The SLAYER roared, initiating the battle between humanity and the aliens.
The Doom Slayers grunted, their eyes steady and resolute behind their tactical visors.
The battle began in nanoseconds, time plunging into a viscous mire, sinking amidst the ruins of the bridge.
The tyranids' roars stalled, their voices drawn out by the slowed time, every movement of the aliens clearly visible in the Doom Slayers' eyes.
Their flailing limbs, saliva splattering from their mouths, the reflections in their vitreous eyes, every muscle twitch for each movement—all were seen with crystal clarity!
In the almost still war painting, a tall figure moved, his left arm guard firing a flame ray that precisely hit an alien's gaping maw.
As if a long time had passed, the internal timer in the power armor ticked a thousandth of a second, and the Doom Slayers reacted.
Their composite shoulder cannons aimed at the ceiling, muzzles blossoming with disintegrating sparks, the sound creating a faint shockwave that slowly diffused in the frozen time.
The black-armored warrior "slowly" raised his arm, braced the spear in his hand, and fired a dimensional ray at the tyranid.
Silence.
There was no fervent clash in the battle, only an icy silence.
The rays traveled through the air at the speed of light, and the Doom Slayers could clearly track their trajectory, knowing which enemy they had hit.
Crash! ~ ~ ~
As the timer completed one second, sounds erupted instantly, and various noises filled the quiet bridge.
The aliens' roars and the firing of the composite shoulder cannons intertwined into a symphony of death and destruction, like a volcano erupting after accumulating power.
In one second, blood rained down from the ceiling, tyranid body parts constantly falling, and the bridge fell silent once more.
According to the counter, in a negligible one second, four hundred twenty-seven aliens were killed, and the first wave of attack, before it could even fully form, was already routed.
In the brief engagement, the tyranids hadn't even had time to crawl out of their iron holes; merely showing their heads led to their demise, their bodies rolling back into the tunnels.
Hiss!
A roar came from the depths of the darkness, and the aliens, originally eager to launch another attack, cautiously retreated back into the shadows.
The bridge became quiet again, the warriors forming a defensive formation, ready to meet the next wave of attack.
Ra knelt before the augur array's pedestal, removing his auric gauntlets to allow his fingers more flexibility.
Those complex cables, hanging like human intestines, were painstakingly sorted by him with intelligent assistance to identify their specific functions, quickly connecting them together.
Deep within the ship, the tyranid' activity reached its peak; they gathered in a large hall, planning their next attack.
On a throne in the hall, a giant beast squatted; its appearance was not much different from a common tyranid, but it was taller, larger, and stronger.
It was the "Patriarch" of the brood, the broodlord, a high-ranking entity that had bred the entire lineage.
The broodlord was very annoyed now, its crimson eyes like two lanterns, constantly sweeping over its descendants, emanating a chilling majesty.
Awakened by the foreign humans, it sensed too many things were amiss.
Since arriving at this new feeding ground, the local creatures, "humans," had been very unwelcoming to the brood's arrival.
They even gave the brood a name: the Great Devourer—Tyran.
There was no specific meaning; it was just that after the brood's fleet arrived in the galaxy, the world designated as an appetizer was called "Tyran." As the brood's vanguard, the broodlord had been separated from the Tendril Fleet for a long time, infecting several worlds with its own genes, then delivering them into the hungry mouths of the fleet.
It had fought many humans, understood the strengths and weaknesses of the local species, and used these to contend with them.
After descending upon another world, humans discovered the Tyran infection, assembled forces to eliminate the newly established brood, and the broodlord also embarked on a ship, beginning its exile.
However, it was lucky; after multiple transfers in the Human World, it eventually boarded a ship laden with slaves.
For the tyranids, a ship full of slaves was a buffet.
Soon, it infected most of the ship's population, establishing a new brood, but an accident also occurred.
Before the ship reached its destination, the human captain discovered slaves with mutated foreheads, realized the ship was infected, and desperately steered the ship into the warp.
Eventually, the broodlord, along with its brood, was carried by warp currents to a ship graveyard; after clearing and occupying the derelict fleet, it entered a long period of hibernation.
During this time, it awoke several times; the derelict ships would occasionally drift into the Real Universe, attracting humans or other species to board and search for things.
With the advantage of timing and location, the brood easily eliminated them, not even requiring its intervention.
Then the ships would re-enter the warp, repeating this cycle, appearing at random points throughout the galaxy.
Now, it had awakened again, and the situation it faced was somewhat different.
Those humans were a bit different, taller than ordinary Space Marines, and their leader was even taller, looking very dangerous.
Most critically, after the appearance of the black-armored humans, the species communication, which humans called "psionics," seemed severely disrupted, making it difficult to transmit commands.
In the broodlord's plan, before the humans reached the bridge, attacks should have been continuously launched to wear down the human warriors' patience and stamina.
But due to the communication difficulties, it could only use primitive roars to slowly command the brood, barely managing to launch one encirclement.
Unfortunately, the attack failed before it even began; those black-armored warriors were indeed more troublesome than Space Marines.
Its hidden self could barely discern their movements, but its physical reactions were far inferior.
Especially that leader, his attack movements were incredibly fast; nerve signal transmission speed couldn't keep up with his physical actions.
The broodlord had a premonition that if it faced him, it would be cut into several pieces in less than a second.
Being cut into how many pieces would entirely depend on his whim.
Squatting on the high platform, the broodlord felt it had changed; having been in human society for too long, its thoughts had become tinged with a bit of humor.
Its dark, sharp claws gently scratched its cheek, recalling the black-armored warriors calling that person a "Primarch."
Primarch. In human society, it usually refers to a kind of legend, an existence revered by Mortals—a Gene-Father.
They were the transcendent beings created by the human "God-Emperor," the Gene-Fathers of the Space Marines, charismatic leaders, and strategists.
Although the broodlord did not understand human history, it remembered the legends of the Gene-Fathers by heart.
Thinking to this point, the broodlord's mind became even more perplexed.
With the end of the Great Crusade, the Gene-Fathers had successively disappeared; why had it encountered a suspected one in the warp?
Could it be that it had hibernated for too long, and humanity's Primarchs had returned?
At this moment, the broodlord's thoughts were more conflicted than ever before.
Its underlying genetic coding instructed it to seize the opportunity, hunt a Gene-Father, and unravel his genetic code, which would allow the brood's strength to soar.
The autonomy granted by the Hive Mind, however, suggested that there was no need for further conflict; the opponent's strength was too great, and its current forces attempting to hunt a Primarch would be akin to throwing eggs at a rock.
It would be more beneficial for the Hive Mind's strategic deployment to quietly submit, wait for the opportunity to return to the Real Universe, and transmit this information.
The broodlord raised a claw to scratch its head, its consciousness torn between two instincts, unsure how to choose.
Hum ~ ~
As it was agonizing, a faint hum emanated from the warship, indicating that the humans had succeeded, and certain functions within the derelict ship were restarting. "Hiss!" The broodlord rose from the high platform, raised its head, and roared loudly, ordering its brood to attack.
Opportunity knocks but once.
Ultimately, the Hive Mind's greedy instinct triumphed over reason; it decided to awaken all its descendants, to gamble on a tiny probability, and kill the human Primarch.
With the broodlord's roar, the entire ruin echoed with roars, one after another, transmitting its will.
All tyranids were awakened and launched an attack on the humans!
Blazkowicz naturally heard the roars from the darkness; he understood that after the aliens' probing, a fierce attack was imminent.
"Father." Ra murmured, as data from the augur array scrolled before him; after calculation, he reported to the Primarch:
"The augur array is operational, but it is old and in disrepair, and its scanning power has decreased. It will take half an hour to complete the scan."
"No matter." Blazkowicz raised his hand, giving his sons a reassuring smile. "Half an hour is nothing; I only fear the aliens won't be enough for us to kill."
Hearing their Gene-Father say this, the Doom Slayers laughed, their hearty laughter devoid of any worry.
"Large biological signatures detected approaching." The cogitator integrated into the augur array terminal reported, its voice cold and urgent.
Blazkowicz raised his left arm and saw the slowly forming holographic map, densely packed with red markers, converging on the bridge from all directions.
He glanced at the data — 19,735 — the number was still rising, estimated to reach 120 thousand.
He shook his head, then let out a cold snort and dismissively shook his head: "A mere a hundred thousand aliens; we can still rest for a while before the scan is complete."
As soon as the Primarch finished speaking, the Doom Slayer's shoulder cannon opened fire, instantly killing thousands of aliens, whose bodies slowly slid down the wall.
Tal Rasha double-checked the Obelisk array, and after confirming the equipment was running stably, he donned his gear and joined the defensive line, eliminating the aliens alongside his brothers.
"Formation change, firing order remains the same," Blazkowicz immediately adjusted, allowing Tal Rasha to integrate into the defensive line but not participate in the shooting.
He took out a fusion core to power the Obelisk array, which limited the power armor's energy distribution, preventing full firepower output.
Instead of accommodating Tal Rasha's insufficient firepower, it was better for him not to participate in shooting, but to serve as a flexible fire support unit for the front line.
Though the warriors disdained the xenos, they remained vigilant in actual combat, ready to counter the enemy's assault.
Hiss~~~
In the dark passages and the steel nest, hissing sounds arose, as if they were communicating.
Blazkowicz's gaze dropped slightly; the dust on the floor was trembling, and dense footsteps caused vibrations, indicating a large number of enemies were approaching.
The broodlord in the shadows coldly observed the battle, employing the most traditional attrition tactic—driving low-level units to assault in waves, and then personally harvesting once the humans were exhausted.
In an instant, the bridge became a bloody slaughterhouse; tyranids surged from the iron tunnels, walls, and ceiling, baring their fangs and claws to attack.
And what greeted them was a network of firepower composed of composite shoulder cannons!
"Above!"
Verbal communication could easily miss a tactical opportunity; the warning was rapidly conveyed through the psychic link.
Within the Real Universe, the warrior's mind immediately acted; the mental signal was captured by the neural interface and compiled into digital commands by the intelligent chip.
The customized composite shoulder cannon responded quickly; upon receiving the signal, the mechanical base reacted in microseconds, the muzzle lifted upwards, and aiming and firing were completed simultaneously.
The broodlord understood humans well, knowing the blind spots in human warriors' vision, and the ceiling was an excellent breakthrough point.
Ten composite shoulder cannons unleashed a firepower density comparable to ten companies of Mortals; cannon fire rained upwards like a reverse meteor shower, and tyranid bodies constantly crashed down, falling limply within the defensive perimeter, piling up into a mountain of corpses.
In the shadows, the broodlord's mouth curved into a human-like smile; this was exactly the effect it wanted.
From the beginning of the battle, it knew its offspring would not achieve results; without the cover of long-range firepower, any number of them would only be sent to their deaths.
But it wanted them to die!
The bridge was wide enough to accommodate hundreds of people working, yet it was also narrow; ten thousand corpses could fill it.
The broodlord sent its offspring to their deaths, using their bodies to fill the space, compress the advantage of long-range firepower, and drown the humans in blood!
Its plan was successful; in just thirty seconds, bodies had piled up into a bloody ramp along the wall.
Bodies from the ceiling continuously fell, and although they did not harm the humans, they accumulated into small mountains, obstructing the humans' vision.
Junior fired his spear, launching dozens of shots per second, preventing the aliens from getting close; as he turned his body to adjust his firing arc, he felt a slippery sensation underfoot.
He lowered and then immediately raised his head, completing the entire motion in microseconds, understanding the source of the slippery sensation.
Blood, thick and viscous red blood, flowed from the pile of alien corpses, gradually covering the entire bridge.
"Tal Rasha!" Junior called out to his brother through the psychic link, concisely prompting, "Deal with the blood."
"Understood!" Tal Rasha responded quickly, aiming his composite shoulder cannon at the floor in front of the line and continuously firing dimensional rays, cutting several holes to drain the blood.
He chose a good location, in front of the circular line, under their control, which would prevent alien bodies from blocking the holes.
Watching the Doom Slayers handle the situation in an orderly manner, Blazkowicz nodded silently.
One minute into the battle, he stood in the middle of the circular defensive perimeter, having not yet made a move, allowing his sons to perform freely.
As more and more bodies accumulated on the bridge, Blazkowicz understood the alien commander's thinking: it wanted to use the bodies to compress space and amplify the xenos' agility advantage.
"Burn the bodies with fire."
Obelisk spoke, his deep voice very recognizable; he, too, understood what the aliens intended.
"Fire..."
"Wait!"
Tal Rasha had just opened his mouth, preparing to cast an Old One spell, when Obelisk interrupted him: "Do not use fire! It's too narrow here; the bodies will burn rapidly, causing temperatures to skyrocket."
"The cooling systems cannot withstand prolonged scorching; our power armor will become branding irons, scalding us to death."
Hearing Obelisk's words, Blazkowicz smiled imperceptibly; the tall man had a meticulous mind and exceptional observational skills.
After hearing his brother's explanation of the consequences, Tal Rasha was secretly alarmed, realizing he had almost fallen for the alien's ploy.
He quickly scanned his surroundings, cleared his throat with a slight cough, and, mimicking the Old One's manner of speech, uttered an Old One spell: "Annihilation!"
As the spell was spoken, Tal Rasha abruptly removed his helmet, spitting out semi-coagulated blood clots; he took several deep breaths, his lungs making violent gasping sounds.
The Old One spell was successfully cast, resulting in a bizarre and terrifying sight.
The bodies and blood gradually faded, like an uncolored, abrupt patch in a mottled painting. Then their forms collapsed, and the faded matter was forcibly erased, as if by magic, disappearing before everyone's eyes.
Within the bridge, everything related to the aliens vanished, as if they had never existed.
Blazkowicz supported Tal Rasha, gently patting his back, and said solemnly, "Powerful spells involving the old words should be used sparingly in the future; the cost required may be too high to bear."
Feeling his Gene-Father's concern, Tal Rasha was flattered, gasping, "Annihilating inanimate objects is much simpler; I'm just not very proficient."
He straightened his back and stood tall, putting his helmet back on, and shook his head, saying, "You don't need to worry; my self-healing ability is repairing the injuries. I'll recover full bodily functions in thirty seconds."
While a scene of filial piety played out on the defensive line, the broodlord in the shadows was stunned, drool dripping from its mouth, clearly shaken.
In all its accumulated wisdom, it had never witnessed such a sight; its mind suffered a violent impact, and its body stiffened, unable to make any movement.
A meticulously planned strategy erased by a strange-sounding phrase? The bodies of its offspring vanished completely?
What kind of place was this? Was it still the Milky Way?
Not only were human Primarchs present, but there was also some powerful force that, when spoken by humans, could forcibly twist reality!
The broodlord squatted on the high platform, lost in thought.
A few seconds later, it leaped from the high platform, its crimson eyes flashing with dangerous light, and it hissed as it ran towards the bridge.
No matter what, it would risk its life and use every means to eliminate this squad of humans.
If this small squad left and carried that power back to the Real Universe, it would be a huge obstacle to the Hive's feeding!
Hiss~~~
The broodlord let out a serpentine hiss, issuing its final command for its offspring to launch a desperate charge.
And it, too, would join the fight against the humans.
The tyranids attacked even more fiercely, fighting without regard for their lives, pushing the front line with their bodies.
The firepower of the circular defensive perimeter also weakened; under continuous high-intensity firing, the composite shoulder cannons' barrels emitted high heat, and the cooling systems operated at full capacity.
As firepower diminished, the aliens broke through the fire blockade, reaching the edge of the line, and were then swiftly eliminated.
Obelisk, like an unyielding city wall, wielded his spear, fighting alongside his Gene-Father.
From the corner of his eye, red light occasionally flashed, indicating the Primarch was wielding his Crucible Sword to slay enemies.
While steadily cutting down aliens, Obelisk's heart was not calm; he had slain hordes of daemons and absorbed demonic power, easily defeating his former self, yet he still couldn't clearly see the Gene-Father's sword-wielding movements.
A flash of red light, and the alien was decapitated; the Primarch's movements remained effortless and unhurried.
On Ganas Homeworld, he had also witnessed the might of the Iron Hands Primarch, Ferrus Manus; that Primarch was also very strong.
But when the two were compared, there were still differences between Primarchs.
Obelisk had once believed that the Gene-Father, compared to other Primarchs, might be like a Doom Slayer compared to a Space Marine.
The facts proved he had thought too little; Blazkowicz's power far exceeded imagination, and the Primarch had never fully displayed his strength.
Obelisk was deeply anxious, fearing that one day, when the Gene-Father needed to fight with all his might, he and his blood brothers would struggle to keep up with the Primarch's pace.
"What's wrong with you?"
A question tinged with concern pulled Obelisk's thoughts back to reality, instantly jolting him.
"No problem," he heard the Primarch's inquiry, knowing he had been somewhat distracted, and to avoid further complications, he quickly found an excuse: "There was an issue with the power armor data, but it's fixed now."
"That's good. Don't get distracted in combat," Blazkowicz nodded, withdrew his gaze, and pointed towards the bridge's main door, saying, "The mastermind has appeared."
A colossal beast emerged from the darkness, six meters tall with heavy footsteps, its eyes three shades redder than blood!
Blazkowicz did not know the broodlord, nor did he know where the tyranid came from; there was no light of inquiry in his eyes, only an enemy appearing before him.
He shook his arm, vibrating the Crucible Sword to shake off the blood clinging to its blade, preparing to kill the enemy leader and end this battle.
"My Lord." Obelisk broke from the formation, blocking the Gene-Father's path, his deep voice filled with expectation, "Please let me finish it."
Blazkowicz stopped, looking down at Obelisk, his tallest son, his mind rapidly organizing his words.
He had, of course, caught the expectation in that request and tried to understand his son's heart.
As the Gene-Father of the Doom Slayer, Blazkowicz cherished every warrior; his Legion's size was not as prosperous as his brother Legions.
Due to the scarcity of personnel, Blazkowicz equipped his sons with the best gear, hoping to protect them on the battlefield.
Hearing Obelisk's request to fight, he hesitated for a moment, even having the thought of refusing.
Blazkowicz was about to speak but stopped, and Obelisk had already removed his helmet, a gleam flashing in his tiger-like eyes.
Blazkowicz suddenly remembered how he had killed the Ork Commando Kid in front of Nowick, proving his strength.
Time had passed, and now, when his gene-sons stood before him, just as he had done back then, hoping for an opportunity, how should he respond to this expectation?
After a brief thought, he looked up at the xeno and said to Obelisk, "Leave it alive."
Blazkowicz did not offer encouragement or warn Obelisk to be careful; both encouragement and warning were external manifestations of distrust.
He was concise, issuing his command, deeply confident that his son would achieve it.
The affirmation from the Gene-Father, those words of complete trust, gave Obelisk supreme encouragement; he performed a warrior's salute and turned to charge at the alien leader.
His shining golden boots clanged, and the Doom Slayer's speed reached its peak, like a black lightning bolt streaking through the darkness.
The broodlord's crimson eyes narrowed into slits, its beastly intuition screamed in alarm, and its survival instinct howled, urging it to flee this place quickly.
It realized it had underestimated the human warrior's strength.
He was taller than a Space Marine, faster, and charged with the might of thunder!
In a hundredth of a second, the broodlord tensed every nerve in its body, unleashing all its physical functions to catch the human warrior's ghostly figure.
Unfortunately, the feedback in its eyes was a series of incomplete images.
The Hive Mind, a collection of thousands of biological genes, hatched it to act as a vanguard for solo missions, yet it couldn't react to the human's speed.
The broodlord, whose dynamic vision was extraordinary and could track bullet trajectories, now saw the human charging at it like a low-frame camera, in fits and starts.
It clearly recognized the disparity in strength, and the thought of retreat arose in its mind, but its body struggled to react.
As an extension of the Hive Mind, tyranids were adept at lurking behind enemy lines; they excelled at sensing and exploiting the emotional changes of intelligent beings.
But now, as the broodlord of its kin, it could not sense the emotional changes of the person so close to it.
He was like a towering mountain, silently crushing towards it, without joy or pity, nor anger.
Only pure, cold killing intent, firmly locked onto it, unstoppable! Irresistible!
In the blink of an eye, the human warrior seemed to teleport, covering a hundred meters in half a second, and by the time it reacted, he had already swung down the long spear's energy blade.
Out of an instinctive response to crisis, the primal urge for survival etched into its genes, the broodlord subconsciously raised its sharp claws to parry the enemy's blade.
No! It couldn't block it!
By the time its conscious mind reacted, it was too late to make any movement.
The indestructible, single-molecule claws, capable of withstanding disintegrating weapons, touched the energy blade without any resistance, slicing through the chitinous armor that formed the biological claw as easily as a blade entering water.
Obelisk brought down his spear, and in just one encounter, he severed the tyranid broodlord's two left arms.
The broodlord was horrified; before the blood from its severed arms could gush out, it swung its right arms in retaliation.
Its two right arms flickered with tiny electric sparks, activating a biological disintegration field; pale blue lightning illuminated the darkness, also reflecting the human warrior's subtle movements.
Obelisk's shoulder cannon adjusted its angle, its muzzle aimed at the alien's two right arms, and a brilliant blue cutting beam erupted.
The broodlord's eyes widened; in that brief moment, before the pain could even reach its brain, all four of its arms lost sensory connection, and it had lost its crucial means of attack.
Run!
A stinging pain shot through its arms; the broodlord ignored the pain of its severed limbs, its eyes filled with terror, only one thought in its mind—get away from here!
Fear is a primal biological instinct; because of fear, creatures understand danger and make the correct choices when facing crises to ensure their survival.
The broodlord let fear overwhelm its reason; in this flash of lightning, only embracing fear could trigger the urge to survive and drive its legs to flee from the human's blade.
Obelisk remained silent, his gaze sharper than an eagle's, catching the strip-like muscles between the alien's chitinous armor joints, gradually tensing.
The alien wanted to escape!
The keen warrior deduced the alien's next move from the angle of its muscle exertion.
It was too late to swing the spear back now; the alien only needed one back-jump to escape his attack range.
His thoughts flashed like lightning; Obelisk released the spear with his left hand and swung downwards with reverse force!
To the broodlord's astonished eyes, three four-foot-long light claws sprang out, without a distinct edge or back, diagonally slicing its hip bone from right to left.
In the silent battle, it felt its muscles being severed one by one, taut ligaments snapping back, and bones dislocating and sliding as the energy blade passed through.
Shriek~~~~~
The broodlord let out a piercing shriek; this was the first sound of the battle, and it also signaled the battle's end.
Its six-meter-tall body crashed down; all four arms were severed, and three claw marks split its crotch. Only one intact leg fiercely pushed against the floor, sliding its body backward.
Obelisk was still silent; he exerted force with his left hand again, swinging upwards, his iron fist smashing into the alien's mouth.
"Ugh... crunch..."
The broodlord's shriek abruptly ceased; an iron hand had shattered its front teeth and shoved them into its throat, seizing the base of its long tongue.
Its sensitive tongue was gripped, and it let out a painful gurgle; out of biological instinct and basic structure, turbid tears flowed from its crimson eyes.
Obelisk grunted, gripping the alien's throat and tongue, the veins in his arm bulging, and he pulled back with force!
A completely long tongue was pulled from deep within the alien's throat; that slender tongue, like a red serpent, coiled upwards, constricting the shining golden gauntlet.
"Crunch... crunch..." The broodlord wanted to roar, but no sound of pain could escape; gushing blood blocked its throat.
It was powerless to struggle, lying supine on the floor, its head turned to one side, eyes vacant, and foul-smelling blood flowing from its mouth.
Obelisk raised his hand; after the long tongue left its body, it was still unconsciously coiling.
He observed closely, detecting an anomaly.
The crimson tongue had astonishing flexibility, and beneath its tip was a fleshy pore; the hole connected to the base of the tongue, with two sac-like pendulous bodies.
He squeezed his hand, and the sacs immediately ruptured, releasing a large number of tiny, tadpole-like alien larvae.
Recalling the alien's name from the data—Genestealer—he immediately understood that the tongue was its important organ for spreading infection.
Frowning, Obelisk stomped on the alien's only remaining good leg, then stomped on its abdomen again, forcing it to sit up and open its mouth.
He exerted force with his left arm again, stuffing it into the alien's mouth to help stop the bleeding, and also returning the long tongue to its body.
To prevent the xeno from opening its mouth and causing the tongue to fall out again, he casually tore off a piece of steel, inserted it from the lower jaw, and threaded it out through the nostrils, sealing its mouth forever.
Blazkowicz watched everything Obelisk did; he nodded slightly, his eyes filled with joy and approval.
The broodlord fell; without its leader and high-ranking leadership, the tyranids scattered, fleeing into the pipes for their lives.
"My Lord. I have not failed your trust."
Obelisk dragged the alien, now like a human-torso-with-limbs, before his Gene-Father, standing ramrod straight.
"You did very well." Blazkowicz showed a gentle smile, reaching out to support his shoulder, his affection evident.
Although the battle process only lasted two seconds, he witnessed the entire process, without missing any detail.
Obelisk was steady and brave, his martial skills outstanding and extraordinary; every decision was perfectly executed, demonstrating extremely high combat prowess.
He might not be the strongest fighter, but his combat intelligence surpassed that of many of his gene-brothers.
"You did very well…" For Obelisk, this was an extremely high recognition, causing him to involuntarily puff out his chest and raise his head, striking his chest with his fist in a warrior's salute.
Gene-Father and gene-son, seeking recognition and giving recognition; five words could convey and clarify everything.
"Rest for a bit. Once the augur completes its scan, we'll set off again."
The group hurried, following the holographic map's guidance towards an unknown destination.
Blazkowicz was at the front of the team, constantly holding up his left arm, watching the holographic map while tracing the source of his arm-guard's disgust.
There were no more obstacles along the way; the tyranids dared not attack again because their broodlord had been captured. Obelisk personally guarded him, cutting materials from the warship's steel plates, piercing the xeno's body, locking its points of exertion, and then welding the cage into one piece with a thermal gun.
For convenience of transport, a simple flatbed cart was specially built to drag him forward with chains.
At the very rear of the team, Alistair was responsible for covering their retreat, observing the Bolter in his hand repeatedly, his face beneath the helmet full of confusion.
He clearly felt an consciousness within the gun, but he could never pinpoint its whereabouts.
In desperation, Junior gripped the Bolter, turned to aim at the dark pipe behind him, and pulled the trigger to test if the firing mechanism was normal.
Bang!!!!
The characteristic sound of the Bolter rang out, and the entire squad paused. All the warriors, within milliseconds, illuminated their weapons and entered combat stance.
Blazkowicz walked at the very front of the team; his sons could not see the Primarch's face.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, then quickly receded, as he suppressed a laugh.
He had long noticed something was off with that weapon, and Junior, after fiddling with it for a long time, eventually caused an incident.
Aside from Blazkowicz, the squad members aimed their weapons and shoulder cannons at potential enemy positions, standing ready, awaiting the enemy's appearance.
Two seconds later, the surroundings were dead silent, and no enemies appeared in their perception. Their eyes were full of suspicion as they all turned to look at Alistair at the end of the line.
"Damn it!"
Junior cursed angrily, and under the suspicious gazes of his brothers, he pointed at the Bolter in his hand and roared, "This gun... there's something dirty in this gun!"
"I've checked many times just now; there are no bullets in the magazine or the chamber."
Under the bewildered gazes of his brothers, Junior was protesting, but he himself felt his protest was somewhat weak.
No bullets, yet the gun fired.
Such an extraordinary event could only be achieved by psychic powers, and the Doom Slayers had a suppressing effect on psychic abilities.
Moreover, with the Gene-Father present, no daemon would dare to make a move, rushing to their deaths.
Indeed, Junior despairingly realized that his brothers, though wearing helmets, conveyed a look of — 'This is your absurd reason' déjà vu.
Seeing that they didn't believe him, Junior grew anxious and quickly pulled open the Bolter's ammunition compartment, removed the magazine, and showed that there were no bullets.
Seeing his earnest demeanor, the squad put away their weapons, ready to watch their brother perform, adding a bit of fun to their journey.
Blazkowicz also nodded, signaling his son to demonstrate the trick of firing without bullets.
Junior didn't hesitate. With the Primarch's approval and his brothers' anticipation, he aimed at an empty space and pulled the trigger again.
Click~
The sound of the firing pin was very clear, echoing in the quiet passage, and Junior's face immediately turned green.
He looked up; his brothers stood silently, seemingly believing that his earlier shot was a prank to lighten the mood during their long journey.
"You bastard!" Junior cursed, his grip tightening. The Bolter creaked under the immense pressure.
He removed his helmet, revealing a handsome and rugged face, now contorted with rage: "I'm giving you one more chance. If you dare to play tricks, I will definitely drag you out and flay you alive!"
Junior's gritted teeth and fierce threats commanded the Doom Slayers' respect, but arguing with a gun was indeed a bit much.
Someone was about to go up and advise him, but he held them back with a raised hand.
"Remember, you only get one chance!" Junior's eyes widened in anger. He raised the gun again, aimed down the passage, and fiercely pulled the trigger.
Bang~
This time, the gun fired.
The Bolter spat fire, launching a fusion warhead that exploded violently at the end of the passage.
Junior's expression softened slightly. He raised the Bolter, a triumphant look on his face, and said, "You all saw that, right? There's something dirty in this gun, and it's a stubborn one."
The Doom Slayers exchanged glances. The scene that had just unfolded indeed had a touch of fantasy.
A Bolter confirmed to have no bullets, after a verbal threat, fired a fusion bullet.
Everyone believed that Junior could not, under their watchful eyes, quickly load a bullet into the gun. In plain sight, he couldn't do that. Moreover, Doom Slayers never carried Bolter rounds.
And their brother's angry expression, upon closer thought, didn't seem feigned; he truly felt provoked.
Seeing that his brothers believed him, Junior smiled, triumphantly flipping the Bolter as if he had acquired a new toy.
"You're smart enough," he patted the Bolter, his tone considerably gentler but still full of menace: "I'll let you off for now. After we get out of here, I'll deal with you slowly."
Blazkowicz saw the minor interlude conclude and said in a low voice, "Continue advancing. We are very close to our target."
He saw through the surface; a mischievous consciousness resided within the Bolter, trembling under Junior's threat.
That future technology could imbue weapons with souls was truly astonishing.
How exactly to use it, he would leave Junior to discover. As his son didn't ask him, Blazkowicz didn't want to explain too much.
Some things needed to be understood personally to satisfy curiosity.
Junior hung the Bolter at his waist and rejoined the team, continuing his duty of covering the rear and keeping watch.
Within the team, the powerless broodlord was filled with doubt: "Why are these people so ignorant of 'Machine Spirits'?"
For such high-level combatants, Machine Spirits shouldn't be unfamiliar.
Machine Spirits possessed a unique fantastical quality; they were a special consciousness generated by the Adeptus Mechanicus's worship of weapons.
Why didn't they know?
A myriad of questions surged within the tyranid broodlord's mind; he couldn't understand what faction these humans around him belonged to.
The team advanced steadily, and after months of travel, they finally emerged from the winding labyrinth of ruins, arriving at the core of the wasteland.
"Maintain vigilance." The arm-guard's sense of abhorrence reached its peak. Blazkowicz ordered his sons through the psychic link to be ready for battle at all times.
An existence that disgusted a C'tan was bound to be extremely dangerous, allowing no room for carelessness.
He waved his hand, signaling the Primarch to come forward and cut the damaged ship's hatch, while he himself gripped the Crucible Sword, protecting the team's safety.
La pulled the hilt from his waist, ignited the power blade, and began to work, cutting an opening large enough for the Primarch to pass through.
After doing all that, he carefully retreated to the side, gripping his weapon, ready for battle!
Blazkowicz stood at the very front of the team, shield in one hand and sword in the other, enough to protect his sons' safety, then gathered his strength and kicked open the steel hatch.
Bang!
The hatch was kicked open, and intense light poured down, causing Blazkowicz to squint slightly.
In the sunless ruins, the sudden appearance of light, an abnormal phenomenon, was not a good omen.
He led the charge out of the ruins, but the sight before him surpassed all imagination.
This was a circular, steel-enclosed cavern, with an artificial mini-star hanging high above, providing illumination. His team stood on the edge of a circular platform.
And in the center of the steel cavern was a giant scythe, entangled by holy chains emanating a soft glow, suspended in mid-air.
The giant scythe was ancient and unadorned, without any ornate decoration, its overall appearance a cold, leaden color, stark and cruel.
Blazkowicz raised his left arm, pointing his arm-guard at the scythe; intense disgust and annoyance pulsed within it.
As the arm-guard was raised, the giant scythe also reacted, trembling slightly within its chained confinement, seemingly responding to the C'tan's fragment.
"Hoo~" Blazkowicz let out a long breath. After confirmation, he knew the scythe's true identity.
It was truly the "scythe of the nightbringer."
The Life-Shaper·Prima had once recounted the ancient War in Heaven, a conflict that spanned the galaxy and profoundly impacted the warp.
Ultimately, the root cause of the War in Heaven was the owner of the scythe of the nightbringer — the Nightbringer·Aza'gorod.
He was the embodiment of primal fear, imprinting the image of "Death" — cloaked in black, scythe in hand — into the consciousness of all sentient beings.
Aza'gorod(Nightbringer) was the most powerful C'tan. He parasitized the Necron homeworld's sun, feeding on stellar energy, causing the light emitted by the star to be tainted with radiation and curses, making him the culprit for the Necrons' short lifespans.
Due to their extremely short lives, the Necrons implored the Old Ones for methods of longevity, but were rejected by them, harboring resentment ever since.
Prima revealed that the Old Ones knew the cause of the Necrons' short lives and had no way to extend their race's lifespan.
The refusal was due to powerlessness, not indifference.
The C'tans were gods of physical laws; they were born great. The curse imprinted on their genes by a god was something the Old Ones had no solution for.
The ultimate result was the War in Heaven.
At the climax of the war, the Nightbringer's scythe was struck down by an Aeldari deity and lost to the warp.
After the war, he prepared to retrieve his weapon, but then the Necrons betrayed the C'tans.
A war that spanned eons ended in betrayal, leading to the devastation of the galaxy.
The Nightbringer was shattered by the Necron, his body imprisoned and enslaved, never to find release.
The scythe of the nightbringer, the iconic symbol of the Grim Reaper, was forever lost in the warp, unable to return to its master to harvest the souls of organic life in the galaxy.
Blazkowicz never expected that, by a stroke of luck, he would encounter the C'tan's weapon in the warp.
It was over a thousand meters long, its scythe-blade like a crescent moon suspended in the air, emitting a chilling glow, and threads of coldness pierced the soul.
Legend has it that a fully-formed Nightbringer·Aza'gorod, wielding the scythe of the nightbringer, could harvest the population of an entire world with a single strike.
Those innocent victims would only feel a cold gust of wind pass by before their souls were drawn from their bodies, entering the mouth of the avatar of death, becoming sustenance for its god.
Upon seeing the scythe of the nightbringer, Blazkowicz understood the origin of the arm-guard's hatred; all hatred and aversion ultimately had their reasons.
During the C'tan civil war, the Nightbringer was ferociously powerful, harvesting the lives of other C'tans and shattering several of his brethren.
Coupled with The Burning One·Nyadra'zatha being the most cruel, hating all living things, including his divine brethren, the reaction was naturally intense.
With the full story known, the problem solved itself, and Blazkowicz's mind cleared, but there was still one thing he didn't understand.
Why was this infamous yet infinitely powerful weapon imprisoned here?
C'tans are the embodiment of physical laws, representing the absolute will of the Real Universe; they are difficult to truly destroy.
And the weapons they use are products of the extension of divine concepts and will, possessing a certain self-awareness, longing to return to their masters.
C'tan weapons, even if lost in the warp, would never stay in one place for long, long enough to generate a gravitational field that attracts debris to accumulate into ruins.
Blazkowicz lowered his shield and walked along the circular platform with the Crucible Sword, observing the chains that imprisoned the scythe of the nightbringer from multiple angles.
That power was sacred and ancient; the pure chains had no end, rooted in the void, continuously drawing power from the warp to contend with the C'tan's weapon, preventing it from breaking free.
His gaze, filled with inquiry, gradually moved away from the scythe and chains, landing in the distance, where a small house stood opposite the circular platform.
"Follow me, and be careful of your surroundings," Blazkowicz issued the command through the psychic link, telling his sons to follow him, adding a final instruction: "Watch your step, don't touch anything else."
This place, built upon psychic energy, was originally designed to imprison the C'tan's weapon, yet it suppressed the psychic abilities of the intruding Doom Slayers and Blazkowicz, requiring caution to avoid triggering environmental anomalies.
After all, they had just entered, and without deliberate targeting, the psychic chains had dimmed considerably, and the scythe of the nightbringer's activity had increased significantly.
The group's footsteps were light, yet they couldn't mask the echoes; the sound of their steps rose and fell within the steel cavern, like drumbeats of varying rhythms.
Arriving at the door of the house, Blazkowicz reached out and handed his shield to Obelisk; he was the tallest, and even if an accident occurred, he could use the shield to protect his brothers.
He then raised his hand, forming a fist, and politely knocked gently on the iron door—bang ~ bang ~ bang ~
After waiting ten seconds, there was no response from inside the house, so Blazkowicz knocked on the door again and waited another ten seconds.
Buzz!
The Crucible Sword flashed red and then disappeared, cutting the iron door's seal; Blazkowicz held the falling iron door, carefully placing it aside, striving to minimize damage to the scene.
He gestured, indicating for the relatively shorter Junior to go in and explore; he himself was too tall to enter the small house.
Junior bent halfway, entered the house, and shared everything he saw with his brothers and the Gene-Father.
The room was very simple; a bed was placed at the end of the wall by the door, and opposite the bed was a display cabinet with unique, different-colored minerals in small compartments.
Next to the cabinet was a forge, with unknown fuel emitting high temperatures, and forging tools neatly arranged on an anvil nearby.
To the left of the hot forge was a complete set of exquisite kitchenware, with half a cup of water still remaining.
Having surveyed the interior of the house at a glance, Junior slowly exited the room, waiting for the Gene-Father to decide on the next course of action.
All signs indicated that someone lived here, but had left before their arrival.
Blazkowicz lowered his left arm; he could tell that the house's owner had left not long ago, and in a hurry, likely knowing of their impending arrival.
"We mean no harm, and did not intentionally trespass here."
Blazkowicz put away the Crucible Sword, signaling his sons to lower their weapons, reducing their aggressiveness, to show they had no ill intent.
Only his sincere voice echoed in the empty space; after waiting a few minutes, there was still no response.
"Stand back," he spoke again, telling the Doom Slayer to move away from the house, making a significant concession once more.
"We come from the Real Universe," after his sons had moved further away, Blazkowicz explained their origin, raising his left arm to display his gauntlet: "Guided by this weapon, we arrived here."
His voice was gentle, enough to soothe a frightened heart, and held enough sincerity to build trust.
Releasing goodwill and stating his purpose, as an intruder, Blazkowicz was very polite, without any excessive overstepping.
Unfortunately, the hidden entity still refused to show itself and respond to this goodwill.
The warriors, having moved away from the Primarch, stood in the distance, their eyes narrowing beneath their black armor, staring intently at the steel-built house.
The Gene-Father's attitude was sincere, his words even containing a hint of a plea, yet the person in the shadows still wouldn't reveal themselves, which was somewhat unappreciative... Blazkowicz could naturally sense the malice emanating from his sons' hearts towards the owner of this place, born of their reverence for him.
Yet he remained calm, raising a hand to soothe his sons, then facing the house and bowing slightly in salute, slowly retreating.
"Retreat another hundred meters, then rest in place."
The group moved further away from the house again; Blazkowicz had his sons rest in place, while he himself paced along the circular platform, carefully observing the scythe of the nightbringer and the psychic chains.
Time passed minute by minute; he walked four full circles, examining every detail within the steel cavern, fully confirming his earlier suspicions.
After completing the last circle, Blazkowicz returned to the front of the house, speaking a name he had never revealed, not even to his sons: "The Life-Shaper·Prima."
As the Old One's name was spoken, footsteps echoed inside the room, and a figure emerged from the iron house.
Blazkowicz's eyes flickered with pleasant surprise; his conclusion, drawn from observation, was correct—this was the secluded dwelling of an ancient saint.
Only they could cleanse the warp's filth and sublimate that pure power.
"Where did you learn that name?"
The figure was short and stout, wearing brass armor carved with cosmic stars as a base, a stellar relief on its chest, and auxiliary weapon carvings; its left hand held an ancient flintlock pistol, and its right hand clutched a square short hammer.
It stood cautiously at the doorway, pointing the flintlock pistol at Blazkowicz, its two large yellow eyes on top of its head occasionally glancing at the Doom Slayer.
"What race do you belong to? And who are you?" Its questioning voice echoed hollowly, its chin's eardrums trembling, containing a hint of excitement.
"Greetings, elder." Blazkowicz revealed a friendly smile, bowing to the figure with the utmost respect.
He truly hadn't expected to encounter the scythe of the nightbringer in an unknown part of the warp, and also an ancient saint living in seclusion here!
The Life-Shaper·Prima was right; there were no Old Ones in the Real Universe, but there was one in the warp.
"Elder Prima lives in seclusion on my homeworld, and has formed an eternal bond with my ancestors, the Nowicks; it has witnessed the rise and fall of my race."
Blazkowicz spoke in a calm voice, fearing to disturb the ancient saint, introducing his race and himself:
"My race is called Humanity, once enlightened by the Old Ones. And I am the one who challenges the gods."
The ancient saint carefully scrutinized the species before him, pondering the information in his words, and after some hesitation, finally put away the flintlock.
It hung the hammer and pistol at its waist, took off its helmet to reveal a toad-like face, and courteously introduced itself: "The Star-Melder·Flame-Hammer·Sintara."
Only then did Blazkowicz see that the old one standing before him looked very different from Prima.
The fine scales on the Sintara's body were flame-red, like fire, and the tips of the fine scales shimmered like rubies.
"Blazkowicz Novick."
Sintara nodded, then, with its webbed four-fingered hand, grabbed a handful of dust from a pocket at its waist and aimed it at the hole Blazkowicz had made when entering.
"Whoosh~~~~" It puffed out its cheeks and blew a long breath, the rising dust shimmering like stardust.
The dust transformed into a cloud of stardust, drifting like mist towards the cavern, then ancient saint runes appeared, and subsequently vanished into nothingness.
"You are very strange," Sintara said faintly: "Without using any other means, you entered here by smashing through my barrier with your physical bodies."
"You know Prima, so you should understand my race's history; whether in the warp or the Real Universe, we are hunted."
"If I don't repair the barrier, the enslavers will sense the ancient saint's psychic energy, then come knocking to devour my soul."
Speaking of the enslavers, a look of fear appeared on Sintara's wide red face, her scales slightly parting, her terror evident.
Blazkowicz also showed regret; whenever that war was mentioned, the regrettable outcome made him sigh with dismay.
It was not only the failure of the old one, but also represented an imbalance, the complete loss of control over the warp, and the terrifying beginning of its dominance over the Real Universe.
The C'tan allied forces drove the old ones back repeatedly; the Burning One melted through the Webway, allowing the necrons to slaughter freely.
In the warp, many daemons and monsters were born, and the enslavers were among them.
They are extremely sensitive to psychic power, able to perceive soul fluctuations, lock onto victims from the mental world, gradually absorb their psychic energy, and enslave their minds and wills.
The powerful psychic old ones were naturally their first choice, the most perfect spiritual food.
When it rains, it pours; the enslavers and warp daemons added fuel to the already widespread war.
In the later stages of the War in Heaven, the old ones were besieged by multiple forces, with even some gods secretly intervening and fanning the flames to ensure their demise.
"How many years have passed since that war?" Sintara walked to the door of the small house, leaned against the doorframe, and sat down, her large eyes filled with sorrow.
Blazkowicz sat cross-legged and said in a deep voice, "Six million years have passed since the War in Heaven..."
Sintara's body stiffened, staring at the scythe for a long time in a daze, and whispered, "In the late War in Heaven, I foresaw that defeat was inevitable, and then I left the Webway and hid in the warp."
"I heard the wails of my kin as they died, but I couldn't do anything, just barely clinging to life."
"In my daze," she raised her hand and pointed at the scythe, "a C'tan weapon fell beside me."
"It carried a powerful physical concept, dispelling the power of the warp and opening up a stable domain."
"It's laughable," Sintara scoffed, "I've relied on an enemy's weapon to hide safely until today, but these safe days will also end; it is about to leave and fulfill its destiny."
The old one was dejected, recalling her past experiences: "Six million years flashed by; the last time I understood the outside world, the Aeldari Empire still had a chance for redemption, and then in the blink of an eye, Slaanesh awoke."
Sintara's large eye on her head showed a hint of excitement, and she asked anxiously, "Is Prima doing well?"
Learning that six million years had passed and that her kin still existed in the Real Universe, the ancient old one could not suppress her inner joy.
"He is doing well," hearing her eager question, Blazkowicz naturally answered truthfully: "He is hidden in an infinite dimension constructed from dimensional crystals, making him difficult for the old one's enemies to find."
"He certainly found a good place," Sintara snorted, "It also aligns with his path and character, standing behind the scenes, constantly observing and guiding intelligent beings."
"Are you the race enlightened by Prima? Humans?" She carefully scrutinized Blazkowicz, her gaze sweeping behind him, then falling on the Doom Slayer.
After looking back and forth many times, Sintara finally shook her head and said:
"Although I don't understand how my kin enlighten life, I feel that you and those people have violated the original intention of my race; you don't seem like a normal species."
Sintara observed these "humans"; as an old one, she could naturally tell that these "people" who called themselves "humans" only self-identified as human.
Being able to build technological armor and weapons, and even enter the warp, humans could naturally colonize the universe.
If they could colonize the universe, their population base would naturally be substantial, otherwise, it would be difficult to drive technological development.
If the human race, every individual, were like these people before her, the warp gods and their servants would have long since vanished.
"We are very special," Blazkowicz began to explain; there was no need to hide these matters: "The Emperor created us to conquer the galaxy for him and protect the humans he loves."
Hearing this explanation, Sintara nodded her large head: "That's more like it; I can see your strength, capable of bearing the heavy responsibility of protecting your race."
She raised her hand and pointed at Blazkowicz, saying in a deep voice, "Especially you, Blazkowicz"
"Your destiny is ethereal, like a black hole, attracting and disrupting the fate trajectories of others."
Blazkowicz nodded silently, listening to the Sinatara's words, a polite smile always on his face, not refuting her.
Everything she said was true; his own destiny was elusive; Prima, the Emperor, Malcador, and other great psychics had all spoken of this.
"I am very grateful," he smiled easily: "Fate no longer constrains me; everything I do no longer leads to that inevitable outcome."
"Fateless?" Sintara's voice suddenly rose, her large eyes wide, nearly screaming: "Are you saying it abandoned you?"
The old one shook her head, and taking advantage of the gradually familiar atmosphere, she earnestly said: "Blazkowicz Novick, fate loves you so much; you should be grateful for it, not take it for granted."
"Freedom and choice are proof of fate's favoritism towards you; even the gods are still bound by fate, heading towards the end of their respective destinies."
"The demise of the old ones was also predestined, an unstoppable annihilation; resisting fate will ultimately only hasten the fated outcome."
"Just as I came here, safely escaping my enemies' pursuit, that too was fate's compassion."
As she spoke, Sintara's tone was full of emotion, sighing at the capriciousness of fate, yet also perceiving all things.
It was as if a floodgate had opened, or perhaps she had been alone for too long; once she started talking, there was no end to her words, releasing the worries accumulated over millions of years.
Blazkowicz just listened quietly; he knew deeply that ancient races possessed extraordinary insight, and even in casual conversation, the information revealed was incredibly profound.
Sintara recounted ancient secrets, and Blazkowicz explained the present to the old one; the two sat cross-legged, chatting for a very long time.
"I never thought," Sintara sighed, re-examining the young man before her with compassionate eyes: "Your childhood experienced some hardships."
"But this was also inevitable; the Chaos Gods, despite all their schemes, pushed you to oppose them, personally forging their enemy."
She was filled with emotion, a hint of relief emerging from her sorrow: "I finally understand why you could come here."
Blazkowicz's thick brows furrowed; from his perspective, he had come to dwelling by chance, guided by the C'tan's hatred.
Could there be some other reason?
"Child," Sintara rumbled softly, straightening her back, and asked Blazkowicz: "In the past, I lived in seclusion here, and I also wanted to do something great."
She pulled a pipe from her lower back, lit it with a flame from her fingertips, and began to puff on it.
When Blazkowicz saw the pipe, he paused for a moment, then shook his head helplessly, not understanding why the old one liked to smoke; this unknown pleasure seemed popular among their race.
Perhaps sensing Blazkowicz's confusion, Sintara took a delightful puff, and with a hazy expression, explained: "Spirit-cleansing tobacco, symbiotic with my race, helps us think."
She half-closed her eyes, exhaled colored smoke, then inhaled it through her nostrils, her whole body suddenly trembling as she groaned in comfort:
"Mmm~~~~"
"I am not a member of the Life Faction, so I don't cultivate spirit-cleansing tobacco. I've cherished this one for a long time; it was originally for my own funeral."
At this point, Sintara suddenly opened her eyes, her tone abruptly changing: "But Prima, he certainly enjoyed it! Taking a puff now and then?"
Recalling the old one's unconcerned demeanor when they met, Blazkowicz's expression was solemn, and he nodded sadly.
"Gzdfzszzgsdz!" Sintara's throat gurgled, uttering an inarticulate, non-human sound, her face full of indignation.
Blazkowicz didn't understand, but seeing the old one's displeased expression, it was likely something unpleasant.
"Let's not talk about these sad things." Sintara held the pipe in the corner of her mouth, took down the square forging hammer hanging at her waist, and said with a solemn expression: "I am the Old One—Molten Star, Hammer of Blazing Fire, Sintara, the Forging Master."
"I forged countless divine weapons, designed fortresses to fight the C'tans, and also wished to slay the gods."
Molten Star raised her forging hammer, pointing it at the C'tan weapon, and described her plan in a deep voice: "The Scythe of the Reaper, the Nightbringer's weapon, possesses a powerful characteristic: it can directly attack the soul."
"Among the many C'tans, the Nightbringer is one of the few entities capable of clashing with the Chaos Gods."
"I have been living in seclusion here to smelt its weapon, to forge a god-slaying weapon, but I have always been unable to reshape the concept of the C'tan weapon."
"This is almost impossible." After careful consideration, Blazkowicz affirmed: "Reshaping a C'tan weapon is equivalent to reshaping the laws of physics, beyond human capability."
"Yes," Sintara sighed regretfully, her tone filled with helplessness: "The Old Ones fell; how can I alone reshape the laws of physics?"
Her eyes shifted, the pipe at the corner of her mouth tilting as she spoke, a playful expression on her face: "But you came; guided by fate, you came here."
The old one stood up from the doorway, raised the forging hammer in his hand, chanted a spell, and smashed it down!
The hammer struck the iron plate, erupting in a violent clang. Instantly, sparks flew, and countless embers hung suspended in the air, like the blazing stars at the universe's birth.
Seeing this scene, Blazkowicz was greatly shocked. The old one's title was now materialized.
"To conceal myself, I rarely learned about outside matters," Sintara slowly began, the myriad star-sparks shifting with his narration, forming a series of scrolls. "But I would prophesy about myself or certain things."
He raised his hand, gesturing for Blazkowicz to look at one of the scrolls, where a fiery red starlit sky converged into the future.
That abstract scroll foretold the scythe of the nightbringer breaking free from its shackles, leaving the warp, returning to the Real Universe, and finally gaining freedom.
"Approximately ten thousand years from now, the C'tan weapon will depart, fulfilling its own destiny..."
"And I..."
The star-sparks changed again; Enslavers floated, breaking through the old one's barrier and arriving at the warp ruins.
A hint of a smile appeared on Sintara's face, his eyes half-closed, reflecting relief: "Will also embrace death, having my spirit drained by the Enslavers."
Having been trapped for countless ages, death was its ultimate destination. Finally, it would be freed from the pain of losing everything.
"But you came. You changed it " the old one smiled, flicked a finger, and launched a miniature singularity into the fiery star cluster. The starry sky immediately collapsed, vanishing without a trace.
"Interfered with it by your chaotic destiny, everything mentioned above might not happen."
"It certainly won't happen," Blazkowicz promised, his voice low and resonant. "I am indebted to Prima. As his kin, I will surely take you from here and reunite you with him under the stars."
Prima saved Blazkowicz, and he always felt indebted.
The virtue originating from Old Terra—kindness repaid with kindness—let alone a life-saving grace.
The old one also helped Argent Nur, solving the problem of genetic degradation among Argent Nur's people, a kindness difficult to repay.
"Prima was not mistaken about you." Sintara grinned with satisfaction, seeing the young man's vigor and gratitude.
From his resolute words, it was clear that he was determined to act on his promises.
His heart was filled with comfort. He had once been utterly despondent, calmly awaiting death.
Now, by the grace of fate, he had hope of returning to the Real Universe and reuniting with his lost kin.
"I believe you can do it." Sintara's voice became ethereal as he stared at Blazkowicz and slowly said, "Your unrestrained destiny might change the outcome."
"Elder..." Blazkowicz, keenly sensing the hidden meaning in the old one's words, quickly asked.
"No need to ask," Sintara shook his head, taking a puff of tobacco to interrupt the inquiry. "Everything has its fixed course, but you are unrestrained. The future for you is not fixed; wherever you wish to go, the path lies there."
"When faced with difficult choices, you don't need to worry about anything else; just make the choice you think is best."
"When the dust settles, death and an end will provide the answer..."
Blazkowicz closed his mouth, no longer inquiring about the future.
Old ones were sometimes enigmatic; they would offer hints but not deeply interfere with personal choices.
"Your arrival has changed the fixed course," Sintara looked up at the scythe of the nightbringer. "Its destiny is also in your hands."
"I have a handy weapon now." Blazkowicz swept aside his cloak, revealing the Crucible Sword and super shotgun at his waist, as well as the armguard on his left arm.
"Hahaha!" Sintara burst into laughter. "That's why I say destiny is unpredictable; it came here, and it will eventually gain something."
He took small, short steps, his stout body waddling as he walked to Blazkowicz, gesturing for him to bend down and offer his left arm.
Blazkowicz, though puzzled, did as she requested, extending his left arm before him.
"The Burner, Niadrasa." Sintara caressed the armguard with both hands, a joyful expression on his face. "Its flames smelt C'tan weapons, reshaping physical laws."
"Unfortunately," he sensed carefully for a moment, and regret dispelled his joy, "this fragment is a little too small, and the concepts it contains are incomplete."
"Otherwise..."
He stepped back a few paces, scrutinizing the giant before him, his gaze sweeping over his various weapons, finally locking onto his mighty physique: "I could forge you a custom-fitted armor."
"It will be indestructible, relentless, and sufficient to accompany you in your god-slaying feat."
"God-slaying armor?" Blazkowicz's eyes lit up, and he began to consider some possibilities.
He didn't like his half-naked body; it was simply due to limited resources, making it difficult to create suitable power armor for himself.
Which man could refuse a powerful suit of power armor?
But the practical problem was that custom-made power armor, incorporating Argent Nur's cutting-edge technology, was destroyed in repeated tests.
Blazkowicz's movements were as swift as lightning; his sword swings took mere microseconds.
Although the power armor was crafted with Argent Nur's cutting-edge technology, it struggled to withstand high speeds. Operating at full power for just ten seconds, the joints and servo systems would collapse due to overload.
In desperation, he had no choice but to wear unpowered half-armor, fighting bare-chested from the waist up, as there was simply no solution.
"Elder." Blazkowicz raised his hand to stroke his chin, an idea coming to him. "What if other C'tans helped? Could C'tan weapons be melted down?"
He remembered very clearly that upon returning to Terra, after coercing Mars into signing the "Denurian Accords", the Emperor had privately told him not to undertake similar dangerous actions in the future.
Beneath the Martian eternal night labyrinth, there was a C'tan—the Void Dragon—personally imprisoned by the Emperor.
If Mars encountered problems and the Void Dragon escaped, his ten thousand years of resentment from imprisonment would be unleashed upon the human race.
"Other C'tans?" Sintara's voice was puzzled. Could it be that the human boy had C'tan fragments on him?
He rolled his big eyes, thought for a moment, then nodded and said, "If it's a powerful C'tan, then naturally it's feasible."
"Weak C'tans won't do. The Nightbringer is the strongest C'tan; ordinary physical laws cannot twist its concepts. It requires a large fragment from a top-tier C'tan."
Sintara stared intently at Blazkowicz, hoping this young man could surprise him again.
Receiving an affirmative answer, Blazkowicz's face lit up with joy, and he blurted out, "Will a nearly complete Void Dragon work?"
"A nearly complete Void Dragon?!" Sintara exclaimed, clutching the Forging Master and leaping backward, clearly startled.
Seeing his startled reaction, Blazkowicz quickly raised his arm to reassure him: "It's not on me; it's in the Real Universe."
The Void Dragon. The embodiment of technology and knowledge in the Real Universe. He granted technology to the Necron, making them invincible.
Because of his blessing, during the War in Heaven, the Necron's technology exploded without limit, standing at the pinnacle of the physical universe.
Those inconceivable technologies even rivaled the old ones' magic, and later races simply couldn't comprehend them.
It was precisely because of his existence that the old ones' physical technological means were difficult to employ, leading them to indiscriminately use the power of the warp to resist the C'tan alliance, causing a series of terrible consequences.
Sintara gently patted his chest, calming his little heart; he had almost been scared to death just now.
A nearly complete Void Dragon—just hearing such a description, the timid old one, who had suffered greatly from him, almost had his heart jump out of his throat.
"If the Void Dragon helps, the problem will naturally be solved, but will he cooperate willingly?"
The Forging Master still harbored reservations. The Void Dragon was a C'tan; a lofty god would not show mercy because of a request.
Hearing Sinatara's question, Blazkowicz's expression was calm, as if this matter was nothing to worry about.
He had conquered the stars for the Emperor, compromising on the Webway project; it was time for the Emperor to do his part!
"He is very 'willing' to cooperate. Don't worry..." Blazkowicz pulled out the Crucible Sword, illuminating its god-slaying blade. Reflected in the crimson hardness, his heroic face took on a hint of gloom.
His fingertip lightly traced the blade, emphasizing the word "willing" with great weight, as if cold iron were clashing.
Sintara's body trembled, and he shivered involuntarily. Then he suddenly remembered that the young man before him, seemingly gentle, harbored an eternal fury within.
And judging by his confident demeanor, the Void Dragon seemed to be fixed in a certain place, requiring no great effort to find.
Making a C'tan stay was almost impossible. Sintara's eyes darted to the scythe of the nightbringer, and he understood.
The Void Dragon's destiny was the same as the scythe of the nightbringer's.
He was imprisoned somewhere!
Having figured out the key point, Sintara's mouth curved into an unrestrained arc. The Real Universe had undergone vast changes, seemingly different from sixty million years ago.
"Now there's only one problem left." He pointed at the scythe of the nightbringer and said, "How do we take it?"
Blazkowicz stood up from the ground, looking up at the C'tan weapon, his brows furrowed.
This was indeed a problem. A weapon nearly a thousand meters long—how to take it down and bring it back to the Real Universe?
After much thought, Blazkowicz turned his head and asked the old one, "Does it understand human speech?"
"Yes, C'tan weapons are imbued with divinity and possess their own will."
"Then it's simple!"