The Strike Cruiser Iron Lord, a warship belonging to the Iron Warriors, was no longer the familiar home filled with mechanical roars and a sense of order that Perturabo's sons knew. Instead, it had transformed into a vast, dim, and perilous hunting ground and counter-hunting ground.
As Captain Marsos led the main force that had landed on the Craftworld in an emergency return via assault boats and drop pods, the situation within the ship, previously infiltrated and controlled by the Night Lords due to its depleted forces, instantly reversed. The Iron Warriors held an absolute numerical advantage, surging in like an angry torrent of steel from various landing hatches, rapidly taking over and consolidating key areas.
However, the invaders—the Night Lords, clad in deep blue armor adorned with bone and bat-wing reliefs—did not choose to directly confront this powerful force. Like true night bats, they knew how unwise it would be to engage the Iron Warriors' heavy units in a well-lit arena. Almost the moment Captain Marsos stepped onto the deck, all the Black Guard and their followers who had shown themselves vanished like phantoms into the shadows, disappearing once again into the intricate passages, ventilation shafts, and unmaintained lower decks.
Guerrilla warfare had begun.
Cold, poisoned bolter rounds would shoot from the shadows, precisely hitting the armor seams of isolated Iron Warriors; power claws would silently extend from overhead maintenance tunnels, tearing apart patrolling soldiers passing below; meticulously placed traps and booby traps awaited careless prey around corridor corners or behind airtight doors. The Night Lords, using their mastery of stealth and assassination, turned the vast interior of the Iron Lord into their home turf, slowly whittling down the Iron Warriors' numbers and morale with fear and surprise attacks. Each brief encounter was accompanied by the clash of steel, the whistle of bolter rounds, and dying curses, followed by a deeper silence, with only the scent of blood lingering in the circulating air.
In the ship's nerve center—the bridge—the situation was entirely different. It had been completely taken over by five Night Lords Black Guard, like the core of a fortress occupied by an alien hive. The bodies of the original bridge crew had been cleared to a corner, but the dried bloodstains on the deck and the clear bullet holes on the control panels still spoke of the brutal purge that had recently occurred.
Zo Sahaal, the leader of the Black Guard, stood in the center of the bridge, having replaced the command throne that originally belonged to Captain Marsos. He slowly raised his hand and removed his iconic helmet, adorned with a ferocious bat-wing motif.
Beneath the helmet was a pale face, covered in fine scars, yet still revealing the resolute contours of its former self. His eyes were deep, as if millennia of darkness and memories had settled within them. He surveyed the bridge, filled with alien (to him, the Iron Warriors' style was also alien) technology, his gaze seemingly piercing through the steel walls, returning to the distant past of the Eighth Legion.
He recalled the glorious years of the Great Crusade, the days of campaigning across the galaxy with Primarch Konrad Curze. In those times, the Night Lords were the Empire's most feared weapon, not relying on pure destruction, but employing extreme psychological terror tactics, turning fear into the most effective weapon, conquering world after world without shedding blood. They made the Empire's Aquila cast a chilling shadow across the night skies of countless planets.
However, ironically, history played a cruel joke. The worlds conquered by the Night Lords through terror, even after the Eighth Legion betrayed the Empire and embraced Chaos for millennia, mostly remained loyal to the Emperor of Terra. Was it because their fear was so extreme that no change could compare to the nightmare brought by the Night Lords? Or was it because they saw the true nature of Chaos, and found the Emperor's rule to be a form of benevolence instead? Sahaal did not wish to delve deeper; for him and the entire Legion, it was an unspeakable failure and humiliation.
Now, the Eighth Legion, the "Sons of the Night Bat," had long since fragmented for millennia. The vast Legion shattered into countless warbands, fighting independently and vying with each other, struggling for survival in the dark corners of the galaxy. How many still remembered the past glory of the Night Lords? How many still remembered the name of Konrad Curze?
A trace of unwillingness and obsession flickered in Sahaal's eyes. Koz had long lost interest in rebuilding the Legion, indulging in his dark prophecies and inner torment. But Sahaal was different; he still wanted to try, still wanted to grasp that slim hope.
He wanted to rebuild the Night Lords, to restore the glory of the Eighth Legion! Not as slaves of Chaos, but as... their own terrifying and powerful force!
This required resources, massive amounts of resources. He needed weapons and equipment, powerful warships as mobile bases and symbols of power, and, even more, precious gene-seed to perpetuate and expand the Legion's bloodline. For this, he spent a long time, using his reputation and the power of the Black Guard, carefully gathering and contacting those Night Lords warbands who still existed and still felt a sense of belonging to the Legion. The process was full of hardship and betrayal, but he eventually gathered a portion of warriors willing to follow him, including these elite Black Guard at his side.
The Iron Lord, this powerful Iron Warriors Strike Cruiser, was the next cornerstone of his ambition. Capturing it would not only secure a valuable warship but also strike a heavy blow against their old rivals, the Iron Warriors, greatly boosting the morale of his followers.
At this thought, the last trace of confusion in Sahaal's eyes vanished, replaced by cold determination. He slowly put the ferocious bat-wing helmet back on. With a soft click, the helmet sealed, and the fierce red eye lenses suddenly lit up, like two hellish flames in the dim bridge.
His low voice resonated through the mask, with a metallic rasp, echoing in the silent bridge, a declaration both to his subordinates and to his own ambition:
"This warship... we must have it."
Meanwhile, on the Eldar Craftworld below, in the area that had just endured a brutal siege, the surviving Eldar warriors cautiously surveyed the battlefield with expressions of disbelief.
"They... really retreated?" A nimble Striking Scorpion warrior withdrew his gaze from the distance, confirming with the Warlock beside him, his voice filled with doubt.
"Yes, monitoring shows all large landing craft have departed, returning to their warships," the Warlock replied affirmatively after a moment of sensing with closed eyes, her delicate brows slightly furrowed. "But they did not rout; the retreat was orderly. And... they took all the bodies of their fallen."
The Eldar warriors looked at the traces left on the battlefield—the destroyed Iron Warriors heavy units: crippled siege tanks, wrecked self-propelled artillery, and several Daemon Engines torn apart by psychic energy—the wreckage of these steel behemoths lay like cold gravestones, scattered across the cratered and spirit-bone-fragmented battlefield. The humans had taken the remains of their comrades but abandoned these expensive war machines, which did not align with the Iron Warriors' usual pragmatism.
In the distance, that terrifying construct of the Iron Warriors, known as the "Machine Hellbeast," still raged, driven by its lingering instincts and daemonic core, roaring and smashing wildly at the edge of the battlefield, destroying everything in sight, whether it be Eldar architectural debris or unfortunate casualties from both sides.
The departure of the Iron Warriors had left it uncontrolled, making it a perfect target for the Eldar warriors to vent their grief and anger.
"Concentrate fire! Purify that blasphemous construct!" The cold voice of the Phoenix Lord rang out, filled with extreme loathing for this twisted entity.
The surviving Wraith Constructs turned their massive psychic blades, the Warlocks began to channel destructive psychic lightning, and the Striking Scorpions and Howling Banshees charged out from behind cover, like purple whirlwinds, pouncing on the isolated Daemon Engine. The flames of vengeance first poured down upon this masterless steel monster.
Inside a heavily guarded compartment on the 'Iron Lord', Kolayne, the young Aeldari dancer, huddled in a cold metal corner, her small body still trembling slightly from fear.
After Captain Marsos brought her back to the battleship, she was handed over to two Iron Warriors, silent as iron towers, clad in heavy Tartaros-pattern Terminator armor.
"Protect her," was Captain Marsos's unquestionable command before he left.
He might not have given up on "civilizing" this xenos girl into some proof of worship for the Iron Lord, or perhaps she had other uses.
The two Tartaros Terminators stood like lifeless sculptures, flanking the hatch.
Their massive, spiky, and defiled rune-covered bodies exuded a suffocating pressure, and their helmet visors were pitch black, revealing no emotion.
They faithfully executed their Captain's orders, completely isolating Kolayne from the outside world and firmly imprisoning her in this mobile steel cage.
The battle outside, Sahaal's ambition, the Craftworld's breathing... none of it concerned her.
All she could do was wait for an unknown fate in this endless fear.
The Aeldari's massive mobile Craftworld, after confirming that the main Iron Warriors force had indeed withdrawn and returned to orbit, did not hesitate for a moment.
Its colossal wraithbone structure began to glow even brighter, and its complex propulsion arrays operated at unprecedented power, stirring the surrounding void energy.
Like a startled giant beast, the Craftworld, with an agility and speed far exceeding what its massive size suggested, swiftly departed the current star system, making a warp jump into the deep, unknown reaches of space, leaving only a gradually subsiding ripple of energy.
They fled so decisively, as if a second's delay would bring the terrifying human steel behemoths crashing down again, bringing utter destruction.
Meanwhile, in orbit, the battle inside the 'Iron Lord' had reached a fever pitch.
Not only were the boarding forces brought back by Captain Marsos engaged in brutal close-quarters combat with the Night Lords within the ship, but several other Iron Warriors frigates and destroyers in the vicinity also realized the grave crisis facing their flagship.
They dispatched their own warrior squads, forcibly boarding the ship via assault boats and boarding torpedoes, joining the ranks of those clearing out the invaders.
For a time, the sounds of gunfire, explosions, the hum of power weapons, and the roars of the dying echoed throughout the decks and compartments of the 'Iron Lord'.
Relying on their overwhelming numerical superiority and frontal assault, the Iron Warriors gradually squeezed the Night Lords' operational space, attempting to crush these rats hiding in the shadows.
Captain Marsos was concerned about control of the battleship and was unwilling to let the Aeldari Craftworld, which he had almost captured, escape.
He personally led a bodyguard squad of five of his most elite Indomitus-pattern Terminators, like an unyielding steel wedge, breaking through sporadic resistance and traps, and heading straight for the battleship's nerve center—the bridge.
Their heavy footsteps boomed in the empty corridors, and along the way, they saw only the brutally slain bodies of Iron Warriors crewmen and warriors.
Some had been precisely headshotted by snipers, others torn apart by claws, a gruesome sight that further ignited the rage in Marsos's heart.
Finally, they reached the bridge door.
The heavy armored door was covered in marks of cutting and blasting, clearly forced open by the Night Lords.
Marsos gestured, and a Terminator warrior stepped forward, using his power fist to forcibly tear open the twisted door.
The scene inside the bridge came into view—a deathly silence.
The normally busy control panels were empty, with only congealed blood and scattered personal belongings indicating a massacre had occurred here.
Outside the massive observation window was the deep starry sky and the blurry light of the retreating Aeldari Craftworld.
All control terminals were offline or locked, their screens pitch black.
"Damn bats!" Marsos roared, consumed by fury.
He strode towards the main command chair, attempting to restart the bridge systems to coordinate the ship-wide cleansing operation via internal comms, and then immediately order a pursuit of the fleeing Craftworld.
He would never tolerate his target slipping away after such a huge price had been paid!
However, just as his bionic fingers were about to touch the control panel—
"Boom boom boom boom boom—!"
Behind him, a Terminator warrior's shoulder-mounted assault cannon suddenly opened fire without warning!
A searing chain of bolter rounds swept like a metallic storm towards a shadowed corner of the bridge!
Almost simultaneously with the gunfire, a dark blue, ghostly figure shot out of the shadows at a speed far exceeding the bolter rounds!
He was so fast that he left only an afterimage on the retina, like a bat skimming the ground, instantly moving halfway around the circular passage on the bridge's periphery, skillfully avoiding the deadly barrage!
It was the Black Guard who had reported earlier!
His movement was incredibly fluid; the moment he evaded the hail of fire, he pushed off with his legs, his body accelerating abruptly like a compressed spring!
His power claw, covered in a disruption field and shimmering with an ominous glow, carved a deadly arc in the air, aiming directly for the leg joint of the firing Terminator warrior!
"Rip—!"
A harsh tearing sound erupted!
The disruption field easily tore through the Terminator's heavy leg armor, destroying the internal servo systems and structure!
The massive body of the Terminator warrior instantly lost balance, heavily falling to one knee.
But this was only the beginning!
The Black Guard, using the momentum of his charge, struck with his other power claw like a venomous snake, from bottom to top, with lightning speed, fiercely stabbing at the unprotected area beneath the kneeling Terminator's helmet—the connection between the gorget and the breastplate!
"Thwack—!"
Accompanied by a grating sound of tearing metal and shattering flesh, the power claw precisely pierced the relatively weaker connection point, even emerging directly from the top of the Terminator's helmet!
The Iron Warriors Terminator couldn't even let out a final scream; his massive body twitched violently once, then crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of dust, his blue armor quickly stained black by his own gushing blood.
All of this happened in a flash, from the first shot to the Terminator falling, no more than two or three seconds!
The Black Guard easily withdrew his power claw, casually shaking off the blood and brain matter clinging to its tip, letting out a contemptuous sneer.
He raised his head, and beneath the grotesque gas mask helmet, his red eye lenses, filled with undisguised defiance and disdain, stared directly at Captain Marsos, who had just turned around, his rage almost palpable, and he let out a soft snort.
"Bastard!"
"Kill him!"
The remaining four Terminator warriors, shocked and enraged, immediately raised their assault cannons, storm bolters, and power fists, their hot muzzles instantly locking onto the audacious Black Guard.
Just as battle was about to erupt, a deep, hoarse, echoing voice, as if from a dark abyss, slowly sounded in the empty bridge, carrying a calm sense of control:
"Captain of the Sons of Perturabo."
All movements froze.
Marsos and his Terminators sharply turned their heads, looking towards the source of the voice—from the shadows behind the main command chair on the bridge.
Zo Sahaal, leader of the Black Guard, emerged slowly, as if a physical manifestation condensed from darkness.
He still wore his terrifying bat-winged helmet, his red eye lenses glowing particularly brightly in the dim light.
He did not adopt a combat stance, merely stood there calmly, yet he exuded a heart-stopping sense of oppression.
His gaze passed over the muzzles pointed at him, falling directly on Marsos, and with his cold, vocoder-processed voice, he issued his final ultimatum:
"Leave this battleship."
His words were clear and slow, carrying an undeniable meaning.
"You, and your remaining warriors, will be spared the slaughter."
The air in the bridge seemed to solidify instantly.
The Iron Warriors warriors gripped their weapons tightly, their power systems emitting a low hum, awaiting their Captain's command.
Beneath Marsos's broken helmet, his gaze was fixed on Sahaal, his intact bionic hand clenched into a fist, making a 'creaking' sound of grinding metal.
To fight, or to retreat?
The decision, it seemed, rested on his shoulders at this moment.
Captain Rikao, Kelun, and Gochi, supporting the heavily wounded Gaius, retreated with difficulty along the path they had come. The roar of Bolters and the hissing of Genestealers pursued them relentlessly from behind, every step treading on the edge of life and death.
However, just as they passed through a relatively open, abandoned assembly area, the sound of intense gunfire and the unique, ominous roar of a Storm Bolter from their front-left caught their attention.
At the other end of the assembly area, Dorian's massive Saturnine Terminator body was charging wildly through the enemy horde, like an out-of-control war machine.
His movements were violent and chaotic; his Storm Bolter unleashed ammunition at a rate far exceeding normal, the gunshots dull and distorted, as if mixed with some non-human roar.
He completely ignored the deep claw marks and burning imprints left by the Purestrain Genestealers on his heavy armor, simply swinging his massive Power Fist, smashing approaching infected creatures into pulp one by one, their purple blood and shattered carapaces almost dyeing him a grotesque color.
A flicker of doubt crossed Captain Rikao's mind; Dorian's state was clearly not right, that berserk aura was vastly different from his usual reckless but tactical style.
But the situation was critical, leaving no time for him to investigate further.
"Dorian! Move!" Captain Rikao roared through his external vox-caster at the berserk figure, trying to awaken his reason.
Dorian spun his head sharply, the crimson glow of his optical lenses particularly piercing in the dim environment.
When he saw Captain Rikao, and Gaius, who was being supported by Gochi and clearly severely wounded, the insane fury that had sustained him seemed to be doused with cold water, and a trace of clarity struggled to return to his chaotic eyes.
He let out a low growl, no longer lingering in battle, and while sweeping his Storm Bolter at the pursuing enemies behind him, he moved his heavy steps to converge with Captain Rikao and the others.
The group converged, fighting and retreating, finally reaching a crucial exit from the lower level to the mid-level—a wide but steep, straight metal staircase, their planned escape route.
Once they ascended here, they could temporarily escape the densest encirclement of the lower level.
However, the moment Dorian stepped onto the platform at the bottom of the staircase, his massive body suddenly stiffened, as if something supporting him had been abruptly withdrawn.
The previous berserk strength receded like a tide, replaced by extreme weakness brought on by the eruption of his injuries and severe overexertion.
He let out a weak groan, and his Terminator armor, as if losing power, collapsed heavily to the ground, raising a cloud of dust, even his Storm Bolter slipping from his grasp with a heavy thud.
"Dorian!" the others exclaimed.
Just then, from the shadows above the staircase, four massive deep-blue figures appeared—it was the four Indomitus Terminator warriors who had previously been ordered to escort Dorian to safety!
They had not left alone but had held this critical retreat point, constructing a makeshift defense with enemy corpses, the mountains of Genestealer and infected fragments piled around them testifying to the brutal battle they had endured.
Seeing Captain Rikao and the others arrive, and Dorian suddenly collapse, they immediately moved forward to assist.
Two warriors quickly supported the limp Dorian, while the other two raised their weapons, vigilantly pointing them behind.
"Captain! You finally..." One warrior's words were cut short—
"RUMBLE—!!"
In the distance, a massive, seemingly sturdy factory load-bearing wall, collapsed with a crash under continuous internal impacts and excavations!
Amidst the billowing smoke, like a breached dam, countless Genestealers, dark and dense, hissed and crawled, surging out from the breach!
Their myriad blood-red compound eyes, linked together in the darkness, formed a chilling expanse of light points; their numbers were far greater than any previous attack!
Captain Rikao's heart instantly sank to the bottom.
He glanced at the heavily wounded and unconscious Gaius, the exhausted Dorian lying on the ground, and Kelun, whose leg was injured, making movement difficult.
He knew that if no one stayed behind to cover their retreat, to staunchly block this newest and most fatal breach, all of them, including these precious Terminator armors, would be completely engulfed by this endless purple tide in the dark depths of this Hive City.
In a flash, the responsibility and decisiveness of a Captain overshadowed everything else.
He took a deep breath, and his steady voice, clear and firm, brooked no argument, echoed through his helmet:
"Kelun is injured, his movement is restricted! Gochi, and you four!" He pointed to the four assisting warriors, "You six, immediately evacuate with Dorian and Gaius! Return to the lift platform as quickly as possible and inform Captain Cassius of the situation here!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of his brothers' helmets, as if to engrave their faces into his memory.
"I will stay behind to cover the retreat."
"Captain!"
"No!"
The warriors objected almost simultaneously.
Leaving a First Company veteran Sergeant, an Indomitus Terminator Captain, to cover the retreat alone was tantamount to suicide!
Rikao abruptly raised his hand, silencing their pleas, his voice turning cold and resolute, carrying the Captain's final authority: "Execute the order! Inform the Captain of the situation here!"
Seeing their Captain's unquestionable stance, and hearing the tsunami-like hissing growing closer behind them, the six warriors understood that this was the only choice.
Suppressing their grief and reluctance, they heavily pounded their fists against their chests, performing a final salute, their voices choked but still loud:
"Brother, take care!"
With that, they no longer hesitated, supporting their two incapacitated comrades, they turned and struggled up the steep staircase.
The heavy footsteps and the whirring of their Power Armor rapidly faded into the distance.
Rikao watched their retreating figures disappear around the staircase corner, then slowly turned, facing the black tide of death alone.
He calmly checked his weapon status: his Assault Cannon had three magazines left, and his Flamer's fuel gauge showed thirty-seven percent remaining.
It was enough, at least to delay them for a sufficient amount of time.
However, just as he prepared to face the final battle, a familiar, heavy sound of footsteps returned from above the staircase.
It was Gochi! He had returned, his twin-linked Assault Cannon now equipped with a new magazine, his massive body standing resolutely beside Captain Rikao.
"You..." Rikao looked at him.
Gochi's voice came through the vox-caster, calm and firm: "Captain, I wish to follow you. How can I let you bear the burden of covering our brothers' retreat alone?"
Rikao looked at him, no longer uttering any words of dissuasion, simply nodding heavily.
At this moment, any words were superfluous.
Just then, "Sizzle—CRACK!" With a few crisp sounds of electrical overload, the few remaining lights that still dimly illuminated parts of the factory area extinguished one by one.
It was as if something had deliberately cut off the power, or... some massive bio-electric field was interfering with the system.
The entire lower level of the Hive City was instantly plunged into near-absolute darkness!
Only the tactical floodlights built into Rikao's and Gochi's Terminator armor cast two solitary beams of light, barely illuminating a few meters around them; beyond the light, was a dense, impenetrable darkness that seemed to writhe with life.
And in that darkness, countless blood-red compound eyes lit up, like stars of hell, dense and layered, greedily staring at the two solitary blue giants in the center of the light.
Tooth-grating scraping sounds of claws and low hissing surged from all directions, growing closer and closer.
Captain Rikao took a deep breath of the air, circulated by his system, smelling of char and blood; his steady voice, which usually brought reassurance and strength to his squad, could now only utter the most despairing words:
"Gochi, open the combat log."
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
"Prepare for sacrifice."
Gochi did not hesitate; he adjusted the recording device on the side of his helmet, then turned to Rikao, again heavily pounding his fist against his chest, performing a standard Astartes salute, his voice, through the vox-caster, filled with immense pride and resolve, echoing in this space shrouded in darkness and death:
"Captain! It is an honor to serve alongside you!"
Two solitary beams of light, like the last lighthouses in a storm, steadfastly faced the surging, all-consuming dark tide.
The roar of the assault cannon and storm Bolter was about to sound again, playing the final Chapter of loyalty and sacrifice.
Just as countless blood-red compound eyes, like a surging tide, were about to break through the darkness and pounce on them—
"For Ultramar! For the Emperor!" Captain Rikao's amplified roar, along with Gochi's deep growl, sounded simultaneously, like the last battle cries of two lions in a desperate situation, instantly overpowering the aliens' suffocating hisses!
"Boom—!!!"
Rikao's left arm flamer once again spewed out a destructive fiery dragon; viscous flames, hot enough to melt steel, violently spread forward in a fan shape, instantly engulfing dozens of Genestealers at the forefront!
They let out brief, piercing screams in the extreme heat, their bodies violently burning and curling, ultimately turning into piles of charred, smoking debris; the pungent smell of burning and the foul odor of scorched protein permeated the air.
Almost at the same time, Gochi's twin storm Bolter also let out a dull and continuous roar! "Thump-thump-thump-thump—!"
Dense Bolter rounds, like a metal storm, precisely covered the areas on both sides of the flames, blasting apart and tearing to shreds those monsters trying to bypass the wall of fire or pouncing from the shadows on the flanks!
Purple blood, shattered carapaces, and severed limbs splattered like heavy rain onto the cold ground, quickly converging into sticky pools.
Flashes of fire and explosions flickered madly in the absolute darkness, illuminating the massive, unyielding figures of the two Terminators and briefly lighting up the desperate numbers ahead—the tide of Genestealers seemed endless; they trampled over the burning remains and shattered bodies of their comrades, with no fear in their eyes, only a pure craving for flesh and slaughter, surging forward relentlessly!
Rikao and Gochi stood back to back, like two unmoving reefs in a torrent, constructing a death line with scorching flames and dense barrages.
They didn't know how long they could hold out; the assault cannon's ammunition and the flamer's fuel were rapidly depleting, the Power Armor's servo-systems hummed in protest under overload, and the enemy's claws and bone blades constantly left deep marks on their heavy armor, sending up dazzling sparks.
But their hearts, at this moment, were exceptionally calm.
If one were to ask these Primaris Astartes Terminator veterans, who had undergone twenty-two gene-seed surgeries, endured countless blood battles, and whose wills had long been tempered like fine steel, if fear still existed in their hearts?
Perhaps, yes.
Because they were essentially still human, possessing human emotions.
Facing death, facing such a desperate situation, the fear of extinction, stemming from the instinct of life, would occasionally pass through their rock-solid mental defenses like a subtle electric current.
But they would never succumb to fear!
Because they were Astartes! They were the Emperor's Angels of Death! They were the guardians of Ultramar! Their very purpose was battle and sacrifice! For the Emperor, for the Primarch, for the Chapter, for the brothers behind them, they had long since disregarded their personal lives and deaths!
Let the twisted shrieks of these xenos and the unyielding roar of Bolter rounds be their final battle song! Let this dark Hive City underbelly be their ultimate sanctuary to fulfill their vows and die in glory!
Fear is the human instinct when facing the unknown and destruction.
And courage, the courage to face fear and die nobly for a sublime belief, is the most magnificent anthem that allows human civilization to endure and shine across the stars!
"Right flank! Numbers increasing!" Gochi growled, his storm Bolter's firing arc slightly adjusting, tearing into pieces several Purestrain Genestealers attempting to climb side pipes and advance with their agile movements.
"Flamer fuel below twenty percent!" Rikao calmly reported, the flame bursts becoming more rhythmic, no longer continuously covering, but precisely igniting the most densely packed areas to maximize every drop of fuel.
They worked in perfect sync, like a combat machine with two bodies, efficiently reaping lives and slowing the tide's advance.
Every second of delay meant an extra guarantee of safety for their retreating brothers.
It was then that Rikao noticed that the main direction of the Genestealers' assault, besides their front, seemed more focused on the relatively narrow passage entrance they had come through, which connected to the stairs leading to the upper levels!
That was the closest path to catch up with the retreating squad!
They absolutely couldn't let them pass through there!
A thought instantly formed in Rikao's mind.
He abruptly tore a spherical high-explosive grenade from his ammunition belt and precisely pulled the pin with his Power Fist-clad fingers.
"Gochi! Suppress the front! Cover me!"
"Understood!"
Gochi's storm Bolter firepower instantly ramped up to its maximum, the furious metal storm temporarily pinning down the frontal enemies.
Meanwhile, Rikao used this brief interval, estimating the distance and angle, his Power Armor's right arm muscles bulging; with all his might, he hurled the high-explosive grenade towards the passage entrance dozens of meters away!
The grenade arced precisely through the air, almost grazing the heads of several leaping Genestealers, finally clattering to the ground and rolling deep inside the passage entrance.
"Fall back!" Rikao roared, and he and Gochi simultaneously lowered their centers of gravity as much as possible, stabilizing themselves with the immense weight of their Terminator armor.
"Boom—!!!!!"
A muffled roar, far deeper and louder than a Bolter explosion, came from the direction of the passage!
The high-explosive grenade's charge violently unleashed, a massive shockwave ejecting countless gravel and metal fragments!
The entire lower level space vibrated violently!
In the dissipating smoke and dust, the passage entrance leading to salvation—whose concrete structure and metal supports above were already loosened by the fighting—collapsed in a chain reaction, catalyzed by the explosion!
Massive rocks, twisted rebar, and broken pipes crashed down like a landslide, instantly blocking the several-meter-wide entrance completely, leaving only a scene of utter ruin!
Success!
This action completely cut off the Genestealers' only path to catch up with their retreating brothers via the closest route!
However, this also meant—Rikao and Gochi had, with their own hands, sealed their own last retreat route.
At this moment, they were, in a true sense, surrounded and had no way back!
As the smoke and dust gradually cleared, the Genestealer army, having lost its pursuit target, turned its countless blood-red compound eyes, filled with even more frenzied and bloodthirsty malice, to the only two living beings remaining on the field—the two blue giants standing like isolated islands in a sea of corpses and blood.
Rikao slowly straightened up, wisps of smoke rising from his assault cannon's barrel due to overheating.
He glanced at Gochi, who also stood up beside him, silently replacing his last storm Bolter magazine.
No words, no need for words.
They checked their dwindling ammunition, adjusted their breathing, and gripped their Power Fists, which made faint hydraulic whirring sounds.
Ahead was an endless purple tide.
Behind was a self-sealed dead end.
Underfoot was the mire formed by the mingled blood of comrades and enemies.
But their deep blue armor remained upright, the Ultramar emblem on their shoulders and the First Company honor mark reflecting an unyielding light under the tactical lamps.
Rikao raised his assault cannon, aiming its scorching barrel one last time at the surging death.
"For Ultramar—" his deep voice, like a vow.
Gochi stood beside him, his storm Bolter making a clanking sound as it reloaded again.
"—Until death!"
The final battle began.
---
Inside the First Company Captain's office, the atmosphere was as oppressive as the calm before a storm. Cassius Venus paced anxiously before the tactical command console, like a lion trapped in a cage. On the screen, the signal indicators for Promis Squad and Demolias Squad remained a dead gray. No matter how the communications officer tried to adjust frequencies or boost signal power, the only response was a despairing static noise.
"Try again! Use the highest priority encrypted channel! Access the planetary communication network! Any method!" Cassius's voice was low, suppressing a rage about to erupt. His power-armored fingers were clenched tightly, knuckles making faint 'creaking' sounds from the force.
"Captain, all methods have been attempted... there's an extremely strong, unnatural interference source within Kha-IV Hive City. We..." The communications officer's voice carried helplessness and a hint of fear.
"Damn it!" Cassius slammed his fist onto the desk made of hardened alloy!
"Boom—!!"
With a loud crash, the heavy desktop split in two, scattering data-slates and files across the floor. This was the third desk he had broken this month, and the repair costs recorded by the servitor-skull were rising significantly. But he didn't care; the lives of his brothers were a thousand times more important than a desk.
His chest heaved violently, and beneath his deep blue Power Armor was boiling rage and deep concern. Gaius, Dorian, Luna, Rikao... the most elite warriors of his First Company, they could not be lost so inexplicably in the underbelly of a Hive City that should have been cleansed!
He couldn't wait any longer!
He straightened up abruptly and, through the internal communication channel, connected with his adjutant.
"Golden!" His voice was decisive, leaving no room for doubt, "Immediately call out two Terminator squads! You will accompany them with me to investigate the situation!"
"Understood, Captain!" Golden's voice came through immediately, without a trace of hesitation.
The order was executed swiftly. Golden, through the First Company's internal communication network, clearly called out:
"Agris Squad! Promis Squad! Full combat gear, heavy weapons. Assemble at Hangar Six within twenty minutes, prepare for emergency landing mission with the Captain!"
The members of the two Ironclad Pattern Terminator squads immediately moved from their respective posts or standby areas. Heavy footsteps echoed through the corridors as they began to inspect their armor and weapons, adjusting heavy weapons like assault cannons, storm Bolters, and plasma cannons to optimal condition, then converging towards the designated Hangar Six.
Meanwhile, Cassius strode out of the chaotic office and headed towards his personal armory. The heavy metal door slid open, revealing a brightly lit interior where an incredibly ornate Ironclad Autarch Pattern Terminator Armor, radiating a cold metallic sheen and an aura of majesty, stood silently on its weapon rack.
This was a symbol of the First Company Captain's, the Regent of Ultramar's, honor and power. The armor was deep blue, adorned with intricate and exquisite Golden patterns. The massive Macragge's Honour insignia on the shoulder pads was unmistakable, and the Imperial Aquila in the center of the breastplate shone brightly. A delicate deep blue cloak, embroidered with Golden olive branches along its edges, hung from the back, and even when still, one could almost feel its self-moving majesty.
Cassius skillfully removed his standard Power Armor on the auto-disarming platform and, with the assistance of servo-arms, donned the heavier and more powerful Terminator Armor piece by piece. As the last shoulder pad clicked into place, the hum of the system starting up sounded, and he felt the immense power filling his entire body. Without further delay, he casually took a master-crafted Power Sword, its blade glowing with energy, from the weapon rack and hung it at his waist. He then picked up an ornately decorated, immensely powerful relic-grade assault cannon, and immediately set off for Hangar Six.
When his massive, cloaked figure, like a moving fortress, appeared in Hangar Six, everyone was already assembled. The two Terminator squads—Agris Squad and Promis Squad, a total of ten giants clad in Ironclad Pattern Terminator Armor, along with Golden, wearing his adjutant's Power Armor and carrying a master-crafted Bolter and Power Sword—were already lined up, waiting. They stood like a group of steel titans poised for battle, an aura of solemn killing intent permeating the entire hangar.
A Thunderhawk Gunship was already warmed up, its engines emitting a low rumble, ready for departure at any moment.
However, Cassius merely glanced at the Thunderhawk, then shook his head. His voice, transmitted through his Autarch helmet, carried an undeniable decisiveness:
"Switch to drop pods! We don't have time for a slow descent!"
While Thunderhawks possessed formidable firepower, their descent was relatively slow, making them easy targets in an unknown Hive City world. Drop pods, though crude and with immense impact, excelled in speed, able to plummet like meteorites directly towards the target area, catching the enemy off guard.
"Yes, Captain!" Golden immediately understood and quickly directed everyone to change the boarding plan.
Soon, three large assault drop pods were carried by mechanical arms to the launch 軌道. Cassius was the first to step into his specialized command drop pod. Golden and Agris Squad entered the second, and Promis Squad entered the third.
The hatches slowly closed, internal lights came on, and red warning lights began to rotate. Restraining clamps locked down the Terminators' heavy bodies.
"Target coordinates: Kha-IV Hive City, lower levels, last known signal area of Promis Squad. Launch countdown..." The navigator's voice came through the comms channel.
Cassius looked through the observation port as the hangar doors slowly opened, revealing the deep starry sky and the gradually enlarging, sickly gray-yellow Hive City world.
"...Three, two, one! Launch!"
Immense g-forces instantly acted upon every warrior. Even battle-hardened Terminators had to summon all their strength to resist the brutal thrust. The drop pods, like three scorching meteors, broke free of the Macragge's Honour's orbit and plunged irrevocably towards the atmosphere of Kha-IV Hive City!
The cabin vibrated violently, and the intense heat from atmospheric friction turned the observation port fiery red, as if they were inside a forge. A piercing shriek was clearly audible even through the thick cabin walls.
During this rapid descent, Golden's voice came through the Captain's private channel, with a hint of caution: "Captain, should we assign Aorus of Agris Squad and Casto of Promis Squad to be your dedicated bodyguards upon landing? To ensure your absolute safety."
Cassius, hearing this, let out a short, confident snort: "No need! Those damned bugs aren't worth distracting my warriors to protect me!"
His voice, transmitted through the Autarch helmet, carried the unique pride of a First Company Captain and absolute confidence in his own strength.
"Tell them, once we land, ignore me! Unleash full firepower, eliminate all visible enemies! Find our brothers!"
"Yes!" Golden said no more.
The drop pods broke through the clouds, descending with destructive momentum, like the Emperor's judgment, crashing fiercely towards the dark, xenos-blighted Hive City!
The battle inside the Iron Lord was reaching a fever pitch. Captain Marsos and Zo Sahaal's fierce duel near the bridge had entered its climax. Every clash of chainaxe and power claw sent out blinding sparks, and heavy footsteps shattered the adamantium deck. Sahaal, with his agility and ruthlessness, initially gained the upper hand, but Captain Marsos's Iron Warriors' characteristic, cold and resilient, metal-like fighting style made him suffer greatly.
In one head-on confrontation, Captain Marsos seized a tiny opening in Sahaal's defense, and his heavy chainaxe, with a force that could tear anything apart, swung out violently! Though Sahaal tried his best to dodge, the roaring saw-toothed edge still grazed the front of one of his power claws!
"Crunch—hiss!"
A teeth-grinding sound of metal breaking rang out. The front of Sahaal's power claw, covered in a disruption field, was cleanly severed, sparks flying from the break! Immediately after, the chainaxe's momentum continued, leaving a deep, smoking gash on his shoulder pad, almost splitting it completely open!
Sahaal grunted, retreating rapidly, his gaze even more sinister beneath his bat-winged helmet. He had underestimated the tenacity and strength of this Iron Warriors Captain.
However, just as he was preparing to attack again, and Captain Marsos was about to press his advantage, something unexpected happened!
Both Captain Marsos and Sahaal received a top-priority, encrypted command through their helmet communicators. Captain Marsos's expression instantly turned extremely grim, while Sahaal's red eye-lenses flickered, revealing obvious surprise.
The next second, something even more unexpected happened to Zo Sahaal. Captain Masos glared at him, as if to engrave his image deep into his soul, but he didn't attack again. Instead, he violently waved his hand, issuing an order to the Iron Warriors still entangled with the Night Lords around him—not to attack, but to retreat!
"All units! Abandon current area! Immediately rally at Launch Ports Three and Seven! Repeat, disengage from combat, evacuate immediately!"
The order was quickly relayed through the Iron Warriors' internal channel. The Iron Warriors, who were engaged in brutal close-quarters combat with the Night Lords in various compartments and corridors, were filled with confusion and anger, but military orders were absolute. They began to disengage in an organized manner, fighting as they retreated, moving towards the designated launch ports.
"Trying to run?" Zo Sahaal's eyes turned cold, thinking this was some kind of tactic.
But Captain Masos ignored him completely, not even bothering with the bodies of the fallen warriors. He simply retreated quickly towards the nearest launch port, his heart filled with rage and unwillingness, under the cover of his personal guards. Their retreat was decisive and swift, as if this powerful strike cruiser had suddenly become a hot potato.
Zo Sahaal was stunned for a moment, then realized this was no trap. The Iron Warriors were truly abandoning the ship! Although he didn't know what orders they had received, or why they were so hastily giving up an almost certain victory and a valuable warship, this was undoubtedly a huge stroke of luck for him!
"No need to pursue!" Zo Sahaal immediately ordered, stopping the Black Guard who wanted to chase them down, "Let them go!"
He didn't care now if the Iron Warriors were rushing to reincarnate or had some grand conspiracy. Perturabo's big oafs leaving just meant he could fully take over this long-desired warship.
Soon, the Night Lords warriors, scattered throughout the warship, emerged from the shadows like night bats responding to a signal, converging towards the bridge. After counting, including Zo Sahaal himself, there were thirty-seven Night Lords warriors in total. The five Black Guard who had been operating separately also rejoined the squad; they, along with the five Zo Sahaal had brought, formed a group of ten Black Guard, clad in ancient night bat armor and wearing their iconic gas mask-style helmets. Like the most loyal and dangerous shadows and escorts, they stood silently behind Zo Sahaal, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.
Zo Sahaal stood in the center of the bridge, surveying these Eighth Legion descendants who had endured hardships and still chosen to follow him. Though few in number, these were elites, the sparks to rebuild the Legion!
He took a deep breath, his voice, processed by a vocoder, echoed through the silent bridge with an undeniable resolve:
"Brothers! Sons of the Night Bat! We succeeded! This mighty warship now belongs to us!"
His gaze swept over each warrior, as if igniting the long-dormant fire in their eyes.
"The Iron Warriors' rout proves their cowardice and foolishness! But this is just the beginning! We didn't reclaim this ship to scurry like rats in the shadows of the galaxy!"
He raised his voice, full of savagery and ambition:
"I will rebuild the Eighth Legion! Restore the glory of the Night Lords! Let the Imperium, let Chaos, let the entire galaxy tremble once more beneath the shadow of our wings! This is the meaning of our existence!"
Although the road ahead was long and manpower severely insufficient, capturing the "Iron Lord" was undoubtedly a crucial step towards his goal. They could use this as a foundation to gradually absorb scattered warbands and strengthen their power.
"Clear the warship, ensure no Iron Warriors remain. Activate minimal navigation and power systems," Zo Sahaal ordered. "Our next target—"
He brought up the star chart and zoomed in on a coordinate. It was a cold, almost forgotten planet beyond the recorded frontiers of the Imperium, with a harsh environment and barren resources, holding no value worthy of notation on the star chart.
"—is here." Zo Sahaal's voice deepened, carrying a hint of complex emotion, "We are going to meet someone."
He was going to meet his Primarch, Konrad Curze.
Although Lord Koz had long lost his ambition to rebuild the Legion, and even faked his assassination by Imperial assassins, hiding on that remote planet living an almost reclusive life, Zo Sahaal still yearned to see him, yearned for his approval, even if it was just a single meeting.
Meanwhile, on the cold planet named "Kataf-IV."
Whistling cold winds, carrying ice particles, swept over a barren, sparsely tundrad mountainous area. In a sheltered mountain hollow, a few low-lying "houses" were crudely built from rough local stones and dry, hardy weeds, looking as simple as primitive dwellings.
Inside one of the more "spacious" stone houses, the furnishings were even more minimal. There was only a "bed" made of stacked flat stones, covered with dry moss and unknown animal hides. A tall figure lay on this bed, his complexion an unhealthy pallor, his black hair somewhat disheveled on the rough "pillow," and deep-set eyes beneath tightly closed lids.
It was Corvus, the Raven Lord.
His body was wrapped in clean but coarse strips of cloth, beneath which vaguely visible were treated but still gruesome wounds. In the Sea of Confusion, deep within Slaanesh's pleasure palace, he had fought a bloody battle against the Daemon Primarch Fulgrim and the will of the Chaos God behind him. Although he ultimately gravely wounded his opponent, he himself paid a heavy price, only managing to escape through sheer will and the power of shadows, eventually being found and taken in by Koz, who lived in seclusion here.
The simple door was pushed open, letting in a blast of cold air. Konrad Curze walked in. He, too, was tall, but much thinner than ten thousand years ago. His once frenzied eyes now held only a weary calm, having seen through the world. He wore coarse clothing woven from local plant fibers, with a thick animal hide casually draped over him. His black hair was equally disheveled, and his face bore the marks of years of wind and frost.
He silently walked to the stone bed, sat down, and his gaze fell upon Corvus, a hint of imperceptible confusion in his eyes. He didn't understand why this brother was so obsessed with revenge, even venturing into a Chaos God's domain to fight an immortal monster. What puzzled him more was that Corvus clearly had reason to seek revenge on him, yet had never shown him any murderous intent.
Just then, Corvus slowly opened his eyes. His pupils, like the night, looked at Koz sitting by the bed. There was no anger, no resentment, only a deep weariness and... a hint of helplessness.
He was silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the drafty, extremely simple stone house, then slowly spoke, his voice hoarse from his injuries:
"Konrad..."
He paused, seemingly finding it difficult to say, but still did:
"Can't you... build a better house?"
Koz was visibly stunned by this. He hadn't expected Corvus's first words upon waking to be this. A helpless, almost bitter smile appeared on his gaunt face.
"You... haven't experienced mortal life, Corvus," Koz's voice was low, carrying an uncharacteristic awkwardness that was at odds with his former terrifying legend. "You don't understand these things... building a better house requires materials. Suitable materials require money to buy. Money... requires growing crops, selling them, to exchange for it."
He spoke as if stating a simple yet complex truth that he had taken a long time to figure out.
"I've already... been saving for over forty years," he added, his tone calm, as if forty years of time for a Primarch was no different from a mortal waiting a few days. "Almost... saved enough."
Two Primarchs, one a former traitor, on this forgotten cold planet, in a drafty stone house, engaged in such a conversation about "building a house"—a conversation that was almost absurd yet imbued with endless desolation. The conflicts of the galaxy, the glory of the Legions, the survival of the Imperium, all seemed to have receded from them, leaving only the most primitive survival, and the complex, ineffable connection between them.
And they did not know that a warship, carrying ambition and loyalty, was cutting through the star sea, quietly sailing towards this cold tranquility.
Inside the stone house, Corax listened to Koz's explanation about "saving money to build a house," and a look of incomprehension appeared on his pale, angular face. As a Primarch, everything he needed—from weapons and equipment to vast Legion supplies—was naturally prepared for him by countless individuals. The concepts of "currency" and "transactions" were distant and unfamiliar to him.
He was silent for a moment, his eyes, deep as night, observing Koz's rough clothing and the bare stone house. Finally, he simply said, "Konrad, it seems you are still better at your art of terror."
His tone was neither mocking nor declarative; perhaps it was both. In his eyes, his brother's willingness to endure poverty here, spending decades accumulating meager resources like a mortal, rather than using his former galaxy-shaking abilities to obtain what he needed, was itself an incomprehensible stubbornness or... an act of atonement.
Koz was not angered by Corax's assessment. Instead, a deeper sense of helplessness and desolation flickered across his gaunt face. He was long weary of fear and violence. His heart, once steeped in prophecy and madness, now craved only the most primal peace, even if that peace came with unimaginable hardship. He stood up, said nothing more, and silently walked out, leaving the space to Corax, who needed rest.
Outside the stone house, Kha-IV's eternal cold and howling gales persisted. A crudely walled-off area was Koz's carefully tended "fungus field," where some dim-colored fungi and cold-resistant tuber crops, capable of surviving extreme temperatures, grew. This was the primary food source for them and the few Night Lords warriors who followed them here.
A Black Guard, clad in a thick, wind-resistant cloak, his Power Armor operating with a duller hum than usual in the low temperatures, patrolled slowly along the edge of the fungus field like a silent sentinel, wary of potential predation from local cold-resistant beasts. Large plumes of white mist, exhaled from his gas mask-like helmet's vents due to the extreme cold, were instantly torn apart by the gale.
Not far away, atop a massive, ice-covered rock, stood another Black Guard. He stood ramrod straight, as if rooted to the rock, the biting cold winds making his robes and cloak billow and dance wildly behind him. He stood motionless, his red eyepieces piercing through the swirling snow, sharply scanning the distant, snow-covered, vast white wasteland. Those two red lights glowed stubbornly in the endless wind and snow, like unextinguishable lighthouses in the darkness, or the predatory eyes of a beast, guarding this secluded retreat chosen by the Primarch.
On the other side of the distant void, the atmosphere within the newly acquired Iron Lord Strike Cruiser was entirely different. Although the warship had been successfully captured, Zo Sahaal's challenges were just beginning.
He stood before the massive star chart on the bridge, his crimson eyepieces gazing at the vast galaxy, but his heart was far from as calm as it appeared. Rebuilding the Eighth Legion, restoring the glory of the Night Lords—behind this grand goal lay countless pressing practical problems. Manpower was severely insufficient; operating and maintaining a Strike Cruiser with only thirty-odd warriors was already a strain. Weapons and equipment needed replenishment and maintenance. Most importantly, the foundation for the Legion's continuation—Gene-Seed—was critically lacking. Without a stable source of Gene-Seed, rebuilding the Legion would be like a tree without roots, a river without a source.
And then there were the Night Lords warbands scattered across the galaxy. How could they be reunited, integrated into a single force, rather than remaining a disorganized rabble of mutually antagonistic brigands? This required strong charisma, sufficient incentives, and... a core ideal that all Sons of the Bat could identify with.
Just as Sahaal was immersed in his myriad thoughts, footsteps interrupted his contemplation. A Night Lords Tech-Sergeant escorted a figure onto the bridge.
It was an Eldar female, dressed in a dancer's outfit that, though somewhat damaged, still showed signs of luxurious elegance. Her petite frame appeared exceptionally fragile before the massive, grotesque Night Lords Power Armor. Her pale violet eyes were wide with fear, brimming with tears, and her face was bloodless. This was Kolayne, whom Captain Masos had forgotten in the cabin.
"Lord Sahaal," the Tech-Sergeant reported, his voice echoing metallically through his helmet, "We found her while clearing the lower cabins. An Eldar dancer, likely a captive taken when the Iron Warriors attacked the Craftworld. How should we deal with her?"
Sahaal turned around, his red eyepieces under the grotesque bat-winged helmet fixing on Kolayne. When Kolayne saw the blood-stained, horrifying helmet and the surrounding dark blue armor, which also exuded a cold killing intent, she finally succumbed to the extreme fear. Tears rolled down like broken pearls, and her body trembled, almost unable to stand.
"A dancer?" Sahaal's voice, distorted by the vocoder, carried a hint of confusion. "Why would the Iron Warriors capture her? To bring her back to dance and entertain them?" He couldn't comprehend that Perturabo's sons, who only revered steel and efficiency, would have such "refined tastes." This did not align with his understanding of the Iron Warriors.
But regardless, this girl was now in his hands. If this were ten thousand years ago, during the Great Crusade or the Horus Heresy, for any xenos not of their kind, especially Eldar, the Night Lords usually had only one method of disposal—execution by the most cruel means, using their pain and fear to adorn their wargear, or as offerings to the Dark Gods.
But now, times had changed, and his goals had changed. Simple slaughter would not help him rebuild the Legion.
He looked at the utterly terrified Eldar girl, and an idea gradually formed in his mind. Eldar... these ancient xenos races, they preserved a large number of Astartes Gene-Seed collected from ancient times, especially on their mysterious Craftworlds. If... he could use this girl, whose identity seemed unusual, to trade with the Eldar for the Gene-Seed they desperately needed... The thought excited him. Furthermore, if handled properly, this might open a channel for long-term trade with certain Eldar factions, providing stable resources for the Legion's future development. This was far more cost-effective than simply killing her.
"Does she speak gothic?" Sahaal asked the Tech-Sergeant. If they could communicate directly, it would save a lot of trouble.
The Tech-Sergeant shook his head: "We tried asking her in several common tongues and Low gothic, but she didn't respond; she doesn't seem to understand. However," he added, "I can try to use spare parts from the warship to build a simple translator, though it will take some time."
Sahaal nodded, trusting the Tech-Sergeant's abilities. "Good work, complete it as soon as possible."
The Night Lords Tech-Sergeant acknowledged the order and immediately walked to a corner of the bridge where some unprocessed personal terminals and communication device parts, collected from the slain Iron Warriors crew and warriors, were piled. He began searching for useful components.
Having given the orders, Sahaal refocused his attention on Kolayne. He tried to appear a little "friendly" to alleviate her fear and facilitate the subsequent "transaction." He lowered his head slightly, moved a bit closer, and tried to speak in what he considered a gentle tone: "Don't be afraid, xenos girl, we won't harm you..."
However, he underestimated the terrifying effect of his appearance and overestimated Kolayne's endurance. When his blood-stained, monstrous bat-winged helmet suddenly approached, Kolayne's pupils contracted to their extreme. The intense fear instantly shattered her last psychological defense. She couldn't even let out a scream. Her eyes rolled back, her delicate body went limp, and she directly fainted, collapsing onto the cold deck.
Sahaal looked at the unconscious Eldar girl, stiffly straightened up, his red eyepieces flickering, seemingly with a mix of helplessness and annoyance. He waved a hand at a nearby warrior.
"Take her below, find a clean cabin, and watch her. Don't let her die; she might still be useful to us..."
The Astartes stepped forward, lifted the unconscious Kolayne onto his shoulder as if she were a feather, and left the bridge.
Zo Sahaal once again turned his gaze to the vast star map, beginning to ponder how to use this unexpected 'captive' to conduct a dangerous transaction with those cunning Eldar. The path to rebuilding his legion was destined to be full of unexpected variables and... comically absurd interludes.
Inside the Chapter Master's office, Marius Calgar finally finished approving the last data-slate from the mountain of documents before him. It was an application for tax exemption from a peripheral agricultural world, trivial and complex, consuming a good deal of his energy. He gently put down his stylus, rubbed his slightly throbbing brow, and felt a brief sense of relief from the temporary escape from paperwork. As Regent of Ultramar and Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, he not only had to command the Chapter in campaigns across the stars but also had to deal with countless administrative affairs of this vast star sector, which often left him feeling more exhausted than facing powerful enemies.
However, his rare good mood lasted less than three seconds.
The office door slid open silently, and an Astartes in the ornate power armor of the Honor Guard walked in steadily, carrying a new, substantial stack of data-slates. He respectfully placed them on the newly vacated corner of the obsidian desk.
"Chapter Master Calgar, these are the quarterly reports from the Pavia Sector, the latest assessment report on the reconstruction progress of the Cadian Gate, and three preliminary investigation files regarding signs of heretical activity, which require your review and approval," the Honor Guard Astartes' voice was steady and clear.
Calgar looked at the stack of data-slates that instantly shattered his newfound sense of ease, feeling his temples begin to throb again. He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressed the urge to sweep the stack into the recycling bin, and waved his hand for the Astartes to withdraw.
Silence returned to the office, but the feeling of ease was gone. He leaned back in his large throne-chair, gazing at the ceiling, trying to find a moment of peace, but another pending trouble involuntarily surfaced in his mind.
"Kha-IV Hive City... any new news?" he asked Vitrius, the Honour Guard Captain, who stood behind the side of the throne.
"Captain Cassius has personally led the Agrees and Promises Terminator squads, deploying to the surface via assault landing pods. No new communications have been received yet," Vitrius reported meticulously.
Calgar nodded; the First Company Captain's decisive action was within his expectations. Then, he remembered another matter and asked with a hint of expectation in his tone: "So, Cassius... did he, as per my order, go to see Ms. Kolaesa and express appropriate apologies?"
Vitrius was silent for a moment, his helmeted head lowered slightly, then in an unperturbed tone, he repeated Captain Cassius's exact words from the office, almost verbatim:
"...When my Sergeant Karl returns safely, I'll have him comfort her on my behalf! They can even live together! Sleeping in the same bed is no problem! I'll have a Tech-Sergeant modify a large bed right now!"
"..."
The entire Chapter Master's office fell into a dead silence.
Calgar sat stiffly on his throne, his usually stern and calm face visibly turning green! His hand on the armrest clenched suddenly, and the sturdy obsidian armrest even let out a faint, overburdened "creak."
To have an Astartes Sergeant and an Eldar psyker... sleep together?!
What kind of impropriety was this!!!
Calgar felt his blood pressure instantly skyrocket, and the blood vessels in his temples throbbed as if they would explode at any moment! He knew that Cassius was an outstanding commander—capable, brave in combat, and incredibly loyal to the Chapter and the Primarch! But when would he ever change this hot-tempered, outspoken habit?! Dorian had become increasingly impulsive and reckless after joining the First Company; now, in his opinion, he was completely led astray by this unreliable Captain!
A sense of powerlessness mixed with towering rage surged in his heart. What could he do? Imprison the meritorious, loyal First Company Captain, who was crucial at this time, for a fit of pique? That was clearly unrealistic and would severely shake morale. But to let such absurd remarks spread, or even... what if Cassius really got a crazy idea and acted on it... Calgar felt like he was suffocating. He closed his eyes wearily, pressing his fingers hard against his throbbing temples. Managing a Chapter was sometimes more exhausting than facing a Chaos army.
Meanwhile, in the First Company's quarters area.
The "large bed," 2.7 meters wide and 3 meters long, personally modified and reinforced by the Dark Eldar technical genius Eilaas, had been silently delivered by servo-automata and installed in Sergeant Karl's currently empty cabin. This bed was strikingly out of place, clashing with the Chapter's standard austere style.
A Tech-Sergeant from the First Company was ordered to Ms. Kolaesa's cabin door. He adjusted his power armor, ensuring his appearance was neat, then politely raised his hand and knocked three times on the metal door.
"Ms. Kolaesa," his voice came through his helmet, trying to maintain a calm and respectful tone, "May I ask if you are feeling better? I have an urgent matter to report to you."
Silence in the cabin, no response. The Tech-Sergeant waited patiently, the timer built into his power armor silently ticking. After a full minute, just as he was about to knock again, the cabin door hissed softly and slowly slid open a crack from the inside.
The Tech-Sergeant subconsciously lowered his head, preparing to relay the order. However, when the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of the scene behind the door, he instantly froze! He immediately snapped his head to the side, his gaze fixed on the cold metal wall across the corridor, not daring to look again.
Behind the door, Kolaesa was completely unclothed! Her already slender and delicate body appeared even paler under the cold light of the cabin, her silver hair disheveled, covering part of her face but unable to completely conceal her exposed skin. She leaned against the doorframe, her body trembling slightly, whether from cold or from weakness and inner turmoil, he couldn't tell.
Seeing the Tech-Sergeant's almost frantic evasive posture, a look of extreme scorn and bitter sarcasm appeared on Kolaesa's pale face. She questioned him in a deeply hoarse yet unusually clear and weak voice:
"What? Haven't you seen women before? Don't you like to look?" Her voice carried a chilling mockery, "Why aren't you looking now? Tell me, is it beautiful?"
The Tech-Sergeant felt a pang of embarrassment, but he tried to maintain his composure, still not turning his head. He simply responded in a deep voice, with a hint of imperceptible emotion: "Ms. Kolaesa, you misunderstand. We are not what you think. I am here to convey Captain Cassius's orders."
He paused, ensuring his words were clear and unambiguous:
"According to the Captain's orders, you will be transferred to Sergeant Karl's cabin to reside. Please... prepare yourself. When you are ready, just let me know, I will be waiting nearby. Someone will come to assist you with your personal belongings at that time."
After saying this, the Tech-Sergeant could feel that the breathing behind the door seemed to stop for a moment.
The scorn and mockery on Kolaesa's face instantly froze, replaced by a blank look and disbelief. She... was to live with Gaius? How... how was this possible? How could that First Company Captain, who had roared at her and been so hostile, issue such an order? The room of the only human Astartes who had shown her a glimmer of kindness... Complex emotions surged like a tide, temporarily washing away her previous despair, anger, and self-abandonment, leaving only endless confusion and a faint... tremor she herself was unwilling to admit.