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Slaughter.
Beneath the crimson stars, Morgan repeated this action.
To her, this was effortless; a part of her seemed born for this very purpose.
An endless storm of steel, bearing tens of thousands of wrecks and blades, swept mercilessly through flesh and blood at the casual flick of the indifferent one's fingertips, crushing all skulls and blood in an instant, leaving behind only desolate, chilling wasteland.
And behind the invincible storm giant was a net woven from endless whispers and contemptuous laughter. Countless of the strongest and most excellent Rhandan warriors lowered their heads in this invisible mockery and bewitchment, pointing their deadly guns at their comrades beside them.
Slaughter and butchery sounded on the same land. The desecrated alien blood poured forth fiercely amidst the brutal wind and frenzied killing, carving a flat path to hell through continuous piles of corpses, like a crimson road, welcoming the steps of the conqueror.
And Hector simply walked, walked on this blood-soaked path reeking of a pungent odor.
As a squire, as a soldier, as…
A mount?
He didn't want to think anymore.
Until a certain moment, when Hector's footsteps finally reached the edge of the most magnificent fortress, he involuntarily stopped, then knelt on one knee.
Then, a rustling sound came from his back, followed by the crisp crunch of cavalry boots stepping into a pool of blood. He felt the incomparably noble lady lazily moving her arms, casually smoothing away the mountains of corpses that obstructed their view.
At this moment, Hector desperately wished he were a hidden psyker.
He couldn't help but look up.
Then he felt a sense of suffocation.
Despite being just a slender figure, one felt as if a towering deity stood within it.
Or perhaps, some unimaginable monster truly stood behind her, so powerful, so conspicuous, that even he, a person with no talent, could perceive it with unparalleled clarity.
Hector took a deep breath. He smelled burning and charcoal.
He knew what it was.
Behind them, lay a kingdom of flames.
When Hector, or rather, when Morgan's footsteps left each patch of land, everything would burn, turning to ash and dust amidst the fire tongues born of nothingness and the cold sneer of the indifferent one, leaving a desolation from which even the most seasoned warrior could find no trace of information.
As they walked, the flames they ignited had already transformed thousands of miles of land into a fiery kingdom of hell. The scorching light was clearly visible even in the void. Millions of alien corpses twisted and shriveled in the monstrous psychic fire, ultimately turning into charred lumps with no intelligence value.
Hector's instinct told him that this silver-haired lady was concealing something, concealing something openly in front of him.
But soon, he lowered his head, not thinking about anything.
He knew that he might have to adapt to such a state in the future.
[Rise.]
[You don't need to be so formal.]
He heard laughter, a laughter that, beneath its cold exterior, held a hint of warmth, speaking of a heart that was not adept at expressing itself beneath a detached facade.
His bloodline told him so.
Hector stood up. He said nothing, asked nothing, like a deaf-mute knight, quietly following the silver-haired lady's footsteps.
He saw her wave her hand, and a gentle breeze circulated in the air. It softly swept past the seemingly indestructible permanent fortress, and vast stretches of high walls and bastions collapsed one after another like sandcastles under giant waves. Shattered stones and alien skulls rolled on the ground, clattering.
They passed through layers of collapsed walls, through the now silent Rhandan army, advancing on roads strewn with weapons and firearms, walking through harvesting traps bristling with bunkers and gun barrels, calmly moving through the city of blood and tears formed by barracks, storage facilities, and squares, until the twisted towering spires and palaces gradually filled Hector's vision.
Everything was so quiet.
So quiet that it made him… afraid.
An Astartes should not be afraid.
The pure black walls reflected two silver shadows. The wind between the high fortifications was always exceptionally fierce, carrying the sounds of wails and the coldness of souls, as if herds of beasts were being wantonly devoured by some unimaginable monster.
Hector's gaze shifted to the silver figure a distance in front of him.
Perhaps it was an illusion: she seemed stronger, more suffocating, more awe-inspiring, as if certain switches were activating uncontrollably.
But the next moment, that terrifying aura vanished into thin air, as if everything had been an illusion.
Hector felt a moment of trance, and in this sudden trance, they had already arrived before the seemingly endless staircase.
[...Feeding...]
He heard that low sigh.
[Perhaps, I need a chef.]
Hector instinctively gripped the greatsword in his hand, then heard a chuckle.
[No, not you…]
Morgan smiled. Brilliant light slowly emerged from the staff in her hand. She raised it high to the sky, sending out a silent message.
[Let's go.]
[Remember to show respect to my main course.]
"..."
Don't think about anything, Hector.
Morgan did not continue up the steps, nor did she enter the grand hall occupied by the [Manipulator].
She turned, returning to her offspring's side, and whispered a light word. A silver light then enveloped them both. When the light dissipated, they still appeared in the blood pool, precisely at the fortress gate. They could even clearly see the ruins of the fortress reduced to ash and smoke by Morgan's whisper.
Hector's confusion was written on his face, but Morgan had no interest in addressing it. She had one final step to take; this was the last ritual before the meal.
This ritual stemmed from a very simple reality.
A [Controllable Alpha-level Psyker].
An [Astartes Warrior].
Such a combination clearly could not have broken through the Rhandan's layered battle formations and then annihilated a fortress filled with Rhandan warriors.
She needed a reason, a reason to make her gluttonous feast seem reasonable, even infinitesimal.
This was not difficult.
The combined efforts of a psyker and an Astartes certainly couldn't annihilate tens of thousands of alien armies.
But what if it was the Manipulator itself who acted, the very soul that controlled all the aliens, theoretically on the verge of death, yet no one knew its true condition?
On the verge of death, even the most absurd actions could be understood and accepted, and what's more...
The evidence was irrefutable.
Morgan's face curled into a malicious smile.
She extended her hand. Tens of thousands of souls were clutched in her fingertips. These wailing souls, not yet devoured, she kneaded into a bullet of accusation and falsehood, shooting it into the fortress.
Without a doubt.
It hit its mark.
Then, Morgan turned her head.
She still had one small matter to resolve.
[Is there something you wish to ask me?]
[My bloodline.]
Morgan turned around.
She stood on an ocean of countless blood, crimson spots covering her boots and skirt, like a pale deity standing in a realm of corpses.
Her hair was bathed in the void's night, adorned with the dazzling light emitted when countless steel beasts fought each other to the death, presenting the most fierce and chaotic clash between light and darkness. This endless slaughter was etched between every strand of her hair, leaving colorless blood tears at the bottom of her earlobes and hair tips.
Just like that, she was bathed in the infinite light intertwined with crimson and black, igniting the azure bloodline.
She was so small.
But when Hector, at her question, uncontrollably knelt down.
She was naturally tall.
She was so tall.
He acknowledged it!
He acknowledged it!
She finally acknowledged it!
At this moment, countless thoughts all faded into blankness.
Hector knelt on the ground, involuntarily kneeling. He bowed his head, his remaining sanity preventing him from dropping his sword.
He knelt in a pool of blood.
He wanted to ask something.
He wanted to ask too much.
He didn't even know what to ask.
He could only breathe deeply, feeling that heartfelt respect and submission.
He found it sweet.
He was suppressing himself. All this time, he had suppressed it with silence and doubt, with the last shred of disbelief, but now, all that was meaningless.
He bowed his head lower than his blade, showing his clearest posture of submission.
A gene-mother?
Perhaps it wouldn't be worse.
Morgan waited.
Patiently waiting.
Until that heavy breathing finally ceased, until he finally lifted his head.
From this angle, her offspring could even be considered handsome.
She lowered her eyelids, waiting for that question.
"The shattered legions, like scattered stars across the world."
"We need you… Mother…"
He tried to say more, but Morgan held up a finger, silencing everything.
[Like stars.]
[You and I are all stars, aren't we? It's just that I am the star, more brilliant and dazzling, while my children are like planets and falling stars, seemingly dim, but in reality, still stars, still indestructible, invincible.]
"But…"
[The division of the legions, is it because of the scarcity of recruits, leaving no place for new blood?]
"...No."
[Is it because of dwindling strength, tired soldiers, unable to achieve more victories?]
"...No."
[Is it because of disunity, each holding a different view, internal strife, lacking a leader?]
Hector breathed, not knowing how to answer.
Morgan bent down, whispering softly like the most sincere counsel and reminder.
[You see, it's just like this.]
[What do you expect me to do? Unify? Command? Or be a sole authority?]
[I will never do that. I will never force any of my children.]
[You and I are all stars.]
Morgan chuckled again.
[Of course, this doesn't mean I cannot hope and wait.]
[I hope for an offspring, one who can burn their own star. When I am entangled in the most distant places by unspeakable bonds and missions, I hope my offspring will not wait idly, lost and confused.]
[Someone must bear the responsibility. Someone must be able to answer my hopes.]
[Now, do you know why only you retain all your memories, Hector?]
She listened to his increasingly heavy breathing, even her most gloomy heart smiling.
[Remember, Hector.]
[My child, my star.]
[I chose you.]
Steel boots stomped across the floor, reaching the main hall.
"My Lord."
The Dark Angel, shrouded in black robes, bowed his head, submitting to the giant in the center of the hall.
"We have received a psychic message from the Rhandan Battle Moon, confirmed to be sent by a high-ranking human advisor of the 15th Legion task force. She is an Alpha-level psyker, with a letter of guarantee from Lord Magnus."
[What does she say?]
The voice was deep, imbued with a wild power from some deep forest.
"A location, and..."
"Warmaster, here."
His breath hitched slightly.
And the next moment, the Dark Angel felt a surge of war-like aura washing over him.
[Nemir.]
"My Lord."
[Gather five hundred warriors.]
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