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This was the last one.
Jorin Bloodhowl's power armor was laden with ammunition, rattling in the narrow passage. In one hand, he held his bolter, and in the other,
he gripped his excessively large power axe. His grayish-white MKII helmet hung carelessly at his waist, swinging wildly with the Wolf Lord's frantic charge.
He breathed violently, fervently, joyfully, large gusts of hot air surrounding his overly aged face, yet still unable to conceal his primal hunger for the hunt.
He craved to hack off every Duran's head, or simply tear out their throats, ripping their ridiculous power armor into mere fragments. It made no difference.
This was the last one, the last Duran fortress.
This pile of shit war was finally coming to an end.
He howled, cheered, charging recklessly through the narrow, dim passage like a true alpha wolf, letting out a chaotic, disordered long howl. This savage cry was not alone; the moment his voice fell, at least fifty chaotic, wailing howls erupted one after another, responding to their alpha wolf.
This corridor was dark and long, but the Astartes' full-speed sprint quickly conquered it. Jorin almost prostrated himself towards the light at the end: that was the only corner of this orbital fortress that had not yet succumbed to the Imperium, the last piece left by this battle.
He charged in. Dazzling light instantly replaced the previous second's pitch black. Jorin's amber pupils flashed with bursts of light, instantly discerning the situation in the room, and his body's reaction speed was even faster.
A squad of Duran professional soldiers, known as the [Fahi], were stationed there, about a hundred of them. These mortal opponents had locked themselves in power armor as tall as the Astartes. At the other end of the room, they had formed a formation most suitable for a volley, awaiting the advance of the Space Wolves.
Jorin observed their clumsy armor: compared to the agile Astartes, the Duran's armor appeared incredibly heavy and cumbersome.
Every movement was comically slow, but these round-headed things were not without their headaches: every single Fahi soldier's armor was tightly encased in a faint energy shield, making any long-range hunting method futile.
The weapons called "interruption guns" fired their first volley of bullets in unison the moment the Space Wolves charged in, whistling piercingly, vibrating the air. The Sons of Russ who couldn't dodge in time let out pained roars.
On their bodies, scattered armor fragments and melted flesh were mixed together, like disgusting boils. The Duran's specialized bullets were molecularly rearranging what they bit into. The warriors hit in the chest and thighs staggered, while those hit in the helmet fell silently.
Jorin knew he had to do something.
The Wolf Lord, commanding the Thirteenth Great Company of the Space Wolves Legion, having just dodged the first round of attacks, raised his power axe high.
"For Russ and the Allfather!"
He roared, he shouted, charging first towards the Duran's formation. All warriors still able to move responded to his call with roars and howls. Dozens of Space Wolves formed a gray hurricane, sweeping before the Duran in the blink of an eye.
This was not a reckless charge. In fact, this battle had been going on for nine months. The Wolf Lord had personally hacked off the heads of no fewer than a hundred Duran warriors. He knew how to fight these stubborn enemies; he knew a lot.
For example, although the Duran's armor possessed a teeth-grinding defense, these clumsy behemoths, once knocked to the ground, could not get up on their own.
Also, for example, although the Duran's weapons could genuinely threaten an Astartes' life, these narrow-barreled guns simply couldn't fire continuously: for every bullet fired, they had to laboriously reload.
Furthermore, the Duran's proudly boasted shields, especially the personal shields they used to protect elite warriors, actually couldn't withstand the powerful impacts of an Astartes, or the fiercely swung swords, spears, axes, and halberds.
(Don't ask me what's up with these stupid settings; GW wrote it this way. Yes, Duran, a miraculous nation that can kill an Astartes with one shot, yet has to use single-shot weapons.)
Second round, third round. The Duran were not brainless brutes. They formed the oldest three-stage firing line, ensuring all bullets could be fired in the shortest time possible. With the sound of gunfire, several more Space Wolves fell on their charge, but the sacrifice was worth it. Jorin and his warriors had reached the Duran's front lines.
The slaughter began.
Dozens of Space Wolves, like giant hailstones, instantly pierced through the Duran's formation. Huge swords found their best stage.
All Sons of Russ gripped their weapons with all their might, swinging them down fiercely. Immense power instantly shattered the psychic shield, sending fatal blades into the Duran's chests and throats.
The Sons of Leman Russ continuously roared, tore, punched, and kicked. Waves of attacks and counterattacks came one after another. The entire hall was filled with bloody slaughter and life-and-death violence.
Chaotic armor parts and severed limbs rolled around the room. Blood flowed freely, staining the Duran's dragon flags woven with deep crimson and black threads.
Forty seconds later, everything ended.
Jorin raised his axe high, chopping off the head of the enemy beneath him. This guy, who had stubbornly resisted, had been tackled to the ground by him in the previous melee, yet still fiercely threw three heavy punches, causing the Wolf Lord a delayed pain.
The master of the Thirteenth Great Company began to survey the battlefield, which had been utterly reduced to ruins, and counted his warriors: he had brought sixty men to clear this last stronghold, and in this small room, he had permanently lost three of them.
Such sacrifices were commonplace. Jorin only sadly watched the Apothecary perform his duties, but fortunately, none of the injured comrades had suffered fatal wounds; they only needed some time to rest.
The Wolf Lord took a deep breath, inhaling the cool air mixed with blood and carrion, and then exhaled a long, foul-smelling breath.
Finally, damn it, it was over.
Months of hide-and-seek, a chase and slaughter spanning almost an entire star sector, repeatedly knocking down Duran fortresses, repeatedly annihilating the same opponents stationed there, and losing a few comrades along the way.
These Duran idiots even set up the same number of troops to defend their fortresses every time; it was always nine companies.
"Tell our Gene-Father that the last fortress has also been taken by us."
Jorin called upon his confidant, giving simple instructions.
"We have conquered the last stronghold. If those oil-heads' decryption codes are correct, the next star system from this Mandeville Point will be Duran. Our final destination. That scoundrel Duras is hiding in some star system there, waiting for our Gene-Father to take his head."
"We must be fast, very fast. Who knows how far the Dark Angels have advanced by now..."
He was still giving orders, somewhat rambling, but a harsh voice from Bravier in the communicator rudely interrupted him.
"Jorin! You must see this!"
The Wolf Lord's brows furrowed, like a twisted glacier.
"What's wrong again?!"
Bravier paused. Jorin could hear sharp reprimands and the most savage, purely beast-like howls from his end of the communication.
His comrade was clearly restraining something, stopping some entity that could destroy the Legion from completely losing control.
Jorin didn't notice that his voice had begun to tremble.
"Again?"
"...Yes, it's that situation with Harald again, and this time there are two of them."
"...Fuck this."
Russ, Allfather, what the hell is going on?
Facing endless death and blood, encountering foul-smelling wreckage and rotting flesh, Jorin never even frowned. But now, his brows were knotted tightly.
He remembered Harald, poor Harald, such a young and lovely warrior. No one disliked him; he was a model Legionary. Jorin had even considered promoting him exceptionally.
But that was in the past. Harald's life had been claimed by Mokai, forever frozen two weeks ago. Jorin himself had given the order to execute him, granting him the final mercy in his moment of endless agony.
(Mokai: A spirit related to death in Fenrisian native mythology, seemingly a giant wolf)
Jorin still remembered Harald's last appearance: he was no longer human.
His armor was torn to shreds by his swollen body, smeared with bloody, oozing entrails and chunks of flesh. Wild, tangled fur grew frantically from his limbs, even obscuring his once handsome face.
His hands and feet were transforming into pure claws, and he crouched on the ground like a beast. There was no longer a glimmer of humanity or a warrior's light in his eyes.
Jorin had tried to comfort him, to control him, to awaken the human part of him with words and honor.
But he failed.
The best new blood in the Legion fell under his own comrades' gunfire. He didn't even die as a pure human. In his last moments, he howled at the sky like a true beast, his eyes filled only with pure hunting desire for his comrades, until the bolter's muzzle flash turned him into a pulpy mess.
...Fuck this.
What a truly awful way to die.
Jorin's heart roared, but he was helpless.
"Should we inform the Father?"
Bravier's already hoarse voice, distorted by the poor signal of the communicator, became even more grating.
"This isn't the first or second time, Jorin. This kind of situation happens almost every battle. This is clearly not something that can be ignored..."
"Don't worry about it for now."
Jorin could hear his fangs grinding together.
"The war is paramount. Let's just consider them as having sacrificed themselves as our battle brothers. Before we smash Duran, don't let this kind of thing disturb our Gene-Father. And, you know, there are still outsiders in this star sector."
Bravier nodded.
"I understand. I'll handle it."
Jorin said nothing more. He was silent, listening to everything on the other end of the communicator: futile attempts to stop and persuade, uncontrolled roars, and the sudden sound of gunfire.
...
To hell with it.
They had to smash Duran soon, and then resolve these messes without anyone knowing. They had to be careful; they couldn't let others know, especially the Dark Angels...
He wondered how far they had advanced.
ââââââ
"This is Duran, sir."
When the first battleship, emblazoned with swords and wings, crossed the Mandeville Point of the Duran system, not even a shadow of the Space Wolves' vanguard could be seen.
The Lion's most trusted son stood beside him. Corswain softly reported the names of the first batch of warships committed to battle: the [Redemption Flame], the [Sword of Numark], the [Unbending Truth]...
These most powerful Legion warships drove more escort ships, and as the vanguard of Lion El'Jonson's will, they charged towards the last Duran fleet.
A full-scale engagement between fighter squadrons was the first to unfold. This small star system was quickly filled with all sorts of laser rays: explosions, flames, and metal fragments. Randomly drifting debris even obscured the view from the [Unbending Truth].
Through a scrying box, the First Legion's Primarch could clearly observe everything he wanted to know, whether it was the specific situation of the slightly dim Duran star,
or the position and status of each warship under his command. All data was recorded by Lion El'Jonson in his mind, serving as a footnote to a perfect campaign.
Lion El'Jonson didn't actually care much about the merits related to this Duran nation. He never cared about these minor skirmishes involving only a single star system or world. But this didn't mean he would treat everything with a reckless attitude.
In the final stage, his fleet almost swaggered into the Duran system. If his never-before-seen brother was so foolish as to miss even this opportunity, then he deserved to miss the essence of this war.
Thinking of this, a sarcastic smile couldn't help but appear on Lion El'Jonson's lips. But then he realized that this was not the time to think about such things. He needed to face the impending war with the utmost effort: just as he had done before.
The interstellar slaughter played out in the Primarch's pupils. He watched his fleet gradually break through the Duran's first space defense line. The offensive momentum had already somewhat weakened, but Duran's defensive power had not yet been truly struck.
He needed some reliable, powerful, and efficient methods, even if only as a contingency.
Thinking of this, Lion El'Jonson turned his head to look at Corswain, who was beside him.
[Go summon Morgana.]
Corswain nodded in agreement, but just as he turned to leave, Lion El'Jonson seemed to remember something.
[Oh, and tell her...]
[To dress formally.]
[I recall the Forge Convent has a set of power armor specifically made for mortal women. Tell her to wear that one.]
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