Forced to die just after becoming invincible in Warhammer?

The Astartes audience's blood was boiling, and their roars and shouts rose one after another, converging into a frenzied torrent.

Here, only the strongest who have extraordinary strength and have overcome all obstacles can receive the loudest cheers that almost overturn the dome.

They are the focus of everyone's attention, and their every move affects everyone's heartbeat. Amidst the flashing swords and punches, they earn their own supreme glory.

PS: I'm happy to ask for anything, even just a comment.

Chapter 110 A new star is rising

The soldiers of the 11th Legion were tall and burly, like towering war towers. Ordinary armor was too small for them and could hardly fit them.

Outside the tent, the wind was howling and sand was flying, like invisible beasts roaring. In comparison, it was much quieter inside the tent. Only the Terminator armor occasionally collided and made a dull sound, so the Terminator armor became their first choice.

Apart from the rare sets of armor personally tailored for them by the Primarch - a symbol of supreme honor, the brothers rarely wore them on weekdays. After all, when rushing to a battlefield filled with artillery fire or fighting in a passionate duel arena, it was very easy to leave scratches and abrasions on the armor given by the Primarch.

Only during the most grand celebrations or solemn awarding ceremonies would these armors, which embody the Primarch's expectations and glory, be solemnly worn.

At that moment, the arena was a scene of intense activity. Giant spotlights hung high above, like artificial suns, illuminated the entire venue as bright as day. The audience was packed, their roars resounding, the waves of noise threatening to lift the dome off the arena.

The Terminator armor worn by most warriors was hand-crafted using the superb skills learned from the Primarch.

Every piece of armor and every rivet reflects their profound understanding of combat skills and demonstrates the unique tenacity and heroism of the 11th Legion.

"Besdyke, look at that new recruit who's been particularly favored by the Primarch. In your opinion, how many consecutive victories can he achieve?"

Legion Commander Fore stood in the front row of the audience, his eyes fixed on the promising new recruit in the audience, and turned his head to ask the adjutant beside him.

At this moment, a hot wind carrying sand rushed in from the open gate of the arena and brushed across everyone's faces.

"Two consecutive wins at most."

Although Bestyke's face still looked young, his tone was very firm when he answered.

"Why?" For raised his eyebrows slightly, his eyes full of confusion.

Bestyke curled his lips, a hint of bitterness etched in his words. "Two consecutive victories? That's my highest estimate, considering the Primarch favors him."

Seeing Fore's disapproval, Bestyk hurriedly explained, "The brothers of the Legion have always been fascinated by Terminator armor. They wear it in battle and in competitions."

"Take the veteran elites in our group, like Brightman and Carl, for example. They are truly ruthless old monsters who never die. They fought tooth and nail to achieve thirteen consecutive victories in our arena.

"This new recruit can only defeat two opponents alone at best. His strength is there, there's no way he can defeat more than that!"

After hearing his analysis, For couldn't help but feel a sense of agreement in his heart.

The wind and sand gradually died down, and the stadium became increasingly stuffy, but the audience's cheers became louder and louder. The new recruits were about to appear, and a fierce battle seemed inevitable.

Mod strode into the arena, his heavy iron boots stomping on the ground, raising fine dust.

He wore metal guards in the shape of wolf claws on both hands, and the cold claw tips looked like wolf fangs ready to bite anyone, revealing a cold murderous intent; the rough long machete in his right hand was even more eye-catching, with a two-meter-long straight and slender blade. The cold light flickered on the sharp blade, making the surrounding air seem frozen. Seeing this, all the onlookers felt a chill in their hearts.

Across from him, Lylesk, wearing Terminator armor, stood with his arms folded. With just one glance, he took in Mode thoroughly.

"Boy, you are the new recruit!" He spoke first, his voice coming through the helmet with a hint of teasing.

"How do you know?" Mod was stunned, full of doubts.

Lyerske chuckled. "Not only do I know this, but the brothers have all noticed since you stepped into this arena."

Mod looked around, and sure enough, the brothers in the legion all had smiles on their faces, looking at him wantonly, and talking one after another, all making fun of his status as a new recruit.

"Only new soldiers wear the armor given by their mothers in the arena. Veterans like to hide it. We are used to wearing the ones we make ourselves. Our craftsmanship is not bad. An old hand will know who made your armor at a glance."

Lyerske explained patiently, then raised his sword slightly in a gesture of courtesy, "I can wait for you to change into your armor, and then I can fight you."

Mod shook his head, gripping the hilt tightly with both hands, heaving the sword onto his shoulder, and said in a deep voice, "No, my mother gave me this armor hoping that I would fight in battle."

"Okay, but don't blame me if your armor gets scratched or damaged later."

Lailske stopped trying to persuade him, his aura suddenly changed, and he pressed the start button of the power sword. In an instant, the sword body vibrated and the gears engaged rapidly, making a deafening roar.

Mod was not to be outdone. He bent his knees and lowered his waist, with his two swords in an offensive stance, the tips of the swords pointing directly at his opponent.

In the blink of an eye, the power sword and the broadsword collided with each other, and the sparks flying everywhere were like brilliant fireworks, instantly illuminating the cold faces of the two men.

Despite being heavily armored, they were both agile and nimble, slashing, blocking, and dodging in one smooth, seamless motion.

After dozens of rounds, Mod's eyes were bloodshot, but there was a sharp flash in his red eyes. At this moment, in his eyes, Laerske's movements gradually became slow.

Seizing the opportunity during the attack, Mode roared, and with the mighty sword in his hand, he fiercely slashed at Laersk's chest. In an instant, dazzling sparks burst out from the armor, and a few wisps of green smoke rose. It could be vaguely seen that the cables inside were cut off, but fortunately the armor had not been completely penetrated.

"Come again!" Laersk gritted his teeth and slammed the red overload button on the chainsaw sword. The sword shone brightly, the power soared instantly, and the buzzing sound became sharper and more piercing.

The two men fought again, their weapons clashing frequently and sparks flying.

After a fierce battle, Lylesk finally cut several hideous gashes on Mod's armor; but Mod aimed at the damaged part of Lylesk's chest armor and chopped it down fiercely. The sharp blade penetrated the flesh, blood splattered everywhere, and left mottled blood marks on the blade and Mod's armor.

Lylesk staggered and knelt on one knee, the chainsword in his hand hanging limply.

The winner was decided. Mod stood there with his sword put away, breathing heavily, exuding a fierce fighting spirit. Thunderous cheers instantly broke out from all around the arena.

Lylesk propped himself up and stood up, smoke coming out of the damaged parts of his armor. He staggered a little, but still maintained his self-respect and walked down the arena alone.

The arena floor was covered with charred scratches and dents left by fierce battles, like the wounds on the body of a ferocious beast, witnessing one brutal fight after another.

He walked through the flying dust and headed straight towards the pharmacist.

Along the way, he was filled with resentment like boiling water, and he couldn't understand why: he was a veteran of the battlefield, spending all day in this arena, struggling and struggling, with rich practical experience, how could he be defeated by Moder, a new recruit?

PS: I beg you to be merciful and give me some alms. It’s too cold, too cold.

Chapter 111 The Perfect Legion in the Eyes of Leman Russ

It was noon, and the scorching sun hanging high above the arena poured down its rays without reservation, scorching the earth. The air was filled with scorching heat and restless atmosphere, as if to ignite everything.

Giant metal pillars stood around the venue, slightly hot under the scorching sun, and occasionally made subtle noises of thermal expansion and contraction.

The auditorium was packed with people. The Astartes warriors were wearing armor of various colors. The metallic reflection made people dizzy. The shouts that came one after another gathered into a surging wave that almost broke the sky.

Mode stood proudly on the field, bathing in the cheers that were so warm that they were almost scorching. The overwhelming waves of sound enveloped him layer by layer.

Beads of sweat slid down his cheeks, dripped onto the hot ground, and instantly evaporated into water vapor.

In the past, he had never been noticed and praised so much. In a trance, he seemed to hear the roar of war drums in his ears, urging him to prepare for the next unknown fierce battle.

"You surmised wrongly, Adjutant."

In the audience, Fore turned to look at Bestyke beside him, "He's already defeated the second place and is striding towards his third consecutive victory."

Bestyke stared at Mod, who was shaking his head slightly in the middle of the field, his brows furrowed slightly, his tone full of surprise: "This new recruit is indeed beyond my expectations, but he looks a little strange right now, his head shaking non-stop. Is he injured?"

Mod had no energy to pay attention to what others were saying. After defeating his second opponent, his heartbeat soared to the extreme, his chest heaved violently, and he gasped for breath. A horrifying image of a mountain of skulls inexplicably emerged in his mind.

The third opponent appeared, tall and muscular, his Dreadnought armor gleaming coldly in the light. Mod stared intently at the armored neck, his eyes brimming with murderous intent. At that moment, a scorching wind howled past, carrying with it dust and sand, whipping everyone around.

Thanks to the experience gained from the previous two battles against the Terminator Armor, this time he attacked fiercely and with precise blades, he slashed at the same position dozens of times. The opponent's chest armor gradually cracked and deformed, and he was forced to retreat again and again.

However, Mode had no intention of continuing to attack the damaged area. His only target was the opponent's neck. He wanted to chop off the opponent's head.

The surrounding soldiers saw that the situation was not good and were about to step forward to stop it, but something unexpected happened -

A black shadow flashed by like a ghost, and Aurora appeared in an instant, her speed was beyond ordinary people's imagination. She raised her hand and waved, and Mode flew backwards like a kite with a broken string, and smashed heavily into the wall.

With a loud bang, the wall collapsed, bricks and stones flew everywhere, and dust was stirred up all over the sky, making everyone cough.

Aurora's original intention was just to bring the Wolf King brothers to visit the 11th Legion. Knowing that this blood relative loved fighting in the arena, she came here first. She never expected to encounter such an unexpected situation.

Near the arena, the roar of machinery came from far away, like a surging steel wave, making people's eardrums hurt.

The tall and mighty mechas placed in the arena, their bodies gleaming with a cold metallic luster, with blue energy light strips flickering at the joints, were moving towards the platform step by step with heavy but regular steps.

They lowered their bodies one by one, their metal heads drooped, their gun barrels and mechanical arms sank and retracted in unison, their movements precise and pious, just like the most loyal servants paying homage to the king, worshipping the majestic Primarch.

"Their mother, their primarch is here." This thought was like a silent electric wave, instantly penetrating the minds of everyone in the legion.

For a moment, the noisy arena seemed to have been muted. The warriors straightened their backs, stood upright, and looked towards the platform with eyes full of awe and respect.

"As you can see, my brother, my dearest relative, my descendants, were already furious. I originally wanted you to come and watch our legion's battle characteristics, but I didn't expect such an embarrassing incident to occur. Please forgive me."

Lario looked apologetic, bowed slightly, and looked at the Wolf King Leman Russ beside him.

She stood tall and straight, with delicate patterns on her armor gleaming faintly. Her black hair was tied behind her head, with a few strands of hair falling on her fair cheeks, making the sincerity between her eyebrows even more real.

Leman Russ was a towering figure, like a mountain.

He was wearing a suit of armor specially made by himself, with fur trimmings that gave him a wild look, and two sharp and ferocious wolf fangs on his shoulders.

Hearing what Lareo said, he just waved his hand casually and said in a deep voice like thunder: "It's a small matter, not worth mentioning. This actually makes me see some passion."

Lareo nodded slightly, then turned around, his sharp gaze piercing the crowd and accurately locking onto Forle in the audience. He raised his voice and ordered, "Forle, put Moder in solitary confinement. He is not allowed to come out without my permission."

Although the voice was not loud, it carried an unquestionable majesty, like a heavy hammer falling to the ground, and the echo lingered in the arena for a long time.

"As you command, Primarch!"

Fore shouted in response, hurried in with his lieutenant. The two walked to the collapsed wall and worked together to remove the broken rocks that buried Mod.

The stones rubbed against each other, making a harsh sound and raising choking dust.

Mod collapsed to the ground, his armor badly damaged, dented and deformed in many places, and blood dried and coagulated on the metal surface.

The two men, one on each side, carried him and dragged him to the 11th Legion's confinement room. Seeing this, others could not help but gasp in amazement. To receive such "special care" from the Primarch, Mod's treatment was definitely unique in the Legion.

Aurora waved her hand lightly, indicating that they didn't need to be affected by the Primarch anymore.

Then, the Primarch strode into the audience.

As soon as she arrived, the sons of the White King became agitated instantly, and they formed pairs and spontaneously began to spar with each other.

Some clever fellows, while everyone's attention was focused on the field, quietly moved their feet and squeezed to the front, just to admire the original master's grace up close.

For a moment, the arena was filled with whistling fists, clashing weapons, and flying sparks. The atmosphere of battle became more and more fanatical, even more intense than when Mode was fighting just now. However, everyone was restrained and stopped at the right time, without the fierce fight for life.

Leman Russ's tall and strong figure stood quietly, his deep eyes fixed on the Astartes warriors in the field, and a hint of envy unconsciously appeared in his eyes.

These soldiers of the 11th Legion are all tall and strong, with straight postures, like the solid bricks of the Great Wall of Steel. Their every move shows courage and perseverance, and they radiate wisdom. They are eloquent in tactical discussions and skillful in armor operation.

What is even more amazing is that they have master-level attainments in the precision assembly and debugging of machinery. They can tell the crux of an engine malfunction as soon as they hear it, and can connect lines accurately and quickly. They are even more accomplished in the field of biological genetics, familiar with various types of gene enhancement therapies, and have a thorough understanding of the optimization and transformation of body functions. They are even no less skilled in dabbling in psychic power. The faint light of psychic energy lingers around their fingertips, and the mysteriousness of their protection and insight techniques makes others marvel.

This all-round excellence of the Second Medical University can be described as flawless.

PS: Please give me some charity, this book is so unpopular.

Chapter 112 The Emperor's Unofficial History

Recalling the moment when Moder had lost control and fallen into madness, Leman Russ raised the corners of his broad lips slightly, revealing a smile of understanding.

The Lord of Fenris shook his head slightly and sighed, "It's understandable that this brat is so reckless. On my home planet, those fresh-faced, passionate recruits often get carried away when they first step onto the battlefield or step into the duel arena.

Their eyes are solely focused on their opponents and victory, completely oblivious to everything around them, their only concern being winning and establishing their own reputation."

After saying this, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if lost in memories of the past. The image of the young figure roaring and fighting fiercely in the snow on Fenris flashed through his mind, and his eyes grew softer.

"Which legion is better, the Sons of the White King or the Space Wolves?" Lario breathed a sigh of relief, glad that Riemann didn't notice Mod's abnormality, and cleverly diverted the topic to another side.

Even though Leman Russ now felt that the Sons of the White King were perfect except for their small number, even after recalling the foolish behavior of his Space Wolves, such as the lack of discipline, he still needed him to form a military police to maintain order when his Primarch returned, and there were still too many mavericks in the legion.

He would still stubbornly declare to his own blood relatives: "The White King's sons are inferior to Space Wolves."

Lario raised the corners of his mouth, revealing a faint smile. He was not angry, but just wanted to reveal some unofficial history of the Emperor that would upset this relative.

The Lord of the Space Wolves couldn't help feeling a little guilty at the laughter, but he still refused to give in.

"Come on, my blood kinsman, let's not stay here any longer. Otherwise, my descendants will probably fight to the death, and I will be powerless to achieve your goal."

Lareo looked at the fighting figures of the Heirs in the arena. Because of the Primarch's gaze, their battle in the arena became more and more fanatical.

The loving mother could even foresee that even with her orders, they might still fight to the death in the arena.

"Do you know my purpose?" Leman Russ said with a puzzled look on his face. He had never revealed the deepest secrets of the Space Wolves to anyone. How could his sister know?

Lareo smiled slightly:

"I control the largest newspaper in the empire. The stupidities of imperial officials, the arguments of my mother's servants, the hidden secrets of various legions, and even the elusive deeds of our father in past history will all inadvertently reach my ears."

"Such as?" Leman Russ was clearly skeptical, especially when his blood relative mentioned his All-Father.

The two Primarchs walked and talked. Lario said, "In the eyes of the ancient Greeks, men were the center of the world, and women were merely their companions. Therefore, the ancient Greeks preferred beautiful boys to beautiful girls."

Leman Russ couldn't help but feel a little confused. He didn't understand what his blood relative was trying to say, but when he thought about the young faces of most of the White King's sons, he blurted out:

"So, sister, you like beautiful boys, and most of your offspring are also handsome boys."

As soon as he said this, Leman Russ realized something was wrong. He seemed to have offended his own blood relatives.

Lario was choked by Leman Russ's words, but did not refute. After all, the Eleventh Primarch just liked beautiful things.

Lareo continued, "The Greek poet Stratton once praised beautiful boys in his collection of poems: The childish twelve-year-old boy brings me joy, but the thirteen-year-old boy is more desirable; the fourteen-year-old is a more beautiful flower of love, and the fifteen-year-old is even more charming; the sixteen-year-old boy is the cauliflower pursued by the gods, and the seventeen-year-old boy is not my turn at all, only Zeus can enjoy it.