"Alright," Joker waved his hand dismissively, "Case closed. Looks like we wasted a trip."
He sighed, "I was hoping to have a grand battle with the legendary Genestealers, maybe grind some xp—ahem, I mean, purify some xenos.
And this is it? This place is so clean I'm tempted to take off my boots and wipe them before walking any further."
Governor Blackwood, hearing this, though still furious, was visibly relieved. Since these two "gods of slaughter" said everything was fine, it seemed his position was secure.
"I told you!" The Governor wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, immediately seizing the opportunity to fawn, "The governance of Rhea IV has always been exemplary! Although I was surprised that the people below were so... uh, self-aware, this just proves our loyalty to the Emperor!"
Meanwhile, after learning there were no Genestealers, Malakim Phoros turned his attention to what the Governor had just said. He turned his head toward Joker: "Hundreds of people? Facing the Drukhari, known for their cruelty and cunning, you repelled them with a force of only a few hundred? That is simply incredible!"
As an Astartes, Phoros knew all too well the horror of those xenos. Even a fully armed Astartes squad would not dare to let their guard down when facing the lightning-fast raids of the Drukhari. The casualty ratio for mortal troops is usually staggering; being able to repel them often implies a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.
"Uh, about that..." Joker scratched his cheek, looking a bit awkward, his expression becoming complicated. "Haha, well... you see, Chapter Master Phoros, you know how the situation on the battlefield can change in an instant..."
"Did the tactical planning of the 'Helldivers' play a key role?" Phoros pressed, his eyes filled with curiosity.
"Sigh, it's not worth mentioning." Joker sighed, appearing as if he didn't want to look back. "In short, they didn't solve it through any heroic martial prowess, nor through any precise tactical planning."
Seeing Joker's hesitant demeanor, Phoros keenly sensed that there must be an untold story—the kind that didn't quite conform to Imperial regulations.
If it were a commander from the Ultramarines or the Imperial Fists, they might have gotten to the bottom of it. But Phoros was naturally gentle and understanding, so he considerately dropped the subject.
"Fine, if that's the case, I won't ask further." Phoros nodded, stopping his inquiries.
The three began walking back, passing through that overly clean street. Watching the workers around them, who were working steadily despite their somewhat dull expressions, Phoros's initially tense mood slowly became complex.
"Actually..." the giant in yellow power armor suddenly remarked in a low voice, a hint of imperceptible melancholy in his tone, "Wasting a trip is actually a good situation."
Joker turned to look at him.
Phoros gazed at the mortals, his eyes softening: "As warriors, we crave glory and combat. But if combat means the death of these civilians, then I would prefer my bolter never fire. At least for now, it seems there will be no casualties here. Seeing the Emperor's subjects living their lives well is my greatest hope."
Speaking of this, Phoros gave a wry smile, one that contained all the suffering and misunderstanding the Lamenters Chapter had endured over the past few centuries:
"Sigh, it's just that every time we arrive somewhere, something goes wrong. Sometimes I wonder if we are truly cursed, bringing misfortune to the people we need to protect."
Looking at this Chapter Master, who possessed the power of a demigod yet was so sentimental, a sense of respect grew in Joker's heart. In the pitch-black, hopeless universe of Warhammer, Space Marines like the Lamenters, who truly see mortals as people, are rarer than living Primarchs.
Joker reached out and gently patted Phoros's heavy shoulder pad, the metal clashing with a crisp sound.
"Don't think like that," Joker said earnestly. "Constantly encountering disasters isn't your problem, and it's certainly not a curse. This is a galaxy filled with war; disaster is as ubiquitous as the air. The reason you are always in the center of the storm is because you always choose to charge into the storm to protect others, rather than turning and running away."
Phoros froze for a moment, then looked at Joker with gratitude.
Meanwhile, beyond the veil of realspace, in Commorragh, the Dark City deep within the Webway, filled with extreme depravity and endless agony.
The air was permeated with the smell of stale blood and some kind of hallucinogenic incense. In the center of a hall at the top of a spire, decorated with countless spikes and flayed skulls, a gruesome "art exhibition" had just concluded.
The Drukhari squad leader who had been the first to flee during the previous raid on Rhea IV was no longer a complete organism. He had been turned into a "Blood Eagle"—the skin and flesh of his back had been neatly cut open, his ribs broken and bent outward like spread blood-colored wings, and his lungs, still heaving slightly, were hung over the ribs. Every difficult breath was accompanied by pink blood foam and wails from the depths of his soul.
But he was not dead; the Haemonculi of Commorragh would never let him die before his agony was drained dry.
Archon Vylar of the Kabal of the Blade of Pain sat on his throne, which was cobbled together from living slaves, playing with a cup of viscous soul essence, red as a ruby.
His long, vicious eyes scanned the subordinates trembling in a line below the stage.
"Look at him," Vylar's voice was as smooth as silk, yet colder than the sharpest poison blade. "This is the end for cowards. Pain... beautiful, eternal pain."
Then, his tone rose sharply, and the goblet in his hand was smashed to the floor at the feet of the unfortunate wretch turned into a Blood Eagle, making the Drukhari below shudder.
"A bunch of trash! Total, absolute trash!"
Vylar stood up, his slender body wrapped in tight-fitting obsidian armor. He paced back and forth, pointing at the crowd below and berating them: "According to your ridiculous report, huh? Just because of some low-level daemon that looked like it crawled out of the Warp, you were scared out of your wits?!"
"You didn't even see the main force of the enemy! You didn't even fire a single shot! You ran back like a group of startled Grox just because of a Warp trick that wasn't even fully formed!"
The Archon's rage almost ignited the hall. For the Drukhari, failure was acceptable, but being scared away by such groundless fear without capturing a single slave or tasting any pain was an utter humiliation. If this got out, how would he survive in the upper circles of Commorragh? Other Archons would laugh their heads off!
"Not a single slave captured—not only did we lose fuel and ammunition, but we lost all the respect of the 'Blade of Pain'!"
Vylar stopped, his eyes flashing with cruel and manic light. He needed blood to wash away the humiliation, needed massive amounts of pain to fill the deficit of this operation, and more importantly, needed a massacre to re-establish his prestige.
"Enough," he said coldly, his hand stroking the power sword at his waist capable of tearing souls. "Pass the order down: assemble all raider squads, activate all Ravagers and Pain Engines. This time, there is no need to look for any high-value targets."
Vylar turned around, looking at the tiny world on the holographic star map called Rhea IV, his lips curling into a chilling grin.
"I will lead the team personally. We're going to that godforsaken Rhea IV! Right now!" His voice echoed in the hall like the judgment of the Grim Reaper. "This time, I will kill every last one of those monkeys on that planet! I will turn that planet into a massive morgue and make their wails resound through the Webway!"
And on the distant Rhea IV, Phoros, who had just lamented, "I hope to see the people living well," suddenly felt a chill run down his spine for no reason.
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"I will turn that planet into a massive morgue and make their wails resound through the Webway!"
LOL LMAO EVEN, Who's gonna tell him?