Robert Killeman has a hard time stating his current mood and is hardly even able to find the right words to describe it. His language library was so scarce that it reminded him of the day Connaught died.

At that time, he was also unable to say anything, except to read King Connaught's manuscripts. He memorized the entire manuscript in just a few minutes with his inhuman memory, but he still couldn't find half a word to describe his emotions.

So he began to recite the words mechanically, and when Talasha Yuton came to him after dealing with the matter at hand, Killiman could only tell her four words.

"I'm bad", that's all, that's all. That's all he said to Yutun that day.

So, what about now? Is this also the case now?

"I'm bad?" Robert Kiriman asked himself and talked to himself. No one answered his question, as most of them were busy clearing the battlefield.

The intense light of the promethine flames burned in the artificially dug craters, and the transports passed mercilessly, and the tracks crushed the muddy ground covered in dirt and blood, making everything worse.

The Ultramarines are in obvious mourning, but they can't stop their work. The contaminated bodies of the locals are being burned in a centralized manner, and those who survive are watching with trepidation.

There was rancid acid rain falling from the sky, dripping into a baby's eye. She and her parents were nailed to a statue of Robert Killiman, which had been erected in his honor by the people of the place on their own initiative.

Once, he liberated this place and made it one of the five hundred worlds of Otrama that were prosperous and rich. What now? Kiriman asked himself, painfully to himself - and now?

He looked up and let the acid rain slip down his face.

Not far away, Yago Sevitaleon of the Midnight Blade was interrogating a Bearer whose hands and feet had been severed, in a bloody manner.

The Bearer's skin was sliced open, and layers of thin as cicada's wings slumped over the edge of the open armor, and the internal organs and bones were placed at the other end in separate ways, not completely useless, not destroyed.

Killiman even saw him pluck a delicate nerve in the traitor's right leg bone with the blade of his knife in an impossibly gentle manner. Like a tavern poet plucking the strings. His blade is a finger, and the sound of the harp is the wail of the speaker.

His gesture is so elegant, like an artist sorting through the tools he has at hand. However, the artist has no pride or affection for his art, only disgust and endless coldness.

But

Robert Killiman smiled—a cruel smile like this rarely seen in the world, and even Talasha Youton would not have been able to recognize this man covered in blood and gray hair, even if he were standing here in front of him.

He walked over satisfied, took a stride, and began to move in that direction. The slanting wind and drizzle brought the Bearer's anguish, and he lightened his steps with great satisfaction, so that the traitor, who was in great pain, could not detect his coming.

Sevita saw him accurately, but the movements in her hands did not stop, but she became more focused.

He wiped his face with his free left hand, and his dark eyes showed no emotion.

The Nostramo people have a natural advantage when it comes to putting on a straight face. Their eyes were perfect for hiding most emotions, but the sneer on Sevita's face betrayed his mood at the moment.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock." He twisted his wrist again, stirring the nerve with the tip of the knife, causing it to tremble over the traitor's leg bone. The voice is soft, and the tongue flick is stubborn and absurd.

"Have you figured it out? Time is ticking, traitor, just like your life. However, you can choose to open your mouth and end this unprecedented suffering early. Of course, you can also be stupid and endure it until the end. It's all up to you, traitor. ”

Smirking, Sevita bent down and leaned closer to the stripped face, making a gesture of listening. He heard a faint breathing, and some kind of breath brewing in his throat.

Nightblade narrowed his eyes, raised his head, and spoke to Robert Killiman.

"He seems to want to endure until death comes, Master Killiman."

"Really?" Robert Killiman asked expressionlessly.

"Probably so." Sevita lowered her head, the tip of the knife finally severing the tormented nerve.

The Bearer shuddered violently, and his steaming internal organs fell into his chest in unison with this trembling.

Sevita flicked her tongue in pity, then put away her blade, saluted Robert Killiman, and left.

He knew what a person who wanted to vent his anger usually looked like, and Robert Killiman never tried to hide his emotions.

He slowly vanished into the rain, and Killiman knew what he was going to do—the Nightblades would try to use their unique vision to sift through who would survive and who would have to be executed.

The process was by no means pleasant, and they refused to involve any Ultramarines.

In Van Cleve's words, it's a 'small protection of your sanity, and we don't want you to be involved in such a cruel decision.' Cruel things should be done by cruel people, such as us', Kiliman had no problem with this, and he was even a little grateful.

He understood the special duties of the Midnight Blade, and all the mysteries hidden in this group of people were for a reason. He knew that if they had been elected, they would never have acquired the power of adjudication.

Killiman came to the Bearer, leaned down, and fixed his eyes on the eyelidless eyes.

"Look at me." The primordial let out a beastly roar from its throat. "Look at this face, Bearer. I will not be the one to kill you, for your blood is not worthy of my sword. ”

He smiled in satisfaction, and the Bearer's eyes began to roll, bloodshot pounding in those gray eyes.

"But you will die in this acid rain, worthless, honorless. Lorga Aurelian will spit on you, and I mean the real Lorja Aurelian, not the pseudo you are following now."

Killiman knew that his catharsis would only make his anger burn stronger, but what choice did he have? He can't be rational all the time, and he has to do something less decent in exchange for greater decency.

But the Bearer stared at him, and Kiriman could see what he was thinking—nothing more than sacrificing himself, longing for the demon to come.

"You can't do it." Killiman smiled with a meanness he had never felt before. "What you have received from subspace has long been taken, and not in the form of a prayer. They are still standing with their heads held high, but you have fallen down and bowed your knees. ”

The Bearer opened his mouth, his tongue writhing in his blood-soaked mouth. Kiriman watched with satisfaction as he struggled, and after tens of seconds, the thing lying on the ground struggling with three words spat out three words in its broken mouth.

"You've lost."

And then he died.

Did I lose?

Kiriman looked at his corpse for a long time before slowly closing his eyes. The acid rain dripped coldly, failing to cauterize the original skin, only to cause a strange tingling itch.

Yes, as the traitor said, Robert Killiman lost, and lost badly. He had indeed cleared the planet of the Harbor and killed them completely, and the whole process didn't even take four hours, but what was the point?

This place has been destroyed, and the Bearer's army has long since left it and is heading for other worlds.

However, just because you lose doesn't mean you can't win.

Killiman opened his eyes and pulled out a data tablet from his waist. With a flick of his fingers, he grabbed a theoretical model from the floating projection. He then enlarged it until it expanded to the entire Otrama star map.

The model fits perfectly with a galaxy in the Southern Partition, whose capital is called Anderman, a lesser-known marginal world, but still a capital.

And now, if his calculations for five days of sleepless sleep weren't wrong, then the Whisperers were here.

At least most of them are here.

Robert Killiman had already ordered in advance to sweep away every planet on their route to Anderman, and the filth left by the Whisperers had been completely removed, and the promethium flames had engulfed everything, including the fouled ecological environment.

The path before the Combined Fleet is already clear, and no one can stand in the way of their revenge.

It's forty-seven days, and Killiman knows it — it's been forty-seven days since he left Cowes, but Cowes' ghost haunts him all the time. For so many days, he had been looking for an opportunity to pay his respects to them, and now he had finally found it.

"Your Excellency." Marius Gage gasped and walked slowly.

Of course, he didn't come to Kiliman on an impromptu basis, in fact, the First War Commander had been silently observing their original form somewhere on the battlefield.

He saw the theoretical model that Robert Killeman had come up with, and he realized that the moment that everyone had been waiting for had arrived.

The gray-eyed Warlord looked at his prototype tiredly but excitedly, and the latter lowered his hand and gave Marius Gage an answer with a not-so-gentle smile.

"Issue an order, and the whole army will return to the ship." Kiliman said. "The target is Anderman, the enemy is the one who speaks, and the goal of the battle is to kill them all, leaving no one behind."

His voice began to echo in the communications channels of the Combined Fleet, like thunder, like war drums.

It's too hard to finish writing at last, and I will fall asleep at one o'clock, and if I hadn't woken up cold, I might have slept in a chair until tomorrow, Le. This chapter is 3k, the first two chapters are one chapter 4k, one chapter is 3k5, and today it should be updated by 10,000, so I only owe five hundred. OK, sleep.

(End of chapter)