22. The Statue Shatters, the Dead Return (VII)

Hatred gradually filled Zel's heart.

It was supposed to be his support, burning brightly in his chest to help him through his current predicament, but Zel refused its help.

No, that won't do. At least not now. He told himself that.

The paladin frowned, forcing himself to regain his composure using his honed emotional control. He found himself amidst ruins, surrounded by corpses.

Some were civilians, some were local defense soldiers of Litatera, and only a small number were weak Daemon killed by Zel.

The main force of the demonic tide had already gone to other places to wreak havoc and slaughter. Any undead with even a little ambition would crave fresh flesh and blood. Only these weak and even marginalized Daemon would choose to torture corpses.

Their lives as unborn beings were so miserable that Zel simply stepped in to help them find liberation.

With the signature silence of the Shadow Knights, he slashed these beasts one by one, and as the Daemon's blasphemous acts were ended by his sword, the ravaged ruins were strangely calmed.

But this is just the beginning. Zel has a lot to do and many more Daemon to kill.

He was fully aware of the situation and felt worried. However, the other person who came with him didn't seem to think so.

Acapatis gazed intently into the distance, then spoke softly, launching into a long and detailed analysis.

"Most of the remaining garrison has already retreated back to their camps and underground bunkers. Unless their commander is an idiot, he'll surely give that order. Perhaps we should find a high vantage point for a lookout, Zel."

"The 'we' you're referring to only means you, isn't it?" Zel replied with a sneer. "You'd better get that idea out of your head, Acapatis."

"Why?"

"Because it's simply unrealistic. Do you know how many Daemons are circling in the sky right now? If you're discovered, you're doomed."

After a few seconds of silence, Acapatis, instead of choosing to remain quiet, resumed his "reasonable argument."

"Then what should we do? Are we just going to keep following those Daemons? We've been away from the church for two Terra hours already, time is running out, so let me go, Zel."

He turned around expectantly and patted Zel on the shoulder. Without even taking off his helmet, Zel knew that Acapatis was probably looking on with anticipation.

This didn't bring him any sense of relief; instead, it only stirred an urge to sigh—the barbarian's stubbornness reminded him of his past self.

It seems that every new recruit is like this, their mindset has not yet completely broken free from the influence of their identities as "trainees" and "juniors".

Their stubbornness and willingness to take on difficult tasks did not stem from a desire for honor, nor from a genuine understanding of their responsibilities.

Take Acapatis, for example. He probably did this mostly because he wanted to prove that his mentality was no different from a slow poison.

"No." Zel replied coldly, showing no mercy whatsoever.

"Why?"

"Because it won't work."

After uttering those words, Zel strode out of the ruins.

He didn't want to waste his breath arguing with Acapatis. Normally, he might have been interested in such a pastime, but not now.

He wasn't the kind of bastard who "adults" enjoyed using words and the truth to expose the scars in other people's hearts, watching them bleed and then laughing gleefully.

Zel's attitude startled the barbarian slightly; he clearly hadn't expected him to do that. But he quickly composed himself and followed.

This is also one of the best qualities of Acapatis – he may be briefly affected by his emotions, but he always knows what he should do.

And so they began their stealth journey, one after the other, their past training and genetic gifts allowing them to successfully traverse the shattered streets stained crimson with blood.

Unfortunately, all that could be seen were corpses; there were no survivors.

Litatera was a relatively stable world within the entire Imperium. Although oppression and corruption were rampant, at least the living had food to eat and did not starve to death.

Now, all of these things have disappeared.

Commoners were dragged from their homes, their chests and abdomens ripped open by sharp claws, and they were toyed with and killed by Daemon in immense pain and fear, with the Daemon possibly even mocking their faith.

Most of them didn't even know why they had suffered such misfortune.

A surge of anger rose in Zel's chest once more, but it vanished in an instant. Reason, carrying the weight of duty, swept in and shattered the anger.

Therefore, what he did next had nothing to do with the word "venting anger".

He drew his Torchbearer and began to run. Acapatis followed closely behind, raising his spear as well. Like two ghosts, they drifted across the lifeless ruins, speeding towards the demonic tide.

But they won't carry out the holy murder now. They will, but they will never do it now.

The reason they disregarded their tactical advantage of being in the dark while the enemy was in the open was simply because they heard the sounds of cannons and gunfire coming from the very front of the demonic tide. The war concerto created by humankind was being played loudly on the blood-stained and shattered Litatera.

Corpses and blood are its notes, cannons and blazing gun barrels are its instruments. The Daemon, however, are not the audience, but rather another kind of instrument. A group of "musicians" are bombarding these blasphemous, lifeless beings with their respective instruments.

It was only then that Zel realized he had probably underestimated the defenses of Litatera. Despite the suddenness of the attack, they were now in a full-blown state of war, and could even hold their own against the Daemon for the time being, relying on a fortress.

Zel unconsciously squinted, using this habit—which he had picked up from who-knows-where—to observe the enemy situation.

The built-in zoom function of the eyepiece easily helped him see through the bloody, gore-filled millstone filled with demons and monsters, and he saw a gray fortress struggling to hold on.

A fist was stubbornly clenched on the steel wall, blood-red sand escaping from between the fingers, accumulating into a pool of blood-red.

Zel glanced at it and felt a strange sense of familiarity. He immediately began searching his mind for any possible connection and quickly found the mark in a few words in a Departmento Munitorum recruitment handbook he had read more than a decade ago.

In his memory, he was back in that blood-soaked room, where he had just killed sixteen traitors and was sitting beside their corpses, browsing through the books on the shelf.

"Sons of Red Sand." Zel spoke solemnly as he ran. "From Nuceria, they served as Auxilia to the War Hounds throughout the Great Crusade. After the Codex Astartes was promulgated, they broke away and became an independent army."

"No wonder they are so brave," Acapatis said with a hint of admiration.

Zel agreed with the statement, but he did not express it.

He didn't have time to do that for the moment; his precious attention had already shifted to the rear of the demonic tide.

It wasn't far from them, and the number of Daemon was relatively small, with only a few ferocious demons present. Among them, a bird-beaked Daemon holding a long staff was shaking its staff, its feet emitting a faint blue light.

It wasn't one of those powerful, so-called Lord of Change, but it was definitely not some low-level Daemon either. Zel realized this, but he couldn't care less about its true identity; his heart was now filled with killing intent.

Jago Sevatarion said something quite right: If you find Tzeentch's Daemon on the battlefield, remember, deal with them first.

Zel raised his left hand and tossed the Torchbearer to Acapatis. The scout caught it with a slight surprise, and before he could say anything, he heard Zel's command.

"Provide cover fire, then retreat after you've finished. Don't linger in the battle; enter the fortress from the rear."

"What are you up to?"

"I'm going to kill it," Zel said.

With those words, he charged forward with all his might. Before Acapatis could even voice his objection to this damned so-called "plan," he watched helplessly as Zel charged into the demonic tide.

The barbarian couldn't help but curse, but immediately raised the Torchbearer. He was very accurate, every bomb hitting its mark. Perhaps it was because the Torchbearer was better than his gun, or perhaps it was simply because he was now extremely focused.

Zel was naturally unaware of his thoughts, but even if he had, he probably wouldn't have paid any attention to them.

He had poured all his attention into this crude and rudimentary killing plan, no longer caring whether it was just a trap. Against these nightmare birds from the Warp, pure violence was far more effective than a clear mind.

He began to kill with unusual focus.

Konrad Curze Curze's offspring seem to possess a terrifying and dark focus, which, if they so choose, can Radiance brilliantly in the art of wielding a blade.

Zel was no exception; he pressed forward, and wherever his sword pointed, the demons fell one after another. The pink ones turned into two blue ones, while the blue ones dissipated into flames.

Their cacophony of screams quickly caught the attention of the Tzeentch Daemon who was casting a spell. It eerily stretched out its bird head, then inexplicably flipped it over, looking at Zel from a completely opposite angle.

It let out a harsh screech, and suddenly shook its long staff, a beam of light shooting straight out from its top. Zel dodged it with extraordinary reflexes, and scorching lava erupted from where he had just stood, quickly engulfing the surrounding monsters and scalding them to ashes.

This greatly angered the Tzeentch Daemon, while Acapatis, observing everything from a distance, couldn't help but smirk—what? Didn't you foresee this in your plan?

He moved his arm, aimed at the staff that had begun to shine again, and pulled the trigger forcefully. The Machine Spirit within the Torchbearer seemed to sense his killing intent; the gun flashed, but the barbarian was jolted back two steps by the immense recoil that seemed to come from nowhere.

He clearly saw a black flame flash past the muzzle of the gun, propelling the explosive bullet to precisely shatter the long staff, followed by four more shots that embedded themselves directly into the Daemon's body.

Flames burned, and it roared in agony, its feathers flying as it screamed, commanding the freaks to stop Zel —but how could they possibly stop him? The truly powerful Daemon had already reached the forefront of the demonic tide.

Zel charged forward with incredible speed, launching the final assault of the attack as if gliding across the battlefield. None of the demons' attacks hit their mark; instead, he managed to cut down many of them in the gaps between his dashes.

Seeing that things were going wrong, they actually began to flee, scattering away from the Tzeentch Daemon that had been guarding them. At this moment, there was no longer any obstacle between Zel and it.

The paladin raised his sword and swiftly beheaded it, not forgetting to pull a silver Aquila emblem from a hidden compartment in his belt and toss it onto its corpse.

Amidst the hissing sounds of flesh melting, the surprise attack finally ended, lasting less than half a minute in total. Even now, most of the Daemon within the demonic tide were still unaware of what was happening behind them.

However, even if they knew, they probably wouldn't care much.

They can unite briefly, but their chaotic nature makes them thrilled by every death. Moreover, most of the Daemon in this army come from the Khorne's domain; if it weren't for this fortress, they would probably have killed the servants of the Tzeentch first.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Zel quickly returned to Acapatis's side, and the scout immediately returned his gun to him, but with both hands.

Zel gave him a strange look, took the gun, and said nothing.

He did indeed see the bullets wreathed in flames, which proved Acapatis's talent from another perspective. However, another problem arose as a result.

Acapatis has not yet been granted permission to return to Nostramo, which means he should not have so casually summoned the power unique to the realm of Vengeance.

Zel pondered the question, remaining silent for half a second, when suddenly a thunderbolt flashed through his mind.

Holy Spirit Month.

This word provoked even more Thunder.

How long did this month-long festival actually last? That fragment.

I see. If that's the case, then everything makes sense.

But if that's the case, then wouldn't the 25-hour countdown be completely meaningless?

Zel instinctively gripped the Torchbearer, but his movement of hanging the gun back on his belt was a beat slow. At the crucial moment, his training proved invaluable.

Having fully mastered the extraordinary physique gained through genetic modification and the calm will cultivated through day and night training, Zel raised his hand and grabbed Acapatis: "I need you to go back."

"What? Now?"

"Yes, now, as fast as you can," Zel said sternly. "Go back and tell Captain Krostilian that the revival of the fragments is related to the Holy Spirit Month, and then have him evacuate all the civilians from the church!"

His serious tone startled the scout, who instinctively wanted to obey his orders, but he still had some doubts.

"But... where can they go?"

"Anywhere is fine, but they can't stay in the church!"

Zel let out a rare growl, and the words that came out were completely different from what he had thought before, but there was a reason for it. The next thing he said sent a chill down Acapatis's spine.

"Unless you want to see a large group of fanatical believers, corrupted by their sanity, wielding blades and spreading a spiral of hatred throughout Litatera!"

Without a word, the recruit turned and ran, his forehead already covered in a fine layer of cold sweat. Zel never lied, and there was no need for him to lie to Deceit him. Besides, he had just witnessed the flames of rage.

He knew his own limitations.

He ran frantically, the breathing grille helping him filter out many strange smells, but a small amount still entered his nasal cavity. The wicked mixture of odors gave him the illusion of almost suffocating.

Acapatis immediately became alert. This was enough to make him uncomfortable, even with his helmet filtering the gas beforehand. How was this any different from poison gas? How could normal burning ruins possibly produce such a smell?

He immediately stopped running, and in a flash, he disappeared into the ruins, silently entering stealth mode.

This vigilance proved necessary just a minute later—a swamp appeared on his way back to the second district of Litatera.

The mixture of dark green and yellowish-brown hues resembled a nauseating swamp still in use beneath some ancient Hive City. Some indescribable Nurgling were dragging civilian corpses and tossing them into the pool. The bodies sank quickly, leaving only a few bubbles on the surface.

Acapatis slowed his breathing, his expression turning grim as he wavered between killing and seeking another path. Ultimately, the word "spiral of hatred" prevailed, forcing him to remove his finger from the trigger.

Just then, a buzzing fly landed on the brick wall where he was hiding.

It rubbed its forelimbs, and a faint emerald Radiance appeared in its disgusting compound eyes. Then, this tiny creature began to swell.

Without the slightest hesitation, Acapatis leaped away from his spot. However, a shrill shriek followed the fly's explosion and descended upon the ruins, the sound continuous and immediately attracting the attention of the Nurgling.

Acapatis cursed under his breath, annoyed by his own carelessness, but also puzzled as to how a fly had discovered him.

Without further hesitation, he abandoned his previous plans and raced towards the swamp. The Nurgling, however, did not attempt to stop him; instead, they screamed and leaped into the swamp.

Acapatis had assumed they were afraid of him, but to his surprise, the foul swamp suddenly began to erupt, spewing forth rotting corpses that, along with brownish liquid and countless maggots, flew into the sky.

In this gruesome and nauseating scene, a huge, bloated, and obese figure slowly rose to its feet. Its body was covered in layers of fat, and its bluish-green skin looked remarkably smooth, without any blisters or pustules.

It had a twisted horn on its head, below which were two eyes so small they were almost invisible and a terrifyingly large mouth. As soon as it appeared, it sneezed, from which many Nurgling flew out, which it then cheerfully caught with its outstretched hands.

Then, Acapatis saw it lift up the fat on its belly, revealing an even larger gaping maw.

The Nurgling leaped into it with laughter, while the barbarian's face began to twitch.

He was finally beginning to understand why the Chapter harbored such hatred for enemies like Nurgle.

The Daemon chuckled and turned around, clumsily crawling out of the deep pit corroded by the swamp.

Acapatis couldn't see its eyes, which were hidden by its fat, but he could feel it staring at him. He immediately raised his gun and fired, but the bullet sank into its fat and didn't move again. There wasn't even a bullet hole left on its smooth skin.

The Daemon lazily scratched his body, opened his gaping maw, and actually greeted Acapatis.

"Hello, contractor who has sworn an oath of Vengeance. Ah, wait, you seem quite young."

It shook its head regretfully. "That's a real pity."

What a pity? Acapatis angrily pulled two Frag Grenade from his belt and threw them at it, but the Daemon neither dodged nor avoided them, it just yawned.

Its belly fat spread out along its body, and a long, sticky tongue resembling intestines shot out Great Maw its terrifying, canyon-like maw, snatching two hand grenades back into its mouth in mid-air and swallowing them whole.

With a dull thud, the Daemon chuckled and patted its belly, appearing quite satisfied. Acapatis stared at it in disbelief, momentarily unsure whether to continue firing.

The Daemon, however, had no such concerns. It spoke gently—even very politely at first, "Actually, I think we can keep him here for a while."

Who is it talking to?

Acapatis whirled around and saw a face covered in scripture, followed by a sharp, piercing pain.

He collapsed to the ground, feeling weaker than he had ever felt in his life. He felt as if he had been pierced by something, but what was it? How could it have pierced his armor so easily, even penetrating his body?

Ah.

Acapatis opened his lips trembling, his vision beginning to blur.

The Daemon approached regretfully, each step causing the ground to tremble. It stopped in front of Acapatis, shook its head, and said, "I don't think you need to do this. What threat could he pose? Why don't we keep him alive?"

"Why are you so insistent on keeping a new recruit, Dolor?"

"Because at least he didn't kill my fly," the Daemon called Dolor muttered in reply. "He's clearly a kind man, don't you think?"

The person speaking to it was clearly amused by this remark, "Alright, it was my fault. I'll be more careful next time. How about this, Your Dolor?"

"I think it's a good idea." The Daemon grinned and grabbed the still-alive Acapatis.

Its power was so immense that the recruit immediately heard his bones cracking one by one. He almost had the illusion that he was a piece of fruit being crushed.

The recruit couldn't help but vomit a mouthful of blood, spraying it all over the inside of his helmet. The pain, ironically, helped him at that moment, clearing his mind for a brief instant.

He looked up and, guided by instinct, saw the person who had stabbed him.

He saw with perfect clarity the smiling face covered in scriptures.

Acapatis opened his lips, trembling, wanting to curse, or at least to say something.

But he couldn't do it, because the Daemon was clumsily pulling at his helmet, almost tearing his head off with it. He couldn't help but gasp for breath, and finally, it was the demon who spoke.

Would you mind if I helped you, sir?

The Daemon immediately nodded and offered his right hand. The man then reached out with both hands from his wide priest's robes, easily found the hidden clasp of Acapatis's helmet, and removed it.

He maintained his smile, responding to Acapatis's hateful gaze.

"Keep hating, recruit," he said. "It won't do any good anyway. You're too young; you haven't even signed a contract yet."

He chuckled and waved at Acapatis —or rather, at the Daemon.

The next second, accompanied by a strong feeling of weightlessness, Acapatis could no longer see him.

Is that all?

On his deathbed, Acapatis couldn't help but ask this question.

That's all? My life. I haven't accomplished anything, I haven't even sent a message back to the adults, I...

Another wave of pain washed over him, but this time it did not help Acapatis. All thoughts came to an abrupt halt, leaving only one final thought.

"Damn Chaos, if only communication were possible!"

Erebus gazed at his pale face, smiled with satisfaction, and strode forward.

The Daemon Dolor followed, holding the corpse in its hand. The chest and abdomen had been cut open, and countless insect eggs were being injected into it.

Erebus knew what it was going to do. This newly promoted Great Unclean One was very generous, even bestowing enormous blessings upon some decent mortals. It clearly liked this recruit very much, and therefore intended to grant him some paternal mercy after death.

How kind. The Dark Apostle couldn't help but chuckle softly as he slowly walked towards a church.

Behind him, darkness swept in, and demons stood within it.

--

Staring at all this, the "adult" felt a headache for the first time.

Slor stood beside him, and the executioner's usually gloomy face now looked even more terrifying, as if he were being violently struck in the stomach with both hands.

Iharal remained relatively calm, but he was always calm; he had a problem with his facial nerves and was unable to express any obvious emotions.

Judging from the twitching corner of his eye, Krostilian knew that the skull was probably not in a good mood either.

This is normal, absolutely normal. Who can remain calm in the face of a nascent spiral of hatred? Probably not even the God of Vengeance himself could laugh.

Krostilian silently grumbled about these things, but kept his emotions completely hidden on the surface.

He began giving orders. "Slor, go to the church and find Horst Iharal. You come with me; we need to calm these people down."

As soon as he said it, he almost laughed at himself—calm? How could he be calm? The chain of hatred had completely bound them together. If you didn't believe it, just look at the woman who was punching and kicking her child.

The love he once had for his own flesh and blood had completely vanished, and all his usual complaints now erupted, ultimately transforming into a genuine, twisted murderous intent.

She was just a silhouette, and the one who struck the lightest among all those who sought refuge in the church. As for the others, most of them were already covered in blood, having completed their first Vengeance.

Soon, they will begin killing each other until only one person remains alive.

No matter how badly someone was injured before, hatred will drive them to the next place where there are still humans, and then spread that hatred.

By then, he wouldn't even need to kill; his mere presence would be enough to turn soldiers who were fighting side-by-side just a moment ago into two sworn enemies who would never rest until they killed each other.

"Understood," Iharal replied in a gruff voice, and he and Krostilian charged toward the group of civilians who were killing each other.

Their methods of providing calm are actually quite simple: punching the spine, rotating the neck, punching the heart. There's no other way; it's the only way.

However, even if all the civilians calm down, it doesn't mean the matter can end there. The spiral of hatred still exists and will spread to Krostilian and Iharal, but they have sworn an oath, so they can still bear this hatred.

In other words, they will live with the blood, sins, and hatred of others on their hands until the final day comes.

Slor watched them disappear into the crowd before taking his own steps and rushing into the church. As he expected, it was filled with blood; the Emperor's statues were toppled over, and more than a dozen corpses turned the church into a slaughterhouse.

Reverend Horst knelt in the center of the corpse, calmly taking deep breaths; his white robes were stained with blood.

Slor raised his gun.

"Horst," he asked coldly, "Are you alright?"

"No," the pastor replied weakly, uttering only a single syllable.

His situation needed no further explanation. Slor withdrew his gaze and began to approach him, but his gun remained aimed at Horst's head.

The executioner approached the priest slowly, and finally, he pressed the gun against the back of his head and whispered a Nostraman.

Horst coughed up a mouthful of blood, turned around trembling, and collapsed at Slor's feet like a wounded beast, his body convulsing.

The Vindicators no longer had the clarity in his eyes; instead, they held a terrifying, manic killing intent that even Slor sensed as a threat.

He knew why: Vindicators would acquire some unique abilities over their years of "career," the most common of which was enhanced physical fitness.

The Vindicators on Nostramo was even able to rival the Astartes in strength. Horst, of course, was far inferior, but...

Slor lowered his head and looked at the sharp knife in his hand. He stomped on it with such force that Horst's fingers holding the knife were completely shattered. The priest merely groaned in pain, showing no displeasure, and even let out a long sigh.

"Where are the fragments?" Slor asked.

Horst shook his head weakly, veins bulging on his face. "I've handed it over to my successor. He won't appear until everything is over."

Slor nodded slightly, then asked another question, "Why has the moment of enmity arrived so early?"

Horst laughed, blood gushing from his throat. "Because I must protect Tujea, the Vindicators; he cannot die."

Slor was silent for half a second, then asked, "What do you mean?"

"I removed the power of faith that maintained the church's balance and used it to reinforce the door to the inner room. That door will not open until the power of Chaos dissipates; it has become a small the Emperor sanctuary."

Horst curled up, coughing up blood.

"Why?" the executioner asked emotionlessly.

"Because I saw it all," Horst said. "I told Zel, but he said it was just an illusion. But I haven't said anything yet. I saw not only Litatera engulfed in flames, but I also saw Erebus."

The executioner slowly narrowed his eyes.

"And now, the first half of that illusion has come true. What about the second half, Slor?" Horst asked, coughing, as he gripped the bulge of the executioner's iron boot with his left hand.

"I don't have the talent for prophecy, but if you agree, I'm half a Shadow Knights. We can only see a prophecy once in our lifetime, and it will always come true. So, Erebus will definitely come. He's after the shards. How can we stop him?"

He gave a bitter laugh, released his grip, and collapsed helplessly to the ground. Tears streamed down his blood-soaked face, dripping onto the ground and shattering into pieces.

Slor silently released his foot and kicked the knife away.

"I don't know if you're right or wrong, but you've committed a sin, Horst. Have you thought about it—"

"--He's already here," the pastor said stubbornly, his eyes bloodshot.

He slowly stood up, drool dripping from his mouth, mixed with blood, and the veins on his face bulging, making him look more like a maddened beast than a human.

Slor frowned, raising the gun he had just lowered again.

"Explain," he said succinctly.

"He's here!" Horst roared. "I can sense it, I can feel him approaching!"

He suddenly clutched his forehead as if possessed, tears streaming down his face, and screamed as if he had lost his mind. Slor initially intended to knock him unconscious and take him out to discuss a solution, but suddenly felt a surge of inexplicable anger.

At first it was just a flame, then, in a single instant that could not be described as time, it began to burn rapidly until it became a terrifying flame that almost burned Slor to death.

Countless voices rang in his ears—not a hallucination, absolutely not a hallucination; they were a thousand times more terrifying than any hallucination. They were the accusations and curses of every victim over the past ten thousand years against their killer, their last screams or words before death.

They were the catalysts that fueled Slor's burning desire and helped him slowly loosen his grip on the gun.

The Boltgun crashed to the ground with a thunderous roar. The man who had once been Horst Endero laughed maniacally at the sound, picked up his dagger, and transformed into a terrifying half-human, half-beast monster, rushing eagerly out of the church doors.

Inside the church, the Emperor's statues looked on with pity, and simultaneously began to shed tears of blood.

Slor witnessed this scene, and he silently bent over, letting out a roar that could no longer be endured. Black flames swept over him and completely engulfed him.

Will anyone remember him? Will anyone remember that a Shadow Knights named Slor once existed in this world?

In the distant darkness, a lonely man uttered his name. He remembered him, and even knew why he had died.

He was extremely saddened.