The Statue Shatters, the Dead Revive (I)

Horst stood motionless against the wall, his breathing soft and long, very difficult to detect. ♨♜ Opaw 💝♔

The raging firelight reflected in his dark pupils, naturally presenting an apocalyptic scene. Screams echoed continuously, reverberating clearly against the night sky illuminated by the firelight.

The pastor, however, remained unmoved, not even blinking, as if he had completely lost all emotional response. He stayed beneath the crumbling wall, his hands tucked into his wide sleeves, oblivious to the surrounding noise.

He had almost become a sculpture, a lifeless entity, part of the scene, devoid of any other meaning. He was merely a natural phenomenon.

Seconds later, a canine beast carrying a severed hand burst out of the fire.

It looked extremely excited, the wet skin on its forehead twisted and wrinkled, its four eyes, which seemed to be flowing with magma, gleamed menacingly, and black saliva dripped continuously from its mouth.

It was probably eager to start eating, but as soon as it burst out of the flames, it loosened its grip, letting the severed hand touch the ground.

It was just a hair's breadth away from truly tasting the flavors of real flesh and blood.

A flash of silver light streaked past, and a sharp blade pierced its head without hesitation, pinning it to the ground.

The creature groaned strangely, its limbs twitching on its emaciated body. A viscous, scarlet liquid, unlike blood at all, gushed rapidly from the piercing wound, dripping onto the ground and beginning to corrode the stone pavement.

They continued their master's desires, and under the influence of natural laws, they began to surge towards the severed hand. At the crucial moment, another pale hand picked it up.

Horst stared coldly at the hand, remaining silent.

It was forcibly torn off; the blood-stained gray uniform sleeve still remained on the arm, corroded beyond recognition by blood and the beast's saliva. Fortunately, the bite did not reach the uniform insignia.

Through that armband, the pastor was able to clearly identify where the owner of the hand came from.

Thus, the sculpture became a living person, a living person filled with anger.

"The defending forces have begun engaging them," he said softly, his voice carried on the wind and reaching Tujea, who was walking up behind him.

The investigator walked slowly because he was carrying a pale-faced man on his shoulder. His right foot was a bloody mess, and he probably wouldn't have been able to walk if Tujea hadn't been supporting him.

"How is the battle going?" Tujea asked.

"It probably won't go very smoothly."

Horst said this. He bent down and drew his knife; the straight blade was spotless, as if it had never been used to kill.

Tujea frowned. He understood that Horst was right; if the battle went well and the garrison troops gained the upper hand, the streets and alleys would not be completely engulfed by the flames of desecration.

He couldn't help but start thinking about what he should do next.

For him, what was happening tonight was becoming too bizarre. If being with the wronged souls was still within the realm of what Tujea could rationally accept, then the tide of wronged souls that filled the entire sky was something else entirely.

And that name, Erebus.

Tujea was certain he had never heard the name before, but for some reason, the moment he heard it, a tremendous hatred suddenly arose in his heart.

This is utterly bizarre; no one would hate someone they don't even know. It makes no sense.

"Get ready," the pastor said.

He interrupted Tujea's thoughts with a sudden remark, and this was not the first time.

Tujea didn't ask why, because he knew it would be pointless. About two seconds later, Horst answered the question Tujea hadn't asked with his actions.

He raised his hands, and as if by premonition, swung his blades ahead of time. Two small monsters with tattered wings burst out of the flames, gliding ferociously with their claws outstretched like hunting Raptor.

If Horst hadn't raised his blades beforehand, he probably would have been blinded by now, but he did, and so the two monsters became the victims.

Their gleaming claws were precisely severed by the two knives, splitting them in two from the middle. The two monsters and their four claws were all destroyed.

They immediately cried out in agony, spraying blood from the Mars flying as their claws clashed with the blades, their tattered wings flapping rapidly as they tried to escape.

Tujea didn't give them that chance. He raised his gun, and the bullets from the Catachan MK3 pierced their bodies, causing them to fall to the ground immediately.

At this moment, the pale-faced man with injured legs cried out in terror, "By the God-Emperor!"

"The God-Emperor dislikes cowards," the priest said coldly.

His words came true, but what killed the man was not the wrath of the God-Emperor, but a long bone nail that shot out from the flames at the alley entrance.

It grazed Tujea's cheek, and in his pain, it plunged into the man's forehead, ending his life.

Tujea, his face grim, raised his gun toward the alley entrance and began to pull the trigger repeatedly.

The vengeful spirits were still helping him; the flames did not obscure his vision at all. Ten bullets, vibrating through the air at high speed, spun into the flames. A scream rang out, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

"You're getting more and more skilled," Horst said. "This is a skill that requires training, Tujea."

Tujea glanced at him and noticed the pastor was smiling.

He didn't like the meaning behind that smile, so he knelt down without a word and closed the man's eyes.

He was the only survivor they rescued on their way back to the second district from the third. The Daemon spread far too quickly; most of the Hive City's inhabitants were pounced on and devoured before they could even recover from their revelry.

For no apparent reason, Tujea thought of that question again.

How many people will die this time?

His eye twitched involuntarily, as if he were suffering from some kind of illness. The investigator silently stood up, turned out of the magazine, emptied the spent cartridges, and began to change bullets.

He did it very quickly, using his left index finger and thumb to control the bullets and his right thumb to rotate the magazine. With each rotation, his left hand would loosen its grip slightly, and a bullet would naturally slide into the magazine specifically designed for it.

In just two seconds, he loaded all twelve bullets into the magazine.

It looks useful, but it's actually a flashy and impractical technique. Few people would actually use it in real combat. If your hands tremble even slightly, the bullet won't fit into the magazine. Tujea was probably the first person to use it in actual combat.

Horst walked out of the alley without a word, Tujea following closely behind. They returned to the main street of the Second District, which, unsurprisingly, had become an indescribable hell.

Flames, Daemon, blood-soaked, mangled corpses—just a few keywords are enough to easily conjure up its image.

Looking at this hellish scene, Tujea felt struck by some inexplicable feeling. His heart began to race, his face naturally contorted, his veins bulged, and his eyes swelled as if they were about to pop out of their sockets.

He began to gulp down the air thick with the smell of sulfur and blood, hunching over as he struggled to breathe. A chilling rage seized his mind, forcing an unparalleled frenzied impulse to rise within him.

At the crucial moment, Horst slipped a knife into his hand.

"Stay calm," the pastor said calmly. "I know it's difficult, but you now have the tools to help you. Take a deep breath and calm down. The difference between humans and beasts is that we can use tools to help ourselves. Don't let yourself become a beast, Tujea."

The investigator nodded silently, not because he didn't want to speak, but because he couldn't. The muscles in his throat were still tense, and he could barely make any sounds.

In that instant, his body transcended the limitations of his brain, transforming into a mad machine operating at full power, eager to kill. The substance flowing through his veins seemed to have changed from blood to ice taken from the coldest lands, freezing him until even his consciousness began to blur.

If Horst hadn't shoved the knife into his hand, he probably would have lost consciousness and been left only with instinct.

However, this knife

Tujea moved his left hand in disbelief, feeling a warm and continuous heat. It dispelled the cold, quelled his rage, and allowed him to remain clear-headed and rational. But wasn't this a knife? How could a weapon do such a thing?

"What is this?" Tujea asked with difficulty.

Horst did not answer, but simply raised his free left hand and pointed to a Gothic spire not far away, which was the bell tower of the chapel.

"Get ready," he said.

Tujea had never heard him speak in this tone before.

--

With a somber expression, Kaul Sahora stepped onto the boarding deck of the Soul of Night. The moment his feet touched the ground, a faint murmur began to emerge from the surrounding darkness.

The fog was thick, the lights were dim, and shadows loomed all around, yet no one spoke. This should have been a rather terrifying sight, but Kaul remained completely unmoved.

He understood that the murmuring was merely the Soul of Night welcoming him; as for the mist and faint light...

It's understandable that some equipment on an old ship that has been in service for over ten thousand years would be in disrepair. Even if the fog is cold enough to freeze the ground, it's still just a natural phenomenon.

"Chapter Master," someone called from the darkness, "You're finally back."

"I'm sorry, I wasted a little time." Kaul said, stepping aside to let one of the Astartes standing behind him step out.

The man was clad in iron-gray armor, with numerous characters engraved on his left shoulder armor. A long, Purity Seal extended from his neck guard and wrapped around the front of his breastplate. A drop of golden blood was etched onto his right shoulder armor with a white background and red border, creating a solemn and dignified appearance.

"In addition, Sergeant Uermit of the Sons of the End Chapter and his team will be operating alongside us."

Uermit Astartes silently raised his right fist and gently pounded his chest.

With a dull thud, the transport plane that followed their shuttle to the boarding deck also lowered its doors, and a total of sixty fully armed giants in iron-gray armor slowly emerged from them.

Darkness surged, Shadow Knights also left the darkness, beginning to lead their cousins to other decks, their coordination impeccable. Only Kaul and Uermit remained in place.

"You need to be prepared, Sergeant," Kaul said sternly.

"We are always prepared, Lord Kaul," the sergeant replied calmly.

He raised his hands, removed his helmet, and a drop of golden blood glittered between his brows. Kaul glanced at it, then quickly looked away, feeling an urge to sigh.

"Then, please wait a moment."

He said this, but then suddenly changed his language, uttering a hissing sound softly. A cold, thick fog drifted in from the darkness, completely enveloping them, and the surrounding scenery began to blur.

The sergeant frowned and said in a low voice, "I thought you were just joking about what you said last time."

"I never joke, Sergeant," Kaul said. "The Soul of Night is haunted, and has been for at least several thousand years."

Uermit was speechless and could only nod silently.

They didn't know how much time had passed, but in the extreme cold, the fog gradually dissipated, and they appeared in a pitch-black corridor.

A massive door, reinforced multiple times and now incredibly heavy, stood silently before them, bound by several crumbling iron chains, with only a few sections remaining intact.

Kaul stepped forward and placed his left hand on the door.

In an instant, flames erupted, a gust of wind swept through the corridor, and the chains began to tremble violently. Their charred outer shells fell away, forming a cloud of dust. The true form beneath was thus revealed, a deep crimson, pulsating like veins.

Uermit felt a dryness in his throat, and he even involuntarily took a step back—the relationship between the Sons of the End, the Midnight Blade, and their various sub-groups had always been very close, and he had heard many rumors about it, but he never expected that the truth would be so bizarre.

The sergeant shook his head violently, quickly dispelling the disrespectful thought. Kaul paid no attention to his behavior, simply pushing open the door forcefully. Amidst the hoarse groans of the mechanical structure struggling under the weight, a person with their head bowed, bound by chains, appeared before them.

"Come with me," Kaul said softly.

Following behind him, the sergeant entered with awe.