Chapter 6: Trust in Them
Chapter 6: Trust in Them
"I trust your judgment," Arthur said.
He didn't believe that he, a transmigrator, knew how to assess a tactical situation better than a battle-hardened commander of a Cadian regiment. Therefore, he would respect the opinion of the local.
Besides, the soldiers behind them were Cadians, not delicate flowers in need of coddling.
Perhaps he had held some doubts about the Astra Militarum due to old stereotypes, but now, having seen these warriors up close, he and Romulus understood the sheer weight behind the words written in the lore books.
These were men born on Cadia, the fortress world that had stood defiant against Abaddon the Despoiler's twelve Black Crusades. From the first beat of their hearts, they had been entangled with the most malevolent existence in the galaxy, yet they were superhumans who had survived to this day.
And the regiment behind them was the Cadian 43rd. An army forged on the anvil of Cadia, which had withstood the Warmaster of Chaos for centuries.
They were the elite of the Imperial Guard, the very model that regiments across the galaxy strove to emulate.
The Colonel's words were not some tragic farewell; they were a statement of fact. They could do it.
And so, all Arthur and Romulus had to do was trust them.
Freed from their rearguard concerns, the two of them accelerated decisively. Like sprinters hearing the starting pistol, they exploded from a standstill to an absurd speed. The filth and debris lining the corridors were blasted into the air by their passage, only to be left far behind.
With the thunder of their boots on the deck plating and the howl of displaced air, the two unrestrained Astartes were simply unstoppable.
Colonel Kovek, however, did not breathe a sigh of relief at the Angels' approval. Instead, his expression became even more complex.
The two departing Angels had no idea just how much of a luxury their subconscious respect for mortal life was in this age.
drip...
A tremor ran through the deck. A drop of brackish water fell from the edge of a sundered steel beam, shattering against exposed bone before seeping into the flesh below.
In the dim corridor, illuminated only by不明 light sources, a horde of cultists lay in ambush, reverently preparing to offer their strength to their masters.
Of course, for heretics who had fallen to Chaos, this process was anything but quiet or orderly.
The deck was a pockmarked ruin, strewn with severed limbs. The rasp of axes on bone echoed through the gloom, accompanied by the weak groans of survivors being fused into piles of corpses and flesh. The miasma of the Warp, a stench that sickened the very soul, silently twisted everything around them.
After hunting down the last of the Corpse-God worshippers, the cultists, who served different Ruinous Powers, had naturally fallen to infighting. After a brief period of confusion, they had unleashed an even more chaotic civil war upon each other in the dark corners of the ship.
Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of brutal conflict, the victor ceased swinging his axe. His body was covered in wounds that went down to the bone, yet he seemed to feel nothing as he gasped for air.
The blessing of the Blood God coalesced in his soul. He stared down at the other cultists who now bowed before him in fear. Plates of bone began to erupt from beneath his cheeks, obscuring his face. Even the previous cult leaders, had they risen together, could no longer challenge him.
But—
"Not enough!" the champion roared, his voice booming down the corridor as cascades of blood poured from cracks in the ceiling. "It is not enough!"
"I need a stronger opponent—"
In the next instant, the air around the champion plunged to a freezing temperature. Water molecules condensed into tiny droplets, clinging to the mutated horns on his head.
A bone-chilling cold washed over the heretic's mind, making him want to scream.
He knew. The great Blood God had answered his prayer. An opponent was coming. He must begin the hunt!
Yes, the hunt... what was I supposed to do again?
Fight? Yes, yes, that's it... hiss... no, no, that's not right.
Run? Yes, yes, I must run.
Run! Flee!
The heretic leaned against the wall and turned, trying to find the Angel who had been consecrated by the god's power. Only a true champion of the Blood God was worthy of such a foe! How could he, a mere aspirant, dare to claim such a prize?
However, the Blood God does not suffer cowards or deceivers. As a shadow moving within shadows took form, the heretic's screams were forever choked in his throat.
He couldn't make out the figure's silhouette, which blended perfectly with the darkness, only catching a faint glimpse of the holy golden Aquila beneath its robes.
He couldn't hear the shriek of its blade as it sliced through the air, only the despair of drowning as his own flesh was torn asunder and his life force drained away.
Upon his throne of skulls, the Blood God felt a flicker of confusion, then shook His head without concern, turning His boundless rage to a more worthy gladiatorial arena elsewhere.
In endless agony, the traitor's life came to an end. He collapsed into a pile of filthy gore in the dark corridor, his soul forever barred from reaching the master he had once worshipped and so easily betrayed.
And Arthur, the Angel who had merely crushed an insect, did not give the corner a second glance. He became a blur of motion, rushing into the next corridor.
"Faster," Arthur grunted, his voice laced with irritation as he paused for half a second, waiting for Romulus to plant another marker and an automated sentry gun.
Thrown into this shithole without explanation, caught in a ridiculous free-for-all, and now forced to leave a group of people behind to complete a mission that could decide the fate of the entire ship.
His grip on his sword trembled slightly. Arthur sensed a vast, twisted shadow lurking in the darkness ahead.
Even more annoying!
This feeling of being out of place, this sense of disconnect from his old reality, made Arthur subconsciously want to destroy every single thing that made him feel this discomfort.
"Blood for the—"
The behemoth in the shadows revealed itself.
It was a Chaos Space Marine, his body towering like a fortress of flesh and iron. His weather-beaten power armor, patched with writhing, living tissue, spoke of the long eons he had spent in the Warp.
Arthur remained silent.
He wasn't like Romulus, who could always adapt to his environment, always find something productive to do.
Right now, all Arthur wanted was to end this as quickly as possible, find a place where he could think clearly, and figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.
Arthur's counter-attack was swift. He swung his shield, batting aside the axe that chopped down at him, then thrust his power sword forward, a two-part lunge aimed at the enemy's neck.
SQUELCH—
Even at the moment of his death, the monster warped by Chaos never finished his blasphemous war cry.
CLANG!
With a spinning flourish, Arthur threw his sword. The blade, still slick with the heretic's profane blood, left his hand and soared through the air. Its crackling power field scraped against another suit of armor before sinking deep into the steel bulkhead beyond.
Another massive head rolled onto the deck.
Clean. Efficient.
(End of Chapter)