True Exhaustion
Moloc's breathing inside the helmet turned into a heavy, scorching hiss, each inhalation like swallowing burning iron filings.
He was like a black reef trapped in a crimson tide, silently enduring wave after wave of impact.
The obsidian spear in his hand, inherited from an even more ancient era—the "Citybreaker"—was thrust out with pinpoint accuracy once more.
The spearhead, wreathed in a kinetic field powerful enough to tear apart tank armor, pierced the chest of an oncoming Khorne Bloodletter thud.
The demon turned to burning debris amidst a shriek, but on the other side, a fat Plaguebearer spewed out a stream of foul-smelling, viscous pus.
Moloc didn't even turn his head. The massive city-breaking shield shifted to the side at a precise angle, its thick surface blocking all the pus with a sizzling sound of corrosion, leaving behind yet another patch of pitted erosion.
There are too many.
The number of demons seemed endless, emerging from the shadows of every street, from the cracks of every collapsing building, and even from the polluted sky.
This was beyond Moloc's understanding of "intrusion."
According to his original calculations, relying on the brutal combat power of the Minotaurs Chapter and his familiarity with the terrain of the Hive City, they would be able to build an ironclad defense line around the High Lords's sanctuary.
Until the crisis is over, or... until he fulfills the "special instructions" of those important figures.
He was a hunting dog, the sharpest blade in the hands of the higher-ups; he was accustomed to completing missions amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
But at this moment, he felt the pressure.
A real, tangible pressure, as if the entire weight of the Hive City were pressing down on his shoulders.
Each swing of the spear and each block consumed 30% more stamina than expected.
The demons' strength, the frenzied frequency of their attacks, and even the extraordinary malice they perceived, as if driven by an even more terrifying will, all contributed to the rapid descent of this defensive battle into a war of attrition.
"Wrong..."
Moloc's brow furrowed beneath his helmet as a chilling thought flashed through his mind, "This troop strength... something's not right."
He recalled not long ago, when the obese High Lords in charge of the waterway trembled as he mentioned "the return of the Primarch."
Besides fear, there was also a hint of luck in his eyes that he himself was unaware of—as if Guilliman's return would draw away most of the firepower.
That's wrong.
That's completely wrong.
Moloc was now acutely aware of Robert Guilliman's return.
Instead of distracting from the Chaos, it was like a piece of ice thrown into a boiling pot of oil, provoking the most violent and frenzied counterattack!
The Chaos Gods did not neglect Terra; rather, they concentrated and poured twice the power that might have been scattered throughout the Imperium into it!
This was no longer just a Khorne- dominated skull-harvesting, but a coordinated effort by the four gods.
A destructive torrent unleashed in a rage fueled by humiliation, aimed at utterly erasing any possibility of Guilliman's return!
This troop strength, this intensity... is in no way inferior to... the Siege of Terra ten thousand years ago.
This conclusion made Moloc's heart clench.
He was not entirely unfamiliar with the great war that determined the Destiny of mankind ten thousand years ago.
As one of the early Thunder Warriors, he had heard the deafening roar of artillery fire deep in the shadows of Hive City.
I have felt the earth's groans under the weight of super-standard weapons, and I have witnessed Drop Pod falling like raindrops and heretical warships that blot out the sky.
At that time, he was in the rear, struggling to survive in gang warfare and underground transactions. Although he was affected, he did not truly stand at the forefront of that bloody grinder.
After that battle, he was sealed away, existing in a forbidden zone like those ancient Dreadnought.
They were only released in the last few thousand years and formed the Minotaurs Chapter.
Until this moment.
Until he stood there himself, measuring this seemingly boundless wave of blasphemy with his spear and shield;
Until he felt his pride and strength, his endurance, being rapidly worn down and depleted by the waves;
Until he saw his old minotaur soldiers, who had followed him for hundreds of years, fall one by one in the demonic horde, their corpses being swiftly dragged away, devoured, or defiled...
An emotion, long overdue and a mixture of shock and awe, struck him with unprecedented clarity for the first time.
"Them, ten thousand years ago..."
Moloc swung his shield, sending a Tzeentch Blue Horror flying, and watched as it was torn apart in mid-air by a force field.
"Was this the hell that those Space Marines standing atop the palace walls, those Adeptus Custodes holding every corridor...?"
No wonder.
No wonder those ancient Chapter that survived the sieges, even after thousands of years of decline, still possessed a kind of tenacity and... madness etched into their very bones that were hard to look at directly.
They crawled out of such a hell.
The arrogance that had grown within him from millennia of slumber and rebirth, and from controlling a powerful Chapter, was now ruthlessly crushed by reality.
Compared to the warriors who faced the wrath of Horus and the Chaos Gods ten thousand years ago, the so-called "brutality" and "efficiency" of his Minotaurs Chapter seemed more like childish clamor.
His thoughts raced, but this did not affect his efficiency in killing.
Fighting had long been an instinct of his life, something he had developed over thousands of years.
He remained silent, like the most sophisticated killing machine, and also the most stubborn fortress.
Black Spear pierced his chest, Power Fist smashed his skull, a shield blocked, struck, and crushed...
The movements are concise and efficient, carrying a cold, almost artistic rhythm honed through countless battles.
But the losses are real.
He felt the increasingly frequent overload screeching from the Power Armour joint servo system;
I sensed the unstable vibrations emanating from the force field generator of the Black Spear "Citybreaker" under sustained high load;
He felt a deep, aching emptiness, like the friction of rusty metal, emanating from the depths of his body, which had undergone modifications and should have been tireless.
Just then, danger struck.
A sharp blade, so fast it left only a blur and glowing with an eerie purple light, flew in from an extremely tricky angle from the side, aiming straight for the gap in his neck armor!
Moloc's battle instincts kicked in, and at the critical moment, he slammed the city-breaking shield to the side!
Clang--!!!
A piercing sound of metal tearing apart!
The impact from the shield made his arm go numb.
Upon closer inspection, the thick Adamantium that had accompanied him in battles for centuries and withstood countless cannon fire and claws had been slashed open with a terrifying gash several inches deep!
The edge metal was twisted, as if it had melted and then cooled rapidly, emitting a sweet, lingering Psionic Energy belonging to Slaanesh.
A figure landed lightly on a collapsed pillar not far away.
That was the beginnings of a Slaanesh Keeper of Secrets, perhaps not yet fully ascended to Greater Daemon, but its power already far surpassed that of ordinary demons.
It is slender and elegant, with alluring pale purple skin covered in delicate scales that flow like liquid pearls.
Most striking are its arms—from the elbows down, they have been completely transformed into two ritual blades with wavy edges, flowing with pink Psionic Energy.
Its back is not covered by wings, but by two extra, supple, and slender arms that grow like those of a dancer, with fingertips as sharp as knives.
Its lower body is even more bizarre: its four legs retain the perfect curves and luster of a human female's thighs, plump and alluring.
But from the knee down, they gradually transformed into smooth, obsidian-like reverse-jointed hooves, which made a crisp and steady clattering sound as they stepped on the ruins.
The overall form combines blasphemous beauty with deadly threat to the extreme.
Moloc's gaze instantly turned icy.
He could clearly assess the power of that attack—if it hadn't been for the shield blocking it, that strike would have precisely sliced through the weakest point of his neck armor, and might even have shaved off half of his shoulder!
If it hits the chest directly, even the main armor plate of the Power Armour might not be able to withstand it completely; the two hearts inside would likely...
"What a heartbreaking effort!"