Roger Dorn's fingers were shaking.

The movement was subtle, for most people would not have had the courage to look closely at the boulders—but they were trembling, and not because of a report he had just been given by Major Ibn of the Terra Twenty-First Legion.

The Major was a middle-aged man with gray hair, a wrinkled face, and had endured excessive aging.

He had withdrawn from the front, for the 21st Corps had already existed in name only. A whole mechanized infantry regiment of 30,000 men now had less than 4,000 troops left, which was a fiasco.

How much courage does it take for an ordinary commander to withstand the shame and humiliation that comes with it?

Dorne has a concrete answer – that is, the Major himself.

The major did not show those two emotions, not at all. He looked like a dummy made of plastic, steel, and blood-stained cloth and dust. From this old face, you can't see the emotions that a loser should have.

There is only calm.

He arrived at the headquarters and began to report on the battle as Roger Dorn had requested. He told all the details in less than six minutes. From the opening of the army, the encounter with the enemy, the tactical call, and then the defeat in one go.

He didn't deny defeat, nor did he show any frustration or unease, as if he knew in his heart that Roger Dorn wouldn't blame him for it.

And that's exactly what happened.

"Well done." Stubborn said he was even complimenting. "You've held your ground."

"Not worth mentioning, my lord." The major said. "It's not at all."

He was silent and said no more. The straight mustache just covered up the quivering of his lips, and made his denial of praise more believable.

Dorne didn't say anything more, just suddenly asked a slightly strange question.

"Do you hear me, Major?"

"What?"

"The rumors." Dorne said briefly.

He frowned and left his tactical table. The Major's face finally showed a palpable hint of emotion.

The command room at the moment was still noisy, almost no one paid attention to the actions of the stubborn stone, they did not have this extra energy. In this vast underground cavern, everyone is deeply immersed in the quagmire of war with a completely unstoppable attitude.

War is like that, especially war like this – even here Peturabo or Robert Killiman is not immune.

They will also be dragged into this war of terror like never before, and their superhuman will and intelligence will add even more terrible pull to the matter. They're going to get bogged down because they can deduce a very simple thing from the turbulence of data in documents, reports, databoards, and tactical tables at a glance.

The Terra front is being routed on all fronts.

Cold, heartless, factual.

The Titan Legion can't stop it.

The Praetorian Army could not stop it.

Sister Silence couldn't stop it.

Loyal soldiers who willingly stepped into hell could not be stopped.

Civilians who have spent their lives peacefully with weapons in hand, but are forced to step onto the battlefield are powerless to stop them.

Reverent prayers and furious pilgrims who would rather die than practice their faith could not be stopped

The Fist of the Empire can't stop it, the Iron Hand can't stop it, and neither can the sons of the Emperor who have been burned by the fire of vengeance and become servants of the dead.

So, what about the original body? Is there a way for the great demigod, one of the Empire's venerable genetic protogens?

The answer is no. Ferus Manus was in the river of blood, his hands were completely red with blood, and he felt tired like never before. There was a moment when he looked around, and he didn't see his brother, only the corpses that were overwhelming.

Chermoth's Foggrim has been completely overwhelmed by the desire for revenge, and he will return, but he is now just a wild beast. He was far away from everyone and alone in the black mist to fight the demons.

Roger Dorn was equally powerless, twenty-four hours—only twenty-four hours since the war began. A Terra Day, in the past, wasn't even enough for the Legion to make a thorough deployment, and he felt exhausted in the true sense of the word.

He's got so much to face, and every second he's thinking about thousands of possible tactics, tens of thousands of different possibilities. He's sending people to their deaths, and that's been the case since the beginning of the war, where everyone is just numbers, meaningless numbers assigned to the coordinate system.

He didn't even have much time to look at the name of the commander of a support force. He just sent them to die, to face death, to stall for time.

To the wilderness, to the underground caverns, to the dim underground of the nest, to the majestic palace now consumed by the flames of war—and then to die, anonymously.

It could die in the bombardment, it could die in disease, it could die in the claws of demons, or it could be tortured until the end. The meaning of fighting to the end is to sacrifice, to face death, but not to be remembered by anyone.

There is no glory, no remembrance, no posthumous medals.

There is nothing but death, and only death.

Roger Dorn thought of these things—but he didn't say a word, even as the Major kept asking him about it.

He walked to the door of the command room, and most of the people in the underground command room didn't even react. The hinges began to turn, the gears engaged, and the mechanical activity from the ancient past was being faithfully propelled by the two servants.

The door slowly opened, and at this moment, under the cold wind, the people in the command room realized that Dorn had left his tactical table.

They're elites, they're capable, they're hard-willed to be incomprehensible—but that's the only thing that sustains them here to fight, a futile attempt under the orders to die and the inevitable defeat.

Their willpower did not support their understanding of Roger Donne's departure.

"Your Excellency!" Immediately someone called, and the voice could almost be called desolate. "Where are you going?"

"The time has come!" Someone shouted feverishly and pulled out the blaster pistol from his waist. "Kill! Kill in the name of the Emperor! Dear colleagues, We will take revenge! ”

Dorne ignored them.

The cold wind blew, and he stepped out of the command room. The ground and overhead trembled, the roar of the artillery continued, but the terrible sound of the wind became more and more frenzied, almost swallowing out their sound.

But Dorn still heard the small shout.

He walked upwards, stretched up by a sturdy metal-held corridor, spacious enough to allow two War Dog-level Titans to pass side by side. He didn't use lifts or anything like that, and sometimes the simpler things were, the more reliable they were.

The officers and servants followed him, following in unison. As they climbed, some were already sweating, some were indifferent in the cold wind, and some were pale, clutching tightly their weapons that had long since been unsheathed or insured.

They have courage, but it's not enough.

Dorne stopped, standing in front of the ruins.

The ruins are not enough to describe the desolation of this place, the promethium flames are burning, and the corpses of demons nailed to the ground are decomposing and melting. Screaming and laughing, the two soldiers rushed through the blood-soaked snow and charged at the human enemy.

They have a will to die in their hearts, and a flame of anger in their eyes. Only a blink of masonry remains of the towering walls, and some people are hanging on them waiting to die. Blood flowed everywhere, the body was broken, and the flesh was charred

No one spoke among the officers, only a dead silence spread. They entered the command room after the start of the war, and they had already anticipated the intensity of the war outside—if they didn't know, they would be reminded again and again by the continuous bombardment.

Now, for the first time, they had seen this horrific sight with their own eyes. At this time, they realized that no matter how much they expected and prepared in their hearts, it was not enough at all.

"Your Excellency." The major stepped forward uneasily. "Do you have an order?"

Dorne didn't answer, just raised his hand suddenly, motioning for him not to speak. He frowned, his eyes fixed intently on a field of snow stained red with blood. He stared, but he wasn't focused—he was listening.

The thought crossed the Major's mind. But what to listen to?

Driven by this question, he also began to listen. Unfortunately, his hearing, ravaged by the sound of gunfire, cannons, and the incessant roar, made it impossible for him to even hear the wind. Not to mention hearing the subtle sounds that an original can capture

But he didn't have to listen.

Yes, they didn't have to listen, because the voice didn't come from somewhere, but it sounded directly - in the hearts of all people.

What is it?

The major waited in a sweat. Then he heard a thunderclap. The thunder did not resound in the sky, nor did it even exist in the real world. It's an illusory thunderclap, what does it represent?

Only a very small number of people can understand.

But if someone is staring at any clock that can keep time, or any tool that can tell them the exact time, they will find one thing.

It's the twenty-fifth hour.

It was the twenty-fifth hour after the start of the Terra War, the twenty-fifth hour of exhaustion, ammunition and food, and heavy casualties. And this thunder was so precise that it came in the twenty-fifth hour without a second.

It is like a messenger, representing a giant clock of terror that has existed for eternity. The bones were the base, blood smeared the clock face, and the angry and mournful bone fingers of the dead pointed straight to every number on the clock face.

Second, minute, hour – click, click, click. Quietly, all returned to their places. Time is unforgiving, but it is also fair, it will flow, and it will always flow.

Until now.

Thunder rang out.

The blizzard stopped falling, the cold wind finally stopped, and the dark clouds that obscured the sky suddenly dispersed, like the color of burning paper.

A scarlet and complete crown crept into the air, shining brighter than the sun.

Roger Dorn slowly closed his eyes.

"Attack." He said. "This is the last order."

There's one more chapter, and I'll try to hurry. I'm sorry for the slow update today.

(End of chapter)