This heretic cannot be burned, he must be hung up and whipped!

This heretic cannot be burned, he must be hung up and whipped!

Author: Taboritsky

Introduction:

"I think humans are actually quite complex. When I first drove those evil gods back into the warp, many supported me. Later, they all said I was looking too high and too far ahead, and that I could stop and rest for a while. Many of my defeated opponents said that even if I defeated all opponents and enemies, whether visible or invisible, I would eventually be defeated by time.

But it doesn’t matter, time will prove me right.”

Humanity has been dragged down by evil spirits since the First Crusade, and since then, history has been on a rampage.

"You mean, the things in heaven and hell are all evil gods of the warp, so why not go there yourself?"

What should Neos do when faced with these die-hard psychic lunatics at the stake? He can only:

"Okay, listen up heretics.

When I become emperor, I will formulate a new method of roasting!

Those who believe in evil gods will be burned

Those who use faith to defraud people of their wealth will also be burned

Those who do not believe in humanity will be burned.

"Are you human?"

"I am not God! You will be burned at the stake!"

"Damn it, you tyrant, what's the difference between you and our church!"

"Oh my goodness, gentlemen! This diehard has actually realized his guilt. He can't be burned. He must be dragged out as an example - hang him up and whip him with a copper-headed leather belt!"

In Flame: 1914: Chapter 1: The Warhammer Editor's Last Job

A branch of GW in Shanghai on Christmas Day 2024

Neos slumped in his office chair, staring at the 3D model flashing on the screen, his fingers mechanically tapping the keyboard.

"Warhammer 40K's new chess piece 'Emperor's Jedi Knight'..." he muttered to himself, his mouth twitching.

"The boss is truly talented! How many Chuunibyou and Hammer Kids can be tricked into spending money with this title?"

The office's air conditioner hummed, and the air was filled with the smell of stale instant coffee and instant noodles. On the wall behind him hung a meter-tall oil painting of the Emperor—a consolation prize from a raffle at the company's annual meeting. The paint on the gilded frame was chipping around the edges, and the Emperor's majestic face, tilted slightly by the air conditioning, looked down upon his downfall.

"Neos! Where's the promotional copy for the new chess pieces?!" the director roared from the corridor. "This is the last order before Spring Festival! If you don't meet the quota, you won't even get overtime pay during the Spring Festival! Hurry! Pre-sales start tomorrow, and we have to get on the trending search tonight!"

"I'm writing it, I'm writing it... Sima Capitalist (quietly)" He rolled his eyes and quickly typed the next line:

"Brand new limited edition! The Holy Light Warrior wields a quantum-powered chainsaw sword and is equipped with an anti-psionic field generator. Free Titan paint stickers with purchase!"

The comment section exploded instantly:

"Fuck, GW is just playing badly, but you guys are adding to the drama?"

"A quantum-powered chainsaw sword? How many necromancy potions did the screenwriter take?"

"Did he lose his mind by planning to turn his horse into corpse starch and eat it?"

"Emperors would want to jump off their golden toilets and kill people..."

Neos smiled wryly. These days, the more Warhammer players rail against the game, the higher its sales. He grabbed the Emperor figurine on the table—a giveaway from an exhibition, its golden armor still stained with instant noodle crumbs—and muttered, "Old Huang, if you want to blame something, blame capitalism..."

Suddenly, there was a crisp sound above my head.

"Ok?"

The nail hanging on the Emperor's statue given at the annual meeting has come loose.

"Fuck, don't—"

The gilded frame fell down with a loud bang, hitting him precisely on the back of the head.

At the last moment, he caught a glimpse of the Emperor's pupils igniting with a faint blue flame, and a vague sigh sounded in his ears:

"Your rationality will be the fuel that burns the old gods."

----------------

Neos was awakened by the stench of decay.

The smell was like rotting apples stuffed into a tin can for three months, mixed with the pungent smell of sulfur and feces. He opened his eyes suddenly, and his cheek was pressed against a pool of sticky black mud, in which was soaked half of a severed finger - the wedding ring on the knuckle was rusty, and the ring face was vaguely engraved with "M&K 1911".

A continuous roar came from the distance, making his eardrums hurt. He tried to prop himself up, but his palm pressed against a slippery object - it was a crushed eyeball, with sticky vitreous fluid dripping through his fingers.

"Ugh—" He turned over and retched, he turned over and retched, only sour water came out of his throat.

His vision gradually became clear. This was a trench less than three meters wide, its walls haphazardly built with wooden boards and sandbags, dark red mud seeping from the cracks. Several oil lamps hung overhead, their wicks burning with faint blue flames, casting flickering shadows on the prayers on the walls. Those Latin prayers were written in charcoal, and for some reason he could understand them. The handwriting was stained with blood and fragmented:

"The blood of Christ cleanses us from our sins"

"May the new Antioch never fall"

Huddled in a corner, five or six soldiers, swathed in tattered, gray-brown uniforms with faded crosses stitched across their chests, mechanically loaded their bolt-action rifles with the skill of screws on an assembly line. The ding-dong of shell casings dropping into the mud, the click-clack of bolts being pulled, and the intermittent roar of distant artillery fire woven into an absurd requiem.

"Reverend Pastor! You are finally awake!" A hoarse cheer broke the silence.

A scarred veteran lunged forward, grasping his right hand and kissing it passionately. Neos realized he was wearing a heavy black robe, and the silver cross hanging from his chest was stained with brown stains—perhaps blood, or something worse. The veteran's fingers were rough as bark, and between his nails were black mud and shredded flesh, gripping his wrist painfully.

"God hasn't abandoned us!" The old soldier burst into tears, his voice hoarse as sandpaper. "You've been unconscious for three days... The heretic's artillery fire destroyed the prayer room, and the brothers all thought the Holy Spirit had left us!"

Neos's temple throbbed. He tried to pull his hand away, but the veteran tugged him to his feet, lurching him to his feet. The trench floor was slippery and sticky, and every step felt like treading on rotting entrails. Floating in the mud were bullet casings, broken bones, and half-melted wax—the sacred wax used for prayers, now mingled with flesh and blood, making it impossible to distinguish between the sacred and the filthy.

"Wait, I'm not something..." He tried to explain, but the veteran didn't give him a chance.

"You are our hope!" the old soldier shouted excitedly, spitting on Neos' face. "God sent you to save us!"

"But where the hell is this..."

Neos muttered softly as he struggled to stand up, his legs feeling as heavy as if they were filled with lead.

The excited veteran ignored him and dragged him to the front of the trench: "You have to look at the defense line, Reverend! The heretics almost broke through last night..."

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, but the stench in the air almost suffocated him. He raised his head and looked at the scene outside the trench, and suddenly felt dizzy.

Beyond the trenches, layers of barbed wire cut the wilderness into fragments. Strange ornaments hung from the wire: rusted cans hung from hemp ropes, swaying with the wind and making a hollow clang; shattered gas masks with dried wildflowers in their eye sockets; a bullet-riddled helmet, turned upside down, its dents filled with rainwater, a distorted reflection of the gray sky.

And more of them are corpses.

One corpse, dressed in a church uniform, had its head pierced, its eye sockets hollow and its mouth gaping, silently screaming at the gray sky. Another corpse, only the upper body, its intestines tangled in wire, tied to a small silver cross—perhaps a comrade's final prayer. Most glaring were the small crosses scattered between the barbed wire, densely packed like a forest of tombstones.

Each cross is less than half a meter high, with names carved on the rough wooden board with a knife. Some names have been repeatedly erased and rewritten, making it obvious that they are "collective tombstones" that are recycled for different corpses.

"Did we dig trenches in a graveyard?"

"You have a great sense of humor!" the old soldier exclaimed, pointing to a headless corpse hanging from a wire fence.

"That's Joel's cross. He had his neck bitten off by the Wolf Assault last week. We buried him with his three brothers... Anyway, on the Day of Judgment, the angels will help them sort their bones."

Neos's throat tightened. He noticed that many of the crosses contained no bodies at all—only clumps of flesh crushed by artillery fire, or the charred remains of a leg. Several soldiers were bayoneting a fresh corpse from the barbed wire, its arm still in a gesture of pleading for help.

"Don't waste the shroud!" the old soldier suddenly shouted. "Throw it directly into the 'martyrdom pit'!"

The soldiers nodded numbly, dragging the bodies, like scraps from a slaughterhouse, to a pit deep in the trench. Dozens of corpses lay piled in the pit, the bottom layer already rotting into bones, the top still oozing blood. A wooden sign, scribbled with words, sat on the edge of the pit.

Liuyierbazhu IV reveals "The Resting Place of the Martyrs - Their Souls Have Ascended to Heaven"

Neos' stomach twisted violently. He clutched the cross on his chest tightly, the metal edge cutting his palm.

"Is this... hell?" he muttered to himself, his voice so hoarse that it was almost inaudible.

"No, Reverend, this is God's battlefield." The old soldier replied in a low voice, with a strange piety in his tone, "We are fighting hell here to protect the souls of mankind."

"Hell? It's quite hellish indeed."

Neos nodded reluctantly, but his mind was a mess. He tried to remember how he got here, but his memories were like torn fragments, unable to piece together a complete picture. He only remembered that he was messing with Warhammer in his office, the Emperor's statue hit him on the head, and then... then he ended up in this hellish place.

He held onto the wall and slowly walked forward. The soldiers in the trenches raised their heads and stared at him with empty eyes. Their faces were filled with exhaustion and despair, as if they had become accustomed to this hellish life.

"Reverend Pastor, what do you need?" a young soldier asked timidly, his face covered in dirt and blood, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Neos opened his mouth, but he didn't know what to say. He felt a strong sense of powerlessness, as if he had been thrown into an inescapable nightmare.

"I...I need a moment." He finally said, his voice so low that it was almost inaudible.

The soldiers nodded, as if understanding his predicament. They continued to bustle about, reloading, cleaning their weapons, or whispering prayers. The atmosphere in the trenches was oppressive and suffocating, the air thick with the smell of death.

"You don't look well," the old soldier said, pulling out a tin pot. "Would you like some holy wine? Wine from the church cellar—wine soaked in the nails of saints, to ward off evil spirits."

Neos pushed the wine jug away and asked hoarsely, "Has it always been like this here?"

"What kind?" The old soldier frowned in confusion, then suddenly realized, "Oh, you mean the corpses? Actually, they are quite clean. When we attacked last week, the artillery bombarded the trenches for six days. The trenches were piled high and there was no place to walk. Maggots crawled in through the seams of our boots... Then we built that wall of bones, you see -"

He pointed to the trench wall. Neos realized then that the so-called "reinforcement" wasn't just wooden planks—ribs and leg bones were interlaced, skulls filled the gaps, and empty eye sockets were stuffed with rags and weeds. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between the teeth of one of the skeletons.

"They're all the bones of heretics, traitors to Hell!" The old soldier tapped his skull triumphantly. "Build a wall with their corpses, and the demons won't dare approach! That's what's written in Revelation 30... I guess."

Neos stumbled back, his back hitting the damp, cold wall. He felt something sticky rubbing against his black robe—looking up, he saw a row of shrunken ears, strung together like rosary beads with wire, nailed to the wall next to the prayer scroll. Written in bloodstains below were the words:

"Collect 66 heretic left ears to atone for your sins"

"That's little Hans's penance project," the old soldier pointed casually. "He had a lung shattered by a shotgun shell last week, and before he died, he begged us to help him make up the number—now there's only twenty left."

Neos couldn't hold it in any longer. He threw himself over to the edge of the trench and vomited, even though his stomach was empty. Acid mixed with bile splashed onto the barbed wire, startling a swarm of flies. The shadow of the cross was reflected in his green compound eyes.

"You'll have to get used to this," the veteran patted him on the back, his movements as practiced as if he were comforting a new recruit. "The first time I saw someone's intestines tangled in barbed wire, I vomited even harder than you... But now?" He grinned, revealing his jagged yellow teeth. "I can chew on black bread with the stench of corpses."

Neos leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself down, but his mind was filled with the shocking images and the oppressive atmosphere, as if the whole world was pressing down on him.

The gunfire stopped temporarily and night fell.

"Damn, these guys are really punctual. They stopped firing at 6 pm." The veteran led the bewildered Neos into a bunker.

The soldiers sat around the oil lamp, cutting the black bread into pieces with their bayonets. They murmured the pre-meal prayers in a voice so numb that it sounded like a mere diary:

“Thanks be to the Lord for giving us bread today…”

"May the blood of Christ moisten our parched souls..."

"Amen."

After the prayer, a one-eyed soldier pulled out a tattered "Battle Manual" from his bosom and read it in the light of the lamp:

"Those who die fighting for God, though their bodies decay, their souls remain in the trenches of heaven until the final battle..."

"I'm going to dig fucking trenches in heaven?" Neos asked in disbelief.

"Of course!" the one-eyed soldier looked up excitedly. "It's written on page 144 of the manual that the walls of the Heavenly Trench are made of pearls, the bullets are made of honey, and those who are shot will smile and melt in the holy light!"

"And then be reborn and continue fighting?"

"How did you know?" The old soldier clapped his hands in surprise. "You are indeed worthy of being a Reverend!"

Neos looked out of the trench. The barbed wire glowed coldly in the moonlight, and corpses swayed gently in the wind. He suddenly realized that the most terrifying thing here wasn't the bloodshed—it was that everyone had already accepted this bloodshed, even cooking it into a warm poison with their faith.

Neos took a deep, feeble breath, trying to calm himself, but the stench of decay in the air nearly suffocated him. He felt a surge of fear, as if he had been thrown into an inescapable nightmare.

"I want to go home..." He murmured to himself again, wanting to cry but unable to.

It is said that Warhammer enthusiasts are like Ye Gong who loves dragons more than Ye Gong. If they really traveled to the world of 40k, they would cry like a fart spirit whose toes were stepped on. Yue!@沂#$首%^发& Although I don’t know which damn planet this is and how I can get home, despair and powerlessness surged in my heart.

He asked with his last hope:

"I've forgotten where this is. What time is it now?"

"Ductunt of Holstein-Styria"

Neos was confused. Why did the emperor give him this punishment?

"The Duchy of Styria belonged to the Holy Roman Empire, and the land in front of our trenches belonged to Slovenia (one of the synthetic materials that emerged from the disintegration of Yugoslavia)—it was once, and is now, known as the occupied territories."

"This Europe is such a mess..." There's no time to complain about how the Holy Roman Empire survived to this day. Judging by the level of battlefield technology, it should be the early 20th century. What the hell is this? What on earth is going on?

"By the way, what day is today?"

The veteran's hoarse voice carried a glimmer of hope:

"December 25, 1914, is a good day. It is a blessing from God that you woke up on Christmas Day."