We Are the Sons of War!

He wanted to retreat, to reorganize his defense, and to reassess this opponent.

But Titus's sword was already pouring down like a storm, not giving him any chance to breathe.

Titus finally understood why his brothers sometimes chanted the ancient regiment names.

Ultramarines The name of the original legion ten thousand years ago was Son of War.

Because for them, war is really as simple as breathing and drinking water.

No need to think, no need to think at all.

Pure instinct, pure control.

Single fights are wars, group fights are wars, and sneak attacks are also wars.

As long as he can bring up the word "war", Titus, who has been blessed by Guilliman Son of War, will have absolute confidence to deal with it.

At this moment, Titus wanted to speak directly to everyone in front of him.

Gentlemen, I love war!

I love jihad!

I love expeditions!

I love Siege!

I love purges!

I love breakthroughs!

I love sniper combat!

I love scorched earth battles!

I like Exterminatus!

In Death World that was burned by the flames of war, in Warp that was torn apart by Psionic Energy, in the starship deck with the roar of steel, in the trenches where corpses piled up, in the wasteland filled with radiation, in every inch of the battlefield where God-Emperor shines brightly - wherever there is war, I love it enthusiastically!

His sword is getting faster, fiercer, and crazier.

Every sword carries the essence of war, and every slash contains Guilliman's understanding of war.

That's not skill, that's instinct.

That's not training, that's talent.

That's not learning, that's imprinted deep in your genes.

He is the descendant of Son of War, the sharp edge of Guilliman, and the sharpest spearhead of Imperium of Man.

His sword is war itself.

Blade Phaeron's defenses are collapsing.

His Dust Scythe is still accurate, his blocking is still perfect, and every step he takes is based on the calculations of the battle array.

But Titus's sword has surpassed his calculations, surpassed his predictions, and surpassed all his sixty-five million years of accumulated experience.

"Great Gene-Father!" Titus's voice was like a war cry, exploding in the Blackstone space, echoing in the void, vibrating in every Ultramarines's Gene-seed, "As your favorite heir, I bring you war!"

At that moment, his soul began to vibrate.

The shock penetrated Material Universe, penetrated Warp, penetrated Necrons's Blackstone barrier.

The blue-gold Psionic Energy tsunami rippled crazily in Warp. That was the essence of Son of War responding to his call. It was the power of Guilliman pouring into his body across the endless void. It was the most powerful warrior of Imperium of Man declaring war on his enemy.

Titus's combo moves become smoother and smoother.

His sword is no longer a sword, but a concrete blade of war itself.

His body is no longer a body, but an extension of Guilliman's will in Material Universe.

His soul is no longer a soul, but a part of Son of War's essence.

Blade Phaeron has amazing combat experience.

The mechanical body on his body is the top creation of Necrons and C'tan technology.

Necrodermis body, phase shield, energy reorganization array - each of them is the pinnacle of Necron Technology.

But the most powerful of them all is the built-in prediction matrix.

That matrix can calculate everything that may happen in the next 0.5 seconds based on the enemy's movements, energy fluctuations, and tactical habits.

This ability has often made him unbeatable in duels in the past.

No matter how powerful the enemy is, no matter how fierce the battle, he can always see through everything before his opponent makes a move.

But now, his prediction matrix is collapsing.

Titus moved so fast that the matrix had no time to analyze it.

Titus's change of moves was so fierce that every prediction branch exploded in an instant.

Titus's murderous intent was so strong that the matrix's prediction vision was filled with golden light, making it impossible to see anything clearly.

He sees more and more of the future.

Not one line, not ten lines, but thousands of lines flooding into his processor simultaneously.

Every future is Titus's sword, every future is golden light, every future is his defeat.

The phantoms of the future filled his eyes like bubbles.

He saw Titus's sword pierce his chest, saw his Necrodermis body disintegrate in the golden flames, saw his consciousness return to the mausoleum, and saw his body being recast.

He saw himself defeated again and again, died again and again, and was reborn again and again.

But that's not the future, that's the possibility.

Countless possibilities flooded into his brain at the same time, overloading his processor, confusing his logic array, and causing his emotional simulation system to alarm frantically.

At this moment, Blade Phaeron is simply like Khârn, Siege of Terra fighting against Sigismund.

That Khorne champion, that Butcher's Nails slave, that madman who never retreats on the battlefield.

He was seen through the future by the sword of Sigismund, and saw himself dying again and again, until his will collapsed in the endless phantom.

Blade Phaeron's sword starts to slow down.

Not because he was tired, but because his processor could no longer handle the massive amount of forecast data.

Each of his movements requires a delay of 0.3 seconds, while Titus's sword only requires 0.1 seconds.

That gap of 0.2 seconds is the distance between life and death.

Titus's sword scratched his shoulder armor, and the golden flame left a deep ravine on the surface of Necrodermis.

Titus's sword pierced his shield, and the power of Law of Eternity tore the C'tan energy into pieces.

Titus's sword slashed towards his head, and the power of Atomic Law was rewriting his material composition.

Blade Phaeron barely dodged the sword.

But a corner of his helmet was cut off, revealing the green energy core underneath.

For the first time, fear appeared in his eyes.

Not simulated fear, but real trembling from the depths of the soul.

In other areas of the battlefield, the fighting was equally fierce.

Two hundred and fifty thousand Ultramarines are fighting fiercely against an army of Necrons that is several times their own size.

Kholfa's Power Axe has killed thousands of Immortals, his Power Armour is covered with the residual liquid of Living Metal, and his breathing is as heavy as an ox.

Seratus's Bolter has emptied seventeen magazines. His mechanical prosthesis is overheating and alarming, and his aiming array is flashing crazily.

But they couldn't kill them all.

Every Necron Warriors that falls will stand up again after a few minutes.

Their consciousness returned to the tomb, and then was put into a new Necrodermis body, and was transported to the battlefield again.

Although the regeneration speed is not fast, it is enough to make Ultramarines's efforts in vain.

Kholfa smashed the head of Immortals with an axe, and the dark green fragments scattered in all directions.

He was breathing heavily, looking at the Necrons army regrouping in the distance, and felt a sense of powerlessness in his heart.