Lorja Aurelian had said that he would burn every one of the five hundred worlds.

Ionid Hill thinks he's farting.

The commander of the 135th Company of the Ultramarines stretched out his arm from behind the cover and fired a round at the stinking bastards.

The blast was pushed, spiraling out of the chamber, flames erupting, and the muzzle should have jumped up, but it couldn't move a single inch due to good design and deliberate control by Hill. He waited until he finished firing a magazine before he withdrew and retracted behind cover.

The other fighting brothers in the company immediately stepped up, making this rain of death never stop.

But hybrids.

Hill was a little surprised by the description he had mentally described them, but he couldn't help but sneer in his helmet because of the vulgar and unexpectedly precise wording.

Yes, mongrel.

What better word to describe the so-called auxiliaries of the Speakers?

Tattoos on his forehead, human skins on his body, and dirty daggers and weapons. People are not like people, ghosts are not like ghosts, and they always rush out of the cold and biting fog. Fascinated by every possible killing, blasphemous prayers are shouted in the mouth.

Beyond that, though, in addition to the fact that they're mongrels - Ionid Hill knows another thing.

That is, the more these mongrels die, the stronger something will come out of their corpses. This is simply a blasphemous law of nature, you cannot change, resist or reject, you can only accept it.

So here's the thing, the Whisperers will release them at the beginning of every battle, and it doesn't matter if these people are cultists from some remote world, or they may be civilians they have captured along the way to brainwash them.

Because they would be strapped to their bodies full of bombs, shouting fanatical slogans and charging at every Ultramariner or Midnight Blade they could see, without the slightest hesitation.

True, you can kill them, and it will be as effortless as slaughtering an animal. You can chop them with a knife, dismember them, turn them into pieces and char with a bomb or flamethrower, smash their heads with a punch, run over them with a tank's tracks, and blow them to pieces in advance with orbital bombardment. Then, they will come back.

They will come back, in another way, in a way that is completely contrary to the truth of the Empire.

Their stump or bones will swell, the blood that has seeped into the dirt will begin to glow eerily bright, and the eight-pointed star tattoos on their bodies will hiss. Then, demons will be born from their bones.

Demon. Ionid Hill sighed. Imperial Truth, where are you?

Regardless of the sighs, he had seen this scene a hundred times, so he and his company did not rush out of cover and advance forward while the bastards were suffering heavy casualties.

Since Couss' departure, Hill's knowledge and experience of war is rapidly being forgotten. He threw himself wholeheartedly into this brand-new war, and he eagerly absorbed the experience and lessons stained with blood, and summed up new theoretical models and empirical knowledge from them.

It may not be a good thing to be so sensitive to war, but it only shows that there is something bad in him. However, at this time, who cares? Robert Killiman even wanted Hill to report to him in person on the Glory of Maculag after every war.

Ciel sighed, continuing his wait.

His eyepiece reflects the brilliant and colorful sky, which may seem beautiful, but it represents a blasphemous storm that cannot be seen directly. From time to time, blinding flashes of light would flash from the farthest reaches of the sky, each representing an explosion in orbit.

Waiting, the soldiers of the 135th Company finally heard the kind of movement they wanted to hear a few minutes later. It was a tooth-aching crunch, as if someone was rubbing two pieces of metal against each other.

Hill lowered his head, the readings on the eyepiece began to change rapidly, the temperature plummeted, and frost and ice appeared in the corners of the battlefield, but the flames were still burning and crackling. Behind the bunker where Hill and his company were, there was a low, slight humming sound that spread, and finally, the mist.

The tide is coming.

Bursting out of the mist, each demon was as strange as a nightmare, sometimes a shadow, sometimes a shadow wrapped in darkness, sometimes a canine beast with fangs. None of them are stereotyped, but they are all extremely bloodthirsty.

Hill calmly raised his gun and pulled the trigger, he didn't need to aim in the face of such a number of enemies. At the same time, he issued orders through the tactical channel.

So, on the flanks of the battlefield, the heavy firepower units that had been waiting for a long time began to pour out their anger. Giant metal shadows swooped down from the sky, and Storm Hawks and their pilots dropped every bomb they carried with great killing fervor.

The flames were blazing, the heat was rolling in, and the stench was terrifying. The flesh and blood of the demons is the smell of it, enough to render any breathing grates or defenses useless. Hill smelled the scent again, but he wasn't relieved.

He knew that it was not a victory.

It was six hours and forty-two minutes later, when it was almost dark, that they had slain every demon.

——

"Tell Sevita that I want him to take the boat in three hours." Siani frowned, and expressed his command—or request—very seriously to a teleporter servant.

"I'm going to see every one of the Bearers on that cruiser be killed before the ground war is over, and their heads will be stacked and put together. No, I'm joking about that. ”

He let go of his frowning brows and patted the servant on the shoulder: "Don't tell him this, that kid can't really do this." ”

The servant looked at him in confusion and staggered away. Minutes later, Siani received a voice message in his communication channel.

"Understood." Yago Sevitaleone said hoarsely. "I'll cut off the head of every Speaker, and lay it out in your name, Sianiha from Terra."

Siani narrowed her eyes, sent a message full of Terra slang, and left the boarding deck of the Night Soul to begin a series of complicated but necessary procedures.

The first was the standard inspection of power armor and weapons, which was run by two technical sergeants who were very unkind to Siani and Sevita. Then there is a medical examination from the medical officer, although you don't have to take off the power armor, but the whole process is very patient.

Siani thought he had a good temper, so he endured it until the fifth taunt from the Medic from the Third Company.

"Are you finished?!"

"Don't make a big fuss, dear champion of hand-to-hand combat." The medic smiled at him. "I wasn't the one who broke your left wrist, but I do want to ask, how exactly did you break your wrist when using the power claw? It doesn't require you to put pressure on your wrist. ”

"Do you want you to take care of me occasionally turning off the decomposition force field and killing people?!"

"Hmm"

The medical officer groaned and shook his head, but his expression was somewhat intriguing.

"It's not on my purview, but have you reported it to the technical sergeants? Do they know that you have violated the rules on the use of weapons again? The Power Claw is a Power Weapon, Champion. If you really like the touch of a physical blade slicing through the flesh of an enemy, why not use a chainsaw sword? ”

“.”

Siani wisely kept his mouth shut and chose to remain silent.

After a few minutes, the medical officer finally let him go.

As for the broken wrist. Neither he nor the medical officer actually took this as something to be taken seriously. Seconds after the fracture, Siani snapped his crooked wrist back. In a few hours, his wrist will heal.

With a gloomy face, he made his way up to the bridge of the Night Spirit, where his company commander, Van Cleef, had been waiting for a long time.

The aftermath of the explosions of several ships outside the huge eight portholes directly in front of the bridge was still slowly spreading, reflecting the entire bridge as if it were being illuminated by the sun, and while that didn't stop the Night Spirits crew from continuing their work, some of the Nostramo crew had been forced to wear sunglasses.

Looking directly into the bright light is a very painful thing for the people of Nostramo and can lead to blindness for weeks or simply becoming blind.

Siani made his way past a group of crew members who had left with papers, and past four servants who were repairing an array of contemplatives, before finally crossing the busy bridge and reaching behind Van Cleeff.

Without looking back, the company commander with his back tossed a data pad that showed an order directly from Robert Killiman.

"Another meeting?" After Siani finished reading it, he threw a long sigh from his throat. "Spare me."

"You can not go." Van Cleef said lightly. "I don't care if you're absent from this post-war meeting, Siani, you can't give any advice anyway. The other officers were all speaking enthusiastically, but you and Sergeant Sevitarion, who always liked to maintain a precious silence between your master and apprentice. ”

"Moletz can go for me." Siani pretended not to understand and gave a suggestion. "He's the best talker."

"He's been there for you three times."

"So, what's the problem with going again?"

Van Cleef finally turned his head, his high cheekbones, thin lips, and eerie eyes making his gaze look dangerous. And Siani knew in his heart that his company commander was very dangerous.

"Okay." The Eighth Legion, the five-time champion of hand-to-hand combat, sighed. "I'll go."

"And that's not all." Van Cleef said. "I also want you to be prepared to speak, I have a tactical idea. It's not convenient for me to bring it up personally. ”

There is also a chapter, by the way to push this book.

(End of chapter)