40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 449 175. Terra (Thirty-six, getting out of trouble, reinforcements landing)

Rogal Dorn left a trail of footprints in the red sand.

The wind and sand are blowing against my face, the sky is falling, and the moon in the night is still emitting a faint light. On this pitch-black curtain that is completely soaked in ink, its presence is getting stronger and stronger. The day has not come for a long time, and the blood-red setting sun has not come.

Donn understands that all these scenery are actually just a collection of various abstract concepts.

For example, the red desert he was in was a symbol of some kind, a prison made by something that humans could not yet understand through the power of subspace.

Humans forged swords to kill their enemies. And that thing built a cage to torture him

However, Dorn actually noticed another thing.

He lowered his head and turned his gaze to the sand itself.

Two centuries ago, the blood red disappeared, and since then, the reality of the desert has gradually begun to show its fangs to him.

At first, there was only a slight sense of dissonance, such as a soft whisper in the wind. Then the perception of unreality began to intensify and he began to hallucinate. As he carved names, he would see faces one after another that he had never seen before.

Some are dark, some are pale, some are wearing defenseless uniforms, and some are wearing ancient and primitive bronze battle armor. Spears made of stone, arrows stained with blood and broken, rusty blunt swords.

Dorne had only discovered who they were about a century ago—the dead, the red dead.

Tens of thousands of years, hundreds of thousands of years, millions of years. Countless victims were tortured eternally by Blood Red in endless time.

The corpses were gathered together, entangled with each other, and the weapons penetrated deeply into each other's bodies. It bleeds forever and the wound has never healed. Their blood was a precious sacrifice that pleased the blood red, so He would not allow them to heal or lay down their swords.

In other words, they are the red sand.

Every grain of sand is a dead person.

They screamed in his ears, asking him to lead them out of the desert, asking him to become their general. They even poured everything into the breeze and brought it to his ears.

They say the blood red has left and the moonlight is waking them up. They also said that they had never been so free as they were now.

Then they begged.

Rogal Dorn, become our leader, lead us to launch revenge against the cruel false god, pierce the sharp blade into his heart, make him suffer, make him repent, and let him understand that human beings are by no means something he can do at will. Slaves thrown into the Colosseum.

Frankly speaking, these words and truths were very attractive, but Donne must reject them.

He is already a general, he is the Primarch of the Imperial Fists, the Seventh Legion of the Human Empire, and a Praetorian Guard of Terra. He already has responsibilities. What's more, he is now harboring another hope.

In the past, his hope was to hold on. Now, his hope was that a second voice came in the wind, a voice different from the dead man's murmur, and that the smell of promethium flames would prove that he was not hallucinating.

Therefore, Dorn began to search, looking for a hope that may or may not exist in the endless red sand.

It should be noted that hope is a very dangerous poison, especially for a prisoner serving a life sentence. But he's not alone, he remembers all the names, new names

For example, right now, look at Rogal Dorn crossing a sand dune.

He moved his left foot and touched the ground. He moved his right foot and touched the ground again. This cycle repeats thousands of times. It's boring and monotonous to the extreme. But as he took the first step, there was a name that echoed in his mind

Yonetero.

He had not met Yonetero, but Yonetero had introduced himself to him.

I am one of your sons, Father. I come from the edge of the Dark Stars, and I have fought for the Empire and Humanity for one hundred and twenty-two years. And now, I fight for you.

The left foot came down, the right foot was raised, and with the second step, a new name slowly emerged.

Egger Molukhorn.

I'm not a model and I don't have any honor, Father. But I still wrote my name on the bone fragment, not to let you remember me, but to let you remember my brother, your champion Danoles. I promised to set foot on Terra with him.

Name, name, name People's names are the first things they get after they are born. Sometimes they are given by their father, sometimes they are gently scraped on the cheek and spoken slowly in the gentle embrace of their mother.

For decades from now on, the name will always be around, spread and mentioned by others. But the way Dorne learned his heir's name was through death.

He got the names from their corpses.

And those words actually followed, emerging from the depths of his soul. It seemed that what he saw was not corpses one after another, but loyal heirs one after another that made him proud enough to die without fear.

They introduced themselves to him properly.

How weird is this thing? But at this moment, Dorn felt peaceful in his heart. He walked straight to the next hill, but suddenly a golden light lit up in the sky.

Donne looked up and saw a twinkling star. He didn't understand what this new abstraction meant, but he didn't seem to need to because more stars were lighting up.

One after another, the curtain suddenly lit up, the darkness passed away, and even the moonlight quietly dissipated. The stars shined brightly, and then began to burn, flow, and fade away. The dark curtain was gradually ignited and torn into pieces in this sudden meteor shower.

Dorn watched them go away in fascination, and suddenly there was a throbbing in his heart.

His gut started screaming louder. It jumped hard, waved its arms, and struck the stone, creating a dull echo in his heart.

Then Donne knew that they were coming for him.

He came from ten thousand years later, and then died without regrets, just for the brilliance of this few seconds.

The light continued to shine, and the curtain was completely torn apart. The false reality dissipated in an instant, and a burning pillar of light appeared behind the curtain. Starlight rushed towards it, and everything under its illumination took on a different appearance.

The red sand beneath his feet turned into a boundless sea of ​​blood, with corpses floating and sinking in it. The darkness above turned into the burning Terran night sky, and the light of the star torches spread across the sky and the earth, illuminating every corner.

Dorn looked up into the distance and looked at the endless stone walls, only to find that they were gradually weathering and melting. The countless hard work of more than nine centuries is turning into burning embers that are blown away by the wind.

He took steps towards that direction, each step more determined than the last. He walked for thirteen minutes, and his perception of time came back quietly - so, it was no more, no less, exactly one second, a complete thirteen minutes.

He approached a relatively intact wall and raised his hand to cover it. He slowly closed his eyes, countless thoughts boiling in his mind.

The first thing that came up was the question: How long have I been here? Then came the answer, nine hundred and seventy-five years, nine centuries and seventy-five years.

Without any hindrance, the answer appeared immediately. Dorn smiled, quietly, and the wall collapsed under his gentle touch, but the sound was like glass breaking.

Then there was a human voice, a solemn sound of armor clashing, and an irrepressible deep breath.

"Roger Dorn." Constantine Waldo stood behind the wall and showed an astonishing smile. "haven't seen you for a long time."

"Long time no see, Waldo."

The escaped prisoner opened his eyes and looked at him and the group of Astartes behind him.

"Also, to meet you for the first time, I am Rogal Dorn."
-

The first question to consider is, how long have we been gone?

We come from other worlds, from the fringes of the Empire's borders. We passed through one man-made hell after another, watching countless worlds burn, but we never stopped. How many things have we given up in order to return home?

Think about it later.

Here we are.

Robert Guilliman drew his dagger, Angron tightened his grip on his axe, Vulkan buckled his girdle wordlessly, Corvus Corax rubbed his claws calmly, Konrad Curze put on a mask and Perturabo pulled the lever.

The hatch was slowly pulled down, and strong winds poured into the boarding deck. The clouds burned, night fell, and endless darkness surged on the surface. But there was another burst of golden light surging out from the depths of the clouds, and the darkness was entangled with each other like mist on the ground. They could no longer see any trace of Terra's former glory. As far as they could see, there was only destruction and war.

So, here it is. The end of the journey.

So, it’s now. So, what else is there to say? Robert Guilliman looked up at his brothers.

"Fight according to the results of the discussion, brothers, okay? Our first goal is to find survivors."

He began to tirelessly repeat the words, or in other words, the instructions, that he had said countless times. The white hair on his forehead fell back in the wind, but his eyes were as bright as a forge that had been ignited with flames.

"We must unite anyone we can find, even a nearly damaged servitor, who can contribute to this war after emergency repairs. Remember, do not go deep behind enemy lines, and do not fight alone. We must unite as one. "

"Have I ever said that you are actually very verbose, brother?" Vulkan asked humorously.

The Fire Dragon Lord is smiling. He is about to step into the most terrifying hell in history, but he behaves relaxed and natural.

"I think you have said that many times." Guilliman also smiled. "But I just want to be more verbose, at least half as fast as you. Isn't it possible?"

"I have no objection," Angron said. "You two are indeed quite verbose."

The golden light surging deep in the clouds illuminated his face, and the strong wind blew the butcher's nails, forcing them to tremble, and the steel braids danced like silver snakes.

This should have brought about more cruel torture, should have made the corners of his lips twitch, his muscles tremble, and his eyes widen and shrink nervously. This terrifying look was the most common expression on his face along the way. But now there was only calm on his face.

"These words are really hurtful, Angron." Vulkan sighed deliberately and put his arm on the Nukerian's shoulder. Guilliman nodded aside, also looking sad.

"You'd better write a book, Robert." Corus Corax took the conversation naturally and mentioned a joke. "Your verbosity will be nothing in the book. You'd better keep our steel patient."

"I am very patient." The Lord of Steel said without looking back. "Whether it's for the books or for you."

He stood at the very edge of the boarding deck, staring down. The warhammer was held in his hand, and a tulip carved from steel was pinned to the neck guard of his unique Terminator armor.

The edges of the petals are extremely sharp, and each petal has carefully carved natural patterns. But if someone can lift it at a special angle and gaze from the bottom up, these patterns will combine to form a name.

"Yeah, you're very patient."

Konrad Curze nodded, offering his jeer softly behind the skull mask.

"You can't wait to jump down and join the battle, brother - oh, is the airborne pod that you just flashed past belongs to your legion? Ah, then I can understand. You should be impatient, Abo."

The Primarchs laughed together.

Perturabo still didn't look back, and just let out a cold snort of disdain: "It was my biggest mistake to tell you this story when I was drunk that day."

"Maybe." The King of Night chuckled. "But no matter what the problem is, you shouldn't stand there anymore. Come back, coach, and announce your order. How about we sit in the same drop pod?"

Perturabo was silent for a few seconds, then slowly turned around. In the solemn silence and respect of his brothers, he slowly raised the war hammer in his hand.

"Then let the war begin," he said. "For humanity, for Holy Terra."

There were burning meteors that smashed through the clouds and rushed straight across the sky behind him in a continuous stream. Drop pods painted in different colors are falling rapidly, Ultramarines, Salamanders, Midnight Blades, War Hounds, Death Guard, Raven Guard, Iron Warriors.

The Astartes took the vanguard, as usual, with terrible fury. The legion's transport planes and various gunboats followed closely, and then the vehicles of the auxiliary army. The fixed tanks, armored vehicles and mortals were impatiently waiting to land on the trembling deck.

Some are praying, some are meditating, and some are mobilizing before war. Flagbearers repeatedly polished their flagpoles, and infantrymen clutched their guns, toes dancing in their boots. The Mechanic-Priest uses binary prayers to share the supreme glory of the Ohm Messiah with every Skitarii and Fighter Servant who are about to join the war.

Everyone knows where they are going and what fate they will usher in.

Except for one person.

Except Orperson, or Olanis, or rather, the company commander of the 78th Infantry Company of the Osiris Armored Regiment of the Ultramar Auxiliary Army.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt the urge to vomit in his throat. The helmet he received seemed to be a little too tight, and his temples on both sides were throbbing, and every beat made his brain ache.

He had his sleeves pulled up to just above his elbows, his fingers in his combat gloves were soaked with sweat, and his gun was pretty good. Calm and safe in his arms, restrained by those sweaty hands.

His second-in-command, a young man named Jorias, noticed his nervousness and asked a question amid the shuddering of the deck and the shaking of the bolts under the seats caused by the rapid descent.

"Are you okay, Captain?"

Orpeson turned to look at him and replied stiffly: "No, I'm not good."

Of course he was in bad shape - anyone who was about to land for battle and had to wear a heavy piece of gem around his neck would not feel very good.

"I remember you were a combat hero, company commander." The young man blinked. "Why are you so nervous? We have to defend Terra."

Stupid Orr Persson sighed, but after all, he still didn't spit out the rude but helpless dirty word out of his throat.

Likewise, he didn't tell the young man anything else he was thinking about. The other person is too young and full of enthusiasm, so there is no need to know what he is thinking.

However, he still couldn't help but think: If even Terra needs to be protected, then how critical is the situation?

"I'm not a fighting hero." Orr told him sternly. "I'm just a retired veteran who managed to survive the Battle of Calth, a pathetic guy."

"However, the commendation given to you by Lord Guilliman clearly states that you performed bravely in the Battle of Calth and killed the enemy——"

"——I didn't kill anyone. They ran into each other and died." Orr interrupted tiredly. "Look at me, Jorias. Do I look like someone who would shoot someone?"

He raised his hands, and his trembling fingers fell exactly into the young man's eyes, causing his expression to fluctuate quickly, and some doubts flashed across his eyes.

Orr chuckled to himself, yes, that's it, kid. Throw away your unnecessary fantasies as soon as possible. I'm not a hero. I just want to

He took a deep breath and his thoughts were momentarily interrupted.

A flash of lightning flashed across his mind, instinctively predicting what was going to happen next. Orr's intuition had never been this sharp in the past tens of thousands of years—at least, not since Verdun.

He quickly pulled off the six seat belts, reached out to hold the emergency safety valve on the ceiling, and stood up suddenly with the help of it. The gun in his arms naturally dropped, and was restrained by the sling and hit his thigh, causing a pain that might leave a bruise.

Jorias stared at him, as if he had no idea what was going on, but Orpeson knew. At this moment, no one in the world knew better than him what was going to happen next.

The first second passed and he turned around. The porthole filled with golden light was shattering due to the huge pressure.

The second passed and Orpeson shouted: "Everyone, hurry up!"

His voice sounded extremely ridiculous in the form of some terrible shriek. He wasn't sure how many people heard him at that moment, but he had to shout.

Just like in the third second, he shouted so loudly that he was about to spit out his lungs.

"Stop being stunned, idiot!" Orr Persson roared and stretched out his hand to hold Jorias down. The young man struggled at a loss, but Orr's strength was amazing, and he was forced to hold him to death. Fixed on the seat.

What happened next can be summed up in two words: explosion and darkness.

At the last second before darkness came, that is, the fourth second, Orpeson grabbed the gem on his chest with his right hand.

It was still pressing against his sternum, causing weight and pain. Logically, he should have thrown it away, but he didn't. He threw himself on Jorias, protecting him and pressing the gem under him.

At this moment, he didn't think about anything.

Then comes darkness, endless darkness.

　Based on your opinions, the chapter names will be updated, no longer just with numbers, to make it easier to read. This chapter is 5.3k, and there is another chapter that is 5k, I will serve it as soon as possible.

　　

　

(End of this chapter)