Chapter 187 Demons and Primarchs

Rogal Dorn used the broken sword to block the huge weapon. This was the last time the Stormfang served him.

As the chain sword was completely shattered from the Aquila guard downwards, the shock wave of the impact rippled through the dead world of blood and sand. Ashes and dust rose up, scattering into flying mist together with the blood of the white-haired primarch. His armor was torn apart by the sword and cut into several heavy cracks, like a gold and jade jar that had been smashed and cracked, and blood seeped out from all the cracks.

Dorn gasped violently and raised his eyes to stare at the demon's right wing - maybe a few seconds ago, maybe a few hours ago, in a short and short moment, the broken sword had pierced the demon's left wing membrane, like a cut. When the dark sail was stretched tight in the hurricane, once a gap was torn, a cut of several meters long appeared in the entire wing membrane in an instant.

The demon was unresponsive to pain, and this further fueled the rage that pulsed through its veins and skin. However, Dorn reduced the enemy's mobility, limiting the three-dimensional battlefield to the ground, so that it could no longer react at any time. Flying or gliding contrary to the laws of nature.

"Why do you say I am..." Dorn used the hilt of his sword as a short stick to deflect the enemy's weapon slightly, "traitor?"

The only answer the devil gave was the next swing of his sword. Each of his attacks is extremely powerful and heavy. This is supposed to be a style of play that trades slow speed for unparalleled power, but this shortcoming has been compensated by the upgraded, more extraordinary and incomprehensible speed. . His polearm roared as it roared, as if it would bleed the air and the earth, if not harm Dorne. Dorn tried his best to avoid being directly hurt. His broken bones had begun to bleed from his internal organs. All the flesh and blood seemed to be squeezed into a ball, barely covered by golden armor.

After a heavy blow, Dorn stepped forward and got close to the demon's body in exchange for a short blind spot for long-handled weapon attacks. He clenched his hands into fists and hit the side of the demon's kneecap with the plastic steel gauntlet and joint cover. Then, he The gauntlet was scattered, the rivets and chains were loose, hanging precariously on the hand. Before being kicked away, Dorn repeated: "Why do you call me a traitor?"

"Him." The demon said one word, then laughed rudely. "You would betray him."

It rushed up and struck Dorn's left side with its giant blade. The armor instantly shattered over a large area, revealing the sizzling fiber bundles underneath. Dorn stumbled backwards, looking for the conditions to survive for the next time in this fierce attack of wind and thick fog. If he died here, his death would bring no value to the galaxy, and he didn't accept that, but he didn't find a way out either.

"He." Dorn repeated, savoring the emphasis on words that highlighted theological characteristics. He dodged with bare hands among the flaming skeletons, ready to take off his gauntlets and put them to good use at any time. "Is it the Emperor?"

A kind of terrible resentment burst out from the demon's eyes as he stared at Dorne. The blood-colored cloak that had to be cut into three rows due to the existence of its wings was bulged and unfolded by the lava heat rising from the cracks in the stone slabs under its beastly claws. Like blood boiling, it seems to be a living embodiment of hatred and killing, an eternal and unresolved evil soul, approaching Dorne with overwhelming momentum.

"Who else could it be?" The demon irreverently transferred part of its anger to the betrayed emperor in his mouth, its breathing became hotter and faster, and its position immediately became blurred. Its next blow coincided with its grunt, and Dorn's right hand was broken off into a crumpled, burned mutil. At the same time, a collapse occurred in the entire area. Grooves several meters deep were carved out by the aftermath of the attack, and the rubble and remaining blades were squeezed into a dense combination.

The Primarch was unmoved, and he began to learn without any instruction to become accustomed to pain, and then to abandon it, viewing this weakness as a trivial problem that the Primarch's physiology could overcome.

He used the fragment of the gauntlet on his left hand like a knife, gouging out a flaming bloody mouth on the demon's leg. He could not let the initiative be completely controlled by the devil, which would mean his own meaningless death, even though the blood as thick as poisonous mist had rushed towards his face, suffocating him in the smell of brass and sulfuric acid.

"Are you loyal to the Emperor?" Dorn asked, feeling his skull rattling, a hum reverberating through his bones.

The temporary deafness caused by the exploding skull cannon reoccupied him, and was added to the blindness caused by the dense fog. He stumbled, searching for center of gravity among the piles of broken bones and blood-red vision, while continuing to resist the noisy whispers.

From the moment his sword ceased to exist, the echo of blood began to touch his heart even further.

- You can't beat it. you need me. More powerful. More blood. Stay alive. Accept the killing.

Dorn continued to ignore these whispers, even though he was dizzy and on the verge of death. Blood stains followed the traces of the battle and were everywhere within a few dozen meters. His arm was broken, his sternum was broken, his muscles were torn, and the broken bones were connected to his wrists by a thin layer of skin. Even so, he could still think.

The daemon that baselessly accused him of betraying the Emperor also refused to acknowledge its own loyalty. Donne was hard to understand.

The Primarchs were far more resilient than mortals, just as they had to hide their great nature behind a veneer of humanity. But will the original body die? Donne answered in the affirmative. If he died today, he would regret his death. It would be too soon.

- Receive blood. warrior. It's too early to give up at this point. Accept the gift.

The voice was endlessly coaxing, comforting, and encouraging.

At any time, giving up is a choice that can be called premature. Dorn never backs down, but that doesn't mean he has to accept another kind of evil.

He threw his left gauntlet and aimed at the pair of shining red eyes that could barely be identified in the blood mist. This move only lifted the demon's hood, and he still couldn't see the other's face clearly.

"How many people died because of you." The demon sneered, and his wings and cloak flapped against each other. Its emphasis fell on the word "you". "Because of your stubbornness and stupidity!"

-Don't listen to him. My warrior. Your nobility and tenacity are far superior to anyone else. Bleed for me. Then you can let him bleed for you.

Dorn was knocked to the ground, his legs seemed to no longer belong to him, their senses were cut off from him, and almost non-existent. The shadow of the demon enveloped him, making him seem to be swallowed by blood mist and gunpowder.

He grabbed a collapsed stone pillar and struggled to get up, but he could only half-kneel.

The weak spirit made Dorn shift his limited attention from himself to the inside of his mind. Every word the demon said brought him more doubts, and he knew he didn't have so many opportunities to ask all the questions.

He had to choose a question. It didn't touch the bottom line of the demon, but it also had to be important enough.

However, if the demon was indeed his brother, then they would have equal intelligence. His intentions could certainly be read by the other party. He needed to break the other party's defenses, to reveal the enemy's pain, to pry open the other party's heart like the weapon peeled off his golden armor... He had a talent in this regard, and Dorn knew it.

"Did you succumb to that voice?" Dorn said, squinting his eyes, blood rolling down his cheeks through his eyelashes, "It said I was tougher."

The demon's anger was detonated, and the blood-red wrapping wrapped around the huge weapon was finally torn by the sharp blade, melting and disappearing in the blood mist in the process of falling off. The huge sickle swung down from the air, pierced through Dorn's back, and pierced out from his chest, causing the Primarch to tremble all over.

The face appeared from the blood mist and approached Dorn's face almost face to face. Compared with this world of blood, it was so pale, so dry, the lower half of the face was like charred dry charcoal, and the severe burns that never healed became a symbolic revenge mask, forcibly combined on the face of the demon.

Blood flowed up Dorn's throat, and he felt choking. The voice was still talking to him, and Dorn completely blocked the endless noise. Using its words to stimulate the demon in front of him was the only value of those voices.

He used everything he had left to avoid the next attack, and every part of his body that could be mobilized was infused with more mental commands. The sickle came towards his throat. Dorn dodged the first blow, and his shoulder was cut in half. The second blow, Dorn's right leg was broken. The demon was not a killer. Every attack it made was aimed at the heart or carotid artery, which was enough to be fatal. These extra injuries came only from Dorn's never-ending struggle.

In the gap between one attack and another, at the junction of life and death, the sharp touch on Dorn's skin suddenly disappeared, and all the hissing roars and gurgling venom and blood left him in an instant. The seductive whispers suddenly turned into furious roars, and the originally extremely angry demon sent a dead sigh before disappearing.

A cold wind from high above blew over him, violently penetrating through the damage and fractures of his body, covering and soothing the burning torment with cold pain. Dorn lay on his back in the open space, unable to move, but he did not allow himself to faint. He had to maintain control over his body.

His left hand was gently pressed by a smooth and light hollow sphere. He hooked his fingers. The golden skull fell into Dorn's palm and continued to accompany it silently.

——

+Don't ask about the situation here, Perturabo. +

Morse kicked open an iron door in the fortress, and the heavy blow wrapped in psychic energy broke the iron door. He strode into the fortress, psychic energy surged, and the ether torrent smashed the small automatic defense machines rushing left and right, and further broke several transmitting instruments hidden in the walls or on the ceiling, violently and efficiently dismantling this solid fortress that inherited ancient technology.

+Even if you ask Dorn whether he is dead or alive one hundred and thirty times, I will still spend time looking for where the altar is. +

+It's not me who is asking, it's that Sigismund. +Perturabo said that due to the long journey, the psychic communication channel he and Morse established was somewhat intermittent. This made the Primarch extremely anxious.

Three days ago, the World Eaters knelt all over his corridor, and then they found the wounded Angron and sent the Lord of Red Sand to the infirmary in tears and self-reflection.

Today is the day when Angron wakes up. He has more external wounds than internal ones. These injuries that have not touched the internal organs and bones are only minor injuries to the Primarch, and healing is not difficult. The World Eaters finally left his Iron Blood and surrounded the Gene Father, leaving Perturabo a clean corridor.

But he gained another troublesome brother's son.

The Templar Sigismund rushed out of the Resolute Resolve the minute he learned that Rogal Dorn had disappeared, transferred to the Iron Blood by transport, and went straight to the office of the Iron Warriors Primarch.

From the first second Perturabo saw him, the golden warrior in black and white robes insisted on standing in a corner of his office. At a certain interval, the top of the armor, whose hand was touching the hilt of the sword, would say in a low voice from the tightly covered helmet, "Excuse me, is there any news about my father?"

And there is only one person who can urgently cross the vast sea of ​​stars when communication is interrupted, find and rush to Dorn's location, and effectively solve most of the unknown problems - and he must be free and cannot play the role of a golden worshiper on the expedition front all day.

+Speaking as if you don't want to ask. +Morse looked down at the edge of the stairs, weighed it, jumped down along the edge, landed on the beams of the middle floor, and felt the direction of the subspace energy inside the fortress from top to bottom.

When he arrived, the whole planet was shrouded in blood mist, and unlike the accidental psychic cover caused by the vengeful spirits in Angron before, the highly recognizable power that descended here consciously closed the entire space. The echo of sacrifice or summoning penetrated the curtain of reality, calling a sinful force of the dark gods here, and Rogal Dorn was deeply trapped in it.

He raised his left hand horizontally, and the psychic energy was replaced by a spell. Some of the World Eaters polluted by the coming of the Blood God were burned to ashes by the purer energy. There is no way for them to be saved, and the liberation of their souls is the only reward for their dedication over the years.

Mors grabbed a wisp of the power flow and quickly floated to the source of the dark energy along the suction.

This power pointed directly at the command room of the planetary commander. Several corpses that were obviously the planetary commander's family were lying in the middle of the floor. The ancient and crude summoning spell smeared the ground with blood. From their death, one can imagine the pathetic posture of these mortals begging for power in despair.

There are only two explanations for this trick to summon the power of chaos. Either the blood accumulated here has far exceeded the needs of the ritual, or the blood god is really willing to come here. Mors tends to believe that both are correct, and is curious that someone would be interested in the stubborn stone that Rogal Dorn has not changed for thousands of years.

A chaos beast made of mortal flesh and dark blessings clung to the wall, pounced on him with fangs and claws, and Mors killed it with ease. The subspace inside the magic circle may be indestructible, but the coordinates outside the real universe are fragile.

As the golden flame burned along the magic circle like a fuse, a beam of golden light suddenly rose into the sky. Within a few seconds, the eight red lights faded and the blood mist dissipated. The subspace branch whose coordinates were removed was separated from the real universe and fell back to the bottom of the ether ocean.

+Dorn should have fallen out. +Morse stood up, shook his numb left hand, and watched the blood stains that symbolized corruption fade away layer by layer. +I'll go find where he fell. +

Recommend a super seedling, a small can of 40k Black Templar, also a book translated by Tingren, and suggest urging for more (applause)