I Just Want to Do This!

Those insect nests Primarch have stood up one after another.

Their bodies are still trembling, their wounds are still oozing blood, and the cracks in their carapace are still expanding slightly.

But they didn't fall.

They looked at Roge·Dorn, and something flickered in those dark green eyes.

It's not fear, it's not anger, it's something deeper that even they can't name.

One of the insect nests Primarch stood up more slowly than the other Primarch.

Its body is taller than other Primarch, its carapace is thicker, and it holds a long sword made of biomass bones in its hand.

Its posture is very similar to Roge·Dorn.

It's a step forward.

It's not an attack, it's an approach, the kind of "I want to take a good look at you" approach.

It stopped in front of Roge·Dorn, only a few steps away.

"I am the will of the Hive, I am the will of Tyranids."

Its voice was low and hoarse, with a texture like metal scraping against rock.

But its eyes were calm, its movements were steady, and there was even a hint of respect in its tone.

"I understand your nobility, and I admire your nobility even more."

It said, "But that is for you living beings with thoughts and freedoms.

Many human beings feel that their lives are not under their control, and their bodies are not under their control, which means they are not free, suffer, and despair.

But for the entire insect swarm, this despair is always with them."

It paused, and a complex light flashed in its dark green eyes.

"I'm lucky.

I have my own thoughts and my own judgment.

Although my instinct is still controlled by Hive Mind, I can still think and make decisions.

I can't deviate from my own race, even if your thoughts make me agree with you.

But just as you can't turn away from your race, my brother - we are always the same.

Because I was born because of you, because I was born for you."

Roge·Dorn looked at it.

His eyes fell on the insect nest Primarch, from its head to its shoulders.

From its shoulders to the long sword in its hand, from the long sword back to its dark green eyes.

He was silent for a long time.

That was the first time in a long, long time that he had been silent for so long.

"We are so similar."

His voice was very soft, as if he was talking to himself.

The corners of the mouth of the insect nest Primarch were slightly raised.

That's not ridicule, not sarcasm, but a confirmation - a confirmation that the other party finally understands something.

"Yes."

Its voice was also very soft, "We are so similar."

Roge·Dorn raised Terra's Glory in his hand.

The roar of the Chainsword became deeper and heavier in the sunset, like an elegy that was coming to an end.

His eyes fell on the insect nest Primarch, and there was still no emotion in those amber eyes.

But his movement of raising the sword was half a beat slower than before.

Not hesitation, but respect.

"Then I will give you glory, then I will give you liberation."

His voice was as solemn as an oath.

The insect nest Primarch did not speak.

It just raised its biomass sword, pointing the sword tip at Roge·Dorn's chest.

Its movements are equally solemn and solemn, as if it is undergoing some kind of ceremony.

"Very good."

Two swords collided in the sunset.

There were no sparks, no loud noises, just a sigh-like, fine tinkling of gold and iron.

That sound echoed on the battlefield, penetrating the screams of the retreating insect swarms, the crackling of the burning ruins, and the heartbeats of the soldiers lining up.

Roge·Dorn's sword slashed across the chest of the insect nest Primarch.

Dark green blood spurted out from the wound, reflecting colorful light in the afterglow of the setting sun.

The body of the insect nest Primarch leaned back, and the long sword in its hand slipped from the palm of its hand and hit the sand with a dull sound.

It lay on the ground and looked at the sky.

The light in those dark green eyes was dimming little by little.

"Thank you."

Its sound is very soft.

Roge·Dorn stood in front of it, looking down at it.

He didn't speak, he just stretched out his hand, wiped the Terra's Glory sword blade clean, and put it back to his waist.

The sunset has completely set.

The last golden light disappeared from the horizon, the sky turned deep purple, and the first stars began to shine in the east.

The dark green curtain of insect swarms in the distance is slowly receding, and the largest ship, Hive Ship, has turned and is sailing towards the depths of the starry sky.

Swarm Prince has disappeared, leaving only a long, winding, dark green blood trail on the sand.

Perturabo stood in the distance, Forgebreaker in his hand was still hanging in the air, and the hammer head was still stained with Swarm Prince's carapace fragments.

He didn't catch up because the voice of Dorn stopped him.

"Let it go."

Dorn's voice was calm, "The will of the insect nest is here, we need Roboute Guilliman to come."

"We are only extensions of eternity, not the eternal self."

Perturabo put down his hand and turned his head, his gray eyes full of confusion.

He wants to ask why, why, and whether you are crazy.

But he didn't ask.

Because he saw Dorn's eyes.

For the first time, something he had never seen appeared in those eyes.

Not tired, not sad, but a kind of light that he had not seen for a long, long time.

Perturabo put down his war hammer, turned around, and walked towards the soldiers who were lining up.

"Close the team!"

His voice boomed in the communication channel, "Today's target has not been completed yet!

Don't think that you can be lazy if those bugs run away!

Work overtime tonight!

No one can leave!"

In the distance, the Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists soldiers who were lining up let out a low sigh that was mixed with wails and fighting spirit.

Roge·Dorn stood there, watching the body of the insect nest Primarch slowly cooling on the sand.

Watching the biomass sword slowly drying in the wind, watching the first star in the sky twinkling in the dark purple sky.

The wind blew across the battlefield, carrying the smell of burning and blood, but he did not frown.

He stood there for a long time, so long that the soldiers who were cleaning up the battlefield had already cleaned up most of the debris.

It took so long that Perturabo came over and patted him on the shoulder, and it took so long that Titus was carried on a stretcher by Apothecary, and he faintly shouted "I can still fight."

Dorn finally turned around and walked towards the landing transport ship.

His steps were still steady, each step was firm, and each step left a deep footprint on the sand.

His back stretched very long in the dusk, until it seemed to spread to the end of the horizon.

He didn't look back.

But the moment he walked into the transport ship's cabin door, his voice came very softly.

"I am Roge·Dorn."

Those words floated in the dusk, blown away by the wind, and swallowed by the night.