Fogrem had described the war to Conrad Coetze, who he had expected to hear from Chemus about something full of beauty, but Fogrem didn't.

In fact, his tone at the time even sounded a lot like Ferus Manus.

"War is essentially a collection of killing techniques." Vogrim said thoughtfully.

"It's an old and advanced discipline, brother. It requires you to be precise, rational and swift while destroying your humanity, and then it requires you to embrace violence while possessing all of these calm qualities. ”

"It requires you to slash and slash your enemies with your sword, it requires you to use artillery and bombers to turn all your enemies into a mixture of flesh and ashes, and it even requires you to make heavy sacrifices at certain moments. So if you're sure you're going to start a war. Be sure to let it end quickly. ”

The Chemus shook his head and muttered softly.

"The more time passes, the more terrible it becomes."

Conrad Coetzes didn't understand what that meant, but now, he does.

He finally understood what Foggrim's bitter expression and what was hidden behind his words - it meant that he had grown, but was he happy about it?

The answer is no.

And, even now, when he becomes a member of the war, he does not feel that he knows anything about the war, he will only do one thing.

He will do nothing but kill.

Conrad Coetzes closed his eyes, then opened them again, ending his brief reflection and returning his attention to the battlefield in front of him.

The xenomorphs pulled the triggers of their guns, and a torrent of red light struck him and the warriors behind him. The ruins of the city's collapsed buildings withstood the direct rain of fire for them, and after four rounds of continuous firing, they stopped, and Van Cleef immediately organized a counterattack.

A company commander's roar sounded hoarsely in the communication channel - "Kill them all!" ”

The Eighth Legion poked out of the ruins in silence, like the shadows of the dead. They opened fire, and the loose lines of the xenomorphs were instantly torn apart, and since their appearance there had not been a single xenomorph that had found cover or tried to escape.

They almost thirst for death, and this attitude makes them seek kindness.

Countless broken bodies devastated by the bombs fell softly, and the unpleasant but incessant screams resounded throughout the battle line. They barely make a sound, and they communicate only with the kind of weird grunts they make, except for the horrible screams they let out when they're dead or emotional.

The counterattack continued for a while, and Van Cleef saw what he wanted to see, so the company commander rushed out of the rubble first, jumped over the corpses and obstacles, lowered his posture, and sped forward among the corpses. Behind him was a torrent of silence formed by a gloomy deep blue.

The Eighth Legion rushed into them with indescribably great hatred, and the bloody slaughter began at once. Knives, swords, claws, and even boxing aimed at the vital point, the severed limbs and severed arms fell into the dust along with the blood, brewing even thicker blood and tragedy.

Conrad Coetzes withdrew his gaze and asked a question in the communication channel. He didn't feel anything about it, not even happy.

"How long will it take?" He asked without emotion, sounding not his own, but a stranger.

While he was waiting for an answer, another storm of lasers roared from the ruins of the city not far away. The Xenomorphs have launched a counterattack again, and this time, they have not come on their own.

Conrad Coetz vanished in the next instant, charging towards the place where his legion had advanced. The twelve hunting squads behind him watched silently as the Primordial walked away, clenching their weapons and guarding the rear for their brother and the Primordial.

"Conservative estimates, it's still thirty minutes, Proto."

"I'll give you forty-five minutes, Arrod." Conrad Coz said this to his sixth company commander in the communication channel. "Blow up that power plant and roll them back underground."

"Understood, Primordial." The commander of the sixth company replied crisply. He hung up the communication immediately after this, without any nostalgia.

Coates scurried in the dusty wind, cloaks rattling.

Frontal advance was never something the Eighth Army was good at, and not many of them carried heavy firepower, but the enemy was different.

That laser storm just now was formed by those battle robots. They were already difficult to deal with just by showing up in a squad, let alone in such a group at the moment. With a distance of more than a thousand meters, he crossed the bloody and muddy land in fourteen seconds and appeared at the forefront of the battle line.

Silvery, hulky, massive machinery unleashed a deadly torrent of non-stop, while his legions lay dormant among the ruins and the corpses of his enemies waiting for an opportunity.

Now, here's your chance.

Conrad Coetzes took a deep breath of the filtered, slightly bitter air, and he tasted it with the tip of his tongue, clenching his right hand sharply.

A sharp blade appeared like that.

The grip once polished by Fogham and Ferus Manus was gone, and the grip had turned into molten metal, embedded in his armor, snapping into each other like the upper and lower teeth of a monster, primitive, yet chilling. The blade itself was many times longer, and the pitch-black light flickered, outlining a brutal shape in the air.

Conrad Coetze didn't let out a battle cry, he floated silently, like a dark cloud over the heads of the abominable metal, and began to slaughter the mechanical creatures. None of the fighting machines were worth his stay for more than a second, and all the problems were solved with a single swing.

Van Cleef roared again, and the blaster began to fire accurately.

They are fighting alongside their primitives.

The first time, it seems to have been rehearsed millions of times.

Conrad Coetze severed half of a mechanical body and pulled away, and the ensuing rain of bombs destroyed it entirely.

Explosions rang out in a cascade, one after another, his scarlet cloak fluttering in the wind, the corners already blackened, but unharmed. He pursues his next prey, and a shot of plasma from behind him points him in the right direction.

One of the machines staggered, and a huge hole appeared in its back. The Commander of the Eighth Legion pounced with both hands, ripped the inner core out, and threw it at the back of the enemy line—into the group of aliens.

A blast hit it precisely as it was about to disappear, and a huge blast of fire appeared in the corner of the eyepiece, a deafening sound that didn't give Konrad Coetzes a damn feeling.

He waved his arms coldly, even feeling bored.

Three and a half hours after the start of the war, the ground had collapsed, and the true appearance of Harcosus One was finally fully revealed to the Eighth Army. It is no longer shy, no longer silent. It made a loud noise and thundered on the ground.

The city fell, the flesh flipped and the fangs closed, and Harcosus I began to thirst for the blood of the Eighth Legion like a beast. And it's actually tasted quite a bit. The blood of the Pale from Terra was greedily licked by it.

Koz couldn't help but think of the armored corpses he had seen, and a hatred that was all too familiar to the Midnight Ghost churned and flickered in Conrad Coz's mind, and a voice rang out in his heart.

+ Are you okay? What about the Legion? +

+ It's me, Conrad. +

+ I know, how are you? What about the Eighth Company? +

+ We are fighting underground. +

Conrad Coetzes waved his arm, and a gloomy blue flashed through it, completely destroying the last fighting machine like a silent and silent lightning.

It fell to the ground, its one-eyed head slanted and flashing with lightning, then crushed by an iron boot and fused with the flesh of their maker as an alternative form of battlefield dust.

+ Underground? +

+ I sank that minaret into their home. +

+ It doesn't sound like what a building should do, and I see something, Carlil. +

+ What do you see? +

+ All this. + Conrad Coetzes replied coldly.

He stood where he was, looking out, clearly standing on the ground, but as if he was looking down. His sight was full of wreckage.

Those who have not walked here themselves will not understand, the air is full of dust, and even covers the power armor, obscuring its original color. Not far away was the area being bombarded by the Storm Hawk, and the smoke and dust turned into giants, raging and roaring in the originally azure sky.

Conrad Coetzes gave the order himself, knowing that many human civilians would die, but that was no longer his primary concern.

He forced himself to throw away some things, and he didn't have an answer as to whether they would be retrieved by him later.

Konrad Coetze knew only one thing - he had to do it, he had to keep the front stable, otherwise, with the current number of the Eighth Legion, it would be impossible for them to fight this group of xenomorphs head-on. There are so many of them that unconventional measures must be taken.

+ Fogham said that war means the destruction of humanity, Carlil, and I think he was right. +

+ It's just one of the prices you're going to pay, Conrad. +

The voice from the psionic communication was serious and gloomy, unlike Karil Lohals, and in a trance, Coz saw the monster that had committed the brutal murder on the rainy night of Nostramo. He laughed silently and blankly inside his helmet - just now, he actually felt a hint of nostalgia.

+ The war will continue to take something away from you until you become the one who cannot take it.+

+ You sound like you've become one of those people, Carlile. +

+ No, I still have something that hasn't been taken away. +

+ You seem to be laughing. +

+ I do. +

Conrad Coetz lowered his head, retracted his blade, and hung up the psionic communication voluntarily and without a teacher.

He's on his way to the next battlefield, and there's no time to continue this conversation.

Write more slowly, and intend to pay a little attention to quality.

Also, I'm writing, don't wait, it's estimated to be nine or ten o'clock.

(End of chapter)