Silas took the device from the signalman and pressed the play button.
The video shook violently, clearly recorded in extreme panic by a scout.
Beside the poisonous puddle deep in the Underhive ruins, there was no sign of the greenskins, replaced instead by a group of staggering humanoid creatures.
Their uniforms had long rotted into tattered rags, their abdomens were bloated, and intestines along with dark yellow pus dragged across the ground.
Unarmed, they merely held their mutilated mouths open, letting out muffled, indistinct grunts.
At the edge of the screen, the corpse of an Ork Boy was tackled by several Walking Corpses; within just a few seconds, the sturdy green body began to blacken and rot, sprouting nauseating poisonous mushrooms.
Silas paused the video, looked up at Roya, his voice dry and raspy, “My Lord.
They are Nurgle’s Plague Zombies.
Their numbers are immense, spreading upward through the lower conduits.” Roya stared at the bloated corpses in the projection, his brows knitted tightly.
The minions of Nurgle, the Chaos God.
Once Nurgle’s plague spread, the civilian shelter housing five million people behind them would turn into a living hell in an instant.
Other parts of this planet would fall as well, completely overrun by Nurgle!
Fortunately, they had encountered him.
“Things just got lively,” Roya turned off the projection.
“Foros, immediately send your men back to orbit and bring down those two sets of terminator power armor.
Make it fast!” Foros did not hesitate for a second, turning to gesture to the signalman beside him.
Several Lamenters Space Marines quickly ran toward the Thunderhawk Gunship at the rear.
Roya pulled back his gaze, focusing on the status bar at the bottom of his vision.
After the slaughter of the greenskin army just now, the green experience number had securely settled at “12”.
Converting a Villager required 5 levels of experience, which was currently enough to convert two people.
Roya raised his head, scanning back and forth between Caan and Foros.
Of these two, one was a veteran sergeant of the Ultramarines, and the other was a Space Marine Chapter Master—both were highly valuable, high-tier combatants.
“Caan, Foros,” Roya spoke, his voice echoing in the hollow passage.
“You have witnessed this power.
Now, I ask you, are you willing to receive…
the divine blessing of the Emperor?” To save himself the trouble of explaining, Roya decisively pinned the credit onto the Master of Terra upon the Golden Throne.
Hearing this, Caan showed not a shred of hesitation.
He slammed his right fist against his chestplate and dropped to one knee: “My honor, My Lord!
The Ultramarines stand ready to sacrifice everything for the Emperor.” Foros, however, froze in place.
He looked at Roya and involuntarily lowered his head.
The several Lamenters veterans around him also bowed their heads unconsciously, their hands gripping their Bolters trembling slightly.
Pessimism, lack of confidence, and even a deep-seated feeling of inferiority permeated among these Space Marines.
Ever since their Founding, the Lamenters had endured far too many betrayals, disasters, and desperate struggles facing total annihilation.
They always harbored the noblest intentions to rescue mortals, yet what they received in return was often suspicion and even more tragic sacrifices.
“My Lord,” Foros said in a low voice laden with barely concealed bitterness, “the Lamenters are a cursed Chapter.
Wherever we go, we bring misfortune.
This sacred blessing…
am I truly worthy of it?
Are we truly worthy?” Looking at the battle-worn Chapter Master before him, a strange emotion flickered through Roya’s heart.
Stepping forward, he looked straight into Foros’s eyes, his tone firm: “Listen to me, Foros.
Your sacrifices, every drop of blood you’ve shed, every bullet you’ve blocked for civilians—the man sitting on the Throne has been watching all along.
He has never abandoned you.
He is deeply pleased with everything you have done.” Those words detonated in the air of the Underhive.
Within the ranks of the Lamenters, a dead silence fell.
A few seconds later, a Lamenters veteran’s shoulders began to twitch violently, and a warm drop of liquid slid from the eye lens beneath his helmet.
Then a second, and a third.
These Astartes battle-brothers, who remained unblinking on meat-grinder battlefields and never retreated a single step before xenos, broke down completely before this simple sentence.
Foros’s throat bobbed.
He violently yanked off his helmet, revealing a face covered in scars and tear tracks.
He dropped heavily to one knee: “My Lord, I am willing!” Roya issued the command in his mind.
“Consume 10 experience levels.
Conversion targets: Caan, Foros.” A crisp system sound effect echoed in Roya’s mind.
The experience bar instantly dropped down to “2”.
The instant the experience was deducted, a blinding surge of golden light burst forth from within Roya once more.
Sacred and domineering, this radiance unreasonably repelled all foulness and chill in the surroundings.
The warm light bathed every Lamenters Space Marine, dispelling the haze that had lingered in their hearts for years.
“I knew Huang Pizi was watching me.” Sensing the lighting effects inside him, Roya cursed inwardly.
The one on the Golden Throne was clearly playing along again, freeloading on the dramatic impact brought by his system conversion.
The light faded.
As the two stood up, they felt the world before their eyes had undergone a subtle change.
A neat grid overlay appeared across their vision, and when they looked at Roya, a sense of absolute, heart-felt obedience and intimacy surpassed even their instinctive reverence for their respective Primarchs.
“Titus,” Roya waved his hand over.
“Take Caan and Foros to the Mob Grinder at the back.
Teach them how to check drops and how to use the workbench.” “As you command, My Lord.” Titus strode over.
As the earliest “Villager” in these ruins aside from Roya, he actually felt a strange sense of pride in showing the newcomers the ropes.
Especially since one was a veteran of his own Chapter, and the other was a Chapter Master from a cousin Chapter.
Titus led Caan and Foros over to a workbench.
Pulling several wooden planks from his hidden inventory, he quickly arranged them before the two officers.
“Sirs, look closely.
This is a crafting recipe.” As Titus spoke, he arranged the wooden planks into a specific shape.
*Clack.* A blocky wooden pickaxe appeared out of thin air on the workbench.
Caan and Foros widened their eyes.
They reached out, touching the tool that defied all mechanical principles and had materialized from nothing, feeling as though their brains had been washed over by a Warp storm.
“This…
doesn’t require prayers?
No sacred unguents to appease the machine spirit?” Foros held the wooden pickaxe, his voice trembling.
“Not at all,” Titus said solemnly.
“So long as you have enough materials and place them in the correct grid slots.
As My Lord said, this is an absolute rule.” Afterward, Titus demonstrated how to place blocks and how to use water streams to direct the flow of mobs.
The two battle-hardened Space Marines were like schoolboys who had just entered a classroom, staring intently at Titus’s every move for fear of missing a single detail that defied common sense.
Half an hour later.
The roar of an engine came from the breach in the ceiling.
A Thunderhawk Gunship flew through the dense industrial smog and landed smoothly in the clearing.
The hatch opened, and several Lamenters Space Marines joined forces to carry two giant metal storage crates down the ramp.
Following behind them was a cyborg draped in red robes, bristling with cables and servo-arms.
It was Capetown-3, the tech-priest of the Lamenters Chapter.
Capetown-3’s optic lenses flickered with vigilant red light, and his mechanical vocalizer emitted a cold, raspy voice: “Chapter Master, the indomitus-pattern terminator armour has arrived.
Although these two sets of sacred armor are severely damaged, their machine spirits remain resilient.
I will need to construct an altar and perform a two-week restoration ritual.” The storage crates were opened.
Two immensely massive, heavy sets of gray armor lay quietly inside.
Though their surfaces were covered in bullet marks and scorches, with even a large section of plasteel plating pitted from corrosion, the oppressive aura unique to Terminators was still suffocating.
Roya strode forward, his eyes locking directly onto the two sets of battered heavy armor.
“My Lord, these are the treasures we wish to present to you.” Foros walked to Roya’s side, his tone respectful.
Roya nodded.
With a flick of his wrist, a brand-new iron pickaxe appeared out of thin air in his hand.
Tech-Priest Capetown-3 stared at the blocky iron pickaxe in Roya’s hand, his optic lenses flickering wildly.
In this mortal who possessed no neural port implants whatsoever, he sensed an extremely dangerous aura.
Roya didn’t waste words.
He walked up to the first crate, raised his iron pickaxe, aimed at the tattered Terminator chestplate, and swung down hard.
*Clang!* A crisp metallic strike rang out.
On the ceramite surface of the Terminator armor, a bizarre layer of black grid-like cracks instantly flared up.
“Stop!” Capetown-3’s synthesized electronic voice pitched up sharply, filled with extreme terror and fury.
“You are desecrating a sacred creation of the Machine God!
You are murdering the machine spirit!” The Tech-Priest pushed off with his mechanical legs, preparing to rush forward and fight Roya to the death.
To the Adeptus Mechanicus, destroying a relic of technology was a crime ten times worse than murder.
Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a massive hand clad in deep blue power armor firmly pressed down on his shoulder.
Chief Librarian Calculis of the Lamenters stepped in front of the Tech-Priest.
His eyes gleamed with a deep blue psychic light, and his tone was unnaturally calm: “Tech-Priest Capetown, put away your weapon.
Watch.” “He is destroying the Terminator armor!
That is our Chapter’s last legacy!” Capetown-3 struggled wildly.
*Thump!
Thump!
Thump!* Completely ignoring the commotion behind him, Roya accelerated his swings.
With one final heavy blow— *Pop.* A bizarre, crisp sound effect devoid of any metallic quality echoed out.
Under the gaze of Capetown-3’s nearly overloading mechanical sensors, that terminator power armor—a pinnacle of Imperial technology—instantly turned into a puff of white smoke and vanished into thin air.
Not even a single screw was left behind.
The Tech-Priest’s mechanical jaw dropped completely, his red electronic eyes freezing as if crashed.
In midair, three square fragments glinting with an off-white metallic luster and shimmering with faint purple light slowly rotated, floating right in front of Roya.
PS: Contract signed successfully!
I’m in a much better mood now after being stuck for a whole day.