40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 649 32. Belated Judgment (V. The Only Skill I Am Good At)
The Mountains' machine soul was wailing - of course, simply describing it with this one sentence wasn't accurate enough.

Strictly speaking, its wailing did not reach Khalil's ears directly; it was the darkness that helped it. The machine spirit's voice rumbled in the darkness, revealing the past.

Rusted metal, erased Skyhawks, filth and evil all over the hull. The Machine Soul of the Mountains was already very weak, almost dissipated, but it still existed, like a dying soldier lying in a trench, stubbornly groping for his gun among the corpses.

He needed a gun to complete his mission, but he was too blind to make out what he needed amidst the blood and corpses, and could only finger it bit by bit, hissing his way through it.

Khalil heard the cry for sure.

He stopped and looked across the huge sand pit.

The tradition inherited by the war dogs was very different from the brutal performance on Nuceria, but the scene he saw at this moment was enough to make him feel as if he were in another world - the corpses buried in the sand came back again.

Some have rotted away, while others still have flesh and blood. The steaming, dark red bloodstains are so conspicuous that the sand cannot even be uniformly called "yellow sand".
The slave owner's masterpiece, a bloody millstone, a shortcut to human extermination.

Khalil slowly raised his head.

He saw a flag hung on top of the bunker, tattered, bloodstained, and with many tears at the edges.

Its original color and shape are no longer a question that can be answered simply by observing with the naked eye, because a huge chaotic octagonal star has stained everything on it, and the masks taken from the faces of the loyalists have long replaced the original fabric of the flag.

Khalil raised his right hand expressionlessly, pointed his finger, and waved it lightly.
The flag was destroyed.

Meanwhile, on another world, the malevolence that had been waiting for him or anyone else aboard was silently receding. It had come from the warp, an embryo that had yet to take shape.

They were to be born from a blasphemous ritual, but Khalil had prevented the birth, even killing the pregnant woman, whose death screams echoed throughout the Mountains.

The sand began to fly, and the wind blew it everywhere, creating rusted metal, tangled cables, and corroded armor plates.

This bunker was designed to be very deep, so the war dogs must have requirements for the material that carries the yellow sand, probably some kind of precious alloy. But now it seems that they can no longer perform their duties.
But it is just 'difficult', not 'impossible'.

Many corpses lay above them, sand dripping slowly from bones and armor. Most of the dead could no longer be identified from their armor, the paint had faded, and the emblems and insignias had been replaced by filthy symbols.

Khalil smiled unconsciously.

"Someone's coming, Khalil."

His shadow gave a warning - or rather, a reminder of some hidden malice.

"They're coming for you," Curze laughed and urged. "Kill more, okay?"

Corpses flew up, yellow sand fell, and Khalil turned around calmly, his eyes lowered. Two silver lights slipped quietly from his cuffs, and in the passage far away from the sand pit, a burst of dense footsteps was heard.

I know, he said silently.

The first victim was beheaded a second later.

He wore no helmet, and the power of Chaos permeated his armor, a bloody blessing that made him invulnerable to bullets fired from ordinary guns.

There was an abstract skull symbol carved on his forehead, and between his sharp teeth was a long, whip-like tongue with bits of flesh and blood hanging on it, which seemed not to be his own.

He hadn't realized that he was dead yet. His huge body was still charging forward, making a harsh echo in the passage. He held two chain saw axes in his hands, eager for blood and slaughter.
A head fell quietly to the ground, and his headless body fell down with a bang after running five steps, like a falling meteorite, and the chain saw axe slipped out of his hand from between his steel-like fingers in an extremely counterintuitive way.

Two seconds later, someone yelled, "Enemy attack!"

His tongue and teeth were crushed by a sharp blade along with half of his helmet because of his shouting. He felt the sudden pain in amazement, his lower jaw hanging on the neck guard, and the knocking sound between the broken bones and the metal was so obvious to him.
He raised his right hand and instinctively swung out with a sword.

The extraordinary agility and strength gained from serving the Lord of Pleasure made this instinctive slash extremely powerful. The air trembled, and the person who swung it had an illusion of ecstasy - I was going to succeed.
And this is not the case.

The sword blade fell into the air, and his right hand was abruptly severed from the shoulder. Before the blood could gush out, the force and inertia that had not yet dissipated caused the hand that was holding the sword to fly to an unpredictable place.

It pierced the back of the next victim, forcing him to fall to the ground, and even nailed him to the ground. The blessing of the power of chaos was genuine, without any falsehood, but its owner could no longer feel it.

Two streaks of silver light crossed over his face, and the wound on his right shoulder spurted out sticky blood. He trembled and fell to the ground. He suddenly raised his remaining left hand and touched his face.

A sharp pain came over him, and he gently stroked his nose and forehead. Then, two thin lines slowly emerged, and his head broke into three pieces, stickyly entangled with each other, and fell to the ground. The soft and tender pink and purple brain poured out of the flesh and blood like jelly.

Several explosive bombs came from the side and smashed his body into pieces.

The attacker's body was swollen and sinister, clad in a wide cloak-like robe, his pitch-black armor was engraved with the corrupted marks of the ancient gods, and faint mutterings escaped from his flesh and blood.

"Do you see the enemy?!"

Someone asked sternly, but the man did not answer, but just raised his gun to be vigilant.

He has an extraordinary patience, which is probably one of the gifts he has gained from endless torture. Observing the evolution of the epidemic and waiting for the poison to germinate, these things require patience and meticulousness.

The combination of the two provided him with a kind of help in this situation, and this help led him to encounter the greatest misfortune in his life.
The disease coursing through his veins suddenly began to scream.

What? What happened?

Before he could understand why they were so frightened, he heard a wailing rising from deep in his bones.

"Batarian?" The companion standing behind him called out in fear, but he could no longer hear. Everything he was familiar with - such as torture, disease and the numb comfort - was fading away. The cold truth was cruelly passed into his two hearts by two sharp knives, and the deception called blessing was torn apart and thrown away by the sharp knives.

He finally saw clearly what he looked like at this moment.

But, it's too late.

His flesh and blood began to take root and sprout. He prayed to the god he believed in at this time with despair and fear, but the god ignored him and no matter how he cried and begged, it was of no use.

Eggs rose in his throat, and more had begun to hatch, settling on and gnawing at his internal organs. His bones began to develop and grow a third time, with the flesh and blood proliferating like cancer and breaking through his armor.

His face merged with his helmet, and his eyes became growths bending upward.
An indescribable mutation had occurred, and some indescribable force was forcing the blessing in his body to evolve.

They were supposed to follow him to a certain point before starting this process, but now they were accelerated by external forces. It should be understood that evolution is a long and difficult process, and any change must go through a long time, and this is too fast.
The bolter, almost completely covered in mildew and some kind of dark yellow moss, fell to the ground from his swollen hands.

"Kill me!" the fallen angel Batariel called out with difficulty.

His companions did not hear these words, but they still shot and set fire to him without hesitation, burning him to pieces.

The stench rose from the charred wreckage, and the traitors who were still standing gathered into a small battle formation, looking after each other's backs and guarding each other's blind spots.

They had done this millions of times since the beginning of the Great Crusade. The First Legion was the prototype of all the legions. They were familiar with all tactics and all theoretical knowledge. Even now, this habit engraved in their bones has not changed.
But the strategy they chose was wrong, at least at this moment. They all knew that this battle formation with shoulders touching shoulders and hands touching hands would leave a small hole in the center.

It shouldn't have been a problem, until this moment.

A chuckle erupted from the hollow.

The fallen angel Arachiel was the first to realize that something was wrong. He was a well-trained warrior and one of the few in the Ten Thousand Eyes Warband who did not seek new gods to support himself after the collapse of his faith.

He usually keeps to himself, and his position in the warband depends entirely on his acumen and swordsmanship. Not long ago, when Serafax told him about his plan, he was one of the first to express his agreement.

To Arachier, the ambush plan was perfect - he didn't care how Serafax would hide them with a mirror, he just knew that if this worked, they would have a huge tactical advantage.

Then Arachier realized that Serafax, as always, was not exaggerating.

The silver mirror not only helped them hide, but it also made them so invisible that even the cheap knockoffs who stole their names could not detect them using psychic searches.
When he stepped into this passage, Arachier even smiled. He didn't know which of the so-called 'Dark Angels' that boarded the ship had the misfortune to run into this place, but there was only one passage in the bunker, so they had to face him.

Arachier thought he could advance further in the warband with this incident, but he was wrong. When that chuckle sounded, his hair stood on end, and a fragment that could not even be called an idea quickly rose in his mind.
And that's the limit of what he can do.

Two sharp knives followed closely behind him and stabbed into his shoulders, going deeper and deeper, ignoring the armor and bones. They cut open the flesh, removed the hands, and removed the internal organs.
Arachier screamed, his surroundings covered with broken armor and his own flesh and blood. Amid the sound of gunfire and roars that followed, he fell heavily to the ground, his torn ribs collapsing like building blocks.

A pair of black leather boots stopped in front of him.

Arachiel continued to scream, his eyes rolled up and he saw a silver sky eagle.

It was not bright, but like a thunderbolt it completely shattered the Fallen Angel's mind, turning his scream into a voice of revelation that struck fear into the hearts of all his companions.
They quickly turned here, gunfire flashed, stretching and distorting the shadow of a mortal on the wall, and also causing the Sky Eagle to begin to reflect light.

The explosive bullet that was supposed to burst out of the muzzle suddenly exploded in the barrel, the plasma that was being preheated hummed and overheated, and the muzzle of the promethium flamethrower melted without warning. In this violent and noisy noise, silent fear began to spread.

Khalil shook his bloody hands gently and gave them a smile.

"Remember me?" he asked.

Twenty seconds later, he stepped into the darkness again. It took him less than two minutes to kill the entire team. He did not use psychic power, authority, or even surpass the "skill" itself.
"It's breathtaking." A voice from the shadows exclaimed. "I thought you were going to back off, Khalil."

"I'd rather step back on my own," Khalil said, and stepped out of the darkness.

They welcomed his departure, countless hands holding the hatred of the dead saw him off, hoping that he would kill more.

In previous massacres, many souls of those who died unjustly have finally rested in peace. They feel honored for this, but they are not satisfied and instead hope for more.

They are insatiable, like revenge itself.

The explosion occurred in the narrow corridor, and a rolling wave of fire swept in, the high temperature hit his face and melted the metal. The explosive bomb flew past, grazing his cheek by a millimeter, leaving no blood, only the still vibrating air proved the passing of the stray bullet.

Khalil narrowed his eyes, watching the brutal fight between the two sides in front of him, and his fingers uncontrollably stroked the blade.

Boarding battles often have the highest casualty rate. Not to mention, this is an ambush.

"It's an open conspiracy," Conrad Coates sighed. "I'm afraid he just wants to use these people's lives to drag you here."

"Five minutes," Khalil said, his eyes lighting up blue.

"I believe you can kill every traitor on this ship in five minutes, Khalil. But how long can the five minutes he stole from you with the lives of these men be transformed into in the Warp?"

The Night King asked this question in the Cemetery of Rest. His eyes were not looking through his father's shadow into the material world as usual, but through the waves of chaos, searching in the vast ocean of shapelessness.

He was looking for a forest, a forest from the past that no longer existed.

(End of this chapter)