Belated Judgment (V): The Only Craft He Excelled At

The Machine Spirit of the Mountains was wailing—of course, simply using this sentence to describe it is not accurate enough.

Strictly speaking, its mournful cry didn't reach Karyl's ears directly; it was the darkness that aided it. The Machine Spirit's voice boomed in the darkness, recounting its past.

The rusted metal, the erased Aquila, the filth and evil permeating every part of the ship— the Machine Spirit of the Mountains was extremely weak, almost dissipated, yet it still remained. Like a dying soldier lying in a trench, stubbornly groping for his gun among the corpses.

He needed a gun to complete his mission, but he was blind and unable to discern what he needed from the blood and corpses. He could only touch it bit by bit with his fingers and scream as he did so.

Karyl heard the shout clearly.

He stopped and surveyed the enormous sandpit.

The traditions inherited by the War Hounds were vastly different from the brutal performances they had put on Nuceria, but what he saw now was enough to make him feel as if he had been transported to another world—the corpses buried in the sand had returned.

Some sand was already rotten, while others still contained remnants of flesh and blood. Steaming hot, the dark red bloodstains were so conspicuous that the sand could no longer be uniformly called "yellow sand."

A masterpiece of slave owners, a bloody millstone, a shortcut to inhumanity.

Karyl slowly raised his head.

He saw a flag hanging from the top of the sandpit, tattered, bloodstained, and with many tears along the edges.

Its original color and shape are no longer questions that can be answered simply by observing with the naked eye, because a huge Eight-pointed Star has tainted everything on it, and the face masks taken from the faces of the loyalists have long since replaced the original cloth of the banner.

Karyl raised his right hand expressionlessly, pointed his fingers together, raised his palm, and waved it lightly.

The flag was thus destroyed.

Meanwhile, in another world, the malice that had been waiting for him or others boarding the ship was silently dissipating. It originated from the Warp and was an unformed embryo.

They were supposed to be born from a blasphemous ritual, but Karyl prevented the birth. He even killed the pregnant woman along with her, and the creature's death screams echoed throughout the entire Mountains.

Yellow sand began to swirl, and an invisible hand stirred up a gale, blowing it everywhere. Rusty metal, tangled cables, and corroded, tattered armor plates were all revealed.

This sandpit was designed to be very deep, so the War Hounds must have had specific requirements for the material used to hold the sand; it was probably some kind of precious alloy. However, it seems they are now ill-equipped to perform their duties.

But it's only "difficult," not "impossible."

Many corpses lay above them, sand slowly seeping through the gaps in the bones and armor. Most of the dead were no longer identifiable by their armor; the paint had faded, and the coats of arms and insignia had been replaced by filthy markings.

Karyl unconsciously smiled.

"Someone's coming, Karyl."

His Shadow issued a warning—or rather, a subtle, malicious reminder.

"They're here for you," Curze laughed, urging. "Kill as many as you want, okay?"

Corpses flew up, yellow sand fell, and Karyl calmly turned around, his eyes lowered. Two streaks of silver light quietly slipped from his sleeves, and in the passage far away in the sand pit, a series of rapid footsteps were sounding.

"I know," he said silently.

The first victim was beheaded a second later.

He wore no helmet; the power of Chaos permeated his armor. It was a bloody blessing that rendered ordinary bullets ineffective against him.

An abstract skull symbol was etched on his forehead, and a long, whip-like tongue was wedged between his sharp teeth, with bits of flesh and blood still clinging to it, suggesting it wasn't his own.

He was unaware that he was already dead; his massive body continued to charge forward, echoing shrilly through the tunnel. He gripped two Chainaxe, yearning for blood, yearning for slaughter.

A head fell silently to the ground, and his headless body collapsed with a thud after running five steps, like a falling meteorite. The Chainaxe slipped from his steel-clenched fingers in a manner that defied all logic.

Two seconds later, someone shouted, "Enemy attack!"

His tongue and teeth were brutally shredded by a sharp blade along with half of his helmet during the shout. He felt the sudden pain in shock, his jaw dangling from his neck brace, the clanging of bone against metal so clear to him.

He raised his right hand and instinctively swung his sword.

The extraordinary agility and strength gained from serving the Lord of Pleasure made this instinctive strike exceptionally powerful, causing the air to tremble and giving the one who swung it a delusional sense of ecstasy—I'm about to succeed.

But that's not the case.

The sword fell into empty air, and his right hand abruptly severed from his shoulder. Before the blood could even gush out, the lingering force and momentum sent the hand that was gripping the longsword flying to an unpredictable place.

It pierced the back of the next victim, forcing him to fall to the ground, his entire body seemingly pinned to the earth. The blessing of the Chaos power was genuine, without a trace of falsehood, but its master could no longer feel it.

Two streaks of silver light brushed across his face, one on each side. Thick blood gushed from the wound on his right shoulder. He trembled, fell to his knees, and suddenly raised his remaining left hand to touch his face.

A sharp pain shot through him. He gently touched his nose and forehead, and then two thin lines slowly appeared. His head shattered into three pieces, sticking together and falling to the ground. His soft, pinkish-purple brain emerged from his flesh like jelly.

Several explosive shells struck from the side, precisely pulverizing his body.

The attacker's body was swollen and sinister, draped in a wide, cloak-like robe, with the corrupt marks of an ancient god etched on his black armor, and faint murmurs emanating from his flesh.

"Have you seen the enemy?!"

Someone questioned him sternly, but he did not answer; he simply raised his gun as a warning.

He possessed an extraordinary patience, likely one of the gifts he reaped from endless torment. Observing the evolution of the disease and patiently waiting for the poison to sprout required patience and meticulousness.

The combination of these two factors provided him with a form of help in this situation, but this help led him to the greatest misfortune of his life.

The disease coursing through his veins suddenly began to scream.

What? What happened?

Before he could even grasp the reason for their terror, he heard a mournful cry rising from the depths of his own bones.

"Batariel?" his companion behind him called out in alarm, but he could no longer hear him.

Everything he knew—the torment, the illness, and that numb comfort—was fading away. The cold truth was cruelly thrust into his two hearts by two sharp knives, and the Deceit called blessing was torn apart and discarded by those knives.

He finally saw his own appearance clearly.

However, it was too late.

His flesh and blood began to take root and sprout. He prayed to the god he now believed in with despair and fear, but the god ignored him and no matter how much he cried and begged, it was to no avail.

Insect eggs rose from his throat, and more worms that had begun to hatch settled on his internal organs and began to gnaw at them. His bones began to develop and grow a third time, and flesh and blood proliferated like cancer, piercing through his armor.

His face and helmet merged into one, and his eyes became growing branches that curved upwards.

An indescribable mutation has occurred; some inexplicable force is forcing the blessing within his body to evolve.

They should have followed him to a certain point before starting this process, but now it has been forcibly accelerated by external forces. It should be understood that evolution is a long and arduous process, and any change must take a long time to occur, but this is like pulling up seedlings to help them grow.

The Boltgun, almost completely covered in mold and some kind of dark yellow moss, fell to the ground from his swollen hands.

"Kill me," the Fallen Batariel cried out with difficulty.

His comrades did not hear him, but they still opened fire without hesitation, burning him to pieces.

A stench rose from the charred remains, and the remaining traitors huddled together in a small battle formation, watching each other's backs and protecting each other's blind spots.

They had done this millions of times since the very beginning of the Great Crusade. The First Legion was the prototype for all legions; they were familiar with all tactics and had a clear understanding of all theoretical knowledge. Even now, this ingrained habit remained unchanged.

But their chosen strategy was flawed, at least for now. They all knew that this shoulder-to-shoulder, hand-to-hand battle formation would leave a small gap in the center.

It shouldn't have been a problem until now.

A soft laugh erupted from that hollow space.

The Fallen Alachiel was the first to realize something was wrong. He was a well-trained warrior and one of the few in the Thousand Eyes Warband who did not seek a new god to sustain himself after the collapse of his faith.

He usually keeps to himself, and his status within the War Clan is entirely due to his keen insight and swordsmanship. Not long ago, when Seraphax was explaining his plans, he was among the first to express his approval.

In Alachiel's view, the ambush plan was flawless—he didn't care how Seraphax was going to hide them with a mirror; he only knew that if it worked, they would gain a huge tactical advantage.

Then, Alachiel realized that Seraphax, as always, was not exaggerating.

That silver mirror not only helped them hide, but also made them completely invisible, so that even the cheap imitations who stole their name couldn't detect them using psychic searches.

As he stepped into the passage, Alachiel was even smiling. He didn't know which of the so-called "Dark Angels" who boarded the ship had been unlucky enough to stumble into this place, but there was only one passage in the sandpit, so they had to face him.

Alachiel thought he could advance further within the Warband because of this, but he was wrong. When that soft laugh rang out, his hair stood on end, and a fragment that could not yet be called a thought rapidly rose in his mind.

That's the limit of what he can do.

Two sharp knives followed closely behind, plunging into his shoulders and downwards, disregarding armor and bone. They ripped through flesh, severed his hands, and removed his internal organs.

Alachiel screamed, surrounded by shattered armor plates and his own flesh. Amidst the ensuing gunfire and roars, he collapsed heavily to the ground, his shattered ribs crumbling like building blocks.

A pair of jet-black leather boots stopped in front of him.

Alachiel continued screaming, her eyes rolling back as she saw a silver Aquila.

It wasn't dazzling, yet it shattered the Fallen's sanity like Thunder, transforming his screams into a voice that revealed the truth, filling all his companions with terror.

They quickly turned towards this spot, gunfire flashing, stretching and distorting the Shadow of a mortal on the wall, and causing the Aquila to reflect light.

The explosive shell, which should have burst from the muzzle, suddenly exploded inside the barrel. The preheating plasma hummed and overheated, and the muzzle of the Phosphex flamethrower melted without warning. Amidst this violent and chaotic noise, a silent fear began to spread.

Karyl gently shook his blood-stained hands and gave them a smile.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

Twenty seconds later, he stepped back into the darkness. It took him less than two minutes to wipe out the entire squad. He didn't use psionic powers, authority, or even exceed the limits of "skills."

"Truly breathtaking," a voice exclaimed from the Shadow. "I thought you'd regress, Karyl."

"I'd rather take the fall," Karyl said, and walked out of the darkness.

They bid him farewell, countless hands clutching the hatred of the dead as they saw him off, hoping he would kill even more.

In the previous massacres, the souls of many who died unjustly have found peace, and they feel honored by this, but they are not satisfied and yearn for more.

They are never satisfied, just like Vengeance itself.

The explosion occurred in the narrow corridor, a rolling wave of fire swept in, and the intense heat melted metal. The bullet flew past, narrowly missing his cheek, leaving no bloodstains, only the still-vibrating air testifying to the passing of this stray bullet.

Karyl squinted, watching the brutal melee between the two sides, his fingers involuntarily rubbing the blade.

Boarding maneuvers often result in the highest casualty rates. Not to mention, this is when you're ambushed.

"What a calculated scheme," Konrad Curze Curze remarked. "He probably just wants to use these people's lives to keep you here."

"Five minutes," Karyl said, his eyes gleaming blue.

"I believe you can kill all the traitors on this ship in five minutes, Karyl. But how long can those five minutes, stolen from you with their lives, become in the Warp?"

Within the Cemetery of Repose, the Night Haunter posed this question. His eyes, as usual, did not gaze upon the material world through the Shadow of his father, but rather pierced through the Chaos waves, searching endlessly in the formless, vast ocean.

He was looking for a forest, a forest from the past that no longer exists.