The sound of gunshots, roars, the operation of chainsaw weapons, the charging of energy weapons.

These were familiar battlefield sounds to him, but when he opened his eyes, he found that he didn't recognize this one battlefield.

He looked around, and the armor of his Battle Brothers was covered in his familiar paint colors, and the tactical emblem was painted with the Iron Hand and the Mollock Clan emblems that he would never mistake, but the model number was familiar but unfamiliar to him—all of them were dressed in Great Expedition-era reliquary-grade armor, but the decoration on it was so plain that it almost didn't exist.

The brothers of the Iron Hand, who were not clad in prayers or anointed with holy oil, roared forward with their weapons, which were also mostly relics, and he naturally turned his gaze in the direction of the charge.

Then he saw—a sight he had never seen before, but which seemed to flow in his veins from beginning to end, and which he would naturally understand the moment he saw it:

Ferus Manus fell to his knees in a daze, his majestic body still standing out among the many Astarte warriors. His genetic father is down, scarred, but the power of machinery and the beauty of the human body are still harmoniously integrated into him, so that the original body can still be the center of attention.

His blood brothers roared and rushed towards the scene, their voices filled with unbelievable confusion and horror in addition to anger. He should have rebuked them for "mere children can be calmer than you," but he didn't. Some kind of cold fear grabbed him from the depths of his soul, and instinctively prompted him to let his gaze move up again—

He saw a shiny alien-shaped scimitar, the graceful arc of the blade shining with a lustful cold light.

He knew where the blade would go.

Uncontrollably intense fear from deep in his genes came to him, and before he realized what he was doing, he was already rushing forward with the same rage as his brothers around him.

The charge was blind, as if all the lessons he had learned in the Iron Hand about tactics and strategy, the reason and logic of the warband's own pride, and his own experience of more than five centuries of service were all at the same time gone. He didn't scout the battlefield environment, didn't try to fight with his brothers around him, didn't communicate with others about the landing point of the firepower, just shouted and rushed forward, driven by the complex emotions burning in his heart, and rushed regardless of it—at this moment, he probably didn't perform much better than a mortal child.

Even so, he still couldn't make it in time.

The blade fell unhindered, slicing lightly and gracefully into the neck of the Iron Hand Primordial. As the blood burst out, Ferus Manus's deathbed roar burst from his shattered throat, from the depths of the original body's body and soul, and exploded in everyone's ears. As if it was a response, almost all the Iron Hands present also let out a desperate cry.

A terrible reverberation reverberated through the battlefield of V. Istavan and caused him to stagger as he desperately rushed forward. He collapsed in the crowd and no one noticed him. The brothers of the Morlock clan are still moving forward, desperately moving forward, what are they thinking? Expecting a miracle to happen? Or do you want to live and die with the father of genes? Or can't a traitor who has fallen into chaos desecrate his father's body? He didn't know.

The heavy force of countless Terminator armor pressed down on him almost constantly, and he didn't even care. All he could do was regret and frustration, and he hated that he hadn't been able to get to the side of the Father of Genes at the right time.

In the midst of such remorse, he unwillingly closed his eyes. And then—

The sound of gunshots, roars, the operation of chainsaw weapons, the charging of energy weapons.

These were the sounds of the battlefield that he was familiar with. He opened his eyes and realized that he was in the midst of Istavan V.

He saw his brethren in plain armor again, once again discovered his genetic father in the flow of people, and once again roared and charged, trying to reach his father's side before the blade fell—

This time he didn't catch up, and the alien sword easily split him in half, leaving him with endless rage.

Again, the sound of gunshots, roars, the operation of chainsaw weapons, the sound of energy weapons charging.

These were the sounds of the battlefield that he was familiar with. He knew that he was in the midst of Istavan V.

Once again, he didn't catch up. This time he died from a stray bullet fired from nowhere, and he didn't even witness the end of his genetic father's life.

As a result, he became resentful and disgusted.

Then there were gunshots, roars, chainsaw weapons in action, energy weapons recharged.

These were the sounds of the battlefield that he was familiar with. He knew that he was in the midst of Istavan V.

Despair immediately surged up, and he knew that he would not be able to catch up - how could he, who was born nearly 10,000 years later, arrive in time for a murder scene that had been settled 10,000 years ago?

But is he going to give up? Just let him sit in place and watch his genetic father being beheaded by a traitor?

The boiling emotions surged him on, but a string of reason seemed to appear suddenly, and the ensuing doubts pulled him tightly in place. He stopped inexplicably, standing like a reef in the midst of the rushing crowd.

Should this really be done?

Why am I here? He thought.

Why am I in a battlefield that I couldn't possibly have ever seen? How do I know that I can't possibly see everything that happened on Istavan V.? I—Who am I?

Then, as Ferus Manus's blood spilled into the sky again, a hammer fell on him. He didn't know where it was coming from, only that his body was torn apart by the power hammer's sudden burst of decomposition force, and his eyes were once again plunged into darkness.

But he remembered:

I'm Marchan Ferros. I am one of the Iron Fathers of the Iron Hand Warband. I was born in the forty-first millennium of mankind, served in the forty-first millennium of mankind, and continued until the forty-second millennium.

In the forty-second millennium, it is impossible for me to catch up with a long sword that was slashed in the thirtieth millennium.

The results of the rational analysis made him feel heart-rending despair and pain, but he knew it was correct. The memories that gradually returned to him told him that he could not be trapped in this illusion that he could not do anything about.

He also had a battered battleship, some of the original cast brothers who had just undergone the ritual of renunciation, and a battle to take care of.

The last gunshot sound, the roar, the operation of the chainsaw weapon, the charging of the energy weapon. Markan Ferros opened his eyes in the battlefield he knew, resisted the urge to look where everyone was looking, and observed it as quickly and cautiously as any good Iron Hand would.

His heart beckoned him to keep going, but he still turned back with great difficulty, struggling to separate the crowd and go against the tide out of the battlefield—driven by reason as hard as steel.

Far away, the sword of the slasher fell again. At this distance, the sound of blood splattering that should have been inaudible seemed to fall on his ears clearly, and the near-death roar of the original body resounded on the battlefield once again.

But at the same time, the Iron Father, who was walking against the crowd, heard another voice: a sigh of exhaustion, apology, and relief, as if it had fallen from the highest to the distance, and then to him with clarity and clarity.

"You're doing a great job, Marchan Ferros. The balance between emotion and reason, this is an ideal path, something that I have not yet done. ”

The voice that seemed to pierce his soul said this:

"Also, I'm sorry."

Driven by some inexplicable impulse, the only remaining and intact eye of Phyllos wept because of it.

Six. (Seal wriggling)

(End of chapter)