Victory.
Only victory.
When he took over the legion's authority in the boundless forests of Caliban, within the magnificent fortresses of the Knightly Orders, he was told, and he already knew.
What the Imperium needed was only victory.
Besides that, nothing else mattered.
Sacrifice, unimportant.
Cost, unimportant.
Process, unimportant.
Even victory itself, unimportant.
The Imperium only needed victory.
...
Scarlet light pierced through millions of light-years of mist and worlds, mercilessly illuminating the solemn face of the Lion of Caliban.
Each scarlet glow was a collapsing fleet.
Each ray of light was a falling world.
Each flickering and dimming sparkle was a legion, a hundred companies, a thousand armored vehicles, ten thousand angels, a million or ten million warriors, silently roaring, wildly struggling in the cycle of loyalty and death, desperately killing their opponents, or fleeing.
Lion El'Jonson looked up at the constantly flickering star map before him: thousands of scarlet dots scattered across the galaxy, in every moment, in every second, they never stopped, like the myriad stars he once saw hanging in the night sky of Caliban: only this time, they were no longer pure dreams, but blinding blood-red light.
Before him, projected was the starfield north of Holy Terra and the Maelstrom, a projection of half the Imperium's territory, half of humanity's galaxy.
At this moment, everything was crumbling before his eyes, riddled with holes, falling apart.
How many are there...
A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million...
Far more than that.
...
The Imperium only needed victory.
The Imperium did not need victory.
...
From the Eye of Terror to the Maelstrom.
From Medusa to Prospero.
Every world burned, every land was in turmoil, like an endless curtain of iron and blood, savagely cutting the entire galaxy in half, and behind this curtain filled with blood and fire were a million worlds and star systems transformed into hells of groans and wails.
Every hour, new war reports jammed all communication networks.
Failure, failure! Failure!!
Every minute, more distress calls and cries passed through thousands of stars, piling up at his feet.
Fallen, fallen! Fallen!!
Every second, a new scarlet dot flickered on the star map, and in his pupils, also flickering in an unnamed star system or world far away, signifying a lost battle, a helpless retreat, a loyal and noble action, or a thoroughly despicable act.
Collapse, collapse! Collapse!!
"Bang!"
The steel gauntlet heavily struck the table carrying the star map display, cracks and sound echoed through the room, but it drew no attention or pause.
The legion was already numb.
There was only the electronic torrent of continuous information reporting and processing, only the flapping of wings of constantly returning and departing aircraft, only tens of thousands of vibrant lives becoming steel, becoming parts, becoming perfect cogs in a pure meat grinder of blood and flesh, amidst infinite numbers and sad wails.
No one was astonished.
No one cared.
The war continued.
No one could stop it.
——————
Because victory was meaningless.
Because in this galaxy, only war, hatred, and death would last forever, only ignorance, smoke, and revenge would be revered.
Victory was meaningless.
Victory was everything.
The legions bled, the front lines collapsed, thousands of stars turned into burning infernos in abandonment and rage, billowing smoke made hundreds of millions of throats emit hoarse roars of terror, fleets turned to ash in the light of stars, fortresses crashed down in siege warfare, every minute of every hour of every day, worlds were abandoned, front lines were breached, legions were killed.
But despite this, it was still victory.
The Imperium could only achieve [victory].
Could only accept victory.
Could only pursue victory.
Could only... achieve victory.
At all costs.
And all they could do.
Was hold fast.
Was remain silent.
Was advance.
Was...
——————
"Prepare for battle!"
A roar from an unknown source exploded in the public communication platform, tormenting the eardrums of every unfortunate survivor. This furious shout was like a sudden cry in a thunderstorm night, swallowed in an instant by the endless, vaster waves of shouts and commands.
Just like this battle: chaotic, disordered, immense, mad...
Despair.
As far as the eye could see, everything was burning, everything was wailing, everywhere flowed torrents of metal scraps and blood, like raging floodwaters devouring the lowlands after a bloody battle.
As far as the eye could see, this was not an evenly matched fight, it could barely even be called a contest. Hundreds of Death Angels and a hundred times more mortals were scattered in this sparsely defended area. They were not from the same unit, and had never met before, nor would they know that they had fought side by side afterwards.
As far as the eye could see, silver, purple, iron-grey, black, and blue lights were like lighthouses in the endless darkness, emitting a few reassuring glows. Around these powerful Death Angels gathered varying numbers of mortal auxiliary forces, forming the only line of defense desperate to stem the alien tide.
Among them, some were survivors of collapsed front lines, retreating with their remaining organizations to this nameless world; some were members of an original relief fleet, stranded by the dual interference of alien attacks and void storms, fortuitously arriving at this burning battlefield; others were confused escapees, their fleets having just barely broken through a long warp storm, before they could even understand the situation in the real universe, they were swept into this merciless, bloody slaughter.
And Hektor was one such individual.
The Second Legion's rising star gasped and ran, tightly gripping the strange green blade that had just been repaired, swiftly advancing through the endless smoke and wails. His silver figure darted over countless hills and ruins, like a brilliant star piercing the long night, like a swift ship riding the wind and waves in the roaring sea.
Countless grotesque roars tried to delay his steps, to seize his life and hope: most of them were pathetic, tattered slaves, cannon fodder armies driven by more powerful masters, and within their endless tide, truly terrifying opponents lay hidden.
His brain churned at extreme speed, his muscles constantly swelled and expanded, his two hearts pumped relentlessly, emitting an unsettling, fierce thumping sound, as if they had swallowed the summer lightning.
He breathed, he ran, he thought, his bodily functions operated at an accelerating pace, overloading uncontrollably, continuously generating emotions named [tension] and [anxiety].
And the more tense his body became, the clearer his mind grew. The genes from his gene-mother in his bloodline protected his mind at this moment: every warrior of the Second Legion had this advantage, allowing them to maintain an abnormal calm in extremely tense situations, even surpassing their usual state.
He charged forward, his long-handled greatsword continuously swung, like a furious hurricane leveling the jungle on an island. Hektor walked in a storm of death and destruction, surrounded by a bright green dance of annihilation. With every swing, he would unleash a bloody tide in the massive waves of alien slaves.
Whenever such a song of slaughter was played by the rising star of the Second Legion, a primal instinct would resonate in the hearts of the alien slaves. For the next few brief seconds, they would fall into a primitive daze and retreat, and this period, which would be considered long for any Astartes, was enough for Hektor to rampage through the endless sea of slaves, carving a bloody path towards the distant light.
But such wonderful times would not last long, for after the shortest hesitation, accompanied by the Randan masters' scolding and more Ringing of electric currents, courage forged from fear and pain would urge them to once again rush towards the relentlessly fighting Astartes warrior, until they overwhelmed him. And those cunning and thoughtful slaves quietly circled behind Hektor, intending to drag him into the endless tide.
But the son of Morgan never had to worry about all this: he was not fighting alone. Although he had been inexplicably swept away by the Warp and drifted for a long time, fortunately, his most precious treasure was not lost.
"Watch your left, Hektor!"
Salieri's brief warning came with his force blade. The novice psyker now stood on Hektor's left, chainsword swinging, psychic energy flashing. Every word that came out of his mouth caused more damage to the aliens than his roaring swings. He chanted and roared incessantly, fireballs and lightning bolts continuously erupted from his fingertips, never stopping. The cost of this was that his face was as pale as a dying man.
And on the other side, on Hektor's right, back to back with Salieri, was the [mighty] Ajax. Contrary to common perception, the tall Ajax was not a warrior who primarily relied on close-quarters combat. On the contrary, his strong physique made him one of the few in the legion capable of moving and fighting with heavy weapons. Now, he was carrying a heavy bolter, moving as fast as possible while furiously spewing fire. Through the thick armor, Hektor could clearly hear the constant sound of bones colliding in Ajax's two arms.
Beyond them, trailing at the back of the squad was the ancient warrior Chiron, the mentor of Hektor, Salieri, and Ajax, a seasoned warrior fighting with a power sword and plasma pistol. He guarded the rear of the squad, constantly clearing out the charging opponents. His fighting style seemed so ordinary that no one noticed that he was actually the one who had killed the most aliens.
The squad advanced, killing, desperately trying to tear through the alien tide's obstruction and encirclement. Accompanied by the roar of chainswords and the clang of bolters, countless aliens were mercilessly harvested, slaughtered, and cleansed. Wherever they went, there was a boiling river of blood; wherever they pointed, that place would turn into ashes of bone and flesh, scattered across the scarlet sky.
"Hektor!"
In the midst of the slaughter, another anxious cry came. The son of Morgan was too lazy to distinguish whether it was Salieri's or Chiron's voice. He simply looked up and shifted his perspective: even without the anxious warning in that voice, he could already sense the rapidly approaching figure.
A Randan warrior, or perhaps a Randan overlord: to Hektor right now, there was no significant difference between the two.
Hektor could see the rapidly approaching figure: the tall stature, the grotesque face, and the blasphemous weapon. He had seen enough of them in the past few years, and he had killed enough of them.
He feigned not noticing this approaching opponent, swinging his blade, continuing to reap the lives of the cannon fodder, allowing the Randan warrior to carefully observe his every move, allowing it to seize the opportunity, hiding in the chaotic tide of slaves, rapidly approaching Hektor's neck.
Frankly speaking, its speed was indeed very fast, and the blade's swing was so vicious and perfectly timed that even an Astartes would find it difficult to catch every moment. If it had been Hektor three or five years ago, he might have suffered under its hands, or even paid a heavy price.
But unfortunately, three or five years of war can completely change anyone.
The moment before it swung its blade, Hektor spun around at high speed. He keenly caught the opponent's moment of wide-open vulnerability, and this Emperor's Fang, personally chosen by Morgan, unhesitatingly used the counterattack that best showcased his strengths:
Impact.
He crashed into it fiercely, and in the next instant, heard the sound of the opponent's bones shattering. The powerful impact penetrated the thick armor of the Randan alien. The vicious alien fell to the ground like a large tree snapped at its base, kicking up countless clouds of dust.
Hektor didn't give his opponent a second chance. He charged forward, bright green light dancing, sending the ugly head flying high, rolling off to who knows where. Then, he drew the melta pistol from his hip, pulled the trigger, and completely incinerated the alien's chest: just as every warrior fighting the Randan was instructed.
And in the instant he completed all of this, he couldn't help but sigh in his heart that, compared to the terrifying killers he had encountered in the past, the Randan aliens had changed.
He had also changed.
But there was no time for him to continue sighing. With the fall of their master, the tide of cannon fodder slaves finally retreated slowly like cowardly rats. Hektor and his squad did not linger: they had a more important mission, a mission more important than their lives.
They had to retreat, retreat to a safe place. They, or one of them, had to report everything they had just seen to the Imperium.
That terrible monster, that bizarre alien, those chilling symbols...
Everything they had just seen was so terrifying, terrifying enough to turn the tide of this gloomy war, to shake the entire galaxy. They had to get this message back.
No matter the cost.
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