The Storm Eagle's deck shuddered endlessly beneath their iron boots, one tremor after another. It was not only irritating, but also inspired an intense, almost visceral disgust.
Those who had never experienced it could not understand, but once you had felt it even once, you would know exactly how terrifying it was.
"If Banjolix doesn't finish his work soon, I'll break his nose." Leonard, captain of the Eighth Legion's Blade of Punishment squad, said this as he stood on the deck.
His voice was low and grim, and it had nothing to do with the modulation function of his respirator grille. Poison gas released by the enemy in one war had left his voice like this—rasping and gloomy. When agitated, he sounded like two pieces of metal being frantically ground together in someone's clenched hands.
Frankly speaking, he was one of the few members of the Eighth Legion who could frighten people without a respirator grille.
"You can't control him, Captain."
Estonev, one of the squad members, objected. "There are only a few dozen Techmarines in the Legion to begin with. Touch him once, and the First Company captain will come over and stab you."
"You think I've never been stabbed?" Leonard snorted disdainfully. "Van Cleef only dared hurt me during training."
"You seem to be saying something very dangerous, Captain."
Estonev shook his head. "Leaving aside the fact that dispersed squads like ours would never operate with the First Company during wartime, just what would you have to do to make Captain Van Cleef stab you in the middle of a battle?"
"Is that any of your business?" Leonard snorted again, but did not continue. Instead, he turned and nodded to the other members of the squad.
Eighteen pairs of silent eyes flickered at that moment. A moment later,