"I trust your judgment."
Arthur didn't think that, as a transmigrant, he understood the situation better than a battle-hardened commander of the Cadian regiments.
That's why he chose to respect the opinion of the locals.
After all, standing behind them were Cadians—certainly not delicate flowers in need of constant care and protection.
Perhaps earlier, influenced by stereotypes, he had harbored some doubts about the Astra Militarum. But now, after coming face-to-face with these warriors, both he and his companion finally understood how weighty those words in the lore books truly were.
These were people born on Cadia, the fortress world that had withstood Abaddon the Despoiler's twelve Black Crusades and still stood tall. From the very first beat of their hearts, they had been locked in an endless struggle with the most malevolent forces in the galaxy—and lived to tell the tale.
And these Astra Militarum soldiers behind them were none other than the Cadian 43rd—troops that had marched out from Cadia itself, proven defenders against Chaos across a dozen invasions.
They were the elite among elites. The gold standard all other regiments aspired to emulate.
The colonel's words were not a tragic farewell—they were a statement of ability.
So just trust them.
With no burdens holding them back, the two of them accelerated immediately—like sprinters triggered by a starting pistol, leaping into action. Their speed surged to absurd levels, sending up clouds of filth and dust that were left trailing in their wake.
With metal floors thundering beneath them and the wind howling in their ears, the Angels of the Emperor were unstoppable when unrestrained.
And yet, Colonel Kovik didn't breathe a sigh of relief after receiving their approval. His expression only grew more complex.
Those two, still unaware, had casually shown something rare—respect for life. And in this era, such sentiment was nothing short of a luxury.
Drip—
A tremor passed through the air. A droplet of water traced along a jagged shard of steel, fell, and shattered on exposed bone, seeping into raw flesh.
In the gloom of a narrow corridor lit only by unknown sources, a swarm of cultists lay in wait, ever eager to offer themselves to their dark masters.
Of course, for heretics fallen to Chaos, "waiting" was never a quiet or orderly affair.
The ground was cracked and ruined. Severed limbs littered the floor.
Axes split bone. From within heaps of mangled bodies, those few survivors fused with flesh groaned in agony.
Warp-tainted miasma spread a soul-churning stench, subtly warping the world around it.
After slaughtering rival cultists who worshipped different Chaos gods, the victors swiftly turned on each other. Inner conflict among the heretics was inevitable—chaotic, brutal, and grotesquely enthusiastic.
And at last, after about ten minutes of carnage, one final victor stood tall.
He lowered his gore-drenched axe. His body was riddled with deep wounds that bared bone, yet he drew breath like it was nothing.
The Blood God's blessing surged within his soul. He gazed down at the cowering cultists who bowed before him in fear. Bony plates pushed out from his cheeks, gradually masking his face. Not even the previous cult leaders could now hope to match him.
But—
"Not enough!"
The heretic bellowed, his voice booming through the corridors. Blood cascaded from ceiling cracks in response.
"Still not enough!"
"I need a stronger opponent!"
In the next instant, the air around him dropped in temperature. Moisture in the corridor condensed, forming droplets that clung to his mutated horns.
A searing chill washed over his mind, nearly forcing a scream from his throat.
He knew—the mighty Blood God had heard his prayer. A worthy adversary was near. The hunt was about to begin.
Yes, a hunt… how do I begin—?
Fight? Yes, yes… no—wait.
Run? Yes! I need to run!
Run! Flee!
The heretic spun around, clutching the wall for support. He had to find the angel blessed by the gods. Only the Blood God's favored were worthy of such prey. How dare he think he could claim it?
But the Blood God does not tolerate cowards.
As the shadowy wind revealed its true form, the heretic's cry died in his throat.
He couldn't see the figure—its shape melded into the surrounding darkness. All he could make out was the sacred golden aquila glimmering beneath its robe.
He couldn't hear the swing of the sword that cut through the air—only felt the despair as his flesh was torn apart, his life drained.
The Blood God, watching from His throne, furrowed His brow in brief confusion, then shrugged. With thunderous rage, He turned His gaze to a more deserving battlefield.
Thus, in the depths of endless pain, this traitor met his end.
Reduced to filthy remains in a shadowy corridor, even his soul was forever denied audience with the master he had once worshiped—and so casually betrayed.
As for Arthur—he was the Angel who had crushed a mere speck of dust. He spared not a single glance back, vanishing down the next corridor in a blur of motion.
"Make it quick."
He paused for half a second, just long enough for Romulus to plant a beacon and set up an autocannon. Arthur was growing increasingly irritable.
A senseless transmigration to this hellhole. A chaotic brawl erupting out of nowhere. And now he was forced to abandon others to complete a mission that might determine the fate of the entire ship.
His grip on his sword trembled slightly as he sensed a twisted, massive shadow lurking in the dark corridor ahead.
More irritation.
This out-of-place feeling—this dissonance with everything he knew—made Arthur instinctively want to destroy everything that didn't belong.
"Blood for the—"
The hulking monster in the shadows stepped into view.
It was a Chaos Space Marine, towering like a meat-and-metal fortress.
His scarred armor and pulsating patches of flesh stitched into the gaps told of countless years spent in the Warp.
Arthur said nothing.
Unlike Romulus, who could always adapt and find something to do, Arthur only wanted to end this as quickly as possible—then find a quiet place to think. To figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.
His counterattack came swift and fierce. He smacked aside the descending axe with his shield, then thrust his power sword twice at the enemy's neck.
Squelch—
The Chaos beast never even finished his blasphemous war cry before death claimed him.
Clang!
Arthur twisted, flinging the bloodied blade from the corrupted flesh. The sparking edge sliced through ceramite and embedded itself deep into a steel wall.
Another massive head thudded to the ground.
Clean. Efficient.
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