The Flesh Tearers arrived at the positions indicated in their mission briefings like blood-red wraiths. The air was thick with industrial exhaust and the chilling scent of metal; the nuclear plant's reactor towers cast twisted shadows under the dim lighting.
Their massive power armor left heavy footprints on the ground, every step carrying a rhythmic, trembling weight. The blood-red plates were covered in the scars of past battles, silent testaments to their sheer ferocity.
The Flesh Tearers found the supplies here perfectly preserved: mountains of ammunition crates, fuel canisters, and ration packs—not a single item missing. Yet, aside from themselves, there was no trace of any other Space Marine Chapter within the position. The headquarters was hollow, the sentry towers deathly silent; only the wind moaned through the metal structures.
One Flesh Tearer Space Marine spoke, his voice sounding exceptionally harsh through his vox-grille: "Calgar talks a good game about Astartes unity—heh, turns out still no one wants to stay with us."
Seth scanned the surroundings with cold indifference. "Since we have decided to embrace the fury and march toward our destined deaths while winning glory for Sanguinius and the Emperor, do not dwell on it. The Ultramarines are ambitious; it is for the best that we do not link too closely with them."
However, just as the Flesh Tearers began refortifying the position according to their own habits, the sudden roar of approaching engines shattered the silence. The sound was rugged and familiar, causing even Seth to feel a hint of confusion. He tilted his black helmet slightly, casting his gaze toward the entrance of the outpost.
Soon, several Chimera armored personnel carriers emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila wobbled into the courtyard, kicking up clouds of dust. The doors swung open with a heavy clang, and a crowd of mortal soldiers wielding lasguns leapt out. One man led the way, shouting loudly: "Hey, hey, hey! Anyone home? Is this Section C, Nuclear Plant No. 32? We're from the 137th 'Helldiver' Infantry Regiment!"
The Flesh Tearers were momentarily perplexed. Mortal soldiers stationed in the same position as them? It was preposterous. They knew their own destiny and curse all too well; the Black Rage and the Red Thirst could erupt at any moment.
When war descended, they wouldn't even need the Necrons to finish the job. They would roar "HORUS!" and tear these unarmed mortals limb from limb—it would be an uncontrollable, bloody massacre.
Beneath Seth's faceplate, his brow furrowed. He emerged slowly from the shadows, his towering frame imposing like a mountain of blood, each step carrying a sense of heavy power. He pointed a hand at the leading mortal, his voice low and filled with unquestionable authority: "Give me your transfer orders."
Seeing an Astartes suddenly appear, the mortal soldiers froze. The previous clamor vanished instantly. The leader of the Helldivers felt his heart leap, cowed by the sudden pressure; he hurriedly pulled a folded piece of paper from his uniform lining and handed it over.
Seth took the orders, his thick gauntlets making a slight scraping sound against the paper. He examined it carefully and found it indeed bore the official Imperial seals and the commander's signature. There was no mistake.
He returned the orders to the mortal, his tone thick with a warning that was almost tangible: "I am giving you one last chance. Find another place to garrison. Leave this position. Get away from us—from the Flesh Tearers."
According to Seth's expectations, once these mortals heard the name "Flesh Tearers," their faces would turn pale, and they might even flee in a panic on the spot. After all, they were notorious throughout the galaxy, their infamy widespread.
If the Black Rage broke out during battle, they would lose all control, turning into bloodthirsty beasts. They often snatched up nearby mortal troops to drain their blood and rend their flesh; they would even strike down fellow Astartes who drew too near, possessing no shred of reason. They were the Emperor's wrath incarnate and the living proof of Sanguinius's curse.
This frequent eruption of the Black Rage, along with the accompanying self-destructive tendencies, had caused the Chapter's numbers to dwindle steadily. In every campaign, brothers were lost—either falling completely to the Rage, being cut down by enemies while berserk, or being mercifully executed by their comrades after the battle.
To this day, the entire Chapter consisted of only four companies. In a few hundred years, they would be lucky if a hundred souls remained. They were a Chapter marching toward extinction, a brotherhood of the cursed.
Many Flesh Tearers had long since accepted their doom across centuries of gore, embracing the fury of the Black Rage as a glorious death.
However, deep within the heart beneath Gabriel Seth's blood-red armor, there was still a spark of defiance. He did not want the Flesh Tearers to become mere slaves to the curse like other fallen Chapters; he hoped that one day his battle-brothers could proudly embrace the glory of Sanguinius's blood rather than just its shadow.
Thus, Seth used the most "friendly" attitude he could muster to warn these mortals, hoping they would scram and avoid a pointless sacrifice. He did not want to see these humans become victims of their frenzy, nor did he want his brothers to carry more sin.
But to his surprise, after hearing the name "Flesh Tearers," the mortals didn't show a hint of fear. Instead, they became instantly excited. Their faces beamed with a kind of fervor, as if they were meeting their idols.
The leader waved his arms excitedly, his expression nearly bursting from beneath his helmet: "Oh oh oh! You guys are the Flesh Tearers? Sorry, I didn't recognize the paint job just now! We were thinking if you hadn't arrived yet, we should wait for you before discussing the personnel layout. It's great that you got here before us!"
He even took a few steps forward, seemingly wanting a closer look at these legendary berserkers: "My name is 'Walter White,' commander of this regiment. Just call me White! Sir, is your Chapter Master around?"
Seth was momentarily at a loss by this unprecedented reaction. His massive frame froze in place, his blood-red eye lenses flickering slightly as if his "CPU" were overloading.
He was used to being met with indifference, fear, and loathing; he was used to mortals avoiding him and other Astartes keeping their distance. To suddenly have someone be so enthusiastic—showing such unreserved closeness and even admiration—left him not knowing how to react.
In centuries of war, no one had ever treated the Flesh Tearers this way. The feeling was so alien that it left his battle-hardened mind in a daze. He even instinctively tightened his grip on his massive two-handed chainsword, as if this sudden "friendliness" were harder to handle than any enemy.