The alloy gates of the Gate of Angels locked in the distance, like two mountains grinding against each other.
The hum of the generator sets had just stabilized when Cyrus’s figure seeped out from the shadows of the ventilation ducts like a wisp of ominous smoke.
“It seems we have more than one kind of guest.” The scout Sergeant lit up a corner of the tactical map; an industrial storage area on the north side of the Gate of Angels was marked in red.
“Greenskins,” Cyrus’s voice was as calm as if he were reading a menu.
“Their numbers are increasing.
They are forcibly breaching the warehouse gates in the North District.” Alex leaned against the casing of the generator that had just cooled down.
“…Eldar, Tyranids, and now Orks.” He looked up at the purplish-red sky.
“A gathering of great minds indeed.” Tarkus ignored Alex’s eccentric remarks and directly connected to Derosa’s channel.
“Derosa, North District warehouse.” Derosa’s image flickered; her gaze swept over the coordinates on the map, and her expression changed slightly.
“That’s…
the Vandis family’s private storage area.” “Wow.” Alex raised an eyebrow and spun the beat-up Lasgun in his hand.
“Private warehouse?
Looks like we can go open our eyes and see how much this vermin has embezzled.” Derosa’s sharp eyes narrowed through the screen as she took a deep look at this mortal who was always interjecting.
She seemed to be carving this face into her memory—either for a future decoration or a future silencing.
“The records were deleted.” Derosa withdrew her gaze, her tone stiff.
“Vandis formatted the logistics logs before evacuating.
I can only speculate…
that some kind of heavy weaponry that interests the Orks is hidden inside.” “No matter what it is.” Avitus clicked a new magazine of bolter rounds into the feed port, the heavy gun body thudding onto the ground and kicking up a circle of dust.
“Imperial assets must never fall into the hands of xenos.
Especially Greenskins.” Tarkus made a swift decision, turning around, his red lenses locking onto Alex.
“We need rapid mobility; we must split our forces.
The Gate of Angels has just closed; without guards, the bugs will counterattack at any moment.” Before Tarkus could finish, Alex’s eyes lit up.
Brighter than the generator.
“I’ll stay!” Alex answered resolutely, even taking a step forward for fear these red tin cans would change their minds.
“You guys go after the Orks!
Leave this place to me!
I guarantee not a single bug gets through!” This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Away from these giants who were always blocking bullets for him, couldn’t he die however he wanted?
Facing the Tyranid Swarm, heroically holding the rear, and finally being submerged in chitin and claws—perfect.
Thaddeus walked over and patted his shoulder plate.
The force wasn’t great—but Alex still almost fell to his knees.
“Don’t be in such a hurry to die.” Thaddeus’s tone was like that of someone advising a younger brother with a death wish.
“You’re quite…
useful right now.” “Hear that?” Avitus interjected.
“Useful.
Don’t waste it.” Alex rolled his eyes.
“Thanks for the compliment.
I’m so moved I want to cry.” Tarkus ignored his performance.
He turned to Merrick.
“Your men are under his command.” “By your command, Angel!” Tarkus looked back at Alex and simply nodded.
Then he turned and led the Astartes charging toward the north side.
As the sound of the Astartes’ footsteps faded at the end of the corridor, Alex immediately turned to look at the dozens of mortal Soldiers behind him, who were looking at him expectantly.
Sergeant Merrick was looking at him with a gaze full of worship.
Alex looked up toward the Gate of Angels, then listened to the increasingly dense scratching sounds coming from the grates beneath his feet.
He clicked his tongue.
“Alright.” He wiped away some rain.
“Group up.
Five to a group, hold every intersection.” He pointed out several directions, his movements so fast it was as if he had done this countless times before.
“You—take two groups to the eastern vents; don’t let anything crawl out of the pipes.
You—gather the extra weapons at this corner.
The rest of you, check your guns—I don’t want to hear just a ‘fizz’ and then nothing when you open fire.” The Soldiers were stunned for a moment.
Then, as if they had finally found something they could do, they scattered, beginning to run, carry, load, and set up defenses.
Alex’s team was like a screw being tightened, quickly becoming respectable.
Merrick followed at his side, whispering as they ran: “Sir, were you…
an officer before?” Alex kicked a half-melted bug corpse aside, his lips twitching.
“I used to have one of those professions—running on walls, falling from the sky, and still getting chewed out by superiors for why I wasn’t dead yet.” Merrick didn’t understand, but he nodded seriously.
“Sounds like a trial from the Emperor.” “How so?” — Having assigned everyone a task, Alex stood in the middle of the empty hall with satisfaction.
“Come on, babies.” He spread his arms toward the dark sewer entrance.
“Come at me.” However, the only response was the sound of dripping water.
Whether it was because the residual killing intent was too heavy or because the death of that Hive Tyrant caused the Tyranid Swarm to abandon this place, the originally restless sewers had become eerily quiet.
Alex: “…” He kicked a stone on the ground.
— Meanwhile, at the North District warehouse.
“WAAAGH!!!” Roars rising one after another shattered the warehouse windows.
When Tarkus led the team around the corner, the place had already become a greenskin carnival.
Dozens of Ork Boys were using crude methods to dismantle a massive blast door.
“For the Emperor!
Charge!” Thaddeus activated his jump pack, crashing into the mass of Orks like a red meteor.
His Chainsword roared, instantly whipping up a storm of blood and gore.
Avitus set up his heavy bolter, his precise bursts cutting those Orks trying to shoulder rocket launchers in half.
But this group of Orks didn’t seem interested in staying and fighting.
They didn’t even crave a melee as they usually did; instead, while hooting and hollering, they frantically burrowed deep into the warehouse, as if something inside was more attractive than opening “tin cans”.
“They’re looting!” Cyrus, cloaked on a beam, blew off an Ork Nob’s head with a single shot.
“Stop them!” Tarkus kicked open the door that had been half-cut through.
The scene inside the warehouse was revealed to everyone.
The warehouse was filled with exquisite display cases covered in dust cloths.
Some cases had already been smashed by the Orks, their contents scattered all over the floor.
There were suits of armor and weapons of all kinds, but they weren’t the mass-produced goods of the Imperial Guard.
They were pieces of power armor painted in blood-red and bone-white.
A tattered but still majestic battle standard lay on the ground, embroidered with a black raven clutching a drop of blood.
Long-discontinued Godwyn-pattern Bolters, their frames inscribed with litanies from centuries ago.
There was even a Terminator helmet being worn like a hat by a filthy Gretchin.
The air suddenly froze.
This was no private warehouse of the Vandis family.
This was the stash of stolen relics belonging to the Blood Ravens Chapter, hidden away by that piece of filth Vandis.
“…” Avitus stopped firing.
He looked at the Gretchin kicking the Terminator helmet like a ball, and at the Chapter banner soiled by Ork footprints.
His shoulders began to tremble violently with a rage enough to shatter ceramite armor.
“VAN—DIS!!!” A roar that seemed to come from the depths of hell.
Avitus dropped his Bolter and crushed the Gretchin desecrating the holy relic with his bare hands.
Then he slammed the remains along with an onrushing Ork against the wall, the entire wall collapsing instantly under the weight of his furious strength.
“I’m going to find him…” He crushed the chest cavity of an Ork that wasn’t quite dead yet with one foot.
He leaned down and, as if cradling a newborn infant, tremblingly picked up the soiled banner.
When he looked up again, a literal killing intent burned in those green lenses.
“I’m going to find him.” “And then I will grind every single one of his bones into ash.” Tarkus did not stop him.
Because at this moment, even this most level-headed captain’s hand, gripping his Bolter, was creaking from excessive force.
“Recover the relics.” “That traitorous Governor…
he’d better pray he dies in space.” ————————
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”