Chapter 141: Make Them All Repent! |
While countless warships engaged in a chaotic melee at the galactic edge...
In this small-scale battlefield near the Optus Main World, the wreckage of Dark Eldar vessels drifted through the void, serving as a silent testament to Zabriel's masterful naval warfare skills.
However, the current victory did not allow him to relax in the slightest. Instead, it only deepened the furrow in his brow.
"Kai, we need to retreat!"
he shouted into the communicator.
A crackle of static spilled from the device's speaker, followed by a light, breezy voice cutting through the noise.
"What about those mortals?"
Zabriel's mouth twitched, a flash of impatience crossing his eyes. Taking a deep breath to suppress his rising irritation, he responded in a low voice.
"The Imperium dispatched two Gloriana-class battleships. I do not think it is our turn to worry about the lives of these mortals right now."
This relic cruiser, named the Silent Vow, was the exact key to their escape from the Warp.
It was also the resources aboard this vessel that allowed them, after leaving the Warp, to rally a group of Dark Angels who had boarded alongside the Lion and subsequently scattered across the galaxy following the destruction of Caliban.
"Oh, is it Lord Lion? Does he intend to personally execute the progeny who sullied his honor?"
The voice over the communicator suddenly rose in pitch, carrying a hint of surprise and mockery.
Zabriel could clearly hear the sound of the other party's footsteps pausing, as if the man were standing somewhere, looking up at the void, waiting for something.
"I think not."
'If the Lion were actually here, why the hell would we be running!'
Zabriel's reply was brief and composed, his tone filled with certainty. As a veteran who had fought and survived the Rangdan Xenocides, he was all too familiar with the insignia of the Imperial fleet.
"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 care much more about those Iron Warriors."
That voice regained its previous breeziness, accompanied once again by the faint sound of armored boots scraping against dirt and sand.
"I think our goals align. They want to deal with traitors, and we also want to deal with 'traitors.'"
"Kai, do not complicate things!"
A trace of exasperation seeped into Zabriel's voice.
Those Fallen Angels down below were indeed part of Luther's faction, but now was absolutely not the time to worry about that.
His instincts kept screaming at him that something was wrong. They could no longer stay in this star system.
This intuition had been forged through countless life-and-death struggles against xenos, and it had never been wrong.
Zabriel instinctively raised his head, his gaze sweeping over his comrades like a hawk.
These were all members of the Lion's faction, gradually gathered over a long journey. The vast majority were familiar faces, yet even so, there was no true trust between them.
Everyone had their own little cliques. Zabriel could understand this; after all, he had his own.
However, right now, some of them were actually missing from their posts.
'Did someone go rogue again?'
A suspicion flashing through his mind, Zabriel sighed with a headache and pressed his fingers against his temples.
This Kai was already giving him enough of a headache. Had the few of them not pulled this relic cruiser out of a space hulk together back in the day, he would have thrown Kai overboard long ago.
Thus, he patiently advised.
"We must leave first. Even facing the loyalists is far too dangerous."
Although the gradual gathering of the Lion's Pride allowed him to slightly recover a sense of the past, they no longer had a Legion. That profound lack of security, the constant need to fret over their own survival, was truly difficult to adapt to.
It felt as though an extra, disjointed piece had suddenly been added to his original life.
And to survive, they had no choice but to adjust.
Zabriel gave a meaningful glance, and several Dark Angels from his own order silently left the bridge.
Following them, a few more figures hidden in the shadows departed one by one.
"This is not complicating things!"
In the face of his comrade's persuasion, Kai suddenly raised his voice.
"It is they who betrayed the Imperium and betrayed the Lion! They caused His Highness to go missing and shamed the Legion, forcing us to bear this disgrace for the rest of our lives."
"This is for the Legion, and for His Highness's reputation."
The voice on the other end of the comms seethed with killing intent.
"I am going to make them repent!"
Faced with Kai's impulsiveness, Zabriel's expression remained neutral.
He had no intention of trying to persuade him further. Dark Angels were all like this anyway. Were the Progeny of the Green Lion not also relentlessly hunting them down?
Zabriel did not enjoy murdering people to cover up secrets, but for the sake of the Legion's honor, he accepted such methods.
"The warship will remain hidden. Make it quick."
He frowned, looking back at the empty stations.
'Why have they not returned yet?'
Zabriel ended the call, reaching out to grip the hilt of his power sword before raising his plasma pistol.
The armaments were quite new and showed no signs of corruption.
These were discovered in the relic cruiser's armory, all ancient items from the Great Crusade era, which greatly facilitated their rearmament.
Something was distinctly wrong.
Dark Angels never truly possessed what others would call rules or morals.
Or rather, because the Legion's original composition drew from various factions on Terra, their understanding of rules and morality was remarkably diverse.
But this did not mean they would abandon their posts or shirk their responsibilities.
Such individuals could simply not survive among the Dark Angels.
Zabriel warily scanned his surroundings. Inside his helmet, a retinal projection indicated that his transmitted cipher had received no response.
Several living, breathing Adeptus Astartes had simply vanished.
Whoosh!
Without any warning, a suddenly materialized figure displaced the air on the bridge, thrusting forward with a black sword that blended seamlessly into the room's dim lighting.
Squelch!
Zabriel's astonishing combat experience allowed him to dodge the strike, inadvertently letting some poor bastard next to him take the hit and lose all mobility.
There were disparities even among the Fallen. Not everyone was part of the elite guard that accompanied the Lion; many members had been in other sectors eliminating traitors when Caliban collapsed.
He instinctively drew his blade. Its disruption field crackled, faintly illuminating the black figure.
Arthur ignored the warrior who had dodged his initial assault. Moving like the wind, he casually severed the power cables hanging from the ceiling.
Fast. Unfathomably fast.
In a split second, hiding his weapon behind his shield, he merely ducked, twisted his waist—
And thrust.
The strike, its trajectory entirely untrackable by the naked eye, pierced through the ceramite armor, precisely destroying the target's heart and secondary organs, forcing the Space Marine into a state of suspended animation.
He aimed almost exclusively at the Fallen Angels' lethal points, striking them down within two moves and expertly controlling the trauma to trigger their induced coma.
A few scattered counterattacks flew his way, but they were effortlessly deflected as he continuously adjusted the angle of his shield.
He did not even need to use the ranged weapon kept concealed behind the shield.
Zabriel's expression immediately grew grave.
He swiftly stepped forward, attempting to insert himself into the fray from the enemy's blind spot.
But Arthur's footwork remained flawless. His methodical, lightning-fast thrusts showed no signs of slowing. When another warrior closed in, he contorted his body with origami-like fluidity, bringing the heavy pommel of his power sword down in a precise, crushing blow against the man's cervical spine.
Clang!
The ceramite armor caved in under the tremendous force.
Before the victim could even hit the deck, the deflected blade had already slipped into the gap above a flanking Fallen Angel's collarbone, thrusting downward to punch straight through his heart.
'What order does this monster belong to?'
This was undoubtedly a master swordsman. Zabriel had sparred with Kai—a Knight Commander who constantly boasted of rivaling Corswain, and in truth, was not far off—yet even Kai's martial prowess was not this exquisite.
This was a sheer disparity in their absolute skill ceilings.
Deciding he could not just sit and wait for death, Zabriel raised his pistol. Suddenly, a tight grip seized his ankle.
A severed cable from behind had somehow snared his leg. Even though his rapid reflexes engaged his mag-boots, clamping firmly to the deck to prevent him from being dragged down, the sudden, immense pull still caused him to stumble.
Thanks to this unexpected interruption, the knight's fist slammed heavily into his ribs—a blow forceful enough to cause a two-second cardiac arrest, yet deliberately angled to avoid being instantly fatal.
Zabriel collapsed limply, signaling the end of the brief conflict.
Arthur stowed his weapons and dragged the Fallen Angels into a single pile. He quickly assessed their vital signs, performed rudimentary organ triage, and then injected each with a potent sedative needle while manually engaging the physical locks on their armor joints.
Having finished all this, he stepped up to the command console and used the warship's communication system to transmit a message to the Dawnlight.
[Warship sweep complete. Thunderforged units may be deployed to take control.]
Without the Eldar's electronic suppression, the communication issues plaguing them were naturally resolved.
Afterward, he silently accessed the bridge's databanks and began reviewing the logs.
The ship's bridge returned to a state of absolute tranquility.
——
In stark contrast to the pin-drop silence aboard the Silent Vow, things over on the Dark Steel were in full swing.
The Chaos Traitors had descended into madness to defend their honor, while the Imperial Fists constantly thirsted to butcher their ancient rivals.
They collided in various corridors, greeting one another with a warm hail of bolter fire.
But—
Something was wrong!
In the distance, the outer-perimeter warriors implanted with Imperial Fists gene-seed fell one by one. The Iron Guard frowned as he watched those Sons of Dorn advancing behind storm shields.
Cataphractii Terminators, storm shields, and lethal weapons hidden behind their bulwarks. Such a highly organized, phalanx-style advance...
Familiar. It was far too familiar.
The last time he witnessed such a sight was on Terra.
The Iron Guard's gaze fell upon the vanguard of the Huscarls. As their eyes met across the battlefield, they instantly recognized each other.
The advancing formation began to steadily pick up speed.
The Iron Warriors' firepower surged in response!
'How is this possible!'
A terrified roar echoed within the Iron Guard's mind.
These bastards were all supposed to be dead. He had personally watched some of them get vaporized into ash by the Grand General Cannon.
Then what exactly was standing before them now?
The Iron Guard felt his entire worldview being challenged.
"The False Emperor... it must be the False Emperor's sorcery. I knew it, there is no difference between him and the Chaos Gods!"
He ordered his subordinates to intensify their suppressive fire while bellowing in manic denial, "Look at these things! They are the False Emperor's daemons! We were right! We were right all along!"
However...
His eyes caught sight of the Banners of Glory. They radiated a blinding brilliance, causing the Daemon Engines approaching the assault squad to wail in unison before being crushed into dust by the slow, unrelenting advance.
He saw the fervent, adoring gazes of the successors. The Elders charged at the forefront, reveling in the fulfillment of their sacred duties.
They were filled with honor. Their legends were sung by the next generation, and they were still remembered.
The juniors revered the Elders, and the Elders validated their juniors.
Jealousy. Raw, burning jealousy!
Why did they get to do what they loved, while he had to crawl through the filthiest, most wretched battlefields, only to be abandoned by his Primarch and dumped into the cesspit that was the Warp?
Due to the taint of Chaos, the vast majority of them could not even pass down their gene-seed!
What gave them the right to have it so good?!
The Iron Guard ground his teeth, continuously howling for the warriors under his command to pour on the firepower.
Kill!
A lunging step forward, a two-handed downward cleave, aimed straight at the man in front of him!
Squelch—
The web of incoming fire stuttered. Tearing through the ceiling to drop into their midst, Rann wrenched his axe blade free.
"Rann, you—"
Before the tackled Iron Guard could finish, another axe swing accurately split his skull.
"You have lived long enough."
Flinging the corpse down toward the formation below, the Executioners' Chaplain hoisted it onto their banner amidst the fervent stares of his brothers.
With their commander slain, the enemies at this defensive node naturally crumbled into disorganized chaos. Their sporadic counterattacks amounted to nothing against the combined, rolling advance of the Astartes.
BOOM!!!
Charged to its absolute limit, the super-combustion plasma fired, instantly silencing the artillery-filled corridor.
"Traitor!"
Wielding twin axes, Rann strode down the still-smoldering corridor. His power axes carved a massive X into the blast doors before a single kick shattered the steel barricade.
Whoosh—
An Executioner's Greatsword generated a gale of wind pressure as it swung toward Rann from point-blank range.
Rann easily side-stepped the strike, parried the Executioner's Sword aimed at his head, and then brought his axe down with brutal force.
These Chaos Traitors had made little progress. Perhaps due to the warped flow of time in the Immaterium, they had actually lacked opportunities to hone their skills.
As for their physical strength...
CLANG!
Returning a savage chop, the weapons collided with an eruption of fierce sparks. The sheer, overwhelming power forced the Master of Executions to stagger backward.
Primaris Space Marines were far more reliable than so-called Chaos boons.
"Who are you?"
The Master of Executions growled, his horned helmet feeding him visual data of the man standing before him.
Crack!
His feed severed, replaced instantly by an agonizing shriek tearing through his mind.
"What is it, Palty? Do you not recognize me?!"
A savage grin split Rann's face, forcing the Master of Executions into an instinctive, frenzied flurry of sword swings.
The loss of sight was not nearly enough to strip him of his combat power.
Power axe and Executioner's Sword clashed relentlessly, striking each other multiple times at a speed practically invisible to the mortal eye.
But Rann was equally blindingly fast. High-intensity sparring sessions with Arthur and the others had allowed him to swiftly reclaim his wartime instincts. He launched a forward kick, his iron-shod boot slamming directly into the crossguard of his foe's mid-swing blade.
Smack!
With a muffled crack, the tremendous force sent the weapon flying. Rann's frame, now far larger than it had been in the past, surged forward in pursuit.
"How dare you not recognize me? Have your eyes been eaten by daemons?"
His sharp axe bit deeply, scattering a gory mix of metal, blood, and bone fragments. Rann gritted his teeth.
Ten thousand years ago, he had demonstrated his honor in battle: before executing an Iron Warrior, he had helped the traitor to his feet so that the warrior would not have to die kneeling.
But looking at it now, that had been truly unnecessary.
"Who the hell are you!"
Hearing that familiar voice, the Master of Executions could not help but scream in terror.
Servo-motors whined as they forcibly tore away the armored plating that had fused with flesh and blood. Rann brought his axe down once more.
The world was incredibly clear to his senses. He still retained his humanity, still comprehended the universe with his own eyes, and could still judge right and wrong through his own moral compass.
Unlike this pathetic creature.
"I am Fafnir Rann."
He loomed over the traitor, raising his axe high.
Behind him stood the Huscarls and their proud successors, pouring steadily onto the bridge.
"Rann? Are you not dead? You died long before the Chapter you single-handedly founded!"
The Master of Executions shrieked.
Yes, his memories were finally awakening.
He remembered Rann fighting the Sons of Horus on Pluto.
He remembered the Executioner who, swallowed by the massive traitor assault forces led by Kroeger, Kharn, and Abaddon during the Siege of Terra, had stubbornly held the line until Sigismund arrived to reinforce him, slaughtering countless traitors and claiming Palty's very own eyes.
And now...
The figure from his nightmares had returned to claim his life!
"I bring you your fated execution."
Rann stared coldly down at the deformed wretch that barely resembled a man.
This execution was ten thousand years overdue.
Whoosh—
The axe fell.
Crunch—
A severed head hit the floor.
——
After the artillery fire reduced the Aeldari and Chaos fleets to ashes, Romulus stood at the command dais on the bridge, clutching a newly compiled data slate on the Grand General Cannon.
It was a sonic cannon, only functional on planets with an atmosphere.
However, its lethality was absolutely astonishing. By inducing localized particle vibrations, it could bypass void shields and the vast majority of deflector technologies, shattering all matter within its blast radius into single atoms.
A scene from the historical archives surfaced in Romulus's mind: during the Siege, Perturabo had used this exact weapon to blow several massive breaches in the walls of the Imperial Palace of Terra.
Had the Great Khan's guerrilla tactics not been so brilliantly executed, countless Adeptus Astartes would have perished there.
"Within three steps, there must be an antidote."
Romulus murmured with a sigh, the corners of his mouth turning up in a rare smile.
His fingers lightly tapped the edge of the data slate. His gaze shifted toward the Optus Main World outside the viewport. The fortress on this planet was their next target, and the acquisition of this Grand General Cannon was undoubtedly a timely gift.
'The Iron Warriors are truly good folks. Even in death, they drop great loot.'
However, activating this ancient weapon was no easy task. The Archmagos had rushed to the site immediately to study it, and Rameses had provided necessary intel, but determining a specific operational plan would still take time.
After all, this was relic technology from ten millennia ago. The term "general cannon" was merely a catch-all for this class of heavy artillery platforms.
The differences between individual models were even greater than the gap between a Gloriana-class and an Apocalypse-class battleship.
'Just enough time to squeeze in a discussion about the battle plan.'
Pondering for a moment, Romulus felt the timeframe was quite forgiving and filed the plan into his scheduling archives.
Following that, he reached out and pressed the comms button, contacting Arthur, who was executing his mission on the surface of Optus.
"Arthur, what is your status?"
Romulus picked up a cup of stimulating coffee and took a gentle sip.
This particular brew would be a lethal poison to regular mortals, but for an Astartes, it hit the spot perfectly.
"The situation is far from optimistic."
Arthur's deep voice transmitted through the channel, accompanied by the faint howling of wind and sand in the background.
On the surface of Optus, amidst the ruins of a colossal mining facility, Arthur stood perched on a broken metal support beam. He stared down from his vantage point, his gaze as frigid as a hunter waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Scattered haphazardly around his feet lay over a dozen Fallen Angels. Their power armor was covered in cracks, and they had been forced into suspended animation, kept barely alive by his masterful emergency surgery.
These were the vanguard units dispatched by both sides. A bloody skirmish had been imminent, only for Arthur to step in and preemptively dismantle them.
However, he knew full well that this was just a light drizzle before the storm.
The ensuing fallout was far beyond his capacity to handle alone—or rather, he could not properly resolve it while guaranteeing zero casualties among them.
"Send me some men. Both sides are loyal."
Arthur shared his visual feed.
Romulus looked on with genuine curiosity.
Across a battlefield stretching over a dozen kilometers, both factions were conducting their pre-combat mobilization.
"For Caliban, for Terra!"
On one side stood the Caliban loyalists native to Optus. Their armor was somewhat battered, their wargear heavily mismatched, as they bellowed war cries under the leadership of a knight.
"For the Lion, for Terra!"
On the other side was the Lion's faction, having arrived via the relic cruiser. Their armaments were far superior, and their leaders were clearly master combatants.
The warship had exclusively taken in those who had boarded alongside the Lion. Romulus had read Arthur's mission report; it was only natural there would be an abundance of strong men.
Finally, almost entirely in unison, both sides roared:
"Make them repent!"
Pfft—
Having just stepped off his dais for a short stroll, Romulus nearly choked and spat out his mouthful of coffee. Meeting the puzzled stares of Drakus and his Invincible Iron Guard, Romulus waved a hand with an irrepressible expression, gesturing that nothing was wrong.
Truly worthy of being Dark Angels.
Romulus downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp.
He then handed the empty mug to the immediately approaching Drakus. Without a second's hesitation, he used Arthur as an anchor point to materialize 260 fully armed Deathwing Terminators, preparing to handle the situation personally.
"Make them all repent!"