Creeak-graunch, creeak-graunch, creeak-graunch...
As he made his heavy, complex way back to the Dark Mechanicum flagship, Magos Biologis Morloch was still laughing. He was absolutely delighted. This group of Astartes were idiots, fools, morons. His forge world had won, and won again.
To be clear, this was the Maelstrom. Although it was a relatively stable region within the Maelstrom, it was still the Maelstrom. The Imperium had no control here; they couldn't even manage the outer fringes of the storm.
The Maelstrom was a massive, storm-ravaged region of warp space that even the humans of the Age of Strife had failed to tame. Countless colonists who had entered the Maelstrom back then had lost contact, been wiped out, or become lost, crash-landing on some forgotten planet where their descendants' technology devolved to a primitive state. For any organization, just finding a relatively stable area in this storm-wracked region was a considerable achievement.
This place was indeed dangerous. But danger also meant it had not been heavily exploited. The Maelstrom was paved with gold. Or rather, comparing its resources to gold was like comparing gold to sand.
The warp storms here were a natural phenomenon, at least according to the conclusions of countless scholars. Therefore, it was the same for everyone who came here. They could only plot relatively stable routes, use more professional Navigators, and travel through space with extreme caution, praying every day to the Emperor, the Four Gods, the Omnissiah, or Gork and Mork. Or sometimes, they just gambled, betting that their fleet of a dozen or so ships wouldn't be lost this time, or at least not too many of them.
It sounded dangerous, and it was. But on the whole, the risk was well worth the reward. After all, no one could do anything about the warp storms; everyone just had to adapt.
There was another point: the Imperium had no authority here. As a result, outlaws from all over the galaxy flocked to the Maelstrom. Although it was dangerous, it wasn't a warp-shit-hole like the Eye of Terror, where a mortal could mutate and become corrupted, growing a second head after just a few years.
This had led to the Maelstrom being filled with pirates and outlaws. And when this group of outlaws gathered, they certainly weren't going to take up farming or tighten screws in a factory. And so, a vibrant, thriving spirit of... enterprise emerged.
The great age of piracy had arrived.
In the starports and on the planets where these pirates and outlaws gathered, humans, Aeldari, Drukhari, Orks, and Chaos Space Marines all mixed together. According to some pirate code, they even managed to coexist peacefully in these places. The fact that order could be maintained in such a place was truly bizarre.
But these people who disliked farming didn't gather in the Maelstrom to hold seminars. What else could they do? Build factories?
Of course, they raided. They raided the Imperium, they raided each other, they raided the Mechanicus, they raided planets, they raided the Dark Mechanicum, they raided anyone and anything they could and dared to raid. This was also why the Maelstrom had never developed: the trade routes were unsafe, and the producers were constantly being robbed.
Yes, no joke, Daedalus had been robbed. More than once. Daedalus was Dark Mechanicum, yes, but their armies, like all Mechanicus armies, were "Skitarii." The reason they were called the Protectorate Army and not the Missionary Army or the Mechanicus Assault Army was because they were originally created to protect the faith.
If the Skitarii defending a warship were boarded by Space Marines, they would most likely be beaten until their oil came out. They would be annihilated. A small resource extraction point garrisoned by priests and Skitarii, when faced with an approaching pirate fleet, had best retreat into their underground defensive facilities and watch helplessly as the pirates loaded up the resources they had gathered. They would be furious, but powerless.
The Skitarii excelled at large-scale, combined arms warfare on a planetary surface. If those Space Marines dared to line up for a pitched battle on a planet, or if the small resource extraction point had a large Skitarii force, it wouldn't be a problem.
It was as if some unseen force was holding the Skitarii back. It was one thing to lose to Space Marines in small-scale, close-quarters combat. But sometimes, even against the Astra Militarum, on an open plain with roughly equal numbers, they would still lose.
Many Mechanicus Magi attributed this to the fact that, after their augmentations, the priests lacked a certain passion and characteristic required for war, leading to a relative inefficiency in command during actual combat.
The Magi Biologis had dissected the brains of countless commanders and still hadn't figured it out. They had the numbers, they had the equipment advantage against the Astra Militarum, so why couldn't they win more often?
The fact was, sometimes they had to fight boarding actions, and a small resource extraction point couldn't deploy a large-scale Skitarii force. Thus, they had become the disadvantaged group in the Maelstrom. With the defensive firepower of Daedalus, no one dared to attack their forge world. But as soon as they ventured out, countless pairs of wolfish eyes would be upon them.
Until this group of Space Marines came along. They were so foolishly generous, handing over a priceless STC right off the bat, and for a ridiculously low price.
Morloch had a plan for the fifty-fifty split of the resources from the very beginning. The servitors doing the mining were his, the low-level priests were his, and the storage and transport equipment were his. Were the Space Marines going to watch them mine every second of every day?
It was impossible, and they wouldn't be able to keep up. So, who decided how many resources were actually mined? A fifty-fifty split? Fifty percent of what? Now, they could mine the resources in this system as they pleased, and they could set the split ratio however they wanted.
And now, that stupid Astartes leader had even given them a planet. This meant their resource extraction points now had free bodyguards. If any more pirates came, they would just tell them that these resources also belonged to those Astartes. If you dare to come and rob us, we'll send three truckloads of Astartes after you. It wasn't like the Astartes had ever lined up to be counted; no one knew exactly how many there were.
Morloch was starting to like this group of Astartes. They were honest, trustworthy, generous, and stupid. Barely smarter than an Ogryn.
When he returned, he would propose in the council to increase the aid to this group of Astartes. If they could trade for gene-seed, they could even sell it to them at a slight discount.
Maybe... maybe they could move Daedalus here. Although they didn't have the technology to move planets, the Omnissiah certainly did. After all, their forge world had found the true Omnissiah and had immediately pledged their allegiance. Surely the God of All Machines would be generous in his blessings.
At this thought, the Magos let out a cold snort, his contempt for Mars palpable.
Mars had no omnipotent Machine God. That Earthling warlord named the Emperor was not the avatar of the Omnissiah.
But the Omnissiah was real. He was just not in the physical universe, because he was in the Warp. In a place called the Soul Forge. There, they had found the Omnissiah, and had converted to His faith.
"Prepare for departure. We are returning to the forge world," Magos Morloch ordered in his metallic, grating voice, which was both a command and a prayer.
"This universe is a domain of peril, and the soul-storm thirsts to consume us.
Ring the Great Bell once! Push the lever, engage the piston and pump.
Ring the Great Bell twice! Press the button, start the engine, and kindle the turbine to life.
Ring the Great Bell thrice! Sing praise in unison to the God of All Machines."
"Praise be to the Lord of the Soul Forge! Praise be to the Omnipotent Machine God—Vashtorr."
...
Finally, after two years, Peter felt the solid ground beneath his feet again, a reassuring sensation.
In the council hall of the city-state of Nopea, Peter now sat upon the newly forged steel throne of the Consul, awaiting the reports from the planet's Governor and other high-ranking nobles, so that he might understand the changes the planet had undergone in the past two years.
Of course, he would not rely solely on the words of these nobles. The reports from the brothers who had remained on the planet were far more trustworthy. Still, this was an indispensable process—on one hand, to understand the mortals' thoughts, and on the other, to intimidate them with his presence.
But as the large wooden doors were violently thrown open, it was not mortals who entered the council hall, but a Forged Steel brother. The dark-skinned brother strode quickly to Peter's side and said with a grave expression, "Boss, there's trouble on the homeworld."
Seeing the Warpsmith's serious face, Peter knew something was indeed wrong. He swallowed inexplicably and asked, "What happened?"
A week ago, Philon was slacking off in the forest... scouting, yes, scouting. He was now on the second continent of Lemnos III, having landed only a few hours ago.
Lush forests and green grass surrounded him. The fluffy soil beneath his feet gave off an earthy fragrance, and his every step left a deep impression. The beautiful natural environment even tempted Philon to take off his helmet. He was currently holding a power hammer, with a flamer pistol attached to his thigh by a mag-lock.
He had wanted to come and see this continent for a long time. What was the point of just observing it from a distance in a Storm Eagle gunship? But Captain Vornaby had said that the warriors of these primitive tribes were savage and fierce, which was a good quality, and that they shouldn't make hasty contact and pollute their culture.
He casually grabbed a handful of leaves from a nearby tree and stuffed them into his mouth, chewing them thoroughly. As he chewed, Philon savored the essence of the forest.
The Warpsmith discovered that this continent was completely different from the main one. The main continent was mountainous with few plains, had little rainfall, and the land was relatively barren. This second continent, however, had vast plains, with only a few mountain ranges in the center, and large swathes of plains and forests across its entirety.
This continent accounted for only a quarter of the world's total landmass, and according to the Dark Mechanicum's estimates, its population was only about one million. This was different from the main continent, whose records showed about two million citizens, but that was after excluding women, children, slaves, and outsiders. The actual population was over ten million.
But this continent truly had only about one million people, and the inhabitants hadn't even developed metallurgy yet.
When observing from the gunship earlier, he had noticed that the locals had a peculiar weapon: they embedded obsidian shards into wooden clubs, using the sharpness of the obsidian and the blunt force of the club to strike their enemies.
Although the captain had said not to contact the locals for now, he figured there was no harm in coming down for a look. If he was discovered, he could just slaughter everyone in the village. After all, what was a few dozen or a hundred people out of a million?
So there he stood, on this continent, taking out his auspex to search for the village he had spotted from the air. Along the way, he encountered a large, half-black, half-white rat with a baby on its back. Philon snatched the mother rat, tossed it into his mouth, and began to chew vigorously. Then, suddenly, he spat the half-chewed paste of meat onto the ground.
"Damn, why does it get stinkier the more I chew?"
Grumbling, he headed towards the village. When he was a few hundred meters away, Philon suddenly stopped. He heard something unusual. No, not just unusual—it was the sound of a slaughter, the sound of weapons hacking into flesh and bone.
Philon could hear it so clearly from such a distance thanks to his ears. To be precise, they were not his original ears, but a modified organ installed through surgery: the "Lyman's Ear." The ear just looked a bit larger than a mortal's.
But its function was significant. It gave an Astartes superior hearing, allowing him to hear farther and more clearly. It also allowed an Astartes to filter the sounds he heard, reducing the noise of gunfire on a chaotic battlefield so he could hear his superior's orders or the enemy's footsteps—whatever he wanted to hear.
Even if a heavy bolter fired right next to his ear, an Astartes would not suffer from tinnitus. If a heavy cannon shell landed nearby, he would not get shell shock. Just as mortals relied on their cochlea for balance, an Astartes also used this organ to maintain his equilibrium. No matter the turbulence or the dogfight of a fighter jet, an Astartes would not lose his sense of balance, nor would he need a vomit bag.
Philon quickened his pace and ran to the top of a small hill, dropping to the ground in a tactical prone position. He took a pair of magnoculars from the mag-lock on his waist and observed the situation.
A wide grin spread across Philon's face, revealing his white teeth. A triumphant laugh escaped his lips. "This is a hell of a lot more interesting than watching Ogryns do a naked dance."
In the clearing below, in a small village of wooden huts and tents, a group of primitives painted with blue woad were fighting a group of invaders.
The village's inhabitants wore feathered headdresses, their bodies painted with blue woad and wrapped in coarse linen. There were more than forty able-bodied warriors, both men and women, clad in armor sewn from beast hides and armed with obsidian spears and clubs. In the back rank, some held crudely made bows, and two warriors even puffed out their cheeks, using blowpipes. They protected the women and children of the tribe behind them.
In contrast, there were only about twenty attackers, also both men and women. They were bare-chested, their lower bodies covered with beast hides, or not at all. The leaders had several skulls hanging from their belts. This group wielded bone spears, stone axes, or similar obsidian clubs. Their most prominent shared feature was a red cross painted on their faces, and for some reason, green saliva dripped from the corners of their mouths.
This group of invaders was completely overwhelming the natives. Although the blue-woaded primitives had ranged weapons, and their arrows were surely poisoned, it was no use. Several arrows and darts had hit their targets, but the enemy simply ignored the wounds and continued to charge.
The tallest among them, who had also suffered the most arrow wounds, roared, "Offer the skulls and blood to the servant of the Blood God, the Blood-Handed Butcher!"
Several of the red-crossed warriors, armed with bone spears and great axes, charged into the blue-woaded formation, hacking left and right and felling several of them. But just then, an old woman in a blue robe and a feathered headdress stepped forward from behind the blue-woaded line. The old woman made a grasping motion in the air with her fingers, and the roaring brute froze in mid-air.
"The Feathered Serpent God will punish the enemy!"
The bare-chested brute stood stunned, his eyes bloodshot. With a sudden pop, his head exploded, his brains scattering everywhere.
Philon Gordon's heart skipped a beat. Aren't these a bunch of Chaos cultists? Well, I'll be damned. It's been almost two years, and we didn't even know there were heretics on our own homeworld. Captain Vornaby really dropped the ball.
Philon quickly got to his feet, intending to head back to the Storm Eagle's landing zone and inform the other brothers.
Just then, he heard a sharp tink. Philon felt a light tap on his bald head. He looked down and saw a stone axe lying on the ground.
In the woods a dozen meters behind him, two of the red-crossed Khorne worshippers were staring at him. They had dared to throw an axe at his head.
"Have you never seen a Space Marine before?"
Philon gripped his power hammer with both hands, not even bothering to activate its disruption field.
"Trying to act tough? I'll send you flying."
...
"Are you telling the truth? There are followers of Tzeentch and Khorne?" Peter was a bit skeptical. After all, the main continent showed no signs of corruption.
Philon puffed out his chest and answered righteously, "Boss, how long did we spend on that daemon world? You think I can't recognize a Chaos cultist when I see one?"
As he spoke, Philon took out some herbs. "Those cultists were also chewing on these. I had the Apothecary take a look. It's all stuff with stimulant and hallucinogenic effects."
Peter was genuinely worried that Philon had made a mistake and that the so-called Chaos cult was just a group of locals chewing on psychoactive herbs, practicing primitive ancestor and totem worship. After all, the different continents on the same planet had been separated for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. How could the difference in Chaos corruption be so vast?
Fine. He would trust Philon. "Alright, assemble all the brothers. We'll go take a look. And bring that newcomer, Priestess Yamila, with us."
Ten hours later, in a village of tents in a forest clearing, the campfires were still burning, but over a hundred corpses now lay on the ground, most of them mangled beyond recognition. Nineteen battle-brothers stood guard.
Apothecary Dioscorides and Priestess Yamila were examining the bodies, close to reaching a conclusion.
Apothecary Dioscorides spoke. "Although the external appearance isn't too severe, the insides show moderate mutation. The bodies have been twisted by the energies of the Warp and bear the marks of Khorne's blessing."
Priestess Yamila replied in a sharp, yet slightly magnetic voice, "Fifth random sampling, spanning five major regions of the continent. It can be concluded that the majority of humans on this entire landmass have been corrupted by Khorne and Tzeentch."
Peter approached the two of them. "From what you're saying, the people on this continent are of no use? They can't be used for industrial production or formed into a disciplined army. Keeping them around would be an absolute disaster."
Priestess Yamila stated, "Error. Negative. Moderate mutation is acceptable. They still have value when converted into servitors. The followers of Tzeentch include some unsanctioned psykers, who are of even greater value."
Peter looked at the priestess, knowing she didn't understand the difficulty of such a task. He explained, "Priestess, you are correct. If they were to gather and attack us, it would be no problem. We could round them up with capture nets. But we don't have time to crisscross the entire continent hunting them down. There are about a million people on this landmass, and most of their settlements have only a few hundred or a thousand people. The brothers and I cannot spend our time capturing a bunch of primitives a few hundred at a time."
Priestess Yamila replied, "Error. Negative. The continent has a dynasty. Their technology level is low. They worship the Feathered Serpent God of Tzeentch and have built small pyramids. Their capital and the surrounding areas have a population of over 100,000. There are also connections between the approximately 70,000 Khornate tribes in the north who worship the Blood-Handed Butcher."
Anthony, standing nearby, gave an impolite, indifferent shrug and interjected, "You mean those two primitive tribes? Just a few more people. We charge in, and they'll scatter. Instead of thinking about such meager profits, we should just scour the whole continent with a few orbital lance strikes."
Priestess Yamila's shoulders twitched as she spoke. "These are the only two places where a large number of slaves can be captured. In theory, it would reduce the cost by 40% compared to acquiring them from other sectors."
Faced with this situation—too tasteless to eat, yet a pity to throw away—Peter carefully considered his tactical options. Scour the continent with lances? But this was their homeworld. These Chaos cultists weren't a major threat; the problem was that they were hard to completely eradicate. It wasn't worth destroying their homeworld's environment over it.
Besides, although this continent wasn't as large as the main one, its soil was fertile, its forests were lush, and its plains were vast. It could be an excellent agricultural region with great potential for development. He couldn't bear to destroy it with orbital lances.
"Priestess Yamila, how long would it take to build a weather control system covering this continent?"
Yamila was perplexed. "According to the plan, the weather control system is a project for seven years from now."
"Can it be expedited?"
Priestess Yamila stood still, seemingly calculating. Peter didn't rush her.
"Confirmed. By suspending other work and starting construction of the weather control facilities for this continent ahead of schedule, the estimated completion time is 2.4 years."
"Very good."
Peter gave a nod of approval, then called out over the internal comms channel, "Vornaby, Philon, you two come over here as well."
The two men, hearing their names, came over to join them. The field commanders were now gathered around their lord.
"This is my strategy. Since these two continents have coexisted peacefully for so many years, and now that we are monitoring them, the probability of an incident is even lower."
"The Dark Mechanicum will prioritize the construction of this continent's weather control system. The moment it is complete, we will begin our operation."
"At that time, we will begin to gradually reduce the rainfall on this continent, moving from the outside in, like a constantly tightening circle. This will force the primitives on the periphery to gather towards the center. In the process, the old, weak, and sick will be culled."
"Over the course of one to two years, by controlling the water supply, we will gradually force them to congregate in a central location. By then, the survivors will all be young and strong, and most of the high-ranking individuals, like the psykers, will also have survived."
"Then, we can pick and choose from a small area, capturing them at our leisure. Anyone who tries to leave the area will die of thirst. Anyone who tries to return will be met with our slave-catching nets."
"After we have captured the raw materials for servitors and the psykers, we can even let the land remain barren for a few more years, eliminating the local ecosystem in this... gentle manner. When the time comes, we simply let the rains return, and we can plant whatever we wish."
Vornaby pondered for a moment before replying, "A perfect plan. Aside from the amount of time it will take, it has few flaws. In any other situation, such a tactic would be unacceptable. The weather control equipment could be destroyed, aircraft could leave the continent, and Astropaths could call for outside help."
"But in the current situation, it is perfect. This continent has no deserts and has abundant rainfall. No one is in the habit of storing water. It's almost impossible for any of the Chaos cultists to survive a prolonged drought. The captured slaves and psykers will also be a source of income, and we won't have damaged the soil with chemical agents; the land will simply be lacking water."
Vornaby praised the strategy, and the others agreed. And just like that, the strategy, codenamed "Operation Drought," was easily decided upon.
And the million or so people and trillions of creatures on this continent had no idea that their fate had just been so casually decided by a few individuals in an unknown, small settlement.
With the strategy finalized, the group returned to the main continent by aircraft. After all, they now had gene-seed. They had to begin the most important task for any Legion, Chapter, or warband of Space Marines.
Recruitment.
...
Alexios set down his round shield and spear. Lying prone between a crevice in the rocks, he carefully extended a plastic tube into the gap and greedily sucked the water from within.
After just five or six swallows, Alexios felt himself come back to life. He stopped swallowing the water, instead holding it in his mouth and spitting it into the empty canteen beside him. After repeating this a dozen times, the canteen was nearly full.
Alexios capped the canteen and passed it back. The boy behind him, holding a bow and keeping watch, took it without hesitation, uncapped it, and began to drink. He stopped when it was about half empty and passed it to the last member of their group.
Alexios glanced up at his companion for a moment before continuing his work. They were his younger brother, Lycurgus, and his cousin, Aurelian. The three of them had set out together on "The Odyssey."
"The Odyssey" was what the locals called this great path of ascension. Boys between the ages of 10 and 15 were permitted to form groups of no more than three and set out from Kaukones. They had to reach the Sanctuary of the Forged Steel Angels, located in the middle of the sea, within a specified time.
Most of the journey was through dangerous wilderness and treacherous mountains. The Angels had decreed that no one was allowed to help them, and in truth, there was no one to ask for help along the way. They were only allowed to carry cold weapons and no advanced technology—the standard for "advanced" being as simple as a promethium lighter.
They had been walking for six full days. The trio's food supplies were nearly gone, and more critically, they were out of water. It was a stroke of luck that they had found this water source in the rock crevice; otherwise, they would have died of thirst in these arid mountains.
Alexios knew they had to pick up the pace. They had already spent too much time on the land portion of their journey. They had a map, but it had become clear that the distance on the map and the actual distance on foot were two entirely different things. At this rate, they would never reach the Angels' Sanctuary, and even if they did, the Angels would not accept those who were late.
After replenishing their water and checking the position of the stars, Alexios and his companions decided to make camp for the night. Even if they were in a hurry, they had to maintain their physical condition. Besides, traveling at night in a place like this was not a good idea. They could top off their canteens again in the morning before they left.
The three of them divided the work with practiced ease: gathering firewood, starting a fire with flint, and setting up a watch schedule. Alexios and his brother took out their sleeping bags, removed their bronze cuirasses, and wrapped themselves tightly in their red cloaks, the first to fall asleep.
In his dreams, Alexios saw his father again, the leader of the Lacedaemonians, the king who had been shot and killed by a lasgun during the parley on the city walls.
In Alexios's memory, his father was strong and majestic, wise and brave. He had taught Alexios and his brother in the Lacedaemonian way. He had led the kingdom in the Lacedaemonian way, working seamlessly with the other king to make Lacedaemon great again.
But their enemies had ambushed his father during the negotiations, a dishonorable attack during a sacred parley. Afterwards, his enraged uncle had led their soldiers out of the city and defeated the shameless cowards once again. They were nothing but weaklings, completely unable to defeat the mighty Lacedaemonians.
It was only when the Angels themselves descended that their city gates were breached. An Angel had come before the second king and commanded him to surrender. The king had proudly declared that before he surrendered, he would have a duel of honor.
And so, a battle of disparate strengths began. The king raised his arm and threw his spear, striking the Angel's chest plate. He then drew his Lacedaemonian war-blade and charged with his shield. The Angel, with a single wave of his arm, shattered the king's shield and forearm.
But the king didn't care. He struck the Angel's knee with his war-blade, a blow that should have severed the tendons in his leg, but it only produced a sharp crack. The king immediately thrust upwards, attempting to plunge his blade into the Angel's abdomen and gut him, but it was blocked by the armor. The force of the blow was so great that the blade broke. The Angel then drew his combat knife and, in an instant, took the king's head.
Three times. The king had struck the Angel three times. It was an honorable duel.
And so, the blood of two kings and countless warriors had bought their city-state special privileges. They had surrendered, but they were allowed to keep their faith in Ares, the God of War, and Zeus, the King of the Gods. They could maintain their own laws, collect their own taxes, and were exempt from the tithe. They could keep their army, and the Planetary Governor had no authority over them. Because they had surrendered and sworn fealty to the Angels, not to that bunch of weaklings.
In return, they were to provide recruits for the Angels, both mortal soldiers and new Angels, for they were the bravest, and the bravest warriors must follow the strongest leader and fight among the morning stars.
Just as Alexios was lost in his dreams, the words "We've got company!" jolted him awake. It was his cousin Aurelian's voice. He instinctively sat up and grabbed the spear beside him. His brother, Lycurgus, was already on his feet with his bow.
"What is it?" Alexios asked his cousin, who was on watch, as he tightened his leather straps and secured his shield to his arm.
His cousin continued to scan their surroundings warily. "I thought I saw figures. They seem to be close."
Alexios didn't stop what he was doing. He knew why they were here. It was another group of boys on "The Odyssey," here to rob them of their supplies. After all, their own supplies were nearly gone, so the others couldn't be in much better shape.
Alexios knew there was no time to put on his armor. He kicked a spray of sand into the campfire, extinguishing it. It was making them too obvious a target.
Then there was darkness. A long darkness. Under its cover, the three of them grabbed their packs and retreated to the rock crevice. Alexios held his round shield and spear, guarding the left. His cousin held his shield and a Lacedaemonian war-blade, watching the right. Lycurgus stood in the middle, ready with his bow.
They could hear the sound of footsteps and the rubbing of armor in the darkness, but they didn't know from which direction the enemy was approaching. How many? What weapons? What condition were they in? They could only wait. It wasn't that they wanted to defend the water source, but retreating would expose a greater weakness.
Suddenly, a whooshing sound cut through the air. Alexios quickly raised his shield to block. With a loud thud, a javelin embedded itself in his iron-rimmed shield. Lycurgus, quick as lightning, fired three arrows in succession in the direction the javelin had come from.
Then, they heard a cry of "Aah!" and soon, three figures charged at them. They were three boys of about the same age, one with an arrow in his shoulder. They were also armed with short swords, spears, and javelins, intent on killing the three brothers.
The sudden charge made the bow useless. Lycurgus dropped it and drew his short sword to engage. The six boys had no feud or grudge; they were killing each other simply to compete for the chance to become an Angel.
Alexios braced his shield and thrust his spear at an opponent who was wielding a spear with both hands. The opponent deflected his attack with a flick of his spear tip. He then tried to bring his spear down on Alexios's head in a vertical chop, but it was blocked by the shield. With a sweeping blow, Alexios slammed the shaft of his spear into his opponent's head, sending him reeling.
Alexios always remembered the words his father had told him: "Wearing a helmet is always a good idea."
Taking advantage of his opponent's disorientation, Alexios thrust his spear directly into the boy's chest.
His own fight was over. He looked at his brother, who had already slit his opponent's throat. His cousin had also hacked his opponent to death.
It seemed they had won. But when his cousin turned around, Alexios saw that a javelin was buried deep in Aurelian's abdomen.
They were both stunned, until their brother Lycurgus said, "I'll get the medicine. And the wine."
But it was all useless. At first, his cousin could still move, fueled by adrenaline. But soon, he could no longer stand. He began to vomit mouthfuls of blood. The knowledge Alexios had learned from the people who had descended from the sky told him this was likely a sign of a ruptured liver.
Unless one of those flying machines could transport Aurelian away immediately, or a hospital established by the Angels' servants appeared right here, his cousin was doomed.
But obviously, neither of those things would happen. They had voluntarily undertaken "The Odyssey," and they had to be prepared to die on the journey. The two brothers could only stay by their cousin's side, keeping him company.
Aurelian's breathing grew weaker. He looked at his cousins and said, "Alexios, I'm so cold."
The two brothers took off their cloaks and wrapped them around him.
"Alexios, I have some regrets. Maybe I don't need to be an Angel. Maybe being a mortal auxiliary soldier would be fine too."
The two brothers just held their cousin's hand tightly.
"Lycurgus, I'm sorry. I was the one who drank that bowl of black broth. I didn't think you were worthy of it."
The two continued to hold his hands.
"Alexios, I can't see. Everything is dark. I regret it. I don't want to be an Angel anymore. I just want to go home."
Finally, Alexios made his decision. He stood up, took his spear, and thrust it hard into his cousin's temple.
The two of them gathered the supplies from the scene and prepared to continue their journey. They were silent. Their cousin, who they had grown up with, was dead. Although he had beaten them up more than once, he had also been the one to stand up for them when they were bullied.
After they had finished packing, Lycurgus finally couldn't help but ask, "Brother, aren't we going to bury him?"
Alexios replied with feigned indifference, "We don't have time."
He pointed a finger at the sky.
"The scavengers of Ares—the vultures in the sky—will take him away."