Chapter 43: The Fierce Battle (2 in 1)
The Sting Squad was making its way from the 'Writhing Worm' toward the 'Bloody Worm', where Flavorus was located.
As they moved through caves and canyons, they encountered neither allies nor enemies. It wasn't until they entered the 'Bloody Worm' from the opposite side that things changed.
Gurt led the way, with Fu Qinghai close behind. The squad moved in a single file through the narrow corridors of the transport ship.
Everywhere, there were signs of battle.
They saw the bodies of Ultramarines, Word Bearers, and even some strangely dressed individuals who didn't look like crew members.
The Astartes' bodies bore various fatal wounds, but what puzzled Fu Qinghai were the injuries on the traitor crew members.
Their faces were covered in residue, and their chests were torn open, their thoracic cavities hollowed out.
'Strange…' Fu Qinghai frowned as he examined the bodies. He couldn't recall any weapon in the Warhammer 40K universe that caused such wounds.
As they advanced, a black shadow suddenly lunged at Fu Qinghai from a broken pipe.
The superhuman reflexes of an Astartes kicked in. Fu Qinghai's wrist flicked, and his power sword slashed upward.
The blade flashed. The shadow was cut in two.
Fu Qinghai looked down and was shocked.
'What the hell? An Alien?'
A creature with black exoskeleton and a slender body lay at his feet. Its elongated head had no eyes, only a mouth full of sharp teeth dripping with transparent saliva.
It was a Xenomorph from the 'Alien' movies.
The Xenomorph's body had been sliced in half by Fu Qinghai's sword, and its acidic blood was already corroding the metal floor, hissing and emitting white smoke.
As the squad paused, another Xenomorph lunged at Gurt, latching onto his helmet.
"Hiss… hiss…" The terrifying sound came from all directions.
The Sting Squad was ambushed by Xenomorphs.
The black creatures emerged from narrow pipes, ventilation shafts, and behind cables, pouncing on the Astartes.
The cross-shaped muzzle flashes of bolters lit up the narrow corridor as the squad opened fire.
The sudden attack caught the Astartes off guard.
A sharp, black tail whipped out, wrapping around a bolter. But the Ultramarine yanked it hard, sending the Xenomorph crashing into the wall.
Then he blew its head off.
Similar scenes played out across the corridor. Soon, the gunfire died down.
The Astartes looked around.
No casualties.
"Sting Squad, report," Gurt's voice came through the vox.
"No injuries."
"Clear."
"Clear."
The squad members checked in one by one. Not a single injury.
'Someone's breeding Xenomorphs on this ship… It has to be a Reincarnator,' Fu Qinghai thought.
This was the third time he'd encountered other Reincarnators since arriving in the Warhammer 40K universe.
This seemingly routine mission had more meddlers than expected. It was unclear whether they were friend or foe. But these Xenomorphs were surprisingly weak.
At least, against Astartes.
Fu Qinghai shook his power sword, then noticed something. He looked down and pressed the activation button on the hilt.
The blue energy field didn't appear. The hilt had been corroded by the Xenomorph's acidic blood, exposing the damaged internals.
"Damn it, my sword's ruined," Fu Qinghai cursed. The acid had splashed onto the hilt during the fight.
"Sir, my helmet's display is malfunctioning," another Astartes reported, removing his helmet. Yellowish liquid dripped from it, and the red lenses were fogged.
Gurt looked at his own chest plate, pitted and scarred. The golden Aquila was barely recognizable.
The squad checked their gear. Weapons and armour had been corroded to varying degrees by the Xenomorphs' blood.
Ceramite and Plasteel held up well, but exposed cables and mechanical components were severely damaged.
"This alien blood is… unusual," Gurt said grimly.
He turned to Fu Qinghai. "Qingshan, have you encountered them before?"
Fu Qinghai shook his head. "First time, Gurt. My service record's short."
Gurt nodded, accepting the explanation.
Fu Qinghai, still mourning his sword, reluctantly discarded it after confirming it was beyond repair.
Gurt picked up a chainsword from a fallen Ultramarine and tossed it to Fu Qinghai. Fu Qinghai caught it, inspected it, and activated the chain. Satisfied, he nodded to Gurt.
The squad pressed on.
As a Techmarine, Fu Qinghai was familiar with Imperial weaponry.
This was a Mark V Chainsword, broad and blocky, with teeth extending along the blade. It was painted deep blue and manufactured on Konor.
Power weapons were more advanced and expensive than chain weapons, but that didn't mean chain weapons were inferior.
Fu Qinghai swung the chainsword, testing its weight and balance.
Chain weapons represented a completely different fighting style. He mentally reviewed his training.
In terms of single-strike power, power weapons were stronger due to their energy fields. But chain weapons excelled in sustained damage.
With a power sword, Fu Qinghai aimed for weak points and gaps in armour for a decisive strike. With a chainsword, he could simply hack at the enemy's chest plate, letting the spinning teeth chew through the ceramite until the armour gave way. Or until the teeth dulled.
Many Astartes, especially the White Scars, disliked chain weapons for their crude simplicity.
But they were undeniably effective.
If the Warhammer 40K universe were a video game, power weapons would deal a single "-100" critical hit, while chain weapons would deliver a steady stream of "-5 -5 -5" damage.
The Sting Squad continued through the ship.
Fu Qinghai noticed that, unlike during the orbital drop, the squad was now down to five members, all injured. Three had fallen. Fu Qinghai silently acknowledged their sacrifice.
Even as elite warriors, death was a constant companion for Astartes. At most, their names would be added to the list of fallen brothers during post-training prayers.
Fu Qinghai wanted to figure out how the enemy had disabled the teleportation. He racked his brain, trying to recall details from the official Warhammer 40K novels.
He vaguely remembered the Blackstone Fortresses in the Gothic Sector, ancient Necron constructs capable of creating anti-warp fields.
But the Gothic Sector was light-years away, and the importance of three transport ships paled in comparison to a Blackstone Fortress. Even millennia later, the Mechanicum had only partially deciphered their technology.
And a massive fortress in orbit would've been detected by the 'Sosalan'.
The Tyranid Hive Fleets, with their 'Shadow in the Warp' and hive mind, also had anti-warp effects.
But this barren planet lacked the organic matter to attract Tyranids. Besides, the anti-warp field was clearly a pre-planned trap by the Word Bearers, not a Tyranid tactic.
Both possibilities were ruled out.
Fu Qinghai couldn't think of anything else that could block teleportation.
Given the Xenomorphs on the 'Bloody Worm', the only explanation was… Reincarnators!
While he wanted to investigate further, Fu Qinghai knew that regrouping with Flavorus was the safest option, not wandering the ship alone.
The Sting Squad followed the trail of battle, moving through the ship's interior toward the other side.
The sounds of intense fighting outside drew their attention. They were getting closer to their comrades.
As they emerged from the ship, a massive shadow flew toward them.
"Take cover!" Gurt shouted, diving to the side. Fu Qinghai ducked back into the doorway.
'Boom!'
The shadow slammed into the ship's hull, spitting blood.
Gurt looked closer and gasped. "Captain Flavorus!" He rushed to help the Terminator-clad Setheus Flavorus.
Fu Qinghai, still in the doorway, was stunned. What could throw a Terminator like that?
He looked up and saw a massive figure approaching.
Through the forest of black spikes and the flesh fused with mechanical parts, Fu Qinghai recognized it as a Leviathan Siege Dreadnought, a larger variant of the Contemptor. Painted in deep red and gold, it belonged to the Word Bearers.
But now, this Chaos-twisted monstrosity had a new, more fitting name—
Helbrute.
Flavorus, supported by Gurt, struggled to stand. His helmet was gone, revealing a bloodied face. His chest plate was caved in, and his ribs were crushed.
He coughed up blood, trying to speak. "Beware… plasma…"
In the distance, the Helbrute's right arm cannon glowed blue.
"Plasma cannon! Move!" Fu Qinghai screamed.
Gurt threw himself over Flavorus as the blue beam tore through the ship's hull, vaporizing two Ultramarines who hadn't moved in time.
Fu Qinghai emerged from the smoldering hole, chainsword in hand, charging at the Helbrute.
He wasn't fearless, but he knew they couldn't let it fire again. Plasma weapons were devastating but had long cooldowns. Overheating could cause them to explode.
Fu Qinghai sprinted across trenches and craters, charging at the Helbrute like Don Quixote charging a windmill.
As he got closer, he saw the Helbrute's pilot—a grotesque, muscle-bound figure with a bulging, vein-covered head—grinning at him from the twisted cockpit.
Fu Qinghai's mind was calm. He analyzed the situation as he ran.
'I'll slide under its blind spot, then…'
'Wham!'
A streak of silver light flashed.
Fu Qinghai was sent flying through the air, his entire body whipping backward before he crashed into a crater with a dull thud.
Dazed and disoriented, he looked up to see the infernal beast's left arm—a writhing, metallic whip-like appendage, glistening silver and segmented like the tentacles of some abyssal horror.
With a sharp crack, the whip lashed out again.
The first strike had already split his helmet, leaving deep gouges across the armoured plating on his chest. Through the fractured visor, he caught sight of the segmented silver tendrils hurtling toward him once more, saw the pilot's grotesquely twisted visage, saw the pale skulls impaled on the jagged spikes protruding from the Chaos Dreadnought's hulking frame.
The empty eye sockets of those skulls seemed to sneer at him, mocking his arrogance, laughing at his audacity to challenge a Helbrute.
His combat instincts ran the calculations. His famed technique—the desperation roll—would not be enough to evade the oncoming power whip.
It was over.
The price of recklessness.
That was Fu Qinghai's final thought—a grim joke to himself even in the face of death.
Then came the scream.
A piercing, earsplitting wail beyond the threshold of human hearing ripped through the battlefield. The invisible shockwave crashed over him like a tidal wave, sending his senses into disarray, his skull buzzing like an overcharged power conduit.
The Helbrute froze.
Fu Qinghai was still struggling to clear his head when a strong grip seized his shoulder plates, yanking him up.
His mind snapped back to clarity. He twisted, scrambled to his feet, and bolted.
The Helbrute let out an enraged, guttural howl as it regained control. Its bloated, mutated flesh quivered with agitation, the grotesque tendrils of its power whips flexing and coiling. The spikes adorning its body rattled, causing the skulls impaled upon them to clatter like a macabre wind chime.
Fu Qinghai turned, seeking his rescuer.
A tall warrior stood before him, clad in form-fitting, bone-white armour. A cascade of crimson hair, wild as an untamed flame, framed her face.
It was her—the Howling Banshee of the Aeldari.
The Helbrute roared, its massive mechanical legs stomping forward, each step shaking the ground. The segmented silver whips lashed the air, preparing for another strike.
The Banshee warrior moved first.
With an elegant bound, she vaulted over Fu Qinghai. Her boot planted firmly against his back, using him as a springboard to propel herself into a flawless backward somersault.
The power whips cracked down.
They struck nothing but empty space.
Fu Qinghai, however, was sent tumbling forward by the force of her kick, landing face-first in the dirt. His shattered helmet filled with loose gravel, dust choking his mouth as he spat and coughed.
He ripped off the ruined helmet, tossing it aside as arcs of electricity sputtered from its cracked circuits. Spitting out the grit, he stood, gripping his chainsword tightly.
Not far ahead, the Banshee danced around the Helbrute like a ghost, her slim, curved power blade flickering in and out, carving thin crimson lines into the behemoth's mutated flesh.
Fu Qinghai scoffed.
"Scraping barnacles off a battleship," he muttered to himself.
Though the Howling Banshee was keeping the beast occupied, he knew it was a temporary distraction at best. The Helbrute's pilot only needed to protect his exposed head, and the Aeldari warrior's weapons were woefully inadequate for piercing the Dreadnought's infernal plating.
She wouldn't last long.
Fu Qinghai's gaze locked onto the writhing, silver tendrils of the power whips. Four in total. Each pulsing with crackling arcs of eerie blue energy, power fields rippling along their length. Even with his agility, he had barely survived a single strike.
Only one thing could counter this.
Armour against armour. Machine against machine.
As if in answer to his thought, a warning light flared on the Helbrute's right arm—the plasma cannon's energy cells pulsed with a growing, ominous blue glow.
Fu Qinghai clenched his jaw. He had no time to think. He revved his chainsword and charged once more.
Before he could close the distance, a molten burst of golden-red energy roared in from the side, striking the Helbrute's flank.
The Chaos-infused monstrosity let out an inhuman wail of agony. Its flesh, grafted to the corrupted armour, blackened and peeled, its metal frame warping under the sheer heat.
Fu Qinghai's eyes snapped toward the source.
A massive, deep-blue figure loomed over the battlefield. A Dreadnought, smaller than the Helbrute but no less formidable, its twin melta cannons still glowing from the discharge.
The Ultramarine Contemptor Dreadnought had arrived.
A triumphant grin split Fu Qinghai's face. The reinforcements had finally reached them.
The Banshee leaped aside just in time, narrowly avoiding the spray of molten slag that splashed onto her armour, the intense heat warping parts of her bone-white plating.
She shot a glare toward the Contemptor Dreadnought, knowing full well that, to an Astartes, an alien's life was insignificant. Had she been caught in the blast, it would have been deemed an acceptable casualty.
The Helbrute, its armour melting and flesh shriveling under the heat, twisted its massive frame to face the new threat. One of its power whips raised—only to be intercepted mid-air.
A colossal power claw clamped down, crushing the writhing tendril in its vice-like grip.
From the claw's palm, a plasma blaster discharged at point-blank range, sending a brilliant beam of cerulean energy searing into the Helbrute's chest.
Then, from behind, Fu Qinghai heard a familiar voice.
"Qingshan!" It was Gurt.
Spinning around, he saw a tall bald Word Bearer wearing Chaos Terminator armor leading a team of Space Marines towards the Stinger Squad.
The battlefield was shifting rapidly.
Fu Qinghai turned back to the Banshee, nodding sharply. "Watch yourself."
With that, he sprinted toward his comrades, chainsword roaring.
Two Word Bearer warriors broke off to intercept him, chain-axes gleaming.
This time, he wasn't running in blind terror. He launched himself into the air, blade raised for a devastating downward strike.
A clash of steel rang out, sparks scattering through the air.
The chainsword, far heavier than a power sword, met resistance as the Word Bearer warrior twisted his axe shaft, attempting to catch Fu Qinghai's whirling teeth in the lower edge of his chain-axe.
But Fu Qinghai had no intention of letting him succeed. Instead of pulling back, he pressed forward, shoving hard against the sword's crossguard. The furious grinding of teeth forced the Word Bearer to jerk his head back just in time, barely avoiding the deadly bite.
With a sudden twist, Fu Qinghai wrenched his chainsword free and swung it in a full, arcing 360-degree motion. The sheer momentum and raw power behind the strike sent the weapon cleaving into the warrior's waist.
A burst of crimson exploded outward, thick arterial spray coating the battlefield in a chaotic dance of gore.
Before he could savor the victory, another chain-axe came hurtling toward his shoulder, its buzzing teeth promising a swift end.
Fu Qinghai had already braced for impact, willing to take the hit if it meant eliminating his first opponent. But before the axe could connect, a dark shape flashed through the air.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a thin, black disc—a razor-edged throwing star—cutting a deadly path through the air.
A split second later, the second Word Bearer's helmeted head was sent spinning skyward, a geyser of blood spraying from the twitching, headless corpse.
The Howling Banshee's shuriken pistol.
Fu Qinghai didn't even need to turn around to know who had intervened.
The Aeldari woman had made her choice—not to engage in the duel between the two mighty war machines, but to strike where her blade could make a difference.
Because neither side in that battle would care if she lived or died.
Fu Qinghai nodded at the masked Aeldari warrior, acknowledging her assistance. Without hesitation, he drove his blade into the fallen Word Bearer's chest, ensuring the kill before pressing forward.
Ahead, Gurt was locked in combat with a towering Terminator-clad Word Bearer. The monstrous figure wielded a massive, twin-bladed battle-axe, his armor adorned with long, jagged spikes—each one impaling a rotting, decayed skull. Some were stripped bare to bone, others still bore remnants of rotting flesh.
It was clear Gurt was completely outmatched. Every strike from the Terminator carried devastating weight, forcing Gurt back with each clash. He was barely holding on.
It was expected. Any warrior chosen to don Terminator armor was already an elite among their legion. The reinforced Adamantium endoskeleton and additional layers of fiber-bundled muscle provided strength beyond ordinary power armor.
Though slightly slower, a skilled wearer could mitigate that disadvantage with raw combat prowess.
This armor was designed for close-quarters carnage.
The bald-headed Word Bearer's strikes were relentless. Even though his own movements left him exposed, Gurt had no choice but to stay defensive. His attacks might not even breach the Terminator's armor, but a single mistake on his part would spell certain death.
Fu Qinghai and the Banshee wasted no time joining the fray.
Sensing their approach, the Terminator suddenly lost interest in Gurt, knocking him aside with a brutal axe strike before turning to face them.
His sickly yellow eyes, devoid of pupils, locked onto Fu Qinghai. A cruel grin stretched across his battle-scarred face.
"I've seen you in the surveillance feeds, boy. A Techmarine charging into the frontlines? Bold."
"Idiot." Fu Qinghai spat, swinging his chainsword in response.
The Terminator effortlessly deflected the strike with a flick of his thick wrist guard, smirking as he continued.
"I've never had the pleasure of breaking a White Scar before. You should feel honored. I've already reserved a place for your head on my armor—right here." He tapped his left pauldron. "A fine addition to my collection."
He lunged, his battle-axe slicing through the air toward Fu Qinghai.
But the White Scar warrior was faster, darting aside before the weapon could land.
"This is an honor," the Word Bearer sneered.
'Is that the best taunt you've got?' Fu Qinghai thought to himself, unimpressed.
As the Banshee clashed with the remaining Word Bearer warriors, Fu Qinghai focused on his opponent—the Chaos Terminator.
He had no idea this man was actually the commander of the three transport ships.
Clawing through a few exchanges, the battle reached a moment of opportunity. The Terminator's axe came down hard—too hard. It buried deep into the dirt, momentarily stuck.
Fu Qinghai saw his chance.
He stomped down on the embedded axe blade, preventing its retrieval. At the same time, he drove his chainsword forward in a straight, unexpected thrust aimed directly at his opponent's face.
The roaring teeth of the chainsword grazed past the Terminator's nose, slicing a thin line across the bridge and drawing blood.
Had the Word Bearer not released his weapon and pulled back, that would have been the end of him.
Fu Qinghai grinned.
"That all you got?"
Fu Qinghai planted a foot on the axe and raised his chainsword, staring down at the unarmed, bald-headed warrior before him. His expression was filled with disdain.
The bald warrior's face darkened, but he said nothing. Instead, he braced his shoulders and lunged forward in a full-body charge.
Fu Qinghai did not meet him head-on. Instead, he kicked the axe aside and pivoted gracefully out of the way.
The Chaos Terminator stumbled forward, meeting nothing but empty air.
"Huh?"
Fu Qinghai exaggerated his expression of confusion, his mouth forming a comically large "O." Both of them were helmetless, and his theatrical reaction made it seem as if the bald warrior had just done something absurdly ridiculous.
The Terminator's face twisted in fury, his breathing growing heavier, his complexion darkening as if about to burst.
He realized it now.
This White Scar was toying with him.
The most effective taunts required no elaborate insults—just a simple question and a single phrase: "Is that it?"
Fu Qinghai knew this principle well. He could already feel the cracks forming in his opponent's composure.
The bald warrior hesitated. The calm confidence he had displayed earlier was gone.
Several exchanges later, fear had begun creeping into his movements.
He did not dare to bend down and retrieve his fallen weapon. He knew the White Scar was fast—too fast. The slightest opening, the briefest moment of vulnerability, would be enough for Fu Qinghai to claim his head.
The standoff dragged on.
Then, unexpectedly, Fu Qinghai did something truly baffling—
He tossed his chainsword aside, spread his hands open, and smirked mockingly at his opponent.
The bald Word Bearer's eyes widened in shock, his rage igniting like a wildfire. To him, this was not just an insult—it was an unforgivable humiliation. His jagged teeth clenched, grinding against one another, blood seeping from his gums as he snarled.
"You… are… DEAD!" With a roar, he charged again, throwing all caution aside.
This time, Fu Qinghai did not evade. Their armored bodies collided with a thunderous impact.
The force sent Fu Qinghai staggering back, struggling to hold his ground. The Chaos Terminator was a head taller than him, and the raw power of his armor pressed forward like an unrelenting avalanche.
They locked grips, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, glaring at each other like two raging bulls. The artificial muscle fibers of their power armor strained, locking into a battle of sheer strength.
But the advantage was clear—Terminator armor provided superior reinforcement. Bit by bit, Fu Qinghai was being forced back.
Then, something shifted.
From behind Fu Qinghai's power pack, a large mechanical arm unfolded like a serpent uncoiling. Two clawed pincers, sleek and menacing, reared up like the fangs of a viper.
The clamps spread open, revealing the barrel of a welding torch—aimed directly at the bald warrior's face.
Fu Qinghai's cold gaze silently conveyed his message.
'You fool. Did you really think I gave up my weapon? I always have one more.'
"No—!"
The bald warrior's eyes went wide. He tried to pull away, but it was too late. They were already locked in place, their grips binding them together.
A burst of searing white flame erupted from the welding torch, lancing straight into the Chaos Terminator's unprotected eyes.
Flesh vaporized. The searing heat burrowed into the warrior's skull, reducing his brain to charred sludge.
The iron grip on Fu Qinghai's arms slackened. With a single push, he sent the massive warrior toppling backward like a crumbling fortress. The Chaos Terminator crashed onto the ground, motionless. Where his eyes had once been, only blackened, empty sockets remained.
It was over.
Fu Qinghai exhaled heavily, his chest rising and falling as he processed his victory.
'I just single-handedly took down a Chaos Terminator.'
It had required skill, planning, and deception—but in the end, the formidable enemy had fallen at his feet.
A triumphant smirk played on his lips.
Then he noticed something strange.
His allies were not celebrating. They were staring—horrified.
Fu Qinghai followed their gaze. And he saw it.
The deep crimson monstrosity, the Helbrute, coiling its power whips. Four segmented, metallic tendrils undulated like the limbs of some infernal cephalopod.
They lashed out toward the fallen form of a Contemptor Dreadnought, clad in deep blue ceramite.
The tendrils slithered into the Dreadnought's sarcophagus-like cockpit.
And tore free the pilot within.
A grotesque, half-dissolved figure—reduced to a head, a spinal column, and a mess of still-writhing nerves—was lifted into the air, wires and tubing trailing from the ruined husk.
The Helbrute roared in twisted triumph.
*****
Hey there guys,
If you're enjoying this wild ride, toss a power stone my way, drop a comment, or leave a review (bonus points if it's nice, but I'll take the roast too).
Also you're missing out on a lot of advanced chapters (More than 20). Head to my Patreon page to catch up on what's going on.
Patreon.com/Wild_Bunch