Walter followed a Flesh Tearer through the winding corridors deep within the nuclear power plant. The air was thick with a mixture of machine oil, dust, and an indescribable, metallic scent of blood.
They eventually entered a spacious control room. The original equipment had been cleared away, replaced by a crude metal conference table. Several Flesh Tearers in blood-red power armor stood silently on either side.
At a glance, Walter saw Seth—the man they had just described as "stiff and cranky"—standing majestically at the head of the table. His massive frame was like a monolith, radiating an unquestionable sense of oppression.
"Huh? Sir, you're the Chapter Master?" Walter's heart skipped a beat. Realizing exactly what was going on, a flash of embarrassment and regret crossed his face. He instinctively slapped his forehead with a sharp *smack*, his voice filled with unconcealed remorse: "Aw man, why didn't you say so earlier?"
Seth's eyes, hidden deep within his helmet, remained motionless. He didn't make a sound, simply staring silently at this audacious mortal. Beside him, the veteran Harahel issued a warning: "Watch your tone, mortal!"
"Uh, sorry about that," Walter realized he had been overexcited. He immediately wiped the expression from his face and forced a somewhat stiff, apologetic smile. He scratched his head, trying to ease the awkwardness, his tone turning slightly sycophantic. "Seeing real Blood Angels got me a little hyped. Everyone in our regiment is a fan of yours."
However, rather than diffusing the tension, these words acted like acid on the Flesh Tearers' already sensitive nerves.
To be compared to the "perfect" parent chapter, the Blood Angels, while they were a dying, devolving Chapter on the brink of damnation? To them, it sounded like blatant mockery.
The atmosphere in the room froze instantly. Inside their heavy power armor, the Flesh Tearers' breathing grew heavy and ragged, sounding like bellows. They glared at Walter, their gazes through their lenses sharp enough to pierce bone, flickering with a bloodthirsty light.
Their fists clenched instinctively, joints creaking—they looked ready to swarm forward and tear this reckless mortal to shreds. The scent of blood in the air seemed to thicken, becoming almost suffocating.
At that critical moment, Seth's voice finally broke the dead silence, dispersing the impending explosion of rage: "You have the wrong men. We are not Blood Angels. We are Flesh Tearers."
Seth's feelings toward the parent chapter were complex—a tangled mess of envy, jealousy, and a deep-seated resentment. The Flesh Tearers, a cursed Chapter, could only give their everything to chase a victory the galaxy would remember before heading toward their inevitable doom.
The Blood Angels, meanwhile, had been famous and revered across the galaxy since the beginning, enjoying supreme glory. This contrast was branded into the depths of his soul.
"Same thing, same thing," Walter said, completely oblivious to the weight in Seth's words. He waved it off casually, as if chatting about the weather. "Don't you all carry the blood of Sanguinius? And actually, compared to the Blood Angels, I like you Flesh Tearers a bit more.
Even though you face a curse of madness at every moment and are hated by everyone, you still strive to maintain that last shred of sanity, shouting the names of the Emperor and Sanguinius while fighting to the death. It's just so grimdark and cool, isn't it?"
The Flesh Tearers present stared at Walter in disbelief. Their violent aura was shattered by his words. Even Seth asked in a low voice, "Are you serious?"
Walter nodded vigorously, his face showing unmasked sincerity: "A thousand times serious, sir! Everyone in our regiment feels this way; otherwise, why would we come to fight side-by-side with you? If you want to drink our blood, just say the word.
Everyone came here specifically for this kind of scene. In the heat of battle, you don't even have to ask—just grab one of us and bite." He even pointed to his freshly bandaged neck, looking remarkably nonchalant.
The Flesh Tearers were stunned, frozen in place. This kind of talk, this attitude... even the blood thralls carefully selected on Baal, who grew up on legends of the Blood Angels, might not be this willing to be fed upon, right? This pure sense of "devotion" left them feeling an unprecedented sense of bewilderment.
"Does your planet have an extensive cult of the Angel?" Seth couldn't help but ask. It was the only explanation he could think of to rationalize what he was seeing.
"Not exactly a 'faith,' it's more of a 'fandom' at most," Walter shrugged. "Among the Blood Angel successor chapters, the ones we like the most are probably the Lamenters, but unfortunately, they didn't show up for this war—"
"Like us... enough to give your lives for it?" Seth said softly. "You like us?"
"If you don't give your best for the things you like, are you supposed to give your best for the things you hate?" Walter laughed.
Seth was still suspicious; after all, this "liking" seemed far too irrational. His massive frame leaned forward slightly, pinning Walter with his stare: "Are you truly volunteers? Is it possible your superiors forced you to do this, and you're just acting out of obedience?"
Gabriel Seth had lived for centuries and was intimately familiar with the bureaucratic rot within the Imperium. He knew it was entirely possible for some high-ranking "parasite" to give such insane orders on a whim. He had seen too much hypocrisy and deception.
"No, like I said, we're really volunteers!" Walter's expression turned dead serious. He stood straight, his voice firm and unwavering. "All military missions are issued by the Soldiers' Committee, and they give the units specific details, like the scale of the enemy. For example, for this mission to hold the trenches with you, the Committee explicitly told everyone that it would be very easy to be killed by our own allies."
He paused, a hint of pride in his voice: "Sure, plenty of the Helldivers care about that sort of thing, but if they cared, they wouldn't have come! I guarantee you, everyone here is a volunteer. We Helldivers are very democratic!"
"Democratic?" Seth repeated the word, his voice full of confusion. He understood the definition, but the word felt so alien to their current reality—as if it had come from another universe entirely—that it made his brain stall.
In the back of his mind, he felt this was something only the Helldivers could pull off. He pulled his focus back to the mortal himself.
According to this mortal, even among them, those who liked the Flesh Tearers enough to not mind being bled were a minority.
If these Helldivers had shown even a hint of the fear and loathing other mortals felt toward them, the Flesh Tearers would have felt that killing them was of no consequence. But Seth sensed zero negative emotion. These mortals seemed to genuinely like them, without a trace of falsehood.
For the Flesh Tearers—who had never known what it felt like to be liked—this made them feel like they couldn't lay a hand on these mortals, even though the mortals didn't care or were even asking for it. This sudden, almost absurd "goodwill" left them completely at a loss.
Seth looked at the other Flesh Tearers around him. Their fierce gazes had become complicated and unreadable—filled with confusion, incomprehension, and even a touch of dazed vulnerability from being moved. Clearly, they were all wearing the same conflicted expressions.
"By the Emperor, what kind of mess is this—" Seth's voice carried an unmistakable note of frustration. He could even feel a sense of powerlessness welling up. At this moment, he would have preferred these mortals to immediately show their hatred for the Flesh Tearers.
Then, at least, he would know what to do—he would drive them away or strike them down without hesitation. But now, this sudden "affection" had placed him in an unprecedented predicament.