Bonus Chapter for 200 Powerstones.
--
In the center of the battlefield, the Tzeentch Cultist, having taken a direct hit from the Leman Russ Battle Tank, was still alive.
Zeke almost thought his kill had been stolen again.
If someone else killed it, the Minecraft loot wouldn't drop.
Zeke charged at the Tzeentch Cultist, who had only 14 HP left. The Genestealer Sword in his hand slashed toward the Cultist's slender neck.
Flames still crackled on the Cultist's body as it sensed the impending threat of death.
Its bird-like head turned toward Zeke. Several eyeballs burst with light, and an unintelligible phrase erupted from its beak.
The figure of the Tzeentch Cultist suddenly vanished, causing Zeke's sword to strike empty air.
Teleportation. This Tzeentch Cultist is a Psyker.
The Cultist's form re-materialized near a pile of rubble ten meters away. The flames on its body had been suppressed and extinguished by the teleportation.
It knelt on one knee, its feathers completely charred and curled, looking like a vulture in the most wretched state possible.
Zeke missed his strike but didn't stop moving. He twisted his body and sprinted forward again.
The Tzeentch Cultist's multiple eyes once again glowed with eerie blue light, and the space around its body began to distort and ripple.
Splat. Something cold and icy smashed into the Cultist's face.
The Cultist's body uncontrollably tipped backward. The slight knockback effect of the snowball perfectly interrupted its casting.
The Genestealer Sword in Zeke's hand plunged viciously into the Tzeentch Cultist's chest.
The blade tore through flesh. The bio-field attached to the Genestealer blade ripped through the Cultist's scales, feathers, and twisted chitinous structures.
This single strike made its already meager HP even worse, conveniently reducing its defense value from 11 to 4.
The Tzeentch Cultist let out a cry of horror, grabbing the blade piercing its chest with a claw to stop Zeke from twisting it further.
Its multiple eyes stared at Zeke's face from close range, pupils reflecting Zeke's image.
"Are you a Psyker? No, you are a Blank... no, that's not right either..."
"What exactly are you? A... block?"
The Tzeentch Cultist's voice trembled. As a Psyker, the Cultist possessed powerful perception abilities, able to see through the physical body to a person's Warp essence. (TL/N: In Warhammer 40,000 lore, a person's "Warp essence" refers to their soul, a psychic signature that exists simultaneously in the material universe and the Immaterium (the Warp). This essence is not just a spiritual component, but a tangible reflection of a being's emotions, subconscious, and willpower)
It had never seen such a bizarre Warp essence before.
"What's wrong with blocks?" Zeke exerted force with his hand, trying to pull the blade back. "Looking down on block people?"
Receiving no answer, the Cultist knew it was a matter of life and death. The instinct to survive overwhelmed all fear.
"Whatever you are, die here!"
Summoning its last reserves of strength, the Tzeentch Cultist opened its beak to an exaggerated angle.
Zeke raised his Adamantium Shield with his off-hand and shoved it directly into the Cultist's face.
"GAHH—"
A sonic shriek erupted from its gaping beak, slamming into the face of the shield.
The shield's surface vibrated, perfectly withstanding the sonic impact and reflecting a portion of the force back to its source.
The Tzeentch Cultist hadn't expected the attack to rebound in this manner. It fell into a daze, the light in its eyes scattering.
Zeke followed up instantly, taking a step forward and piercing the Tzeentch Cultist's bird head from top to bottom.
"I will not die..." the Tzeentch Cultist whispered weakly, filled with unwillingness and spite.
As its body slowly turned gray and decayed. Massive amounts of experience orbs poured from its body—ten, maybe dozens of times more than Zeke had seen before—instantly leveling him up several times.
So much XP?
"This is impossible... the souls..." The Tzeentch Cultist's words were drowned out by the experience.
In the end, only a couple of things resembling glass marbles dropped from its head.
[Ender Pearl] x 2
Zeke picked up the two deep, dark Ender Pearls.
Ender Pearls could be used for offense or defense, allowing for unexpected maneuvers in the hands of a skilled player.
They felt cold to the touch, and he could faintly sense the fluctuations contained within.
Out of habit, he checked JEI to see what they could craft.
Eye of Ender, Ender Chest...
Ender Chest. That was a good item. It allowed for long-distance transmission of items and information.
If Magnus had an Ender Chest back in the day, he wouldn't have blown up the Emperor's Webway with a single psychic phone call. (TL/N: Zeke is joking that if Magnus had access to a Minecraft Ender Chest, he could have simply written a note saying "Dad, Horus is a traitor" and put it in the chest. The Emperor could have opened his own chest on Terra, read the note, and the Webway would never have been destroyed. The "psychic phone call" (the astral projection) was a destructive, brute-force method that caused a catastrophe, whereas the Ender Chest would have been safe and efficient.)
Eye of Ender. That thing was used to find Strongholds. Who knew where it would lead him in the Warhammer universe? (TL/N: Strongholds house the End Portal to the End dimension)
Zeke put away the Ender Pearls and turned his gaze back to the battlefield, where the fighting was becoming increasingly intense.
Inside the Hall.
Creed sat behind a desk, his signature leather greatcoat draped over his shoulders.
A coarse cigar hung from his mouth. His gaze was fixed on the Bastion defense map on the table, his fingers unconsciously tapping a rhythm. Tap, tap.
Bang!
The office door was slammed open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud crash.
A figure stormed in like a whirlwind.
It was Color Sergeant Jarran Kell, Creed's personal aide, as well as his closest friend and old partner who had crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood with him.
In stark contrast to Creed's steadiness, Kell was a typical hot-blooded man: loud voice, fast movements, emotions always written on his face.
"Creed! Quick! You have to come out and see this!" Kell pointed outside the door.
"Allies! Our allies have broken through! They're here to support us!"
Creed bit down on his cigar, sending sparks flying.
He stood up from his chair, the two Hellpistols at his waist clanking against each other.
"Which unit? Which regiment?" Creed looked at Kell.
"Many! I saw the insignia of the 23rd Regiment, and the 111th... The one leading them is a sergeant named Victor. I heard them say they gathered on the outskirts of the Bastion..."
Kell tried to describe the incredible scene. "...and then dug a tunnel straight to the soles of our feet!"
"A tunnel?" Creed's brow furrowed tighter. Now wasn't the time to discuss logistics.
Creed made a judgment call and suppressed his doubts.
"If it's true as you say, and they've disrupted the traitor's encirclement, then now is the perfect time to counterattack."
"Let's go." Creed strode out of the office, his cape snapping behind him.
Just as he reached the door, a figure blocked his path.
It was a portly man with a big belly.
Worry was piled high on his face. "General Creed, what is the rush? What requires such exertion from you?"
Creed didn't stop walking, nor did he spare the fat man a second glance. He simply spat out a few concise words: "Support has arrived."
"Support?" The fat man shook his head like a rattle drum. "Support? Pardon my bluntness, but how can you be sure it is truly support?"
"What if this is a new trick by the traitors? Staging a rescue just to lure us out?"
This logic, full of holes, didn't cause even a ripple in Creed's gaze.
He walked straight past the fat man.
A trace of annoyance at being ignored welled up in the fat man.
Creed strode meteorically through the simple yet sturdy corridors, heading straight for the main hall.
--
Once again thank you for all the powerstones everyone has donated as we are currently around top 70, please continue donating so that we may reach top 50 this week.