Chapter 182: I Will Help You Survive |
Perhaps humanity had lost its courage.
Amidst the traumas left by history and the current reality of being surrounded by the Chaos Gods, humanity had already lost too much simply trying to survive.
Like a beast descending into madness, it tore at its enemies while simultaneously tearing at itself.
Its sharp claws dug deep into flesh and blood, unable to distinguish whether the crimson stains came from its foes or its own chest.
On a macro level, everything was done to protect the human race. On a micro level, individual mortals were enslaved until death. The rulers in their high towers looked down upon the ant-like masses, equally squeezing the life out of their own kind and everyone else.
Vast, decaying, and utterly devoid of hope.
The rusted gears kept turning, letting out ear-piercing groans, yet no one stopped to add a single drop of oil.
From saving lives to putting out fires, they had fallen into the dilemma of fighting purely for the sake of fighting, completely unaware of how many more moral bottom lines they would have to break.
Was a humanity like this still worth saving?
Whenever Karna traveled to various planets, leading the Imperial Cult and the Blood Angels to preach their doctrines and witnessing the grim reality of these worlds, he would often lock himself in the room specifically prepared for the Transmigrators.
His perfect smile would collapse in those moments, and his gentle, laid-back demeanor would gradually turn into irritable complaining.
He felt unwilling, furious, and profoundly sorrowful.
Even the warriors who had followed them to reclaim countless worlds, those brave souls who faced death without a shred of fear, dared not take that step forward alone.
This left him bewildered.
Fortunately, he still had like-minded companions, and their inherent power held the potential to reshape the world.
They could rely on the shared convictions passed between them, supporting one another to keep moving forward, striving to find a familiar sight and secure their own place in this dark universe.
The Transmigrators admired the loyalist Adeptus Astartes. They were valiant and fearless, having sacrificed far too much for the Imperium. They were merely warriors, and no one could possibly make even harsher demands of them.
They appreciated the Archmagos's strict adherence to his vows, Aglaia's attitude toward life, and the unwavering loyalty of the Sisters of Battle.
The environment within the Dawn Fleet also proved that humanity could do better and possessed the capacity to change for the better.
But in the end, this was brought about by the Transmigrators.
If not for the accident of their transmigration, their destinies would likely never have intertwined.
Karna often wondered in confusion whether the world would simply continue to rot without them. Even if countless heroes stepped up to fill the breaches, would they ultimately just drown in this ocean of decay?
Humanity no longer had the chance to pursue anything better; merely surviving took every ounce of their strength.
Yet now, a group of individuals who had independently found that path stood right before him.
It was the most heroic rebellion of idealism.
Blood-soaked Adeptus Astartes, heavily scarred Astra Militarum guardsmen, and mortals clad in rags.
Coagulated blood sketched mottled patterns across their bodies, like alternative medals bestowed upon them by war.
Someone would carry on. Someone would guide the rest to survival.
In a corner, a young boy lay curled up on the ground fast asleep, his filthy hands still tightly clutching the explosives against his chest.
His gaze fell upon them, resting on those brave souls who had returned to a peaceful slumber under Karna's Divine Protection.
The emergency lights swept across one exhausted face after another, casting intersecting silhouettes upon the desolate earth.
The light illuminated toes worn raw from forced marches, cheeks still involuntarily twitching from combat stimulant overdoses, and bodies riddled with scars from brutal warfare.
They had given it their absolute all.
They were the men and women who formed the very fabric of humanity.
In them, Karna saw valiant fearlessness and unwavering loyalty.
Most importantly, he saw the conviction overflowing in their hearts, that brilliant spark of humanity.
He clearly saw that humanity had never truly lost the things they cherished, and that hope fundamentally existed within this universe.
Even without the Transmigrators, there would still be people who chose to walk this path, even if it meant sacrificing their own lives.
Even in the deepest, darkest, and most toxic soil, pure white flowers would still bloom, breaking through the pitch-black walls along with the roots buried within.
It was just that this cruel world was like a vampire's lair; it could easily laugh and chat in the face of all kinds of filthy and cold darkness.
But the moment it encountered love and light, it would instantly writhe in agony and seek to destroy them.
The data screens on the command console flashed with crimson light, reflecting the densely packed enemy markers on the strategic map.
I absolutely cannot allow such a thing to happen.
"Hello. I am Karna."
Karna extended his hand, grasping Phoros's palm.
As long as I have a breath left in me, as long as my bones and muscles are still filled with strength, I will never let this light fade away.
His nearly perfect face bore an earnest and cherished glow, as if he were gazing upon the flickering candle of hope.
The firelight danced on his pale gold eyelashes, plating his features with a holy luminescence.
I will guide you to survival.
"Sanguinius's most outstanding children,"
The first rays of dawn pierced through the darkness, illuminating Phoros's faceplate. The roars of battle were fading into the distance, while the weeping of those who had narrowly escaped death grew increasingly clear.
A single glance felt like an eternity.
Time seemed to freeze in that moment, with only the shifting light source weaving the two of them together.
An angel bearing the jagged crimson tear insignia nervously gripped his weapon.
"My Lord,"
This single call carried far too many indescribable emotions, trembling faintly in the air.
Phoros felt his tear ducts quivering, his superhuman nerves transmitting signals that symbolized weakness to him in that very instant.
With just one look, the trauma of war, the crushing pressure brought on by their notoriously bad luck, and the self-loathing at his own powerlessness in the face of cruel reality all seemed to find a floodgate for release.
From the gaps in his damaged pauldron, a fresh trail of blood slid slowly down Phoros's arm, splattering into dark red marks on the bullet-riddled ground.
Someone understood them. Someone supported them.
In the distance, several wounded warriors struggled to straighten their spines, their bloodstained knuckles unconsciously brushing over the Oath etchings on their weapons.
This isolated and desperate army, walking a path almost completely devoid of allies, had finally welcomed their protector.
"Please give the order,"
Phoros's voice rasped through his damaged vocal grille, carrying the hoarse vibration characteristic of electronic augmetics.
Thus spoke the blood-drenched angel.
His bloodstained knuckles tightened slightly, the armored joints emitting a soft hydraulic hiss.
There were no pleasantries, no hysterical wailing. The comms channel was filled only with the rhythmic sound of breathing, steady and disciplined.
Because this was a battlefield, and they were warriors.
The war was never over.
The Lamenters could not afford to relax.
"Reinforcements have arrived, but countless mortals are still caught in the disaster,"
Karna said, his gaze shifting to the ruins behind him.
He turned slightly, causing shattered chunks of concrete to tumble from the edge of his cape with a faint clatter.
The roar of a transport craft's engines slowly faded in the distance, while down on the ground, a blood-caked hand reached out weakly from beneath the rubble.
Some had boarded the gunships to find a new lease on life, but many more were still struggling in despair.
"Now, prepare yourselves. Go to those lives that need you most. I imagine no one here has more experience in this than you do."
"Yes, My Lord."
An unprecedented sense of fulfillment suddenly swelled from the very depths of Phoros's heart.
Sweeping his gaze forward, the winged banner of the Angel unfurled quietly.
By the Archangel's side stood heavily armed warriors in immaculate military formation.
They were taller and even more elite. With just a brief exchange of looks, Phoros could sense their boiling blood and the Black Rage burning within them.
In the past, the curse that practically acted like chain-detonating explosives, cascading through his brothers' minds at the slightest trigger, was now crystal clear.
At the same time, his consciousness was flawlessly intact.
The curse that had plagued them for so long had simply vanished.
"Patch into the battlefield comms. Commander Romulus will provide you with support. After the battle, I would like to invite you to join the victory ceremony,"
Karna tapped his fingers lightly on a data-slate, generating a holographic projection that sketched out the blue nodes of the tactical network in the air.
His thinly veiled fondness for the Lamenters made the surrounding Sons of the Angels cast sidelong glances, harboring a touch of resentment and envy.
Several Flesh Tearers unconsciously shifted their stances, the master-crafted components of their armor clicking softly against one another.
The Seraph often instructed them, leading by example, but they themselves had always feared change, terrified of making a mistake.
Gabriel Seth looked down at his dust-covered gauntlets, his knuckles curling and uncurling unconsciously.
They believed they could never emulate the Seraph. Angels were supposed to be flawless and beautiful; how could they ever compare to a true angel?
But now they had witnessed it, a Battle-Brother who was exactly like them, standing so intimately close to the Seraph.
Phoros saluted, then led the mortals as they rushed toward the ruins.
He had no intention of fighting his brothers for the glory of victory. He had already received the exact order he desired most.
To save lives.
Sepatus, the Captain of the Crimson Paladins, watched Phoros's retreating figure, a subtle gleam lighting up his eyes.
He finally understood who should bear the duties of the Crimson Paladins within the First Sphere.
The Crimson Paladins represented the Primarch's protection. They were his Sanctum Guard, the shield of the sons of Sanguinius, the ultimate defenders.
"Sepatus, go with them. Lead your Paladins and lend them your aid,"
Karna added.
Sepatus nodded without hesitation.
Karna then turned around.
The Lamenters were role models. The Transmigrators didn't need to treat the Adeptus Astartes as a purely combative force, nor did they need to force a wedge between them and the mortals.
In the future, there would be many Astartes. Some would throw themselves into the battlefield, others would delve into administration, and some would dedicate themselves to research.
They were the absolute elite selected from the best of humanity, but they were also the beloved sons of their parents.
These warriors shouldn't be alienated from the mortals.
They, too, were human.
"Follow me, angels. Let us fulfill our duties to the utmost," Karna commanded.
He raised his spear high, the sharp lines of the tip radiating a scorching fiery light.
His gaze pierced through the observation port, locking onto the overwhelming Tyranid Swarm rolling back in like a tidal wave. Billions of carapace-clad organisms writhed across the terrain, creating an oppressive atmosphere that was practically suffocating.
Shadows of twisted exoskeletons and scythe-like claws reflected in the depths of his pupils, a solemn expression forming on his brow.
Things in this universe were never that simple. It couldn't be resolved with a one-size-fits-all approach by leaning purely to one extreme and playing blind, burying their heads in the sand like the Imperium so often did.
A simple military victory could not eradicate the Suffering clinging to humanity, yet merely preaching truth, goodness, and beauty wouldn't work either. Certain supernatural powers of destruction could easily flip a hand and completely halt the progress of society.
Both approaches had to be combined.
The Warp and reality.
Since it was already impossible to tear them apart, they would have to advance in tandem.
War.
Karna closed his eyes. The Transmigrators were all wide awake; they fully understood that every act of defiance against fate demanded even more bloodshed and sacrifice.
War could only reach its conclusion through sacrifice.
"Yes, Angel!"
Seth took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the lingering tang of rust and the acrid stench of plasma scorch marks in the air.
They were the wrath of the Angel, and they would annihilate anything that stood in their way in accordance with the Angel's will.
"...Come on."
Karna's face still wore a spirited smile, but hidden deep within his eyes was an exhaustion that only his closest companions could detect.
This bunch of Flesh Tearers lacked formal education and had never read a book. They were fine when it came to killing and butchery, but transforming a Chapter into a faction united by a core ideology was still a long and arduous road.
Fortunately, hope remained.
"Let us be the tip of the offensive spear."
He hoisted his spear, pointing the blade directly at the surging Tyranid Hive Fleet beyond the viewport.
The fiery light emitted from the spear tip washed over their faceplates like a brand sealing their Oath.
In that moment, every warrior's breathing synchronized, acting as a single entity driven by a singular will.
"We will not fail the blood of Sanguinius!"
——
Squelch!
The muffled thud of sharp blades tearing through chitinous armor was exceptionally crisp amid the smoke. The Tyranids were cleaved in twain, sending severed limbs and acidic ichor splattering in all directions.
The crimson Adeptus Astartes charged like an erupting stream of fire. The booming roar of explosive weaponry intertwined with the shrill whine of power weapons cutting through the air, composing a symphony of death. They forcibly carved a blazing path of utter destruction straight through the Tyranid Swarm.
He saw an intangible silhouette, seemingly a radiant angel. The figure was wreathed in a hazy golden halo, the shadow of its wings sweeping across the shattered streets.
'Is this a dream?'
Amidst the ruins, the young boy stared blankly at the illusion before him.
The Swarm was being butchered and torn apart. The excruciating Suffering that the Xenos had inflicted upon them was being paid back in kind.
Bolt shells blasted deformed skulls into fragments, while power swords cleaved bloated bodies in two. The flames of vengeance raged across every inch of the land.
His face flushed with excitement, but the motion pulled at the wound on his abdomen. The resulting blinding pain instantly yanked him out of the premonition.
'Am I... about to die?'
The vision dispersed, replaced by an increasingly blurry field of view. His lips, chapped from extreme blood loss, trembled, and the white mist of his breath dissipated rapidly in the freezing air.
The frigid reality was telling him that he was on the verge of death.
The boy's trembling fingers weakly clutched the gravel beside him, his fingernails packed tight with dirt and scabs of blood.
He desperately wanted to survive.
Relying on his prophecies, he had led his siblings to a prime location, but the usually infallible premonitions had heralded his own demise the very moment he was about to board the ship.
The memory was so painfully vivid: the flashing warning lights at the transport craft's hatch, the scorching waves of exhaust from its engines, and the distorted faces of the crowd desperately shoving their way up the boarding ramp.
A heavy plasma blast had locked right onto him, promising nothing but absolute destruction.
He had reached the front of the line so quickly. The boy clearly remembered that he only needed to take a single step to board the transport ship and seize his chance at survival.
But the prophecy had told him that he would die.
So, he had surrendered his chance, pushing the crying girl beside him up the boarding ramp. He decisively squeezed his way out of the frantic crowd, walking off alone to a secluded spot.
The very last sight in his field of vision was the blood-soaked figures of the Emperor's Angels fighting valiantly.
He wanted to live, but he also hoped that many more could survive.
'Levi and the others will remember me, right? Lady Aglaia will be proud of me, won't she?'
The boy thought with a shiver, his icy fingertips mindlessly digging into the crevices of the rubble beneath him.
Then, he remembered the vision in his mind, the figure bathed in golden light, seemingly reaching a hand out to him.
How he wished the illusion would come true.
He wanted to live. He had given up his only chance at life, but he still wanted to survive so incredibly badly.
Regret, magnanimity, pride, all sorts of complex emotions tangled tightly in his chest, piercing his heart like a cluster of thorny brambles.
Waiting for death in utter solitude was a terrifying experience for any living soul, and he was nothing more than a teenager who hadn't even reached sixteen.
He just felt that the sacrifices made by the Emperor's Angels had caused a rush of hot blood to go straight to his head.
"Hurry! There's someone else here."
Urgent voices echoed all around. Dozens of rescue team members sprinted through the ruins, activating the bio-scanner mode on their auspexes. Heavy combat boots crushed over gravel, and the beams of tactical flashlights crisscrossed through the dusty air.
"Over here. I found him."
The thermal imaging quickly locked onto a human figure, and the armed squad formed a fan shape as they approached to secure the perimeter.
Gravel was shoved aside and chunks of debris tumbled away, the rustling sounds remarkably distinct in the deathly silent ruins.
Breathing heavily, the boy gradually spotted indistinct dark silhouettes. He subconsciously swallowed his saliva, his throat so parched it felt like it had been rubbed raw by sandpaper, while the metallic taste of blood spread through his mouth.
Was it an illusion?
It turned out that death wasn't so scary after all... Would the Emperor's Angels really come to take him away?
A bright light outlined a distinct silhouette, revealing an increasingly clear, towering physique.
A small stone fell, bouncing off his exposed, cracked skin. The tiny flare of pain slightly roused his hazy consciousness.
"..."
The boy's body completely stiffened, every muscle trembling uncontrollably.
"Give me your hand, child."
A massive boulder was pushed aside, propping up a fractured pillar, and a blood-drenched angel reached out a hand.
"I will guide you to survival."