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Andrews died.
Died in a desperate harvest.
Died in a bloody snare.
——————
A pure black longsword sliced through the air, thick with gunpowder and blood, emitting a grating whoosh. Faintly, the metallic ring of the blade itself vibrated.
Firearms, defying the principles of technology, continuously spewed deadly tongues of flame. Hundreds of thousands of bullets formed an inescapable hunting net, letting life and soul burn fiercely under its bite.
Thousands of terrified boots ceaselessly pounded the ground, raising plumes of blood-flecked mud. Like a herd of wildebeest crossing a crocodile-infested river, they futilely met death amidst the crowding and hunting.
Corpses, everywhere were corpses.
The human defensive line had collapsed. The last line of defense, bristling with fortresses and bunkers, utterly disintegrated under the combined assault of the Randan army. Organized resistance met its end the moment the first Randan warrior charged into the trenches.
When the brutality of war finally invaded every person's chest, when the ominous tidings of defeat incessantly echoed in every mind, when the courage, temporarily ignited by anger and arrogance, was extinguished by splashing cold blood, most people finally remembered one thing.
They were far less fearless than they had thought.
Resistance ended, the battle ended. This miracle of two tens of thousands against millions, after an hour of fierce fighting and a minute of collapse, finally reached its destined end.
Everyone was crumbling, everyone was fleeing, everyone was dying. Even the most prestigious officers, shouting until their throats were hoarse, could not rally a single unit still capable of fighting. In fact, no one would. Those who were determined to defend their positions were the first to fall in every defensive line.
Blood, everywhere was blood.
The Randan army's eerie, dark energy flowed wantonly, roaring across every part of the battlefield. No one could stop their advance and slaughter. Thousands of tall, twisted warriors pushed and shoved each other, only hoping to be one step faster than their kin, to charge into the fleeing enemy ranks and unleash a massacre. They jostled, roared, and even brandished swords, blustering.
Without the [Overlord]'s oppressive presence, these most arrogant and reckless warriors were like hungry wolves fighting over food, regarding all heads and achievements as their personal prey.
They advanced, hunted, and pushed, their frenzied and disorderly assault finally crushing the small groups of last resistors. Before them lay the last stronghold of the human defenders, and a little further back, was that great bridge, worth all the blood.
Despair, everywhere was despair.
The commanding officer sat in his position. His tent was empty, save for the thick, lingering smoke from burning documents. He watched the, in truth, not-so-important scrolls burn fiercely in the fire, then looked at the desktop, where his sidearm lay.
He picked it up, taking one last look at what had once been his command post. An empty command post, now only scattered documents and maps on the floor.
The last unit had completely lost contact fifteen minutes ago. They were supposed to defend the final position in front of the command post. Now, he could even hear the footsteps of Randan soldiers.
The last staff officer had also been sent to the front line. Now, perhaps he was dead, or perhaps he was fleeing for his life.
Thinking this, his gaze swept past the window, seeing a soldier with an injured arm being swept along by the fleeing crowd. He seemed to have some impression of him.
He looked at the gun, and he thought of its origin. That was a long time ago, so long that he once thought he had forgotten it.
The Randan soldiers' footsteps grew closer. He loaded the bullets one by one, somewhat awkwardly practicing the shooting stance, then pointed it at the doorway.
His arm trembled.
His chest trembled too.
He suddenly realized that he didn't seem to have enough courage to do this.
How terrifying and brutal those Xenos were! How could he possibly fight them?
But fortunately, he seemed capable of doing something else.
When the Randan soldiers' footsteps sounded only a few meters away, he made up his mind.
He put the gun barrel in his mouth, aiming at his throat and brain.
"Bang—"
A gunshot echoed. Blood splattered, staining the map on the desk, soaking every inch of the land in crimson.
——————
The eighteenth.
Andrews tallied almost despairingly.
The eighteenth fatal wound.
But it was meaningless, and useless.
"Truly a magnificent opponent, you remind me of the most memorable... heads... skulls... blood..."
[Overlord Carmen] was bleeding, bleeding almost endlessly, a river of blood that would bring any warrior or hero to their knees. But for it, this seemed to have no effect whatsoever.
Endless blood flowed from those grotesque wounds. These enormous gashes and holes were the hard-won results of Andrews and his battle-brothers' desperate fight. According to their memory and reasoning, this was enough to ensure that no Randan Xenos could ever again pose a threat.
But now, memory was doubted, reasoning was overturned, simply because not a single drop of this flowing blood fell to the ground. It circled the [Overlord]'s scars, clinging to it, embracing it, like a blood-red, flowing armor.
And it all stemmed from the low whispers of this towering Xenos.
Skulls, blood, honor, combat.
Even in the fiercest death match, it chanted these words in a low voice, ceaselessly, illogically.
"Blood... come... let us bleed..."
As it spoke, its pupils were once again filled with bloodlust.
Andrews and his battle-brother exchanged glances. The two warriors, who had fought side-by-side since the Terran Unification Wars, split into two angles. They almost simultaneously charged at this increasingly troublesome opponent, yet maintained an almost imperceptible distance between them.
[Overlord Carmen] roared with laughter, long and mad. It dragged its blade, fearless, and crashed head-on into the two destructive whirlwinds.
Battle erupted. This was not a mortal's clash, nor a swordsman's duel, but the purest collision of power and storm. Three greatswords, charged with the lust for slaughter, wielded bloody hurricanes, mixed with enraged roars, wanton laughter, flying shrapnel, and the grinding sound of blades on armor.
"Yes, just like that! Slaughter! Massacre!"
It laughed, it raged. It used one blade to suppress two Death Angels, using blow after blow to shatter their helmets and send their sidearms flying to the farthest corners.
"Blades! Chainswords! Axes!"
Like a hungry jackal, it bared its teeth. Its arm, covered in old and new scars, wielded the increasingly sharp long blade. In a moment of Andrews' misstep, it left a horrifying wound on his flank.
But the Dark Angel paid no heed. He seized the opportunity, using all his strength to parry the Xenos' long blade, which was retreating, in mid-air. The two powerful warriors thus began a primal test of strength.
But this duel was not the Dark Angel's plan, for at the same moment, Andrews' battle-brother had already charged forward. Before the [Overlord] could react, the power sword in his hand mercilessly slashed down.
The sound of chopping and tearing shook the earth. A huge wound, capable of killing a warrior three times over, perfectly imbued with anger, strength, and cunning, completely split open on the [Overlord]'s chest. It was like a chasm valley plowed into a soft plain.
It's done.
Joy surged in Andrews' heart.
But this joy lasted only an instant.
For at the very moment this fatal blow was struck, something that defied all of Andrews' imagination vividly appeared before his eyes.
No blood spurted from the gaping wound. Instead, a row after row of snow-white fangs grew out of thin air. The fresh flesh on either side of the wound neither trembled nor shriveled, but continuously expanded, widened, extended with long noses and bones. In the blink of an eye, a gigantic hound's head appeared on the [Overlord]'s chest. It unhesitatingly stretched its neck and fiercely bit down on the Dark Angel's arm.
Seeing this, Andrews immediately disengaged the power from his sword, risking injury to end this test of strength. The next moment, his blade, like descending lightning, struck at the hound's head.
"Clang—"
Unlike the imagined cutting of flesh and blood, both the sound that reached Andrews' ears and the vibration transmitted through the longsword in his hand indicated that this bizarre beast was not made of flesh and blood.
And at this moment, the hound's head spun madly, violently tearing off the Dark Angel's arm, armor and all. Fragments of alloy and rivets flew in all directions. In their shadow was blood, gushing like a mountain spring.
Andrews no longer attempted to attack. He dragged his comrade to a safe distance, then carefully observed the opponent before him.
[Overlord Carmen]...
No, it was no longer [Overlord Carmen].
That massive hound's head had completely taken over its chest and abdomen, baring hundreds of incredibly sharp teeth, continuously drooling with a craving for blood.
And Carmen, the once great [Overlord], his head swayed from side to side on his shoulders like a fragile leaf. Compared to the monstrous hound that had usurped his body, he was so slender, so small. Only his blood-red eyes remained unchanged.
"Skulls... blood..."
It groaned, groaning for things it did not desire.
Then, it came.
Andrews stood up, gripping his sword.
Since Terra, he had served the great Emperor of Mankind for a century.
He had always known this day would come.
Now...
It was time.
——————
Everything was burning.
Everything was burning.
Whether it was the positions, the bridge, or Tigre...
Poor Tigre...
Latrobus staggered towards the entrance of the bridge. His thoughts were confused, distorted. One moment he thought of the current situation, the next he thought of Tigre, his only brother. Their last farewell was Tigre's look of concern before he was taken for treatment.
And then, he died.
They all died.
All of them.
As if stepping on something, he fell to the ground, no longer having the strength to get up.
But struggling, Latrobus still forced himself to raise his head, looking at the sky, looking into the distance.
Everything was burning.
From the wind, only endless laughter blew.
He gripped the gun in his hand, supporting himself to stand. He simply stood there, staring blankly at the war, staring blankly at everything burning before him.
He neither wanted to escape nor do anything else. He just stood there, watching countless trenches and bunkers completely disappear amidst the thick smoke.
All gone.
He stood there. Perhaps it was one minute, perhaps ten.
He held his gun, his only possession.
From the initial broken ditch, to being stripped of armor and abandoned by Randan, to hiding in the wilderness, and finally to this burning place.
He had lost everything.
He had nothing left.
He had done nothing, and he had nothing.
Only this gun.
But what... could a gun do?
For a moment, he couldn't figure out this question.
It wasn't until that tall, swaying figure slowly emerged from the thick fog, step by step, that he finally realized.
What kind of monster was that? It looked several meters tall. Beneath a hideous head, a gigantic hound's head continuously roared and barked savagely. And as it roared, the head above it also loudly shouted something.
From its waist hung a row after row of heads—human, Randan, and two blood-stained Dark Angel helmets.
Latrobus trembled, quaked. His sweat glands ceaselessly dripped moisture, constantly wetting his already filthy clothes. His teeth chattered, constantly clashing together. His right arm was in excruciating pain, as if insects were churning inside it.
But all of this, everything, was not an obstacle.
He gripped that gun with two hands.
He had nothing left.
He could do nothing.
Because of these damned Xenos!
Because of these damned wars!
He only had one thing left.
He could only do one thing.
Think, think carefully, what was that phrase Tigre said back then?
...for...for...
Finally, he remembered.
——————
"For The Emperor!"
He roared, he shouted, he charged.
This cannon fodder nobody cared about, this powerless mortal, thus launched the last, perhaps meaningless, yet perhaps profoundly significant, resistance in this war.
The last resistance.
"For The Emperor!"
He continued to roar, charging towards that invincible monster.
His roar was distorted by the wind, continuously shattering, continuously flying, finally merging into the rolling thick smoke and blood mist of the battlefield, and then was no more.
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