123 Dark Crusade (Forty-Four)

"Tell them to stop firing!" a voice roared through the Red Tear fleet's joint communications network. "There must be some kind of misunderstanding!"

A misunderstanding? Gabriel Seth almost laughed.

There was no misunderstanding, absolutely not. And no one would call a spear of light that pierced straight into the center of the fleet a misunderstanding.

Why?

Because this weapon is not a handheld firearm or a machine controlled by a gunner in a heavy vehicle, but a sophisticated, huge, and dangerous weapon, accidental discharge was never part of its design from the beginning.

The captain gave the order, the machinery relayed the command, and the light lances began to heat up—the whole process could take several minutes or even more than ten minutes. To put it another way, if a light lance were to start heating up without orders, the alarm would immediately sound throughout the bridge.

Everyone will know about this unexpected situation and react accordingly. Therefore, there is no misunderstanding; the glowing spears are aimed at them.

The Ultramarines' warships fired at the combined fleet of Blood Angels, Knights of Blood, Lamenters, and Flesh Tearers.

Roboute Guilliman's son attacked Sanguinius' son.

Is this possible?

Gabriel Seth's face contorted in rage, yet he miraculously suppressed the urge to roar.

Not far away, the blasphemous sounds created by the Daemon echoed continuously behind the solid steel gates of the main bridge, which had already been closed, forming a terrifying symphony.

The few communication devices that had been hastily salvaged were flashing red lights, and the maintenance personnel and Servitor, covered in sweat, were debugging them in hopes of gaining the ability to communicate in real time—at least to transmit orders to the nearest warships.

The sons of angels have firmly occupied this place, heavily guarding it. Warriors from all decks have surrounded it completely, and machine gun emplacements have been set up. The brave Dreadnought navy has even reorganized its forces before the sons of Sanguinius, recovered from the surprise attack, and fought its way here from the stern of the ship.

Seth looked around, taking in all the information, but his rage did not diminish in the slightest.

He threw down his gun, tossing it into the hands of a Blood Angels's battle brethren, signaling him to aim at Calistarius, who was in the midst of a ritual, before striding toward the Chapter Master of the Lamenters, Malakin Phoros.

The latter's anger was no less than his, but it wasn't as savage, nor did it possess the hidden madness that Seth had yet to reveal. The Lamenters still retained his rationality, and mostly it—all of which was probably related to the knife he was holding.

Seth glanced at it and said, "We need to find a way to get the orders out—and what about Dante?"

"At the stern," Malakin said succinctly. "A new demonic surge has reportedly erupted there, and Sentor has already gone there. They want to try and close the portal before the surge gains momentum."

Seth nodded coldly, then turned and pointed to the few remaining, massive pieces of equipment. "At this rate, it will take us at least forty more minutes to restore ship-to-ship communication. We can't afford to wait, Malakin."

"What you up to?"

"The Red Tear still has eight artillery positions maintaining combat readiness."

The Flesh Tearers cruelly grinned, revealing a complete battle strategy that chilled Malakin to the bone as he listened.

"Moreover, they have a manual control system, and skilled gunners and loaders can get their assigned firepower into firing preheating mode within three minutes. As for how to aim after losing the Auspex and rangefinder, I think we don't need to aim too precisely; we just need to send a signal."

He raised his right hand and clenched it into a fist.

Malakin fully understood what his unspoken words meant, but he was still worried about other things. He paused for a few seconds and offered a conjecture that Seth hadn't even bothered to consider.

"But, if--"

"--I know what you want to say."

Seth said his jaw tightened again, his sharp teeth protruding from his thin lips, giving off an obvious sense of threat.

"But we can't gamble, Malakin, and I absolutely refuse to believe that Roboute Guilliman's Ultramarines' ships will misfire. Blood and Throne above, that's a fucking joke."

"Do you believe it? Do you believe that those schizophrenic warmongers and their scribes would neglect the maintenance of their warships, cause their instruments to malfunction, and even to the point of causing their light spears to misfire?"

Malakin didn't answer, he just took a deep breath.

Seth suddenly roared, "Counterattack! The entire fleet, immediately! Or you'll die!"

Two minutes later, his orders were carried out. The Red Tear responded with a salvo, and the communication channels quickly fell silent. Then, the fleet began to disperse and move in an offensive formation.

Destroyers and carrier-based aircraft sped forward, cruisers close behind, forming a dense network of fire from light to heavy. Battleships and Battle Barge began warming up their weapons, shuttles and Boarding Torpedo were launched simultaneously, heading towards the fleet belonging to the Ultramarines.

Indeed, some remained hesitant and did not give the order to fire. But many more had realized what the Red Tear's counterattack truly meant. Like Malakin, they did not believe that the Ultramarines would attack them indiscriminately.

Eleven minutes into the war, this was confirmed again, as the Ultramarines' fleet did not respond to any communication requests and began its counterattack.

Thus, the war officially began.

This time, there was no room for argument.

--

"What have you done!" roared Sergeant Isis "Exemplar" Tachal of the 117th Reserve Company of the Ultramarines.

He was missing his left hand, which disappeared completely starting from his shoulder. The wound had already stopped bleeding, but no medical treatment had been given, leaving the clearly visible teeth marks exposed.

Dark red bloodstains spread across his armor. This glorious MK4 suit had been stained with blood before, but this was the first time it had been stained with his own blood.

He was unarmed; even his most basic combat dagger was nowhere to be found. There were 329 other Ultramarines in the same dire situation as him.

Half a month ago, the number was 1,294. A week ago, before they were captured, the number was 544.

Just one day earlier, the number was 417.

In just one day, they lost eighty-eight men. Not in combat, not in the battle of the Void Sea or the war against the Daemon, but because they were eaten.

Without honor or dignity, they are placed on the dinner table, their armor ripped off, and then brutally eaten alive. This process is extremely bloody and often accompanied by screams of agony.

This is unbelievable, because those screams were filled with terror. The Astartes did not experience fear, at least not the exemplary sergeant thought so.

He had served in the military for twenty-nine years, and since his rehabilitation surgery, he had never experienced such emotions again. He understood why; it was a dual transformation, both physical and mental.

The surgery suppressed their emotions, but their subsequent training and the atmosphere within the Chapter made them truly fearless.

Until they encountered that monster.

Roboute Guilliman smiled silently, blood stained his lips, his handsome face and blond hair fluttering gently in the breeze.

"It seems I was right to only use your left hand, Isis," he said softly. "I admire your courage, therefore I will answer your question."

He moved the bench aside and strolled among the corpses scattered on the ground. Suddenly, he bent down, gently picked up a leg bone, and tapped it on the tabletop, which was already completely stained red with blood.

"What have I done? That's a complex question. Since I was truly born, I've done many things. At first, I ran away; later, I rested and recuperated, searching for suitable food sources."

"Don't worry, my son, I know what you want to know most. You want to know what caused that strange tremor just now, right? The answer is actually very simple."

He smiled, tossed the leg bone aside, shook his head, and tapped his temple with his right hand; a Radiance of psychic energy appeared and disappeared.

"I ordered the warships to open fire."

He whispered, but his voice echoed throughout the entire banquet hall. All the Ultramarines heard him, and each of them trembled to varying degrees.

Eight hours earlier, they had learned of the existence of the Sons of Sanguinius through the porthole and the monster's account.

"Who should we fire at?" Roboute Guilliman asked again.

He began walking around the long table, like a teacher giving a lesson, his tone calm and rational. His clothes, stained red with blood and corpses, dragged along the ground, just like his hands, yet his face still held a childlike innocence.

Isis felt an overwhelming urge to vomit; something was breaking free of the muscles in his throat—and finally, it echoed throughout the hellish space.

"You will die, you will definitely die. No matter what you are, Roboute Guilliman will kill you, we will kill you!" the sergeant roared with hatred.

The thing smiled and returned to its seat.

"I am Roboute Guilliman," he said, resting his left cheek on his hand.

"You're nothing but a monster!"

"Yes, but aren't those fools destined to be devoured by me also fools?" he retorted, his eyes Radiance with rationality.

Realizing this made it even harder for the sergeant to control his emotions; he couldn't understand it, he simply couldn't comprehend it.

If he had simply appeared to be a monster, if those eyes were flashing with pure malice, the sergeant might not have reacted so emotionally.

But at that moment, this evil thing, with the face and physique of the Primarch, really looked exactly like Roboute Guilliman.

Completely consistent.

How could this be? How is this possible?

"He's a monster too, don't tell me you haven't sensed it, Sergeant. You've seen him, haven't you? I saw it in your brother's memories; your nickname came from him."

"He praised your contributions in the war, shook your hand, patted you affectionately on the shoulder, and recounted your life story flawlessly, exactly the father, general, and leader you had imagined."

"But is that really the case? Could there really be someone who fits your imagination so perfectly? You've actually sensed it, Isis, you know what your Primarch is hiding beneath that kind face."

"When you shake his hand, you briefly feel his strength. When you talk to him, you perceive only the tip of the iceberg of his vast thoughts. And then there's his memory, his adaptability, even the way he walks—"

Roboute Guilliman sighed, stood up again, put his hands behind his back, and walked to a porthole, his voice low.

"--Everything is telling you that he is not human, but a monster."

He turned around, his profile appearing both terrifying and natural in the firelight burning outside the porthole, still handsome as ever.

"Just like me," he said. "The only difference is that I chose to face myself, while he chose to tie his own hands and wallow in lies, that's all."

"You are not him," Isis answered through gritted teeth, her voice barely audible. "You are definitely not him."

"Yes, I'm not."

Roboute Guilliman turned and walked toward him, then pressed the defenseless sergeant onto the dining table. All those who tried to rescue him were bound by a powerful psychic force; the sergeant himself was the only one not trapped in this prison.

However, he remained silent in the face of his brothers' shouts, as if he were already dead.

Roboute Guilliman reached out and wiped away his blood and tears, then gently shook his head.

"Don't worry," he comforted her. "You'll understand everything soon enough."

He opened his mouth, bit off his left index finger, and then plunged it into the sergeant's eye socket. Blood splattered as the severed finger slowly sank into the socket. The sergeant fell silent, only trembling and convulsing.

With a strange, teeth-grinding sound, his body began to deform. Roboute Guilliman stood patiently by his side, using his psionic powers to help him calm down, and even subtly altered the design of his Power Armour to fit the sergeant's changed physique.

A few minutes later, without anyone noticing, the sergeant's empty left hand returned, but he seemed oblivious to it as he stood up from the table and walked out of the banquet hall.

There stood many things like him.

Roboute Guilliman smiled as he looked at the other Ultramarines, who remained silent, a deathly stillness settling over them, yet none of them wavered in their expression.

"Now, Sergeant Isis understands the necessity of my actions. As for you, if we had more time, I would have tried to change your minds one by one, but unfortunately, we are in the midst of a war, therefore—"

He walked toward them, his mouth watering, his bright red tongue constantly licking his lips.

"--I need power," he said gently.

"Otherwise, how can I face the sons of Sanguinius? I cannot let all my efforts be in vain, my sons. I have expended so much effort to get to this point, to control these warships and this world. And you, I believe you are ready to die for me."

"For the Emperor," someone said, their voice unwavering.

Roboute Guilliman sighed regretfully, then eagerly plunged in.