Emperor's Bane

Chapter 915 The Story of the Losers (Part 2)

For a long time, there has been one question that has been a perennial hot topic in the galaxy.

That is, as the successive galactic overlords, what exactly is the difference between humanity and the Eldar?

Whether in terms of population, power, or the technology used for fighting: the latter being a particularly classic topic.

The answer was actually decided a long time ago.

As a race that rose to power in less than 20,000 years before its hegemony came and went, humans naturally cannot compare with the Eldar Empire, which has a history of 60 million years. However, this does not mean that humans, as a latecomer, are worthless: at least in the art of taking another’s life, humans and Eldar are evenly matched rivals.

In that era known as the Dark Ages of Technology, a time that was neither beautiful nor peaceful, but utterly insane, humanity's technological superpowers did indeed forge their own path: although this path may not have been the right one, and although it trampled on all conscience and bottom lines in the world, no one can say that the end result of this path was not bountiful.

Although the scientific achievements of the Dark Ages were far less advanced and magnificent than those of the Eldar, they were in no way inferior in their core functions: just as Eldar Empire warships could easily penetrate human armor, bullets fired from human firearms could also easily pierce the skulls of the ancient race.

War after war has proven this.

When they bleed and fought each other, the Eldar were not a nobler species than humans.

And now, it will be proven once again.

As the arrogant Black Death mercilessly mowed down the Astartes on the battlefield with their guns, they failed to notice that some were silently leaving and then rapidly returning, now carrying deadly black boxes.

Although the Fifth Fleet of the Second Army Corps has always been composed of its unruly nature and passion for close combat, it does not mean that they will lack certain things: when the entire Second Army Corps was on the verge of splitting up, the interim corps commander Marshall, who was respected by everyone, did not give Ragnar and others a powerful fleet, but he still left them with a weapon that was enough to turn the tide.

When the Black Reapers noticed some terrifying auras on the battlefield that posed a threat to them, before they could even adjust their guns to find and eliminate these threats, the sharpshooters in Astartes, filled with rage and grinning, raised their equally unwilling Reapers in their hands.

In an instant, countless unknown and even never-before-seen energy turbulence and beams of various colors flew across the battlefield. Whether it was the Astartes or the Eldar warriors, their armor was as fragile as dry paper in the face of energy that could distort time and space. Once hit, their flesh disappeared even faster than their armor, followed by the fleeting breath of life in their eyes.

The Black Reapers and Rangers from various Ida worlds had just killed their opponents and hadn't even had time to find their next target while moving at high speed when the Emperor's Sharpshooters retaliated fiercely. The Black Reapers wearing skull masks were mercilessly pierced through their death masks, replaced by true deathly silence.

As for the Rangers, their prized stealth abilities were no match for the veterans of Astartes. Their mutilated bodies rolled down the dunes and into the blood-soaked ravines, alongside the severed arms of Astartes warriors and the somber helmets of Assault Scorpions.

The battle became a cruel game, where everyone seemed to be just a pawn to be exchanged for pieces.

Every second someone dies, every second more ferocious weapons are thrown onto the battlefield. Sharpness and individual wisdom seem useless in such a deadly situation. Instead, they frantically take each other's lives, dragging each other toward hell under the dark sky: two armies of a few hundred men fight like a million-strong army until an entire sand dune is stained red with blood and wreckage.

Above them, on the other side of the battlefield, a similar battle of life and death ensued: the Eldar pirate fleet had ultimately underestimated their opponents. Although the Empire's ships could not possibly win in this unprepared attack, the elites of the Great Crusade had never lacked the courage and resolve to perish together with their adversaries.

When the first Imperial destroyer, doomed to die, didn't hesitate to ignite its warp engine, its sister ships followed suit one after another. Twisted time currents and spatial collapses began to unfold above this nameless world, until the pirate fleet began to shed the blood they didn't want.

As the battle in the void evolved from swift raids and encirclements to close-quarters combat and quagmire-like fighting—more advantageous and familiar to the human fleets—the Imperial captains finally mastered their skills. Landing torpedoes carrying Astartes warriors crisscrossed the void, using their last breaths to destroy enemy ships. Meanwhile, an Imperial cruiser simply channeled all its power into its void shield and charged towards the alien battleships in the distance.

Almost simultaneously, the Astartes on the ground achieved the same result. Hundreds of warriors, roaring like wild beasts, brandished their blades and charged recklessly towards the Eldar army in front of them. The battle, which had been somewhat organized, was completely turned into chaos. It was no longer a war between two armies, but a war between everyone. Everyone was an opponent, and no one had the safety of their comrades behind them. Instead, they were fighting against death for a chance at luck in an endless slaughter.

Countless Astartes champions, unable to unleash their full potential, were pierced through the heart by a blade from behind in the chaos of battle. Countless Eldar archers, unable to retreat in time, were cleaved in two by an axe. No one knows how long the war lasted, but after more than two-thirds of the Astartes and Eldar had fallen, those who remained standing had long forgotten what reason was.

Their only concern was killing off the enemy.

Of all the opponents fighting to the death, Ivar was making the most progress. Overjoyed, he beheaded the warlord before him, then looked around, searching for his next opponent while nervously observing the very center of the battlefield: Ragnar and his guards were facing off against Eldar's most powerful lord.

The legendary Astartes and the Howling Banshee Phoenix Lord Kinzhal were locked in a frenzied battle, while their guards, equally viciously thirsting for each other's lives, fought fiercely. Both legends' armor was covered with scars and sword marks; Kinzhal's longsword was embedded in one of Ragnar's hearts, while the Phoenix Lord bore a bloody scar on her chest.

The roaring chainsaw axe and the spinning three scythes traced blood and ice in the air. Kinzar's dazzling combat skills and speed were dazzling. She leaped around Ragnar like a nimble grim reaper, constantly searching for the most suitable attack position. Astartes always seemed to be a step behind her, but never delayed to the point of being fatal.

The two sides were still locked in a fierce battle, their mutual slaughter seemingly destined to continue until the end of the world. Like two whirlwinds of hatred, their weapons clung tightly to each other. Even the other Phoenix Lord, who had been eyeing the area from afar, could not find a good opportunity to pull the trigger.

He wasn't the only one struggling with this dilemma.

Ivar flicked the blade of his sword. He had come to realize how powerful the enemy before him was, and how important Ragnar's victory would be. But when this veteran of Terra, who had never participated in the unification war, looked around, he found that his close comrades-in-arms were either lying lifeless on the ground or engaged in a fierce battle with their opponents: only two people could meet his gaze.

They looked at each other and nodded.

No further explanation is needed.

The next moment, three Terran veterans silently approached the battlefield between Ragnar and the Phoenix Lord. They bypassed the company commander's guards and howling banshees who were also locked in fierce combat, easily tore two assault scorpions that tried to stop them to pieces, and quickly slipped into the Phoenix Lord's side.

In the distance, another Phoenix Lord watched the three uninvited guests with a cold gaze. He was just about to pull the trigger when his eyes were drawn to the real important target not far from the battlefield: taking advantage of the melee, several assault scorpions had sneaked into the cave that Ivar had entered earlier. They carried out the boxes and impatiently gave the Phoenix Lord a signal that the operation had succeeded.

This caused Morgana's attention to pause for a moment.

that's enough.

Ivar and his men have reached the edge of the battlefield.

They arrived at just the right time.

Perhaps sensing the impending crisis, or perhaps realizing that the war could not continue to drag on, the Phoenix Lord finally abandoned his last shred of pride, letting out a sharp roar from the banshee mask of Kinzhal. The psionic shriek pierced Ragnar's eardrums, drawing blood and causing the legion's legend to instinctively step back.

The Phoenix Lord seized the opportunity, its merciless blade flashing with blinding light as it bit into Ragnar's left arm, ruthlessly severing it. The pain and sudden loss of balance caused Astartes to fall to the ground, struggling to regain his footing, while Kinzhal eagerly awaited the harvest of his spoils.

At that moment, Ivar and his two battle comrades silently launched a charge, wielding their longswords from the Phoenix Lord's left.

Kinzar noticed them. In the brief moment before humans could even register it, she pondered for a moment. Ultimately, out of arrogance and absolute confidence in her previous fatal blow, the Phoenix Lord temporarily shifted her gaze from Ragnar, who was still unable to stand, and swung her sharp scythe towards Ivar and his battle brethren.

Without any suspense, the Phoenix Lord unleashed his fury and power. Ivar's chest was pierced, and he was kicked far away. He watched as the head of one of his comrades was swallowed by a cold light and flew high into the air, while the mangled body of another rolled down the hill and was submerged in the stinking stream of blood.

Kinzar's footsteps were rapidly approaching, the light of his scythe enveloping Ivar's head.

Just then, they both suddenly heard muffled and rapid footsteps.

"!"

The Phoenix Lord turned her head, her pupils dilating in utter astonishment. A moment of hesitation shattered the balance between her and her enemy: as Kinzar turned in shock, Ragnar, bloodied and his eyes filled with rage and icy coldness, wielding his cleaver, was already close before him.

The lord of the howling banshees raised her scythe, barely managing to block the attack. Her frail body swayed under Astartes's brute force, but her other hand nimbly seized Ragnar's weakness: Ginzar parried the chainsaw axe with her scythe, while her other hand's longsword swiftly stabbed towards Astartes's severed arm.

The sound of metal cutting into flesh and bone is chilling.

The Phoenix Lord skillfully churned at the bloodied chunks of Astartes' flesh with her blade, hoping to throw Ragnar off balance again. But this time, as she met the gaze of the Terran veteran, Kinzar sensed something that sent chills down her spine.

It was a kind of... composure in the face of death.

Before Kinzar could react, Ragnar, who had seemed to be at his last gasp, suddenly leaped up, as if the injury that could have killed him had no effect on his stamina or composure: as the Phoenix Lord's longsword sank deep into his flesh, and before the deadly scythe could be swung again, Astartes' chainsaw axe began to roar a second time.

Without any hesitation, without any savage desire to vent unnecessary anger, as the chilling light of death began to devour Asta's life, Ragnar's mind had never been so calm: he stared coldly at the Phoenix Lord's most vulnerable neck, using his thousands of claws as his deadly fangs.

Wild beasts roared, and blood splattered.

The Phoenix Lord's beautiful head and fragile neck were brutally torn in two, the chainsaw axe severing her trachea and spine. Her black and gold helmet billowed in the air in a scorched arc. The Phoenix Lord's tall body, as if its soul had been ripped out, took a step forward instinctively, futilely raising its hand to try and stop the death that had already come.

Then, she swayed and fell down.

Along with the dust, came the wailing cries of the Eldar warriors. And falling with her were all the courage of the Ark World's elite warriors in this battle.

And Ivarna's manic laughter.

Become!

Despite his incessant coughing, spitting out blood and fragments of internal organs from his few remaining teeth, Ivar, with a strength he seemed to draw from nowhere, forced himself to stand, gripped his blade tightly, and looked at his Ragnaren with unparalleled pride and courage…

"boom!"

A loud gunshot rang out across the entire battlefield.

Ivar's eyes widened.

He stared in disbelief at the scene before him.

The company commander, who was laughing and raising his chainsaw axe with a battle cry just a second ago, is now a headless corpse: his head is gone, his broad body falls straight backward, and there is a mark left by a vicious bullet on his neck.

As the sound of steel crashing to the ground rang out, gushing blood flooded the battlefield between the Legion Legends and the Phoenix Lord.

In the distance, the Phoenix Lord of the Black Death silently lowered the gun in his hand.

"This idiot..."

He lowered his voice and muttered to himself.

“I clearly warned her not to underestimate the enemy.”

He then glanced at the box beside him and then at the network hub behind him.

Then, he coldly gazed into the distance: the howling banshees and the Astartes, having recovered, charged toward their respective lords like mad warriors, desperately trying to preserve their lords' remains from their opponents' clutches. A new war was also unfolding around the dead, with more and more corpses and blood piling up on the dunes.

"Move them inside, then we'll retreat."

After briefly taking stock of the Eldar and Astartes still active present, the Phoenix Lord of the Black Death gave orders to his guards.

"It's fine as long as you keep going..."

"Continue fighting?"

The Phoenix Lord glared at his subordinate.

“Most of the artifacts have already been retrieved, and the rest are insignificant. Moreover, you have seen the state of those human armies and their fearlessness in the face of death. If we continue fighting like this, although victory is a foregone conclusion, the casualties will definitely be unbearable. We cannot waste the essence of each Ark world on this.”

"Anyway, the human fleet is already destroyed."

"Now, they're either stuck here waiting to die, or they'll enter the net and get trapped."

"We don't need to shed blood for these dead people."

"Retreat! Take Jinval's armor!"

"Our fleet will arrive shortly; they will be responsible for recovering the souls of those killed on the battlefield."

After speaking, the Phoenix Eldar wearing a skull mask glanced expressionlessly at the near-Earth orbit, at the nearly destroyed Imperial fleet, and at the Eldar pirates who had paid a heavy price in the distance and were now preoccupied with their own survival due to Astartes' boarding. Then, he turned and disappeared into the network hub behind him.

He wasn't worried about the fleet.

The disparity in troop strength was too great; the Astartes who boarded the ships had no chance of survival. At best, they could only manage to perish together with their vessels.

As for the fate of these Spirit Clan pirates?
He doesn't care.

Escorting the most important artifact, the Phoenix Lord's figure disappeared into the net passage. The Eldar army, which already had the upper hand, began to retreat while fighting. More and more alien warriors were eager to leave the battlefield: the amount of blood flowing here had already frightened them.

First came the Black Reaper and the Ranger, followed by the Assault Scorpion, which suffered unexpectedly heavy losses: they were decimated in their battle against weapons from the Dark Ages, and the ferocious Avengers and fire dragons were reduced to less than half their initial numbers. They covered the few remaining war priests and bishops, and left the battlefield without a second thought.

The last remaining were the Howling Banshees. They paid a heavy price in blood to snatch their Phoenix Lord back from the enraged Astartes. Their subsequent rearguard action left the vast majority of Howling Banshees forever on this land: as the last few crazed Eldar warriors were torn apart by the Astartes, the rest of the warriors covered their Lord's hasty retreat into the Webway.

But Ivar had no time to worry about these things.

He knelt beside Ragnar, somewhat dazed, trying to piece his company commander's head back together, until the distant, unwilling battle cries jolted him back to reality. He looked at the glaring entrances to the network nexus: Eldar forces were suppressing Astartes with firepower while covering the retreat of their last comrades into it.

However, when the last Elven race member disappeared, the entrance to the Net Path did not disappear with him.

Perhaps it was an oversight by the Eldar.

Or perhaps it's their mockery: they don't believe anyone else can survive in the online world.

"..."

The Astartes who witnessed this scene fell silent.

A moment later, or perhaps the next, an Imperial warrior covered in blood picked up his weapon. He said nothing, offered no passionate words, and uttered no fanatical battle cry. He simply remained silent, like any avenger with a death wish, single-mindedly stepping into the light of the net: in his heart, he only hoped that those damned aliens hadn't gone far.

and……

"Staying here is just waiting to die..."

The pioneer muttered to himself, while the wrecked remains of the Imperial warships on the tracks silenced everyone.

after a while.

One person, two people, three people, carrying the remains of their fallen comrades or collecting their seeds, then picking up those ancient weapons, one after another, forming battle formations, and silently stepping into the net: the remaining three hundred-odd comrades of the Fifth Fleet, at this moment, collectively decided their fate.

This was not a reckless act. They had made thorough preparations before entering the Web Path, taking all the supplies they could plunder, burying their comrades' bodies as much as possible, taking the gene seeds, and even finding the artifacts that the Eldar had not had time to take: with all the power they needed for revenge, the warriors of the Fifth Fleet disappeared one by one into the light of the Web Path.

The last one was Ivar. He carried Ragnar's body on his back and silently followed his companions. Before stepping into the net tunnel, he looked up at the near-Earth orbit, which had long since returned to silence. He saw the wreckage of cruisers and destroyers floating in the void and a new fleet faintly approaching at the far end of his vision.

But he recognized it: it wasn't a human-made ship.

Ivar turned his head back.

Without hesitation, he stepped into the new world beyond the pale blue gate of the Internet Hub.

He just hoped that the aliens hadn't escaped too far.

This was the last recorded appearance of the Second Legion's Fifth Fleet in the galaxy.

(End of this chapter)