed alternately in the blood-soaked trenches, where corpses soon filled the area.

Meanwhile, the Warsmith Dantioch felt that his friend Fafnir Lane had lost the ability to speak, and that he could only roar or groan when he was injured.

He was slightly lost in thought about this, wondering, "Is Fafnir Lane really my friend? We fought side by side in Sector Two, but I only just met him."

He paid the price for that brief moment of hesitation; a spear pierced his side. Lann swung his axe to save him and pulled him up, thus giving rise to a third voice.

"Take it easy, you idiot!" he cursed. "Remember to detonate it!"

Dantioch smiled behind his helmet.

"Comrade," he mumbled the word, swallowing a mouthful of blood. "I refuse to accept it."

"What did you say?"

"I don't want to be the one pressing the detonation button again," Dantioch said clearly. "I've already pressed it twice, let someone else press it a third time. I have a batch of explosives too. You Imperial Fists never seem to run out of engineering explosives, do you?"

Fafnir Lane stared at him, stepping over the corpses of the two Word Bearers, then began to smile.

"Yes, you're crazy," he said. "Fine."

Someone screamed and rushed towards them.

--

Meros reached out to help Ollanius Persson up from the ground, but the veteran refused. He lay on the ground and slapped the Apothecary's hand away with the butt of his rifle.

Meros could certainly see his exhaustion. As a mortal, Ollanius Persson had kept a close following of him and Alastor Rorschach for the past few hours, sometimes walking a little slower, but never falling behind.

He was exhausted; his trembling legs showed he was at his limit. Meros knew all of this, yet he still reached out his hand once more.

This time, Ollanius Persson did not refuse. He slowly stood up, his face twitching slightly.

Without a word, they continued walking. The "crow" led the way.

He said he had some ability to recognize footprints and could help them return to where they came from. Other than that, he said nothing, never mentioning how he had come back from the dead—yes, Meros still believed he had returned from the dead.

His diagnosis couldn't have been wrong, nor could the medical arm guards have been. Even if the Raven Guard were dead, the suspended meninges hadn't served their purpose. However, one thing is noteworthy: his calmness.

He didn't seem surprised by this.

Meros was eager to know what he had seen.

They began to advance silently, heading in the direction of the main force of the Raven Guard —the direction of hell and death.

This request was made by Ollanius Persson, who stubbornly insisted that he must return to find Marshal Constantine Valdor of the Adeptus Custodes. To be more precise, Ollanius Persson's original words were. "I must go and save him."

Meros initially found it a bit absurd—a mortal saying he wanted to save a member of the Adeptus Custodes? But Ollanius Persson's expression made him realize that the veteran was completely serious.

He tried to persuade the veterans, which seemed impossible, but in the end, he was persuaded by Ollanius Persson.

"You don't understand, Blood Angels," the veteran said, looking up at him, his right hand pressed tightly against his chest as if holding something, but there was nothing in it. "The point isn't whether it's possible or not, but whether we did it."

Meros felt he should have been glaring at him, Rorschach remained silent, but Ollanius Persson continued.

"The universe expands. Have you heard of this interesting and ancient theory? It expands, then collapses, returning to its original state, to its most primordial shape. After this cycle ends, it will expand and collapse again."

"It goes on and on, endlessly, and when it expands again, everything will repeat itself. So no matter what mistakes you make, they won't get a chance to be corrected. And I can't make mistakes, Meros. I can't gamble that Constantine Valdor's death won't have any impact on what I'm going to do in the future. I can only do the right thing."

"But how do you know which is right and which is wrong?" Meros asked.

Ollanius Persson did not answer, but only gave a dry laugh.

And so now, they walk together, in the mist that seems to dissipate at dawn, close to each other, like savages from a primitive age.

In that era, humans in small groups posed no threat whatsoever. One person was no match for two, but two could hunt wild beasts, and three could deter a wolf pack from hunting. And if there were more than ten people, even the most powerful beast would have to consider whether it could withstand the claws and teeth of these two-legged, hairless, naked apes that could fly through the air.

There was no sound coming from any direction, only silence, as if the person they were looking for had died completely.

Meros felt a slight unease, a feeling that made him grip his sword tighter. Coincidentally, their "Ravens" also tensed their muscles, moving with an ambiguous detachment from the ground, ready to respond to any possible attack at any moment.

Ironically, Ollanius Persson remained completely unfazed by it.

Only he himself knows the reason.

They walked and walked until they were utterly exhausted. The Blood Angels inevitably began to have some doubts about what they were doing, so he asked, "Are you sure we haven't gone the wrong way, Rorschach?"

The crow turned around and shook its head at him.

"But where did they go?" Meros asked. "We..."

He was speaking when he suddenly stopped. He crouched down and began digging into the completely frozen soil with the captured Power Sword. After a short while, he unearthed a helmet.

That was exactly the style the Raven Guard preferred; the somber, scarlet visors were still covered in dirt, as if they possessed a consciousness and were staring at them all. Meros shook off the dirt and handed it to Rorschach.

The latter checked it once and put it on directly; it fastened to his armor perfectly, as if it had always belonged to him.

"We haven't gone the wrong way," the crow said in a somber tone altered by its breathing grille. "That's the best proof."

"But where are they?" Meros asked earnestly. "I didn't hear a thing—"

A sudden, noisy sound interrupted his words, carried by a chilly breeze into their ears.

As expected, Ollanius Persson loosened his grip on the gem at his chest; its heat had already burned his palm. The mist dissipated the instant the sound rang out, and the surroundings began to change rapidly, revealing monsters from the deepest reaches of hell before them.

They fill every corner of the sky, the ground, and even the air—they are everywhere.

The Apothecary instinctively gripped his sword, shielding Ollanius Persson firmly behind him. It was an instinct; he certainly didn't know what Ollanius Persson's mission was, but he could hear a voice deep within his own heart.

The raven didn't do that; he merely summoned lightning from his claws, causing the disintegrating force field to hum incessantly. This was already a declaration of war, but the Daemon ignored him as if they didn't exist. They rushed off in another direction.

Meros looked closely and saw the Raven Guard and their Primarch, Kolaus Corax, leap out of the darkness. It was a sight rarely witnessed, and he was greatly excited.

The Apothecary raised his sword with one hand and swung it at a hunched Daemon with grotesque claws, declaring his entry into the battle. The blade sliced across its head with perfect precision—a fatal blow if it had landed.

Meros was stunned.

Undeterred, he swung his sword again before it could leave, but this time it missed, grazing the creature's back silently.

Suddenly, the Blood Angels roared, turned around, and thrust its sword at another naked goat-headed monster. The goat emerged from the monster's chest, but the creature didn't even glance at Meros. It ran straight past, even passing through the Blood Angels's body, like a phantom Shadow.

"In the name of the Emperor?! What is this?!" the Apothecary roared. "We must join the battle!"

Rorschach gently shook his head.

"It's pointless," he said. "Don't waste your life, which you've struggled to survive until now, here. This isn't a battlefield that can be changed by just three people joining in, Blood Angels."

The crow looked down at Ollanius Persson.

"Can you find him?" he asked.

"Now you can," the soldier replied firmly. "I can already pinpoint his location."

"Then, take him with you," the raven said in a cold tone. "The Emperor has other uses for him."

A golden glint flashed in his crimson spectacles, leaving Meros speechless.

The crow raised its head, nodded to him, and then immediately disappeared into the darkness right before their eyes.

The countless Daemon around them instantly stopped moving, and tens of thousands—no, millions—of murky eyes all turned and stared intently at a Raven Guard that had suddenly appeared in their line of sight.

Alastor Rorschach coldly raised his claws, declaring war on them. Could he win against ten thousand men? Meros had no answer, only watching as he was overwhelmed.

Ollanius Persson turned and walked in another direction. Meros didn't even notice him leaving at first, until a breeze blew by and he realized what he should be doing now.

He quickly caught up with Ollanius Persson and asked, "What's going on, Ollanius Persson?"

"I don't know," the soldier said. "Don't expect me to explain this to you. I'm completely baffled myself, and I absolutely, absolutely, absolutely hate anything like the occult."

"But"

"There's no 'buts' now, Meros. It's come to this." The soldier looked up and said, loosening his right hand from his chest and pointing forward. "We've arrived."

He was right. Following his gaze, Meros indeed saw a dim golden figure. However, even with Astartes's keen eyesight, it took Meros quite a while to discern that it was actually a member of the Adeptus Custodes.

Their iconic Auramite armor was now completely stained with blood, which is why it looked dull, but that didn't stop him from fighting.

With just one hand wielding his spear, he could stand firm amidst the demonic tide. The Radiance emanating from his golden spear terrified the blasphemous unborn beings. Anyone touched by it would scream immediately, and some of the weaker ones would even be burned to ashes.

The profane flesh hissed endlessly in the Radiance, grease and pus gushing from beneath its fur, their cries so beautiful. The battle was resounding, yet Constantine Valdor still faced a very difficult situation.

The reason is simple: there are just too many of them, and he certainly cannot muster all his strength to fight.

Ollanius Persson and Meros could clearly see that at the rear of the demonic tide, some enormous Daemon were watching the battle. They could have chosen to join the fight directly, but they chose to remain on the sidelines.

The young Apothecary immediately understood what they were doing. He felt a chill run down his spine and was filled with rage. Somewhat at a loss, he lowered his head and asked the mortal for an answer.

"What should we do?" he asked, completely unaware that he had already made Ollanius Persson his pillar of support.

Ollanius Persson did not answer; he could not answer for the time being. This helpless predicament stemmed from the jewel on his chest. In a world unseen by Meros, it was shining, its Radiance more dazzling and intense than the midday sun.

They can't see you, but they can see Valdor, Ollanius. He's a crucial part of my plan. They're trying to erode his humanity, to drag him back to his ruthlessness. I can't allow that to happen.

"Stop talking nonsense," Ollanius Persson interrupted rudely. "Tell me what to do."

Go teach him how to become a hero of humanity, Ollanius.

How the hell am I supposed to know how to teach him? Besides, he's already one!

No, that's not enough. He's still only fighting for me. He lacks the awareness to understand what he's about to do. That's all I can say, my friend.

The person who called him a friend sighed, his voice shifting, as if he had suddenly returned to a bygone era, a time when he still had a name, rather than a cold, sacred title.

+You're best at this, aren't you? Countless people have been inspired by you to break through their limits and become heroes they never imagined they could be, becoming a banner standing tall in the wind, guiding others. Do it again, Ollanius.+

The sound faded, and the gemstone burned so intensely it almost melted his flesh.

Ollanius Persson took a deep breath and returned to the cruel reality he found himself in.

He looked up at Meros with a gaze that was far beyond what a retired soldier or a farmer could possess.

Ollanius Persson, a kind and gentle retired soldier, couldn't look people in that way, nor could he, a Catholic deified by his own beliefs Ollanius Persson, be so sharp and outspoken.

Only one person can do it.

This person resided within the chest of this ordinary soldier, hidden in his memory, for tens of thousands of years.

While he was still alive, people called him the Warmaster.

Meros was stunned, even feeling a sense of shock, and felt a stinging pain when his eyes met Ollanius Persson's.

The soldier ignored him and simply said, "Follow me."

He walked forward without hesitation, appearing as insignificant as dust compared to the entire battlefield. He wore a uniform stained with blood and dust, his face covered in grime and charred black by the flames of war.

His weapons were worthless to the demons, and so was his life. No Daemon would care about such a mortal; a mere flick of their wrist or a glance would be enough to kill him instantly.

However, his footsteps were as loud as thunder.

Neither his weapons nor his life mattered, for he possessed the oldest, most upright, and rarest qualities of humankind.

He has the courage to do everything.

A deep, resounding boom emanated from beneath his filthy boots, one after another, shaking the demons. They turned their gazes in this direction, but could see not a single person, only a sun rising slowly from the filth, flesh, and dust.

They screamed in agony.

Ollanius Persson gripped the gem tightly, then took a deep breath; his blood was boiling, and tears were streaming down his face uncontrollably. Meros looked at him with unfamiliar eyes, his gaze filled with awe, as if he were only now truly recognizing him, only now truly knowing who this soldier was.

Ollanius roared.

"Constantine Valdor!"

The Adeptus Custodes Marshal, who was fighting in purgatory, heard the call and immediately recognized who it was—his mission target, Ollanius Persson, a man who should have escaped.

This matter is absolutely certain, leaving no room for falsehood, and is by no means an illusion conjured up by Daemon, for they are screaming and melting away. Countless demonic shadows here, at this very moment, are all melting away, becoming puddles of mud, writhing basely in the mud like maggots.

Valdor had no idea what was happening; he couldn't even see where Ollanius Persson was, in fact, he couldn't even see the sun.

Instinctively, Valdor asked his lord through the link, but there was no answer, only gusts of deathly wind howling.

It was only at this moment that the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal suddenly realized something was wrong with this "connection"—from the moment the connection was established, the warm and gentle feeling, as if a missing part of his heart had been filled, had disappeared.

Moreover, it had been gone for a very, very long time. Yet he only discovered it now.

He gripped the Apollonian Spear tightly, pressing its blood-stain-free blade against his cheek. The shimmering Radiance from it did not harm him, but gently entered his eyes, bringing with it a voice he hadn't heard in a long time.

Without realizing it, Constantine Valdor's eyes filled with tears.

+ Valdor +

Yes, I am here, my lord.

Leave this place and go to victory for humanity.

"Constantine Valdor!" someone roared again, his voice extremely harsh. "Come here!"

A hand grabbed his cloak and dragged him roughly to the sun. Valdor barely opened his eyes to look at it, only to see a face that was translucent, bathed in golden light.

Ollanius Persson released his grip, stumbled back a few steps, and fell backward to the ground. Valdor straightened up, went over, and helped him up. A Blood Angels watched them silently.

"Go lead the way, you derelict wretch!" Ollanius Persson yelled, panting. "Do you know that soldiers like you deserve to be whipped?"

Valdor didn't know how to answer. He nodded, his face twitching and contorted, trying his best to suppress the urge to smile.

He asked, "Are you still able to walk?"

"Even if we can't, we'll still do our part," a voice said.

Kolus Corax walked slowly, surrounded by a flock of crows. The Primarch's gaze was utterly calm.