40k: Midnight Blade

Chapter 413 139. Terra (15)

Rogal Dorn's fingers were trembling.

This movement was not easy to detect, because most people would not have the courage to look at the rocks carefully - but they were indeed shaking, and it was not because of the report that Major Iben of the 21st Infantry Regiment of Terra had just given him.

The Major is a middle-aged man with gray hair and a face full of wrinkles, suffering from excessive old age.

He had retreated from the front line because the 21st Infantry Regiment had ceased to exist in name only. An entire mechanized infantry regiment of 30,000 people now only has less than 4,000 troops left, which can be called an extreme defeat.

What kind of courage does an ordinary commander need to endure the shame and humiliation that comes with it?

Dorn has a concrete answer - the Major himself.

The Major showed neither emotion, not at all. He seemed to be a dummy made of plastic, steel, blood-stained cloth, and dust. From this old face, you can't see the slightest emotion that a loser should have.

There is only peace.

He arrived at the headquarters and began debriefing Rogal Dorn's instructions. He recounted every detail, and the whole process took less than six minutes. From the army's departure, encountering the enemy, tactical deployment, and defeat, it is all done in one go.

He didn't deny the failure, nor did he show any frustration or discomfort, as if he knew Rogal Dorn wouldn't blame him for it.

And this is indeed the case.

"Well done." Stubborn said, he was even praising. "You held the line."

"Not worth mentioning, my lord," said the major. "That's not it at all."

He fell silent and said no more. The straight mustache perfectly concealed the trembling of his lips, making his denial of the compliment even more believable.

Donn didn't say anything else, but suddenly asked a slightly strange question.

"Did you hear that, Major?"

"What?"

"This rumor." Dorn said simply.

He frowned and left his tactical table. The major's face finally showed a hint of visible emotion.

The command room was still noisy at this moment, and almost no one paid attention to Stubborn's actions. They didn't have the extra energy. In this vast underground cave, everyone was deeply immersed in the quagmire of war with an attitude of being completely unable to stop.

War is what it is, especially war like this - not even if Perturabo or Robert Guilliman is here.

They will also be dragged into this unprecedented horrific war, and their superhuman will and intelligence will add more terrifying attraction to the matter. They will get stuck because they can deduce a very simple thing from the chaos of documents, reports, data pads, and tactical desks with just one glance.

The Terran front is collapsing across the board.

Cold, ruthless, fact.

The Titan Legion could not stop it.

The Custodes could not stop it.

Sister Silence can't stop it.

One after another, the loyal soldiers who were willing to step into hell could not stop it.

Civilians, armed with weapons and having spent their lives in peace, were forced onto the battlefield and were powerless to stop it.

Pilgrims who recite prayers devoutly, cover their bodies with angry flames, and would rather die to practice their faith are also unable to stop them.

The Imperial Fists could not stop it, the Iron Hands could not stop it, and the Emperor's Children, who had been completely burned by the fire of vengeance and had become servants of the unjust death, were also powerless to stop it.

So, what about the Primarch? Could the great demigod, one of the Imperium's exalted Primarchs, have a solution?

The answer is none. Ferrus Manus was trapped deep in the bloody river, his hands were completely stained red by the flesh and blood, and he felt more tired than ever before. He looked around for a moment. He didn't see his brother, only the bodies covering the sky.

Fulgrim of Chemos, consumed by the desire for vengeance, will return, but now he is just a wild beast. He stayed away from everyone, fighting the demons alone in the black mist.

Rogal Dorn was equally powerless, twenty-four hours - it had only been twenty-four hours since the war began. One Terran day was not even enough for the legion to make a thorough deployment in the past, but he felt truly exhausted mentally and physically.

He had to face too many things. Every second he had to think about thousands of possible tactics and tens of thousands of different possibilities. He is sending people to die, and this has been the case since the beginning of the war. Everyone is just a number, a meaningless number assigned to a coordinate system.

He didn't even have much time to look at the name of the commander of a support force. He just sent them to die, to face death, to delay time.

Go to the wilderness, to the underground caves, to the dim underground of the hive, to the majestic palace that is now devoured by the flames of war - and then die, anonymously.

He might die in the bombing, he might die of disease, he might die in the claws of demons, or he might be tortured until the end. The meaning of fighting to the end is sacrifice, facing death, but no one will remember your name.

There is no glory, no commemoration, no medals to be awarded posthumously.

There is nothing but death, nothing but death.

Rogal Dorn thought about these things - but he said not a word, not even as the Major pressed at his side.

He walked to the door of the command room, and most people in this underground command room didn't even react. The hinges began to turn, the gears meshed, and the mechanical activities from the ancient past were being faithfully driven by two servitors.

The door slowly opened, and at this moment, under the cold wind, the people in the command room realized that Dorn had left his tactical table.

They were all elites, they were excellent, and their willpower was so strong that it was incomprehensible - but that only supported them to fight here, making futile attempts under the orders to die and the inevitable defeat.

Their willpower did not support them to understand the departure of Rogal Dorn.

"My lord!" Someone called immediately, the voice was almost desolate. "Where are you going?"

"It's time!" Someone else shouted enthusiastically, and pulled out the bolt pistol at his waist. "Kill! Kill in the name of the Emperor! Colleagues! We will take revenge!"

Dorn ignored them.

The cold wind blew, and he stepped out of the command room. The ground and the top of his head were shaking, the roar of artillery continued, and the shrill wind became more and more violent, almost swallowing up their voices.

But Dorn still heard the subtle cry.

He walked up, and the corridor fixed by solid metal extended upwards. It was very wide, even enough for two Warhound-class Titans to pass side by side. He did not use elevators or similar structures. Sometimes, the simpler things are more reliable.

The officers and servants followed him step by step. They climbed up, some were already sweating, some were indifferent in the cold wind, and some were pale, tightly holding their weapons that had been unsheathed or opened.

They had courage, but it was not enough.

Dorn stopped and stood in front of a ruin.

The ruins were not enough to describe the misery here. The flames of promethium were burning, and the demon corpses nailed to the ground were decomposing and melting. The two soldiers screamed and laughed wildly, rushed through the bloody snow, and charged towards the enemies of mankind.

They were determined to die, and their eyes were filled with anger. Only a few bricks and stones remained on the towering walls, and some people were hanging on them, waiting to die. Blood was flowing, bodies were broken, and flesh was charred.

No one among the officers spoke, only a dead silence spread. They entered the command room after the war began, and they had expected the intensity of the war outside. Even if they didn't know, they would be reminded again and again by the continuous bombing.

Now, it was the first time they saw this horrifying scene with their own eyes. At this time, they realized that no matter how much they expected and how much they prepared, it was actually not enough.

"Sir." The major walked forward uneasily. "Do you have any orders?"

Dorn didn't answer, but suddenly raised his hand to signal him not to speak. He frowned, his eyes focused on a piece of snow stained red with blood. Although he was staring, he didn't have any focus - he was listening.

This thought flashed through the major's mind. But what to listen to?

Driven by this question, he also began to listen. Unfortunately, his hearing, which was damaged by the sound of gunfire, artillery fire, and continuous roars, made him unable to even hear the sound of the wind. Not to mention the subtle sounds that a Primarch could detect.

But he didn't need to listen.

Yes, none of them needed to listen, because the sound didn't come from somewhere, but sounded directly - in everyone's heart.

What was it?

The major waited in sweat. Then, he heard a thunder. This thunder did not resound through the sky, and it didn't even exist in the real world. It was an illusory thunder. What did it mean?

Only very few people could understand.

But if someone was staring at any clock that could tell time, or any tool that could tell them the exact time, they would find one thing.

It is the twenty-fifth hour.

It is the twenty-fifth hour since the Terra War began, the twenty-fifth hour of exhaustion, lack of ammunition and food, and heavy casualties. And this thunder was so accurate that it arrived at the twenty-fifth hour without a second's error or a second's extra.

It was like a messenger, representing a terrifying giant clock that existed from ancient times. With bones as the base and blood smearing the clock face, the angry and sad bone fingers of the dead pointed directly at every number on the clock face.

Second hand, minute hand, hour hand - click, click, click. Quietly, all returned to their positions. Time is ruthless, but also fair. It will flow, and it will always flow.

Until now.

Thunder roared.

The blizzard stopped falling, the cold wind finally stopped, and the dark clouds covering the sky suddenly dispersed, like burning paper stained with the color of embers.

A scarlet and complete crown quietly emerged, which was more dazzling than the sun.

Rogal Dorn slowly closed his eyes.

"Attack." He said. "This is the final order."

There is one more chapter, I will try to be faster. I am sorry for the slow update today.