Chapter 270: All Are Invited to My Banner of Man
The voice echoed through the grand corridor, sudden and sharp.
The combatants on the battlefield instinctively looked up and saw a giant standing at the head of the formation, a corpse in one hand, a head in the other. The armour on the corpse was highly recognizable, belonging to the elite guard that only high-ranking nobles were entitled to. And the head was even more familiar, the third eye embedded in its forehead still weeping black blood.
'My creation, forged with the essence of nine daemons... dead just like that?'
The Viscount's pupils contracted to pinpricks, and the nascent tentacles under her robes writhed restlessly.
THUD!
Before the Viscount's confusion could dissipate, Bjorn leaped down from the十几-meter-high platform. His frost-weapon drew the heat from the surroundings, and with his swing, it kicked up a wave of snow. He locked onto the psyker in the crowd with a single glance, then roared and strode towards her, resolute and unstoppable.
He was like a banner. The scattered Imperial forces began to converge on his position.
Thump, thump, thump...
'Dammit!'
The Viscount instinctively tried to flee, and then unleashed a bolt of psychic lightning. But the old wolf stood firm against the psychic assault. In the world, aside from the wails of the dying heretics, there was only the sound of his heavy footsteps. The psychic energy couldn't even leave a scratch on his armour.
SHLICK!
Lightning claws tore through the air, directly ripping the insignificant mortal into several pieces. Seeing that the soldiers, who had just been fighting to the death, were now beginning to flee, Bjorn threw the throwing-axe in his hand. The cold axe-blade whistled through the air and carved two bloody paths through the massive corridor.
"Wolves! Forward with me!"
Their goal was to destroy the void shield generator beneath the throne and completely expose this fortress-city to orbital strike. This was the seventh wave of noble-armed forces they had encountered on their way.
The wolf-pack-like force advanced at high speed. They tore through a hail of bullets. They tore through steel. And then, flesh.
The battlefield was in chaos. Corpses, blood, and fragments of steel covered the floor, staining the magnificent walls blood-red. These humans, long under the influence of Chaos, had a considerable number of psykers and mutants. These forces were a perfect match for the Space Wolves, who had a long history of fighting Chaos sorcerers.
Flames were scattered throughout the magnificent grand hall. The ornate floor was riddled with cracks from artillery fire. The priceless murals, which could be traced back to the Great Crusade era, were in ruins. Blood flowed in rivulets in the grooves of the relief-carved floor tiles. Maimed limbs were scattered at every turn of the throne's steps.
The Space Wolves twitched their noses, their gene-enhanced sense of smell pulling out trembling figures from the ventilation ducts, secret doors, and even the waste-recycling pools. Their identities would be displayed one by one on the dynasty's own gene-scanners, to determine if they were worthy of interrogation.
"For Russ and the Allfather!"
In the ruins of the High Throne hall, the Space Wolves roared their war cry and executed the mutated enemies. With Bjorn, a legendary Space Marine, leading them, the morale of the entire Space Wolf force was undoubtedly extremely high. They were the main force in this war, and in one month, they had conquered almost all the fortresses on the surface.
And amidst the deafening cheers, Bjorn was unusually cold. Through the ruins, he looked out at the towering fortress beyond.
When Pollux strode over the ceramic fragments, he noticed that his old acquaintance seemed to have sensed something. "What's wrong?" the Crimson Fist, who had been in charge of leading the landing forces to build a temporary fortress in the early stages of the war, asked.
Bjorn took a step back, making room for his allies. Pollux followed his gaze. The orbital lance-bombardment had stopped. 'Imperial Knights' were cleaning up the last few pockets of resistance. He immediately furrowed his brow.
"There's a problem," Bjorn said.
"They're too weak," Pollux replied.
"According to known intelligence, House Mandrakor is ruled jointly by High King Caligius and High Queen Caligia. Because they have not suffered any losses in nearly ten thousand years, they currently have sixty knightly lances under their command. At a minimum, that's six hundred Knights," Arthur said, his attention on the battle-damage reports from the forces below. He had also noticed something was wrong.
"The numbers are wrong," Ramesses, who was controlling an Aeldari Wraith-titan, asked, though his tone was certain.
The moon of Omega III was of greater value and threat than Drol itself. After all, it was a Mechanicus faction with a ten-thousand-year heritage. It was highly likely that it still had some ancient technology, and even STC templates. And considering the consistent nature of the Mechanicus, the Dark Mechanicum were proper academic heretics. These guys, most of them, when faced with a 'research block,' would just choose to perform a sacrifice, stuff a daemon into something, for the sole purpose of gaining control over a certain technology, rather than trying to understand and manipulate it. Even the most rigid and greedy of Mechanicus Magi hated these guys. At least the Magi, no matter how human-like, would try to analyze a technology in other ways, and would not choose to hand knowledge over to the blasphemy of the warp.
The actual combat strength of this moon was likely much stronger than the planet below. So they had been focusing their main attack on this moon. But after they had landed, they had already noticed something was wrong.
At this moment, the Ironwing had already infiltrated the forge world's data center. Azrael was observing Zahariel's operation. This neophyte, who was in the process of integrating into the Legion, could always get along well with most people. And around them, aside from the framework that was difficult to dismantle, it was all red lava. This forge world, which should have been highly developed, seemed empty.
"The facilities have been taken away," Arthur judged. This was not in the Dawnbreakers' expectations. Drol was isolated from the world. It had not entered the Imperium's sight until the Great Rift opened. Even the data on it was fragmented. The Dawnbreakers had put in no small effort, in both reality and the warp, to find this planet's coordinates.
"Something has been wrong since Fenris. I feel like someone is waiting for us," Ramesses said in a low voice, then continued, "Master Arthur, stay by my side. I'm going up to check."
"Alright."
With his consent, Ramesses and Arthur flickered to the shoulder of the Wraith-titan. Around this Wraith-titan were the wrecks of several Warhound-class Titans. For a forge world's defense force, this little combat power was far too scarce.
Ramesses raised a hand and began to extract the machine-spirits from them, and the daemons that were clinging to the inside of the machines. After analyzing the souls of the dead operators, I can, to a certain extent, replicate the situation at that time. The warp... who came here?
'Considering the Dark Mechanicum can only worship a few, Vashtorr?'
Ramesses analyzed the soul-data around him, and suddenly remembered something. "Oh, right," he said, looking at the screaming and roaring manufactorums. Some of them had not been moved in time, or were not worth moving. "All are invited to my Banner of Man!"
With a raise of his hand, the surrounding factories all froze. The souls that were entrenched within them all turned to dust and flowed into the circular soul-circuit behind his golden-red armour.
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