Chapter 129: You Have Been Conscripted
Flames erupted from every crevice of the distant fortress. Countless screams, echoing across the sky, made it very clear to everyone that the flamers, mixed with a bit of phosphex fuel, were having a stunning effect.
As the super-heated temperatures softened the various nodes of the fortress, a seismic cannon, detached from a Titan, was fired. The resulting shockwave simply popped the fortress into a pile of burning, modular sheet metal.
"Only in the Emperor!"
Despite the overwhelming fire superiority that had dismantled the war fortress in an instant, by the underlying logic of this universe, the truly strong would not die from such an impact.
"Protect us!"
The Crimson Fists, like a tide, swarmed towards the various Ork modules. The battle quickly devolved into a brutal melee. But these Orks, who in the past had loved a good chop-fest, seemed to have lost their spirit. They were a bit sluggish and were easily cut down by the Red Fist warriors who surrounded their battle standard.
First Captain Pedro Kantor's expression was grim. He raised his hand, and the power fist, glowing with a crimson light, fired a bolter round, killing an Ork Nob at the forefront of the charge with a single shot. He then sidestepped, dodging the attack of another Ork, and swung his fist backhanded. The power fist made a sickening crunch as it slammed into the Ork's face.
The head exploded like a watermelon, red and white matter splattering everywhere. The power field completely separated the facial tissue from the bone, utterly destroying the nervous system. He then kicked the headless corpse away, raised his bolt pistol, and moved it left and right, the muzzle spitting angry fire, immediately cutting down two more Orks who were charging with their war-cries.
"You git!"
The Big Mek's power field flared, the shockwave pushing aside the surrounding wreckage. He could feel the WAAAGH! field weakening, just like when he ran into those particularly annoying humies. But that was fine. He was the boss! He was not affected!
The Big Mek immediately locked onto the tall and imposing Pedro and, blindly swinging his power-klaw, charged. The deflector shield easily blocked the weak ranged attacks.
"Eat my choppa!" the Big Mek roared, lunging at Pedro.
Pedro showed an agility that was completely at odds with his massive frame and retreated to dodge.
"Heh heh, ya fell for it—"
The Big Mek's cunning smile was frozen on his face for all eternity.
'I feel... you're no Lord Arthur.'
Retracting the bolter from his gauntlet, Pedro looked at the Big Mek, who had been frozen in place by the premature detonation of the stasis bomb. If it had been Lord Arthur, the moment your blade fell, his fist or his shield would be on your head. Even if you blocked the fist, the sword would be about to take your head off. He had yet to see anyone who could completely block it.
Of course, a ritual duel was one thing. The daily one-on-one "education" was a completely different scene. Unlike the rigid determination of his sparring matches with Lord Arthur, when he was teaching, he had no martial virtue whatsoever. He could pull out all sorts of dirty tricks. Anything that could cause damage was a weapon. He had tormented the Chapter Masters, Captains, and Champions who wanted to learn from him until they were on the verge of ecstasy.
Pedro had eaten his fair share of stasis bombs. According to Lord Arthur, the enemy would not give you a chance for an honorable duel. The enemy was the enemy. The best enemy was a dead one. The process didn't matter. Even if you disdained to use such methods yourself, you had to understand them, so that you could react in time when the unexpected happened.
Like many Chapters' duel champions, who, when provoked, would get hot-headed and jump into a duel. This was a bad habit. It made it easy for an Alpharius, who had hidden a gun, to shoot you in the face with a bolter when you had no ranged weapon.
Of course, if you could be like Lord Arthur, then you could just ignore all that. To be able to break through a fire blockade with near-teleportation, to be able to ignore psychic witchcraft, and then to cut a person down in two moves... if you had that kind of skill, no dirty trick would work.
CLICK!
He clenched his fist. The thrusters on his back dynamically adjusted his charge direction as the electronic muscle bundles pulled. Pedro silently counted down the end of the stasis field.
Three...
The jump pack ignited.
Two...
The servo-motors spun at high speed.
One!
"—it!"
The Big Mek still wore a triumphant grin. The first thing he saw was a gradually enlarging red fist.
CRUNCH!
The fist struck the heavy armor, punching in through the left breastplate. Then, the Big Mek's five-meter-tall heavy armor, as if repelled from the inside out, flew apart, along with its flesh and blood.
With a single punch, this Big Mek, who could have wrestled a small Knight, was reduced to a skeleton, stripped clean of its flesh, and a head that still had a bit of consciousness left. Who knew someone could take a power fist from a Thunder Warrior who had undergone Astartes surgery to the face.
The crimson glow of the power fist subsided. The gauntlet had inscribed a record of this Ork. Pedro strode forward and picked up the skeleton. He had held back a bit, because his company needed to conduct an experiment.
"Can the Orks be used?" Pedro asked, returning to the inner section of the battle line. He was picking off the Orks with his bolter while handing the Big Mek over to the Chapter Chaplain.
The Black Templars had a lot of men. A single Chapter had taken on the entire task of exterminating Chaos, which meant that they, who had only brought a company, could only lick up the scraps.
"All sons of Dorn, and they don't even give us a sip of the soup," Pedro couldn't help but mutter.
Actually, High Marshal Helbrecht was in a tough spot too. The main problem was that this customized honor-system that the elders had come up with was too addictive. It was directly from the hands of the elders, its artistic value so high that it would make the artists of the Imperium feel ashamed, and it even had later customized modifications.
Leaving aside the reality-stabilizing function, which could give a Space Marine without a Librarian a greater advantage on most battlefields, it could record the honor of the daemons you had killed. The more of a certain type you killed, the different the appearance would become. It could be said that when it was first released, everyone was the same. But as time went on, the type and number of enemies killed would gradually become different, and everyone could see the honor record on it...
After Lord Ramesses had brought out the finished product for promotion, the Black Templars had fought who knows how many honor duels for ownership, and in the end, no one could convince anyone else. You're good at chopping me up, but that doesn't mean you're good at chopping up daemons. If you've got the guts, let's go down there and have a competition.
One Marshal and Chaplain after another had come to him, asking Helbrecht to pull some strings for their battle-brothers, for the sake of the Primarch. Could Helbrecht say no? If he said no, forget whether these captains would survive the next day, he himself might not survive the next day in one piece.
'Good thing the Crimson Fists only brought the First Company and the Fourth, which is responsible for fleet combat.'
Pedro breathed a sigh of relief. Each Chapter only had one champion company. The Black Templars and the Nemesis Chapter, because their numbers were a bit mysterious, might have gotten a few more, but that was none of his business.
If he didn't take it, who would?
"It can," the Chaplain said, after a careful observation. He found that the banner had already displayed the Ork's history. "It's just that the reality-stabilizing effect isn't very good, and the Ork runes..."
The Crimson Fists were deeply influenced by the Ultramarines and liked a grand, magnificent style. The irregular, simplified corners of the Ork style were a bit ugly.
"...We'll have to make do." Pedro was just a captain. He didn't dare to compete with the Blood Angels, the Black Templars, the Nemesis Chapter, and the Carcharodons. Oh, right, the Carcharodons didn't care about this.
Pedro recalled for a moment and found that the elders' attitude towards this Chapter was indeed very unique. At the very least, Lord Arthur would often visit their flagship.
"Don't be in too much of a hurry. The crusade has only just begun. We still have plenty of opportunities," he comforted himself, then lowered his head, wondering if he could also try a different route.
"Let's hope so," the Chapter Chaplain nodded with resignation, raising the Big Mek banner, facing the backs of the countless fleeing Gretchin and Orks, who were shouting, "Da boss has been kilt! We're doomed! We're doomed!"
The chaotic battle on Elks was quickly brought to an end by the joint crusade fleet at an absurd pace.
The result was a human victory.
At 22:16, on the day the crusade fleet entered the Elks system, the planet's turmoil was pacified.
"Consolidate the data, regroup the forces, assess the planet, and rest and refit within the warships," Romulus issued the final order. "Next."
So soon?
Yes, it was that fast!
Decisive, clean, and resolute!
And—
Countless people looked with excitement at the elders on the bridge.
Correct!
Every step, there was a battle. Every step, they won. And the elders had affirmed their honor, never stingy with their praise and gifts.
They only needed to obey orders, only needed to display their ability as war machines, to pursue the existence they looked forward to!
Everyone was looking forward to the result of this crusade. They were all dreaming.
Dreaming of how glorious the end of this crusade would be.
The prairie planet of Elks.
This planet had suffered a double blow from the Orks and Chaos. Their offensive was swift. Chaos was deploying its blasphemous weapons from portals at the planet's poles. The Orks had penetrated deep into the human core, as insidious as a nail in the throat.
But millions of Astra Militarum were still holding their ground on this important resource planet, and they firmly believed that victory would ultimately be theirs.
And victory did indeed belong to them.
THUMP!
The tattered metal partition of the tent was kicked open. "Commissar, we won!" a captain, who had just been withdrawn from the front line, shouted with excitement. Then he noticed the Inquisitor in front of the Commissar.
The captain, as if a bucket of absolute-zero cold water had been poured over him, his eyes instantly cleared. He quickly and awkwardly pulled out a report and covered his face.
"..."
And the Commissar, this Commissar who was celebrating the survival of his lads, didn't even dare to look at the captain. He just silently looked at the series of reports in his hand and twitched the corner of his mouth.
The countless regulations within, and the Inquisitor standing before him, combined into an undeniable command.
You have been conscripted.
(End of Chapter)