Chapter 6: Trusting Them

"I trust your judgment."

Arthur did not believe that he, a transmigrator, would have a better grasp of the tactical situation than a battle-hardened commander of the Cadian regiments. He chose to respect the opinions of the locals. After all, standing behind them were the Cadians—not some delicate flowers in need of constant coddling.

Perhaps he had once harbored doubts about the Astra Militarum due to stereotypes, but now, having interacted with these warriors at close range, both men understood the true weight of the descriptions found in the lore books. These were humans born on Cadia, the fortress world that stood tall even after blocking twelve Black Crusades led by the Warmaster of Chaos, Abaddon. From their very first heartbeat, they had been entangled with the most malevolent entities of the galaxy, yet they remained survivors—supermen in their own right.

The regiment behind them was the 43rd Cadian, soldiers who had walked out of a world that had withstood more than ten Black Crusades. They were the elite of the Astra Militarum, the gold standard that Imperial Guard regiments across the galaxy strove to emulate. Colonel Kovek's words were not a tragic farewell; they were a promise of what they were truly capable of.

So, it was enough to simply trust them.

With no further concerns weighing them down, the two accelerated decisively. Like sprinters hearing the starting pistol, they surged forward at an astonishing speed, kicking up grime and dust from the corridors before leaving it far behind. With the thunder of metal floors being struck and the howling of the wind they generated, there was no stopping an Astartes unleashed.

Colonel Kovek, however, did not feel relieved by the recognition of the Emperor's Angels; his expression remained increasingly nuanced. The two who had departed did not realize how rare their subconscious respect for life was in this era.

Drip.

A tremor struck. Water droplets fell along the edges of fractured steel, shattering against exposed bone and seeping into flesh. In that dim path, illuminated only by sporadic, indistinct light sources, a massive number of cultists lurked, waiting respectfully to contribute their strength to their masters. Of course, for the heretics who had fallen to Chaos, this process was neither quiet nor orderly.

The ground was riddled with holes; severed limbs and body parts were scattered everywhere. Axe blades hacked into bone, and from the piles of corpses, survivors fused with blood and gore let out weak moans. The miasma of the Warp emitted a stench that offended the very soul, quietly warping everything in its vicinity. After finishing off those heretics who worshipped corpses, these cultists, followers of different Ruinous Powers, had naturally reached a consensus for infighting after a brief period of chaos, sparking a more frenzied civil war in the dark corners.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of struggle, the ultimate victor ceased swinging his axe. His body was covered in wounds deep enough to reveal bone, yet he breathed the air in heavy gulps as if he felt nothing. The blessings of the Blood God coalesced within his soul. He stared at the cultists who bowed to him out of fear, and the bone plates pushing out from beneath his cheeks gradually masked his face. Even if the previous cult leaders had all come forward together, they could no longer gain the upper hand against him.

But—

"Not enough!"

The heretic roared. His thunderous voice echoed through the passage, and a torrent of blood splashed down from a crack in the ceiling.

"Still not enough!"

"I need a stronger opponent—"

The next moment, the air around the heretic plummeted in temperature. Water molecules in the passage condensed into tiny droplets due to the sudden pressure change, clinging to the heretic's mutated, pointed horns. The bone-chilling cold scoured the heretic’s mind, making him almost scream aloud. He knew the Great Blood God had answered his prayers; an opponent had arrived, and he should begin the hunt!

Yes, the hunt. What was I supposed to do again—

Fight? Yes, yes, yes. Hiss, no, no.

Run? Yes, yes, yes. I have to run.

Run! Run away!

The heretic grabbed the wall and turned, seeking the angel baptized by divine power. Only those favored by the Blood God were worthy of such an opponent; how could he dare to covet such a prize?

However, the Blood God would not let a cowardly deceiver go. As the wind walking in the shadows revealed its form, the heretic's cry was strangled in his throat forever. He could not make out the silhouette that blended into the surrounding blackness; he could only catch a glimpse of the holy golden eagle revealed beneath the robes. He could not hear the shriek of the blade cutting through the air; he could only drown in the despair of his flesh being torn apart and his life force drained away.

The Blood God on His throne showed a flicker of confusion, then shook His head indifferently, turning His gaze of boundless rage toward another arena more worthy of His attention.

In endless agony, the traitor's life reached its end, turning into filthy debris that collapsed in the dark corridor. His soul would never reach the master he had once believed in, only to betray so easily again. As for Arthur, the angel who had merely crushed a speck of dust, he did not spare the corner another glance, transforming into a gale and rushing toward the next corridor.

"Hurry."

Stopping for half a second to wait for Romulus to plant the markers and the automated autocannon, Arthur felt a growing irritation. A bizarre transmigration into this cesspit, a bizarre chaotic brawl, and the bizarre necessity of leaving a group of people behind to complete a mission that might concern the life of the entire ship.

The hand gripping his sword trembled slightly. Arthur sensed the distorted, massive shadow in the dark passage.

Even more annoying!

This sense of displacement, the disconnect from his original perception, made Arthur subconsciously want to eradicate everything that caused him such discomfort.

"Blood for—"

The behemoth in the shadows revealed itself.

It was a Chaos Space Marine, his frame towering like a tower built of flesh and iron. His battered armor, with writhing flesh filling the gaps, spoke of the long ages he had spent in the Warp.

Arthur remained silent.

Unlike Romulus, who could always adapt to the environment and find something to do, Arthur just wanted to end all of this as quickly as possible and find a place where he could think calmly about what he was supposed to be doing.

Arthur's counterattack was swift. He swung his shield to deflect the axe blade hacking toward him, raised his power sword, and locked onto the enemy's neck, delivering two quick thrusts.

*Squelch—*

Until the very moment of his death, the monster twisted by Chaos did not finish its profane war cry.

*Clang!*

With a twist of his blade and a spin of his body, Arthur cast the sword, which had just been freed from the heretic's profane flesh. The arc-flashing edge grazed the heavy armor and buried itself deep into the steel wall.

Another great head fell to the floor.

Clean and decisive.