Burn.

Engulf.

Counterintuitive.

Bleed.

Suffering.

Cry.

Scream.

Was he screaming?

He couldn't tell.

Uriel Vence is being "hung" in his "place", swaying with the movement of the demonic "steam" locomotive.

His comrade-in-arms, close friend and companion, Pasanius Lessani, was not far away, and was likewise "hung".

When it comes to using the word "hanging" to describe the current situation of an Astarte, it is not the most appropriate, but it is also quite appropriate -

The thick, barbed Demon Slaughter Hook was brutally and mercilessly thrust into the backs of both of them, and the supernatural force broke through the sturdy blue terracotta armor, burying the Slaughter Hook deep into their flesh.

Its hard hooks were deeply embedded, metal scraping against their fused rib plates, causing great pain and causing the two Astartes to lose more strength to struggle, hanging from the blazing crematorium fire like some kind of large livestock to be slaughtered.

A figure, almost three heads taller than the average Space Marine, was standing next to the boiler of a demon-engine locomotive, directing a humanoid faceless demon of eight unspeakable octopus tentacles and sarcomas to add charcoal from corpse fragments to it—it's hard to say exactly what it is, except that the entity controlled by this evil being looks like a warrior of steel.

The deformed, swollen giant's skull was surrounded by an iron crown, spikes that seemed to emerge from his skull through his helmet.

The original yellow-black faint streaks could still be faintly visible on the iron-gray power armor, which was extremely old, shoddy, and discolored by the vapors of millions of years of human ashes and grease.

And on one of his shoulder plates, the Iron Warrior's sacred legion crest, once fought for the Empire, emerges from the eight-pointed star of Chaos Astarte, which symbolizes endless hatred, pain, and evil: a skeletal face with a strange and evil smile, its teeth reflecting the piston boiler of the engine that is spewing out more corpse ashes and stinking steam of human flesh that has been roasted to a scorched degree.

He or it, turning his face and muttering something aloud, urging the wriggling humanoid sarcomas to add headless torsos and stumps to the locomotive boiler with their tentacle hands, his claws stained with grotesque flesh and corpse ashes clutching a sharp, sharp hooked sickle.

Vendis saw that Passanius's eyes were closed, that the wound on the sergeant's neck that had been cut by the demon's scythe had completely stopped, and that the Lariman cells had formed a thin film on it, and thankfully they were still working normally in the subspace.

The fragments of the first four company commanders' still clear thoughts only passed by in a flash, and his brain was now tangled together with his stomach, and then he was pulled forward behind his navel, even if Astarte's transformed physical fitness, with the flesh and a demon prince traveling directly through the subspace - oh, just thinking about this thought is so blasphemous - is too much.

Whatever it was and what it is now, it must have gone completely insane to be able to travel in this timeline of its existence, scattered, billions of past, present, future, and so on—

— It calls this — hellish — torture — travel —

The wanderer forced himself not to think too much about these lifeless beings, and it was the desire to think off the beaten track that had brought him and his companions to where they are now—

Ventris's nose was nearly out of order from the foul smell of the boiler of hell that could not exist on earth, but fortunately his third lung at least ensured that he could breathe, and his fortified olfactory nerves were telling him how perverted and disgusting what he smelled was.

His eyeballs were dry and uncomfortable from the heat, the pressure from the inside of the occipital bone seemed to explode in the sockets, he had a splitting headache, he couldn't help but look, he closed his eyes, he saw countless worlds passing by.

From time to time, the hungry and wriggling tentacles of the sarcoma demon rubbed against his body, rolled up his calves—he felt an irrepressible nausea—and roared by the being who wore the iron crown and the human skin apron, and they were halfway across the galaxy in the mad grunts of the demon prince, the upside-down prophecies, the laughter, and the stench of men and women charred by the flames of hell—

The colorless and multi-colored void cracked and fused again, like a stirred multicolored oil film on the surface of the water—

He was torn through countless planes, countless soul-blurred faces—the world seemed to be made up entirely of hopeless grays and stagnant eyes, and in it he was nothing more than a mortal, he was born, lived, old, died, it was broken, and then some kind of digital space-like world, mountains of silicon, rivers of gold, every piece of code was one—the void was once again split into millions of pieces, His own soul then slipped through the void gap between this world and the subspace on every crystal shard—he didn't know what or who he was—he watched in horror at the white and magnificent fortress of Hera—how beautiful she was—the golden gates of which fell to the cheers of the monsters—the demons reveled in the primordial sanctuary—sang and danced on his holy body—desecrated his holy body—his molten soul and tears flowed from gazing at the shattered void—

Why is there so much anger, helplessness, and sorrow in the existence of the self—he is about to be blended, and his name is about to dissolve in this primordial ocean that is swallowed up by ignorance and unconsciousness—but his will has made an oath in that magnificent white-gold fortress—he is Uriel Ventris—he is the warrior of the emperor—he will never give in to demons—

The smoldering Demon Prince walked over again, its head shaking, the pair of ectothermic yellow eyes in the helmet's sockets peering out maliciously.

It stretched out its black, foul-smelling claws and grabbed Vintris's jaw. The latter gasped, sweat dripping down his hair, flowing through his service spikes, pooling in his jaws, and into the demon's claws. Astarte's eyes drifted out of focus, and he opened his mouth helplessly to suck air from the demon's claws like a drowning man who had just been scooped up.

"Looks like we-"

A loud cracking sound of silence echoed beyond the range of human hearing, interrupting the Demon Prince's words and causing it to let out a long howl of anger and hatred.

It threw away the Space Marine in its hand and gripped its massive hooked scythe, the demons of eight sarcoma tentacles converging for it, its gaze towards the unnatural flame of the demonic engine.

"Who is it?" The giant roared, "Who dares to disturb this holy and filthy journey!" ”

The rectangular light that led to the outside world was obscured by a swaying silver-gray figure, followed by another, and a team of Terminator veterans and others appeared with the smell of sparks and ozone from the teleportation.

They were heavily armed, and the think tank curator in the team was surrounded by blue electric light, his hands raised in the air to release his power, and the boundaries of his group energy shield were devouring each other with the blue-green flames of the demon engine, making a sizzling licking sound.

The unwelcome visitors, the swaying gray skull mask insignia on the black-on-silver shoulder armor sent the iron-crowned giant a heart-rending howl of resentment.

"Liars!!! Shameless betrayal!!!! Swindler!!!!!! ”

The lead Space Marine didn't speak, just raised his weapon.

The last thing Uriel Venis saw was as they calmly advanced and shot, engaged, and fought with demons.

Then he felt as if his brain and spinal cord were being pierced and twitched back and forth by a red-hot barbecue chisel, he was bleeding, he was in pain, he was completely unconscious.