98 Dark Crusade (23: Sevatar's Greenskin

Jago Sevatarion crouched down and scooped up a handful of soil with his right hand. It was dark brown with specks of scarlet.

He loosened his fingers, letting the soil slip through his fingers, leaving behind some small, sharp stones. Sevatar gazed at them thoughtfully for a moment before letting the pebbles return to the ground.

He picked up the chainsaw he had previously stuck in the ground, wiped the damp mud off the tail with his left hand, and carried it on his shoulder without any hesitation.

Anyway, he didn't bring Techmarine this time, but there were quite a few Calth's Sons, and they probably wouldn't say anything about his actions.

Sevatar smiled unconsciously; this was perhaps the first time in millennia that he didn't have to explain to the Techmarine the cause of the mud on his weapons.

He led the team in a hurry and did not expect the "visit" to turn out like this, but he could understand why the person who brought them here would make such an irrational decision.

Sevatar knew perfectly well that Karyl Lohars —his instructor—had gone mad.

His past moral obsessions are now becoming a shackle around his neck, pulling him forward. He may be able to resist, but the price he pays will be devastating.

Sevatar preferred that he not resist.

He had returned to Terra many times, and each time, the Sigillites would send his spies to deliver valuable intelligence to Sevatar. Sometimes it was detailed, sometimes brief, sometimes just a name, sometimes a clue.

Sevatar accepted it all, understanding the key point: unless the situation was extremely urgent, the Sigillites would not approach him.

However, on one occasion, the Silent Guards brought not intelligence, but a handwritten letter. The letter was unsigned and contained no insignia that could identify them. The content of the letter was very simple: a person talking about a dream that did not belong to him.

That person said that in his dreams, he always felt like he was in a dark prison.

The man also said he didn't understand how the dream's owner managed to get through it.

Yes, how did he get through it? Sevatar wondered.

He continued walking forward, feeling the morning breeze on this nameless planet beneath his feet.

To be honest, the wind smelled terrible, but considering the specific circumstances of this battlefield, it was completely understandable. Orks have always been smelly; their body odor is almost indistinguishable from that of a biological attack, and some of them even have foul-smelling blood.

Sevatar had personally witnessed some of the laziest and most unkempt soldiers jump up during lulls in the fighting to clear their corpses out of the trenches, looking as if they had suddenly developed obsessive-compulsive disorder.

He was now walking in a battlefield filled with dead Orks, who he estimated had been dead for about two days.

The spores they left behind have already begun to affect the land; except for the very edges, small Orks mushrooms have sprouted in most of the battlefield.

After a while, those so-called Squigs and Gretchin will follow suit, and then...

Sevatar sighed, stopped, put on his helmet, and began to wait patiently.

A few minutes later, a panting Orks emerged from a pile of corpses not far from him. It had clearly been waiting for a long time; it was covered in blood but still looked quite energetic.

It yelled at him.

"Aha! Look who I've spotted! A dark-skinned, big idiot! You're really unlucky to have bumped into me! Give me that big knife blade that looks like it can cut things, and I won't chop you up, okay?!"

Low Gothic is poorly spoken and unpleasant to hear, but it remains the common language of the Imperium.

As always.

Very good.

Sevatar appeared before it like lightning, and with a blank expression, swung his chainsaw, gently knocking the short, Orks, covered in the teeth of its kind, away.

It's not surprising that Orks do anything, even if it's an Orks who hides in a pile of corpses to take the teeth of his dead comrades or ambush passersby.

He strolled leisurely toward where the object had landed, but suddenly stopped again and turned his head slightly. Several sharpened bone arrows grazed his cheek by the narrowest of margins.

He turned to look at the other side of the battlefield and found that there were several other Orks standing in a place he had not yet set foot in. They were all holding bows and were busy nocking arrows again.

Did they have accomplices? And they even knew how to set up an ambush?

Sevatar raised an eyebrow, drew his Boltgun from his waist, and fired four shots, turning them all into mincemeat. After doing so, he leisurely hung the gun back, turned around, and saw a dumbfounded Orks who had just gotten up.

To be honest, it's not easy to see that emotion on their faces.

"You, you--" the Orks man stammered, pointing at him and shouting. "--What the hell are you?!"

Sevatar stood there watching it, neither speaking nor attacking, simply staring back at it.

As he expected, the Orks took off running a few seconds later. He trailed behind at a moderate pace, just like leading a lap in the "The Nest's" training grounds.

Fourteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds later, Sevatar chased, or rather, herded the Orks into a woodland that resembled a garbage dump.

Leather armor, chainmail, plate armor, and other types of armor are all available here, most of them tattered and stained with blood, hanging haphazardly on the trees. The weapons are similarly diverse, including short swords, long swords, greatswords, spears, halberds, and javelins.

Aside from being rather primitive, this place could be considered a pretty good weapons and equipment shop. If more guns were displayed and the armor were upgraded to Flak Armour, some of the Hive City would be very happy to come here to spend money.

But they have no teeth to trade.

Sevatar couldn't help but chuckle at this freshly made lame joke.

He silently entered the forest and watched the Orks charge towards a group of Orks. It sounded absurd, but he was certain that the noisy Orks were making a deal.

They huddled around several thick tree trunks that had been cut down and laid horizontally, clutching handfuls of teeth in their hands, their necks and bodies also covered with fangs from their own kind.

A slightly larger Orks stood in the very center of the tree trunk, enduring their furious roars and howls, and then responding with an even louder roar in return.

This might be a form of bargaining.

But all of this collapsed on the spot after the Orks shouted a long string of Low Gothic in a panic. They looked at each other, then scattered like a green torrent into the forest, and soon returned fully armed.

Their armor was ridiculous: leather armor nailed with plate armor, and on top of that, a layer of chainmail of unknown origin. It looked clumsy and stupid. Some even had blood-stained flags wrapped around their heads, the purpose of which was unclear.

Most of them chose to carry a stolen sword in each hand, and then slung their backs full of alternative weapons such as axes or javelins. Admittedly, the scene looked comical and ridiculous, but Sevatar's expression turned serious.

He saw that some of the Orks were already carrying bows and crossbows, clearly indicating that they were evolving.

If we continue like this...

Sevatar ended his observation.

He revealed himself decisively and charged into their midst, beginning his slaughter. These orcs, still in the Iron Age and lacking even a single primitive Orks, posed no threat to him.

Blood and flesh flew everywhere, limbs and severed arms soaring into the air with the roar of the chainsaw, like a dance. The chainsaw's engine was the main rhythm of the dance, while the Orks' roars and screams were indispensable embellishments.

Sevatar moved swiftly, like a ghost, through the green forest, turning every living thing in sight into mangled flesh and blood.

He even had time to think as he killed—it was common knowledge that Orks could usually evolve in war, both physically and technologically.

As long as these creatures are not wiped out in one wave, they can suddenly reappear in a very short time, and this new batch is often stronger than their predecessors.

This is an inexplicable evolution. The ecology of Orks is complex and uncontrollable. Many scholars have tried to figure out why this race can be so pure and so terrifying, but they all met with bad ends.

Anyone who tries to exploit the Orks will be torn to pieces by these Orks beasts in a simple and stupid way. They are indeed foolish, but they are very pure.

They were born to fight.

Sevatar's slaughter ended three minutes later. He caught up with the last surviving Orks in the forest and swiftly cleaved him into ten pieces. It wasn't that he was bloodthirsty or sadistic; it was simply because these creatures were incredibly resilient.

What would be fatal to other races, Orks can fully recover in just one or two hours. Even if their heads are cut off, they can be resurrected and fight again after simple stitching.

Of course, that being said, there aren't many doctors with such skills among the Orks. They have the position of doctor, but their doctors usually just randomly use saws or hammers to abuse patients.

Whether it can be cured or not is another matter, but they have to resort to violence first.

In this situation, few Orks could successfully perform the surgery. But Sevatar dared not gamble; the technology he used was several generations ahead of these Orks, but they were not a race that could be fathomed by common sense.

If even one Orks who saw him survives, they will likely begin to think about what will happen after that.

Sevatar sighed, shut down his chainsaw, and hurried back to camp. If he had to choose the Xenos race he least wanted to deal with, the Orks would definitely be the first.

Fighting these creatures is pure torture. They show little fear, and even if they flee, they'll soon return with a vengeance. Moreover, most Orks only get more excited as the fight progresses.

A voice sounded softly behind him.

"Your investigation appears to have been very successful."

Sevatar turned around, casually tossing his weapon to a passing Calth's Sons, who caught it with surprise and excitement before striding away. Sevatar himself removed his helmet, gave the speaker a cold laugh, and shook his head.

"If you have something to say, say it quickly, Hunter, I'm not in a good mood right now."

The Hunter nodded calmly, and Sevatar couldn't discern any emotion in those cloudy white eyes, a fact he loathed. Of course, he didn't dislike the Hunter; he was merely somewhat dissatisfied with him.

Based on his experience, all the grievances between brothers could be easily resolved within the dueling cage.

"Have you been using your prophetic abilities lately?" the Hunter asked politely.

Sevatar resisted the urge to punch him right then and there, nodding stiffly, his tone already changing. "No, what's wrong, great Hunter?"

"I just wanted you to know that I just made a prophecy, but the result wasn't good."

Sevatar took a deep breath.

In front of the passing civilians, Auxilia, and Astartes, he stepped forward, placed his right hand on the Hunter's shoulder, and then turned and led the Hunter quite naturally to a deserted corner.

"Why can't you always finish what you're saying at once?" Sevatar asked sincerely, his voice soft.

"That's what I was about to say, esteemed commander, but I've been interrupted."

"What legion commander?"

"You."

"The position of legion commander no longer exists, and even if it did, it wouldn't be me."

"Well then," the Hunter said with a rare smile, "Perhaps we should call out Company Van Cleef?"

Sevatar stopped in his tracks.

"Do you really want to get beaten up?" he asked calmly.

"No, thank you," the Hunter said casually. "I just wanted you to know that although I speak slowly, I'm not one to keep people in suspense, and you've been interrupting me the whole time."

"So, what you just said was a form of revenge?"

The Hunter shook his head. "I don't have the guts to take revenge on the great Imperium hero Jago Sevatarion. I just want you to know that something's not right about this planet we're temporarily docked on."

Sevatar frowned, instantly banishing all other emotions from his mind. He stared intently at the Hunter, awaiting his next words, and the latter did not disappoint him.

In the next second, two points of deep blue Radiance suddenly flashed in the Hunter's cloudy eyes, disappearing in an instant with astonishing speed.

A bolt of lightning suddenly leaped from his naturally hanging right palm, striking the sky with speed beyond the reach of time. Sevatar looked up and saw a jet-black feather slowly descending.

He reached out and caught it; in the sunlight, the surface of the feathers reflected an extremely dazzling array of Radiance. Sevatar squinted, clenched his right fist, and ground it into a harmless powder.

The Hunter nodded to him.

"It seems you understand," he said softly. "I think we need to prepare for a tough battle."

Sevatar nodded, expressing agreement with his opinion for the first time.