Chapter 140: Make Them All Repent!
While the countless warships brawled at the edge of the star system...
In the small-scale battlefield near the primary world of Optus, the wreckage of the Drukhari fleet floated in the void, a silent testament to Zabriel's exquisite naval skill. However, this victory did not bring him any relief. Instead, his brow furrowed even deeper.
"Cypher, we need to withdraw!" he shouted into the comms.
A faint static crackled from the vox-grille, and a lighthearted voice came through the noise, "What about the mortals?"
Zabriel's mouth twitched, a hint of impatience in his eyes. He took a deep breath, suppressed his frustration, and replied in a heavy voice, "The Imperium has sent two Gloriana-class battleships. I think it's no longer our place to worry about the lives of these mortals."
He slammed his finger on the control console. The ship's engines let out a low rumble and slowly moved towards the shadow-zone. This relic-cruiser, the Silent Vow, was their key to escaping the Warp. It was also the resources on this ship that had allowed them, after leaving the Warp, to gather a group of Dark Angels who had boarded with the Lion and had then been scattered across the galaxy with the destruction of Caliban.
"Oh, is it His Highness, Lion? Has he come personally to execute the sons who have sullied his honor?" the voice in the comms suddenly rose, a hint of surprise and teasing in its tone. Zabriel could clearly hear the sound of footsteps stopping, as if the person was standing somewhere, looking up at the void, waiting for something.
"I think not." If the Lion were really here, we'd be running for our lives!
Zabriel's reply was short and calm, his tone certain. As a veteran who had fought in the Rangdan Xenocides and survived, he was all too familiar with the insignia of the Imperial fleets. "One is Dorn's flagship. The other has obvious modification marks on its hull. I do not recognize it."
"The sons of Dorn. I imagine they will be more concerned with those Iron Warriors," the voice returned to its usual lightheartedness. The sound of light armor scraping against the sandy ground resumed. "I think our objectives are aligned. They need to deal with traitors, and we also need to deal with 'traitors'."
"Cypher, do not cause extra trouble!" Zabriel's voice was filled with a hint of helplessness.
Those Fallen Angels down there were indeed Luther's men, but now was not the time to worry about this. His instincts were constantly telling him that something was wrong. They could not stay in this star system any longer. This intuition had been honed in countless life-and-death struggles with xenos and had never been wrong.
Zabriel subconsciously raised his head, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over his comrades. These were all Lion-loyalists who had been gradually gathered over their long journey. Most of them were familiar faces, but even so, there was no real trust between them. Everyone had their own little clique. Zabriel could understand this; after all, he had his own.
However, now, some of them were not at their posts.
Someone has gone off on their own again?
A guess flashed through his mind. Zabriel sighed with a headache and pressed his fingers to his temples. This Cypher was already enough of a headache. If they hadn't dragged this relic-cruiser out of a space hulk together all those years ago, he would have thrown Cypher down to the surface long ago.
So he patiently tried to persuade him, "Let's leave first. Even facing the loyalists is too dangerous." Although the gradual gathering of the Lion's pride had given him a faint feeling of the past, they no longer had a Legion. That lack of security, that feeling of having to worry about your own survival, was truly unsettling. It was as if a piece had been suddenly added to their original lives. And they had to adapt to it to survive.
Zabriel gave a subtle look, and several Dark Angels from his own Order silently left the bridge. After them, several other figures hidden in the shadows also left one after another.
"This is not extra trouble!" Cypher's tone suddenly rose in the face of his comrade's persuasion. "It is they who betrayed the Imperium, who betrayed the Lion, who caused His Highness to disappear, who brought shame to the Legion, and have made us bear this shame for the rest of our lives!"
"This is for the honor of the Legion, and of His Highness," the voice on the other end of the comms was filled with killing intent. "I will make them repent!"
Zabriel's expression remained unchanged in the face of Cypher's impulse. He wasn't going to try and persuade him anymore. After all, all Dark Angels were like this. Those green-armored sons of the Lion were also constantly hunting them. Zabriel did not like to kill to cover up secrets, but for the honor of the Legion, he approved of such actions.
"The warship will remain hidden. Be quick." He frowned and looked back at the empty posts. Why haven't they returned yet?
Zabriel ended the communication, his hand gripping the hilt of his power sword. He then raised his plasma pistol. The wargear was new and showed no signs of corruption. They had found it in the armory of the relic-cruiser. It was all old stuff from the Great Crusade era, which had greatly facilitated their rearmament.
Something is definitely wrong.
The Dark Angels had never had so-called rules and morals. Or rather, because the Legion was originally composed of various groups from Terra, their understanding of rules and morals was quite diverse. But this did not mean they would abandon their posts, abandon their responsibility. Such a person could not survive among the Dark Angels.
Zabriel warily scanned his surroundings. Inside his helmet, the projection showed that the coded message he had sent had not been answered.
Several living men had just vanished.
WHOOSH—
Without any warning, a figure suddenly appeared, compressing the air on the bridge. A black sword, blending in with the color of the bridge, thrust forward.
SQUELCH!
Zabriel's astonishing combat experience allowed him to dodge the thrust, which just so happened to end the mobility of an unlucky soul at his side. There were differences among the Fallen Angels. Not all of them were the honor guard who could accompany the Lion. There were also many members who had been eliminating traitors in other areas when Caliban had collapsed.
He instinctively drew his blade, the disruption field crackling, faintly illuminating the black figure.
Arthur ignored the one who had dodged his first assault. His body, like the wind, moved forward, casually severing the cables on the ceiling.
Fast. Unbelievably fast.
In just a fraction of a second, his wargear hidden behind his shield, he just had to bend, twist his waist—and then thrust.
The thrust, whose point was impossible to follow with the naked eye, pierced through the ceramite defense, accurately destroying the heart and some other organs, causing him to fall into a state of suspended animation. He was aiming for the vital parts of the Fallen Angels, and almost always, he would take them down in two moves, and accurately control the wound to trigger suspended animation.
A few sporadic counter-attacks came at him, but were also directly blocked by the constantly adjusting shield. He hadn't even used the ranged weapon that was always hidden behind his shield.
Zabriel's expression immediately grew grim. He quickly strode forward, trying to insert himself into the battle from the enemy's rear.
But Arthur's steps were not亂 in the slightest. The rigid, swift thrusts showed no sign of slowing. When another man came forward, he unfolded his body like origami, the heavy pommel of his power sword accurately striking the spinous process of his cervical vertebrae.
CLANG!
The ceramite armor dented under the immense force. Before the victim could fall, the angled blade had already pierced the gap above the clavicle of a Fallen Angel to his side, directly piercing his heart.
What kind of monster from which Order is this?
This was undoubtedly a master swordsman. He had fought Cypher. That Knight Commander, who always boasted that he was comparable to Corswain, and in fact was not far off, his martial arts were not so exquisite. This was a difference in their upper limits.
Zabriel felt he could not sit idly by. He directly raised his gun, but his ankle was suddenly caught.
A pipe from behind had, at some point, tripped him. Even though his magnetic boots, in his quick reaction, had firmly attached themselves to the ground, preventing him from being brought down, he was still sent staggering by the sudden, immense force.
And in this unexpected interlude, the knight's fist had already slammed into his side—enough to cause his heart to stop for two seconds, but avoiding a more fatal angle.
Zabriel fell limply. The brief conflict was declared over.
Arthur put away his weapon, dragged these Fallen Angels together, quickly assessed their physical condition and performed organ repairs, then gave each of them a strong dose of tranquilizer, and also physically locked the joints of their armor.
After all this, he came to the control platform and used the warship's communication system to send a message to the Dawnlight.
[Warship cleared. You may dispatch a Stormcast unit to take it over.]
Without the Eldar's information suppression, the communication problem that had been plaguing them was naturally solved.
Then, he silently opened the bridge's recording system and began to look through the data. The bridge of this ship returned to its silence once more.
And compared to the silent Silent Vow, the Iron Darkness was a scene of fiery battle.
The Chaos traitors, in order to defend their reputation, had fallen into a frenzy. And the Imperial Fists were also thinking of nothing but slaying these old enemies. They met each other in the various corridors and then greeted each other with a warm welcome of bolter fire.
But—
Something's wrong!
In the distance, the outer warriors who used the Imperial Fists' seed were falling one by one. The Castellan frowned, looking at the sons of Dorn who were advancing with their storm shields.
Tartaros-pattern Terminators, storm shields, and the deadly weapons hidden behind the shields. Such a well-formed formation, advancing together.
So familiar. So very familiar.
The last time he had seen this scene was on Terra.
The Castellan's gaze fell on the Phalanx Warders at the head of the formation. When their eyes met, they instantly recognized each other.
The advancing formation began to gradually accelerate.
The Iron Warriors' firepower also increased further!
'How is this possible?!' the Castellan roared in his mind.
These guys should all be dead. He had personally witnessed some of them being turned to ash under the fire of the Ordinatus Majoris.
Then what was this in front of them?
The Castellan felt his worldview being challenged. "The False Emperor! It must be the False Emperor's witchcraft! I knew it! These Chaos Gods are no different!"
He ordered his men to increase their suppressive fire, and at the same time, he roared as if to vent, "Look at these people! They are the daemons of the False Emperor! We are right! We were right all along!"
But—
His gaze fell on the glorious banner. The banner radiated a dazzling light, causing the daemon engines that were approaching the assault squad to all let out a wail, and then they were crushed into gravel by the slow but steady rolling stone. He saw the eager gazes of the successors. The elders charged at the front. They were now enjoying the duty they were fulfilling. They were filled with honor, their stories sung by the younger generations, and there were still people who could remember them.
The younger generations looked up to the elders, and the elders also affirmed the younger generations.
Envy! Envy!
Why do you get to do what you like, while I have to crawl in the dirtiest, most rotten battlefields, and in the end be abandoned by my Primarch and fall into a cesspit like the Warp?
Because of the influence of Chaos, most of them couldn't even pass on their gene-seed!
Why do you deserve to live so well?!
The Castellan gritted his teeth, constantly howling for his warriors to increase their firepower.
Kill!
He stepped forward and charged, bringing his two-handed axe down, towards that person in front of him!
SQUELCH—
The fire-net paused. Rann, who had jumped down from the ceiling, withdrew his axe blade.
"Rann, you—"
Before the tackled Castellan could finish, another axe accurately struck his head.
"You have lived long enough."
Throwing this corpse into the military formation below, the Executioners' Chaplain, under the eager gazes of the crowd, hung it on the banner.
With the commander slain, the enemy at this defensive node naturally became a scattered mess. The sporadic counter-attacks could not create any waves in the face of the combined advance of the rolling stone.
BOOM!!!
The super-heated plasma, charged to its limit, was fired. The corridor, which had been filled with the roar of cannon fire, suddenly fell silent.
"Traitors!" Rann, holding his twin axes, crossed the still-hot corridor. The power axes carved a giant X on the iron door, and then he kicked the entire steel door open.
WHOOSH—
A great executioner's sword created a wind pressure, coming at Rann at almost point-blank range.
Rann easily dodged the blow and then parried the executioner's sword that was coming for his head, then slammed down with his axe with force.
These Chaos traitors had not improved. Perhaps because the time in the Warp was chaotic, they actually didn't have many opportunities to train themselves.
As for their physical strength...
CLANG!
He returned the cleave. The weapons sparked brightly as they collided. The surging power forced the Master of Executions to lean back.
The Primaris Space Marines were much more reliable than the so-called blessings of Chaos.
"Who are you?" the Master of Executions roared, the horns on his head transmitting an image of the person before him.
CRACK~
The vision shattered. All that followed was a wail that echoed in his mind.
"What, Perty? You don't recognize me?!" Rann's lips curled into a smile, which made the Master of Executions instinctively accelerate the swing of his blade. The loss of his vision was not enough to make him lose his combat effectiveness.
The power axes and the executioner's sword began to clash, colliding several times at a speed that was difficult to follow with the naked eye.
But Rann's speed was also extremely fast. The high-intensity duel practice with Arthur and the others had quickly brought him back to a state of war. He raised his foot and kicked, the iron boot stepping on the hilt of the sword that was halfway through its swing.
SMACK!
A muffled sound. The strong force sent it flying. Rann's body, much taller than in the past, chased after it. "How dare you not recognize me? Have your eyes been eaten by a daemon?"
The sharp axe came down, bringing with it a mixture of steel, blood, and bone. Rann gritted his teeth.
He had once shown his honor in battle ten thousand years ago: before executing an Iron Warrior, he had helped the other to his feet, so that the Iron Warrior would not have to die on his knees. But now, it seemed a bit superfluous.
"Who are you!" the Master of Executions, hearing that familiar voice, couldn't help but scream in horror.
The servo-motors whirred, forcibly tearing off the iron armor that had fused with his flesh. Rann slammed down with another axe.
The world was incredibly clear in his perception. He still had his own personality. He could still use his own eyes to perceive the world. He could still use his own sense of good and evil to judge right and wrong.
Not like this pathetic guy.
"I am Fafnir Rann," he stood before the traitor, raising his axe blade. Behind him, the Phalanx Warders and their proud successors were pouring into the bridge.
"Rann? You're not dead? You died long before the Chapter you founded!" the Master of Executions shouted.
Yes, his memory was awakened.
He remembered Rann, who had fought the sons of Horus on Pluto.
The Executioner who had been submerged in the massive traitor assault force led by Khârn, Abaddon, and the others during the Siege of Terra, and had still held on until Sigismund came to his aid, slaying countless traitors and taking his own two eyes.
And now.
The figure from his memory had come to take his life!
"I have brought you the execution that was fated for you," Rann stared coldly at this barely human thing.
This execution was ten thousand years late.
WHOOSH—
The axe blade fell.
CRACK—
The head fell to the ground.
After the cannon fire had turned the fleets of the Eldar and Chaos to ash, Romulus stood on the command platform of the bridge, holding a newly compiled data-file on the Ordinatus Majoris.
It was a sonic cannon, which could only be used on a planet with an atmosphere.
But its destructive power was extremely astonishing—by inducing a local particle vibration, it could ignore the defense of void shields and most other shield technologies, and vibrate all matter in the covered area into its constituent atoms.
A scene from the historical records appeared in Romulus's mind: Perturabo had used this weapon to blast several huge breaches in the walls of the Imperial Palace on Terra. If not for the Khan's excellent guerrilla tactics, countless Astartes would have died there.
"There's always a solution within three steps," Romulus muttered to himself, a rare smile on his lips. His fingers gently tapped on the edge of the data-slate, his gaze turning to the direction of the primary world of Optus. The fortress on this planet was their next target, and the appearance of this Ordinatus Majoris was undoubtedly a timely help.
The Iron Warriors were really good people. They even dropped a big package when they died.
However, activating this ancient weapon was not an easy task. The Archmagos had already rushed to the scene to conduct research, and Ramesses had also provided the necessary information, but it would still take time for a specific plan. After all, this was relic technology from ten thousand years ago, and "Ordinatus" was just a general term for this type of heavy artillery platform. The differences between them were even greater than the difference between a Gloriana-class and an Apocalypse-class battleship.
'Just enough time to discuss the battle plan.'
Romulus thought for a moment, feeling that the time was still ample, and entered this plan into his schedule.
He then pressed the button on the communicator and contacted Arthur, who was performing a mission on the surface of Optus.
"Arthur, what's the situation?" Romulus picked up a cup of refreshing coffee and took a light sip. This coffee was a deadly poison to ordinary people, but for an Astartes, it was just right.
"The situation is not optimistic," Arthur's low voice came through the communicator, the sound of the wind and sand howling faintly in the background.
On the surface of Optus, in the ruins of a giant mining facility, Arthur was standing on a broken metal beam, looking down. His gaze was cold, like a hunter waiting for an opportunity. At his feet lay more than a dozen Fallen Angels, their power armor covered in cracks, in a state of suspended animation, and had undergone exquisite surgical treatment to keep them alive.
This was the advance force sent by both sides. A bloody conflict was about to break out, but Arthur had resolved it a step ahead. However, he knew very well that this was just a single drop of rain before the storm.
The subsequent events had already exceeded his ability to handle alone—or rather, he could not properly resolve all of this while ensuring the survival of everyone.
"Give me some men. Both sides are loyal," Arthur shared his vision.
Romulus looked on with curiosity.
On a battlefield separated by more than ten kilometers, both sides were conducting a pre-battle mobilization.
"For Caliban! For Terra!"
One side was the local Calibanite faction of Optus. Their armor was slightly worn, and their equipment was not even complete. They were roaring their battle-cry under the lead of a Knight.
"For the Lion! For Terra!"
One side was the Lion-loyalist faction that had arrived with the relic-cruiser. Their wargear was much more exquisite, and the few leading them were clearly masters. The ship had only taken in those who had boarded with the Lion. He had also read Arthur's mission report. It was normal for there to be many tough guys.
Finally, almost simultaneously, they shouted, "Make them repent!"
PFFT—
Romulus, who had just stepped down to take a stroll, almost couldn't hold back the coffee in his mouth. Under the confused gazes of Drakus and the other Invictarus Suzerains, he waved his hand with a strained expression, indicating that nothing had happened.
As expected of the Dark Angels.
Romulus drank the coffee in one gulp.
He then handed the cup to Drakus, who had immediately come forward, and then unhesitatingly generated 260 fully armed Deathwing Terminators with Arthur as the anchor, preparing to handle it himself.
"Make them all repent!"