40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 413 139. Terra ()

Rogal Dorn's fingers were trembling.

This movement was not easy to detect, because most people would not have the courage to look at the rocks carefully - but they were indeed shaking, and it was not because of the report that Major Iben of the 21st Infantry Regiment of Terra had just given him.

The Major is a middle-aged man with gray hair and a face full of wrinkles, suffering from excessive old age.

He had retreated from the front line because the 21st Infantry Regiment had ceased to exist in name only. An entire mechanized infantry regiment of 30,000 people now only has less than 4,000 troops left, which can be called an extreme defeat.

What kind of courage does an ordinary commander need to endure the shame and humiliation that comes with it?

Dorn has a concrete answer - the Major himself.

The Major showed neither emotion, not at all. He seemed to be a dummy made of plastic, steel, blood-stained cloth, and dust. From this old face, you can't see the slightest emotion that a loser should have.

There is only peace.

He arrived at the headquarters and began to report the battle as Rogal Dorn requested. He recounted every detail, and the whole process took less than six minutes. From the army's departure, encountering the enemy, tactical deployment and defeat, it is all done in one go.

He didn't deny the failure, nor did he show any frustration or discomfort, as if he knew Rogal Dorn wouldn't blame him for it.

And this is indeed the case.

"Well done." Stubborn said, he was even praising. "You held the line."

"Not worth mentioning, my lord," said the major. "That's not it at all."

He fell silent and said no more. The straight mustache perfectly concealed the trembling of his lips, making his denial of the compliment even more believable.

Donn didn't say anything else, but suddenly asked a slightly strange question.

"Did you hear that, Major?"

"what?"

"This rumor." Dorn said simply.

He frowned and left his tactical table. The major's face finally showed a hint of visible emotion.

The command room was still noisy at this moment, and almost no one paid attention to Stubborn's actions. They didn't have the extra energy. In this vast underground cave, everyone was deeply immersed in the quagmire of war with an attitude of being completely unable to stop.

War is what it is, especially war like this - not even if Perturabo or Robert Guilliman is here.

They will also be dragged into this unprecedented horrific war, and their superhuman will and intelligence will add more terrifying attraction to the matter. They will get stuck because they can deduce a very simple thing from the chaos of documents, reports, data boards, and tactical desks with just one glance.

The Terran front is collapsing across the board.

Cold, ruthless, fact.

The Titan Legion could not stop it.

The Custodes could not stop it.

Sister Silence can't stop it.

One after another, the loyal soldiers who were willing to step into hell could not stop it.

Civilians, armed with weapons and having spent their lives in peace, were forced onto the battlefield and were powerless to stop it.

Pilgrims who recite prayers devoutly, cover their bodies with angry flames, and would rather die to practice their faith are also unable to stop them.

The Imperial Fists could not stop it, the Iron Hands could not stop it, and the Emperor's Children, who had been completely burned by the fire of vengeance and had become servants of the unjust death, were also powerless to stop it.

So, what about the Primarch? Could the great demigod, one of the Imperium's exalted Primarchs, have a solution?

The answer is none. Ferrus Manus was trapped deep in the bloody river, his hands were completely stained red by the flesh and blood, and he felt more exhausted than ever before. He looked around for a moment. He didn't see his brother, only the bodies covering the sky.

Fulgrim of Chemos, his mind consumed by the desire for revenge, will return, but now he is just a wild beast. He stayed away from everyone, fighting the demons alone in the black mist.

Rogal Dorn was equally powerless, twenty-four hours - it had only been twenty-four hours since the war began. One Terran day was not even enough for the legion to make a thorough deployment in the past, but he felt truly exhausted mentally and physically.

He has too many things to face. Every second he has to think about thousands of possible tactics and tens of thousands of different possibilities. He is sending people to die, and this has been the case since the beginning of the war. Everyone is just a number, a meaningless number assigned to a coordinate system.

He didn't even have much time to look at the name of the commander of a support force. He just sent them to die, to face death, to delay time.

Go to the wilderness, to the underground caves, to the dim underground of the hive, to the majestic palace that is now devoured by the flames of war - and then die, anonymously.

He might die in the bombing, he might die of illness, he might die in the claws of demons, or he might be tortured until the end. The meaning of fighting to the end is sacrifice, facing death, but no one will remember your name.     There is no glory, no commemoration, no medals that will be awarded posthumously.

There is nothing but death, nothing but death.

Rogal Dorn thought about these things - but he said not a word, not even as the Major pressed at his side.

He walked to the door of the command room, but most people in the underground command room didn't even react. Hinges began to turn, gears clicked, and mechanical activity from the ancient past was being faithfully pushed forward by the two servitors.

The door slowly opened, and at this moment, under the blowing cold wind, people in the command room realized that Dorn had left his tactical table.

They are all elites, their abilities are excellent, and their willpower is incomprehensible - but that only supports them to fight here, making futile attempts under the orders of death and the inevitable defeat.

Their willpower did not support their understanding of Rogal Dorn's departure.

"My lord!" Someone called immediately, and the voice was almost desolate. "Where are you going?"

"The time has come!" Someone else shouted fanatically and pulled out the bolt pistol on his waist. "Kill! Kill in the name of the Emperor! My colleagues! We will take revenge!"

Dorn ignored them.

The cold wind blew as he stepped out of the command room. The ground and the top of the head were shaking, the roar of artillery was continuous, and the shrill wind became more and more violent, almost swallowing their sounds completely.

But Dorn still heard the small cry.

He walked up, and the long corridor fixed by solid metal stretched upward. It was very spacious, even enough for two War Dog-level Titans to pass side by side. He did not use elevators or similar structures. Sometimes, simpler things are more reliable.

The officers and servants followed him, following suit. As they climbed, some were sweating profusely, some were indifferent in the cold wind, and some were pale and tightly holding their weapons that had already been unsheathed or had their safety activated.

They had courage, but it wasn't enough.

Dorn stopped and stood in front of a pile of ruins.

The ruins and broken walls are not enough to describe the misery of this place. Promethium flames are burning, and the demon corpses nailed to the ground are decomposing and melting. The two soldiers screamed and laughed wildly as they rushed through the blood-covered snow and charged towards the human enemy.

They have the will to die in their hearts, and there is anger in their eyes. Only a few bricks and stones of the towering city walls still exist, and people are hanging on them waiting to die. Blood flowed, the body was broken, and the skin and flesh were burnt.

None of the officers spoke, only a dead silence spread. They entered the command room after the war started. They had already anticipated the intensity of the war outside. Even if they didn't know clearly, they would be reminded again and again by the continuous bombings.

Now, it was the first time they saw this horrifying sight with their own eyes. Only then did they realize that no matter how much anticipation they had made and how much mental preparation they had made, it was actually not enough.

"My lord." The major stepped forward uneasily. "Do you have any orders?"

Donn didn't answer, but suddenly raised his hand to signal him not to speak. He frowned and stared intently at a patch of snow stained red with blood. He stared casually, but without any focus - he was listening.

The thought flashed through the Major's mind. But what to listen to?

Driven by this question, he also began to listen. Unfortunately, his hearing was damaged by the sound of gunfire, cannons, and continuous roars, so that he could not even hear the wind clearly. Not to mention hearing the subtle sounds that a Primarch could pick up

But he doesn't really have to listen.

Yes, they didn't need to listen, because the voice didn't come from somewhere, but rang directly - in everyone's heart.

What is it?

The Major waited, dripping with sweat. Then he heard a crash of thunder. This thunder does not resound in the sky, or even exists in the real world. It is an illusory thunder, what does it represent?

Only a very few people can understand.

But if anyone were looking at any clock that could tell time, or anything that could tell them the exact time, they would notice something.

It's hour twenty-five.

It was the twenty-fifth hour after the war on Terra began. It was the twenty-fifth hour when we were exhausted, out of ammunition and food, and suffered heavy casualties. And this thunder was so precise, it arrived at the twenty-fifth hour with exactly one second and less than one second.

It seems to be a messenger, representing a terrifying giant bell that has existed since ancient times. Skeletons were used as the base, blood was smeared on the clock face, and the angry and mournful bones of the dead man pointed directly at every number on the clock face.

Second hand, minute hand, hour hand - snap, snap, snap. Quietly, they all returned to their places. Time is ruthless, but it is also fair. It flows and it will always flow.

Until now.

Thunder roared.

The blizzard stopped falling, the cold wind finally subsided, and the dark clouds covering the sky suddenly dispersed, stained with the color of embers like burning paper.

A scarlet and complete crown quietly emerged, and it was actually more dazzling than the sun.

Rogal Dorn slowly closed his eyes.

"Attack," he said. "This is the final order."

　There's still one more chapter, I'll try to hurry up. Sorry for the slow update today.

　　

　

(End of this chapter)