Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

"go ahead."

The last troops of the 4016th Regiment of the Terra Praetorian Guards approached Lionsgate Starport, where they had been fighting for nearly five hours in a tug-of-war with the ever-emerging Khorne demon army. Most of them died, and some even succumbed to the influence of Chaos and became mindless walking corpses, thirsting for death and begging for liberation.

To make matters worse, because of the creep, even if they wanted to send out tanks, they couldn't get those big guys on the road.

"For the Emperor," Commander Fernand murmured hoarsely. "For Holy Terra."

His breathing was very rapid, and his lungs kept emitting a bloody smell between them.

The other regiments fell on their way to the charge, they failed, and his regiment fell apart. Taking a physical charge against the demons is almost the same as committing suicide, but they have two Taranis knight mechs coming to support, which makes this suicide into a relatively stupid decision.

However, 'comparatively stupid' is actually a glorified term.

Before Fernand had become a commander, the regiment commander had vigorously refuted his idea. But he was dead, and now they're in pieces, a regiment of only thirteen hundred dead. They don't have heavy firepower, they don't have mechanical troops, and in fact, they have nothing but loyalty right now.

And, he knew, in fact, the pilots of the knight mechs are already at the end of the shot - their breathing in the communication channel sounds like a broken bellows. Most of the cockpit was terribly hot. Fernand had seen several pilots who had been in the war mech for too long and were dragged out. Their flesh was roasted by the high temperature.

However, it doesn't matter.

The golden light curtain above his head gave him endless confidence, he knew, and everyone in the 4016th Regiment of the Terra Praetorian, knew that the Emperor was watching them. They will serve to the death, and victory will be on their side.

"Keep going!"

Fernand hides from the fire of the demon engine under the knight's mech. He shouted hoarsely, barely making out what he was talking about. Severe pain in the ear.

His lips and teeth were dry, more like blood than saliva spreading in his mouth. Fernand raised the M35 standard light gun, the red barrel was held in his hand, but he felt no pain at all, still kept the standard shooting posture and pulled the trigger: "Go forward! Go forward! Take back Lionsgate. Port, for the Emperor! For the Empire! For Holy Terra!"

His roar was terminated two minutes later by a blood skull cannon, a special type of projectile fired by a Khorne demon engine known as the Doomburst, which looked like a tank in appearance , but more profane than tanks - they're covered in skulls and blood and don't need a driver.

They are driven by the blood and soul of the innocent.

Fernand sank to the ground, his cherished M35 slipping to the ground, the overheated barrel hissing on the ground, causing a puff of white smoke. His lower body was blown off. Bai Sensen's crest was exposed, and the blood soon spread a red carpet under him.

In the last moments of his life, Fernand was not thinking about his own life. Instead, he searched his memory for the name of his successor - Wiseman Pohl, yes, that's the name. Captain, he'll take the commander's place when I die...Victory!

victory!

Fernand's eyes widened, he glanced helplessly at the golden sky, and then died with his eyes open. His last thought was a word.

"Commander Fernand!" came a call from inside his helmet, and the unanswered caller sighed three minutes later.

He climbed over half the wall and ducked behind it. Bloodletters can't defend against volleys of laser guns, so they don't need to be face to face with these things just yet,

But the fire of those demon engines needs to be very careful. Touch or die is not an exaggerated adjective, but a real fact that happens all the time.

The successor was not Wiseman Pohl - Wiseman Pohl was by Fernand's side at the time, and unlike him, Wiseman died on the spot. So the title of commander fell to Aristotle. He was still a young man, with black hair and black eyes, and a square face, but now it was full of black and gray.

"Fuck," he muttered, cursing, and immediately prayed to the Emperor again. "The Emperor bless me."

The route they chose was the First Avenue of Lionsgate Starport, which in the past was connected to many famous buildings, so the road was very straight - in other words, there was no place for shelter at all. To charge in such a place without relying on mechanized troops is tantamount to death.

Aristotle knew this, but the commander, Fernand, had given the order, and they had accepted it, and there could be no turning back. Retreat was not an acceptable option, not even on his mind.

He turned on the communication channel.

"Here is Captain Aristotle. Commander Fernand and Captain Wiseman are both killed, and I am taking over as commander."

He pulled off the sleeve of his right military uniform and glanced at the watch issued by the Military Affairs Department, which should have displayed his current coordinates. But this thing flickered for some reason, and the idea of ​​looking up the coordinates to get the whole regiment to gather at him was dismissed. Aristotle gritted his teeth and planned to take another, more risky method.

At this moment, a violent sound of breaking the air came. It didn't sound like a cannonball about to land on their heads, it sounded like a low-flying gunship.

Aristotle looked up, Tong Kong shrank.

Words cannot describe his shock at the moment, and his literary attainments do not allow him to say some adjectives. So the vulgar young officer had to keep repeating three words: "Fuck...fuck! Fuck!"

His face was flushed red, as if he saw the hope of victory, and he was extremely excited.

"The Emperor and his throne!" someone shouted over the comms channel. "What is that?!"

The battlefield was as silent as if someone had pressed the pause button for a split second, and even the Khorne Demon Army stopped—not that they didn't want to continue, but that they couldn't.

The countless red light beams that fell from the sky firmly imprisoned them all. No matter how they resisted, swords, cannonballs, and even primitive punches and kicks couldn't break free from the beam's shackles.

On the Deep Destruction.

The captain instructed his soldiers solemnly: "Pay attention to the speed of the circle! The lord specially ordered not to let it run too fast. We must kill all the demons near the palace in one go!"

The dragon's cab is so complicated that the captain can barely find a place to stay - he's not the pilot and should have stayed in the belly of the Deep Destruction, where he's ready to land on the ground. where people should be.

But he really couldn't let go of the bastards under his command who couldn't help but find an excuse to 'splash fire' when they saw a demon. He had no choice but to stand here in a relatively awkward standing position.

A soldier who closed his eyes and was still in the mental link suddenly opened his mouth to report: "The initial combat objective has been completed, sir, do you want to start the battle immediately?"

"Has the magic gun been preheated?"

"The warm-up was done ten minutes ago, sir."

The captain's tense face suddenly relaxed, and he exhaled deeply, deeply. As a Cadian, he couldn't believe he was lucky enough to be above Holy Terra at this time. Seeing the devastated appearance of the planet, the captain's mood became very strange.

He gave a smile that was both distressed and happy, and then gave the order: "Fire."

"As ordered, sir."

In the next second, the destruction only for the demons came.

The red beams began to transform from just imprisoning their bodies to a more terrifying high-temperature energy beam that could even directly annihilate their blasphemous etheric flesh, purifying the skin, flesh, and bones together. Whenever, against the flesh, high temperature is always the most effective means.

Under this beam, the demons are 'equal', whether it is a low-level bloodletter, an elite bloodletter, or a demon engine, a steel bull, or even a few giants behind the demon army who have yet to step out of the portal. The demons were directly purified.

The only difference between them may be that the big devil persists for a longer time, that's all, nothing else.

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Guilliman and Frank also saw the Doom of the Deep.

They didn't know what it was, but it was easy to guess. After all, the huge mechanical dragon has a very conspicuous Imperial Eagle on its abdomen. Guilliman shook his fist excitedly, as did most of the Ultramarines. They can all know a little bit from the primarch's reaction.

Only Frank frowned in an amused manner, his reaction caught in Guilliman's eyes. The Ultramarines' genetic father asked curiously, "You don't look like you're happy about it, Frank. Isn't it a good thing to have support?"

"Yeah, it's a good thing. Of course it's a good thing, how can I deny it?"

Frank gave him a perfunctory nod, then turned away. Guilliman caught up with his eccentric brother in two or three steps, and asked, "Where are you going?"

"Kill a few more demons before he robs me of all the fun...why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong with that?" Frank said rather angrily.

What bothered him even more was the fact that he saw some pity in Guilliman's eyes: "Your fun is . . . unique. Listen, Frank."

"Heaven Comes"

Guilliman said very seriously: "I've seen a lot of people who have been taken all over by the war, and I don't want you to be one of them. They're all... so broken, you understand?"

"I have long been a broken man, His Royal Highness Regent."

Frank gave a sneer, then turned and left.

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