The moment the words left Caelan's lips, the Astartes moved. There was no transition, no contemplative pause. One moment he was a kneeling titan of fealty, the next he was an engine of war unleashed. He rose not like a man getting to his feet, but like a siege weapon being deployed; powerful leg servos whined with controlled force, and his nine-foot frame ascended in a single, fluid motion that belied his incredible bulk. The ground seemed to shudder under his weight.
"For the Lord of Mankind," he stated, his voice a flat, declarative fact broadcast through his vox-grille. To him, in that moment, Caelan was the embodiment of that title.
The nearest zombie was less than fifteen feet away, its mouth open in a silent, rotten scream. The Astartes didn't raise his rifle to his shoulder in a conventional way. The weapon, magnetically locked to his gauntlet, came up as an extension of his arm. The crimson glow of his optical lenses flared as his targeting reticule acquired the enemy.
The sound was not what Caelan had expected from reading the forums. It wasn't a simple gunshot. It was a two-stage cataclysm of sound that ripped the air apart. A thunderous CRACK of a propellant charge, followed a microsecond later by a deafening BOOM as the bolt shell detonated.
Caelan, still crouched behind the car, instinctively flinched, clamping his hands over his ears. He watched, eyes wide with horrified fascination, as the zombie's chest vanished. It didn't just get a hole in it; it ceased to exist, replaced by a momentary flash of brilliant light and a rapidly expanding cloud of red mist and pulverized viscera. The creature's head, arms, and legs were blown outwards, collapsing in a heap of disconnected, ruined parts.
Before the pieces had even hit the pavement, the Astartes had already acquired his next target. CRACK-BOOM. A zombie stumbling out from behind the rust-pocked van had its head atomized. Its body stood for a full second, geysering a fountain of black, stagnant fluid from its neck stump before it crumpled.
CRACK-BOOM. The woman in the tattered business suit was bisected at the waist. CRACK-BOOM. The teenager with the backpack was lifted off his feet and slammed into the side of a car, leaving a crater of twisted metal and a grotesque, scarlet smear.
It was methodical. Inhumanly so. Each shot was a guaranteed kill, an exercise in brutal overmatch. There was no wasted motion, no suppression fire. It was target, fire, detonation, target, fire, detonation. A relentlessly efficient cycle of extermination. Caelan felt a wave of nausea. The stench of gore, fresh and wet, overwhelmed the old scent of decay, and the metallic tang in the air became thick and cloying. He pressed a hand over his mouth, his stomach churning violently. The reality of it—the sights, the sounds, the smells—was a physical assault, a visceral horror that no game or book had ever prepared him for.
But beneath the revulsion, a different feeling bubbled up, dark and thrilling. This absolute, unrestrained power was his. Wielded on his behalf. From the safety of his hiding spot, he was a god, watching his wrath made manifest. A giggle, borderline hysterical, escaped his lips before he choked it back down. The scaredy-cat in him was cowering in terror; the chuunibyou was soaring on wings of vicarious might.
By now, the remaining zombies—perhaps a dozen and a half—had closed the distance. They were too close for the bolt rifle to be a practical tool. Without a word, the Astartes smoothly holstered his rifle onto the magnetic clamp on his thigh. His right hand went to the hilt of the weapon at his hip.
With a flick of his wrist, the chainsword roared to life. It was not a steady hum but a high-pitched, furious scream, like a thousand hornets trapped in a metal box, hungry for violence. The monomolecular-edged teeth spun into a silver blur, its motor belching a faint whiff of promethium exhaust.
The Astartes did not wait for the zombies to reach him. He charged.
It was not a sprint; it was an avalanche. Each thunderous footstep cracked the asphalt. The first zombie he met was swatted aside with a backhanded blow from his armored fist. The creature was flung twenty feet through the air, tumbling like a ragdoll before crashing through the rotted wooden frame of a nearby bus stop shelter, shattering it to splinters. He didn't even seem to notice the effort.
His chainsword sang its hymn of slaughter.
He swung the whirring blade in a wide, horizontal arc. It met the bodies of three shambling corpses at once. There was a sound of wet, tearing canvas and snapping bone. The saw-teeth bit deep, spewing a plume of black blood and rancid filth into the air. The upper torsos of the three zombies were sheared clean from their legs, collapsing in a tangled heap while their lower halves stumbled for two more steps before toppling.
Caelan finally lost his battle with his stomach. He lurched to the side and retched, the thin, acidic bile burning his throat. He could only listen now, squeezing his eyes shut against the carnage. The enraged shriek of the chainsword, the wet, percussive impacts, the crunch of ceramite stomping on bone, the sickening sound of flesh being rent and torn. It was a symphony of annihilation.
One particularly resilient corpse managed to latch onto the Astartes's arm, its teeth scraping uselessly against the thick ceramite pauldron. The Space Marine paused his stride for a fraction of a second, his red lenses fixed on the offending creature. He brought his bolt pistol up, pressed the oversized barrel against the zombie's forehead, and pulled the trigger. The resulting CRACK-BOOM was muffled, contained almost entirely within the creature's skull, which erupted like an overripe melon filled with firecrackers.
He tore the headless corpse from his arm and tossed it aside, his armor now spattered with streaks of dark gore and brain matter, looking like a butcher's apron of gunmetal grey.
And then, silence.
The high-pitched scream of the chainsword died down to a low, idling growl before cutting out completely. The oppressive quiet of the world returned, now punctuated only by Caelan's own ragged breathing and the faint, wet dripping sounds from the carnage.
He cautiously peeked over the hood of the car. The parking lot was a charnel house. Limbs and viscera were scattered like macabre confetti. Not a single zombie was left standing, or even twitching. Amidst it all, the Astartes stood still, a monolithic statue of victory, his grey armor a stark contrast to the red ruin he had created. He surveyed his work for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if confirming every last kill.
Just as Caelan began to process the sheer finality of it all, the cool, cobalt-blue text filled his mind again.
[Threats Eliminated. Commencing Post-Action Report.]
[Undead (Standard Strain) x24 Purged.]
[Points per Purge: 1.0 Requisition Point.]
[First Clear Bonus: x2 Multiplier Applied.]
[Total Requisition Points Earned: 48]
[Current Requisition Points: 48]
Caelan stared at the mental prompt, a dawning realization spreading through him. He got points for it. Like a game. Killing zombies gave him currency. He had "farmed" his first batch of mobs. The idea was so absurd, so mundane in the face of the bloodbath he'd just witnessed, that another hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up.
The thud of a heavy footstep snapped his attention back to reality. The Astartes had turned and was walking towards him. He moved without haste, his presence still an overwhelming weight in the air. The gore on his armor seemed to mock the sterility of the ruined world around them. He stopped ten feet away from Caelan's hiding place and once again, with the same impossible grace, dropped to one knee. He held the now-silent chainsword at his side, its teeth still slick with filth.
His voice, as monotone and calm as if he were reporting on the weather, cut through the silence.
"All threats neutralized, My Lord. The area is secure. Awaiting your further command."