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The [Tears of Reason] descended like the most brilliant and scorching fireball, falling from the heavens and plummeting directly into the nest of ants. A colossal impact and shockwaves swept in all directions, raising wave after wave of steel storms. In this frenzied rain filled with blood and iron, the army of Dark Angels streamed out from the ship's hold.
And awaiting them was the dense army of the rangdan, like a swarm of ants. Tens of thousands of rangdan warriors and flesh slaves gathered from every corner of the Battle Moon. Compared to the battle-hardened Astartes warriors, these alien elites, whether fanatical or forced, likewise lacked no resolve or motivation to fight to the death. They pushed forward relentlessly against the airtight curtain of fire, and in the blink of an eye, swarmed every corner of the Relic battleship.
Thus, the first battle erupted in the Relic battleship's hull and on its deck. Hundreds of Dark Angels and opponents dozens of times stronger battled fiercely in corridors and compartments. The high heat of melta weapons, the scorching intensity of energy beams, and the torrential rain of explosive bolts illuminated the faces and lives of every warrior.
At least thirty of the finest Astartes warriors successively fell in this most chaotic melee. The surviving battle-brothers, however, trod upon hundreds of alien corpses, clearing this asura's arena.
Next, they charged out of the battleship, carrying the war to the rangdan's land. And there, awaiting them, were alien scum in numbers almost too vast to count. With just one close-quarters engagement, the Dark Angels' formation was completely scattered.
The complete organizational structure ceased to exist. Combat groups, comprised of dozens, a dozen, or even just a few veterans, became the main force for continued fighting. Bound by intermittent communicators and the tacit understanding forged through prolonged combat, they erected one blood-and-flesh wall after another, tenuously connected, amidst the surging tide of the rangdan army.
But not all warriors were so. Some were unfortunate enough to be separated from all their battle-brothers. Most of them, after killing tens, even hundreds, of times their number in enemy forces, were ultimately engulfed in the endless tide of aliens.
But there were always some lucky ones.
——————
"Die."
Hecter spat out a curt command.
Accompanying his voice, the greatsword, constantly flickering with emerald-green light, cut through the cold, thin air with a harsh whooshing sound, like a sharp scythe sweeping through fields of wheat.
The rangdan warrior before him fell instantly. With this fatal blow, its throat began to gush forth blasphemous blood, defiling the Astartes' armor.
But the neophyte of the Second Legion did not lower his guard. He raised the melta gun in his hand, unleashing scorching flames upon the alien's chest, until it was utterly reduced to a corpse, as described in the tactical manuals.
Having done all this, Hecter looked up, scanning his surroundings: he had been completely separated from the Astartes main force. Now, he was surrounded by the corpses of various aliens; some were rangdan, and others were terrifying aliens he had never encountered before.
Victory and slaughter were not without cost. Hecter's right arm had been completely pierced through by a dying strike from a rangdan warrior. The stark white bone was exposed to the air, feeling the chilling cold. On his chest and legs,
wounds and blade marks of all sizes continuously repeated the eternal cycle of bleeding and scarring. rangdan soldiers' blades were often coated with insidious poisons, vexing even the unyielding nerves of an Astartes warrior.
And at the same time, his ears caught more gasps and roars: more and more aliens were drawn to the battle here, like vultures circling a dying lion.
He might die here.
Such a thought flashed through Hecter's mind.
But he merely gripped his greatsword and continued onward.
"In truth, sometimes death is not bad news. On the contrary, what is called 'eternity' can be a form of torture."
For some reason, at this moment, the words of Battle-Brother Tarasin echoed in his mind. He remembered how that humorous senior sat on a chair, speaking those words with a tone that could be described as desolate.
He also remembered that when others pressed for more, Battle-Brother Tarasin clearly did not wish to discuss the topic further.
And just as Hecter was immersed in his memories, he heard a strange sound.
It was wailing.
The wailing of hundreds, thousands, even tens of thousands of aliens.
The sound was so chilling, terrifying, and distorted, as if their souls were being brutally ripped out by some unspeakable monster.
Hecter flexed his shoulder. He cautiously set his pace, slowly advancing towards the source of that sound.
Traversing a path that could be called a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood, he finally arrived at a site of an open, gluttonous feast. There, he saw that figure.
That silver-white figure.
——————
Three thousand…?
Or five thousand?
Morgan yawned lazily, her eyes closed, revealing her neat teeth and the pink tongue resting safely within to the cold air.
Just like a leisurely Persian cat.
And so, this blue-eyed Persian cat sat idly atop a hill piled with the corpses of hundreds of rangdan warriors. Her two long legs were intertwined. One arm rested on the corpses, supporting her almost collapsed body, while the other hovered in mid-air, occasionally snapping crisp fingers.
Each time this sound rang out, collective wails and struggles would erupt across a large part of the Battle Moon covered by Morgan's will. The rangdan army watched everything before them with considerable
astonishment: their comrades suddenly began to roar and writhe in agony, tearing at their armor, and even frantically biting their own companions. This madness would last for over ten seconds, until everyone simultaneously collapsed, never to rise again.
And Morgan only needed to open her mouth, and another delightful meal would be delivered to her. After a brief digestion, she would snap her fingers again, and thousands of rangdan warriors, a thousand miles away, would painfully die in a new round of struggles.
She had never enjoyed such a feast before. Tens of thousands of delicious souls, like wolves and pigs, ran wild under her mental net, harvested by her in swathes. These blasphemous black crystals might not be as tasty as those of the spirit race, but they made up for it in sheer quantity.
She could even feel that, accompanied by this unprecedented gluttony, her sealed memories were slowly thawing, revealing the next tip of the iceberg.
However, that joyful laughter continuously surged wildly in the depths of her heart, growing louder and louder.
Morgan listened to it. Her previous ravenous eating thus came to a halt.
Faced with this uncontrollable, increasingly rampant, twisted laughter, she could only… uneasily continue to eat ravenously.
But not everything went smoothly. After Morgan devoured approximately thirty to fifty thousand delicious meals, she realized that a column of powerful light points began to gather around her.
The rangdan army was never short of psychers. Moreover, because their homeworld was close to that terrifying eyeball, blasphemous faith thrived incessantly in various dark corners of the alien empire. rangdan psychers were often even more insane, powerful, and reckless.
Over a dozen psychic beings, second only to the [Warmaster], advanced towards Morgan's location. They transformed into streams of pure black light, vying with each other to engage this incredibly powerful opponent.
This indeed had an effect.
Morgan temporarily stopped eating. She stroked her chin, then thought of something.
——————
When Hecter arrived, the scene before him made him fall silent for a moment.
Here, alien corpses were piled into a mountain of bodies and a sea of blood. Yet, the perpetrator of it all sat majestically atop the mountains of the dead, without even staining her fingers.
She was idly hooking an alien corpse. Hecter recognized it as a high-ranking psyker from the rangdan army. She examined the alien's face, deep in thought.
[Fear can give birth to sweetness.]
[Those who die in fear are indeed more delicious.]
[It's just a bit troublesome.]
She seemed to be mumbling to herself, yet also seemed to be softly questioning Hecter.
[Then, what causes fear?]
Hecter remained silent. He simply stood quietly at the foot of the mountain of flesh and blood, his head slightly bowed, standing like the most ordinary of guards.
He stood there, like a stone statue, letting Morgan's soft murmurs wander among the flesh and blood. Then, he heard a few snaps of fingers, and vaguely, the wails of countless others. These twisted sounds came with the cold wind and quickly vanished without a trace.
Hecter listened to these sounds. His heart began to worry about his squad: Salieri, Ajax, and his revered master, Chiron. He had been separated from them, which rarely happened.
He began to consider whether to speak… to request.
Then, he heard a soft chuckle.
[The light of the stars is impartial.]
[As long as travelers do not step outside her domain, she will naturally watch over every one of them. Her light will fall upon their shoulders; there is no need to worry.]
[But some travelers will only receive impartial illumination and observation, while others… can receive more.]
[After all, even the stars favor those who are most powerful, loyal, and uniquely talented.]
The voice entered Hecter's ears. He remained standing in place, appearing neither happy nor sad.
But privately, the Astartes' fingers clenched tightly. He didn't know what emotion that was. Perhaps excitement? Or astonishment?
Hecter did not know.
But he knew well that when the phrase [can receive more] came like a whisper in his ear, in that very instant, his heartbeat did quicken for a moment.
Perhaps for more than a moment.
He stood there, listening to whispers, chuckles, and ever-approaching footsteps, until something seemed to drift from the air, turning its back to him, and settling on his left shoulder.
"Thud…" Hecter couldn't help but stumble, his knees making a sound of being overwhelmed.
So heavy…
His heart murmured involuntarily.
The Persian cat lady, who had been about to sit on his shoulder, clearly paused. Subsequently, Hecter felt a gaze upon him—a coldness that originated from instinct, making his entire body tremble.
In that moment, he felt himself to be so… weak.
But fortunately, that gaze eventually retreated. Hecter could hear a low, rapid incantation, spoken so quickly he could barely make it out.
Subsequently, the weight on his shoulder became much lighter.
He could feel the lady leaning against his backpack, her legs crossed, one hand resting on his helmet. Her high heels and the hem of her gauze skirt continuously tapped against his armor.
She seemed to immerse herself in a low-pressure mood for a while.
Then, there was another snap of fingers. This time, the sound seemed unusually loud, and the wails, laments, and screams that followed were also exceptionally loud.
Hecter waited a while longer, until that low-pressure mood ceased with a satisfied sigh.
[Let's go.] A direction appeared in his mind out of thin air.
"Yes… Lady." Hecter replied in a deep voice. He looked at the stars above, then began to move forward.
Above them, a struggle of blood and fire was unfolding. The stars were dyed crimson with blood, casting scarlet shadows on the ground.
Illuminating both the silent corpses.
And the two equally silent figures.
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