Terra (51): The Angel Descends, a Foolish Nostraman

Flight is one of humanity's ultimate desires. ☟♣ ☹☆

Moreover, it has been realized for many years. Whether it is various flying vehicles, flying backpacks used by individual soldiers, or those expensive toys that are only used by a few people, regardless of whether the technology is mature or not, the sky has actually been conquered by mankind.

Therefore, they set their sights on more distant and broader places.

The sky above the sky, a sea of stars.

However, despite the ambitious goals, humans still lack the ability to fly autonomously; they do not possess the physiological structure necessary to achieve this.

So, what am I?

Sanguinius asked himself the question, but all he could get in return was a bitter smile. He actually had the answer, but he just didn't want to say it.

He continued flying.

In the past, he could observe the battlefield situation while looking down. Now he couldn't; the thick fog enveloped everything, as if deliberately obscuring his vision. The fog was bad enough, but what if it were combined with an extremely cold and terrifying darkness?

Sanguinius stared into the darkness and shattered it.

Fine frost clung to his inner soft armor, wetting the seams and creaking with each flap of his wings. It was a natural phenomenon that congealed, yet it brought with it a completely supernatural coldness; the angel even had the illusion of being frostbitten.

However, if you ask, yes, his armor is completely destroyed.

After a fierce battle with Ka'Bandha, his armor was nearly destroyed, so Lion Eljonsson gathered the best Techmarine and Tech-Priest he could find. They tried to repair the angel's armor, but the result was predictably unsatisfactory.

This is to be expected; the Lion El'Jonson may find the best people available at the moment, but that doesn't mean they are truly the best.

It's cruel, but they were merely still alive. Coupled with Ka'Bandha's brute force and resource shortages, by the end, when Sanguinius returned to the battlefield, his Power Armour could barely maintain basic functionality and protection.

It was incredibly lucky; Primarch- level Power Armour wasn't as easy to repair and replace as the Astartes', and it was a miracle that it could maintain its condition to protect Sanguinius. Its good fortune continued until Horus's hammer blow.

The Worldbreaker utterly shattered the angel's armor.

This was just the beginning. Not long ago, the air turbulence he caused when he took off again made things even worse. Fragments of his armor left his body little by little during the flight, leaving only the inner soft armor that was actually completely defenseless.

It was once pure white, but now it is covered in blood, and its owner is struggling to convince himself to keep flying.

No, you can't land, you can't fight alongside them. You have more important things to do. You must.

Sanguinius took a deep breath and smashed through another patch of darkness once more.

The layout of the Lupercal Court was no secret to him; he was even quite familiar with the place, but it now felt very foreign.

Take the ceiling as an example. Angels should have always been accompanied by stained glass and golden domes. These exquisite and magnificent designs are the result of the hard work of many designers. Now, they have been completely buried by countless hanging corpses.

The dead were hung upside down from suppurating rocks or screaming obsidian, and even Sanguinius, as the Primarch, could not understand the cause of this phenomenon.

Moreover, he noticed something else—the ropes that hung the dead were actually their own intestines.

Ropes forged from flesh and blood bound them tightly in the darkness, and in this terrible bondage, even the occasional swaying caused by the wind seemed stiff.

But how many of them are there?

The Lupercal's Court was already a vast palace, but now it was terrifyingly large, perhaps having been passively expanded millions of times larger. Sanguinius could convince himself to accept its vastness, but he could not truly accept the omnipresent dead.

These people, covered in wounds and drained of blood, had skin taut and withered to the point of being unbelievable. Their eyes were dark, staring at the angels as if they were still alive.

Sanguinius unconsciously tightened his grip on Spear of Telesto.

Like the armor, it too had lost its former glory. Ka'Bandha destroyed part of its grip, turning it from a long spear into a short spear for throwing. If the Blade Encarmine were still intact, this awkward situation might have been resolved, but that was impossible.

That fine sword has been destroyed on another level.

Amidst indescribable complex emotions, the angel suddenly heard a thunderous roar. Or rather, a howl, a shout, an encouragement—whatever it may be, the sound truly pierced through the darkness and thick fog, reaching his ears.

"For unity! For the Holy Terra!"

Sanguinius immediately lowered his head and stared, thinking he would see another persistent fog, but he was wrong.

Some shimmering golden currents pulsed fiercely within the mist, their unreserved presence instantly dispelling the fog before the angel's eyes, allowing him to see the scene below with perfect clarity.

Without time to consider the possible meaning behind this event, Sanguinius immediately adjusted his balance and charged straight down.

Throughout history, countless birds with wings have possessed a graceful form when they fly. Angels were once as beautiful as them, even surpassing many others, but not now.

He flew erratically, his wings strewn with ice crystals, his muscles and bones seemingly jammed, making movement difficult. Flying used to be second nature to him, but now?

Even if we turn back the clock to the moment when he first tried to fly, he had never been so clumsy and embarrassed.

But that doesn't matter; soon, he won't have to fly anymore.

Sanguinius fell into a crimson abyss.

The short spear was raised, passed over the shoulder, and then, in a fit of rage, transformed into a dazzling golden light, instantly slicing several Word Bearers in half at the waist. Shards of Ceramite flew everywhere, and Sanguinius tensed his muscles, swung the spear back, and with unimaginable skill, flicked some of the shards away with just the handle.

They shot into the traitors like bullets, causing more and greater bloodshed. Amidst such a grand opening ceremony, the Word Bearers quickly discovered his presence and immediately took action.

The chaotic battle began to take shape amidst the chaos. Suddenly, the crowd started to move, and large swathes of scarlet Shadow moved indistinctly back and forth. The angels, observing warily with their spears held high, saw a large group of Word Bearers wielding assault shields walking forward.

They began to approach step by step, surrounding him little by little. No more scriptures could be seen on the heavy shield, only skulls or mutilated bodies hanging as spoils of war. Some of them were not even dead yet; judging from their lip movements, they were either screaming or cursing.

Sanguinius couldn't resist baring his fangs. He changed his posture, defiantly raising the Spear of Telesto, but in reality, he was already preparing to flap his wings and take off, descending from the sky to break through their encirclement.

But the Word Bearers seemed to have been prepared. Instead of rushing forward, they set up their shields, placed their Boltgun on the firing ports, and began to advance towards the angels in an orderly and silent manner.

Sanguinius lowered his arms and shifted his weight, giving a serious look around; he had already discerned their tactical intentions.

The traitors were very cautious, and this caution was entirely understandable. Even though the Primarch they were facing was alone deep in enemy territory and unarmored, they preferred to choose the safest way to fight.

They are gradually shrinking Sanguinius's space to maneuver, and in the end, countless weapons will emerge from the gaps in the shields, piercing him and drinking the blood of the Primarch.

This ending was predictable; however, it was merely a trap.

The angels knew that as soon as he took off, the already-positioned Boltgun would open fire, shooting him down from the sky. Perhaps their reaction time couldn't keep up with the movements of a Primarch, but suppressive fire didn't require aiming.

At this moment, he understood that these people were probably the elite of the Word Bearers, as evidenced by their battle tactics and their obviously well-trained reaction speed.

So, you've finally arrived? After sending out so many so-called "new recruits" and barbaric Cultists Auxilia, and after committing so many sins, you've finally shown yourself?

Sanguinius silently raised his short spear again. He had already discerned the enemy's intentions, and therefore, he did not choose to fly.

He began to breathe rapidly and briefly, his shoulders naturally drooping. One second passed, two seconds passed, and just as the shield array was about to reach him, Spear of Telesto suddenly transformed into a bolt of lightning and left his palm.

Throwing is one of the earliest killing techniques humans learned.

With three accelerations at the wrist, elbow, and shoulder joints, even a small stone can become a deadly weapon to kill a wild beast.

Sanguinius was a Primarch whose war skills had reached their peak many years ago—thus, the Spear of Telesto cruelly pierced the skull of a Word Bearers in less than a fifth of a second.

He shouldn't have been hit. He did very well, but that alone wasn't enough.

He is facing Sanguinius.

Blood splattered from the back of his head, not much, but enough to make the body lose control. First and foremost, his shield and Boltgun fell to the ground, then his limbs convulsed and spasmed.

The Word Bearers reacted instantly, understanding in a truly remarkable speed what the angels had done. They quickly regrouped, while others rushed forward to try and fill the gap.

Unfortunately, it was too late. Their reaction was by no means slow, but the angel had already launched his attack and flapped his wings the moment the throwing was not even finished.

A fierce wind howled, creating a man-made storm within the already narrow encirclement. The black dust covering the ground became the angel's best helper, obscuring the view and giving Sanguinius a fleeting moment of opportunity.

With a calm expression, he rushed into the gap, his right hand reaching out to grab the already damaged end of the handle of Spear of Telesto.

It stabbed his right hand without much suspense, causing a sharp pain that was then replaced by a surge of even greater rage.

The victory is already secured.

The angel brandished his short spear—and the one who had been pierced, the Word Bearers.

The immense kinetic energy propelled him forward, causing his head to explode instantly into a cloud of dissipating blood mist. However, his body continued its trajectory, shooting out like a cannonball and smashing the other shield-bearers to the ground.

The gap began to widen, becoming a terrifying chasm that could hardly be covered up by any means.

The angel leaped high in the dust, and when he landed, the Spear of Telesto had already pierced another Word Bearers. He bled, painfully pulling the trigger, but Sanguinius completely ignored him.

None of the bombs hit him; the Word Bearers was now impaled on a short spear and being used as a weapon. How could a warrior be harmed by his own weapon?

Explosive shells flew everywhere, hitting more Word Bearers. The angels, however, remained calm and waited until the Word Bearers ran out of bullets.

Only when the muzzle of the Boltgun could no longer produce any sparks did he begin to use the traitor as a hammer that had been added to Spear of Telesto.

One lap, two laps, three laps—the traitors finally opened fire. Explosive shells flew everywhere in the dust swirling in the gale, and Sanguinius perfectly dodged every single one.

In that instant, he was not himself, not Baal's angel Sanguinius, not the Ninth Legion's renowned perfect Primarch, but rather the Emperor's original vision of them—tools, beasts, killing machines, pure beings acting solely on instinct.

Sanguinius briefly abandoned his humanity in order to save more people. The storm whipped at his temples, his golden hair flying wildly, stained with blood. The ice shards stuck in the gaps of his wings finally began to fall off with the violent movement, and his eyes, as bright as rubies, were filled with murderous intent.

He charged forward, ruthlessly and deliberately disrupting the Word Bearers' formation and wreaking havoc. He continuously flapped his wings, creating gusts of wind and stirring up dust to obscure their vision, maintaining a tactical advantage and using the recoil to amplify his charge.

Despite not wearing armor or carrying any weapons, for a Primarch, even against a true veteran, there is a vast chasm between them.

Sometimes, he would simply charge forward with his wings spread in front of him, using the immense kinetic energy to kill some traitors inside their armor. Of course, he had not forgotten Spear of Telesto, which would always return stained with blood with every swing or thrust.

However, what is even more eye-catching is the assault shield covered in bits of flesh that the angel is holding in his left hand.

This heavy shield, large enough to completely conceal an Astartes, was used as a special weapon in his hands. He gripped its side, his five fingers digging deep into the steel with irresistible force, and then began an endless cycle of swinging, slapping, and smashing.

There was no rhyme or reason to it; it was pure brute force. Savage, but undeniably effective. Blood and flesh splattered, and heavy thuds echoed continuously. One after another, the Word Bearers fell, their bodies, armor and all, smashed, shattered, or brutally cleaved in two by the cross-section of shields.

However, just eleven seconds later, Sanguinius easily tore through the shield bearers' encirclement and charged straight out.

To his slight surprise, the Word Bearers had also made contingency plans. Sanguinius saw a group of heavily armed squads ready for battle, but in the dust and smoke scattered by the charge, the angels were ultimately one step ahead of them.

The irrational intuition honed through countless wars began to work, Sanguinius obeyed the call of his bloodthirsty instincts.

He bent over, twisted his arm, and hurled the shield in his hand. In an instant, like a thunderclap from a clear sky, a crisp explosion shattered the air, and a deformed assault shield spun between them.

At least three people were smashed into a mixture of steel and flesh in that instant.

But this was only the beginning. Sanguinius leaped into the air, spread his wings, and soared into the sky, then immediately swooped down. The Raptor hunted, the angel descended—and at the same time, he began to roar.

"For the Emperor!" he roared. "Prepare your necks to be slaughtered!"

The slaughter returned, but the angel was unaware that he had already begun to speak—in fact, not only him, but everything around him was regaining its voice, as if it had been given permission.

The angry roars of the Word Bearers they tried to regroup, the firing of Boltgun, the sound of blades piercing flesh, and the distant waving of battle flags that could only be detected by the Primarch's keen senses.

He hadn't yet realized what this meant; he was too focused. Sanguinius was frantically killing, determined to wipe out all the traitors around him.

He couldn't allow himself to be held back for too long; he had to resolve everything as soon as possible and then find the standard-bearer who emerged from the dissipating mist.

What did that first mortal who spoke, the one whose father spared no effort to reveal the truth to him, represent? The angel didn't know the answer to this riddle; he only knew that the Master of Mankind must have had his reasons for doing so.

Of course, what he didn't know was that he didn't actually need to look for it.

The flag bearer has arrived.

Flag bearer Bellros von Sharp was always at the forefront of the war.

"Forward!" he roared, his body covered in blood. "Charge!"

There were no superfluous words, only two words. It was more of a command than an encouragement.

Nobody cared. Everyone within Bellros's sight was fighting to the death—not for survival, not for killing, and not for victory. They were simply fighting to advance their lines, to get to someone's side, to become his sword and shield.

To kill his enemies, to protect him, they resolutely marched forward.

The flag bearer's heart pounded relentlessly, stirring a fierce drumbeat within his chest.

He hadn't felt this excited in many, many years. Looking back, it seemed like he had lived at least three different lives.

The first section describes the character's desperate struggle for survival under the slave owner's command; the second section depicts him waving a flag behind the Master of Mankind; and the third section shows him donning gold-rimmed glasses and attempting to convincingly portray himself as a Remembrancers.

He acted so well, so realistically, that he even came to believe he was just a simple Remembrancers.

Now, in this frenzied moment, with blood gushing and adrenaline surging endlessly within him, he finally realized the truth: he should have died long ago.

After the Unification Wars ended, every day he lingered on was actually just for today, this moment, this instant. For the sake of being a standard-bearer for a while longer, for the sake of shouting that slogan once more.

So he roared, roared incessantly, his breath as fiery as the boiling gears of a fully powered engine.

The flag danced wildly above his head, whipped up and smoothed by the raging wind filled with the smell of gunpowder and death. Four lightning bolt patterns shone brightly, as if they had come alive, and stood majestically under the eagle's gaze.

Evil spirits cannot approach, traitors cannot be stopped, and even things in the darkness cannot be looked at directly.

Bellros roared again, "Unity! Unity! Unity!"

A torrent of mortals charged forward fearlessly, passing over this stubborn, rusty reef, sinking one enemy after another that stood in their way to the bottom of the sea.

With trembling hands, they clutched their entrails, bit open their throats, and smashed the bastards' skulls with their frail, mocked weapons, splattering their brains and flooding the ground with blood like a tsunami.

"Forward!" Bellros shouted hoarsely. "He's waiting, he needs us! Keep going! For unity!"

Then, suddenly, someone responded to him.

"For unification!"

The voice carried a low chuckle, brimming with undisguised joy and fervor. Bellros turned and saw a familiar golden figure. He was bleeding, yet his iconic greatsword remained resting on his shoulder.

Bellros stopped in his tracks. They gazed at each other, looked into each other's eyes, and then smiled at the same moment.

Everything is understood without words.

"For Terra! For the Emperor!" Thunder turned and roared. Once again, he fought under that banner.

He shouted "For the Emperor!" without any hesitation. Bellros laughed heartily at this, his blood flowing down his palm and covering the flagpole.

He wouldn't say it aloud, but he was extremely proud.

--

Looking at the battlefield before him, Konrad Curze Curze tilted his head slightly.

Kolus Corax crouched beside him, his claws crossed and hanging down, gently swaying over the steaming corpses of Daemon at his feet. Their armor was covered in blood, one of the things left behind by their combined efforts.

They didn't actually cooperate much; the two assassins wouldn't work together unless absolutely necessary, even though their styles didn't clash and were even somewhat complementary.

The reason for not doing so is simply that it would seem wasteful. If one assassin is enough to solve the problem, why hire two?

For insurance purposes?

Curze turned his head, then suddenly smiled slightly, his voice swaying in the wind. "Do you remember that insurance-related lame joke I mentioned last time?"

Corax nodded.

Neither he nor Curze seemed surprised by the return of the voice.

"Well then, I have a new one here. Would you like to hear it, brother?" the Night Haunter asked gently.

Behind them, the Raven Guard and the Midnight Blade were working together to annihilate a massive demonic army. The Night Lords's ruthlessness and the Raven Guard's tranquility were combined in a rare and remarkable way, achieving an efficiency that surpassed any other legion's cooperation.

Almost every second, Daemon die. Their bodies are torn apart by the claws of assassins leaping from the shadows, their heads are unexpectedly severed by blades lurking in the darkness.

It sounds funny, but their ways of dying have never been so diverse and imaginative as they are today.

"Listen, but you have to wait for me a moment," Corax said quietly.

He coughed as he stood up, blood trickling from behind his tightly pressed lips. The wounds inflicted by Horus still affected him, but neither he nor Curze mentioned them.

He deactivated the Displacer Field on his claw blades, walked over to Curze, and took out a carefully wrapped silver pouch from a pouch on his belt.

The Night Haunter was stunned. He smelled an odor that should never have been present on the battlefield. The Lord of the Crows ignored his surprise and simply lowered his head, using his claws to cut open the bag. Instantly, a rich and pungent aroma of dried sand eel filled the air.

"Your lame jokes should be eaten with dried eel, that's the right way to go." Kolus Corax calmly and indifferently held up the bag of jerky. "Want some, Konrad Curze?"

The Night Haunter stared into his eyes and couldn't help but laugh. He nodded repeatedly, reached out and took the bag, then tilted his head back and poured a handful into his mouth.

He thought his taste buds were tired enough, but the moment his tongue touched the dried eel, it brought him a familiar salty and savory flavor.

His mouth began to water, his jaw muscles started to work, and his teeth gently cut and crushed the jerky. A richer aroma quietly bloomed on his taste buds. A few seconds later, Curze stopped chewing, and his throat began to move.

He swallowed the ordinary, delicious food with great reluctance. He closed his eyes and let out a deep, deep sigh.

"You want to keep me here, don't you?" he suddenly asked.

Kolus Corax put the jerky back into his pouch and nodded.

"What exactly happened, brother?" Curze asked sincerely. "How did you figure out what I wanted to do?"

"That's not hard to guess," Corax replied calmly. "You've never been one to hold your temper, and I can see the change and weariness in you. You've practically been trekking through blood for ten thousand years, Konrad Curze."

Curze opened his eyes with a light laugh, shrugged, and didn't answer.

"What do you plan to do?" Corax didn't press further, but changed the subject. He didn't even look at his brother again, just stood beside him, his dark eyes reflecting a bloody scene.

"If anyone else asked—you know, even if it were Angron, Roboute, or Fulgrim, I'd tell them, no comment. But you..."

Curze suddenly reached out and hooked his arm around his shoulder.

"You're too clever," the Night Haunter whispered deliberately in a malicious tone. "Even if I didn't tell you, you'd already guessed, wouldn't you?"

"I can't guess," Corax said. "And I don't want to. A prophecy changes when too many people know it."

Where did you hear that claim?

"In some ancient books."

"Stop reading the stuff those bastards write." Curze raised a sharp finger sternly. "Why is a prophecy a prophecy? Because it's meant to spread, to be told to others. There's never been such a thing, brother. Want to know?"

"I don't want to." Under the increasingly strange gaze of the Night Haunter, the Lord of the Ravens slowly shook his head.

"What?"

"Just remember it yourself," Corax said. "I have no interest in the specific details of the prophecy, or what you're planning to do. We've come this far, and you've been incredibly foolish; I can't think of any other path you could take."

"Hey!" Curze suddenly snapped. "Watch your mouth, you're insulting him too!"

Kolus Corax finally managed a subtle, smirk as he slowly replied, "I think he probably won't care. So, when are you leaving?"

There was no answer, only a sigh, and a figure gradually becoming illusory in the flames of anger.

Konrad Curze Curze stood in the flames, silently gazing at his brother, as if he were standing on the other side of the world. At this moment, the world he was in did not belong to the living, nor to the unliving, but was an illusory boundary, a narrow, cage-like place.

Then, five thousand five hundred and fifty-five pale, skeletal hands silently emerged from the darkness behind him, and a crown, seemingly forged from moonlight, began to be passed among them, eventually being placed silently on Konrad Curze Curze's head.

At that moment, the child from the Deliverance shed his last tear.

It will always be like this; we will always be powerless and can only watch them sacrifice themselves.

"The answer is now, brother." Night Haunter winked. "We'll tell you the jokes when I get back, okay? Also, don't overthink it, just in case."

He raised his right hand, and with a flash of light, a mask appeared in his hand. It was made from pale bones and supernaturally sculpted into a skeletal face that was enough to instill absolute terror.

Its eye sockets were deep and pitch black, like the eternal night of Nostramo. Some faint golden lines shimmered on the top of its forehead, like a king's crown.

Konrad Curze Curze handed it to his brother.

"You know who it's for, right?"

He winked at him again, smiling easily, as if a huge burden had been lifted. However, as one of the people who knew him best, Kolus Corax also saw something else.

For example, sadness, guilt, self-blame and remorse; and of course, there is also a very subtle form of schadenfreude used to console himself.

"Jago Sevatarion?" Corax asked.

Curze nodded, then bowed to say goodbye. He stood gracefully, his black hair falling down, obscuring his entire expression.

Kolaus Corax closed his eyes and slowly said, "If we can no longer live to see each other, I hope you understand, Konrad Curze, that I am honored to have been your brother. Also..."

He patted the bag of dried eel meat.

Half a second later, he opened his eyes again, and Konrad Curze Curze had vanished without a trace, as if he had never existed.