Flying is one of the ultimate aspirations of human beings.

And it has been realized for many years, whether it is all kinds of flying vehicles, or flying backpacks used by individual soldiers, and those expensive toys that are only used by a few people, whether the technology is mature or not, the sky has actually been conquered by humans.

As a result, they set their sights on a more distant and expansive place.

The sky above the sky, the sea of stars.

However, despite the fact that the goal has become so ambitious, humans still do not have the ability to fly autonomously, and they do not have the physiological structure to achieve this goal.

So, what am I?

St. Giles asked himself, but in the end he only got a wry smile. He actually has the answer, but he doesn't want to say it.

He continued to fly.

In the past, he could look down at the situation on the battlefield in the process. Not now, the fog enveloped everything, as if it was deliberately obscuring his vision. Dense fog alone is bad enough, but what if you add to that a terrible darkness of extreme cold?

St. Giles looked straight into the darkness and smashed them to pieces.

Finely crumbling frost hung from his soft-lined armor, snapping through the cracks, creaking with each flapp. They are condensed by natural phenomena, but they bring a completely supernatural coldness, and the angel even has the illusion of frostbite

But if you ask, yes, his armor is completely destroyed.

As his armor was nearly scrapped after a brutal battle with Kabanha, Leon Elzhuangsen gathered the best technical sergeant and mechanical priest he could find. They tried to repair the angel's armor, but the end result was unsatisfactory as it should be.

It is predictable that the people that the lion can find are the best at the moment, but it does not mean that they are really the best.

It's cruel, but they're just alive. Coupled with Kabanha's brute force and lack of supplies, in the end, when St. Giles stepped onto the battlefield again, his power armor barely maintained its basic operational ability and protection ability.

It's lucky enough that the Primitive-grade Power Armor isn't as easy to repair and replace as the Astartes use, and it's a miracle that it can keep it that way to protect St. Giles. Its luck lasted until that hammer from Horus.

The Worldbreaker crushed the angel's armor once and for all.

And this was just the beginning, not long ago, the turbulence caused by his take-off again was a different kind of abuse, and it was during this flight that the fragments of the armor left his body little by little, leaving only the layer of virtually defenseless lining soft armor.

Once white, it's now covered in blood, and its owner is struggling to convince himself to keep flying.

No, you can't land, you can't fight alongside them, you have more urgent things to do. You have to be.

St. Giles took a deep breath and smashed another piece of darkness again.

The structure of the Lupecar Court was not a secret to him, he was even familiar with the place, but it had become strange at the moment.

Take the ceiling, for example, where angels are supposed to be in the company of stained glass and golden domes all the time. These intricate and magnificent designs were the result of the collective work of several designers, and now they are completely buried by countless upside-down corpses.

The dead were hung upside down from pus-filled rocks or screaming obsidian, and even as the original body, St. Giles could not understand the cause of this phenomenon.

Not only that, but he noticed another thing - the rope that hung the dead was actually their own intestines.

The cords of flesh and blood bound them firmly in the darkness, and in this terrible bondage, even the shaking of the wind stiffened.

But how many of them really are?

Once a vast palace, Lupecar's court is now frighteningly large, and it may have expanded passively millions of times. St. Giles could convince himself to accept its vastness, but not really to accept the ubiquitous dead.

The bruised, bleeding men, their skin taut and suspiciously withered, their eyes dark, staring at the angels as if they were still alive.

St. Giles unconsciously clenched the spear of his work.

Like armor, it has lost its former glory. Kabanha destroyed part of its grip, turning it from a spear into a short spear for throwing. If the Red Blade were still there, this awkward situation might have come to an end, but it was impossible.

That good sword has been destroyed on another level.

In the midst of indescribable complexity, the angel suddenly heard a thunderclap. Or rather, roaring, shouting, inspiring—all that, in short, the sound did pierce the darkness and fog and reach his ears.

"For unity! For the sake of Holy Terra! ”

St. Giles immediately lowered his head and stared, he had thought that he would see another lingering mist, but he was wrong.

There were some shining golden currents that pulsed harshly in the mist, and they did not hold back, and as soon as they appeared, they completely cleared the fog in front of the angel's eyes, allowing him to see the scene below with great ease.

Before he had time to think about the possible meaning behind this incident, St. Giles immediately adjusted his balance and rushed straight down.

Throughout the ages, countless birds with the same wings have flown with their own graceful bodies, and angels have been as beautiful as them in the past, if not many more, but not now.

He flew crookedly, his wings covered with ice slag between the feathers, and his muscles and bones seemed to be stuck. Flying was completely like an arm to him in the past, but now?

Even if he turned the clock back to the point where he first tried to fly, he had never been so clumsy and embarrassed.

But it doesn't matter, soon, he won't have to fly.

St. Giles fell into a cloud of scarlet.

The spear was raised, crossed over the shoulder, and then turned into a dazzling golden light in a rage, slashing several of the Bearers in half in an instant. Fragments of ceramic steel splattered, and St. Giles tensed his muscles, swinging his spear reflexively, whipping out some of the fragments with his unimaginable skill with a grip alone.

They shoot like bullets into the traitors, causing more and bigger bloody murders. With such a grand opening ceremony, the Whisperers quickly discovered his presence and immediately responded.

The chaotic battle situation actually began to become chaotic and orderly, the crowd suddenly began to move, a large number of scarlet shadows circled back and forth, and the angel watched vigilantly, and saw a large group of whisperers walking forward with assault shields in hand.

They began to approach and envelop him little by little, and there were no scriptures to be seen on the heavy shields, only skulls or stumps hanging as trophies, some of whom were not even dead, and judging by the shape of their mouths, they were either screaming or cursing.

St. Giles couldn't help but stick out his fangs, he changed his posture and raised his spear defiantly, but he was already preparing to take off from the sky and break through their encirclement.

But the Bearers seemed to have been prepared, and instead of rushing forward, they erected their shields in place, placed their blasters on the firing holes, and began to march towards the angels in an orderly and silent manner.

St. Giles lowered his arms and center of gravity and looked around solemnly, already sensing their tactical intentions.

The traitor behaved with caution, and this caution is quite understandable. Even if they were facing the Genetic Prototype alone in the enemy's ranks, and not wearing armor, they would rather choose the safest way to fight.

Little by little, they were compressing St. Giles' space of movement, and in the end, countless weapons would poke out from the gaps in the shield, piercing him and drinking the blood of the original body.

This outcome was predictable, however, it was just a trap.

The angel knew that as soon as he took off, the blasters that had already been set up would immediately open fire, knocking him out of the air. They may not be able to keep up with the movements of a progenitor, but fire suppression doesn't require aim.

At this moment, he already knew in his heart that these people were probably the elite of the Speakers, whether it was their combat methods or their obviously well-trained reaction speed.

So, you're finally here? After sending out so many so-called 'recruits' and savage cultist auxiliaries, and causing so much iniquity, you are finally willing to show up?

St. Giles silently raised his spear again, he had already understood the intentions of the enemy, therefore, he did not choose to fly.

He began to breathe rapidly and briefly, his shoulders already drooping naturally, and a second passed, and two seconds passed, and when the shield array was about to walk in front of him, the spear of Bigong suddenly turned into a bolt of lightning and left his palm.

Throwing is the earliest killing technique that humans learned.

With three accelerations of the wrist, elbow and shoulder joints, even a small stone can become a murder weapon to kill a beast.

St. Giles, on the other hand, was a genetic protogen, and his warfare skills had reached its zenit years ago—so the Spear of Completion had been brutally piercing the head of a Bearer in less than a fifth of a second.

He shouldn't have been hit, he did a good job, but that wasn't enough.

He is facing St. Giles.

Blood splattered from the back of his head, not much, but it was enough to throw the body out of control. First and foremost, the shield and blaster he had dropped to the ground, and then his twitching limbs.

The Whisperers reacted, and they understood with real speed what the angels were doing, so they quickly closed their formations, and others lunged forward to try to fill the gap.

Helplessly, they were too late. Their reaction was by no means slow, but the angel had already begun to charge and flapped his wings at the same time before the throw was over.

The wind howled, creating a man-made storm in the already narrow encirclement, and the black dust that spread all over the ground became the angel's best helper, obscuring the view and allowing St. Giles to find a second's chance.

He rushed into the gap with a sinking face, and his right hand reached out, grabbing the tail of the already mutilated grip of the spear.

It stabbed his right hand in a puff of pain, which was replaced by an even higher rage.

The victory is decided.

The angel swung his spear—along with the stabbed Whisperer.

The huge kinetic energy provoked him, and also caused his skull to explode in an instant, turning into a cloud of escaping blood mist. However, the body was castrated unabated, and it flew out, smashing the other shield bearers to the ground like cannonballs.

The gap began to grow wider, and it became a terrible gap that could hardly be concealed by any means.

The angel leaped high in the dust, and when it hit the ground, the spear of Bigong had already stabbed another speaker. He was bleeding and pulling the trigger in pain, only to be completely ignored by St. Giles.

None of the bombs hit him, and the Bearer was now being used as a weapon by him on a short spear, how could a warrior be hurt by his own weapon?

Bombs flew around, hitting more Whisperers. The angel was not in a hurry, but waited with absolute calmness until all the bullets of the Bearer were gone.

When the muzzle of the blaster no longer lit up any fire, he began to use the traitor as a hammer that he had added to the spear of Bigong.

One, two, three. The traitors finally began to fire, and the bombs flew in the wind-swept dust, and St. Giles dodged each one perfectly.

In this moment, he was not himself, not the angel of Baal, St. Giles, not the Ninth Legion's famous perfect genetic prototype, but the emperor's original vision of them—tools, beasts, killing machines, pure things that acted only on instinct

St. Giles briefly left his humanity behind in order to have more people alive. The storm blew his sideburns, and his blonde hair fluttered and stained with blood. The ice slag stuck in the gap between the wings finally began to fall with the violent movement, and the eyes as bright as ruby were full of murderous intent.

He charged, ruthlessly and premeditatedly beginning to disrupt the Bearers' formations and slaughter them on a killing spree. He constantly flapped his wings, created strong winds, and rolled up dust to obscure his vision, maintaining his tactical superiority, and using that recoil to add more power to his charge.

Don't look at him without armor and without a full weapon. For a genetic protogen, even if the opponent is a true elite of a hundred battles, there is a huge chasm between them.

Sometimes, he would even charge with his wings in front of him, and he would be able to stun some traitors to death in their armor with great kinetic energy. Of course, he hadn't forgotten the Spear of Achievement, which would be bloodied every time it swung or stabbed.

But what caught the eye was the piece of flesh that the angel had clutched in his left hand.

The heavy shield that completely concealed an Astarte was used as a special weapon in his hands, and he grabbed its side, five fingers carrying an irresistible force deeply embedded in the steel, and then, endlessly, swinging, slapping, smashing

There's no discipline to speak of, it's just pure brute force. Savage, but definitely effective. Flesh and blood splattered, and heavy muffled sounds rang out one after another. One by one, the Bearers fell, their bodies smashed and smashed along with their armor, or snapped in half by the cross-section of their shields

However, after only eleven seconds, St. Giles easily tore through the shield bearer's hunt and rushed straight out.

To his surprise at this moment, the Bearers had also made a plan for this. St. Giles saw a group of heavy fireteams waiting for them, but in the smoke and dust scattered by the charge, the angels were one step ahead of them.

The irrational instincts cultivated in countless wars set out to work, and St. Giles followed his bloodthirsty instincts.

He bent on his knees, spun his arms, and threw his shield with a slam. In an instant, like thunder on the ground, the crisp sound of an explosion shattered the air lightly, and a deformed assault shield spun and flew between them.

At least three of them were smashed into a mixture of steel and flesh in an instant.

But that was just the beginning, as St. Giles leapt to his feet, spread his wings and soared into the air, and then immediately lunged down. Birds of prey hunt, angels descend - and at the same time, he begins to roar.

"For the Emperor!" He yelled. "Let's be killed!"

The slaughter came again, but before the angel could see it, he had made his own voice - in fact, not only him, but everything around him was regaining its voice, as if it had been allowed.

The angry roars of the Bearers as they tried to reassemble their formations, the sound of blaster fire, the sound of blades slaying into flesh, and the waving of flags from farther away that could only be captured by the primordial Body's keen senses.

He didn't realize what that meant, he was so focused that St. Giles was in a hurry to kill, vowing to kill all the traitors around him.

He didn't allow himself to be held back for too long, and he had to settle it all as soon as possible, and then find the flagbearer who emerged from the dispersing mist.

What did the first mortal to speak, the one whose father did not hesitate to draw his hand to give a revelation and let him see him? The angel did not know the answer to this riddle, he only knew that the Lord of Mankind must have his intentions in doing so.

What he didn't know, of course, was that he didn't actually need to look for it.

The flag bearer has arrived.

Flag bearer Bellos von Sharp was always at the forefront of the war.

"Forward!" He roared, covered in blood. "Charge!"

No superfluous words, just two words. This is not so much an encouragement as a command.

No one cared about it, and everyone in Bellos' sight was fighting to the death—not to survive, not to kill the enemy, not to win. Just to advance the front, to reach a man, to be his sword and shield.

In order to kill his enemies and protect him, they went on resolutely.

The flag-bearer's heart was beating incessantly, stirring up a ferocious drum beat in his chest.

He hadn't been so excited for years, and looking back, it seemed like he had lived at least three lives.

The first is about struggling under the notice of the slave owner, the second is standing behind the master of mankind waving a flag, and the third is about wearing gold-rimmed glasses and trying to play a good role as a narrator.

He acted so well, so much like it, that even he really believed that he was just a simple narrator.

And now, in this moment of madness when blood was running wild and adrenaline was running endlessly in his body, he realized the truth of the matter, and the truth was that he should have died a long time ago.

After the end of the War of Unification, he survived every day. In fact, it's just for today, now, and now. In order to be the flag bearer for a while, in order to shout that slogan again.

So he roared, roaring incessantly, breathing as hot as the boiling gears in an engine running at full power.

The banner fluttered wildly above his head, and the wind full of smoke and death swept it up and smoothed, and the four lightning lines shone brightly, as if they had come to life, and they were majestic under the gaze of the eagle.

Evil cannot be approached, traitors cannot be stopped, and things in the darkness cannot even look directly at it.

Bellos roared again, unify! Unification! Unification!

A torrent of mortals charged up in defiance of life and death, passing his stubbornly rusty reef and sinking one enemy after another to the bottom of the sea.

They grabbed their entrails with trembling hands, slit their throats with their teeth, and smashed the heads of the mongrels with their weak, ever-mocked weapons, sending their brains splattered and blood flooding the ground like a tsunami

"Forward!" Bellos shouted hoarsely. "He's waiting, he needs us! Keep moving! For unity! ”

Then, suddenly, someone responded to him.

"For unity!"

There was a low smile in that voice, with an unconcealed joy and fanaticism. Bellos turned his head and saw a familiar golden figure. He was bleeding, but the iconic greatsword was still on his shoulder.

Bellos stopped, they stared at each other, looked at each other, and smiled at the same moment.

It's all in plain sight.

"For Terra! For the emperor! Thunder turned around and roared abruptly. Fight under that banner again.

He shouted for the emperor without hindrance. Bellos laughed at this, his blood running down his palms and covering the flagpole.

He couldn't speak, but he was proud.

——

Looking at the battlefield in front of him, Conrad Coates tilted his head slightly.

Corus Corax crouched beside him, claw blades crossed, gently shaking over the steaming corpse of the demon beneath his feet. Their armor was covered in blood, which was one of the things they left behind when they worked together.

They don't really work together much, and the two killers don't work together unless they have to, although their styles don't actually conflict, and even seem to complement each other somewhat.

The reason why we don't do this is because it seems a bit wasteful. If one killer is enough to solve the problem, then why hire two?

For insurance?

Coetzes turned his head and suddenly smiled slightly, his voice swaying in the wind: "Do you remember that cold joke about insurance that I mentioned last time?" ”

Corax nodded.

Neither he nor Kotz seemed surprised by the return of the voice.

"So, I've got a new one here, do you want to hear it, brother?" The Night Lord asked gently.

Behind them, the Raven Guard and the Midnight Blade are working together to strangle a vast demon army. The cruelty of the Nightblade and the serenity of the Raven Guards were rarely combined at this moment, resulting in an efficiency that surpassed that of any legion working together.

Almost every second, a demon dies. The Assassin leaping out of the shadows tore his body apart with his claws, and was taken by surprise by the blades lurking in the darkness

It's humorous to say, but the ways in which they die have never been as varied and imaginative as they are today.

"Listen, but you'll have to wait for me for a while." Corax said quietly.

He coughed and stood up, blood spilling from behind his pursed lips. Horus's injuries still affected him, but neither he nor Coates tacitly did not mention it.

He turned off the disintegration stance on the clawblade and walked over to Coetze, pulling out a very carefully packed silver pouch from one of the belted belts.

The Night King was stunned, he smelled a smell that he should never have been on the battlefield. The Lord of the Crows ignored his surprise, but lowered his head to himself and slashed open the bag with his clawed blade. Suddenly, the rich and tangy aroma of dried sand eel meat fills the air.

"Ling's joke should be eaten with sand eel jerky, that's right." Colus Koraks calmly and coldly held up the bag of jerky. "To eat or not to eat, Conrad?"

The Night Lord stared into his eyes and couldn't stop laughing. He nodded repeatedly, reached out and took the bag, tilted his head and poured it into his mouth.

He thought his taste buds were tired enough, however, the tip of his tongue still brought him the familiar salty aroma the moment it touched the jerky of the sand eel.

The mouth begins to grow, the masseter muscles begin to function, and the teeth gently cut and crush the jerky. A richer aroma quietly bloomed on the palate, and after a few seconds, Coetze stopped chewing and his throat began to roll.

He swallowed the mundane delicacy in an unbearable way. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, deeply.

"You want to keep me, don't you?" Suddenly, he asked.

Colus Colax put the jerky back in his fanny pack and nodded.

"What the hell is going on, brother?" Coetze asked sincerely. "How did you figure out what I wanted to do?"

"It's not hard to guess." Corax replied calmly. "You've never been a stubborn person, and I can see your change and weariness. It's like you've traveled 10,000 years in blood, Conrad. ”

Coates chuckled and opened his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and didn't answer the sentence.

"What are you going to do?" Instead of asking, Koraks changed the subject. He didn't even look at his brother again, just stood beside him, a bloody scene reflected in his dark eyes.

"If anybody else asks—you know, even if it's Angron or Robert or Fogham, I'll tell them, no comment. But you."

Coetzes suddenly reached out and hooked his shoulder.

"You're so smart." The Night King deliberately whispered in a malevolent voice. "Even if I don't tell you, you've already guessed it, haven't you?"

"I can't guess." Colax said. "And I don't want to guess. When prophecies are known to too many people, they change. ”

"Where do you come from that?"

"On some ancient books."

"Look less at what those bastards wrote." Coetze sternly raised a sharp finger. "Why is prophecy prophecy? Because it's going to spread, it's going to be informed. There has never been such a statement, brother. Do you want to know? ”

"I don't want to." In the Night King's increasingly strange eyes, the Lord of the Ravens shook his head slowly.

"What?"

"Just remember it yourself." Koraks said. "I'm not interested in knowing the specifics of the prophecy, or what you're going to do. We've come this far, and you're so stupid, I can't think of any other way for you to go than that. ”

"Hey!" Coetzes suddenly snapped up. "Be careful when you speak, you're scolding him together!"

Colus Colacs finally hooked the corners of his mouth quietly, and he replied slowly, "I don't think he cares. So, when are you leaving? ”

There was no answer, only a sigh, and a figure that gradually became illusory in the flames of rage.

Conrad Coetzes stood in the flames, staring wordlessly at his brother, as if he were already on the other side of the world. At this moment, the world he lives in does not belong to the living, but it does not belong to the living, but to an illusory place of junction, a narrow realm like a cage.

Then, five thousand five hundred and fifty-five pale bony hands crept out of the darkness behind him, and a crown that seemed to be made of moonlight began to pass through them, and finally quietly placed on the top of Conrad Coetze's head.

At that moment, the child from the Saving Star left his last tears.

Forever, forever, there is nothing you can do but watch them sacrifice.

"The answer is now, brother." Night Dynasty he blinked. "Jokes can be told when I get back, okay? Other than that. You don't think about it too much, just in case. ”

He raised his right hand, and with a flash of light, a mask appeared in his hand. Backed by pale bones, it has been supernaturally shaped into a skeletal face that inspires absolute fear.

Its eyes were deep and dark, like the eternal night of Nostramo. There are some not-so-obvious golden lines that shimmer at the top of the forehead, like the laurel crown of a king.

Conrad Coetzes handed him to his brother.

"You know who you're going to give it to, right?"

He winked at him again and smiled easily, as if he had lifted a weight of ten thousand pounds. However, as one of the people who knew him best, Corus Kolax saw something else.

For example, sadness, such as guilt, such as self-blame and remorse. And, of course, there's a very clever way to explain his own schadenfreude.

"Yago Sevitaleon?" Koraks asked.

Coates bowed, then bowed and said goodbye to him. He stood gracefully, his black hair falling down, obscuring all his expression.

Corus Colax closed his eyes and said slowly, "If we don't live to see each other anymore, I want you to understand, Conrad, that I am honored to be a brother to you. In addition."

He patted the bag of sand eel jerky.

Half a second later, when he opened his eyes again, Conrad Coetzes had disappeared without a trace, as if he had never existed.

(End of chapter)