Death.
Flames.
Distortion of high temperatures.
Distant roars.
Everything.
Endless.
Never-ending.
In Ursbro's eyes, this war seemed destined to continue this way, until the most solid fortresses decayed in the wind and sand, until the most resilient warriors collapsed in slaughter, until everything it bore and cherished crumbled in the relentless passage of time.
Facing everything before him, even Ursbro, the Randan Empire's high-ranking Overlord and undefeated general, the commander of tens of millions of troops, had to think so.
Whenever such gloomy thoughts crossed his mind, his mouth would accumulate venomous acid, dripping onto the ground and forming craters big and small. An unprecedented rage and indignation would surge from his chest, momentarily seizing his thoughts.
Gloomy, passive, fearful of battle, and most importantly: incompetent.
He remembered when his iron boots first trod the barren earth of this world, he burst into this command center with his trusted aides and military police, dragging his predecessor outside: they knew each other, and had even fought side-by-side for a long time.
But that didn't stop Ursbro from pointing his gun at his former colleague, coldly recounting the unforgivable crimes of dereliction of duty, cowardice, and incompetence in front of everyone. As these charges were read, he fired a scorching bullet into that weary skull.
Then, it was his turn.
If he also failed to complete these assigned tasks, a new bullet would eventually pierce his skull. Ordinarily, such an act of executing a general before battle would need to consider organizational structure and morale.
But this time was different: their Emperor was somewhere behind them, His will linked to every warrior through the throne. Neither rout, hesitation, nor panic would affect the immense courage of every Randan Soldier, and no matter who the commander was, it would not shake the firm belief of every Randan Soldier.
In this war, no one was indispensable.
Thinking this, gloom filled the Randan Overlord's heart. His gaze moved back and forth between the front line's holographic projection and the strategic map, constantly calculating how much longer it would take to breach the next defensive line.
He had broken through countless defensive lines, destroyed innumerable fortresses and trenches. He himself no longer remembered how many victories he had achieved in this barren world. He might have led his army to annihilate millions of human troops, or even more.
But no matter what, more opponents would always block his path, and an endless stream of legions and defensive lines would appear on the next horizon.
Ursbro's gaze, accompanied by his grim thoughts, lifted. He easily saw the tallest fortress through layers of smoke and thick wind: that was his ultimate goal, the core fortress of the entire world's defense system. As long as he captured it, he could cut off the transportation lines of the entire fortress complex, turning all human armies into fragmented clusters unable to support each other.
He knew that no fewer than ten Randan Overlords were striving for this goal, and he was the one most likely to succeed. Long ago, he had already seen the Two-Headed Eagle Insignia, shining almost sacredly, at the very top of that fortress.
How much time had passed since then...
Defensive lines were breached one after another, army corps were annihilated one by one, his iron boots were soaked in human blood, and news of other Overlords' defeats echoed in his ears. In a daze, he looked up again, only to find the flaunting eagle insignia still standing high above all, as if mocking his powerlessness.
They were so close, as if within reach, yet so far, as if separated by a world.
He could never shoot down that eagle.
Unconsciously, this thought flashed through his mind, and Ursbro's gaze grew even darker.
Accompanying his gloomy gaze, countless flashes of fire and shrapnel danced wildly on the battle line not far from him. Beneath these deadly metals were rows upon rows of Randan Soldiers, like waves in a stormy season, seemingly endless.
Most of these Randan Soldiers were not qualified warriors. Their commanding officers watched indifferently as these bodies, whether young or old, fell like burning forests under intense firepower, allowing the more elite warriors behind them to seize the opportunity to breach human defensive lines.
Such attrition was not meaningless futility, because just as the defenders' crossfire was temporarily delayed by the dense vanguard, using armored vehicles or even low-altitude aircraft as cover,
the best Randan Soldiers would stab into every throat of the defenders like sharp razors. The Randan officers who had been indifferent moments ago would now appear at the very front of the battle line, leading by example, guiding another victorious assault and slaughter with furious roars.
The war proceeded in this brutal and monotonous exchange: either human warriors slaughtered xenomorph armies on open ground under cover of firepower, or Randan vanguards butchered trench after trench and fortress after fortress in close combat. The cycle repeated, ceaselessly.
No one knew how long this exchange lasted, for the scorching sun never dipped below the horizon. Both humans and Randan Soldiers, all the warriors, could only expend their finite blood under infinite light.
This was the longest day.
As the gunfire ceased, the Randan forces surged into another fallen fortress. Only in the most remote rooms could scattered sounds of resistance still be heard, but this did not prevent the grotesque banners from covering the smoke-shrouded ruins, marking yet another victory.
The Randan Overlord witnessed all this. He felt no additional joy, for a message had just arrived at his desk: while he was commanding the breach of another defensive line, his last supporting friendly force had suffered a devastating blow, and his right flank was completely exposed, exposed to the overwhelming wrath of the Human Imperium.
"Dragon."
The fallen Overlords, in their final messages, repeatedly mentioned this terrifying monster, unstoppable, invincible.
All this made Ursbro silent for a moment, but he quickly issued the order to continue the attack.
He had to complete his mission. They were more important than his life, more important than the lives of all his warriors.
He knew that the situation in the skies above had fallen into an unfavorable state for them, which made it even more necessary to achieve results on the ground, to liberate the warships constantly vying for air superiority, to throw them into a true naval battle.
Giving up was impossible. They had spent too long and sacrificed too much on this world. When their Emperor could not give precise orders for various reasons, no one dared to abandon this ground battlefield where a breakthrough had already been made.
The cost was too high.
Therefore.
He had to capture that fortress.
No matter what he faced.
——————
"They're here!"
When the officer's hoarse roar echoed through the trench, at least a hundred equally hoarse throats repeated his words, like the worst possible symphony, designed to torment every ear placed in that trench.
The sergeant was no different.
He scratched his ears, feeling no additional tremor or tension: he had been fighting in the war against the Randan for almost five years, clashing with these monsters on four different worlds. In fact, everyone in his machine gun squad was the same.
Silence was prevalent in the trench; only the sounds of weapon checks and whispered prayers reached his ears. He could see the positions of the artillery and anti-aircraft fire, and all the firing points he could spot.
On his front line were dense layers of trenches, garrisoned by tens of thousands of ordinary soldiers, a full regiment, tasked with meeting the first wave. Only after they were completely wiped out or abandoned their positions would it be their turn on this defensive line.
The sergeant looked up, and soon, he heard the first loud cry of war, so he quickly ducked into his cover.
The roar of drones and artillery came much faster than the wave of Randan Soldiers. Countless shells thoroughly churned every inch of land, blood and wreckage scattered with sharp, reaper-like shrieks, until the Imperial firepower also joined the melee.
The artillery duel was brief, yet infinitely long. When the sergeant, shaking his buzzing head, returned to his post, his line of sight was already completely occupied by a dense black tide.
Wave after wave of black tide pierced the horizon, slowly extending like the spears of hell. Then, countless distorted war engines joined this rampant army with a rumbling roar. In an instant, the flames of war consumed the entire position, and hundreds of thousands of lives fell with agonizing wails at the very first moment the battle began.
The sergeant didn't hesitate for a moment. He called to his subordinates and pulled the trigger.
"Bang—"
——————
A human bullet struck Ursbro's breastplate, but it didn't even leave the slightest scratch.
The Randan Overlord didn't hesitate. He casually swung the blade in his right hand, letting the lifeless human body fall to the ground from his sharp weapon, joining the ranks of his thousands of compatriots.
This seemed to be a general, the commander of this trench: Ursbro's knowledge of humans told him so.
But he didn't care. What he cared about was another breakthrough on the front line: he knew that every trench captured here was more important than ten cities elsewhere, because this was the final obstacle, and behind it lay a direct path to his objective.
He advanced once more, countless elite Randan Soldiers following his every step. He saw fierce armored combat raging on his left and right, the mutual slaughter of countless steel behemoths dazzling like suns growing on the ground. He saw the last fortresses futilely trying to kill him, just as every human he encountered in the recent battle would do.
He roared, he bellowed, he felt scorching hot air pouring from his throat in great gushes. He brandished his weapons: a sword in his right hand, a cannon in his left, fighting fiercely amidst the flesh and blood. No one could harm him; he was the wind of hell bringing death and terror. He blasted tanks, cleaved fortresses, and tens of thousands of troops crumbled under a single charge, becoming broken remnants awaiting slaughter.
One slash, then another.
One step, then another.
When the freshest blood splattered on his face once more, Ursbro looked up, his gaze once again fixed on the lofty Two-Headed Eagle.
Closer.
Extraordinarily close.
A storm of bullets shattered his joy, and he heard the sound of another group of warriors falling, along with roars desperate to kill him.
He smiled.
He swung his blade, advancing again, delivering the humans their rightful end.
——————
Dead!
All dead!
The sergeant gasped, running, his weapon now a tattered rifle. His original weapon and subordinates had all fallen into the bloody mud.
Now, he leaned against a pile of equally tattered sandbags and mud, behind him a destroyed artillery piece, and the cooling corpses of the artillerymen.
This was high ground; he could clearly see everything.
He saw the battle lines torn to shreds, he saw the smoke that symbolized his fallen comrades, he saw only a few survivors still struggling to fire back, he saw the Randan army, still advancing, endless.
The most terrifying figure was at the forefront of those xenomorphs, a twisted creature possibly three meters tall. He alone had slaughtered entire trenches and fortresses.
He saw...
It was looking at him, watching him.
With a grotesque smile, it watched him.
How terrifying that smile was, appearing on the face of the most twisted monster, amidst countless mangled limbs and bodies, like a frequent visitor in nightmares.
The sergeant looked at the xenomorph, the xenomorph he had countless reasons to fear.
He knew what he had to do.
Then.
He raised his gun.
Aimed.
At the same time.
He felt it, a scorching wind seemed to brush past his head, past this hopeless sky.
He looked up.
——————
He saw everything.
Breathe, deep breaths.
Ursbro couldn't help but widen his eyes. He watched the flocks of Iron Eagles tear through the hazy dust, rushing to his legion's front along the lowest canopy.
They still came.
He could feel a tension.
The Iron Eagles landed, and demons surged out of their cages. Warriors in green armor poured out of the fighter jets like a raging forest, landing on this barren land. They were covered in the marks of war: scrapes, ash, scars and injuries, and scarlet pupils.
He saw his legion roaring, countless Randan Soldiers roaring, charging furiously. The gleam of blades and the heat of flames instantly filled every inch of land.
He saw, he saw the most terrifying individual among those human demons. He was so striking and unique: that dark-skinned, berserker giant, taller than a fully armed war engine, more savage than a hundred roaring Randan Soldiers in the throes of battle. He swung his warhammer, obliterating everything around him with blinding speed.
He was so grotesque.
So unrestrained.
So brutal and violent.
Even a living devil crawled from hell would be a million times less terrifying than this demon's face.
The Randan Overlord could feel his acid accumulating again.
He gripped his blade, pushed aside his guards, and charged without hesitation towards the monster that was wantonly slaughtering.
He crashed into the green demons trying to stop him, his blade and cannon carving bloody gashes into their necks, letting countless lives drain away. In just a few breaths, he had harvested at least twenty green demons blocking his path, or rather, Astartes.
Flames and bolter shells battered his armored body, but to no avail. He feared none of it. With his next deep breath, he finally broke through the last defensive line, and finally caught the attention of that towering demon king.
He saw that dark face turning towards him. What a twisted and terrifying demon's true face it was, as if the living embodiment of savagery and slaughter. His pupils were the purest scarlet, as if speaking of his master's cruel indifference.
He saw that warhammer, countless bloodstains had stained it a sickening dark red. In the long struggle before, who knew how many lives it had harvested.
But, it was over.
He roared.
He charged.
He would kill him; this was his mission and responsibility. No one else could do it.
——————
Vulkan swung his warhammer, instantly smashing the challenger's head.
Another one.
The xenomorph's head shattered completely the moment it met the warhammer. Its charging body hadn't even broken free from the inertia of its speed, rolling several times in the dust before collapsing limply to the ground.
The Lord of the Firedrakes glanced at it. This xenomorph had just massacred many of his children, which caused his rage to swell even further: Vulkan hadn't closed his eyes for hundreds of hours. He and his Salamanders had been ceaselessly toiling and slaughtering on the most dangerous front lines, and this was the last one.
He roared, he shouted, his body inspiring everyone. Countless Salamanders and even ordinary humans howled to the sky, joining this grand battle.
The xenomorphs had collapsed. The moment the Lord of the Firedrakes appeared, all their offensives and madness disintegrated. When his wrath transformed into flames that scorched the sky, even the most rampant courage could not shake him in the slightest.
At this moment.
Now.
Blood flowed.
Dragons roared.
Slaughter shook the earth.
Flames engulfed the sky.
Ah... this chapter, I feel completely out of sorts.
After all, Vulkan is a Primarch, so I had to explain his situation. The plot definitely has a few bugs, please ignore them.
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