103 Dark Crusade (27)

When there is no war, Naros is usually a quiet city.

Unlike elsewhere, people here don't drink alcohol during the day, nor do they freely indulge their natural instincts in the streets. For the Naros, disregarding the feelings of others is considered shameful and immoral.

Moreover, they quite like quiet, which is not a sin; everyone needs quiet, and Sheher understands this, after all, he himself is no exception.

Therefore, he felt somewhat guilty when he threw that shocking grenade half a minute ago. But now, that guilt has completely vanished, leaving only a pure and cold rage.

The blinding light and thunderous thud of the grenade had no effect on Sheher; his senses remained incredibly sharp, even frighteningly so.

He didn't need to look to know what kind of monster was lurking in the collapsed courtyard wall and the scattered dust, so he no longer suppressed his anger and simply let it run rampant.

The air seemed to boil over in the next second, and the pink demonic flames roared as they burst out of the still-lingering smoke and dust, hurtling towards Sheher.

He stood still, motionless, when a sudden flash of light appeared and disappeared. The flames wailed as they fell to the ground, writhing beneath his feet and gradually turning a ghostly blue.

If left unchecked, they would soon become four entirely new Daemon. Sheher was fully aware of this, yet remained unmoved, merely raising his right hand with a seemingly slow, then quick, motion.

A sword appeared in his hand just like that.

It is not Power Sword in the conventional sense; in fact, in most people's eyes, it wouldn't even be considered a weapon.

Even within the Inquisition, this weapon was voted on multiple times to be thrown back into the Warp.

Sheher participated in fifteen such meetings and successfully persuaded the other participants in five of them, which is why he is now able to wield this sword.

Its handle is a horrible shape formed by two sharp, pale bones twisted and intertwined together, with the ends being particularly sharp.

The hilt was jet black, with a scarlet gem gleaming within it, shining like an eye. The blade was extremely grotesque, with numerous irregular, jagged serrations transforming it into a masterpiece capable of creating large swathes of blood.

The most striking feature was the dim inscription that had appeared on it sometime before. The light seemed incredibly dim, yet the moment it lit up, it seemed to freeze the air.

Immediately afterward, as the four blue flames disappeared, Sheher smelled a foul, pungent stench of blood.

He laughed, and, sword in hand, strode into the smoke and dust that was turning into some kind of mist.

The screams of the Naros and the footsteps of the approaching soldiers vanished completely at that moment, and the surrounding world suddenly became eerily quiet. Sheher, however, could hear a wet sound and a continuous scraping of feathers.

He looked down and saw a winding trail of pale silver blood, within which maggots from the Warp were writhing.

Very good. (Thinks the Blade of Judgement)

He gripped the cursed sword tightly and strode after the trail of blood.

All of this was not unfamiliar to him. Back when he was just an ordinary combat comrade, he had witnessed such "exorcism" processes dozens of times.

By the time he gradually rose through the ranks and began to lead these rituals, he had become frighteningly familiar with them.

The five steps of searching, restricting, tracking, hunting, and purifying continue year after year, day after day, amidst repeated invasions of Chaos and the machinations of Daemon.

Sheher sometimes asks himself why the human world is so riddled with holes, attracting these supernatural monsters everywhere.

Later, he realized that it wasn't that their world was riddled with holes, but rather that these things were everywhere.

They can spot the smallest openings, then enter through them, gnawing at the foundations of castles or fortresses until they collapse.

They left the Warp precisely to do this, just as humans are born to suffer.

A sudden burst of sharp, piercing shrieks rang out, and a fierce gust of wind abruptly surged through the mist, so strong that it briefly halted Sheher's advance.

He stopped in place, his right hand gripping the ground with his longsword, turning it into a solid fulcrum. At the same time, the shrieking sound began to grow increasingly frantic.

Tens of millions of scarlet eyes appeared out of nowhere in the wind, their eyes lifeless, their wings flapping incessantly, stirring up more air currents to sustain this terrifying wind.

"Come on," Sheher said softly.

His words were like a key, or a harbinger of some misfortune. Before he had even finished speaking, thousands of black birds rushed toward him in the swirling wind.

The first one struck his left shoulder armor, and that was the last bit of clear perception he had of the attack.

The howling beasts charged at him relentlessly, using themselves as weapons to pound against his armor. At first, there were only scratches, then dents, and finally, craters.

This MK2 set, steeped in history, is slowly disintegrating amidst this supernatural mass bird suicide, yet Sheher, standing at the center of the storm, remains calm.

He knew this would happen from the start, and if someone wanted to kill him, he would definitely fight back, especially since he was going to kill a Daemon belonging to Tzeentch.

This storm was merely a minor episode in the "hunting" process, nothing more.

Sheher slowly pulled out the sword and began to awaken it. It accepted, but did not simply let Sheher go.

A terrifying power began to surge within the Supreme Grand Master's soul. It was all-pervasive, finding every tiny flaw from one corner to another, then laughing maniacally as it buried it with some kind of flame.

Beneath the increasingly tattered helmet, Sheher's face gradually became contorted with rage.

The veins on his neck bulged, as if he were wrestling with someone or undergoing surgery without anesthesia, enduring extreme pain.

A fraction of a second later, he pulled the sword out.

Two ten-millionths of a second later, accompanied by a muffled chime that seemed to come from nowhere, the storm abruptly ceased.

Three-thousandths of a second later, Sheher Cold Soul plunged into the storm, beginning the final step of the "hunt."

He was cold, efficient, and precise, devoid of any personal emotion. Four-thousandths of a second later, he located the fleeing monster, and five-thousandths of a second later, beheaded it with a single strike.

However, to outsiders, his behavior was probably extremely reckless.

First, instead of calling for backup, he chose to face the Daemon alone.

Secondly, after the Daemon realized it had been exposed and decided to flee, he chased after it into the mist it had released.

Although he killed it, he was incredibly lucky; if the Daemon had been more cautious, Sheher Cold Soul would probably be dead.

Is that really the case?

Of course not.

The truth is, from the very beginning, Sheher knew what this Daemon was going to do. He knew it would run, and he knew it would unleash some kind of bewitching spell.

To be frank, Sheher was all too familiar with these things; this battle was simply a matter of following a set script for him.

Due to their unique nature, the Blade of Judgement need to travel between multiple worlds and cooperate with the Inquisition. They are practically the first line of defense for these worlds when facing Chaos.

If he were dealing with a Khorne Daemon, he probably wouldn't be so foolish as to step into its spells, but the enemy is Tzeentch.

The Tzeentch birds usually overthink and overdo things, making them relatively easy to deal with; all you need to do is strike at their heart.

Intrigues and schemes need time to take effect; no matter how fast they are, they can't outrun the sharp blade of Judgment.

The battle ended quietly, but for someone far away outside Naros, his battle was not as swift as Sheher's.

If Sevatar himself were to say it, he would probably make a sarcastic joke in a slightly annoyed tone, but he won't.

First, there's no time; second, this would only fuel the enraged beast's fury even deeper.

He stepped back, dodging a straight punch, then darted to the left, making the following hook punch disappear effortlessly, as naturally as eating and drinking.

Sevatar squinted at the young face, a sigh welling up inside him: who could have imagined he would gain such an advantage in his fight against "Roboute Guilliman"?

Even if he had already been promoted, he shouldn't have been fighting a Primarch like this while still wearing this human skin; it was simply unthinkable.

Sevatar couldn't help but think, "Throughout history, I'm probably only the second person after Karyl Lohars to have done something like this."

In the brief moment of dodging, he glanced up at his opponent and silently added, "Of course, unless he really is a Primarch."

"Why did you do this?!" the young giant roared at him, his voice like rolling thunder. "What crime have they committed? They did nothing wrong!"

"Hmm," Sevatar nodded perfunctorily. "Perhaps."

That's true, perhaps. He thought.

As expected, his words had the opposite effect. The giant became even angrier; in fact, judging from his distorted face, he was probably on the verge of madness.

"Are all the so-called Astartes scum like you? Showing no remorse for killing innocent people? What gives you the right to act so superior?!"

When did I become superior?

Sevatar finally frowned, raised his hands, clenched his fists, and began to wrestle with the giant, earnestly refuting his arguments.

"I don't deny the first part of your statement. After all, although the Astartes are defined as the Emperor's Angel of Death in the Ecclesiarchy, this is merely an acquired religious influence."

"When the Emperor first conceived of us, his idea must have been to create a sufficiently cheap, deadly, and ruthless killing machine, so your description of us isn't wrong. But you'd better take back the second half of that statement; I don't kill innocent people."

The giant sneered, "Who knows?"

Sevatar squinted, said nothing, but suddenly pushed off with his feet, throwing the giant to the ground before he even realized what was happening.

He wanted to deliver a follow-up kick to the throat, but he abruptly stopped this instinctive impulse and began to retreat.

His opponent quickly got back up, suffering no pain other than a slight blow to his pride.

Seeing the flushed face, Sevatar finally looked to Hector Kargio for help—he simply couldn't take it anymore.

He could no longer continue fighting with a man who looked like a younger version of Roboute Guilliman. He respected the Lord of Macragge and absolutely did not want to disrespect him in any way.

However, he clearly turned to the wrong person for help.

Kargio noticed his gaze, and then, he swiftly drew his gun.

Oh, damn it.

Sevatar silently stopped, letting "Roboute Guilliman" punch him in the side of the face without even putting up a fight.

The power contained in this furious strike was astonishing; it even sent Sevatar flying.

He landed in a nearby fire, the charred corpses of Orks flying everywhere he bumped into. Amid the crackling of the flames, Sevatar held his breath and began to listen to the conversation taking place nearby.

He really didn't want to keep getting beaten up; it was pointless. Besides, he could sense that Sheher Cold Soul had already taken care of things. So why not just watch the show?

"Stop," Kargio warned coldly.

Bare-handed, "Roboute Guilliman" panted heavily as he slowly turned around, his face still showing lingering anger.

"How?"

"Stop, or I'll shoot," Kargio said.

His warning seemed to have some effect; at least "Roboute Guilliman" remained still for a few seconds, staring thoughtfully at the Boltgun in Kargio's hand before responding to him.

"If you're going to do that, make sure you're aiming for my head."

Calth's Sons took a deep breath and remained silent.

"But if you don't intend to do so, I beg you to listen to me, Astartes." Roboute Guilliman spoke slowly, in a pleading tone.

"I beg you to come back to that city with me. You don't seem to be the same kind of person as your despicable companion. I don't see any haughty arrogance in you."

"Shut up!" Kargio snapped. "You have no idea who you're talking about! Jago Sevatarion is an Imperium hero! Someone like you—"

He stopped speaking, his hand holding the gun suddenly trembled a few times, and a surge of anger rose on his face.

"Imperium hero?" The young giant frowned immediately. "If an Imperium needs someone like him as a hero, how terrible must that country be?"

The Imperium hero, lying amidst the pile of corpses, burst into uncontrollable laughter.