Deep within the nuclear power plant, in a relatively secluded maintenance tunnel, players had set up several candles scavenged from abandoned dormitories. The flickering candlelight barely dispelled the shadows, instead coating the scene in an eerie, sallow glow. The air was thick with the smell of metal, dust, and a faint, lingering scent of blood.
A dozen mortals dressed in Helldiver uniforms stood in a line, their expressions solemn and focused. They were no longer the noisy crowd clamoring for merit points; instead, they carried an air of gravity, as if participating in an ancient and sacred religious rite. Before them, the massive form of Brother Reed of the Flesh Tearers stood like a silent monument, the low hum of his power armor the only sound in the gloom.
The squad leader, being the first in line, stepped forward. He pulled a glass goblet from his backpack once more and carefully placed it on a clean metal plate in front of Brother Reed. Then, with practiced ease, he drew a dagger and made a small incision on his left wrist.
Crimson blood welled up immediately. He tilted his wrist, letting the blood flow precisely into the goblet like a small stream. The droplets gathered at the bottom, glinting with a sinister luster under the candlelight.
As the leader stepped back, the second player immediately moved forward to repeat the action. They did not hesitate; there was no trace of fear or doubt in their eyes—only a thirst for merit. The blood in the goblet rose bit by bit.
Through the lenses of his helmet, Brother Reed's gaze was fixed intently on the filling cup. He could smell the metallic sweetness and feel the heat unique to mortal life. The hunger within him surged like a tide, every cell screaming, urging him to drain the luscious liquid instantly. Beneath the massive armor, his palms tightened slightly, the metal joints emitting faint clicks as if he might reach out at any moment to seize the glass.
However, the words "Sir, you really are a great man" echoed in his mind like an invisible mantra. He could not behave like a bloodthirsty beast. He was a "good man," at least in the eyes of these mortals. He had to maintain dignity—to maintain a certain sense of ritual. Reed struggled to suppress his primal urges, the veins in his temples throbbing slightly beneath his helm.
Finally, once all the players had made their offerings and the blood reached the required amount, the squad leader respectfully held the cup out to him.
Reed extended a massive hand clad in heavy power armor and gingerly took the goblet. The cold glass contrasted sharply with the burning desire inside him. He didn't drink immediately. Instead, he raised the glass to eye level, inspecting the fluid that condensed the essence of mortal life. In the dim candlelight, the blood looked heavy and solemn.
The surrounding Helldivers held their breath, eyes locked on Brother Reed. The latter slowly—exceedingly slowly—brought the goblet to the drinking intake of his helmet. He made no eager noises and showed no sign of greed. He simply tilted the glass, letting the warm blood flow into his mouth with a near-holy rhythm.
With the first sip, he felt the warmth and sweetness—a refreshing relief like rain after a long drought.
With the second sip, he felt the infusion of mortal vitality. His exhausted spirit eased, and it felt as though every cell in his body was cheering.
By the third sip, he closed his eyes, immersing himself in the ultimate satisfaction.
He finished the blood bit by bit, methodically. The entire process was silent, save for the rustling of the flickering candles and the faint mechanical whirring of his armor. Only when the goblet was completely empty did he slowly lower it.
Brother Reed exhaled a long breath, the scent of blood diffusing through the dark tunnel. He felt an unprecedented sense of peace and satisfaction; the hunger within had been soothed. Before him, the Helldivers also exhaled in relief, their faces beaming with the joy of earned merit.
Just then, a click echoed as the tunnel lights were switched on. The dim, ritualistic atmosphere was instantly shattered by the piercing white glare of the fluorescent lights, washing away the eerie solemnity.
Chaplain Apollyon appeared at the entrance, having evidently just walked in. He immediately saw the blood-stained goblet still in Reed's hand and the mortals standing around with fresh cuts on their wrists. His gaze swept back and forth between the Flesh Tearer and the mortals, his tone tinged with confusion: "Why didn't you turn on the lights?"
The sudden appearance of his fellow brother startled Reed. He hadn't expected the Chaplain to show up. In the moment the lights flooded the room, Reed felt a strange sense of panic, as if he had been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.
He hurried to set the goblet down, speaking with an unnatural stiffness: "Brother Chaplain, I was drinking the blood they offered me."
He instinctively wanted to explain further but didn't know how to put it.
"I know, I can see that," Chaplain Apollyon said, giving them a strange look. He could obviously tell what had happened from the scent in the air and the wounds on the mortals. He just didn't understand why the mortals were offering blood in such a ritualistic fashion, or why Reed had accepted it that way. "What I mean is—why were you offering and drinking blood like this?"
Reed was stumped. He remained silent for a long moment as countless explanations flashed through his mind, only to find them all sounding weak and hollow. Finally, he could only repeat the line the mortals had used to convince him, even though he found it somewhat absurd himself:
"—Life always needs a sense of ritual."
What he didn't say was that this strange ceremony proposed by the Helldivers, and the peace he found within it, made him feel—briefly—that he wasn't just a beast with nothing left but slaughter. It felt like a lingering shred of the human experience.
Hearing Reed's answer, Apollyon found it almost humorous. A Flesh Tearer—a berserker haunted by a genetic curse, perpetually on the verge of falling to the Black Rage—was actually talking about "a sense of ritual." However, he didn't let it show on his face, merely nodding in understanding.
Then, Apollyon's tone turned serious as he began to inquire about Reed's internal state, fulfilling his duty as the Chapter Chaplain: "Brother Reed, how have you been feeling lately? Do you feel it is becoming easier for rage and bloodlust to dominate you?"
Reed answered honestly: "Brother Chaplain, the rage is still there, but lately... it seems easier to control." He found it a bit strange himself.
Apollyon observed Reed's reaction closely. From his tone and the faint psychic fluctuations beneath the power armor, the Chaplain keenly perceived that Reed's psychological state was indeed more stable. He wasn't as hysterical as before, and that sense of being on the brink of a total collapse had diminished.
"Hmm..." Apollyon murmured thoughtfully. He knew Reed's condition and how difficult it was to soothe the temper of a Flesh Tearer. He hadn't visited Reed in the past few days, nor had he provided any spiritual guidance. Therefore, this wasn't his doing.
Apollyon turned his gaze toward the nearby Helldivers , looking contemplative.
However, he said nothing more, simply telling the Space Marine: "Very well, Brother Reed. It seems you have found some peace. I will be visiting more often to keep a close eye on your condition."