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"The great river..."
Sergeant Latobis murmured softly. He first rubbed his clothes, which were filled with pebbles and sand, then clapped his hands, took out a can, pried it open, and without caring about the coldness of the food inside, began to eat heartily. He didn't rush to chew, but first slowly ground the mouthfuls of food with his tongue,
then swallowed them little by little. His tongue occasionally brushed over the gaps between his teeth, traces left by past experience: those bastards in logistics wouldn't hand out good stuff until the crucial moment, and finding some "teeth-shattering" little surprise in a can was perfectly normal.
The sergeant turned his head and spat out something like a white pebble. He tried hard not to think about what it was. Only after confirming there was nothing else did he begin to chew, painstakingly extracting the flavors of root vegetables and artificial seasoning from the bland food.
"Don't you want some, Lieutenant?"
"You haven't eaten anything in a long time."
With his mouth full of mush, Latobis mumbled indistinctly. He turned to look at Tigre, but found that the lieutenant merely shook his head, focusing on caressing the scar on his chest. A tightly guarded pocket should have been there,
containing Tigre's family letter, his connection to the past. Latobis said nothing more. He opened a can, placed it beside Tigre, then opened another for himself, stuffing as much food as possible into his mouth. At this moment, his heart felt an unprecedented lightness.
Yes, light, at ease. Since yesterday evening, after their defensive position was breached, Latobis and Tigre had been fleeing across the desert like headless chickens. They dared not take the slightly flatter main roads, only daring to trek through treacherous mountains and rivers.
The two cannon fodder fled almost ceaselessly, day and night. They relied on the sensation of the stars and wind to barely discern direction, confusedly consuming their last food and water, hiding together in the shadows of huge rocks to rest, or avoiding the searches of Ran-Dan aircraft patrolling the sky.
Finally, after about fifteen Terra standard hours, just as Latobis was considering whether to throw away his rifle to reduce weight, they saw the great river and the great bridge. The sergeant almost forgot what happened next. He vaguely remembered them roaring like mad savages,
running towards the position, then being pinned down in the sand by panicked defenders. Then came countless people, countless pupils, countless mouths, appearing, flickering, and speaking one after another around him, making his already hazy mind even dizzier.
By the time he came to his senses, he was already sitting in a room. Opposite him sat the highest commanding officer of the bridge's defenses. Latobis even saw a tall warrior standing in the shadows of the room. My God, it's a Death Angel.
This was the first time he had been so close to them. The commanding officer asked many questions tirelessly, such as his name, number, affiliated unit, and experiences over the past twenty-four Terra standard hours. Latobis could answer some, but for the rest, he could only shake his head numbly.
But he remembered that when he stated his affiliated unit and position, the commander's face showed uncontrollable surprise. "High Ground No. 42 was breached by the enemy around five o'clock yesterday evening..." He heard the commander mutter. "Not a single person from the 33rd Regiment stationed there made it out."
It wasn't until then that Latobis's hazy mind finally recalled that he was a member of that unit, stationed at that so-called high ground position. But this was no longer important. He recalled the scenes and images he had seen while fleeing, and was not surprised by the outcome that no one survived except for the two of them.
That Death Angel seemed to nod. Then, Latobis was sent out. He was given a few cans and several strips of ammunition. Led by a soldier, he made his way through winding paths to a new trench, where he found Tigre already waiting for him, the lieutenant's arms also full of cans and ammunition. Thereafter,
they became the stars of the trench. From officers to non-commissioned officers to soldiers, everyone wanted to see these two [veterans] who had clashed with the Ran-Dan army. They gathered in groups, chattering and discussing news they knew, heard, or even guessed. Amidst their arguments and stories, Latobis vaguely realized what had happened.
The Ran-Dan's attack probably began around noon yesterday. Before their position suffered, countless fortresses and front lines had already been brutally flattened. This slaughter and invasion continued until midnight before pausing slightly. By then, more than half of the world had been seized by these aliens. Some said over five hundred thousand people were killed by the Ran-Dan in yesterday's battle,
others said eight hundred thousand, and some even swore that they might be the last organized army in the entire world, and the Ran-Dan had already killed over two million people. The last claim was clearly nonsense. Latobis knew well that the so-called 23rd Regiment of Kronos only had a little over a million men in total, and besides their unlucky defending units, there wasn't even a single civilian in this world.
But another topic quickly took center stage in the discussion: the soldiers of the communications squad reported that they had heard from other regiments that at least several hundred Death Angels had set out in groups yesterday evening.
Some said they had fought a fierce battle with the Ran-Dan army in the largest valley on Sabis IV, reportedly winning, but others said they lost. In any case, it was certain that when they returned, the number of Death Angels had significantly decreased, and the Ran-Dan's offensive had maintained an eerie slowdown throughout the latter half of the night and early morning, never launching new attacks.
But some troublemakers sang a different tune: perhaps those Death Angels had suffered a crushing defeat, all captured and eaten alive by the Ran-Dan aliens. Then he was dragged away by two military police officers. Frightened by this, most people lost their desire to gossip further. Latobis could finally get some good rest. He slept for a few hours, then was awakened around three in the afternoon by a fierce hunger. He stiffly sat up, began to eat and load ammunition.
Everything was essentially the same as before, but Latobis felt a sense of peace, a peace constructed by safety and comfort. He knew this was false, a deception of self-perception. He knew that in places he couldn't see, the Ran-Dan army was rampaging, perhaps about to arrive here, making him repeat yesterday's events.
But when he saw the numerous soldiers beside him, when he leaned against the thick earthen rampart, he still felt at ease: he preferred to think of nothing, to not think of the unavoidable battles, the terror of the Ran-Dan, but simply to immerse himself in this brief, wonderful tranquility.
This feeling was truly addictive. Latobis even wanted to laugh. In fact, he felt a certain most humble joy. And this joy lasted only a few seconds. Because when he looked up again, he saw strange aircraft appearing at the end of his vision.
[Slaughter...]
No, a duel.
[Massacre...]
No, no...
[Anger...]
It should be honor, a dignified battle and death!
[Ah, honor...]
Carman rubbed his head. He felt somewhat uncomfortable, not physically, but mentally.
[Honor...]
[Duel...]
The voice seemed to have found a knack; it began whispering things that Carman could not deny. The [Overlord] grimaced, his head bowed, listening to the aide's report: vanguard, aircraft, artillery positions, and the deployment of scientific units. But he paid no mind. His mind and chest were tormented by incessant whispers, constantly craving to wield the sharp blade in his hand. For a moment, he couldn't even suppress this craving.
[Swing the blade...]
[Just swing the blade, let the blood flow.]
For a moment, whether it was the chattering aide beside him, or the foolish ones boasting their pathetic military strength ahead... Anyone could be killed. He could kill them, kill all living things, from warriors to slaves, even his own kin... It didn't matter. Raise the blade, let the blood flow...
No, no, no!
It shouldn't be like this!
[Carman, my child.]
A new voice intruded violently. It was [the Manipulator], realizing from the distant Battle Moon that his most cherished creation seemed to have some problem.
[What's wrong with you? Your mind is very unstable. I see some ominous things around your consciousness.]
The [Overlord] narrowed his eyes.
"No, Father, I'm fine."
[Are you sure?]
"Yes, I'm fine. I've regained control of my body and will, just like before."
Carman's tone was urgent. He knew well that if he truly admitted the truth, his foster father would definitely take him back to the rear of the war. What a joke!
[You'd better be fine, my child. I don't have the energy to scrutinize your words right now.]
The [Warmaster]'s voice carried fatigue. Even for a sorcerous monster like him, controlling so many individuals was still an arduous feat.
[Did you hear whispers? My child.]
[Answer truthfully, do not deceive me.]
"I did... but not anymore."
The whispers still echoed in Carman's ear.
[...Alright.]
He heard a sigh.
[Beware of those whispers, my child. They are the most terrifying things in the galaxy... The rulers of our race once believed they could form alliances and friendships with those gods in the void, but I have seen their final forms.]
[If something feels wrong, come back immediately.]
[Do not deceive me, do not deceive your father.]
[My Carman...] He wanted to say more, but his voice was growing fainter. Carman just stood there, quietly waiting for the voice to completely disappear.
"I understand." He said, then continued to listen to the whispers in his ear. He had learned not to dislike them.
[Honor...]
[Duel...]
[Blood...]
He didn't dislike these words.
"Prepare to attack." The [Overlord] gave the order. And as his legion prepared for the roar of war, the [Overlord] simply quietly stroked his left arm: there was a row of neat scars, seven of them. Each time a great battle, one that filled him with satisfaction and joy, occurred, he would mark one. He hoped the eighth would come soon.
[If you count me, that's eight people. The winning rate will naturally be higher.]
[Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?]
Morgan smiled, her sweat beads reflecting sparkling light on her forehead and cheeks. Her damp hair clung to her temples and neck, like a shy willow tree. The Dark Angel just looked at her, not answering.
"Stay here and wait for us to return." He said, then walked out, leaving only Morgan examining the room full of anti-psyker devices: all these things combined, perhaps they really could make an alpha-level psyker as fragile as a mortal. But they didn't affect Morgan's thoughts at all.
She could feel the Ran-Dan army swarming like hungry locusts. And they would face twenty thousand defenders stationed in sturdy fortresses, and eight Dark Angels from Terra: each of them more dangerous than the twenty thousand mortals combined. On the other side, she felt four small, familiar presences, trekking with extreme difficulty in the strong winds. It seemed they still needed some time to arrive.
Morgan touched her chin, beginning to wonder if she should casually intervene to ensure that her currently most beloved characters were not absent from this grand play. As she was thinking this, she suddenly felt a strange aura. It was a scream of extreme danger and tension, constantly warning her, demanding retreat and surrender. And her instincts roared at something, a roar of fear, not anger.
She narrowed her eyes, looking closely, and in the ocean of souls, she saw a crimson mist: it had no purpose or thought, as if it was merely attracted by the aura of war and destruction swirling over the bridge, continuously pouring out from the cracks between reality and void, emitting a laughter like a bull, or a large hound, as if a most brutal king was laughing loudly at the bloody carnage in the arena. She could even see the mist slowly approaching her, swirling and boasting around her like an arrogant snake.
Morgan's face was cold. She tentatively extended a psychic tentacle that could be severed at any time, reaching towards this crimson mist.
Then...
Then they disdainfully bypassed her.
...
Damn it.
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