Warhammer: Start with a dog

A trap.

A conspiracy.

A sacrifice.

Istvan III.

Angron Petra chewed the word in his mouth. The word tasted bitter and full of metallic smell. He was not sure whether this was because too many people had died here in the past two or three months. , and the air here also has a strange smell.

after all.

There are eight billion people on this planet, and some of the tens of thousands of loyal Space Marines from different legions who were put here in advance with almost no heavy weapons and vehicles.

All these lives were turned into foul-smelling organic ooze by the rebels' virus bombs in the first round of aerial attacks. Their bodies, souls, broken dreams, and the flammable gases transformed from the remnants of all biomass on the surface were once The orbital bombardment ignited the entire atmosphere of Istvan III.

The flames burned so fiercely that the oxygen content on the world's surface also dropped significantly.

He looked up at the sky obscured by billowing smoke, and continued walking forward following the guidance of his soul.

——————————

Da'or didn't know if there were any other surviving World Eaters here.

In the past few weeks or more, he himself was the only World Eater he had seen - if not counting the brothers he had killed who followed Angron's betrayal.

He didn't know how he survived, or why he could or was still surviving.

He only remembered the devastation caused by the initial bombing of the virus bombs and the World Eaters under the leadership of Karn - himself a member of the 8th Company - most of his brothers - if they had not been bombing When he rushed out to shoot into the sky with grief and anger and faced the betrayal of the Warmaster and the Primarch——

They all chose to face Kahn's Eighth Company and the remaining brothers of the other forty-nine large companies with the only weapons at hand.

Fifty thousand people.

Fifty thousand World Eaters loyal to Angron.

Fifty thousand World Eaters who betrayed the Imperium.

Da'or's other battle-brothers fought to the death against the traitors, and like a true Warhound warrior would rather face destruction head on than be shot in the back while escaping.

The nails were hammering at him, and he tried to think of something else to quiet it down.

He recalled the encounter in the last bunker they thought was safe.

Angron brought his legions, which were once his, and rushed in with all his nailed brothers, blasting open the adamantine door of the bunker, and killed the third and third in a battle of eight heartbeats. The commander of the Loyalists of the Fourteenth and Sixteenth Legions, Olkson of the Fourteenth Legion, the calm Death Guard, was torn to pieces, and the guts and blood of the Space Marines were spilled on the World Eaters. Their dirty armor of creamy white and blue was dotted with the brass armor of Angron and the great chainsaw.

Memories of the Primarch's form and the fighting drove a knot in his head, resenting why he couldn't join them in destroying everything.

The nails sang a shrill song in his scalp, throbbing an inch beneath Da'or's scalp and skull, stirring up more intense pain to demand that he do something to grant him a second of peace. and the false comfort caused by endorphins.

He groaned in pain again, new blood flowed from his nostrils, and wiped them casually, Dae'ol spit out the emptiness that he had been sucking expectantly for a long time in the ruins of this small underground station. Empty shells of high energy triglyceride gel packs.

The light outside was very weak, leaking slightly from the cracks on the top of the station that was tens of meters underground, and only a ray of light could be seen at the top.

The near-dark environment did not affect the vision of the Astartes, except for the flickering or flickering of a bright light from time to time: their power armor was in dilapidated condition, and the auspicious display screen malfunction caused their eyepieces to flicker.

A team of warriors guarded the staircase on one side, which led to the ground. Although it was small and winding, it was only designed for emergency use by mortals.

There are still two exit spaces left. This was originally an underground driving tunnel. One side of the cave-in was hidden in darkness, and the other side of the tunnel opened to the east. It served as the main entrance and defense point for the loyalists. Guarded by twenty-two warriors in turns, there were also their last supporting weapons and vehicles: a Predator tank that was missing one of its tracks and could not move, and a Death tank that was obviously deteriorating due to a lack of pharmacists and technical maintenance. Guard fearlessly.

The last of the apothecary brothers in this group of warriors, the gloomy Fros, belonged to the Fourteenth Legion; but he had been shattered eight days ago, so much that his flesh, the vials of gene-seed, and the ceramite powder were mixed together. , he was killed by a volley fired at him by the searchers of the Twelve Legion, laughing maniacally with heavy weapons and vehicles.

When Da'or first joined the loyalists gathered by Commander Olkson in the ruins, there were more than 500 of them and their equipment was much better than now.

Now they have fewer than fifty brothers.

His facial muscles twitched nervously, and a hot stream flowed out of his nostrils. It was fishy and sticky, but this time he did not reach out to wipe it.

"Are you okay, brother?" A firm and gentle voice sounded, and Dae'ol turned his eyes to the place where the sound came from. His eyes were blurred, and there were only two points left in his field of vision.

He gripped his weapon and gestured toward the opponent to attack.

The nails were roaring, urging, he was in pain, he was confused, he was dazed, he was thinking.

Why? Am I not one of the first people to side with Angron even though he knew he was crazy?

Am I not one of the first warriors to volunteer to have the same implant in my head as our Gene-Father, after we dealt with the rebellion of the Terran veterans?

Didn't he remain loyal to his Primarch when his friend and mentor Gil, the former Legion Master, died a bloody mess deep inside the Conqueror, as they now called it? Silent?

Regret, shame, and guilt surged from the depths like a tide, almost drowning out the pain and anger that drove him.

The red in his vision began to fade.

"I am not your brother," the World Eater said vaguely. "You're not my brother either."

"We are brothers now, Dae'ol." The other party pressed his hand and called him patiently and peacefully, showing a sense of skill that had been repeated many times, as if he had swallowed it again and again before. The world calls back like this, "Brother, it's me."

He opened his eyes wide and tried to see the person in front of him clearly. The exhaust holes on the side of the power armor fluttered in the hot wind with the fire paint mark and a few oaths engraved before the first battle of landing in Anthem City. His honours, further insignia and the insignia of his regiment have been inscribed by the wearer many times and the details are obscured.

A broken bolter hung from his gauntlet.

He could clearly see the opponent's marine pine green paint job.

The other party's name also emerged with heat from the bloody depths.

Kellorne Warbottom, his friend and a warrior of the Luna Wolves.