Warhammer: Start with a dog.

Chapter 874 You just grabbed this one person to be your guide?
"Is this the 'tongue' you caught?"

Apollos hung his priest's staff on his belt and, making sure he had no weapons in his hands, strode forward to examine the human brought back by the scout team.

The High Priest of the Warband hummed, sounding like a carnivore grinding its teeth on a bone.

The prisoners stood there quietly, sharing a cabin with a group of flesh-tearing creatures whose flesh and blood from the worms still lingered in the gaps of their armor.

There was no screaming or begging for mercy, nor any attempt to escape or resist.

"Look what little mouse you caught! You guys are really good at catching mice."

He extended a finger covered in black armor and pulled a silver chain from the prisoner's neck.

And hanging from the bottom of the chain is something most people recognize: a scarred, old but still “I”-shaped judge’s rose knot.

The members of the reconnaissance squad became visibly uneasy: even the most violent of the flesh-tearers seemed like a peace-loving child in front of Priest Apollos.

Many people privately believe that the priests' terrifying intimidation of the Flesh-Tearers even extended to their entry into the Death Company. This may be the truth behind why Apollos was better than other priests at commanding the Death Company to charge and even recapture it at his will.

“However, Seth told me something when we boarded the ship. This ship is very likely connected to the Inquisition. So it makes sense that we could capture an Inquisition member here.”

Apollos pondered, pressing his face almost against the judge's neck.

He squinted, revealing a pale, handsome face beneath almost pure white blond hair, with bloodshot eyes that appeared red, and protruding fangs.

If Mephisto is like the stereotypical vampire in an art painting, then Apollos is the kind of living vampire that would appear next to you, the kind you would encounter in an interview with the vampire.

His captivating beauty was followed by a cruel bloodlust and a despairing sense of having no future.

"but."

The steady beating of a living person's heart and the fresh, warm scent of blood made the priest's fangs stick out uncontrollably.

"A judge who has lived to this age, staying on a ship of the Inquisition, obediently came back with our people without resisting or causing any disturbance?"

In that instant, the judge was almost certain that he would be torn to pieces by the other party's teeth.

However, he passed the test; after all, he was no ordinary judge who had never seen anything like it.

“That might mean,” the elderly man with gray hair, wearing a hospital gown and a strange collar around his neck said calmly, “that we might be able to find a common purpose. I need your help right now—and please allow me to express my gratitude for rescuing me from the interrogation waiting room.”

The pastor wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"I have no interest in knowing what we've inadvertently released this time. Do you Inquisition agents all love this infighting?"

"You sound like you've only been here a short time."

"I have decided to thoroughly investigate this strange ship and find the demon host that was taken away," said Inquisitor Gregor Eisenhorn calmly.

"Need intelligence? I need it too. How about an exchange?"

Apollos stared at him for a moment. “Very good,” he said.

--------

"If your inference is true."

After exchanging some information with reservations, Apollos frowned.

"That means the owner of this ship is either so skilled in forgery that he can deceive Lord Dante, Chief Think Tank Mephisto, Chief Blood Priest Cobro, and everyone else, or he is simply a traitor within the Inquisition who has defected to the enemy—do you know what you are accusing, Inquisitor?"

"After seeing some of the details here, I think that perhaps both are necessary to create such an ingenious lie."

"But why? What's the purpose? You have to understand, that rich bastard has to hand over a real large amount of supplies and equipment. Seth isn't that stupid to let someone get something for nothing."

"That doesn't apply to Dante's time," Apollos thought to himself.

“Perhaps there were traps on those delivered ships. Perhaps the mechanical servants that were equipped with them were defective,” the judge calmly analyzed. “Perhaps they could be used normally, but some kind of mechanical virus that could be allowed to lurk and erupt at a time had been mixed into their mechanical souls… Who knows? The great enemy is always very cunning and patient; their incubation period to complete their plan may be measured in decades or even centuries.”

"That's true, but unfortunately the Flesh Tearers don't like your infighting and scheming. Judge, if you can't provide what we want now, then your only use is to quench the thirst of our thirsty brothers."

Apollos pointed to the dozens of flesh-tearing men inside the cabin. As the priest pointed, the flesh-tearing men either bared their fangs or contorted their severely mutilated faces into ferocious expressions, with body language and threatening gestures and movements visible everywhere.

"Hmm...very intimidating. I believe it." Eisenhorn gave the above assessment. "So what exactly are you trying to do now that you don't want to seize the bridge, nor do you want to take control of the engine room or come with me to find the psionic prison first?"

"We need to find the settlement of the most neglected mortals on this ship."

This time, Eisenhorn narrowed his eyes.

“The dormitories we were assigned to didn’t have a single blood slave or even a living servant. If my brothers’ hidden illnesses flare up, I will have nothing to offer as a consolation. As a priest, it is my duty to ensure they have a sufficient supply of fresh blood.”

"The throne is above."

After a one-second pause, the judge, having grasped the meaning of Apollos's words, truly tensed his facial muscles this time.

But he ultimately did not refuse.

Of course, he didn't tell Apollos that his rose knot might not actually be effective.

--------

The judge muttered to himself as they began to proceed along a route that Eisenhorn had seen the maintenance crew enter on the way he was being escorted, a route he believed might lead down the ship's midrib.

"Sometimes I really feel like I'm going insane here. Which side is my real enemy?"

“Good question. For those of you who don’t have to constantly fight against the anger and desires that drive us in our own minds,” Apollos said, the priest’s rosary and scriptures clinking on his belt. “Fortunately, the Flesh-Tearer only needs to raise his weapon against his enemy.” “That is indeed a blessing.”

Eisenhorn confirmed.

They continued down several more flights of stairs, navigating for some time through the long, maze-like corridor.

I'll say it again, everything here is too peaceful and clean.

The smooth, mechanical operation was almost imperceptible; the air was as clean and fresh as the upper deck; and the distant engine core worked steadily, like a healthy heart providing the surging power to this steel giant.

Even the most clueless Astartes could see that the maintenance and upkeep of this "lower deck" was utterly unbelievable—meaning you wouldn't see any of the usual oil leaks, seepage, pipes or cables damaged by space rodents or other creatures that you'd find on the best-maintained naval ships, distant, hollow, eerie knocking sounds, inexplicable debris and thick dust on the roadside, or any unfortunate remains or fresh remains of people or objects that had fallen or been fallen onto the lower deck.

"Are you sure you're leading the right way, Inquisitor?"

Apollos asked again.

"The maintenance here is so good that there must be a large number of workers doing this work. What I can tell you is that during the escort and the few times I was able to move, I observed that there were no human settlements at all, at least in the front of the ship. They must be in the middle or rear of the ship or the rear of the lower deck. Moreover, their firepower in the upper and middle deck traffic areas is very tight. Even if the human settlements are in the rear, taking the lower deck should be the fastest and safest route to get there."

Eisenhorn frowned. "My abilities are severely suppressed by this collar, but I'll tell you about another technique from the think tank that should be usable."

"Okay, so what do you say, Berchiel?"

The Flesh-Tearer think tank stepped forward, the crystal on his psionic hood reflecting the blue light in his eyes.

"The technique itself is fine... Combining it with my psionic energy to detect heartbeats is a very useful technique."

The editor frowned. "But... something really doesn't seem right here."

"How to say?"

"It's so quiet."

"Do you even need to say this?"

"What I mean is, when I immersed myself in this sensory technique, I discovered that this place didn't even have the heartbeat of the smallest rodent pests that you find on every ship at sea."

Apollos also frowned.

Their footsteps echoed in the increasingly empty corridor. The nightlights, each with its own luminous sensor, automatically turned on as they passed, only to shroud the path in shadow once they were gone.

“And,” Berchiel lowered his voice unconsciously, “I always feel like there are many people watching us…”

"You're not going to say this place is haunted again, are you, editor?" The High Priest chuckled upon hearing this. "We've personally explored enough of the legendary ancient human ruins haunted by all sorts of ghosts on Baal and Baal. The Tyranids caused such a commotion on the planet, but in the end, they didn't summon any ancient ghosts and killed them all."

“Therefore,” the Supreme Pastor concluded, “the haunting is utter nonsense. Either there are living things here, or there are living things playing tricks… Who?!”

His priest's scepter was in his hand almost in the blink of an eye, the disintegrating force field on the scepter head wrapped in a layer of crackling flashes, and was cleaved in a direction in the darkness by a surge of anger—"Let him go!"

Eisenhorn pressed himself against the bulkhead to avoid becoming an innocent bystander in the Flesh-Tearer's furious attack. His eyes, illuminated by several nearby lumens, spotted the location where Apollos was launching his attack.

That was the entrance to an elevated maintenance tunnel they were about to pass through, just a few steps away from him.

The simple iron bridge, with its steel exterior and yellow and black warning stripes, spans the abyss-like lower deck like a slightly wider steel beam.

The area beneath the bridge was extremely deep; even the tracer rounds fired by the Astartes fell and went out before they could illuminate the bottom. They could only vaguely see what appeared to be mist floating at the bottom.

Looking down from above, there were no signs of lights or other equipment in operation. The labyrinthine corridors and halls they had passed through were as quiet as they had come from, and the air was cool and dry, making it easy to assume that the area below was just as clean and empty as those corridors.

This has now proven to be clearly wrong, as Eisenhorn saw something familiar on the ship for the first time.

The old man trembled, partly from anger and partly from the excitement of confirming his suspicions, but not from any fear whatsoever.

The signs of corruption, the depraved creatures, the sudden attack on the Imperial army—how comfortingly familiar! The throne rests upon him! He is still in the Empire and the galaxy he knows so well!

Despite the perilous situation, Eisenhorn felt a surge of energy coursing through his aging body. His weapons had been confiscated, but perhaps he could try to contact Cherubel from this location away from the upper deck.

He recalled the contents of the demonic tome in his mind...

“Go to hell!” Apollos roared, slamming his priest’s staff into a huge, outstretched hand that reeked of a swamp and was dripping with moisture, resembling a bloated human corpse.

The attack appeared to be successful; Apollos's enraged blow with his staff seemed to have smashed half of the swollen arm.

But the other hand also successfully caught its prey, a flesh-tearer.

The unfortunate victim had only its two lower legs exposed to the light, and was visibly struggling and growing weaker.

From the yellowish-green, rotting mountain of flesh in the shadows came the sounds of prey suffocating, along with the terrifying, teeth-grinding creaking of the power armor's connecting mechanisms strained under the pressure, and an even more ominous stench of decay.

What's even more chilling is that the mountain-like figure, surrounded by an ever-growing swarm of flies that emerged from the shadows, began to hum a strange little tune as they clung to everyone's armor and skin, trying to squeeze into every crevice and hole.

Eisenhorn's brief elation turned to immense unease as one of its paws stepped out of the shadows.

He saw the terracotta and the sharp edges of the weapons shatter instantly on the demon's body. The scepter's edge flickered, and finally, along with them, turned into useless rust and dust. It took only one step, and the ground began to turn into pools of viscous, poisonous water. Saprophytic plants and fungi began to bloom in a dazzling array of colors beside the pools.

The level of real-world impact this level of influence is far beyond what ordinary demons can achieve, which can only slowly affect a hive city.

A sudden surge of knowledge about the legendary demons, which he had heard before, flashed through the judge's mind like lightning.

This is a truly unclean being.

How can the upper deck function properly with something like this at the bottom?!

What kind of terrifying heretic is the owner of this ship?!
(End of this chapter)