Chapter 140: Iron Decays, Stone Endures! |
"Iron decays, stone endures!"
A massive roar erupted from the mouth of the daemonhost, echoing across the bridge of the Dark Steel battle barge.
Whether by coincidence or design, this battle cry broadcasted through the vox-caster system, reaching all the way down to the lowest decks. Even the void rats that survived by gnawing on flesh and blood scraps shivered at the war-filled roar.
"Shut your damn mouth!"
The Iron Warrior adjutant's voice exploded across the bridge like a thunderclap. His fist, wrapped in violent force, ruthlessly smashed into the still-screaming daemonhost.
With a sickening crunch, the daemonhost's head shattered instantly. Black blood and rotting flesh splattered outward, landing on the adjutant's Terminator Armor with a sizzling hiss as it ate away parts of the paint.
Ever since engaging the False Emperor's forces, the behavior of these daemonhosts had grown increasingly bizarre. They had become unbearably sluggish, spreading false intelligence like a plague, their reactions unbelievably delayed.
And now... now it was even worse.
"Iron decays, stone endures!"
Anger. Absolute fury.
Countless emotions, enough to plunge a normal mortal into the worship of the Blood God, rampaged through his mind.
He could even sense the enslaved daemons within the Daemon Engines letting out low snickers, the engine furnaces roaring in joyful resonance.
"The False Emperor's lapdogs are playing with their wicked spells again."
Beside the adjutant, the Iron Master of Executions stared coldly at the mangled daemonhost.
His gaze swept the surroundings through his ocular lenses. Those eyes, long corrupted by demonic power, gleamed with a scarlet light. His armor was covered in ancient battle scars, every scratch telling a tale of endless slaughter and betrayal.
"Maintain your restraint, adjutant."
The Master of Executions spoke slowly, his voice carrying an undeniable authority.
"I would not want Idriss to return and find his adjutant missing."
The adjutant's breathing was heavy, his chest heaving violently, but he ultimately nodded and slowly unspooled his fists.
Seeing this, the Master of Executions gave him a slight nod before standing motionless like a statue.
Although they had accepted the power bestowed by the Chaos Gods, the Iron Warriors firmly believed that this power was nothing more than a tool to use against the False Emperor.
The Master of Executions allowed the presence of Chaos Space Marines who had accepted demonic gifts within their ranks, and he did not hesitate to use the power of the Warp. However, they absolutely refused to tolerate any member who was seduced by daemons and lost their mind.
A daemon dwelled within his eyes, allowing him to pierce through the souls of his enemies, glimpsing the lies and corruption hidden within.
"Iron Within, Iron Without!"
The adjutant growled, his voice thick with suppressed rage.
"Yes, we are iron."
The daemonhost, its upper half completely obliterated, had not truly died. Its lower body continued to writhe, thrashing its slimy intestines about as the ruined windpipes expanded and contracted, emitting broken sounds as if attempting to finish its farcical play.
"I have no fear, I have no emotions, I have no loyalty, I have no honor, and no Primarch... Ah, Iron Warriors, you feel inferior to the Iron Circle automatons..."
Squelch!
"Enough!"
The adjutant roared, reaching out to grab the damned mangled corpse and hurl it into the void of outer space.
But someone beat him to it.
The Master of Executions stepped forward, his strides heavy and powerful, each step causing the bridge deck to tremble slightly. His eyes, long transformed into small horns from demonic possession, stared fixedly at this manipulated puppet through his lenses.
Then, he raised his boot and stomped down hard.
With a nauseating crunch, the daemonhost's remains were utterly pulverized, reduced to a puddle of gore fused with the bridge's decking. Black blood sluggishly oozed outwards, releasing a pungent stench of decay.
The Master of Executions withdrew his foot and cast a cold glance at the wreckage beneath him.
He turned around and hoisted a mortal serf up by the head.
"How long until the enemy boards us?"
The skull compressed under the immense pressure, the bones emitting agonizing creaks as they threatened to give way.
A deafening pop echoed inside the serf's eardrums, and then his world plunged into silence.
"My Lord..."
The mortal serf's voice was faint and trembling. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin to drip onto the floor. His bulging eyes, swelling from the sudden spike in cranial pressure, were filled with terror and despair, yet he still struggled to maintain a final shred of reverence.
"I do not know."
He managed to answer, his voice almost drowned out by the bloody froth in his throat.
He could not even see an observation port. How could he possibly know the enemy's movements?
Following Lord Perturabo's traditions, Iron Warrior vessels sealed off all viewing ports. One could only glimpse the outside void through an auspex or highly specialized observation windows.
"Lies."
The Master of Executions' voice was bone-chilling, sounding as though it echoed from the abyss.
His hand clamped shut. Accompanied by the crisp snap of shattering bone, the serf's head exploded instantly, splattering blood and brain matter to stain his armor crimson.
Thud.
The serf's headless corpse collapsed limply to the deck, making a dull sound.
Several other serfs quickly rushed forward, expertly dragging the body away as if such a sight was a daily routine.
The Master of Executions flicked his gauntlet, flinging off the clinging shreds of gore. His movements were calm and merciless, as though he had merely crushed an insignificant insect. He strode toward his battle-brother, the joints of his armor emitting a low hum.
"How long until the enemy boards us?"
He asked.
"Four minutes and thirty-two seconds."
The Iron Warrior responded with absolute precision, his tone devoid of any fluctuation. His eyes remained locked onto the auspex data, fingers sliding rapidly across the control console as he calculated the enemy's distance and velocity.
The Master of Executions nodded in satisfaction. His gaze swept over everyone on the bridge, the tips of his horns flickering with a pale blue light, as if piercing through to their very souls.
"Are the enemies the Imperial Fists?"
He continued to inquire.
"Black Templars, Crimson Fists, Executioners."
The Iron Warrior replied.
"The descendants of Sigismund, Polux, and Rann."
The corners of the Master of Executions' mouth curled upward into a mocking sneer. Those former rivals had long since turned to dust. His opponents changed generation after generation, yet he still stood tall.
His eyes swept across the enemy fleet projections displayed on the auspex, before he growled,
"Ram them."
His voice carried unquestionable resolve.
"Those are two Gloriana-class battleships, backed by an endless stream of escort fleets."
The Iron Warrior responded calmly, offering a subtle warning.
Even during the Great Crusade era, such a sight was exceptionally rare, and they were no longer the Iron Warriors of the Great Crusade era.
Lord Perturabo had abandoned nearly all the Iron Warriors. His only companions now were the newly appointed and constantly changing members of The Trident, along with his scarce Primarch's Guard—the Iron Circle automatons.
Even Forrix, the former Warsmith of the First Grand Battalion and one of the original Trident members during the Great Crusade, had been discarded simply because Lord Perturabo found him displeasing.
Now he could only find refuge under a Chaos Lord, let alone anyone else.
Due to his extraordinary diplomatic skills, Idriss had barely managed to pull together a massive force of nearly three thousand men. They scoured the galaxy for the most precious materials, vainly attempting to win back their Primarch's favor.
However, even though their Iron Warriors warband was considered incredibly formidable among their peers, they were utterly insufficient to stand against such a gargantuan fleet.
According to the unspoken rules within the warband, they should immediately abandon their brothers on the planet's surface and retreat.
Because even under an Iron Warriors banner, very few planets possessed ship-building capabilities. The total annihilation of their fleet would spell the absolute doom of their warband.
As for their battle-brothers on the surface...
Best of luck to them.
If they could gather enough sacrifices in a short time to complete a ritual and rip open a warp portal, they might just have a chance at surviving.
"Ram them!"
The Master of Executions' voice exploded through the bridge like thunder. His eyes shone scarlet, burning with endless wrath. He slammed his fist heavily onto the console, instantly caving in the metal surface with a screeching hum.
If they chose to run from this battle today, they would never again be able to hold their heads high in the galaxy.
Naval warfare had never been the Iron Warriors' strong suit. Furthermore, the disparity in power between the two sides was so overwhelming that even if a Chosen of the Gods arrived in person, they would likely be unable to turn the tide.
If they wanted to use a small force to overcome a massive one, the only option was boarding actions—
Using the most savage, direct method to drag the fight into the enemy's own ship.
The Master of Executions felt incredibly lucid. He knew full well that if he retreated now, he would welcome true death—not merely the destruction of his flesh, but the utter collapse of his honor and dignity.
'Great, he's let it go to his head.'
Even after years of being corrupted by the Warp's influence, that unyielding, stubborn pride still flowed deep within the bones of an Iron Warrior.
The 'Iron Warrior' shrugged, a trace of helplessness washing over his face hidden beneath his helm.
He swiftly maneuvered the warship to adjust its position while silently preparing an escape shuttle for himself. His actions were calm and precise, as if he had long grown accustomed to such life-or-death situations.
There was no longer any need to remain undercover in this warband.
"Master Rameses's skills are truly profound."
Standing on the flagship's command deck, Romulus swept his gaze over the chaotic enemy formation and couldn't help but sigh in admiration. He knew exactly what had transpired aboard the hostile vessel and exactly what Rameses had done.
This tactic might be useless against eccentrics who cared nothing for honor, like the Carcharodons.
They never gave a damn about honor. The Outer Dark was filled with records of them fleeing from powerful enemies due to attrition. Even if you pointed at the Emperor's nose and cursed Him, they would simply go collect the Blood Tithe first, replenish their ranks to a full thousand, and then come back to settle the score.
But the Iron Warriors were clearly not among that lot.
One battle cry, followed by a few choice words, and they completely lost their minds to rage.
The fatal blow was Rameses using the Warp to broadcast the sound, ensuring that everyone—including the daemons—heard the provocation.
If the Iron Warriors simply cut and run without a fight today, or if they were effortlessly wiped out by the Sons of Dorn...
Then from this day forward, the Warp would likely be overflowing with the legend of "Iron decays, stone endures."
"Pull a battle group forward. Push up, intercept their battle barge, and initiate boarding actions."
Romulus relayed his orders to the fleet.
Casually dispatching an entire battle group spoke volumes of the sheer luxury of this crusade.
Compared to worrying about the political affairs of every planet along the way and fretting over the future of the Imperium, Romulus genuinely felt that waging war was a pleasure.
Exhilarating!
High Marshal Ledodes narrowed his eyes at the battle barge suddenly breaking formation and charging straight for the Eternal Crusader. A sharp glint flashed in his eyes.
He recognized the ship instantly—it was the very battle barge Romulus had specifically highlighted for boarding operations.
He immediately turned to look at Rameses, who had just teleported onto the bridge.
The Librarian had his eyes closed in deep concentration, as if listening to some distant echo.
Noticing Ledodes's burning gaze, Rameses slowly opened his eyes, residual psychic radiance glimmering within his golden irises.
"Bring the Eternal Crusader closer and fire the teleport homers. We are boarding them."
His voice was music to the ears of the Sons of Dorn.
Finally, his gaze landed on the military officers of the bridge.
Their hands were already trembling slightly, their faces pale. They were clearly the unlucky souls who had lost the internal dueling tournaments for deployment.
Missing out on a battle like this would be a massive loss.
A flash of pity crossed Rameses's eyes, and he quickly added, "Everyone who wishes to go may do so. I will handle the teleportation. I won't wait for anyone who dallies."
His tone carried a hint of lightness, as if discussing an upcoming festival. After all, even if they died, they were guaranteed the Golden Throne Entrapment One-Stop Service. Those who fought exceptionally well could even be marked, perhaps to be summoned back for another battle in the future.
Hm?
The 'bridge officers,' who had previously been hanging their heads in utter despair—looking as if their lives were over and ready to bid farewell to their Chapter to undertake an eternal crusade in Cadia—suddenly had their eyes light up, as if infused with fresh vitality.
The atmosphere on the bridge ignited instantly, like a blazing fire spreading through the air.
The banners held by the Chaplains billowed without any wind, the runes inscribed upon them shimmering with a brilliant golden light as if responding to the warriors' fighting spirit. The relics in the hands of the Champions also lit up, radiating a holy glow, cheering for the impending slaughter.
Everyone's eyes reflected their own names, a light that seemed to declare their honor and purpose.
Never mind whether they actually managed to kill anyone; what mattered was that they got to participate in the boarding action!
The surging battle lust was palpable with every breath. Having received his answer, Ledodes bellowed,
"Did you hear that, Captain? Bring us in close!"
They didn't even have to try!
Ledodes gripped the Black Sword in excitement. Now, he finally didn't have to worry about the headache of assigning personnel.
The enemy had made the first mistake. Once the teleport homers were deployed, everyone could go over, and from then on, it was every man for himself.
The High Marshal watched as an Armageddon-class battle cruiser broke formation from the fleet, leading a squadron to surgically cut off the Iron Warriors' reinforcements. Following that, two battle cruisers escorted the Eternal Crusader as it began its approach.
They were Avenger-class grand cruisers, exceptionally suited for close-quarters engagements. Under Archmagos Cawl's precise calculations, their sudden burst of firepower swiftly overloaded the battle barge's void shields before they focused fire on its rear thrusters.
The Iron Warriors had completely lost all sense. Hell-bent on closing the distance to the Eternal Crusader, they neglected even standard counterattacks, blindly plunging forward with single-minded obsession.
Naturally, an invaluable Gloriana-class vessel would never risk a direct collision with a mere battle barge. Its propulsion systems—considered advanced even during the Great Crusade era—executed a rapid evasive maneuver, dragging the twenty-kilometer-long Eternal Crusader out of harm's way like a nimble fish, narrowly missing the hostile ship barreling toward it.
The burning gazes of the Sons of Dorn were firmly locked onto the battle barge scraping past their port side.
This warship bore very little Chaos corruption. Compared to those Chaos vessels glowing with fleshy biomass, it displayed an unadorned metallic sheen, exactly matching the Iron Warriors' livery.
At the rear of the battle barge, the heavily damaged propulsion systems were struggling to push the bloated behemoth into a turn. Debris, continually breaking off from the vibrations and sheer lateral stress, left a trailing wake that glittered like fine stardust beneath the system's sun.
Archmagos Cawl's firepower coordination was unfailingly precise, and Romulus had also taken the liberty of retrofitting every vessel with automated autoloaders. The justification he used to convince everyone was that the Emperor's flagship, the Imperator Somnium, also used an automated reloading system—an argument that won unanimous approval from all the veterans.
After ten thousand years, for naval warfare to regress to manual reloading was simply absurd.
Aboard the Eternal Crusader, the Sons of Dorn were sharpening their blades. At the absolute forefront of their formation stood the Huscarls, wielding boarding shields and clad in Cataphractii Terminator Armor.
The quality of the Emperor's Thunderforged gifts was exceptional, all on the level of a Primarch's Guard.
These elders, who had always maintained a stoic demeanor while passing down their experience to the younger generation, now resembled an awakening volcano.
Their enemy was Idriss, who had participated in the Siege of Terra, while they were the Huscarls who had fought in the Defense of Terra.
"..."
Fafnir Rann, one of the commanders of the Huscarls and the First Chapter Master of the Executioners, tightened his grip on his twin axes.
To force their descendants ten millennia later to face enemies from ten millennia ago was a failure on their part.
But now—
Feeling the power surging through his frame—a strength far greater than what he possessed ten thousand years ago—Rann took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on Rameses as the Librarian prepared the teleportation ritual.
Fortunately, with the help of these honored lords, they were able to once again fulfill their unfinished duties.
The Imperial warships had consciously ceased their bombardment of the Dark Steel to prevent friendly fire.
"My Lord!"
Watching the two ships completely pass each other, Rann couldn't help but call out in urgency.
They were even more impatient than the younger warriors.
Ten thousand years ago, they let these bastards slip away. This time, there was absolutely no way they would let them escape.
"Very well."
Having first teleported a pile of rocks to the designated coordinates and confirming the precision of the drop zones, Rameses immediately began his true work.
An Eldar Farseer was personally instructing Rameses in a psychic technique capable of instantaneously projecting an entire legion into another sector.
Because Transmigrators did not have to worry about the malignant entities lurking within the Warp, they could employ certain techniques in a very blunt, unrefined manner.
"Right away."
Rameses calmly began repeating the spells, his psychic power, under the Farseer's guidance, warping reality with meticulous precision.
"I have done my best to select optimal drop zones for you. Stay vigilant, and follow Romulus's commands."
"Yes, Lord!"
A unified, fanatical roar answered him.
'Excellent. Such spirit.'
Rameses surveyed the Warp and activated the spell without a moment's hesitation.
——
"Hounds of Chaos! Traitors to humanity!"
Rann's voice exploded like thunder through the corridors of the Iron Warriors' warship. His axes gleamed with a cold light, every swing accompanied by the tearing of metal and the crunching of bone.
His movements were rapid and exact, much like a roaring tiger recklessly unleashing a savage lust for battle.
His axes bit through thick ceramite plating, cleaving enemy skulls before halving their bodies entirely.
Blood and brain matter splattered, dyeing his armor a brilliant red, but he paid it no heed. Rann's mind was preternaturally clear. He coolly received Romulus's tactical commands while swinging his axes once more to decapitate another Iron Warrior.
"I am Fafnir Rann, traitors."
His figure charged forward relentlessly, an avatar of war returning from ancient times.
"Come and embrace the death we should have granted you ten thousand years ago!"
Behind him, the warriors of the Executioners followed closely. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, striking like a pack of bloodthirsty hunters.
This spectacle could not help but make Ledodes feel a twinge of envy.
The Crimson Fists had Dantioch, the Executioners had Rann, but the Black Templars did not have Sigismund.
It wasn't that the other elders were lacking; the return of any elder was a vital and deeply cherished miracle to them.
It was just that missing that truly legendary figure left an undeniable trace of regret.
Speaking of which, where was Lord Arthur?
As Ledodes charged, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Usually, Arthur was never stingy about leading the vanguard alongside them.
But the rapid succession of orders from Romulus quickly forced him to stow that doubt. His eyes swept across the battlefield before he swiftly changed direction, advancing toward the cargo bays.
The elders needed to settle their ancient grudges, but the current generation needed to hunt for tangible victories.
As the Sons of Dorn dispersed into formation, that thunderous battle cry echoed through the entire warship once more.
"Iron decays, stone endures!"
Smash!
Shattering a vox-caster terminal with a single punch, the adjutant roared,
"I will tear off the mouths of these Sons of Dorn!"