"Why… Why did His Majesty do this? Is He not the Savior who was to descend and deliver us? We surrendered. We obeyed, without a single shred of doubt... Then why? Why did He send monsters from the depths of hell like you to purge us into nothingness?!"
..............
The fierce ground battle had only recently subsided, leaving behind a slaughterhouse carpeted with the twisted, brutally torn corpses of mutants. Scattered among them were the lifeless, slate-grey armored bodies of the 9th Legion's Space Marines. The thick, metallic stench of blood mingled with the sharp tang of ozone and sulfur, making the air almost suffocating to breathe.
Bill breathed heavily, his battered chest plate rising and falling in sync with his racing pulse. His consciousness was slowly returning from the dark abyss of the Red Thirst. His face, once bearing the handsome features of Terran nobility, and his dusty grey armor were now drenched in crimson blood.
In that split second, a silhouette lunged over the pile of corpses straight at him. It was a surviving mutant, its eyes burning with rabid hatred and its sharp talons poised to tear him in two.
Bill raised his Disintegration Gun—a forbidden weapon from the Dark Age of Technology—aiming it with a single hand. Though his muscles trembled from sheer exhaustion, his warrior instincts remained flawless. Yet, when he pulled the trigger, only a hollow mechanical click responded.
"Tch... out of power," Bill spat in a hoarse whisper. He quickly locked the priceless weapon back onto the magnetic holster of his right thigh. Simultaneously, his left hand swept down to grab a chainsword lying on the ground, swinging it upward in a precise counter-strike against the lunging beast.
The adamantium teeth of the blade whirred at high speed, ripping through flesh and bone. A agonizing, blood-curdling shriek echoed before being abruptly cut short as the creature's body was cleaved in two, collapsing into a pool of gore. Bill brought his armored boot down hard on the twitching remains to ensure it was truly dead.
He wiped the blood from his visor-less face and surveyed his surroundings. This killing field was far quieter, yet infinitely more brutal than the Battle of Mount Ararat. Surviving battle-brothers were already dispersing to tend to their duties. Some were limping back to the rear lines, where Land Raiders and Predators stood stationed, to repair weapons and restock ammunition... while others were performing the grim, stomach-turning ritual unique to their Legion.
They knelt beside the corpses of their fallen brothers, using their tools to saw open the skulls and consume the brains of the deceased.
To any other Legion, this would be viewed as the behavior of barbaric monsters. But for the 9th, it was the only way to preserve the soul, memories, and skills of their brothers through the Omophagea organ. Even though Bill had grown desensitized to such sights, watching a circle of his brothers feast on raw flesh on the battlefield still left a sour taste in his mouth.
Not far away, bloody white-armored Apothecaries knelt over the dead, using their Narthecium units to drill through chest plates. They were harvesting the gene-seed—the precious genetic legacy that would be used to forge the next generation of warriors.
Bill looked around for his own helmet, which had been knocked loose during the melee. But searching for a slate-grey piece of metal among tens of thousands of corpses was like searching for a needle in an ocean. He chose the most practical path. Walking over to the remains of a Space Marine whose lower body had been crushed, Bill knelt and gently unlocked the collar seal of the fallen warrior's helmet.
The dead warrior's eyes were still wide, frozen in the lingering fury and madness of the Red Thirst.
...You must have suffered greatly, brother... Bill thought solemnly before snapping the helmet onto his own armor joint. The HUD chimed to life, and the internal air filtration system hissed as it began to recycle his breath.
In an era where the 9th Legion was overlooked and neglected by the central command, spare armor parts and weapons were a luxury. Scavenging from the dead to survive the campaign was a grim necessity accepted by all. Bill picked up his chainsword, revving the engine slightly to let the teeth purr, and carefully sawed open the chest plate of the corpse before him. Using his combat knife, he delicately extracted the intact gene-seed gland and slipped it into the utility pouch at his waist, easing the burden of the Apothecaries.
Carrying a salvaged bolter and extra ammunition, Bill walked over to join the survivors. Lysanthus and Rapha stood waiting, their eyes noticeably darker in the absence of Caius and Ricario. Bill chose not to ask about them; the answer was already written plainly on the bloody ground further away.
"Has our Legion fallen so low that we must resort to using mutants to build Space Marines?" Bill remarked dryly, hoping to break the heavy silence as he nodded toward the group of Apothecaries. They were currently herding and dragging semi-mutated Neptunian civilians toward the transport ships. These humans had scales patches on their skin or twisted limbs, but their skeletal structures were still human enough to endure the crude, rudimentary surgeries of the 9th Legion.
However, the familiar deep voice of Apothecary Voltus, who happened to be walking past, cut in immediately.
"You have no right to speak of such things, Grayson... Technically speaking, weren't you a mutant yourself?"
Rapha and Lysanthus smirked beneath their iron faceplates. Bill let out a long sigh through the vox-comms. He did not want to argue, but as a former human from the 21st century, he knew the difference was vast.
"That is entirely different, Voltus..." Bill said, handing the harvested gene-seed vial to the medic. "As a child, my skin was merely damaged by radiation and toxins in the wastes of Terra. But these mutants... their bodies changed overnight, as if some unseen force violently warped their bones and flesh in an instant."
Voltus took the vial, frowning. But before the Apothecary could counter, Rapha interrupted.
"Voltus, don't waste your time arguing theories with him... Still, if the High Lords of Terra would kindly send some death row convicts or feral tribe youth to our Legion, instead of having us sweep up these mutants to make brothers, I certainly wouldn't complain."
"If the Council of Terra actually sent us convicts, I would throw a grand feast," Voltus replied with a dry chuckle, before dragging the chained captives toward the waiting Stormbird gunship.
"Enough of this idle chatter. Gear up," Lysanthus commanded grimly, while Rapha and Bill began checking their bolter mechanisms, using bloody rags to wipe the soot from the barrels. "Our next objective has been issued... We are to clear the subterranean tunnels and deep bastions of Neptune."
The order was practically a one-way ticket to hell. Close-quarters combat in pitch darkness against an unpredictable enemy guaranteed a staggering casualty rate. Yet, not a single trace of hesitation showed in the eyes of the three warriors.
They gripped their weapons tightly and marched forward into the darkness as Space Marines of the 9th Legion... faceless monsters who would execute the Emperor's will until their very last breath.