The Emperor’s Angel of Death

"The mechanical slave-master's slaves are launching a death charge."

Barmon, one of the three high priests of the Black Limb Cult, sat on the metal throne originally reserved for the mechanical sages. Surrounding him were the heads of those self-important sages and their mechanical scepters. Numerous screens encircled the throne, and massive cables, like pythons, coiled around it. Dozens of speakers blared crackling communication signals.

The magnificent hall now appeared somewhat chaotic. The once-grand statues of the sages had been dismantled, the tapestries burned, and the murals scarred and defaced. Blood splattered the walls, the floor, and the large table where the sages had conducted their affairs—now even that table was split in two, and a decaying stench permeated the air.

"That's how they fight, rigid, foolish, but relentless."

Although the high priest could communicate with his subordinates through mental links, Barmon trusted what he saw with his own eyes more than the reports he received.

Generally, a Genestealer Cult in its early stages of development typically has only one patriarch acting as the leader's assistant. As the cult rises and spreads, and new infection sites are developed, the cult will differentiate into different branches based on the infected population. Thus, new high priests are born.

The patriarchs of different branches within the same grand cult often imagine themselves as rivals, believing that the Gene-Father favors only one of them as a high prophet. They attempt to surpass each other through infamous acts of subversion. Of course, this is just a carefully prepared prelude, because the divisions and grudges between the patriarchs are immediately set aside when the Great Uprising begins. Any illusion of independence vanishes, and everyone wholeheartedly dedicates themselves to fulfilling the patriarch's wishes.

Barmon was the high priest of the city branch. His followers were primarily from the infected residents of the mechanical city—the lower-level tech-slaves, low-ranking tech-apprentices, or the vast mortal population serving the sages. Their common characteristic was their familiarity with urban life and their greater understanding of technology.

This also made them relatively contemptuous of the branches dominated by miners and labor slaves.

When the decision for the Great Uprising was made, Barmon was a relatively staunch opponent, because he understood the mechanical slave-masters' still considerable power and control better than the other high priests. The cult was simply not strong enough to quickly overthrow them. Once they were given time to recover, the cult would have to face their fierce and sustained counterattack. Even if they could temporarily stalemate, those at the bottom wouldn't know, but wouldn't those at the top know? This world was just a tiny part of a decaying and vast slave empire. The mechanical slave-masters could summon their allies in the stars, while the cult could summon nothing. The patriarch also admitted that the Angel's Song was still very far away from here—

But there was no choice, the patriarch's will was everything. However, Barmon always had a feeling that their great benefactor seemed to be fearing something?

Was it the metal undead from underground?

Perhaps, they were indeed terrifying, but Barmon felt that exposing the cult to the mechanical slave-masters' scrutiny prematurely would be even more terrifying, because it meant they could no longer hide or accumulate strength.

Watching the red-robed Guard in the images charging forward wave after wave amidst intense fire, and heavy armed servitors and various vehicles exploding in the defenders' deployed traps and fire nets, Barmon's face became even more uncertain, his red pupils gleaming with the light of his soul.

At this moment, the banner-bearing acolyte standing beside him emitted a low laugh as he watched the scenes. The bizarre, grotesque mixed-blood face seemed to feel joy, its thin purple lips twisting to reveal sharp canines, its twisted claws and third hand trembling excitedly as if summoned by their master.

"My lord, these mechanical slaves are just bleeding in vain. No matter how many they send, they cannot break through our impregnable defenses."

"I once hoped so too, but reality is complex."

The high priest sighed pessimistically.

"The enemy is dying, but our kin are also perishing. Even a 10:1 exchange ratio is still unsustainable for us, because those mechanical slave-masters' factories can continuously manufacture their soldiers and war machines, while we cannot. We cannot accept such bloodshed, which is why I believe we should not have rebelled at the appropriate time, at least not yet."

The banner-bearing acolyte shook his gaunt head. Ever since he began serving the high priest, the latter had been emphasizing patience. It sounded like wisdom, a chess player's long-term planning, but they believed it was a great honor and liberation.

Seeming to perceive the acolyte's thoughts, the high priest murmured:

"They call me a coward, but I firmly believe that the time is not yet right. The angels' song has not yet approached. I know, now is not the time. We must hide ourselves until that day arrives. If it means we must sacrifice ourselves in the slave-masters' persecution, then so be it. The cult must survive and pass the truth on to another generation."

But the situation had already formed. Barmon shook his head, dispelling those pessimistic thoughts.

Placing his hand on the metalized face of a dead Tech-Priest, and holding his scepter in the other, he continued to stare at the battlefield situation in various locations.

"The enemy's offensive in the direction of the 11 engine assembly workshop is very fierce."

Saying this, he picked up a communicator. Mental communication was too strenuous to reach that far, so he preferred to save his energy and use technology to contact his subordinates.

"Rogers."

"Respected High Priest, what are your instructions?"

"Take your Jackal squads and immediately reinforce the 11 engine assembly workshop area. Bring more anti-armor rockets, the enemy has a significant number of armored vehicles."

"Understood!"

Then he connected to another leader's communication.

"Lerer."

"I'm here, High Priest!"

"Take your men and reinforce the defenses in the 19 recycling station area. The enemy activity in that area is very frequent and they are likely to organize an attack. Try to lure them into the minefield."

"Understood! For the Star Emperor!"

"Remember, do not attack, just hold your ground!"

"Yes—"

Although the Mechanicus's offensive pressure was great, Barmon was still able to cope with it relatively easily. After all, they were very familiar with the terrain here, and as long as the Crimson Cathedral was still there, the enemy's direction of attack would be restricted, and their numerical advantage would be compressed.

But he didn't know how long he could hold out. The reinforcements from Coking Furnace City had not yet arrived, although they always said they were on their way.

The patriarch's meaning was also very clear—

Hold firm, and there will be a way!

Ah, hold firm, it was easy to say, but not so easy to do.