At the one hundred and seventy-fourth hour of the war, Morgan felt a trace of fatigue, a fatigue at the soul level.
She was wounded; at the tips of her fingers and beneath her nails, there were faint, almost imperceptible cracks, like the marks left by rocks hammered against mountains.
If she applied her full attention and carefully felt, she could detect a biting itch and a slight pain, like a mosquito bite, lingering at her fingertips.
This even filled Morgan with a distinct anger and humiliation.
Tens of thousands of Randan Witches had rushed forward in successive waves during the previous Bloody Day. Their souls and spirits, under the dual influence of an abnormal fanaticism and violent energy,
became extremely dangerous, irritable, and unstable. When they cut open their own veins and throats, allowing their last breaths to converge into an ominous cloud, even Morgan felt a certain threat and apprehension.
These injuries came from the Randan's fifteenth attack. She remembered clearly that each time, the alien witch collective would learn more bloody lessons. By the fifteenth assault, they had evolved into a genuine threat, a desperate act of extreme precision, fanaticism, and courage.
There were as many as ten individuals as powerful as Ahriman: at this point in time, this son of Magnus, who was fond of drinking and brewing, was far from being that powerful; he had only just become the youngest captain in the Thousand Sons Legion, gaining an initial foothold among the Psykers of the entire galaxy.
But even so, the combined strength of ten Ahrimans was still not to be underestimated by anyone in the galaxy. They had made full preparations before entering this star system.
When Morgan's attention was slightly diverted by another large-scale attack from the Randan Fleet, the powerful souls of ten suicidal warriors transformed into an irreversible arrow, piercing countless stars in an instant.
This arrow cut through the surging Sea of Souls, churned by countless massacres and deaths, at the fastest speed. Concealed by millions of wailing souls, it successfully wounded the Spider Empress's soul, catching her off guard.
Astonishment, questioning, and fury consumed Morgan's next breath. The alien witches seized this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: countless pre-prepared incantations and soul-killing techniques were unleashed onto the bloody frontline battlefield in that instant.
Tens of thousands of mortal warriors fell in agony, and countless captains and crewmen ceased their breathing and their watch, finding eternal slumber within the cold steel.
The battle line achieved a breakthrough, an unimaginably huge breakthrough. Hundreds of Imperial warships were affected and impacted. After Lion El'Jonson once again commanded them to stabilize the front, the void power in his hands had shrunk by about a fifth, and even a good portion of the air superiority above the fortress complex was lost.
And in that second, the Primarch heard a sharp shriek, a scream clearly from his kinswoman.
Lion El'Jonson's brow rose.
She rarely grew so angry.
Accompanied by the agonizing burning of innumerable alien souls, the Spider Empress's furious cry, like Mortarion's scythe, swept through every dark corner of the star system again and again. It was an almost irrational strike; the only thing Morgan could barely remember and control was to avoid all humans.
Once, twice, thrice...
Blood flowed, and lamentations filled the air.
It wasn't until the Soul Drinker's rare burst of rage quickly dissipated into her usual rationality and composure that this brief storm subsided amidst countless deaths: the repeated purges eliminated all witches in the star system, even near the Immaterium rift.
The fires of stars erupted in the Empress's fury, devouring unfortunate Randan Warships. Storms raged, tearing through the nexus of the two realms, and roaring invisible giant dragons swallowed two outermost worlds of the star system and large swathes of nearby space, exhausting the blasphemous lives of hundreds of millions of alien legions that were about to enter the battlefield, suffocating them in panic.
The terrible atrocity dealt a nearly fatal blow to this unfortunate star system. The fragile balance that had originally been maintained between the real universe and the vast abyss was finally shattered by Morgan's rage. Invisible tides and eternal darkness began to manifest at the far end of the star system, gradually devouring these worlds awaiting death.
The balance had been broken. The most sensitive Psykers could even hear disjointed whispers sounding in their ears, and feel the power of souls and will surging and raging as never before.
As the final curtain teetered, Morgan finally determined the exact location of her target.
She first touched her wounds. Even though the price of these minor injuries was the living lives and wailing souls of countless Randan Witches, the Spider Empress still felt a profound fury.
For the past decade, she had ravaged these alien lives with an almost wanton attitude. Except for a very few times, all the "hardship" and "fatigue" on the battlefield were merely a facade to deceive her brother's senses.
But now, when she was truly hurt—even if it was just a wound that the most fragile mortal wouldn't care about—it was enough to make her feel provoked and offended.
These alien scumbags, the lowest and most pathetic trash, what right do they have...
A thirst for revenge ignited in her chest, demanding its value amidst her rationality and rigor. Morgan left room for thought; while fulfilling her responsibilities, she began to count the remaining souls in the cage, to observe the thinnest part of the veil, and to infer the optimal moment to capture her prey.
Meanwhile, the Randan Fleet continued its advance, gradually eroding the territory in the void amidst countless blood and tears.
From beginning to end, these aliens never stopped. Regardless of the cost of each advance, there was always a stronger impetus driving every Randan Soldier to charge towards the Imperial defense lines.
The Randan Military Might was like a hungry swarm of locusts, overwhelming and endless. Countless deaths and spilled blood did not halt their increasingly frenzied invasion. This even made many Imperial warriors feel genuine emotion and respect: prior to this, they had only witnessed such resolute and tenacious fighting will in armies loyal to the Emperor of Mankind.
For a long time, the noble warriors from Terra had firmly believed that only loyalty and faith were the greatest reasons for their continuous victories and conquests. Now, evidently, at the other end of the vast and bloody star map, an opponent with similar ideals had appeared.
By the seventh day of this war, losses had already occurred and had long since become uncontrollable. Even with the nearly miraculous and powerful assistance from his kinswoman,
the Knight King of Caliban still could not create miracles under such overwhelming numerical superiority. In fact, every second this thin front line managed to hold out was enough to make the most demanding warriors begin to worship this Primarch of the First Legion.
After days of relentless fighting and cleansing, the Dark Angels' fleet was finally overwhelmed by the endless tide of Randan War Engine Groups. The once precise and merciless network of fire was continuously breached by the alien vanguard's almost suicidal assaults. The previous long-range cannonades and mutual destruction by various exotic firepower transformed into the most barbaric, primitive, yet unexpectedly effective form of naval combat:
Boarding Action.
Countless torpedoes and teleportation lights began to emerge in the void. The immovable orbital fortresses were the first targets to fall in close-quarters combat. Blood soaked every inch of steel and every room, until one side of invaders or defenders was completely annihilated.
The best Randan Overlords and the most trusted Dark Angels fought to the death in dark corridors and shattered lights, their lives and blood steadily draining in their mutual struggle, until they both vanished into the silent, eternal darkness deep within the fortress.
And when one side's sharp blade, augmented by skill, agility, and luck, successfully severed the opponent's head, the minds of these most composed warriors would be completely consumed by a single thought.
——————
Next!
The axe whistled, tearing through the cold air with a whoosh, effortlessly splitting open the first opponent's helmet and face.
The Shadow Champion pressed forward, his shoulder and elbow slamming heavily into the first Randan Soldier's breastplate. Aided by his specialized armor, he heard the sound of armor, bone, and internal organs pulverizing together.
With one hand, he gripped the alien's weapon-clutching arm, pushing its gradually chilling, tall body, smashing through crumbling walls and iron doors, and emerging into the narrow courtyard outside. The second opponent, facing him, froze for a moment before hastily pulling the trigger.
The gunshot triggered more attacks, until over a dozen shots riddled the dead Randan Soldier, turning it into a sieve. Only then did its companions, seeing nothing behind the broken body, frown in confusion.
Sixteen Randan Soldiers swarmed into the courtyard. They hesitated for a few seconds in anxiety and deferral, then separated into small teams of a few individuals, slowly stepping over the riddled corpses of their comrades, and entering the shadows of the ruined building.
The moment a boot landed, a tiny sound echoed, and the alien soldiers spun their heads, only to see their last companion sway and fall into the dusty sand. It wasn't bleeding, only a tiny scar behind its neck that no one could have seen.
Panic spread instantly, because the deceased stood in the most open space, with only the shadows of a few companions around it. The alien soldiers exchanged incredulous glances, and before their questions could leave their mouths, another heavy thud echoed in their ears.
This time it was dozens of meters away, a vanguard who had already entered the building, separated from the previous one by the entire squad.
At this moment, terror exploded completely in the heart of every alien.
Countless roars, anger, panic, and mutual accusations filled the air instantly. The survivors brandished their gun muzzles and sharp blades, their gazes either suspicious towards their companions or frantically searching around. Even the slightest rustle made these brutal, over two-meter tall warriors involuntarily tremble.
A shadow seemed to stand on the wall of the ruined building, as if the gleam of claws could be seen at its end.
Above their heads, in the hazy sky, a sharp silhouette seemed to flash, piercing through the air and dust.
From the shadows on the left, countless wings seemed to beat the air, while on the right, in the gloom, a pair of crimson eyes, belonging to a raptor, seemed to glint.
Panic, doubt, anxiety, indiscriminate firing, and mutual roaring: the aliens fell continuously. Almost every other breath claimed a life, and the fall of each comrade shattered the remaining rationality with a mad hammer.
"Retreat!"
Someone roared loudly. It was the closest to the exit, which gleamed with countless lights. It seemed to want to turn, but the moment its gun muzzle shifted, an invisible wind pierced its brain. Its body and armor crashed down heavily, raising countless dust.
"No! Come here, we must unite!"
At the very instant this slaughter erupted, someone else was desperately pulling at their comrades, eager to form a cluster where they could watch each other's backs. But such efforts were destined to be cut short: its mouth was simply too wide, so much so that when a beam of light pierced its teeth and tongue, a large gush of foul-smelling blood sprayed onto its ally opposite.
Blood, death, panic, and more despair spread through the courtyard, engulfing every Randan Soldier in a matter of moments: even the sniper who had been observing the scene could only continuously swallow its saliva.
Its detector was working almost on overdrive, for an incredible figure was moving at an unimaginable speed before it, harvesting one comrade after another, yet even though it strained its eyes, it couldn't see even a trace of the perpetrator.
Finally, it pulled the trigger, relying on its sniping instinct to choose a direction.
The specialized bullet was capable of penetrating walls and Randan armor. It screeched through the wind, tormenting everyone's ears and nerves, until its journey was halted less than a second later.
A giant hand, protected by black armor, seized this special little darling. As everyone paused in that instant, the Shadow Champion crushed the bullet, completed his turn in mid-air, and his massive palm, driven by speed and power, slammed into the side of the enemy's helmet behind him.
The bullet remained sharp, mercilessly piercing the alien's defenses, mangling all its brain organs, until the limp body fell beneath the bullets fired by its allies.
The sniper took a deep breath. It finally saw its opponent, but it was already powerless: the one just killed was the last Randan Soldier.
Run!
It suddenly thought, and its body had already acted before that. It clutched its sniper rifle, leaped up, turned around, and bolted away.
Then crashed heavily into the Astartes warrior's armor.
The Shadow Champion stood there, behind it. He seemed to have been waiting for a while.
It still wanted to breathe, but just before the cold and foul air touched its throat, it saw a flash of light.
A flash it couldn't see clearly.
——————
The last opponent fell.
This was the eighteenth.
The Shadow Champion looked up. He recalled the time: he had taken a total of forty-two breaths. Acceptable.
He thought so, then cocked an ear to listen to the sounds from outside the fortress: the aliens deployed outside the fortress evidently didn't know what had happened to their comrades. They were still trying to snipe Hektor's squad, but each round of gunfire grew increasingly sparse.
After a few more rounds, only the lone gunshots of the Astartes warrior remained.
The Shadow Champion lowered his head. He looked at the opponents he had thoroughly dealt with, bent down to pick up a few things he found interesting, and then vanished from his spot once more to rejoin his temporary teammates.
Infiltration, successful.
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