The screaming of the Bolters, like blades tearing through cloth, instantly drowned out the moans of the walking dead, a mix of pain and blasphemy!
A dense, precise rain of bullets poured down, like the Holy Wrath unleashed by the Emperor, fiercely piercing through those already rotten and decaying bodies.
Every Bolt round exploded into a foul fireworks display on its target.
Pus-filled, putrid stench and fragments of decaying flesh were violently thrown into the air by the raging force, drawing sickening trajectories under the dim yellow sky.
An overwhelmingly sweet yet deadly stench, like a tangible poisonous mist, instantly permeated and thickly enveloped the entire battlefield.
Nurgle's "blessing" bestowed upon these walking dead a detestable, tenacious life.
Many monsters, with limbs blown off or even half their bodies shattered, still dragged their worm-infested remains, driven solely by their twisted will.
They left viscous trails on the ground with their remaining, flesh-hanging teeth, or pus-glowing bone claws, or the ends of their broken limbs from which murky fluid flowed.
They struggled to crawl towards the Ash Knights' iron front line, which gleamed with the Imperial Aquila.
Immediately following, the roaring of Chainsword rose and fell, like the most violent and resolute chorus in a purifying hymn!
The high-speed rotating, filth-caked Chainsword blades finally met these blasphemous existences.
"Rip—Crunch!" Piercing sounds were endless.
It was a death symphony of tough, decaying flesh and sinews being forcibly torn, and rotten bones being violently sawn apart!
Each swing was accompanied by foul blood spurting like a fountain.
Bone fragments and decayed tissue splattered like rain onto the Terminators' heavy, stern Power Armor, leaving instantly congealed, blasphemous marks.
Close-range Plague Marines or the most stubborn of the walking dead were ultimately dismembered by this destructive force.
They were reduced to piles of intensely foul-smelling, blasphemous remains that could no longer pose a threat.
The Terminators, these walking effigies of the Emperor, formed an unbreakable iron dam on the battlefield.
They advanced with heavy, mountain-like steps.
Every step seemed to make the ravaged ground of Ague VII tremble.
They pushed forward like an unstoppable iron torrent.
Each roar of a Storm Bolter was like a heavy Warhammer smashing fiercely into a decaying coffin.
Hordes of approaching walking dead were blasted into pieces, limbs flying everywhere.
Shattered torsos were even hurled backward by the immense impact, crashing into the foul ranks of their own kind.
However, Nurgle's twisted grace was omnipresent.
Still, some of the walking dead, using abnormally overgrown limbs, hardened scabs embedded in their decaying flesh, or the cover of battlefield ruins, stubbornly continued to writhe, crawl, and even stagger closer.
Giant Power Fists, enveloped in the chilling, bone-piercing, deadly blue glow of a disintegration field, struck the more powerful blasphemers like battering rams, accompanied by a shriek that tore through the air.
These blasphemers were Nurgle's warriors, wielding rusted Plague Warhammers, stumbling but exuding a chilling, blasphemous resolve!
"Thud—Squish!"
Each heavy blow was accompanied by the screeching groan of metal being violently crushed and twisted.
Each heavy blow was also accompanied by the dull thud of bones shattering under extreme pressure!
The thick Nurgle Plague Plate Armor, along with the festering, pus-filled, yet supernaturally tough flesh beneath it due to warp energy, was smashed deep, dented, and twisted out of shape!
Foul, viscous, and living-like writhing pus-blood, like a violently burst giant abscess, spurted wildly from the deformed armor seams.
The pus-blood splattered onto the Terminators' gleaming armor, emitting a sizzling, corrosive sound.
The vitality of these Plague Marines was abnormally tenacious!
Even with their chest armor caved in and their internal organs turned to pulp beneath the fist, they often only stumbled back a few steps.
They squeezed out indistinct, malicious roars from deep within their rotten throats.
Relying on the unnatural support of their grotesquely overgrown bones and decaying muscles, after a brief pause, they would again swing their weapons, oblivious to pain and heedless of destruction.
Dragging their even more shattered, filth-dripping bodies, carrying an even denser, almost suffocating stench and a purer blasphemous will, they again surged forward like an unstoppable wave of decay!
Every kill by the Terminators had to be a more thorough, more brutal, and more destructive strike.
As if to completely erase their very existence from the material universe.
"Left flank! Plague Buboe Cannon! Focus fire! Watch their decaying flesh armor!" The crimson glow of a Terminator squad member's helmet optics locked firmly onto the target.
A cold, emotionless voice exploded in the internal comms channel.
A hint of solemnity hidden beneath it, like a turbulent current surging beneath ice.
Those blasphemous turrets, formed from writhing decaying flesh, rock-hard pus scabs, and grotesquely protruding bone spurs, possessed a twisted, resilient defense far beyond that of ordinary walking dead or Plague Marines.
Several Fifth Company heavy weapon veterans, clad in Gravis Pattern Heavy Power Armor, responded immediately as if answering a holy summons.
Their heavy magnetic boots crushed the foul rocks and congealed decaying fluids beneath their feet.
Each step emitted a dull "squish" of rock cracking under immense pressure, mixed with the squeezing of viscous fluids.
They swiftly and steadily stabilized their position, standing shoulder to shoulder to form a mobile iron fortress.
On their thick shoulder and chest plates, coolant circulated in complex pipe circuits, gleaming with a cold, faint light.
Under the eerie light of Aigē VII Planet, forever shrouded in a sickly yellow-green mist, they appeared exceptionally grim and cold.
Like arbiters who had just emerged from a sacred forge.
Gravis Armor granted them mountain-like protection and rock-solid stability, surpassing standard Power Armor.
Making them an irreplaceable heavy fire support pillar on the battlefield.
Heavy weapon veteran Brock, code-named "Broken Hammer," had a sharp, black broken Warhammer insignia clearly visible on the side of his heavy Gravis Armor's shoulder plate—a symbol of his honor.
His thick arms were as steady as a rock, and the hydraulic joints hummed lowly with his movements.
At this moment, this strength perfectly controlled the ferocious recoil of the "Punisher" Heavy Bolter.
With each shot, the heavy armor frame trembled, and the already crushed rock powder mixed with foul blood on the ground was again shaken into a spray.
His target was the nearest blasphemous buboe cannon.
The swollen buboe was emitting a chilling, pulsating green light, like a dying heartbeat, reaching critical charge.
The surface of the buboe was almost transparent, with swirling, highly toxic pus clearly visible.
"For Dorn! For the Emperor!" Brock's roar in the comms channel was muffled yet resolute, every word seeming to be squeezed out of an iron chest cavity, carrying a rough texture.
He pulled the trigger: Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom—!
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