“How much ammunition is left?” Tarkus’s voice was calm, as if he hadn’t just undergone a life-and-death struggle.
“Three magazines,” Avitus answered.
“Two,” Thaddeus said.
No one asked, “What do we do?” Because there was only one answer: hold the position until the ammunition ran out and the supplies were gone.
Just then, the sky darkened once more.
It wasn’t spore pods, but more like the low-frequency vibration of a steel raptor flapping its wings.
A massive shadow tore through the purplish-red clouds, diving down with vengeful fury.
Thunderhawk Gunship.
The multiple sets of Twin-linked heavy bolters and Lascannons on the fuselage belly fired simultaneously, plowing two burning furrows through the densest part of the swarm.
The Tyranid Lictors and Termagants that had seemed unstoppable just moments ago were shredded like paper before the aerial firepower.
“Techmarine Matellus calling ground units.” A cold, hard mechanical voice came through the vox-channel, “Arrived at the extraction point.
All personnel, board immediately.” The thunderhawk hovered over the sides of the plaza, the hatches opened, and the metal ramps slammed heavily onto the scorched ground.
There was no cheering.
The Astartes moved in silence.
Tarkus and Avitus supported the unconscious Captain Tuer, carrying him toward the nearest thunderhawk.
Tuer’s power armor was pitted and corroded, and black toxins were seeping out of the cracks, emitting a nauseating stench of decay.
Thaddeus bent down and hoisted the corpse of a Tactical Space Marine onto his shoulder.
The warrior’s breastplate had been torn open, and the inside was empty.
Another Scout was collecting the Bolters and badges scattered on the ground—relics belonging to the fallen brothers.
For these warriors, living brothers must be saved, and fallen brothers must be brought back.
“mortals!
Board!” Matellus’s voice came from the hatch, carrying a sense of unquestionable command.
Alex entered and looked back at the group of Defense Forces veterans behind him.
Tros and a dozen or so Soldiers who had followed him all the way from the desert.
Their faces were covered in blood and filth, their eyes showing both the relief of surviving a disaster and awe for the giant steel bird.
“Quick!
Everyone get on!” The veterans scrambled toward the hatch.
But after the first group stepped onto the ramp, Matellus raised a mechanical arm, blocking those behind.
“Enough.” “Load capacity has reached its limit.
Remaining personnel, wait for the next wave.” Inside the cabin, Alex glanced at the corpses occupying a large amount of space, then at the veterans blocked outside the ramp.
He didn’t ask why they didn’t throw the corpses out; that would be too stupid.
The secured Astartes corpses took up most of the floor space, like an insurmountable steel tomb, crowding the living into the outermost corners.
Tros and the few veterans who had boarded first were huddled in the gaps between the bulkhead and the ammunition crates, not daring to make a sound.
There was clearly still room.
Clearly, more people could be squeezed in if they stood.
But that space was reserved for dignity—the dignity of fallen demigods.
Seven or eight veterans were blocked outside, their expressions turning from ecstasy to bewilderment, and then from bewilderment to despair.
One very young Soldier’s lips were trembling, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, nothing came out.
In the arithmetic of angels, a dead demigod was more valuable than a living mortal.
“Wait.” Alex avoided the blocking Servo-arm and tried to head out.
“I’ll get off.
Give this spot to—” He wanted to give his spot to that young Soldier; after all, he was an old veteran of the battlefield, and he could leave after dying.
A massive iron hand grabbed him directly by the back of his collar.
Alex’s feet left the ground like a picked-up chick, and his vision spun instantly.
“Ugh—!” He was slammed onto the cold, non-slip floor of the cabin.
His body adjusted quickly in mid-air, landing steadily without touching the corpses of the fallen warriors.
Avitus stood at the hatch, his massive frame blocking all light.
He looked down at Alex, coldness flickering in his red lenses.
Obviously, he didn’t quite agree with Alex’s suggestion.
“You still have value to The Emperor, mortal.” “What about them?!” Alex pointed outside the hatch.
Avitus didn’t answer, returning to his seat to check his own weapons.
The Tyranid swarm had already overflowed the wall of fire.
A purple ocean was surging from all directions—tens of millions of hungers.
With the roar of the hydraulic system, the thunderhawk’s ramp began to slowly retract.
The veterans left behind didn’t cry out, didn’t curse, and didn’t even try to rush and grab the hatch.
After that moment of despair, they quickly regained the numbness and resilience characteristic of Calderis people.
A wrinkled veteran straightened his tattered Flak armor and stood tall.
Toward the ascending thunderhawk, toward the angels abandoning them through the gap in the hatch, he slowly performed an aquila salute.
Tarkus stood at the edge of the hatch, looking down at those figures destined for death, his voice piercing through the roar of the engines.
“The Emperor will remember your sacrifice, Soldiers.” The hatch closed…
The cabin was silent, except for the vibration as the engines climbed.
Alex leaned against an ammunition crate.
Beside him, Tros was huddled in a corner, his face pale, his lips moving incessantly as if reciting some prayer.
No one spoke.
The Astartes silently checked their weapons or watched over the unconscious Captain.
To them, this was a tactical choice, an inevitability of maximizing utility.
“We abandoned them.
Didn’t we?” Alex spoke suddenly.
His voice was calm, without anger or accusation.
The red giant turned his head, his electronic eyes flickering under the dim red light.
Tarkus didn’t hesitate or offer any excuses; this was the Astartes, a rationality born for war.
“Yes.” Just one word.
Clean and crisp.
Alex nodded.
No one knew what he remembered in that moment—perhaps a Soldier who died in his arms, or a Titan that was still calling his name before it exploded.
As long as it’s war, it’s the same everywhere.
It’s rotten to the core.
He looked up, staring straight into Tarkus’s lenses, and said something that made everyone in the cabin stop what they were doing: “Then grant them mercy.” The air seemed to drop to the freezing point.
Thaddeus, who was wiping his Chainsword, stopped; Matellus, who was monitoring the Captain’s condition, turned his head; and the silent Cyrus looked up.
Those indifferent gazes belonging to demigods converged on this grease-covered mortal.
Alex did not look away.
He was a Pilot; he had fought battles destined for death.
He knew what would happen down there—being torn apart alive, watching one’s own entrails being hollowed out in extreme terror.
Tarkus stared at him.
Those red electronic eyes were re-evaluating the mortal before him.
The Blood Ravens Chapter would cherish these valuable assets, whether they were items or people.
Tarkus nodded slightly.
He pressed the vox-button, his tone solemn.
“Target the extraction point.” “Execute suppression bombardment.” Alex closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cold bulkhead.
Boom— Boom— Boom— The fuselage vibrated slightly.
Even through the thick armor, the waves of destruction from below could be felt.
The thunderhawk was carpet-bombing the plaza they had just left.
Purifying those filthy Xenos and the heroic Soldiers together.
Silence fell over the cabin once more.
But this time, the oppressive atmosphere had changed.
Avitus lowered his head and continued pressing bolter rounds into the magazines.
But at that moment, he let out a very soft grunt—no longer of contempt, but a kind of recognition between warriors.
Tarkus released the vox-communicator and looked at Alex.
“The Emperor has accepted their souls.”