You Want to Take On the Astartes?

"Huff... huff... huff..."

The heavy rasp of breathing, like a broken bellows, was the only sound in the deathly still Hall.

Bernardo was almost spent. He braced his hands on his knees, each breath burning his lungs and carrying the thick taste of blood.

His vision blurred. Sweat, blood, and dust ran down his forehead and stung his eyes.

He straightened, planted one trembling foot on the Ork Warboss's huge, ugly head, and gripped the rifle lodged in its eye socket with both hands.

The Bayonet was wedged tight in bone. Bernardo clenched his teeth, put his back into it, and heaved with his whole body.

"Gah!"

With a sickening crunch, he wrenched the Bayonet free, its blade smeared with blood and brain matter.

Bernardo staggered back several steps and leaned against a pillar scarred by bullets and gouges. Only then could he stay upright.

He dropped the rifle with its bent Bayonet. Metal struck the floor with a sharp clang.

He gulped down air, his chest heaving as he tried to calm his heart, which had nearly burst during the fight.

Bernardo composed himself and looked across the Hall. The once-extravagant nobles' council chamber had become a morgue and a ruin.

Shattered chandeliers, torn paintings, smashed furniture, human limbs, and hulking green corpses lay jumbled together. Congealed blood traced strange, horrifying patterns across the carpet.

The air reeked of gunpowder, blood, ruptured entrails, and the Orks' distinctive rank stench. It was nauseating.

"It's over... Is it finally... over?" Bernardo muttered, his voice almost too hoarse to hear.

Exhaustion surged over him like a tide, threatening to drag him under.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a metal cigarette case he had found on a dead noble's private soldier. Inside were several fine cigars reserved for the privileged.

His hands shook as he lit one. He drew deeply, and the acrid smoke filled his lungs, bringing a false hint of comfort and clarity.

He leaned against the cold wall and slowly slid to the floor. Gazing at the scene of death he had helped create, he let out a long sigh.

He had thought his end might come peacefully at his desk, or by assassination during some drawn-out dispute with a noble.

But from the look of things, retirement was still some way off. He had a few more years of fighting for the Emperor left in him.

Then hurried, orderly footsteps approached.

His Adjutant led a dozen or so Imperial Army soldiers through the chaos outside and into the council chamber. Their armor bore fresh damage, but their eyes remained resolute.

"General! Are you—" The Adjutant stopped short.

He and the soldiers behind him stared at the scene. The Ork Warboss's corpse lay like a small hill, its hideous death a testament to the ferocity of the fight.

Their commander, meanwhile, sat in a shadowed corner, silently smoking a cigar. Dried blood covered his face and uniform.

"You're here," Bernardo said with a wave.

"Clear the battlefield... count the survivors." Bernardo blew out a ring of smoke. His brief order had his usual steadiness, though his voice remained hoarse.

Before the Adjutant could answer, a deep, powerful roar drew near and swiftly filled the area.

It was nothing like the racket of an Ork Rokkit Pack or the shriek of an Imperial Army vehicle. This was a steady, commanding engine roar that spoke of absolute power and destruction—the thunder of a Thunderhawk Gunship belonging to the Space Marines!

Then several black dots appeared above the council chamber's shattered dome and rapidly grew larger.

They hovered overhead with perfect precision, like great dragons poised in the sky.

Heavy hatches opened. No ropes were lowered. One enormous figure after another, clad in gray power armor, leaped straight down from dozens of meters above!

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Their heavy landings beat against every survivor's heart like war drums.

A dozen or so Space Marines—the Emperor's Angels of Death, Astartes of the Word Bearers Legion—descended into the ruins in battle formation.

Their power armor bore marks from the fighting at the Star Fortress, but they remained grim and imposing.

Their Bolters and Chainswords hung low, yet the pressure they radiated was suffocating.

At their head was Company Captain Wilson.

His armor bore several deep cuts more than the others', but his hawklike gaze swept the chamber, taking in the situation at once.

"Angels... The Emperor's angels!"

No one knew who cried out first. The voice brimmed with disbelieving joy and utter awe.

The next moment, the shaken nobles and battered soldiers—and even Bernardo and his Adjutant—dropped to one knee and bowed their heads, almost by instinct.

It was reverence for the Imperium's mightiest warriors, loyalty to the soldiers of the Legions led by the Emperor's gene-born sons, and unconditional submission to the symbol of the Imperium's supreme military might.

"Great angel! You... you've finally come!"

Baron Horace reacted most dramatically. He practically tumbled out from behind an overturned table. Without bothering to straighten his splendid robe, filthy with wine stains and dust, he scrambled on hands and knees to Company Captain Wilson's feet.

He looked up, his face twisted into a mixture of flattery, fear, and elation at having survived. He poured out every word of praise he could think of:

"Praise the God-Emperor! Praise you, noble angel! You are the light in the darkness! Humanity's only hope! Your arrival has breathed new life into this humble Hive City! Your might is like—"

Company Captain Wilson looked down. His cold gaze fell on Baron Horace's contorted face, cutting off the torrent of flattery.

The Company Captain's voice came through his helmet's speaker, flat and unwavering, yet carrying unquestionable authority:

"Are you this planet's governor, or the highest-ranking administrator currently present?"

Baron Horace was caught off guard by the blunt question. He hurried to answer. "Y-yes, honored lord! I am Horace, hereditary baron of Jungle Hive City. In this crisis, I am... temporarily responsible for coordinating affairs..."

Wilson ignored Horace's self-aggrandizing titles and continued in a voice so cold it seemed to see through him. "Within one Terra Standard Time hour, you will submit a complete report explaining why the Imperial Army's Defense Line collapsed so quickly despite the Hive City's defensive advantages. And..."

His gaze swept over the well-equipped corpses of House Horace's private soldiers, and his tone hardened.

"Why, after the main Ork force broke through the outer defenses and entered the core district, the well-equipped private troops under your command were gathered here instead of manning the crucial perimeter Defense Line."

He paused, letting the pressure bear down on Baron Horace.

"If your explanation is unconvincing, I will conclude that you are unfit to retain your noble duties—and that you may bear direct responsibility for the deaths of millions of Imperial soldiers and civilians."

The words doused Baron Horace's eager flattery like ice water.

The color drained visibly from his face, and his fat body began to tremble beyond his control.

One Terra-standard hour? Explain it? How could I possibly explain it?

Should I admit that skimming military funds left the defenses weak? That my private soldiers stayed off the front line to protect our lives and property?

Had he been facing an ordinary Imperial officer or noble, he might have bribed, called in favors, and argued his way out of it.

But the figure before him was a Company Captain of the Astartes Chapters! One of the Emperor's Angels of Death! To these superhuman warriors, noble titles, family wealth, and tangled networks of influence likely meant nothing.

They cared only for facts and results. Their authority to enforce the law was nearly absolute.

Forget his title and fortune. If his guilt was established, Wilson could execute him on the spot as a traitor or a derelict of duty! The wealth and connections his family had amassed over generations were laughably insignificant beside a Space Marine's overwhelming power.

Terror seized Baron Horace. His mouth hung open, and a choking rattle came from his throat, but he could not form a single sentence. Cold sweat instantly soaked his fine silk underclothes.

Into that deathly silence, a steady, hoarse, yet remarkably clear voice rang out from the corner.

"Great angel! Please allow me to explain what happened."

Bernardo had risen without anyone noticing. He discarded his cigar butt and took a few steps forward, unsteady but resolute.

Ignoring Baron Horace's terrified, pleading look, he faced Company Captain Wilson and raised a hand in a crisp military salute.

Then he pointed at the ashen-faced Baron Horace. His voice, edged with long-suppressed anger and backed by ironclad evidence, rang clearly through the shattered Hall:

"My lord! There is no need to wait one Terra-standard hour! I can tell you the reason now!"

"The Hive City's nobles, led by Baron Horace, have long embezzled the funds the Imperium allocated for military equipment and defensive works! They supplied inferior goods and lined their own pockets! Our walls were left fragile, our soldiers' weapons outdated and damaged, and our heavy firepower gravely insufficient! That is why our Defense Line collapsed so quickly!"

"Their private soldiers had better equipment than the Imperial Army units at the very front, yet they were used only to guard private estates and wealth! While our troops held back the Ork horde with their own bodies, these people hid in the safest palace they could find and argued over how to shift the blame!"

Bernardo's words cut through the last pretense like a knife, laying the bloody truth bare before the Emperor's angel.

"Will you stand by what you've said?" Wilson asked coldly.

"I swear by the home I defend, by my life, and by my loyalty to the Emperor and humanity: if a single word I've spoken is false, I will accept any punishment, including execution."