Amidst the screams, Paul landed steadily on the top of the wall.
The stone blocks beneath his boots cracked like spiderwebs.
The closest guard was only five meters away. He looked no older than twenty, clutching a rusted rifle. His finger was on the trigger, but he was trembling so violently he couldn't press it.
Paul glanced at him.
The Wisdom trait operated silently. It was a psychic-based empathic perception, capable of roughly reading a target's emotional spectrum and the weight of their sins.
It wasn't a divine judgment, but a discernment based on Paul's own moral compass.
This young man... fear, confusion, coercion... but very little stench of blood.
Paul withdrew his gaze.
He moved.
Advancing with the steady, hyper-efficient stride of a killing machine.
Three guards on his left raised their guns simultaneously. Paul swept his left arm out. The forearm plating of his Power Armor shattered their rifles and, without losing any momentum, slammed into all three of their chests.
The muffled cracks of shattering bones were drowned out by the hum of his armor's servo-motors. The three men flew backward, crashing against the battlements and moving no more.
A guard on his right tried to thrust a bayonet at his knee joint, a relatively weak point on Power Armor.
Paul didn't even look down. A side kick with his right leg sent the guard flying off the wall like a torn burlap sack. His scream faded into the distance before abruptly cutting off.
A heavy stubber emplacement was positioned at the corner of the wall. The two gunners were desperately trying to swing the barrel around.
Paul drew his Bolter and aimed it one-handed, without even bothering to line up the sights properly.
BANG! BANG!
Two mass-reactive bolts struck with pinpoint accuracy—one hitting the ammo feed, the other striking where the barrel met the receiver.
An explosive flash swallowed the gunners, and the heavy stubber was reduced to twisted scrap metal.
This wasn't a battle.
It was a slaughter.
The absolute disparity in strength between an Astartes and mortal soldiers was put on full, terrifying display on the walls of Red Town this morning.
Paul didn't use his Chainsword, nor did he unleash any devastating psychic powers. Relying solely on the strength, speed, and defense granted by his Power Armor, along with burst fire from his Bolter, he operated like a precision killing machine on a rusty assembly line.
Thirty-nine seconds.
From the moment he vaulted onto the wall to clearing this fifty-meter stretch of the ramparts, it took exactly thirty-nine seconds.
Fifty-three guards fell. Thirty-seven died instantly; six were knocked unconscious with severe injuries.
The remaining thirty or so survivors either dropped to their knees in surrender or scrambled over each other to flee down the stairs.
Paul walked to the inner edge of the wall and looked down into the town.
The streets of Red Town were narrow and filthy, lined with squat stone houses and shanties.
Right now, the streets were in total chaos. Civilians were terrified, bolting indoors to hide. A few men dressed like gang members tried to organize some resistance, but the moment they saw the slaughter on the wall, they scattered like frightened birds.
In the center of the town stood a relatively decent two-story stone building—the Consul's residence.
Paul raised his Bolter, aimed, and then lowered it.
He spoke into the regional channel. "White Scars, Tax Bro, G Bro. Bring the boys and drive the trucks in."
"I'll open the gates."
He turned and walked toward the guards on the other side of the wall who were still pointing their guns. The guards watched him approach as if they were looking at a Daemon.
"Open fire!" The deputy captain was still putting up a futile resistance, screaming at the top of his lungs.
But his voice was abruptly cut short as a Chainsword plunged straight into his mouth, vertically splitting him in two.
Paul's massive frame surged into the mob of guards. It was an absolute bloodbath!
Ten minutes later.
The iron-reinforced wooden gates of Red Town were pushed open by Paul single-handedly. The heavy wooden beams and locks behind the doors folded like paper under the strength of an Astartes.
The players' convoy slowly rolled into town.
White Scars, Tax Bro, and G Bro hopped out of their trucks. Looking at the carnage and the sea of kneeling prisoners, their expressions turned a bit complicated.
"Good lord..."
Tax Bro scratched his head. "Bro, were we just brought along to watch the show?"
He pointed back toward the wall. "A three-hundred-man guard force, and you chopped through over two hundred of them yourself."
"The rest are all on their knees."
White Scars crouched down to check the injuries of an unconscious guard.
"Four broken ribs, internal bleeding... but still alive."
"Did you hold back?"
"Yeah."
Paul took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm.
His breathing was perfectly steady, and there was not even a single scratch mark on the surface of his Power Armor.
"This is just step one," he said. "Red Town has the weakest defense. I ended it fast to save time."
"Once we're done wrapping things up here, we split up. You guys will get your turn to fight."
He looked at the three of them. "White Scars, Tax Bro. Take two thousand men and head to Merida Town. That place is controlled by nearly two thousand gang members. It'll be a messier fight."
"G Bro, take five hundred men and hold Red Town. Maintain order and start screening the population."
"What about Bordeaux Town?" White Scars asked.
"I'll take the remaining thousand men and head there."
Paul put his helmet back on. "They've got underground manufactorums, the defenders are organized bandits, and there might be leftover automated defense systems. I have to handle it personally."
He paused, looking at the prisoners kneeling on the ground. "But for now, let's clean up this mess."
Paul walked toward the prisoners.
Over eighty guards knelt on the ground with their hands behind their heads, shivering uncontrollably.
Most of them were quite young; some still had childish features on their faces.
Many of them were injured, though none fatally.
Paul's Wisdom trait silently swept over them.
The weight of their sins formed blurry silhouettes in his consciousness, like looking at stones at the bottom of a murky pond.
For some, the silhouettes were heavy and dense, radiating the stench of blood.
For others, they were much fainter, mostly colored by dull fear and numbness.
He raised a finger and singled out twenty-three men.
"You, you, and you... step forward."
The guards he pointed out instantly went pale.
Some collapsed entirely, some cried and begged for mercy, and some tried to run, only to be immediately tackled to the dirt by the players.
"These twenty-three men," Paul's voice was freezing cold, "during their time as guards, participated in no less than three instances of pillaging, raping, or torturing civilians."
"Seven of them directly or indirectly caused the deaths of civilians."
He looked at the remaining fifty-seven. "The rest of you... while you took money you shouldn't have and bullied civilians, you have no blood on your hands. Most of you were just trying to scrape by."
"I am giving you two choices."
Paul held up two fingers. "First: continue to resist, and I'll send you to meet whatever god you believe in, assuming you have one."
"Second: confess your crimes, serve your sentence, and redeem yourselves through hard labor."
The prisoners froze.
They thought they were either going to be executed by firing squad or sold into an even darker mining pit as slaves until they died.
But this sounded... even though it was hard labor, it was at least a way to stay alive?
"I... I choose the second one!"
A young guard was the first to shout out. "I'll mine! I'm willing to work!"
"I'm willing too!"
"Sir! I was just forced to wear this uniform! I've never killed anyone!"
Paul nodded and turned to G Bro. "Tie them up. Later, depending on the situation, escort them back to the base along with some of the good-natured civilians."
"Understood."
G Bro waved his hand. The players moved in, using plastic zip-ties to bind the prisoners' wrists behind their backs, linking them together in groups of five.
Paul then walked toward the twenty-three men steeped in sin.
Their faces were already ashen, like the walking dead.
Some cursed, some went limp, some made a final, desperate struggle, only to be pinned down hard by the players.
Paul drew his Chainsword.
VRRRMMMM!
The teeth began to spin. The roar made everyone's heart vibrate in their chests.
"You don't have the right to redeem yourselves."
That was the only thing he said.
And then, the blade flashed.
Every strike aimed perfectly at vital points, guaranteeing instant death, sending them straight to hell to pay for their sins.
Twenty-three corpses fell at the base of the wall, their blood seeping into the sandy soil.
The surviving prisoners kept their heads buried tight to their chests, not daring to look.
Paul powered down his Chainsword and turned toward the two-story stone building in the center of the town.
"Now, it's time to pay the Consul a visit."