Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 351 Blood and Thunder

Geratos raised his power scepter high, and the crackling sound of the decomposing force field on it was drowned out by the noisy shouts from the surrounding Shura battlefield.

Just as natural and sudden as his appearance here, the sounds, smells and sights hit his face like a tide that flooded over his head.

Various guns of the Empire and the Alien were fired back and forth on the battlefield, with lightning, blood and thunder.

Laser weapons left their own streaks of lightning in the bloody mist of shattered bodies, and the Space Marines' bolters exploded with distant thunder as they fired and struck their marks.

The roar of chain saw teeth was accompanied by the loud and high-pitched war cries of the Black Templars in the distance, and the vague and savage roars of the orcs seemed like the clumsy timpani beats in this chaotic song.

Both enemies and friendly forces were fighting in this muddy and bloody battlefield.

The fart elf may be stepping on the head of the noble Astartes, and the orc boss is just a dead soul chopped into pieces by the sword of the expeditionary forces.

Black ceramic boots crushed bones and trampled flesh, and his bone-white robe was splattered with red, yellow-white and pink dirt. Thick blood and minced meat and entrails dripped along the rose beads wrapped around his arms. Only his scarlet goggles, halo and priest's staff were still shining.

There was no fear nor shudder of killing, only a divine fervor and a kind of utterly primitive and savage joy that surged through his mind at the same time.

he chanted.

"Defend the Holy Land! For Dorn! For the revenge of the God-Emperor!"

The power scepter smashed down with anger, grief, and a feeling of suffocation that came from nowhere.

You can attack in any direction because there are enemies in every direction.

The first blow of the hammer rebounded against his palm, just like smashing an overripe watermelon, and the golden power scepter smashed the head of an orc, splashing juice everywhere.

The servomotors of the priest's power armor roared with sudden power, and Geratos turned and strode forward, swinging his scepter like a metal club.

Then with a second blow he smashed the back of the head of an orc who was beating a black templar, causing it to collapse inward like a dirty green shell overflowing with viscera.

The third blow was a mess, and the wings of Geratos's staff were stuck between the huge ribs of an orc. The priest roared and smashed his helmet into the other's head until it became a soft and crushed mixture. Blood flowed from the laurel of Geratos's helmet like a baptismal chalice, covering most of his black armored body like a scarlet cloak.

Although Geratos was alone, he hacked and hammered a bloody tunnel through the swarm of aliens. The blood of the killed aliens evaporated into a layer of steaming red mist on the surface of his black and white power armor.

But he was undoubtedly a little late.

When the priest finally advanced to the open space in front of the temple that was being defended by people, he saw the shattered body of a black templar with chains of piety on his hands, who had just fallen in front of the beast tide.

The two chainswords connected to the ends of his Chain of Devotion were completely filled with the abominable, endless flesh and bones of the aliens. Their serrated blades were stuck by the tough bone fragments and tendons, so when Atarion wielded them with his swordsmanship, he could only use the effect of two metal sticks - this meant that he was attacked by four orcs at the same time as he knocked down one.

As Geratos, with hatred and noble rage, rescued his brother's body from the orcs who continued to pounce on him, the priest glanced at the ground again and saw who Attarion had just tried to rescue: the fragments of the Sister's silver-white armor and the upper half of her beautiful girl's face had been solidified in a mask of flesh and blood caused by severe pain and the wailing of attachment to the world.

The flesh on the other half of the girl's face had been torn apart, and there were clear teeth marks on the bones. The aliens and their ferocious mounts might be hungry.

He hadn't been able to save Attarion in time, but there had to be others here, other brothers, other members of the Black Templars.

Gripping his weapon tightly, Geratos stumbled through hills of broken limbs and corpses and streams of blood, and soon he found traces of the target he was looking for.

The first and most conspicuous corpse he saw from afar was undoubtedly that of a champion of the Emperor. The broken black armor that still retained the mark of glory was an ancient and exquisite style familiar to the priest, and the champion's throat had been completely pierced by a crude but deadly orc spear. His body was trampled to the point of no bones, but the black armor was still there.

The black sword gleamed on the ground just before the dead champion's fingertips.

Then Geratos heard the stirring call of the Hermit Archbishop Grimaldus and witnessed the death of the second, third, and last champion of the expedition to take up the Black Sword.

Warm liquid flowed from the priest's eyes that had never shed tears of sorrow since the first day he was transformed into the Emperor's loyal blade.

Geratos was forced to cry out loudly by rage, grief and the known outcome. He struck again and again. The decomposition field generated by the power scepter could hardly keep up with the speed of his attack. His fierce attack cut the orc who blocked him in front of him in half, and then he used brute force to hammer the head of the next orc into his chest. Then he twisted his waist, and the servo motor made a sound of being overwhelmed, supporting him to use the last force, almost impatiently letting the weapon bathe and drink the blood of the alien.

Yes, he already knew where this was.

This must be a miracle from the Divine Emperor. Sending him here was exactly his secret wish deep in his heart.

This was also the place where he was willing to sacrifice himself as the Emperor's Champion.

This is Armageddon.

That was the expedition that the Inevitable Retribution was supposed to participate in.

He must go...!
He was going to rush to his brothers!
Geratos saw the remaining bloody black figures around the Hermit Master disappear one by one, until Grimaldus loudly said goodbye to his last comrade while killing orcs - and then his head was chopped off in front of Grimaldus.

He heard Grimaldus laughing wildly as he looked at the stone dome of the temple that was about to collapse and bury everyone. He laughed until he was out of breath, and he said wildly that this was the inevitable retribution for these beasts!
Before those green beasts died with them.

"No!"

The priest desperately reached out to the crumbling ruins of the temple—

Only then did he realize that he might just be a passer-by in the gap of time, a witness.

A voice in his heart spoke with understanding: this was not yet the place where he should die as the Emperor's Champion.

Not now, not here.

The dizziness came over him again.

Geratos missed his step again.

He fell, and then he found himself in a gladiatorial arena, but not on the ground. The subtle artificial gravity from the starship and the smell of weapon maintenance oil, superhuman sweat, blood and saliva filled the place made him feel strangely uneasy.

Then he saw the figure in the vision that every Emperor's champion sees.

He is also the saint enshrined in the shrines on the Eternal Crusade and every expeditionary monastery mothership.

Sigismund.

He saw Sigismund.

(End of this chapter)