An army of the dead has slain from hell.

Aliens, tens of thousands of aliens, their tall bodies and ugly faces were the haunting nightmares of countless witnesses, but now, the strange reality of resurrection from the dead makes them even more terrifying.

What the five hundred people saw was a wall of corpses moving on their own, and the Randan warriors who were once again walking were squeezing each other, their guns and blades being haphazardly wrapped together with flesh and blood, forming a strange army formation with no end in sight, and they roared and rushed desperately towards the location of the dark angel.

Thousands of bullets hit them, but they were largely useless, the torn entrails and intestines flowed to the ground, and the rotting brains and shattered skulls were exposed to the air through the torn skin, but they still couldn't stop the pace of these resurrections.

It's like hell.

A living hell.

And the five hundred people just watched coldly.

This is enough to make any mortal feel a psychological breakdown, and for these battle-hardened veterans of the Dark Angels, it is nothing more than replacing the muffins of afternoon tea with cookies.

It makes no difference.

It can even be said that this kind of hellish scene is as many as stars in their memory, and if you talk about the degree of challenge to the limits of human psychology, this kind of situation of just a fortress and tens of thousands of corpses cannot even rank in the first hundred.

What's more, they have reasons why they can't take a step back.

He was walking among them.

——————

Lion.

Leon-Johnson.

The genoplasm of the First Legion.

He walked among the array of dark angels, like a natural knight king.

The greatest Caliban monster killer didn't wear his helmet, his long blonde hair and beard shone on the blood-red mottled starry sky, dyed with an invisible killing color, and a pair of pupils were hidden in the shadows, making it impossible to see.

The Lion was so tall that even though Morgan was standing on a distant cliff, he could still see his armor and body at a glance, and felt an indescribable feeling of oppression in his heart.

He slowly walked out of the array of dark angels, walked to the front, glanced at the approaching tide of corpses of the reborn, and gave the order.

[Keep it suppressed.] 】

[Stay covered.] 】

[Clear the road.] 】

Then, his blade pointed at a fortress in the core area of the Randan Fortress.

[Take that as the first stage goal.] 】

[Get moving.] 】

He commanded, and with this command, a silent answer swept in, and Johnson was the first to take a step, followed by five hundred people, like a roaring army of death.

——————

The gears of death began to spin.

Before Morgan's eyes, they were in motion.

[It's like a work of art.] 】

She couldn't help but sigh.

This is the first time Morgan has truly witnessed the art of war of a primordial being, this is not the embodiment of pure brute force, nor is it the greatness shaped little by little with his hands and time, this is the real ruthlessness and means, and it is a beautiful movement played with instinct and experience in a moment.

She felt that she had witnessed a peak, and that she would never see anything more majestic again.

Johnson and his men, five hundred and one warriors, five hundred and one hunters, they are one, they are of the same mind, they turn into a flowing blade of death, changing their presence and edge all the time.

Some things do not need to be ordered at all, and in the face of an opponent who can withstand thousands of explosive bombs, some of the five hundred warriors spontaneously stepped forward, and they were the same queues with incendiary weapons in their hands, and under the cover of their comrades, a majestic wall of fire was erected in an instant.

The dense rain of bombs also changed the norm to a more lonely and deadly cold gun, and Morgan entrenched himself on the best viewing platform, seeing everything clearly: the walking corpses twisted together, their knees and soles of their feet became the hardest hit, and these painless monsters had to fall to their knees under the power of physics, and every time a dense burst of gunfire rang out, several monsters would fall at the same time, and they would implicate the team, and finally turn into char in the flames.

Only the luckiest of the bravest were able to make it through this deadly level, and by the time they reached the eyes of the five hundred, the once powerful blades and bullets only left white marks on the pure black armor, and then the Dark Angel wielded a weapon Morgan had never seen before, slicing the attacking foes to pieces.

Every few seconds, it's done.

Morgan estimated that she had pulled up tens of thousands of Ran Dan's alien corpses, but in the blink of an eye, they were consumed, and although she didn't expect much from these worthless things, she still felt some kind of disappointment akin to frustration when she saw the unscathed lineup of the five hundred people.

In the midst of this disappointment, Morgan faintly heard some laughter, a strange sound that was the opposite of the twisted laughter and long shrill laughter that had preceded it, slow and gentle, with a rotten stench, like a late, unhygienic guest.

She turned her head and urged herself to ignore it.

And when all this happened, she didn't forget to pay attention to [Lion].

Yes, the [Lion] is the point, and all the people of the five hundred people together are not as good as a single strand of his hair.

In her opinion, it is so.

Morgan stood on a high cliff, watching his brothers fight in the ruins.

An inexplicable emotion appeared in her heart.

Five hundred people swept away the army of tens of thousands of dead in a matter of moments, but in this short but fierce process, Johnson never said a word.

He swung the great sword in his hand, and a whirlwind of slashing swept through the corridor of hundreds of meters, sending countless stumps and severed arms flying in the cold air.

His steps were unshakable, unshakable, neither the hordes of corpses nor the huge beasts that had swelled to the point of being like dangerous buildings, but they did not pause in his footsteps.

He didn't give any more orders, he didn't speak again, he just moved forward, he just swung his sword, he just became the irreplaceable leader of the slaughter, the array of dark angels ever-changing, but never deviated from his direction, as if they were not an army, but Leon-Johnson and his shadow so great that it could not speak.

Morgan watched it all until the last expendable fell to the ground, and she took a deep breath.

Everything may only be for ten minutes, but it is enough to leave a hard mark in her heart.

It's a different feeling.

She watched as the Lion and his shadow slowly stopped beside the fortress, and in front of them was the staircase that Morgan had not finished.

The dying [Ran Dan] marshal is inside.

Morgan could even hear the once great soul making a terrible roar that was becoming more and more unbearable under her [ripening], more and more like a wild beast.

But Morgan didn't care, she just looked at him, intently, at [Lion] himself.

That strange feeling began to burn in my heart.

He's not like them.

He's not like Magnus, he's not like Perturabo, he doesn't have their boisterousness, he doesn't have their exuberant desire to perform, he locks himself in the hood and the shadows, and he is truly silent.

Compared to him, Magnus was too noisy, like a mad poet destined to be thrown into death row by a ruthless tyrant, chanting illogical prophecies, and admiring himself that everyone was drunk and sober.

Compared to him, Perturabo was too hesitant, like a piece of pig iron that had been sitting for too long, irretrievably showing crimson rust, but still unwilling and complaining again and again to pounce on the furnace of destruction, convinced that he was the indestructible true steel.

Thoughts like these swirled around Morgan's mind, but she tilted her head slightly, immersed in a completely different thought.

It was something that burned in her chest.

That's a kind of ...... A familiar feeling.

A strange aura that she didn't perceive in Magnus and Perturabo.

She didn't hate it, on the contrary, she felt a warm current rather rarely.

She watched as the silent army gathered again, standing behind the [Lion] once more, and she watched as the long-haired Caliban knights raised their heads, and he seemed to glance in the direction of Morgan with a very subtle glance, and then devoted all his energy to the top of the fortress.

She watched as the dark angels gradually dispersed, seizing the last commanding heights and passes in the ruins, they were scattered like droplets, scattered, but they could be reunited into an intimate collective at any time and place, and she even caught a figure who quickly broke away from the group of five hundred and galloped through the ruins for a unique mission.

And when he had done all this, Johnson flicked his wrist, listened to the increasingly savage roar coming from the fortress, and walked in.

It was at this moment that Morgan moved, and she patted Hecht, who was as quiet as a chicken, to ensure that her poor heir had completely forgotten what she had just said.

It's good for him.

Thinking like this, she separated another wisp of divine sense and surveyed the poor Ran Dan [Battle Marshal].

After just one glance, she took it back uncomfortably.

The [ripening] carried out by tens of thousands of souls seemed a little wilder than she had imagined.

The alien marshal, in its current state, was even pitiful, it could have been in a frantic dying throes, but the Dark Angel's horror collection and interstellar war had drained its last ounce of energy, and when Morgan's methods roared, it had no strength to fight against it.

It's sad.

Morgan couldn't help but drool with regret.

She turned, took Hecht with her, and walked down the cliff to the ruined battlefield.

It's time to eat.

(End of chapter)