115, Space Devouring Shark: Axe in hand, follow me! Grab people, grab food, grab bombs! (5)

Shavon, the company commander, removed the metal helmet of his Terminator power armor without hesitation.

His face, ashen gray like a corpse, and his pitch-black eyes were exposed.

The Chapter Master of Ashen Claws instinctively glanced at you, clad in an ancient model of Terminator armor, before shifting his deep, shadowed gaze back to Shavon.

"The Three Companies of the Man-Eater Sharks? What became of your commander, Akira?" Nehart's Terminator power armor advanced.

Yet, his steps made no sound at all, as if the art of silent movement had long been ingrained in his bones, infused into his very blood.

"Killed in battle ten years ago, fighting xenos in the depths of the extragalactic void." Shavon blinked his pitch-black eyes, his face expressionless.

For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw a trace of sorrow flash across the Chapter Master's pale face.

"I still remember last time—Akira's arrogance and foolishness nearly got you all killed… This time, why have you come?" In the blink of an eye, Nehart traversed dozens of meters.

He now stood face-to-face with Shavon, a mere three meters between them.

"A trade for new blood," Shavon stated succinctly.

"What? Your blood tithe no longer suffices?" A faint trace of mockery appeared on Nehart's pale face.

"The Chapter is at war. A massive xenos threat is looming from the extragalactic void… and the Imperium remains oblivious. They must be stopped!" Shavon, his black eyes unblinking, explained slowly, his expression still devoid of emotion.

"What do we gain in return?" Nehart's towering form suddenly flickered past you.

Neither your helmet's motion sensors nor your own vision could even begin to track his movements.

Instinctively, you tightened your grip on the handle of your chainsaw axe, awaiting Shavon's command.

"Weapons and power armor sufficient to replenish your lost supplies—a shadow of the golden days you once had." Shavon's pitch-black gaze halted your reckless impulse.

His words carried a hint of sarcasm.

"Do the Tech-Priests know you're trading with renegades and traitors? The Imperium you so loudly proclaim loyalty to will brand you heretics!" A mix of scorn, suppressed anger, and hidden sorrow flashed across Nehart's pale face.

"The resources obtained from the Ash Tithe belong to the Chapter. How they are traded is our will alone… New blood and fleet support—that is the final price of this deal." Shavon stated, his voice unwavering.

Yet, his words seemed to have utterly enraged the Chapter Master.

Once more, Nehart drove his Terminator power armor forward, instantly appearing before Shavon.

"Do you know what I want the most? I want those bastard Scars to return my Lightning Claws! I want back 'Famine' and 'Thirst'!" Nehart's long black hair spilled onto the cold ceramite floor as his eyes locked onto Shavon's.

You raised your bolter in an instant, the dark muzzle aimed squarely at the exposed head before you.

With your free hand, you drew your chainsaw axe and gripped it tightly.

At that moment, ten Ashen Claws Astartes in standard power armor suddenly emerged from the depths of the hall, their bolters aimed at you and Shavon.

Just as you were about to activate your Terminator armor's shield generator, planning to rely on its formidable defenses to cut a path for your commander—

Nehart suddenly raised his armored hand.

With remarkable composure, he halted his warriors and de-escalated the standoff.

You quickly assessed the battlefield, evaluating the balance of power between friend and foe.

Your eyes shifted toward Shavon, who remained unfazed.

You did not lower your weapon, only slightly adjusting your aim away from Nehart's head.

"I lack the authority to decide, and the Scars will never return those Lightning Claws… Weapons and power armor, along with a batch of gene-seed to slow genetic degradation—this is all I can offer. Accept the deal, or…" Shavon's pitch-black eyes locked onto Nehart's shadowed face.

A storm of emotions flickered across Nehart's features before he finally responded through gritted teeth—

"Deal."

Then, to your surprise, he smiled at Shavon.

Your comm-link crackled to life.

A squadmate reported that twenty Ashen Claw Terminators had surrounded the hall's perimeter, sealing all possible exits.

Maintaining your composure, you watched as Nehart and Shavon finalized their agreement.

The Space Sharks would enter a brutal gladiatorial match.

Win, and the trade would proceed as planned.

Lose, and you would leave empty-handed.

Nehart stepped aside, clearing the path for you and Shavon.

You were headed to the arena.

Shavon drew his chainsaw axe, preparing to fight personally.

You firmly objected, stepping in his way.

For a moment, he stared at you with his unblinking black eyes, then finally relented.

But his next words carried no emotion.

"If you lose—or if you die—the entire Third Company will launch an orbital bombardment on the Ashen Claws' homeworld. There will be war."

You said nothing.

Instead, you raised a ceramite-clad hand and tapped the heavy breastplate of your ancient Terminator armor.

Once more, you navigated the winding underground corridors.

The distant roar of a crowd greeted you as you emerged at the edge of the gladiatorial pit.

Hundreds of Ashen Claws Astartes and mortal warriors stood upon the stone steps, their voices a mix of cheers, jeers, and curses spoken in planetary dialects.

You handed your only bolter to Shavon for safekeeping.

Gripping your chainsaw axe tightly, you leaped into the pit without hesitation.

Your mag-boots struck the blood-soaked sand with a heavy thud.

"Begin."

Nehart's cold voice signaled the start of the match.

From the pit's shadows emerged a Chaos Astartes—

His ceramite plating was cracked and battered, his power armor an even more ancient model than your own.

Twin chainsaw axes, defiled with heretical sigils and caked in dried blood, hung in his grasp.

And emblazoned upon his crimson armor was a familiar insignia—

A warrior of the Twelfth Legion.

A captured World Eater.

The growl of dueling chainsaw axes filled the air.

The World Eater let out a garbled howl, the Butcher's Nails screeching in his skull.

His hulking frame lunged forward with terrifying speed—far beyond that of a normal Astartes.

Without hesitation, you charged as well, your Terminator armor thundering forward.

Though he was faster, your superior armor made defense unnecessary.

You allowed one of his axes to slam against your heavy ceramite plating.

The deafening screech of metal grinding against metal echoed through the pit.

His frenzied assault barely made you stagger.

With a relentless swing, your chainsaw axe carved a brutal arc toward his weakened armor.

Sensing your reckless willingness to trade blows, the World Eater tried to intercept your strike with his second axe—

But before he could react, you reared back—

And slammed your helmeted head into his.

His visor shattered, his vision blurred.

Your axe's trajectory changed in an instant.

With a shriek of monomolecular teeth—

A severed arm flew skyward, then crashed into the sand.

Hot blood splattered against your ceramite.

The World Eater roared within his ruined helmet, his stench of Chaos thick in the air.

You gave him no chance to recover.

Your axe bit deep into the weak point of his armor—his neck.

His remaining axe battered your pauldrons in a futile rage, barely scratching the ancient plating.

With a final, merciless strike—

You wrenched his head from his shoulders.

His lifeless corpse crumpled to the ground.

Raising the bloodied helmet high, you turned toward the silent Ashen Claws above.

You ignored Nehart's darkening expression.

Your voice, hoarse yet unwavering, echoed through the arena.

"Who dares step forth? I'll take on ten of you!"

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