Fafnir Rann had a question, and he was going to ask it directly.

"Where are the sons of Horus?" He asked.

No one answered, so he used the axe in his right hand to provoke a waiver who was not yet dead.

He stooped close to him, the traitor's eyes blood-red, and his skin covered in black dust was covered with coagulated blood. A tattoo with deep visible bones glowed quietly on his forehead.

Rann was enraged—and for a split second, his anger rose to prominence, prompting him to throw the man back to the ground.

"What about Horus Lupecal's dogs?" He asked, using a more insulting title.

"Where are they, traitors?" He asked coldly. "Or are you just cannon fodder they're sending out again? It's amazing that the Sons of Horus are famous for the Empire's tactical system. Always keep your allies at the forefront. ”

The man didn't answer, just breathed weakly. Blood bubbled down his clenched teeth. He had no lips, and the bottom half of his face and a large chunk of flesh had been torn away by some kind of weapon, presumably a chainsaw weapon, and in short, not the two power axes in Ran's hands.

If he had come, he would have done it more simply, he would not have given this traitor a chance to live, and he was not interested in torture. But now is not the time to discuss morality and compassion in battle.

So he asked again, still sincerely, not for fun or insulting.

"Where have the sons of Horus gone?"

So the Bearer winked at him.

"You can't guess," he replied hoarsely, more blood foaming from the corners of his mouth, with large clumps of pink bubbles, and some fragments of internal organs.

There was a strong reluctance on his face, and Rann suddenly knew the answer.

"Cannon fodder." He smiled. "Really?"

A fierce cold wind blew, and the black snow fell above them, blocked by a flaming Titan. A few that fell melted into the hot shells and muddy ground.

The corpses were strewn all over the ground, and the loyalists and betrayers who were dying together seemed to be indistinguishable at this moment. Regardless of the color of the armor, whether they were heroic or not, they are dead now.

But in the land of the dead, it is only natural that there will be people who will weigh their souls.

"For some reason, I'm not surprised." Rann said.

He turned off the disintegration field and hung the axe back to his waist. The traitor's breathing began to grow rapid, as if he was gathering strength - Rann was a little surprised to realize this, he didn't expect that he had actually run into an enemy who was willing to say something.

However, this accident was soon shattered by another ridiculous absurdity. For he found a broken stone under the traitor's head, and on its side was a line of small letters that had been carved with a knife.

"Emperor's Blessing." Rann burst out laughing. "That's interesting, Bearer."

"They—" The traitor squeezed out the remaining air from his lungs as he spewed out the last word. "-Already crazy, they'll do anything to kill them, Imperial Fist, just like you killed us."

Rann watched him mercilessly until he died.

"The traitor actually prayed to me for revenge?" He shook his head, looking up at the scarlet-burning sky. "What has become of the world?"

Of course, he wouldn't have an answer, and in fact, he wouldn't know the answer even if he pushed back a little bit of time and shifted his perspective to the eastern front of the palace that he and his troops had worked so hard to reach.

At that time, he would be deeply involved in the fight. He would be busy tearing at each other in the ruins of concrete and masonry, biting at each other, switching defensive positions back and forth between combat positions.

The long-standing tradition of the Fist of the Empire is being thrown behind little by little, and everyone who is still alive has changed their face in this war, even they are no exception.

Fortunately, Dorne's heirs have not forgotten how the war should be fought. In between breathing and biting like dogs, they will try their best to hold on to every inch of land they have regained, and then keep pushing, unite all their forces, and fight the traitors and demons little by little.

The battle has turned into a heavy war of attrition, as well as a tug-of-war.

They were still defenders, but this time, they had no walls to rely on, no surplus supplies, and no saturation bombardment that could hit every enemy with precision - sometimes not even tanks, and the auxiliaries had to charge with their bodies under artillery fire.

In that moment, Fafnier Rann would have realized something, or rather, a problem. He would look at the mortals who had fallen beside him and ask heartfelt questions.

Why are you so brave?

We've got terraosteel, we've got superhuman strength, we've got the speed to dodge bullets, and what do you have?

He certainly had no answers, just like Ezekel Abaddon. The only difference is that Fafniel Lane can not care about these things, but Azekyl Abaddon can't, he does, and he cares to the point of madness.

"I want Erebus dead." He said angrily. "Do you understand, Cole Fallon? I want him dead! ”

"If I could, I would too." The commander of the company of the bearer replied truthfully. "Unfortunately, neither you nor I can do that. He didn't come to Terra, he disappeared into the stars with one of our fleets. ”

When he said this, Cole Fallon's expression was very calm, and there was no fluctuation in the slightest. Unlike Ezekel Abaddon, he is not angry, at least on the surface.

"As things stand, I think we need more sacrifices." Cole Fallon continued. "Although Terra has become a demonic realm, and demons can come and go as they please, our auxiliaries can't."

"We've got to find a way to send them to the ground, or we'll not be able to hold it, let alone expand it, even if we get the upper hand."

"Advantages? Auxiliaries? ”

Abaddon's forehead suddenly erupted.

"You and I talk about superiority, talk about tactics? Do you know what kind of bastards and brutes your auxiliaries are for? I've never seen a barbarian devouring each other before going to war, not even animals. ”

"Isn't that possible?"

Cole Fallon asked with a frightening indifference, and at the same time, the so-called 'blessed sons' behind him took a step forward.

Abaddon took a deep breath and began to try to restrain his anger.

"If the goal is to win, you can talk about it. But the problem is that the commander's purpose has changed from winning to something else, and it's all thanks to Erebas. Like your primordials, Cole Fallon. Where's Luo Jia? ”

"He's right here." The company commander smiled dryly and said. "He's in Terra."

Upon hearing this, Abaddon suddenly lost interest in continuing the conversation. He looked at the commander of the company of the Bearers, and once again felt some kind of genuine doubt.

Cole Fallon was an old man, and unlike most Astartes, the marks of time were very visible on him. He was already very old when he underwent the remodeling operation, but Luo Jia insisted that his adoptive father embark on the road to the Star Sea with him.

So the emperor's skilled craftsmen performed other surgeries on him. Implants, medications, and specially modified power nails. Together, these things make him look like an Astarte, but he wasn't at all.

Such a person became a company commander of a regiment, just like him.

Abaddon shook his head.

I have come to this point by virtue of my military exploits and loyalty to Horus, and what does Cole Fallon have?

An answer rose in his heart.

So, this is Lorja Aurelian's legion.

A ridiculous legion that can hold on to the top of the ranks of disabled waste, a ridiculous legion that plunders mortals among the stars and infuses them with a remnant Astarte to replenish their forces, a legion that still insists on sacrifice and that ridiculous faith

And even more tragic is that this legion is their only ally, at least on a material level.

"Sacrifice?" After a long silence, Abaddon spoke again. "Is this what you want?"

"What I want."

Cole Fallon paused, then fell silent. Thinking, there is no doubt that he is doing this precious thing.

His brows furrowed, and the Colchian tattoos on his skin squirmed in an uncomfortable texture. His face turned paler than before, and he became almost inhuman. The thoughtful look was disgusted by the abomination of the face.

However, that didn't stop Ezekel Abaddon from waiting patiently.

He didn't know what Cole Fallon wanted, but now that the Alpha Legion hadn't arrived as promised, and Martian support couldn't arrive immediately, he would do whatever it took to win over the Whisperers.

The Warlord might not care if they would win, but Abaddon did, and he would do everything in his power to get the victory for his father, just as he did in the past.

However, when the silence was over again, Cole Fallon laughed silently.

"You can't give me what I want, Lord Azekel."

The Bearer smiled and shook his head, burying all his emotions somehow.

"But, as promised, the Bearer will obey every order issued by the Warlord—even if he doesn't want to use it now, we will obey the orders of the Council of the Four Kings."

"And I'm the only one left in the Council of the Four Kings now." Abaddon said coldly, pretending not to hear Cole Fallon's metaphor.

"So, what's your new order?" The Bearer asked.

The expression on his old face began to change. The flesh and skin were squeezed together disgustingly, and the narrow eyes looked extremely abrupt on the pale face, indifferently like two peep windows that would go up the day after tomorrow.

The soul that lived behind it was full of malice, but it manipulated the face and gave a flattering smile that almost made Abaddon feel the urge to vomit.

He swore to Horus that he was just a little bit away from throwing it up, but he didn't.

For the sake of victory, he held back. In order to win, he went to Cole Fallon's side and began to discuss with him how to gain an advantage, what tactics to use, and where to deploy the recruits of the auxiliaries and the Bearers.

For a moment, he spurned his hypocrisy.

——

Manipulating reality. Macado thought coldly. That's what I'm doing right now.

That's true, he is manipulating reality. It can even be said to be a little more arrogant - reality, now a plaything in the palm of his hand.

Vast power poured out from his fingertips, creating a thick cloud of dark clouds in the subspace that had not yet been touched by the war, a path that had been twisted and compressed.

Some are walking this path, and although they don't yet know who exactly designed it, they are already on it. With its help, they will get back to Terra before it's all too late.

And the false gods don't care about that, even the most noisy of them. Not only that, but He is even secretly pushing the matter behind his back.

Machado knows this, but he doesn't debunk it.

He had seen through the nature of these false gods, who, despite their joys and sorrows, were in fact slaves to power, and who were just four high-level contemplatives programmed to react and muddy the world.

But the question is, how could Macado do it so easily?

Yes, he is the Palm Seal, the supreme one under only one man in the empire. For others, he was an immortal, possessing unimaginably powerful psionic powers.

But that wasn't enough to explain what he was doing at the moment, subspace was anything but a gentle place, and how could Machado manipulate it as he pleased, without paying any price?

The answer may come down to an instrument that has been prepared for a long time.

If anyone could turn their gaze to Terra's underneath at this moment, and if they were lucky, they would be able to find a small room in the intricate labyrinthine buildings of Terra's underneath, a room with wooden floors and stone walls.

There was nothing in this room, not even a window, and the only furniture it had was a chair. A well-conceived chair, a test that could only be used once, and now, Makado sat on this chair.

His black robe was draped over his emaciated body, and his scepter rested on the right arm of his chair. His face was blurred with his head bowed, and the brilliant golden light had obscured everything, turning his face into a surging mass of light.

- He didn't pay the price, because someone had already borne the price for him. The purpose is not to make him pay a hundred times in the future, but to let him live.

You're going to live longer than anyone else, Machado. The man said. You will live until victory comes.

I will, my lord. The palm printer thought silently.

His thoughts rushed like lightning into the dark clouds of the subspace.

This chapter is 4k, and there is a chapter of 6k.

(End of chapter)