Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 887 08.886: "Werewolf (please vote!)"

Ragnar Blackmane had no time to play this deadly game of hide-and-seek with these aliens dancing on the edge of a knife.

He was a hunter, not a slave gladiator, and this meticulously orchestrated killing spree was the deepest insult to his honor as a warrior.

He let out a roar from the depths of his lungs, a sound less like a human's roar and more like the howl of an enraged Fenris direwolf.

He stomped forward, his power boots shattering the grille made of bones and metal beneath his feet.

The humming chainsaw longsword—"Frost Fang"—ripped through the air, slashing head-on at an attacking sorcerer.

The witch moved with ghostly speed, attempting to dodge with an elegant sidestep, but Ragnar's attack was anticipated, the serrated arc cleverly covering all her possible dodge routes.

The chainsaw blade's sharp teeth easily tore through her thin, cicada-wing-like armor, shredding her internal organs and bones along with it.

Warm blood and tissues, like a scarlet downpour, splashed onto Ragnar's breastplate.

A drop of thick blood landed precisely on the long nose of the ferocious wolf head carving on his right shoulder, flowing slowly along the rune carvings and eventually seeping into the gaps between the fangs, like the most primal mark left after tearing apart prey.

This giant-like man's fighting skills were far more formidable than his appearance suggested.

He knew that in terms of pure agility alone, he could hardly match these sorcerers who had grown up in battle.

Therefore, he chose a more dangerous and oppressive tactic—fighting against multiple opponents.

He placed himself at the center of the battlefield, moving with sweeping, unrestrained power, like a spinning beacon of death, forcing the witch spirits to be unable to predict his next target, thus disrupting their fluid and coordinated attacks.

But this comes at a price.

Fighting against multiple opponents means that there will always be an open door behind you.

The slightest carelessness could result in the power armor's weak seams being pierced by a poisoned blade.

Just as several witch spirits discovered the weakness exposed when "Black Wolf" turned around and were preparing to launch a fatal attack from behind, a thunderous battle roar exploded from mid-air.

"With Ruth's courage! The aliens should stop their rampage!"

A burly figure leaped down from the high walkway, his double-bladed power axe crashing into the battle like a meteorite, the silver shoulder armor symbolizing Death Watch gleaming with a chilling light.

The surrounding air seemed to be instantly sucked out and then coated with a layer of visible frost.

The air, already slightly chilly due to the ship's damage, plummeted in temperature again. The biting cold even caused the aliens, who had an extremely high tolerance for pain, to involuntarily stiffen their limbs.

The two witch spirits who had already closed in on Ragnar were startled by the sudden battle cry and chilling aura, causing their lightning-fast movements to freeze for a moment.

Unable to dodge in time, the two collided awkwardly.

It was in that very instant.

A scream that was neither human nor inhuman erupted from the throat of the wolf warrior Urfa who had just descended from the sky. His double-bladed great axe drew a perfect whirlwind in the air, severing the waists of two entangled witch spirits.

Their upper and lower bodies were thrown into the air by tremendous force, their internal organs and bodily fluids splashing onto the wall like an abstract painting.

The blasphemous bulkhead, already almost entirely covered with a canvas stitched together from the flesh of countless slaves, was now adorned with new and more vivid colors from the bright blood of the witch spirits, adding to this "gallery of horror."

One of the dark, hollow eyeballs rolled out of a witch's eye socket, still attached to half of her retinal nerve, and landed right on a narrow slit in her textured leather breastplate, staring blankly at this hellish scene.
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The extreme sensory stimulation, along with the thick, almost liquefied stench of blood filling the air, acted like the most potent stimulant, injecting it into the minds of the Space Wolf Cultivators who had intruded into this place.

Their tactical goggles were tinged with a red warning by the physiological changes detected by their internal systems, but through the lenses, their already bloodshot eyes stared intently and greedily at the bloody and violent environment before them. "Ugh!"

Black Wolf Ragnar and his brothers-in-arms were soaked in hot blood, their bodies covered in blood.

Their fighting spirit did not decline due to casualties; on the contrary, it inexplicably became even higher, and their every move began to gradually deviate from the tactical scope that combat cultivators should have, becoming more like... beasts.

Finally, after an uncontrollable howl from the depths of his soul, one of the combat comrades abruptly removed his helmet.

This black-maned Dalian sergeant, an old soldier with two golden nails of honor embedded in his forehead, slowly lowered his head during the fierce battle, turning his back to a witch spirit that was charging towards him.

The witch spirit seized this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a cruel yet gleeful smile spreading across her face, and plunged the sharp, curved blade in her hand fiercely into the cultivator's unsuspecting back.

Suddenly, a flash of cold light from a sharp claw streaked past!

The empty eyes of that witch spirit were instantly filled with an unbelievable terror.

What she saw was not a stupid human monkey, but a being more ferocious and primal than any monster she could imagine.

Indeed, that is something that has transcended the realm of humanity.

It is a taboo posture that must never be witnessed by his mortal kind.

The soldier slowly raised his head. His hair was disheveled, and a pair of slightly twitching pointed ears were faintly visible beneath his long black hair.

A pair of pale golden vertical pupils gleamed with a cold and hungry light in the dim light of the arena.

His facial features were undergoing drastic, inhuman changes; his nose bulged like a dog's head, and with each breath, billowing hot air, like hellish lava, spewed from his nostrils.

His powered iron arms, with the clicking of the automatic mechanism inside the armor, made room for the sharp claws covered in keratin that would suddenly extend from the flesh.

On his exposed skin, thick, shiny downy hair was growing at a visible rate.

Thus, a werewolf nearly three meters tall was born.

His bulging muscles strained the lining of his power armor to the point of almost tearing it apart. His senses were sharper than those of any other battle monk in the Imperial Chapter, and he could clearly hear the frantic heartbeats of the distant sorcerers.

Soon, more wolf howls rose and fell, filling the cabin that was filled with desecration, obscenity, violence, and the suffering of the victims.

The witch spirit and the Black Ark guards who arrived later looked at each other, their faces unusually replaced by pure, biologically instinctive fear, the pleasure of slaughter on their faces.

They had nowhere to escape. Above them was the bridge of the black ark, the seat of the consul and his throne of bones.

They must stop these terrifying werewolves emerging from their nightmares at all costs.

For the space wolves of Blackmane Dalian...

They also faced a formidable challenge—the combat comrades remaining on the "Frostfang" battle barge had sent the most urgent warning via encrypted communications: Imperial Navy boarding forces were attempting to board from the other side and advance towards the bridge.

They must end this deadly battle before the mortals of the Imperial Navy see them.

We absolutely cannot let anyone see them like this! Absolutely not!
(For you, I transformed into a werewolf~)

(End of this chapter)