The roar of the bombs, the howling of the Promethium flames, the sizzling of the ion beams, and the scorching of the Melta rays all exploded simultaneously in the empty main workshop.
The firepower of hundreds of people poured out in an instant, as dense as a wall of fire, enveloping the burly figure atop the mountain of corpses.
Even an Imperium Dreadnought would instinctively raise its arm to block or shift to the side to avoid vital targets if it were to face such a dense barrage of fire head-on.
No flesh and blood body can survive such a storm of metal unscathed.
But Quirk didn't dodge.
He stood with his hands hanging down in the center of the hill made of corpses, the tips of two gear flails dangling to the ground, slightly denting the gravel.
A barrage of bullets rained down on him, the explosives bursting into fine mists of blood, Promethium flames licking at his body and igniting crimson flames, and ion beams and Melta rays scorching the scabs on his skin with a sizzling sound.
But Quirk didn't move an inch from beginning to end, not even a furrow of his brow.
The scab that had congealed on the skin's surface was no longer just ordinary flesh and blood residue.
Beneath the dark red scab, Chaos energy surged, forming, together with the distorted keratin layer, the armor unique to the followers of the Blood God.
The impact of the grenade only caused him to lean back slightly; the Promethium flames couldn't burn through his skin at all.
Sister Agnes's knuckles trembled as she gripped the Chainsword, and a storm raged in her silver-grey eyes.
She recognized the true nature of that blood-red skin; it was the blessing of the Blood God, the blasphemous protection bestowed upon him by the Warp.
In the endless Great Game the four gods, Khorne, seated on the Brass Throne, has always been the one most generous with his gaze and blessings.
His gifts never follow the logic of mortals.
He disregards alignment, morality, and purpose, and doesn't even care whether believers have faith in him.
He only cares about one thing.
Is killing itself pure enough? Is it instinctive enough? Does it give Him a sense of pleasure amidst endless slaughter and bloodshed?
Becoming the Chaos Champion might only require a resounding victory, but becoming the chosen one is as difficult as ascending to heaven.
Only your fighting spirit, your killing intent, and the primal destructive urge that erupts from you in dire straits.
Only by pleasing that bloodthirsty god across the barriers of the Warp will He cast His gaze upon you and infuse His unique power into your body.
Clearly, Quirk did it.
A sixteen-year-old textile apprentice from the Lower City, as thin as a stick, held only a table leg with nails hammered into it.
Starting from a desperate situation in a storage room, he was forced to appear in a hellish place full of Aberrant in order to survive.
Without any witchcraft, without armor, and without even a decent weapon.
Driven solely by his survival instincts and ever-growing bloodlust, he cut down several monsters far stronger than himself along the way.
This kind of pure killing, squeezed out from the brink of despair and devoid of any ulterior motives, is exactly what Khorne craves.
"To think they've become the Chosen of Slaughter..." Sister Agnes's voice was low, tinged with a barely perceptible tremor.
Before he finished speaking, Quirk had already closed the distance by half.
He made no tactical moves, but simply strode forward and charged straight towards the purification team's formation.
His nine-foot-tall frame resembled a moving mountain of flesh and blood, with two gear-like flails swung at his sides, creating a whistling sound.
The front-line Iron Guard soldiers gritted their teeth and pulled the trigger, the muzzle of the Boltgun almost touching Quirk.
But the other side ignored his presence, letting the bullets hit his chest muscles, splattering blood everywhere.
In the blink of an eye, he charged into the formation.
The heavy gear flail swung with immense force, and the first row of shield-bearing Iron Guard didn't even have time to react before the blunt weapon slammed into the center of the shield formation.
The heavy shields made of Ceramite were no different from thin wooden boards; you couldn't even see the image of a heavily armored warrior struggling to block, his armor dented from the impact.
It simply breaks and disappears.
Like a fragile soda can, it was easily smashed and deformed, spilling its juice, before being tossed away and disappearing without a trace.
Quirk's movements were so fast that they seemed completely out of place for his massive frame.
With a sweeping motion of his left flail, he sent three Iron Guard soldiers flying. With a swift downward slash of his right gear-blade, he cleaved a warrior wielding a Meltagun lance in two, man and weapon in one piece.
Melta fuel spilled out from the cut, igniting a fire on his arm, but it was as if it had added fuel to the flames, making his complexion even more vibrant.
The Sisters of Battle immediately flanked him from both sides, their Chainsword spinning at high speed, their serrated teeth biting into Quirk's forearms and abdomen.
The ear-piercing scraping sound sent Mars and droplets of blood flying, but it couldn't even cut through the surface scab, leaving not a single wound.
Quirk let out a low growl, his muscles tensing violently, and he managed to break the saw teeth with his own flesh and blood.
With a twist of his wrist, the nun let out a muffled groan as her wrist, which was gripping the sword, was snapped.
The next second, the heavy flail slammed onto her breastplate.
The nun's body flew backward rapidly, kicking up a cloud of blood.
All that remained was the arm that Quirk had been holding.
Sister Agnes watched her companion being killed so easily, without giving it much thought.
Sacrifice is itself a form of honor.
She took a deep breath, raised the holy emblem, and the aura of faith emanating from her surged to its peak:
"Concentrate your firepower! Shoot him in the eye!"
The three battle priests in the center of the group simultaneously chanted purification prayers, and golden holy flames erupted from the tips of their staffs, transforming into three fire serpents that rushed toward Quirk's face.
The sacred flames scorched the crimson light, and Quirk's steps faltered for half a second. A painful growl escaped his throat, and he instinctively turned his head away from Quake's face.
But it only lasted half a second.
He suddenly took a large stride and actually charged through the holy flames.
The outer layer of the scab was charred and smoking, but the crimson light inside surged wildly, constantly repairing the burned tissue.
In the blink of an eye, he rushed to the front of the priests, his flail sweeping across the battlefield, unleashing a shower of blood mixed with severed limbs and broken arms.
The holy staff clattered to the ground, and the golden holy flames were instantly extinguished.
A bloody massacre ensued.
For Quirk now, this purification squad is capable of wiping out an entire cult stronghold, with combat power comparable to a small Space Marine reconnaissance team.
They were no different in essence from the unarmed civilians and mutated monsters in the factory.
They were all just "toys" that could pique his interest even slightly.
Bombs can't penetrate it, flames can't burn through it, and Chainsword can't cut through it.
He was like a tiger that had stormed into a flock of sheep, leaving a trail of blood and gore, armor shattering, and screams and the cracking of metal echoing everywhere he went.
From the shadows, three Purestrain Genestealer silently pounced down.
They were originally spies lurking deep within the factory. Seeing the purification team wiped out, they wanted to take advantage of the moment when Quirk was tied down by the Holy Flame to launch a sneak attack and try to tear this out-of-control humanoid beast apart.
The sharp, Rending Claws gleamed coldly as they aimed straight for Quirk's nape and eyes.
It's as if Quirk has eyes in the back of his head.
Without even turning his head, he swung the flail backward.
With three sharp cracks, the three Purestrain Genestealer slammed heavily against the ceiling like flies being swatted away, and when they fell back down, they were twisted into a mangled mess of flesh.
Their bodies were not particularly resilient to begin with, and they appeared even more vulnerable in the face of the monstrous strength of Chosen of Khorne.
From the moment the barrage of fire began until the last Genestealer was killed, only a few dozen seconds passed.
The entire purification team of one hundred people, along with the three lurking Purestrain Genestealer, perished.