Slaughter, blood, death.
The sword cut through flesh, and the souls cast into hell carried a desperate urge.
An urge to drag everything in sight into an even crueler hell.
Heretics fled, xenos wailed, and the daemons—
Where were the daemons?
Arthur, in a state almost like meditation, listened to the sound of the disintegration field ripping flesh apart.
His mind still registered the horror and disgust, yet he felt no fear or tension. Instead, he found it strangely liberating to think about nothing and simply cut down enemies.
There was no need to worry about the distant future, no need to dwell on the terrifying present. All he had to do was butcher these inhuman monsters, tearing a bloody path with sword and shield.
In that moment, he was the master of everything around him.
Now he finally understood the mindset of the greenskins and Khorne's worshippers.
In this universe, being able to swing a blade with unshakable joy was, in its own way, a blessing.
Arthur did not even bother questioning where his skill at arms came from. He simply focused on the enemies before him. His swordsmanship, seamlessly blending attack and defense, grew ever more fluid in the narrow corridors. With every cut, the growing number in his vision made him pause in curiosity.
Had he really killed that many already?
The brief doubt faded as the blade halted mid-swing. Before him stood a stranger.
It was a Space Marine in finely wrought blue armor, as tall as Arthur, holding a multi-melta fed by a backpack ammo unit. The power pack on his back bore a glowing iron halo, within it the Ω sigil shining in the gloom.
He held out a single hand to block, and Arthur's blade stopped just short, the crackling arcs of the disintegration field grazing the surface of his armor.
The two locked eyes.
Boom.
The multi-melta roared, sending streams of molten death surging down the corridor and clearing it of foes.
Arthur's sword glanced off the iron halo, then skewered a Chaos sorcerer who had used strange magics to close in. With a single rising cut he split the sorcerer apart along with a Genestealer.
Clang.
Their armor struck as they pressed back to back.
"Arthur?"
The Ultramarine spoke in Chinese. The language of their distant homeland jolted Arthur back to clarity, pulling him out of the frenzy.
His enhanced brain processed rapidly. Reviewing the blue warrior's gear, Arthur raised his shield to block a cultist's leaping strike, the backlash of force bursting several nearby mortals. He then tested a name.
"Romulus?"
Romulus, his good brother in Warhammer, had fought with him from Darktide all the way to Space Marine 2, from Warhammer Fantasy to Warhammer 40k. They had known each other since childhood.
And in the game, Romulus had always favored this very armor scheme.
"Yes."
The Ultramarine answered lightly, then tapped a device on his arm. A three-dimensional map appeared in Arthur's vision.
"You take the lead. I'll cover. Follow the passage straight ahead, and don't fall to the lower decks."
"Got it."
Both men understood the nature of this universe. Neither spoke the other's true name. Arthur stepped forward, while Romulus casually discarded the multi-melta. When he raised his hand again, a heavy bolter materialized in its place.
"You got blessed by the Chaos Gods?"
Arthur could not help asking as he noticed the perfectly timed bolter fire picking off tough enemies in the mob.
Anyone who knew Warhammer would think the same. Pulling weapons out of thin air reeked of the Dark Mechanicum's blasphemous gifts, the kind of thing only daemonic entities like Vashtorr could grant.
"Blessed?"
Romulus chuckled.
"It only cost thirty points. You can try it too."
"What?"
Bullets tore a line through the crowd. Arthur frowned, raising his shield to cover Romulus.
"You really didn't notice your abnormality?"
Romulus tossed an armor-piercing grenade, silencing a gunner entrenched in a nearby barricade, then spoke.
"There's a safe zone in the warp. The number in your vision grows whenever you kill a creature with a soul. And you didn't notice? The daemons you killed stayed dead."
Arthur froze. He remembered now that after cutting down a few daemons earlier, none had come near him again. Only mortals and xenos remained close.
Everyone knew daemons were warp-spawn, impossible to kill by normal means. Only the endless cycle of consumption in the warp could erase them. Nothing but death itself frightened them.
"Uh."
Arthur's face twisted awkwardly beneath his helmet as they pushed on.
"I was only thinking about killing. Figured if I was stuck in this cesspit, I might as well drag some down with me. You know how it is. Anyone who transmigrates into Warhammer and doesn't cry like a baby already has nerves of steel."
He tried to excuse himself, insisting it wasn't his fault.
"Khorne would love you."
Romulus sighed, then explained further.
"I don't fully understand it yet either. What I know is that we have a domain in the warp, like a safe house. Killing things with souls strengthens us, represented as numbers, and we can spend those points to interfere with reality. For example, creating objects from nothing."
Arthur frowned.
"So… we became warp demons?"
He cut down a greenskin climbing from the lower deck and glanced at the rising number, his face twitching.
It was hard not to worry. For now, the facts were simple: transmigration, a decent landing as Space Marines, albeit as Fallen Angels, and an apparent plug-in tied to the warp.
Given the warp's nature, this so-called plug-in was likely linked to its daemonic entities. To rely on it blindly was foolish. What if they left the warp and the system cut off?
Arthur even suspected his good brother might actually be a daemon in disguise, sent to guide him along for some sinister purpose.
That possibility could not be ruled out.
His grip on his sword tightened as suspicion grew.
It was strange. He had adapted to the gore so quickly, cutting through monsters without much disgust. That alone was abnormal and worth caution.
"Who knows. We'll figure it out once we leave the warp."
Romulus shook his head. From a rational perspective, the idea that killing a few enemies could let someone buy the body of a Space Marine was absurd. Even the Chaos Gods were not that generous, or the galaxy would already have been carved into fifths.
But now was not the time for answers.
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