193 Terra (Fifty, So-Called Humanity)
Humans are easily killed creatures, Ollanius Persson was well aware of this.
He had verified the truth of this matter in many ways. Even without firearms or knives, killing a person with bare hands only takes 1.5 seconds. Sometimes it's even faster. You only need to strike the throat and temple with enough force to easily kill the other person.
Too many weaknesses, its entire body is covered in vulnerable spots, not a single inch of it is covered in fur, it is afraid of pain, and it can be easily manipulated.
The paradoxical thing is that humans have dominated many worlds.
This is truly strange. How could such a weak race be capable of doing something like this?
They traversed the stars, descended from the heavens, and carried out brutal genocide, conquering planet after planet.
Throughout human history, there have been countless butchers and executioners, whose victims were all their own kind. Then, tens of thousands of years later, their descendants carried on this tradition and spread it to other races in the galaxy.
Don't get me wrong, Ollanius Persson is not a so-called "human supremacist." Sometimes he even prefers animals to humans, but he would not object to these horrific acts of genocide.
He knew what they had done to humans.
In essence, those acts of burning cities and destroying civilizations were nothing more than acts of Vengeance, just like now, like him plunging a bayonet into the chest of something. It barked loudly, its bark indistinguishable from the dogs Ollanius Persson remembered.
Ollanius Persson loves dogs.
So he drew his bayonet, kicked it to the ground, and then delivered a follow-up stab. The whole process was simple and direct, without any hesitation. The Daemon's canine appearance began to fade away, and in Horus Lupercal's court, which was evolving into a temple, even Daemon became part of the sacrifice.
Or perhaps, everything that still exists here is a sacrifice.
Ollanius Persson looked down at the gem on his chest; it was glowing, but the light was dim and very weak.
Can you get in touch with him?
Ollanius Persson raised his head and asked silently. His right hand was tightly gripping the gem.
Constantine Valdor said, no.
He couldn't make a sound, and his expression was one of extreme pain.
He didn't have the energy to talk to me.
One of the Emperor's creations and sons continued to mouth his torment.
He used to be able to do a hundred things at once, a thousand things at once, but now he has to focus entirely on one thing. This is my fault, Ollanius Persson, we've all failed.
Ollanius Persson said, "I didn't," and then continued walking forward.
A Raven Guard Kill Team was clearing the way ahead of them, with Meros of the Blood Angels also standing at the front. In terms of killing efficiency, he certainly couldn't compare to the Raven Guard.
However, what he really wanted was to find his brothers and share the sacred duty he had received.
A single Blood Angels may not be able to compare to the Raven Guard, but what about a group of them? The offspring of angels have their own pride and will never be willing to fall behind, especially on a battlefield like this.
Of course, being a very typical selfish jerk, Ollanius Persson didn't care about this matter.
He was trying his best not to look back at a certain spot, not to see the golden light that was twisting and intertwining with the scarlet Radiance. He had seen it once before, and the result was not good.
Ollanius Persson's mind was completely reshaped in those brief yet seemingly endless minutes. If he weren't Perpetual, he would probably be a charred, decaying corpse by now.
But even if he is, his memories have truly become fragmented.
The body's self-protective mechanism forced his brain to forget what he had seen in those few minutes. Ollanius Persson hated this feeling, but he also knew that without it, he would never be able to regain his senses.
"Damn it!" he couldn't help but curse, feeling as if the Rock weighed on his chest.
But he had no choice; he could only keep walking, and so did they.
The scene in the royal court suddenly became complex and magnificent. The darkness was only fleeting, and the gloomy hall with its ivory pillars became a narrow corridor covered with a dark red carpet from which blood flowed.
Raven Guard and Meros have disappeared; only Ollanius Persson and Constantine Valdor remain.
The dead still hang upside down from the ceiling, their hands clasped in front of their chests. On the decaying red walls hang crooked oil paintings, densely packed, each depicting a giant in black armor, faceless, or rather, not yet having acquired a face.
The painting technique is extremely bizarre. When the painter puts brush to paper, he deliberately uses extreme blurring and large areas of color, splashing paint as if it were free. Yet, he also uses some method to outline a sufficiently sharp contour, forming a clearly defined armored giant within these color blocks, which looks extremely demonic.
They silently absorbed all the light in the dimly lit corridor, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors that could give a person an epileptic seizure.
Ollanius Persson stared at the paintings, his gaze sweeping over the decaying frames that held them. He paid no attention to the paintings themselves, but rather carefully examined the edges of the frames. Finally, his gaze settled on one of them.
Constantine Valdor approached him warily, gripping his spear tightly. Without even looking, Ollanius Persson knew what he was about to say.
What are you doing? We need to leave quickly.
No, not yet, Valdor.
The old soldier shook his head to himself and walked toward the painting. Its frame had a decaying, rotten gold color that looked unreal; gold shouldn't have such a tormented reaction.
But what truly made him stop in his tracks was a line of small characters engraved on it.
"Deep into hell," Ollanius Persson silently uttered the words.
Valdor's expression turned confused; he couldn't decipher a single word he understood from Ollanius Persson's lip movements. He had studied many languages, yet now he seemed illiterate.
Ollanius Persson turned around and walked toward the next painting.
Fear nothing, just move forward, the oldest messenger.
He recited the phrase again and walked to the next picture, reciting it once more. His boots left dark footprints on the carpet, with bloodstains on the bottom, a glaring crimson.
On my own two legs, I returned from hell to earth. Have faith to restore light. I will endure the torment, for I have seen the dawn.
Valdor approached him anxiously, the Apollonian Spear slowly raised.
The veteran turned around, his expression helpless yet seemingly invigorated. He switched from the language known only to a few, even dubbed "secret," to a silent and comical explanation in a language that Constantine Valdor could understand.
He repeated those three sentences, even adding a slightly mocking joke at the end, "Gold is his favorite color, you should know that better than any of us, Valdor?"
"But how can you be sure that's him talking to us?" Valdor asked skeptically.
Ollanius Persson stopped answering and simply walked forward.
War can change many things, Valdor, but what we are experiencing is not war. It is two natural laws clashing and evolving.
Every change occurring within this cursed royal court is orchestrated by their forces behind the scenes; once you understand this, you can find its revelation in the subtle clues.
The Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal caught up with him in a few steps.
Why do you know him so well?
The veteran didn't answer, only sighed. Several minutes later, he finally gave his reply inside the seemingly endless corridor.
Do you think I really want to?
Valdor gave a slight smirk.
Their figures gradually disappeared into the deepest part of the corridor.
They ventured deep into hell.
--
There are many things in the world that can be easily resolved with a sword. Since its inception, the sword, due to its unique shape, has been imbued with a variety of special symbolic meanings.
But there was only one reason why Sigismund loved using a sword.
He swung it, and the smooth power and perfect arc from countless practices made this seemingly effortless slash kill three Sons of Horus simultaneously. They remained in an offensive stance until their deaths, unaware of how they had been defeated.
The champion sheathed his sword, took two steps back, and instinctively returned to Ahzek Ahriman's side, only to see a gray Shadow rushing forward at that moment.
That was Bjorn charging past. The lone wolf's whiskers bristled, and his sharp, beastly eyes burned with murderous intent. He charged into the enemy ranks as before, taking on a part of Thunder's responsibility.
Sol Tavitz, sword in one hand and gun in the other, provided cover fire. A few seconds later, Bjorn turned and, without looking back, returned to his brothers from the demonic tide.
"How much longer?" he asked, wiping his face and shaking his head.
Blood splattered, but the remaining three remained unfazed. Ahzek Ahriman had no idea what had happened, but the other two genuinely didn't care—similar things had happened between them millions of times, and they would feel strange if Bjorn didn't do it one day.
"Give me a little more time," Ahzek Ahriman replied.
It's truly amazing—they can't utter a sound, yet they can hear each other's words in their hearts.
He held a book in his hands, its pages trembling. Scarlet characters twisted and danced on them, the pages even beginning to fade, the marks of time turning them a ghastly white, like the bones of the dead. Ahzek Ahriman knew nothing of this, and the others remained silent.
"You're in charge, you blind man." Bjorn grinned and slung the axe over his shoulder.
The demonic tide is coming towards us.
Bjorn charged in first, wildly wielding his fists and sharp axes. Sol Tavitz continued to provide cover fire, always managing to warn Bjorn at just the right moment to dodge the menacing attacks from his blind spots.
Sigismund stood guard over Ahzek Ahriman, his sword a formidable barrier, impenetrable to anything. They traversed the uninhabited settlement and soon found another Imperial Army.
"I've always liked these hounds, "Bjorn muttered. "Look at how brave they are in battle. Hey, Ahzek Ahriman? Can you see them?"
The blind man angrily cursed at him, the lone wolf laughed heartily, and the Vindicators ignored them, only looking at the only champion among them. Sigismund spoke before him, as if he had already calculated when Sol Tavetz would speak.
"It's Kharn," he said. "It looks like almost everyone's here."
Kharn?
Bjorn turned his head, looking slightly excited.
Is that Kharn you keep mentioning? Point him out to me, Adriano.
He affectionately turned the last syllable of Sigismund's name into a nickname, which seemed quite presumptuous. The Imperial Fists had no objection, but simply raised his sword and thrust it in a certain direction.
Following the direction of his sword, Bjorn indeed saw Kharn, the man renowned yet rarely seen. The blue and white paint of the War Hounds was completely covered in blood, yet it looked perfectly natural, as if they were born that way.
He wasn't wearing a helmet—or rather, only a third of it. Most of the helmet was completely destroyed by some kind of tear, leaving only the lower half remaining on his face. He was wielding two Chainaxe, engaged in a bloody melee with the Sons of Horus.
The War Hounds did not have the upper hand; their numbers were far too few, roughly estimated at only a few hundred. The Sons of Horus's forces besieging them numbered at least two thousand, a disparity in numbers that could not be bridged by the fighting prowess of one or two elite warriors.
Bjorn touched his canine teeth, then suddenly turned to look at Sol Tavec.
"What do you think?" Lone Wolf asked.
"We are first and foremost the Astartes, then the Thunder's brothers," the Emperor's Children replied. "And you know the Thunder's character; he hates this kind of thing the most."
Bjorn smiled silently, raised his hands, and prepared for battle. However, just seconds later, he lowered his hands. The reason was simple: a one-armed giant had mercilessly emerged from the mountain of corpses and sea of blood.
His shoulders were as broad as mountains, and his bare chest was covered in scars. His face was so blurred with blood that it was completely unrecognizable, and he looked as if he had been soaked in blood. With each step he took, a mist of blood would rise from his body.
His mere running exuded a terrifying aura. His undisguised charge quickly yielded results; the giant seemingly savagely charged into the ranks of the Sons of Horus, his massive axe slashing mercilessly, sending blood and flesh flying.
No one could stop him, not even the elite Sons of Horus clad in Terminator armor. But they quickly devised a plan—they raised their guns, aiming at the giant's bare chest, intending to take him down with a single, efficient volley.
They pulled the trigger, but the gun suddenly exploded.
Bjorn chuckled and leaned down, saying without turning his head, "You know what, blind man? You're still useful sometimes."
Ahzek Ahriman mumbled a curse into his own blood, his eyes blazing with fury. The ancient book moved without wind, its characters crimson and writhing like living things. Sol Tavetz looked down and saw a line of text.
"All those whom He favors and believe in will perish by the sword."
How terrifying, thought the Emperor's Children. They began their charge, heading straight for that bloody, hellish millstone.
--
Bellros von Sharp slowly, very slowly, stood up. He took several deep breaths before he finally calmed down. It sounds like a good habit, but you have to ignore the fact that he did it amidst a pile of corpses.
Eleven Cultists lay beside him; four were disemboweled, two were beheaded, and the remaining five were impaled by his flagpole. The flagpole was sharp at both ends, sharp enough, at least for the Cultists.
He walked up to a Cultists and plunged the flagpole deep into his skull. Blood spurted out, still steaming, but Bellros paid no heed. He simply bent down to pick up his longsword, sheathed it, and straightened his blood-stained shirt.
His expensive pair of gold-rimmed glasses had completely disappeared.
What a pity. He thought to himself as he pulled out the flagpole, gripped it with both hands, and began to wave it.
He had done this countless times before, usually accompanied by bugle calls and roars to inspire his soldiers. But now he couldn't make a sound; he could only wave the flag incessantly.
About twelve minutes later, some people rallied around the flag.
They didn't recognize it, nor did they know what it meant. They couldn't understand why four golden lightning bolts would pass through an Imperial Aquila poised for flight, nor did they know how many people had once rallied under this banner, or stood before its variants.
Bellros knew the answer, but he was too lazy to explain; there was no need to. This banner symbolized human courage and unity, a determination to eradicate all the scourges of Terra, and their commitment to fighting for the Emperor.
Just like this very moment.
This flag had been missing for a long time; it was Bellros who re-sewed it back together. His workmanship was rough, but who would care?
A smile appeared on the flag bearer's lips.
Countless mortals like him charged past him, colliding head-on with a horde of Word Bearers. Astartes was widely considered a key combatant in the Great Crusade, a fact Bellros was well aware of, just as he had been with the Thunder Warriors of the past.
So, what price would a mortal have to pay to kill an Astartes?
The answer is life.
Giving my life is enough.
Bellros laughed silently, standing arrogantly before the Word Bearers, waving his flag wildly.
He has experienced countless "historical moments," filled with glory and splendor, and afterwards received weighty medals as a mark of honor. These events will be written down and remembered. But this time will likely be an exception; this is merely a corner of the Lupercal Court.
It sounds cruel, but how many people would care about the courage of a group of ordinary people?
Well, Bellros von Sharp, the Remembrancers of the Master of Mankind and the Eighth Legion, remembers.
He will remember everything before he dies.
For example, the sergeant who had just died was cut in half by a Word Bearers, and the last thing he did before he died was to pull the trigger of his shotgun at the traitor's face.
Astartes is also made of flesh and blood; they can fight despite the pain, but they cannot ignore the laws of physics—the knockback of the shotgun stuns him, forcing him to lose his balance.
Then, someone picked up the sergeant's shotgun and fired a second shot at him.
He collapsed to the ground.
The torrent of mortals instantly engulfed him. Some stabbed him in the eye with knives, some smashed his armor with gun butts, some aimed Lasgun at the gaps in his Power Armour and pulled the triggers, and some unarmed people chose to pin him down.
They were roaring, but their roars were silent, just like their deaths.
But every death brings a victory.
Bellros continued waving his flag, only heaven knows how much he wanted to roar. He was so old, so old that he felt he had forgotten how to give a war cry.
He was wrong. It was an instinct, one he had never forgotten. Even now, when he was forbidden to speak out, he still roared in his heart, cheering for them, applauding them, and shedding tears for their sacrifice.
Yes, he was crying.
The Remembrancers laughed and walked forward, strolling leisurely through the hail of bullets.
This is far from enough to make him take cover. There's no artillery bombardment, no sky full of fighter jets, no sorcerous creatures that will ambush you from underground, or super-strong mutants, or human-modified tanks.
He walked forward, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.
The interior of Lupercal's Court had been expanded to a terrifying extent, but Bellros remained unfazed; he had seen things a hundred times more horrifying.
His gaze pierced through the battlefield, and beyond to the next hell they would pass through, and the hell after that.
He didn't stop until he saw that Radiance.
He waved the flag and proclaimed it to him.
We will fight for you, just as you fight for us. We will come to you, just as you awakened us from our numbness. We will be your shield, just as you have always stood in front of us.
The flag bearer gripped his flag tightly, and suddenly, a deafening roar of thunder filled his ears, as if granting permission. Then, in the next second, his roar echoed through the heavens.
"For unity! For the Holy Terra!"
This was the third voice, the voice of the Emperor's standard-bearer, used as a proclamation. Almost no one knew his name, or what the first slogan actually meant, but they were deeply inspired.
Everyone was greatly encouraged.
They were heading down a path to certain death.
--
Garviel Loken heard the thunder, then turned his head to dodge the attack from the Mourn-it-all. Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon charged out from his left, raising his longsword to strike at Ezekyle Abaddon.
The latter parried with his sword, staggering back several steps, his face now completely filled with rage.
Garviel Loken couldn't help but laugh; he couldn't understand why Ezekyle Abaddon could still make that expression.
Then, sure enough, he saw Abaddon silently mouth the rebuke.
Traitor! Abaddon's face was consumed by rage. You swore to fight for him, have you forgotten your oath?!
Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon shook his head at him, plunged his sword into the ground, and at the same time reached out to stop the fourth man— Horus Aximand, Horus Aximand.
"To hell with your oath! "Horus Aximand cursed. "Do you know what Father said before he died? He said that thing would do evil in his name all day long! Only you are stupid enough not to see it, Abaddon! Or are you shameless enough to prefer deceiving yourself rather than doing the right thing!"
I swore an oath to fight for him. I am not like you; I am not a traitor.
In a corner of the battlefield, Ezekyle Abaddon slowly straightened up. He faced three people: his three brothers, two Luna Wolves, and the last Sons of Horus.
And what about him? What is he? His eyes twitched, but this didn't make his hand gripping Mourn-it-all tremble in the slightest.
Being outnumbered three to one is a clear disadvantage, Abaddon has every reason to turn this one-on-three battle into a hundred-on-three, or even a thousand-on-three. He only needs to issue one order and retreat, wait a few minutes, and he will receive reinforcements.
However, for some reason, he didn't want to do it. The reason was secretive and peculiar, and he was even somewhat reluctant to admit it. But whether he liked it or not, it had already happened.
He deliberately distanced himself from the group; he deliberately wandered this battlefield, as if he knew he would encounter the other three members of the Mournival, as if he understood that this was the end.
He tried again to grip the Mourn-it-all.
"No." Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon shook his head calmly at him. "Don't do that. Throw down your weapons and surrender, Ezekyle. You will receive a fair Judgment."
"Get out, you traitor!" Abaddon glared at him. "Don't think I don't know what you and Garviel Loken have been doing behind the Warmaster's back! You've been colluding with other legions, sabotaging flagships, and murdering your own brothers! You dare call me 'Ezekyle'? You dare talk about a just Judgment?"
"He's gone mad," Garviel Loken mouthed to Torgaddon, and slowly raised his sword.
He walked toward Abaddon, and the two swords clashed in the next second. Without a doubt, this was another evenly matched battle.
Their understanding of each other is enough to turn any battle into this tedious back-and-forth, where no one gets hurt, or even bleeds.
Both possessed superhuman physiques and extraordinary skills, and harbored genuine killing intent, attempting to decapitate each other, yet neither could truly achieve victory.
They were merely locked in a stalemate, nothing more. Two minutes later, amidst the sparks dancing in the disintegrating force field, Garviel Loken and Abaddon took a few steps back, staring at each other, even their breathing was remarkably similar.
"Come on! "Abaddon sneered, his pale face full of mockery. "Come on, all of you! You don't have any sense of fairness, do you? Just kill me and be done with it."
Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon approached him with a sword in his hand, but he did not actually raise it.
Raise your sword! Or I'll kill you!
"You know what, Ezekyle? "Torgaddon shook his head calmly. "Father didn't blame you; he just said you were a stubborn, foolish child."
You are indeed stubborn and foolish; once you've set your mind on something, you'll see it through to the end, never giving up. But these two qualities aren't what prevent you from seeing the truth; you're simply cowardly.
He took a step back, then slowly raised his sword, extending an invitation. He wanted Abaddon to fight him, to have a life-or-death duel.
Abaddon's face began to twitch. He raised the Mourn-it-all, slapped Torgaddon's sword aside, and slashed at him. The strike was completely haphazard, more like a cathartic outburst of despair.
Torgaddon easily parried and countered, not only knocking Mourn-it-all but also holding his sword to Abaddon's neck, without activating the disintegration field.
Aside from the cold, Abaddon felt nothing else.
He opened his eyes in disbelief and saw Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon's eyes, which were no longer the same as before. The former gentleness was gone, replaced only by coldness and sorrow. Nothing else.
At that moment, for some reason, Ezekyle Abaddon suddenly thought of the Water Gardens.
"Why don't you?" he asked with difficulty.
"Killing you here would be a relief for you, but you don't deserve it," Ezekyle Torgaddon interrupted him, having anticipated this.
You need a fair Judgment. You must tell everything you know and see clearly and plainly. Do you know why? Because we want to clear Horus's name.
He took a step back solemnly, raised his hand, and pointed to a blazing Radiance in the distance. It had risen, half golden and half scarlet, as dazzling as the sun.
The thing fighting the Emperor inside is not our father.
Our father will not slaughter his crew, gouge out their eyes, and hang them upside down in his own royal court.
Our father would not pierce his brother's chest with power claw, nor would he throw his brother's offspring into the arena to make them kill each other for his amusement.
Our father will not allow the galaxy and Terra to be devastated, nor will he associate with these Daemons.
"So who is he?" Abaddon asked hollowly, his anger barely contained. "Tell me, Tarik Torgaddon, who is he?!"
"That's it," Torgaddon said. "You should ask what it is."
He lowered his sword, approached Abaddon, and put his hand on his shoulder.
Come with us, brother. It's not too late. You can still atone, you can still tell the world that Father fought to the death, and only after that was his body desecrated and taken away. He was not a traitor. I beg you, Ezekyle.
Torgaddon pleaded, Abaddon looked at him tremblingly, wanting to answer, his lips even curving into a "yes," but he ultimately couldn't finish his sentence.
His trembling turned into a spasm in a mere half-second. Torgaddon quickly retreated and found that Abaddon's eyes had turned completely black. Then, his spiky braid suddenly fell apart, and he shook his head in disheveled disarray. A few seconds later, a blood-red light quietly emanated from his eyes.
Then they heard a voice, the first voice.
Its sound.
"You intend to turn my last loyal heir against me?" it inquired. "Unfortunately, Ezekyle is utterly loyal to me; he is the last member of the Mournival, unlike you, who are despicable traitors."
As he spoke, Abaddon's body began to change. He wailed, as if he were being torn apart alive. And judging from the outcome, that was probably indeed the case.
His body was stretched out in the bloody light, his armor became tattered, and his internal organs crashed out of the rupture in his abdomen, splashing up a pool of black dust.
The crimson light continued to bloom, and some newly born Chaos power began to reshape him, restoring him, but in a very crude way, like a child playing with mud, using rough techniques and a careless attitude to create a monster that was neither real nor real.
Judging from his appearance, he is probably Abaddon. His facial features and body size are no different from Ezekyle Abaddon's.
But just by staring at him, Horus Aximand felt an urge to vomit—this was not Ezekyle Abaddon, and in an instant, he was certain of it.
It looks like him, but it is something else entirely, something completely opposite to, utterly contrary to, yet unsettlingly similar to, humanity. And this is only the appearance.
What exactly is it?
Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon had no answer; he simply raised his sword, attempting to parry, but to no avail. In a flash of blood, he was pierced through the chest by the Mourn-it-all, blood splattering everywhere.
Ezekyle Abaddon let out a mournful cry, and that was his last sound.
Then, it's just nothingness.
--
"You cannot win, Father. You cannot win because you have no idea how to win against me," Horus Lupercal said.
"I don't need to win," The Emperor said.
"But how long can you hold on? Your plans and backup plans all require your strength to proceed. You are their pillar, and you no longer have the strength to spare for those weak mortals. Am I right, Father?"
"You're wrong," The Emperor retorted slowly.
"Yeah?"
"They are my pillars," The Emperor said. "Every bit of courage is precious, every death makes hope shine brighter. They are winning for me, while you have only a bunch of cursed undead and some pathetic traitors."
"What naive words," Horus scoffed. "I can't believe a monarch should utter such things. Can't you see reality? Their deaths are meaningless; you cannot win."
"Like I said, I don't need to win," The Emperor repeated.
His face was hidden in the starry sky, his voice came from the primordial era, traversing endless dimensions and Chaos waves, and was reshaped in the energy of the Warp, where one ritual after another was completed in an endless stream.
Time began to leap arbitrarily, one moment in the Middle Ages, the next on a habitable planet in the interstellar age. He was hidden in these places, in the gaps between time and space, in places that once existed but no longer do.
In a fleeting moment, he gripped a ring tightly. He gripped it so tightly that it dug deep into his palm, blood flowing out and engulfing it.
"Then, what do you need?" Horus caught up with him, swallowing his form in that fleeting moment, his mouth full of blood, and asked cruelly.
The Emperor answered with his sword.
He doesn't need to win; the one who should win this battle is someone else, and he...
What he wants to win is the future of humanity.