The metal plate instantly glowed red, its edges twisting and deforming, as countless searing fragments and shockwaves roared past from both sides and above!
Yet, the main body of the metal plate stubbornly blocked the most lethal direct flames and most of the shrapnel flying towards the Mutants!
At the same time, two other Battle Sisterss, armed with Bolters, also turned their weapons!
"For the Emperor! Purge the heretics!" one of the Sisters shrieked.
"Da da da da—!"
Dense Bolter fire precisely struck several cultists who were trying to lunge from the shadows on the side, hoping to attack the Mutants amidst the chaos of the explosion!
The searing Bolters instantly tore the attackers to shreds, turning them into splattering masses of flesh and blood!
Under the cover of the metal plate and the suppressing fire of the Bolters, the Mutants narrowly dodged the most lethal impacts!
Deprived of the core support of the Psyker and the command of their leader, the remaining cultists instantly and completely collapsed under the devastating explosion of the promethium canisters and the ruthless, efficient strikes of the Sisters of Battle; their sporadic resistance flickered like candles in the wind.
The Sisters of Battle, with grim expressions, steadily advanced and cleared the area with efficient, deadly crossfire.
After the Marshal Squad, with the assistance of the Mutants, settled the wounded, they swiftly returned to the battlefield, attacking from the flanks in coordination, forming a merciless net of firepower with the Sisters that quickly swept away the last pockets of resistance.
The last gunshot at the B-7 pipe junction fell silent, leaving only the crackling of burning embers, the stench of scorched flesh, the pungent smell of burning promethium, and the faint, rapidly dissipating Psykic echo from the headless remains of the Psyker, flickering like a candle in the wind.
The survivors of the Marshal Squad leaned on each other, or rested against shattered cover, breathing heavily, their bodies covered in the scars and dust of battle.
Beside them, the Mutants who had assisted in the battle also panted heavily, stained and grimy, silently observing the battlefield where the killing had just ceased.
Everyone's gaze was fixed on the grim, powerful figures illuminated by the embers—the Sisters of Battle, and the remains of the cultists at their feet, their eyes a mix of post-survival exhaustion and deep reverence.
Figgsin deftly reholstered her Rose Bolter and "fiona," her gaze sweeping across the battlefield, confirming the purification of every corner.
Her sight pierced through the lingering smoke, finally settling on the scene at the edge of the explosion: two wounded individuals, dragged back by Sura and another Battle Sisters, were leaning against the cold pipe wall, gasping for breath.
One of them was a Marshal Squad member, his face ashen from severe blood loss, with a gruesome, deep laceration on his abdomen, clearly inflicted by an energy weapon or a blade.
However, his blood-stained hand still clutched his Bolter tightly, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the controlled promethium canisters, a stubborn sense of relief and protection etched in his eyes.
Curled up just a few steps from the Marshal Squad member was a wounded Mutant.
He was burly, with scales covering his skin, but now he was hunched over in pain, one arm seared raw by an energy weapon, charred flesh revealing the strange color of mutated tissue beneath, letting out suppressed groans.
Under the tense and grateful gazes of the Marshal Squad members and the silent observation of the other Mutants, Figgsin made a gesture that surprised everyone.
Her armored body smoothly knelt, the precise servo-systems of her Power Armor emitting a barely audible hydraulic hum, as her knees lightly touched the debris-strewn and scorched metal ground.
She quickly retrieved a rapid-clotting foam spray and sterile bandages from a small medical kit at her waist.
Her armored fingers operated the tools with swift precision—countless battlefield emergencies had long ingrained this instinct into her bones, and the assistance of her Power Armor joints made her movements as fluid as flowing clouds and water.
She first attended to the severely wounded Marshal Squad member.
The light carapaced armor covering the injured man's entire body was torn open by the energy weapon, leaving a gruesome gash with charred, curled edges.
Figgsin's armored fingers easily pried open the damaged armor, carefully cutting through the blood-soaked fibrous lining to expose the deep wound beneath.
With a soft "hiss" and a pungent medicinal smell, the quick-setting foam accurately filled the wound, expanding and hardening, swiftly staunching the bleeding.
Immediately after, a roll of bandage was wrapped around the wound, completely covering it.
However, when her gaze swept over the Mutant, curled in pain beside the Marshal, and she prepared to offer the same aid, her movements imperceptibly paused.
Treating a Mutant's wound… this was indeed the first time.
In the depths of her consciousness, the whispers of Imperial doctrine instinctively arose, carrying an undeniable admonition, but the duty of a warrior and the sense of camaraderie with those who had just bled alongside her instantly overcame it. She did not hesitate for a moment, bending down to begin the rescue.
The sight before her was completely different from when she had treated the Marshal: no protective carapace, only ragged, dirty rags, clinging tightly to the raw, energy-burned wound on the Mutant's arm.
Figgsin's armored fingers carefully and steadily peeled away the charred, clinging fabric, fully exposing the gruesome burn wound beneath.
Just as she pressed the spray nozzle—
"Hiss—!" A large amount of white, rapid-setting foam, accompanied by a pungent medicinal smell, surged out, instantly covering the bloody wound!
The foam rapidly expanded and hardened, emitting a dense crackling sound, as if the searing pain was forcibly suppressed by this cold, hard shell.
This extreme cold and sudden sensation, directly applied to the exposed wound, made the burly male casualty, whose skin was covered in mutated scales, suddenly tremble all over!
A roar, a mix of intense pain and extreme shock, burst uncontrollably from his throat!
He lowered his head in disbelief, watching those armored hands steadily and efficiently wrap bandages around his mutated arm—this direct and effective treatment was a world apart from the countless times he had experienced rough shoves or worse treatment from the Marshals.
The initial fear in his eyes receded, replaced by deep confusion, and a hint of extremely humble hope that he himself hadn't even noticed.
The initial fear in his eyes melted away, replaced by deep confusion, and a hint of extremely humble hope that he himself hadn't even noticed.
The other Mutants silently watched this incredible scene, their heavy breathing seemingly frozen, the air thick with an indescribable tension and astonishment.
Figgsin remained unmoved.
She precisely covered and wrapped the bandage over the foam, ensuring the dressing was secure and tight.
The entire process was silent, only her steady and focused breathing, filtered through her helmet, was remarkably clear in the relatively quieted battlefield.
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