"I trust your judgment."
Arthur did not believe that a transmigrator like himself could read a battlefield better than a battle-hardened commander of the Cadian regiments.
So he chose to respect the native officer's word.
Behind them stood Cadians, not fragile flowers in need of protection.
Perhaps earlier he had harbored doubts about the Guard because of old stereotypes. But now, after fighting beside them at close range, both he and Romulus understood how much weight the words in the codices truly carried.
These were humans born on Cadia, the fortress world that had withstood twelve Black Crusades led by Abaddon the Despoiler. From the very first beat of their hearts they had been entangled with the galaxy's greatest evils, and yet they had survived.
And the regiment behind them was the Cadian 43rd, a unit that had marched out from that same world, one of the armies that had stood against Abaddon's countless invasions.
They were the elite among the Guard, role models for regiments across the Imperium.
The colonel's words were not some tragic farewell. They were something his soldiers could truly achieve.
Then it was simple. Trust them.
Free of hesitation, the two Astartes accelerated. Like sprinters at the crack of the starter's gun, they surged forward with explosive speed. Dust and filth whipped into the air, then were left far behind.
The thunder of armored boots on steel and the roar of rushing wind followed them. Unleashed, the Angels of Death could not be stopped.
But Colonel Kovek did not breathe easier at being acknowledged by the Emperor's Angels. If anything, his expression grew more complicated.
The departing warriors did not know that their instinctive respect for life was a rare luxury in this age.
Drip.
The ship shuddered. Water trickled down broken steel, splashed across exposed bone, and seeped into meat.
In the dark corridors, lit only by scattered unknown lights, countless cultists lurked, waiting to throw themselves into the service of their masters.
Of course, for those who had fallen to Chaos, the process was never quiet or orderly.
The ground was scarred and broken. Limbs were scattered everywhere.
Axes hacked at bone. From piles of corpses came the weak groans of survivors fused into flesh.
Warp-tainted miasma filled the air with a stench that sickened the soul itself, quietly twisting everything around it.
After preying on those who worshiped only death, the cultists of rival dark gods turned their blades on one another. Soon the corners of the corridor became a battlefield of even greater chaos.
After ten long minutes, one victor stood. His body was carved with wounds to the bone, but he drew breath in great gasps as if he could not feel pain at all.
Khorne's blessing coiled in his soul. He stared at the cultists who bowed in fear. Bone plates jutted from his face, covering his features. Even the cult leaders together could no longer stand against him.
But then—
"Not enough!"
His roar boomed through the corridor. Blood poured down from cracks in the ceiling.
"Still not enough!"
"I need stronger prey!"
In that instant, the air around him dropped. The pressure shift condensed the water into droplets that clung to his twisted horns.
Freezing cold raked his spirit, nearly wrenching a scream from his throat.
He knew. The Blood God had answered his prayer. An opponent had come. A hunt awaited.
Yes, a hunt. What was he supposed to do again
Fight? Yes— no.
Run. Yes, he had to run.
Run. Flee backward.
The heretic grabbed the wall to steady himself, turning to search for the Angel touched by divine power. Only the Blood God's chosen deserved to be his foe. How could he dare to claim such a prize
But the Blood God does not forgive cowards. As the shadow in the dark took form, his cry was silenced forever in his throat.
He could not see the shape cloaked in black, only faint glimpses of the holy Aquila beneath its robes.
He could not hear the blade whistle through the air, only drown in the despair of his flesh being torn apart and his life draining away.
On his brass throne, Khorne tilted his head in mild puzzlement, then dismissed it and turned his burning gaze toward a worthier arena.
The heretic's life ended in endless agony. His body fell as filth in the dark corridor, and his soul would never again reach the master he had once worshiped and so easily betrayed.
Arthur, an Angel who had crushed a speck of dust, gave the scene no more thought. He became a gale and charged into the next passage.
"Faster."
He paused half a second while Romulus planted another glowstick and an autocannon. His tone was sharp with irritation.
Dragged without reason into this cesspit. Forced into senseless slaughter. Forced to abandon men to complete a task that might decide the fate of the entire ship.
His hand trembled slightly on his sword as he felt the looming shadow in the corridor ahead.
It grated on him.
The alien feeling, the tearing dissonance between what he knew and what was real, drove him to want to destroy everything that unsettled him.
"Blood for—"
From the shadows, the massive figure stepped forward.
A Chaos Space Marine, towering like a tower of iron and flesh.
His battered armor was patched with writhing meat, the mark of endless years wandering the warp.
Arthur said nothing.
He was not like Romulus, always adapting, always finding purpose.
He only wanted to end this quickly, then find somewhere quiet enough to think.
His counterattack was swift. His shield smashed aside the descending axe. His power sword thrust twice into the heretic's neck.
A wet crack.
Even as death claimed him, the Chaos-twisted monster never finished his profane war cry.
Steel rang.
Arthur spun, the blade tearing free of foul flesh. Its sparking edge cut through armor and buried itself deep in the wall.
Another massive head thudded to the deck.
Clean. Efficient.
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