292: Chapter 293 Morning Star World

For high-ranking officials of the Imperium in high positions, the encroaching steps of Chaos are merely a bargaining chip.

It is an excuse for them to wrangle with each other across conference tables, line their own pockets, and engage in factional strife.

But for those fallen worlds that have lost fleet protection and face the Warp rifts directly,

Chaos is the purest and most unreasonable death warrant.

Southern Ghoul Stars.

Near the edge of the Warp rift Demons Throat, there was once a rare and prosperous human world.

During the Great Crusade, the three legions of the Raven Guard, Death Guard, and Iron Hands joined forces to recapture this sector from xenos and incorporate it into the Imperium's territory.

This sector consists of thirteen habitable planets.

On the holographic star map, the trajectories of these thirteen planets connect to form precisely a barbed flail.

Therefore, it was given a hopeful name—Morningstar World.

But on the day the Great Rift tore the galaxy apart, hope was shattered.

Warp storms swept across the entire sector.

All thirteen Morningstar Worlds plunged simultaneously into an absolute eternal night lasting one standard month.

Immediately afterward, piercing shrieks echoed through the eternal night.

Countless demonic entities tore through the veil of reality, descending like locusts alongside mad Chaos warbands.

Without fleet support, without Space Marine defense,

In just a few short weeks,

All thirteen worlds fell completely along the entire line.

The capital of Morningstar World, Blackrock.

The sky looked as though a layer of skin had been peeled off, presenting a sickening dark red.

Clouds hung low, churning with purplish-black thunderstorms.

A gust of wind swept across.

There was no freshness of oxygen in the air, only the thick, clinging stench of blood, the smell of rust, and the foul odor of rotting internal organs.

This is the Pilgrim Square of the capital.

Once, pure white marble was laid here.

In the center of the square stood a hundred-meter-tall statue of the Emperor.

Tens of thousands of pilgrims bowed here every day.

Now, the marble is completely soaked with dark red bloodstains.

The Emperor's statue has collapsed with a crash.

The huge head was severed, crashing onto the edge of the square, its crack-filled face stained with dried brain matter and shattered bones.

Around the collapsed statue are corpses.

Corpses covering the mountains and plains, piled layer upon layer.

A terrifying ritual called the Killing Contest is unfolding here.

Eight Blood Rage detachments belonging to the World Eaters warband are driving the surviving remnants of the Planetary Defense Force and civilians like cattle into the open area in the center of the square.

These fallen Space Marines wear red and black Power Armor.

The brass trims on the surface of the armor are completely covered with blood-scab.

The impact studs on the shoulder pads are hung with wisps of human hair and shriveled pieces of flesh.

The despairing weeping and howling converge into a sea, deafening.

At the end of the square, on a temporarily erected high platform,

Chaos Lord Grimaldus the Nail-Lord overlooks this massacre from on high.

His physique is exceptionally massive, resembling a god of slaughter cast in brass.

He holds a double-bladed chainaxe covered in barbs.

The most striking thing is his head.

His skull has been crudely sawed open.

Several thick black conduits are inserted directly into his cerebral cortex like parasites.

This is the notorious Butcher's Nails of the World Eaters.

With every heartbeat, the Butcher's Nails inject unbearable pain and madness into his brain; only endless slaughter can buy him a moment of tranquility.

Grimaldus raised the chainaxe in his hand, and the axe's engine emitted a deafening roar.

"Kill!"

He roared at the group of maddened fallen Space Marines below the stage, rolling like heavy thunder across the square.

"In the paradise of slaughter, use blood! Use skulls! To please Him!"

The command was given.

Heavy power boots slammed down, shattering the bones on the ground.

The World Eaters of the eight Blood Rage detachments emitted inhuman beastly roars, like eight burning red blades plunging fiercely into the human tide composed of thousands of civilians.

"Buzz—zzzt!"

The high-speed rotating teeth of the chainaxe frantically tore flesh and blood.

Severed limbs and broken arms flew in the air.

Warm blood sprayed into mid-air like a fountain, turning into a bloody storm.

Screams, pleas for mercy, and desperate shrieks seemed so feeble in the face of the chainsaw's roar.

The World Eaters do not accept surrender, nor do they heed pleas for mercy.

They judge superiority solely by the number of skulls chopped off.

A tall red-armored warrior pinched a Defense Force soldier's head with one hand and gave it a forceful tug.

Accompanied by the crisp sound of snapping vertebrae, a skull with its spinal column attached was yanked out raw.

He skillfully tucked the skull onto the brass hanging buckle of his waist armor.

"Clang! Clang!"

With his charging movements, the long string of skulls hanging at his waist collided with each other, emitting a dull and bone-chilling crisp sound.

Edge of the square.

The skull standard-bearers of each detachment stood like stone carvings.

At the top of the towering battle standards, skinless corpses were strung up.

Hanging from the banner surfaces were hundreds of thousands of fresh skulls.

Every gust of wind blowing past caused these skulls to sway slightly with the wind, their hollow eye sockets staring dead ahead at the gray sky.

On the high platform.

Several Blood Priests wearing dark red robes stood in a row.

They held large handfuls of blood-stained bone tiles in their hands.

Sharp gazes swept across the battlefield, accurately recording the slaughter achievements of each detachment.

"Blood for the Blood God!"

A priest raised a bone tile and shouted the score aloud, "First detachment! Eighty!"

"Skulls for the Skull Throne!"

Another priest roared immediately,

"Fourth detachment! Eighty!"

Grimaldus the Nail-Lord stood at the edge of the high platform and took a deep breath.

The rich smell of blood rushed into his lungs, and the stinging pain brought by the Butcher's Nails diminished slightly, replaced by a warped sense of euphoria.

He watched all this with enjoyment.

Watching this group of ants flee in panic, being torn to pieces in despair.

Suddenly.

Grimaldus's gaze paused.

In the chaotic and scurrying crowd, he keenly caught sight of an anomaly.

That was a young girl who looked to be only fifteen or sixteen years old.

Wearing a long dress stained with mud and blood.

She did not run away.

She did not scream and run around blindly like the others.

She knelt quietly at the edge of the square.

Facing the collapsed statue of the Emperor.

Her knees were pierced by broken glass on the ground, blood flowing continuously.

But her hands were tightly crossed over her chest, gripping a crude wooden double-headed eagle medallion, her eyes tightly closed, her lips moving rapidly.

She was praying.

When the World Eaters' chainaxes were only a dozen meters away from her, she was still praying to that throne.

The Butcher's Nails in Grimaldus's mind jolted fiercely.

Anger.

A kind of anger of being ignored and provoked instantly ignited his nerves.

He leaped forward.

His massive physique slammed into the square like a meteorite, the huge impact directly turning several surrounding civilians into a mist of blood.

Grimaldus strode with his thick legs, crossing the corpses all over the ground in a few steps, walking straight up to the young girl.

The huge shadow instantly enveloped the girl.

The girl perceived the darkness before her.

She slowly opened her eyes, looking at the iron monster emitting a strong smell of blood in front of her.

Her body trembled uncontrollably, tears welling up in her eyes.

But she did not stop the words in her mouth.

Her voice was hoarse:

"God-Emperor... Unleash Your wrath! Punish... Punish these demons from hell!"

Once.

And again.

Grimaldus lowered his head, watching the girl and listening to that faint prayer.

A few seconds later.

"Hahahaha—"

Grimaldus threw back his head and burst into deafening, wild laughter.

The laughter was filled with mockery.

"God-Emperor? Wrath?"

He lowered his head abruptly, his head almost touching the girl's face.

"See clearly, ant! Here, nothing is more cruel than us! Nothing is more fierce than us!"

Grimaldus's voice sounded like two pieces of rusted iron plate rubbing violently together,

"And no one dares to come save you!"

Before his words fell,

He casually raised the chainaxe in his hand.

"Swoosh—"

A blood-red afterimage flashed.

The girl's prayer stopped abruptly.

That head, with eyes tightly closed and hands still maintaining a praying posture, flew high into the air.

Grimaldus was too lazy to even look at it a second time, casually swatting it with the back of his axe like swatting a fly, sending the head flying far away to crash into a pile of minced meat.

The boring farce was over.

But when Grimaldus turned his head back, he froze.

He discovered that the young girl was not an isolated case.

Under the high pressure of massacre and absolute despair, emotions are contagious.

In the square, those civilians driven to a dead end, those Defense Force soldiers with exhausted ammunition, watching the girl's death and the collapsed Emperor's statue,

Suddenly gave up fleeing.

Groups upon groups of people spontaneously gathered together.

They hugged each other, kneeling in a pool of blood, eyes tightly closed, hands clasped together.

The shrill crying changed.

It turned into a series of uniform, low, yet endlessly desolate prayers.

"God-Emperor protect us..."

"God-Emperor send down punishment..."

When reality's despair cannot be reversed, the faint inner faith becomes the only straw to grasp.

The prayers of thousands of people converged together, forming a faint resonance in the bloody square.

The veins on Grimaldus's forehead bulged.

The Butcher's Nails began to run wildly, the stinging pain rising exponentially.

He hated this sound.

He hated this meaningless struggle.

"Utterly foolish!"

Grimaldus raised his battleaxe high, mocking the kneeling captives loudly, his voice full of malice,

"Your Corpse-Emperor cannot even protect himself! How dare you still beg for His protection?"

"What pitiful ants! Today, even if you shout your throats hoarse, no miracle will descend!"

Just as he was about to completely crush those kneeling people,

A sudden change occurred.

"Buzz—"

A strong Warp fluctuation came without warning from the high orbit outer space of Blackrock!

Even on the surface,

All the World Eaters in the square clearly felt the tremor of the reality veil being forcibly torn apart.

That was the huge spatial ripple generated when a fleet made a Warp jump from the Warp and plummeted back into real space.

And the scale was not small.

The massacre paused for an instant.

The World Eaters raised their heads one after another, looking up at the crimson sky.

Grimaldus was too familiar with this fluctuation.

Not only did he not feel any panic, but he grinned wide and burst into cruel, wild laughter once again.

"Hahahaha! Looks like there's a new show!"

He turned to look at the civilians kneeling on the ground, who were suspicious and uneasy because of this fluctuation, his tone full of banter,

"Maybe it's the angels you've been hoping for coming to save you!"

A malicious thought formed in Grimaldus's mind.

Directly killing these ants was too uninteresting.

He wanted to crush the tiny glimmer of hope they had just ignited into the finest powder right before their eyes.

He turned abruptly and beckoned to the Blood Priests on the high platform.