Warhammer: Start with a dog

Geratos held up his power scepter, and the crackling sound of the decomposition force field on it was drowned in the noisy shouts of the surrounding Shura battlefield.

Just as he appeared here, naturally and abruptly, the sound, smell and sight hit his face like a tide that overwhelmed his head.

Various guns of the Empire and the aliens were fired back and forth on the battlefield, lightning, blood and thunder.

Laser weapons left their straight lightning-like traces in the blood mist of shattered bodies, and the Space Marines' grenade launchers had explosions like distant thunder when they fired and hit their targets.

The roar of the chain saw teeth was accompanied by the high-pitched and loud war cry of the Black Templar in the distance, and the vague and barbaric roar of the orcs seemed to be the clumsy timpani in this chaotic song.

Whether it was the enemy or the friendly forces, they were all fighting in this muddy and bloody killing field.

The fart spirit may be stepping on the head of a noble Astartes, and the orc boss is just a dead soul chopped into pieces by the expeditionary army.

The black ceramic steel boots crushed bones and trampled flesh and blood, and the bone-white robe was splashed with red, yellow-white and pink dirt. Thick blood and minced meat and viscera dripped along the rose beads wrapped around his arms. Only his scarlet eyepieces, halo and priest's staff were still shining.

There was no fear or trembling of killing, only the sacred fanaticism and some kind of completely primitive and savage joy surged in his mind at the same time.

He shouted.

"Defend the Holy Land! For Dorn! For the revenge of the God-Emperor!"

The power scepter smashed down with anger, grief and a sense of suffocation that came from nowhere.

You can attack in any direction, because there are enemies in any direction.

The first blow of the hammer bounced back against his palm, like smashing an overripe watermelon, and the golden power staff smashed an orc's head into pieces.

The servomotors of the priest's power armor roared with force, and Jeratos turned and strode forward, swinging his staff like a metal club.

Then with the second blow, he smashed the back of the orc's head that was beating a black templar, making it completely deflate like a dirty green shell overflowing with viscera.

The third blow was a mess, and Jeratos's staff wings were stuck between the huge ribs of an orc. The priest roared and rammed his helmet into the other's head until it became a soft and crushed mixture. Blood flowed from Jeratos's helmet laurel like a baptismal chalice, covering most of his black armored body like a scarlet cloak.

Although Geratos was alone, he hacked and hammered a bloody passage through the group of aliens. The blood of the killed aliens evaporated into a layer of hot red mist on the surface of his black and white power armor.

But he was undoubtedly a little late.

When the priest finally advanced to the open space in front of the temple that people were defending, he saw the shattered body of a black templar brother with a pious chain on his hands just fell in front of the beast tide.

The two chainsaw swords connected to the ends of his pious chain were completely filled with the blood, flesh and bones of those hateful and endless aliens. Their serrated blades were stuck by the tough bone fragments and tendons, so when Atarion wielded them with his swordsmanship, they could only play the effect of two metal sticks-this made him attacked by four orcs while knocking down one orc.

As Geratos, with hatred and noble anger, rescued his brother's body from the orcs who continued to rush over, the priest glanced at the ground again and saw who Attarion had just tried to rescue: the fragments of the Sister's silver-white armor and the upper half of the beautiful girl's face had solidified in a flesh mask caused by severe pain and crying for the world.

The flesh on the other half of the girl's face had been torn, and there were clear teeth marks on the bones. The aliens and their ferocious mounts might be hungry.

He failed to save Attarion in time, but there must be others here, other brothers, other members of the Black Templar.

Geratos held his weapon tightly and stumbled through the hills and streams of blood filled with broken limbs and corpses. Soon, he found the traces of the target he was looking for.

The first and most conspicuous corpse he saw from afar was undoubtedly left by an Emperor's champion.

The broken black armor that still retained the mark of honor was an ancient and exquisite style familiar to the priest, and the champion's throat had been completely pierced by a crude but deadly orc spear. His body was trampled to the point of no bones, but the black armor was still there.

The black sword gleamed on the ground just before the fingertips of the dead champion.

Then Geratos heard the stirring call of the hermit Grimaldus and witnessed the death of the second, third, and last champion in the expedition who picked up the black sword.

The priest's eyes, which had never shed tears for sadness since the first day he became the loyal blade of the Emperor, flowed warm liquid.

Geratos was forced to shout loudly by rage, grief and the ending he knew well. He hammered again and again. The decomposition force field of the power staff could hardly keep up with the speed of his attack. The fierce attack cut the orc in front of him in half, and then hammered the head of the next one directly into his chest with brute force. Then he twisted his waist, and the servo motor made an overloaded sound, supporting him to use the last force. He was almost eager to let the weapon bathe and drink the blood of the alien.

Yes, he already knew where this was.

This must be a miracle of the God-Emperor. Sending him here was his secret wish in his heart.

It was also the place where he was willing to sacrifice as the Emperor's Champion.

This is Armageddon.

That is the expedition that the Inevitable Retribution was supposed to participate in.

He must go...!

He must rush to his brothers!

Geratos saw the remaining bloody black figures around the hermit elder disappear one by one, until Grimaldus loudly said goodbye to the last comrade while killing orcs - and then his head was chopped off in front of Grimaldus.

He heard Grimaldus laughing wildly at the stone dome of the temple that was about to collapse and bury everyone, laughing until he was out of breath, and he laughed wildly and said that this was the inevitable retribution of these beasts!

Before those green beasts were buried with them.

"No!"

The priest desperately reached out his hand towards the collapsed ruins of the temple -

At this time, he realized that he might only be a passer-by in the gap of time, a witness.

A voice sounded from the bottom of his heart: this place is not yet the place where he should be martyred as the Emperor's champion.

Not at this time, not here.

The feeling of dizziness attacked him again.

Geratos stepped into the air again.

He fell, and then he found himself in a gladiatorial arena, but not on the ground, and the subtle artificial gravity of the starship and the smell of weapon maintenance oils, superhuman sweat, blood and saliva filled the arena, making him feel strangely uneasy.

Then he saw the figure in the vision that every Emperor's champion sees.

The same figure that was enshrined in the shrines aboard the Eternal Crusade and every Crusade monastery mothership.

Sigismund.

He saw Sigismund.