Chapter 176: Cats and Dogs at Odds |
Whoosh—
The biting, freezing wind swept up ice crystals, letting out a piercing howl through the narrow alleyway.
Almost the very instant the Space Wolves charged into the shadows, the entire darkness began to writhe and twist like an awakening behemoth. The mottled rust on the walls gleamed with a bloody shimmer in the dim light.
Arum's nostrils flared slightly. Beneath his grizzled brows, his sharp eyes narrowed into slits.
"How many?"
he muttered, his rough fingers subconsciously stroking the haft of his Power Axe.
"About a hundred."
The Wolf Priest's voice sounded as if it had been squeezed from the very depths of his chest. With his every word, the frost gathered on his heavy pauldrons cascaded down.
That number caused every warrior's breath to hitch.
Each skull would be a precious Sacrifice offered to the Allfather, a supreme honor snatched right from the hands of their arrogant cousins.
"More than I expected."
Arum lowered his bearded chin. His thick wolf-pelt cape billowed wildly as they ran. He intentionally slowed his pace by half a step to allow the young warriors to keep up with his rhythm.
The howling wind was accompanied by the sound of rapid heartbeats.
The young Space Wolves subconsciously tensed their shoulders, their Adam's apples bobbing.
This was far more nerve-wracking than countless battles of the past, for it concerned their honor before their cousins.
"Hmm?"
The dull clang of metal echoed through the narrow corridor. The vibrations of power armor hammering against the bulkhead caused the very air to tremble. A passing Dark Angel abruptly halted, his gaze sweeping vigilantly beneath his helmet toward the source of the noise.
The corners of Arum's mouth twisted into a ferocious grin, beads of fresh blood clinging to his graying beard.
He completely ignored the enemy's attempt to raise a hand in a gesture of peace. The crimson battle-axe had already cleaved down with a rushing gale.
"Wolves."
Squelch!
The axe blade cleaved the enemy's upper body in two, tearing it apart with a savage twist of the wrist.
An un-overcharged plasma blast struck his chest, leaving nothing but a shallow gouge.
Arum immediately spun around and hacked down the ambushing foe. He then brought his iron boot down, crushing the compromised armor along with the skull inside.
"Kill!"
Awooo—
The resonant wolf howl echoed through the compartments, carrying far into the distance and sending an involuntary chill down the spines of all the Alpha Legionnaires.
"Hahaha, kill!"
Redmane's laughter exploded through the corridor like muffled thunder. His massive frame nimbly circled to the side of his Oath-Father, his bone-white fangs gleaming coldly in the dim light.
Several 'Dark Angels' had barely reached for the Bolters at their waists, their fingers not yet on the triggers, before several gray blurs lunged from the shadows. The Space Wolves' Lightning Claws were already tearing through the air.
As the Emperor's executioners, the Space Wolves possessed a unique olfactory memory branded into their very genetics.
Arum's nostrils flared slightly, accurately catching that faint, elusive scent of disguise amidst the metallic tang of blood. The signature camouflage of the Alpha Legion warriors was as conspicuous to them as a blazing torch in the dead of night.
Now that the prey's identity was confirmed, any hesitation would be blasphemy against the Allfather.
The Space Wolves wordlessly spread out, surging into the various compartments like a true wolf pack.
Redmane's Power Axe emitted a thirsty hum as it cleaved an enemy attempting to raise his gun cleanly in half at the waist.
In the adjacent compartment, a young Space Wolf pinned an enemy's chest beneath his knee, his Power Fist smashing again and again into the opponent's mangled helmet.
Faced with such a sudden assault, the organization of these 'Dark Angels' began to crumble. Some members abandoned their comrades and quietly retreated, their power boots making a sickeningly sticky sound in the pools of blood as they silently slipped back into the shadows.
Just like their Legion's tradition, the operatives of the Hydra always chose concealment over an honorable death when at a disadvantage.
"Yes, run just like that, until we hunt down every last one of you."
Redmane sneered as he swung his battle-axe. A flash of cold light, and the enemy before him was instantly severed in two.
He arched his back like a true Fenrisian wolf, deliberately slowing his pursuit to herd the routing Dark Angels with the heavy thud of his power armor.
Drip, drop.
Blood dripped from the axe blade. He twitched his nose, tracking the crimson footprints stamped onto the metal deck.
These fleeing curs would lead the Space Wolves right to more hidden prey.
But just then, his wolf ears sharply picked up a piercing whistle cutting through the air.
Screech—
He threw his head back. His astonishing vision allowed him to track the small grenade hurtling down the end of the corridor.
An Imperial standard grenade, commonly issued to Stormtroopers. Its yield varied wildly depending on the payload. Many Chaos Space Marines, overconfident in the powers granted by the Dark Gods, had fallen to these very weapons.
The Iron Priests ensured every Blood Claw was familiar with all the weapons they had encountered and taught them exactly how to counter them.
Memories flashed through his mind like lightning. That gravelly voice seemed to echo in his ears once more. Those weapon identification classes held in the monastery vaults now manifested as pure instinct.
Thus, his muscles reacted before his conscious mind could. His power armor's servo systems whined in sudden overdrive.
He charged right into the Bolter fire. His ceramite plating erupted in blinding sparks under the point-blank barrage. A Bolt Shell punched straight through his chest and abdomen, but Redmane used his forward momentum to savagely tackle two Alpharius legionnaires to the ground.
In the fleeting instant before detonation, his powerful waist snapped into action, rolling both himself and his two enemies toward the corner.
One of the Alpha Legionnaires had already plunged his Combat Knife into Redmane's gut, the blade scraping against reinforced bone with a teeth-setting screech.
Boom!
The grenade detonated mere inches away.
The shockwave blasted Redmane off his feet. Shattered ceramite shrapnel clattered like falling rain. As he struggled to stand, his vision was completely washed in bloody red, his ears ringing with the shrill blare of his power armor's damage alarms.
He raised a hand to wipe his face, his palm coming away slick with viscous gore—half of an enemy's mangled corpse was still snagged on his Power Pack.
Shing.
Redmane expressionlessly yanked out the Combat Knife wedged into his waist, letting his engineered muscle fibers constrict and stem the bleeding on their own as he continued to keep up with the pack.
A mere mortal wound might cause some Adeptus Astartes to bleed out and die, but for a Space Wolf, it was hardly considered a severe injury.
However, Redmane had grown far more cautious. He began to avoid close-quarters brawling, instead using his Bolter to provide fire support for his brothers, relying on precise bursts to tear open a path for the charging pack.
Seeking life from the jaws of death, yet retaining a core of reason amidst the madness.
"Not bad."
In the shadows, the Dark Angels observers stood perfectly still like statues. Their eye lenses gave off a faint glow, drinking in every single detail of the battlefield.
Kai tapped his fingertips lightly against his sword hilt, the metallic clinking exceptionally clear in the quiet accessway.
"After ten thousand years, not only have the sons of Russ managed to scrape up a shred of the etiquette and humanity they once cast aside, but they certainly haven't lost the savagery and cunning in their blood."
Kai remarked. His comrade beside him had long grown accustomed to the loose-lipped knight.
They had ten thousand ways to deal with these Wolf-Pups. After all, the vast disparity in numbers, combat experience, wargear, and intelligence-gathering was as clear as day.
Just look at the Hydra operatives, who also boasted Ten-thousand-year Veterans among their ranks—they had been caught entirely off guard by the Wolf-Pups, entirely due to an information gap.
Naturally, all of this was ultimately thanks to the masterful planning of the First Legion.
"Watch the battlefield. If any of the Space Wolves are about to buckle, we step in."
Zabriel warned in a low voice, before swiftly stepping into the fray himself.
In other compartments, any Space Wolves who were heavily wounded or losing ground in their duels suddenly received backup from the Dark Angels.
These battered Space Wolves would be preemptively hauled off to the banquet hall His Highness had prepared for them well in advance.
A humiliating defeat, their lives ultimately saved only through the intervention of the Dark Angels. They would be forced to stare at the smiling faces of their rivals and accept a party invitation with grimaces of utter shame, dragged to the banquet hall steeped in inner turmoil and reluctance.
Just watching it happen gave them a secret thrill.
Why hadn't they realized sooner that the Space Wolves could be easily manipulated with a soft touch rather than a hard fist?
Recalling Arthur's orders, Zabriel's admiration for His Highness deepened.
As the First Legion, cleaning up the messes left by these reckless juniors was their inherent duty.
It was just that in the past, they had always been dragged down into biting and brawling alongside them, nearly forgetting the dignity they were supposed to maintain.
His Highness truly understood. This was the method of civilized men.
A volkite blast sent an Alpha Legionnaire to his grave. A long needle slid from Zabriel's wrist gauntlet, and he immediately plunged it into the near-dead Space Wolf collapsed on the deck.
This was a curative serum Archmagos Cawl had developed alongside His Highness after acquiring sufficient samples. Once injected into the marrow, it rapidly promoted stem cell generation to mend ruptured organs.
The regenerative effects were absurdly potent. So long as the central nervous system wasn't permanently obliterated, it could drag almost anyone back from the brink—effectively acting as an external Belisarian Furnace.
The side effect was a severe reduction in lifespan. A single injection burned through nearly a century of a Firstborn Astartes' life, meaning Mortals could never use it. It also required a recovery period of about a week.
Two consecutive injections would just outright kill the patient.
Chuckling softly, Zabriel patted the Space Wolf on the shoulder, hauled him up over his pauldron, and headed toward the banquet hall.
You couldn't just work people to death without tossing them a lifeline.
—
The passageways rustled with the sounds of slaughter. The Space Wolves' signature Battle Cries echoed through almost the entire bridge.
Yet, even in the face of a continuous string of explosions, the Dark Angels quietly went about their duties, seemingly completely unbothered by the chaotic melee erupting across the ship.
"These arrogant fools!"
Concealed behind towering stacks of thick documents arranged in a C-shape around the desk—perfectly designed to capture outside acoustics—The Hydra couldn't help but curse under his breath.
It was a hunt without warning, yet the Dark Angels had clearly circulated internal preparations well in advance. The only ones caught in the trap were the Alpha Legionnaires.
Countless images flashed through The Hydra's mind.
The continuously flickering lumen strips, the subtle alterations in the inscribed runes, and the swearing-in ceremony that had taken place not long ago.
Countless elements had hinted at the sudden assault by the Space Wolves, but these newcomers had been completely oblivious.
The Hydra knew that the Dark Angels were aware of the Alpha Legion's infiltration. He also knew that the Dark Angels were playing them in reverse, using these embedded spies to their own ends.
The arrival of the Space Wolves only further cemented this.
The Dark Angels were methodically exterminating these unstable elements that had wormed their way into their ranks.
It wasn't that he hadn't tried to warn his so-called colleagues, urging them to study the ciphers and the esoteric communication methods of the Dark Angels.
It was well known that the Primarch of the Alpha Legion had always encouraged his progeny to 'think for themselves.' Because of this, these operatives—who trusted in their own judgment above all else—listened to their Captain's advice perfectly.
As if.
They 'knew clearly' their duties, 'understood' the Legion's secrets, and knew full well that this Captain of theirs was completely untrustworthy.
So, they relied entirely on their own capabilities to infiltrate the organization, refusing to heed the commands of a Chaos Traitor to avoid falling into whatever traps he might be spinning.
"They're all gone."
The Hydra felt slightly numb, though it wasn't out of any heartache for these Chaos Traitors.
The main issue was that scattered among those traitors were the informants he had cultivated. He had yet to uncover the secrets held by the dark masters they served. Now that the trail was dead, things were going to be difficult.
'Furthermore, staying on this ship is no longer an option. The crew composition is complicated enough, and now the Space Wolves have arrived.'
The convoluted makeup inherently splintered the Alpha Legion's strength. Aside from his own trusted inner circle, the rest had leaned towards going deep undercover across the various sub-factions. This sudden expansion was what had tipped off the Dark Angels to the anomaly, thus triggering this purge.
And from here on out, purges like this would never truly end.
Because the Dark Angels knew exactly how it worked: when you spot one group of Alpha Legionnaires, it means you're already surrounded by Alpha Legionnaires.
'Worthy of the First Legion.'
The Hydra stared down at the classified documents in his hands. They detailed the true identities of numerous members within the First-Returned Grand Company, along with their designated disposal protocols.
Some were allowed to remain, but the most egregious offenders—such as those attempting to infiltrate the Ironwing—had been quietly executed.
He had already penetrated the upper echelons. Gaining access to such high-level intelligence was proof that he had earned the trust of Zabriel, Lord of the Ironwing.
The Dark Angels generally despised pushing paper, vastly preferring a supervisory role. They were deliberately forcing the Alpha Legion to handle their administrative affairs for them.
The Hydra swiftly analyzed the Dark Angels' maneuvers, a rough blueprint already forming in his mind.
'I can exploit this.'
He had already conceived a way to unite more of the Alpha Legion. Exposure didn't matter. As long as he could funnel this batch of operatives into administrative roles, the Dark Angels would tolerate their presence.
The internal stability of the Wings of Dawn was rocky at best. The Dark Angels were constantly probing and challenging Romulus's authority, resentful that he had usurped the mantle of Grand Master.
The Alpha Legion was merely a pawn in their game.
'However, I caught onto this quite astutely, and set up my own board ahead of time.'
The Hydra couldn't help but feel grateful for his early arrival. He had successfully embedded himself in the high command long before the Dark Angels' internal squabbles had reached a boiling point.
The next step was establishing back-channel communications within the various Conclaves, and then setting up the foundation for the Apothecary network—a group apparently styling themselves as the 'Angels of Redemption.'
Slipping the classified documents—consisting entirely of fragmented backgrounds and mundane reports—back into the shadows, The Hydra began to draft his next course of action.
'All for the preservation of humanity.'
he thought to himself.
Rustle—
A passing Grand Master of the Conclave of the Five Points snatched up the approved documents and began to review them.
"Hmm."
After probing the operative's surface thoughts, he gave a satisfied nod.
—
Meanwhile.
A blood-drenched Redmane stared blankly at the scene unfolding before him.
The battle was over. It had ended in a flawless victory for the Space Wolves.
And yet here he was, standing in the middle of a bustling banquet hall.
Bronze pitchers shimmered with amber halos in the firelight, arranged in a serpentine line down the length of the long oak tables like a slumbering nine-headed python being devoured by the feast-goers.
Along the walls hung elk antler racks, bearing Horn Cups arranged perfectly by the heraldry of Fenris's modern Grand Companies. Crests depicting the Ravenous Maw were inlaid with raven obsidian, while those carved with the Sun-Eating Wolf featured fiery rubies.
And before every seated Space Wolf sat their own Company's goblet—the very chalices they had left behind at a completely different feast.
Every seat assigned to a blood-soaked warrior was piled high with a lavish spread. On silver-gilt platters rested the roasted heads of unknown leviathans, frozen berries stuffed into their eye sockets, their fangs still crusted with artificial frost, sitting beside goblets lined with honey wax.
Beneath the goblets, the silhouette of the Howling Wolf was boldly displayed.
The Champions of Fenris Grand Company.
The elite Grand Company led by Logan Grimnar himself.
Redmane twitched his nose.
The scent of burning wood wafting from the hearth instantly transported Redmane back to a memorable tavern outside his Blackwood tribe during his youth.
It hit every note perfectly. Everything had been prepared flawlessly, exhibiting an intimate knowledge of Fenrisian culture in every detail, while simultaneously brandishing the supreme confidence of the First Legion.
The Dark Angels stood tall among them, rigidly holding onto the internal etiquette of their respective conclaves as they conversed with the Space Wolves. Mortal servants weaved between them, presenting the angels with delicacies.
They had literally constructed a stage straight out of Fenris, simply to play the gracious hosts to the Space Wolves.
Crash.
Damn it, they'd been played!
Redmane roared internally as his gaze locked with the Dark Angel who had guided him here.
The mirth dancing in those eyes was utterly infuriating.
He might be impulsive, but he wasn't stupid!
Besides, how on earth would a victorious Space Wolf tamely follow someone else's footsteps?
He had been knocked flat on his ass and dragged here!
Everything had been under the watchful gaze of these secretive cousins. Even his honor, his battle spoils—they were nothing but alms tossed down by the Dark Angels!
Infuriating!
Redmane slammed eight Alpharius skulls onto the floor. The mortal thralls instantly scrambled to collect them, arranging them neatly at the feet of a suit of Cataphractii Terminator armor engraved with the name 'Uvam Redmane.'
Its decoration was extremely spartan, bearing only a simple coat of ice-blue paint, as if patiently waiting for its master to adorn it with symbols of glory.
Aside from the Terminator suit, there was a Mark X power armor set perfectly tailored for a Firstborn Astartes, alongside a complete array of wargear, notably including the Wolf-Pups' absolute favorites: a Power Axe and Lightning Claws.
"Hmph!"
The furious behemoth stomped over to the seat bearing his nameplate.
Pure, unadulterated provocation. Weren't they just showing off that insufferably flawless Dark Angel perfectionism?!
It was incredibly insulting!
But then again...
Redmane cast an eye over the scene around the tables.
His own Oath-Father was merrily drinking with the Lord named Zabriel. The Wolf Priest was in deep conversation with a Dark Angel completely swathed in robes.
Some Space Wolves were pulling back their tunics to show off freshly knit scars, loudly bragging about their exploits, while other Wolves sat there looking utterly mortified, sullenly nursing their drinks.
A familiar female soldier stepped up to his side, filling his goblet to the brim with ale.
Redmane pulled his gaze away. He casually grabbed a massive chunk of meat and took a ferocious, savage bite.
Damn, it was delicious.