Warhammer: Empire Reboot

Roderick, kneeling on the ground, was still trembling uncontrollably.

Dante's eyes were as clear as those of an imperial eagle that had just been tempered.

Then, he put the death mask back on.

The moment the golden mask of Saint Gilles fell, Dante straightened his spine again, and his right hand rested on the hilt of the Blood Sword.

"I, Dante, represent the laws of the Empire."

"I now declare in the name of the Dark Regent that the blood and spirit of the White Tiger Legion are pure and immaculate."

"Anyone who dares to question the loyalty of this warband is defying the Golden Throne."

He looked down at Roderick, who was kneeling on the ground.

"Judge, take your arrogance and get back to the warship."

“I will personally submit a report on your performance today to the Judgment Council of Odo Marellias.”

Roderick lay on the ground, unable to utter a single word.

Two gray knights rushed over, lifted him up, and retreated towards the hatch.

"stop!"

Er Gou rushed forward and swung his battle axe, breaking Roderick's legs.

Dante's eyelid twitched; this chapter commander really meant what he said.

He waved his hand, and two grey knights carried the screaming Roderick onto the warship.

Dante turned to Lawson and solemnly made his statement.

"Commander Lawson..."

"From today, from this very moment..."

"The White Tiger Chapter is now part of the Imperial Adeptas Astartes order."

“I will personally draft a document and submit it to Primarch Robert Guilliman via subspace communication.”

“Starting tonight, you are no longer an ‘unknown combat group with an unclear structure’.”

“You are brothers of the Empire.”

P.S.: Brothers, please vote!

Chapter 146 The Curse of the Holy Blood Angel, I Can Cure It

When Dante finished speaking, Lawson finally felt relieved.

Nameless warlords, heretical private soldiers, potential targets of the inquisition—from today onward, all those labels can be thrown into the gutter.

White Tiger Chapter, Imperial Astartes Order.

Lawson originally wanted to say a few more nice words to further emphasize the legitimacy of the scene.

Then he heard a sharp shriek.

All eyes were fixed on the source of the sound.

Two Space Marines clad in the black and red paint of the Flesh Rippers were convulsing.

One of them took off his helmet, revealing a distorted and deformed face.

The other one slammed his two powerful punches into his own breastplate, denting and deforming the Holy Blood Angel blood drop badge on his chest.

"Horus! You treacherous bastard!"

"Father! Don't go! It's a trap!"

"Kill them! Burn them alive! Traitors! They're all traitors!"

Sister Katarina, the captain of the nuns beside Lawson, instinctively gripped her weapon tighter.

Lawson raised his hand, pressed down on her wrist, and shook his head.

Chapter Leader Seth's face turned as white as a shroud in that instant.

He knew all too well what was going on.

In this desperate siege that lasted seventy-four days, the spirits of every Flesh-Tearer warrior were stretched to the limit. Under such high-pressure conditions where death could come at any moment, adrenaline and the will to fight fiercely suppressed the curse deep within their genes.

The crisis is now over.

The Great Impure One was slain, the Inquisitors were abolished, and the warband was given a new lease on life.

The string that had been taut for two and a half months finally loosened.

Black Fury thrives on moments when mental defenses falter.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

He rushed over in one stride.

"Enzo! Stephen! Wake up!"

But the two soldiers couldn't hear it at all.

All they could hear was the metallic stomping of the Soul of Vengeance from eight thousand years ago, and the final wail of Primarch Sangilius as he was nailed to the floor of the Horus warship.

What they saw was a vast army of rebels, and Horus holding a scepter.

They are going mad over a war that ended eight thousand years ago.

The one named Enzo held his chainsaw sword horizontally, the blade pointing at his chest, seemingly intending to commit suicide.

The one named Stephen rushed toward a passing Imperial Guard, whom he probably saw as a rebel soldier.

Lawson was about to make a move, but Ding did it first.

He struck Stephen on the back of the power armor at the nape of his neck, precisely throwing him off balance. With his other hand, he pulled a heavy chain from under his cloak and fastened it to Enzo's chainsaw sword.

Several Blood Angels responsible for escorting the Death Company ran over to help, and it took seven or eight of them to pin the two brothers, who were engulfed in Black Wrath, to the ground.

The chains wound around and around, locking all the joints of the power armor.

Even so, Enzo continued to slam his helmet against the ground. With each slam, a crack appeared in the paving stone.

Lawson glanced into the distance.

On the flank plaza of Iron Oath Fortress, more than a hundred power armored warriors were still bound. Each of them wore a black helmet, and the blood droplets on their breastplates had been replaced by a white skull.

Their necks, wrists, and ankles were bound with heavy chains.

The chains are very thick.

But the warriors continued to growl, roar, and charge.

Several priests of the Holy Blood Angels stood nearby, holding scriptures and reciting the deeds of Primarch Saint Gilles over and over again.

That's the Death Company.

Lawson took a deep breath.

He had heard of the Death Company. Every Holy Blood Angels Chapter, and every Holy Blood Successor Chapter, had one.

They were not warriors, but martyrs clad in power armor.

They were thrown into the front lines of the battlefield, into the areas where the enemy was most concentrated.

Their only mission is to kill, until they are killed themselves.

Dying on the battlefield is their pardon, the only way for them to finally return to their original bodies.

This kind of organizational structure is tantamount to declaring the organization dead.

Lawson noticed that all the Space Marines present, dressed in red and black power armor, had the same expression.

It was a numb heaviness.

Because when they looked at their two locked-up brothers, they saw themselves in them.

Tomorrow it's Enzo, the day after tomorrow it's Stephen, and then what?

Perhaps it's yourself, or perhaps it's the comrade-in-arms who has fought alongside you for two hundred years.

It's not a question of whether or not, it's a question of when.

Every warrior in the Holy Blood Successor Chapter lives with this countdown on their back.

Seth forced out the words through gritted teeth: "Your Excellency, let me do it."

Dante looked down at the two warriors still struggling on the ground, and a barely audible sigh came from behind his mask.

“Gabriel.”

“Let me do it!” Seth repeated. “They’re the Flesh Rippers, my brothers. Incorporate them into the Death Company, sir. I’d rather cut off their heads right now. At least they’ll know who they are when they die.”

Dante placed his hand on Seth's shoulder armor.

“I know you want to give them dignity. But if you cut off their heads, they’ll go straight to the Primarch with Black Fury. Let them go through the Death Company a little longer, let them kill their enemies, let them wash away the curse with their last drop of blood, so that when they go to see Saint Gilles, at least they won’t be covered in filth.”

Seth finally nodded.

The two brothers who were chained up were taken away by the Death Company priests and joined the group of more than one hundred people in the distance.

As soon as they arrived there, they were immediately bound in chains and given scripture in their ears.

The square fell silent for a moment, with only the low growls from the Death Company and the whistling of the wind through the ruins of the fortress remaining.

As Lawson looked at the hundred-plus soldiers of the Death Company, a thought raced through his mind.

The origin of Black Fury can be traced back to the damned Horus Rebellion eight thousand years ago, when Primarch Sangilius confronted Horus to protect the Emperor and ultimately died at the hands of a traitor.

The anger, despair, and struggle before death of that moment were imprinted into the soul of every descendant of the Holy Blood Angel through the genetic seed.

This memory will backfire as soon as the mental defenses of future generations of soldiers are breached.

They would mistakenly believe that they were Saint Gillespie, experiencing that final, earth-shattering battle.

This is not an illness, but a curse in our blood.

For eight thousand years, countless warband commanders and apothecaries have sought to solve this problem.

The Blood Angels' chief apothecary, Kobro, conducted countless experiments on this, and some even suspected that he was secretly researching forbidden technology.