"This is the last one."
The Shadow Champion of the Second Legion shielded his breath and presence, merging everything with the deepest colors. His armor, his blades, even his motionless pupils and eyes, all belonged to the purest black, a curtain that allowed him to disappear from any creature's sight.
He lived in the shadows, he lurked in the shadows, he longed for the shadows, wherever he walked, there were shadows.
Now, this was the last one.
Before the next breath arrived, his figure had vanished into the mist.
The barren land of Tacus V, like its sky, emitted a grey mist mixed with earthy yellow. And as the shadows of hundreds of warships spilled down from the firmament, twisting the originally scorching sunlight into a mottled interplay of light and dark,
coupled with the bloody breath in the air and the sand constantly stirred up by artillery fire and treads, this already harsh and desolate world was completely enveloped in a nauseating filth.
This was the one hundred and eighty-sixth Terra Standard Hour since the ground operations began. Every wisp of air above the Tacus Desert was thoroughly saturated with the stench of blood and iron filings.
Every heavy breath had become a torture no less severe than inhaling poison gas. The breezes weaving through the ruins and broken walls did not bring refreshing clean air, only the sticky sweat, the groans of pain, and the unceasing footsteps of the Randan forces from afar.
The outermost fortresses and trenches had completely fallen. Alien blood soaked every inch of land, every brick, and every piece of iron shrapnel. Mountains of corpses formed the high ground of the last charge, forcing the armies loyal to the Emperor to withdraw from these ruins that no longer held strategic value.
And when the alien armies broke through the outermost defense line, they discovered that, rather than facing a second line of defense, they were facing an iron city purely piled up with steel, bunkers, trenches, defensive force fields, and hidden firing points, requiring endless flesh and blood to gradually fill.
The glow of the gigantic void shields still flickered above most of the fortresses, seemingly destined that this battle would not end with overly easy means.
Intertwining trenches and underground communication networks formed the lifeline of this city. Tens of millions of permanent fortifications and artillery emplacements were garrisoned by the elite Auxiliary forces of the Imperium, who had personally built all of this and had been conserving their strength for several months.
They constantly contested control of every street corner, every stronghold, and even every low wall with the Randan vanguard. Behind them, countless armored and artillery emplacements, along with various man-made hills, used the purest heavy firepower to blockade the invaders' advance routes, ensuring that every front line could exert its maximum value.
The Randan army commanders quickly discovered that the seemingly flimsy outer defense line was actually a trap, one that led them to believe that by committing more troops, they could systematically dismantle all the resistance strongholds. The Dark Angels used no less than two hundred thousand lives to lure the alien army deep into this intricate city of slaughter, leaving them immobile like giants deeply mired in mud.
The alien army had to find more solutions. They hoped to seize the most important transportation hubs and strategic locations with armored formations and low-altitude superiority. However, at every target chosen by the Randan, towering dark green figures stood. When these powerful warriors from Nocturne pulled their triggers, becoming charred corpses in endless flames was the ultimate fate of every invader.
Of course, not all places had the protection of the Salamanders: some exceptionally important or hidden corners had only a few Overseers, and when the alien vanguard excitedly rushed forward, they would discover the appearance of these opponents:
clad in black armor, with sword-wing insignia, helmets largely hidden by hoods, revealing only crimson eyes. The leading warriors were often encased in Tartaros Terminator Armor, wielding Terra Greatswords and Plasma Projectors.
After all more advanced tactics failed, the invaders could only resort to methods from ancient wars. The armies were once again assembled and thrown into this endless meat grinder.
In the void, which had become a purgatory, the Randan transport fleet braved the terrifying firepower of the Imperial fleet, deploying countless heavy weapons onto the surface of Tacus V: for every Randan self-propelled artillery piece or armored vehicle transported to the front, more than five identical pieces of equipment and the warships carrying them were torn to shreds in the void.
Finally, when blood had condensed into trickling streams, the ancient god of war roared once more. Tens of thousands of artillery pieces were thrown into this war at once, and the equally formidable counterattack of the Imperium of Man ignited an unprecedented artillery battle.
These heavy armaments, which had appeared on battlefields hundreds of millennia ago, were expended like common soldiers. Under the unwavering will of the two empires, the vast fortress complexes were gradually corroded by endless artillery fire, allowing the Randan vanguard to seize one ruined fragment and desolate pile after another.
But even amidst the ruins, the human counterattack never ceased.
——————
A glint reflected by his blackened blade was the only light on him that would illuminate the eyes of these Xenos.
The Shadow Champion took less than a breath to drift from the corner where he had been concealed to behind his last prey. In the remaining time of that breath, the blade in his right hand sliced through the Xeno's sturdy neck guard, allowing their foul blood to flow along the cracks in their own armor, without a single drop falling.
His blade pierced the Xeno's windpipe and flesh, breaking its original shriek into a hissing stream of air. His other hand was not idle: his left hand was armed with a specialized set of claws. Like delicate raindrops falling from a window crack onto a room's floor,
his claws stabbed into the smallest cracks in the armor, instantly expanding the wound several times. The sharp metal churned the Xeno's heart, lungs, intestines, and other organs if these filthy things could even be called organs into a rotten pulp before he finally stopped.
This was a strong Randan warrior, its face scarred: only such a thorough attack could ensure its death.
Thus, before his next breath arrived, the Shadow Champion's footsteps had already drifted to another place, a place beyond the tracking of any sight.
A precise, subtle, and unremarkable hunt was completed in an instant. Not even the flickering sunlight cast the hunter's shadow. Even if an Astartes had witnessed the entire hunt, he would only doubt his senses in bewilderment.
No joy emerged from the Shadow Champion's heart, for he had long since cast away such emotions along with the desire for honor in a bloody dark night. He re-embraced the most familiar shadows, with only the symbols on the timer and counter flashing continuously in his helmet, reminding him of the mission's progress.
This was the one hundred and eighty-sixth hour since the war began, and the Shadow Champion's eleventh work cycle: since being dispatched to these ruins, he had summarized his achievements and mistakes in cycles of ten Terra Standard Hours.
In this cycle, he had achieved one hundred kills, no more, no less. Compared to the first few times, the efficiency had significantly decreased: the Randan were one of the most terrifying opponents in the galaxy, and their rate of progress in war was unbelievably fast.
When the hunter's reputation soared in these ruins, it was rare to see Randan soldiers in groups of two or three. More often, they were combat clusters centered around armored vehicles, rampaging through the ruins where gunshots never ceased.
Perhaps, it was time to return.
The Shadow Champion completed his thought in an instant, then vanished into the wind once more. He moved with a near-drifting motion through corners unseen by any Randan, his heavy armor stirring not a speck of dust, leaving not even the shallowest footprint.
Before the next gust of wind blew, he had successfully drifted past three abandoned defense lines. Groups of Randan troops and combat clusters brushed past his shadow. He watched his constantly advancing and bleeding opponents with a hint of laziness, discerning some sights he had never seen before:
Some Randan soldiers were exceptionally small, their exposed fangs not even fully grown, revealing an alien youthfulness. Their crimson eyes flickered incessantly, burning with raging fire.
Others, even on faces that were among the most ugly and distorted in the galaxy, clearly showed winding ravines. The backs of these Xenos were far from as straight as those Randan warriors he had killed. Their gazes were either a near-dead indifference or trembled just like their hands.
In the past, such "warriors" would not have appeared in the Randan battle formations.
Thinking this, he passed through the front lines where the two armies clashed. The continuous roar of artillery always accompanied his steps. The position from which he had departed had been abandoned. Thirty-two kilometers away, he found a new position and the Salamanders responsible for defending it.
"You've returned just in time."
The one responsible for defending this position was a typical Son of Vulkan: a tall figure with a fierce face, his deep voice naturally inspiring trust in everyone.
"A Hunter Squad from the Second Legion just arrived at my position, making their final adjustments here. They are about to pass through the ruins ahead to carry out a mission."
The Shadow Champion fell silent.
Just for a moment.
Then, he spoke, his voice an impossibly soft sound for an Astartes warrior, like fine paper gently rubbing against a white sandy beach.
"Where are they?"
——————
"In the outermost A-13 area, there's a giant Void Shield Generator that's directly connected to several other generators in the surrounding large areas."
"During previous battles, Area A-13 was intentionally abandoned, but now intelligence indicates that this generator was not completely destroyed during the retreat, and the Randan army is attempting to repair it and use it to inject electronic junk code into other operational generators. This will severely compromise our Void Shield overhead, so their actions must be stopped."
The Shadow Champion looked at the somewhat crude tactical projection before him, then at the battle-brother who was explaining it to him: he had heard of him, of this Hektor, a rising star in the Legion known for his powerful physique and incredible growth speed.
He thought of his own squad; if not for that Warp Storm, he wouldn't be alone.
The Shadow Champion spoke.
"Only your squad has been dispatched to complete this mission?"
Hektor shook his head.
"Over twenty squads will undertake this mission from different directions simultaneously. Our squad also has another concurrent task: we will pass through Area J-47, where there is still an unfallen fortress. We will go there to rendezvous with survivors and complete this mission together."
The Shadow Champion thought for a moment, then nodded. Under normal circumstances, he was a man of few words.
"Count me in."
"Of course, no problem."
Hektor smiled, and just then, Kyron, dusty from travel, walked into the room. He had just finished inventorying the last batch of supplies.
The Legion's ancient warrior patted the dust from his armor. His gaze immediately fixed on the Shadow Champion. He remained silent, his eyes moving back and forth across the black armor and its unique, simple patterns. When he spoke, it was a statement of affirmation.
"Ezio."
The Shadow Champion, Ezio, first nodded, then saluted the Legion elder.
The Legion's ancient warrior returned the salute, moving his nose as if sniffing something, then he frowned.
"Which Ezio are you?"
The Shadow Champion held up three fingers, which startled Kyron. His voice also became somewhat forlorn.
"What about the previous one?"
"Rusmul Prime, Orks."
The Shadow Champion's hoarse voice echoed in the room, plunging the Legion's ancient warrior into a brief sadness. However, after a few breaths, he recovered, urging them to quickly begin their mission.
And as the Second Legion squad, now five members strong, bid farewell to the Salamanders defending the position and vanished into the ruins amidst the covering fire of friendly forces, Hektor seized an opening and used a private comm channel to ask his teacher.
"What is Ezio?"
"A title, a legacy."
The wind lashed against the faces of everyone in the squad, bringing the scent of continuous artillery fire and fresh blood from afar.
The Shadow Champion did not move with them; he led by several paces, his afterimage guiding the Hunter Squad.
"The legacy of the Fourth Fleet? Is this also part of the Shadow Operations?"
"Somewhat. The faction working in the shadows has over a century of history in the Legion. Their system is very complete: there are five Lords of Shadows, each symbolizing a direction. The five directions together form the 'Shadow Operations.' The strongest Lord of Shadows will have a seat in the council and preside over the Ring of the Pale Moon."
"And those whose status is only slightly lower than the Lords of Shadows are the Shadow Champions. Each Champion has a unique designation, and when a successor inherits the Champion's position, they inherit that designation. If there is no suitable successor, the Champion's position remains vacant until someone gains the recognition and approval of more than half of the Lords of Shadows."
"Ezio is one of them."
"Shadow Champion..."
Hektor's eyes flickered as he softly uttered the title. In the entire squad, he was the only one who could clearly see the Shadow Champion's afterimage, so he, as always, charged at the very front, leading his battle-brothers.
"Are they always alone like this?"
The ancient warrior's laughter sounded in his ear.
"Other Shadow Champions may not be, but Ezio, indeed, is always alone. He possesses such strength, such a character."
"Such a destiny."
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