Chapter 177: Neural Lictor?

We shall stand against the gods and wage war upon them.

Beneath the holographic star map glowing in the Crimson Grand Hall, Dante raised his head and declared to his blood kin and cousins.

Should we then confront it in the realm of the mind?

Moments after Dante spoke, Daman, Captain of the Seventh Company of the Red Brothers, asked with confusion:

Perhaps if we destroy their minds, their bodies will collapse as well.

It is it, not them, corrected Skarban, Chief Librarian of the Flesh Tearers.

Excluding the absent Mephiston, he was among the most powerful psykers on Bar, and now this Chief Librarian of the Flesh Tearers stood in place of Chapter Master Seth at the meeting.

I once gazed upon the Hive Mind as Mephiston did.

Skarban emphasized:

I barely survived, and in doing so, learned that terrifying entity—it is not a foe we can overcome in the Warp.

Aside from the Emperor himself, I cannot think of any other being in the material realm capable of defeating the Hive Mind in the Warp.

Skarban's words plunged those present into silence again.

We must destroy it on the material plane; no matter what, its mind was born within the flesh of the Leviathan. Destroy enough of its biomass, and the Hive Mind will weaken.

Dante broke the silence:

This battle must be decided on the material plane—right here on Bar.

Gentlemen, beyond Bar, there is no place left within the Crimson Scar for the Tyranids to replenish biomass. The worlds not yet consumed by the Tyranids have been stripped of life by me; I have left them nothing but ash, save Bar.

Dante's voice carried an almost imperceptible pain.

The Emperor shaped them as protectors of humanity, yet he ordered the destruction of over forty inhabited worlds.

The Tyranids' obsession with Bar has led them into peril.

To reach Bar directly, they abandoned richer regions and wasted vast amounts of biomass in their forced march.

Beyond Bar, the Tyranids have nothing left to sustain their existence.

Dante emphasized again:

If we defeat the Tyranids on Bar, they will be trapped within the Crimson Scar, forced to endure hunger and scarcity.

As long as we hold Bar, as long as we resist them at Angel's Keep, they will be destroyed.

We are like primitive humans, holding high the torch of hope. So long as the torch does not die, the beasts must starve in darkness until they perish.

Dante's gaze swept over every warrior present.

Each here represented an entire Chapter, an embodiment of a Blood Angels Successor Chapter. Dante sought to bind them together,

not through force, but through his own prestige, honor, and the trust among brothers.

Now, on Bar, the greatest force gathered in ten thousand years has assembled—this force is sufficient to protect the torch of hope and burn the Tyranids' bodies.

But this army's scale brings its own problem: every person here is the master of a Successor Chapter, bearing the same responsibilities.

Twenty-odd Chapters, over twenty thousand Battle-Brothers, countless warships, and three planets—no one but the Emperor and the Angels have the right to command such a vast force.

Dante's words again silenced the hall.

Your head bears the blood of Saint Guilliman. Your face wears the mask of Saint Guilliman.

The Chapter Master of the Blood Knights, Jor, spoke in a grim tone:

Stop this political pretense. The Blood Knights will obey you.

Though Jor's words were sharp, they resonated with those present; nearly all warriors nodded in agreement.

We heard that on Armageddon, the Imperial commanders debated for days before appointing you as Supreme Commander.

The Chapter Master of the Crimson Blade rose to his feet; the old warrior, once convinced he was a son of Guilliman, declared:

But here—I believe we need none of that. You are our kin. You are Saint Guilliman's representative. I am willing to recognize you as my lord.

When he sat down, the room erupted in cheers.

Yet Dante understood that many, like Jor,

pledged loyalty to Bar, to the blood of Saint Guilliman, to the mask upon Dante's face—but were not necessarily willing to accept Dante himself as their commander.

Dante knew true power did not come from the dead or tradition, but from the consent of those governed.

Without truly gaining that power, Dante could not bind them into one.

Dante must seize the right to rule in his own hands. This, of course, violated the Codex Astartes, which forbade any Astartes commander from leading more than a thousand Battle-Brothers.

But all here were sons of the Archangels; few among them cared for the Codex.

A faint smile touched Dante's face beneath his mask. For the sake of necessity, he must temporarily humble Lord Roboute Guilliman.

Gentlemen, I have achieved many victories, but I am, at heart, still a warrior—equal to you all.

Only the absent Emperor and the Archangel have the right to grant me the title of commander. But if they truly require me to bear this duty, I must seek your consent.

Dante turned to face them all, his tone now commanding:

If you truly desire me to command you, then obey my first order.

Vote. Use your own authority to grant me power—to make me the leader of this war.

"Good!" growled Jor of the Blood Knights. "Then vote!"

If all agree you are a worthy ruler, independent of Saint Guilliman's authority, I swear I will lead my brothers to die for you.

But if the vote goes against you, I shall vent Saint Guilliman's wrath upon our enemies in my own way.

Dante nodded solemnly: "I accept only the power granted to me by my brothers. Whatever your choice, I accept it." Instantly, warriors began heated discussions—debating whether to pledge loyalty to Dante himself. Passionate gestures and voices stirred the air, making the flickering flames dance.

Dante watched this scene, knowing he had taken his first step.

He was confident he would win the vote. The vote itself was merely a symbol, a ritual to bind them to Dante personally, not to the dead Primarch.

Suddenly, Dante sensed a gaze fixed upon him.

Dante turned his head and saw Skarban, Chief Librarian of the Flesh Tearers, watching him.

You crave to be like a Primarch, Dante. A voice echoed directly in Dante's mind—Skarban's voice.

Dante's expression remained calm; such things had been done to him before by Mephiston.

No, I dare not seek the power of a Primarch, he replied in his mind.

Dante had never desired power. He felt only weariness, longing to end it all on the battlefield.

I am not speaking of power, Skarban observed Dante, shaking his head slightly. You crave to sacrifice as a Primarch does.

What could be more arrogant or prideful than that?

Crimson skylight bathed the stony ground. From its pod, the Lictor, as if newly born, lifted its head, crawling forward.

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Beneath its carapace, purple-red and crown-like, exposed and swelling brain tissue glowed with blue psychic light, illuminating its pale pink flesh.

The Lictor turned its head toward Mephiston, its smaller claws—compared to other Lictor subspecies—slightly opening.

Neural Lictor, also known as Brain Lictor: a Lictor subspecies genetically enhanced for psychic power, designed to combat psykers.

Mephiston had read of this Tyranid in the book "What the Ogryns Should Know About Tyranid Biology," knowing its psychic emissions could induce terror in Space Marines.

The Lictor, clearly possessing immense psychic strength, discerned Mephiston's cognitive distortion within seconds.

It let out a piercing shriek—a cold, hungry, greedy psychic wave surged toward Mephiston.

Mephiston could not dodge. The psychic wave struck him squarely. A wave of terror surged through his soul; his body stiffened for less than half a second.

But that half-second caused his cognitive distortion to flicker. The fourteen Astartes of the Saint Guilliman's Wings, the Gene-Stealer bishops, and the chieftains roared in fury and charged Mephiston.

The sound of bullets searing the air rang out—three shots. Three Gun's bullets, unyielding, streaked toward Mephiston.

Blood-red fury flared in Mephiston's eyes. His gaze swept over Three Gun's body and the bullets he fired.

The bullets disintegrated instantly into a thousand fragments. Three Gun's body, as if slashed by ten thousand blades, shattered into bloodied chunks the size of fingernails.

The Genestealer Cultists and Purebloods reacted faster—one wielded a blade, the other extended claws capable of slicing through Terminator armor.

Yet before they could touch Mephiston, their bodies disintegrated into ash, scattered by the night breeze.

The remaining so-called Saint Guilliman's Wings had no time to react—they simply exploded into ash, vanishing into the air.

"Mephiston?!" screamed the Gene-Stealer Bishop.

Its brain tissue writhed, unleashing psychic energy strong enough to burst the skulls of dozens of ordinary men toward Mephiston.

But Mephiston merely turned his head, his eyes blazing crimson with fury, locking onto the Gene-Stealer Bishop.

The Bishop felt his throat tighten, then watched his body and head separate—as if severed by an invisible blade.

The Gene-Stealer Chieftain named Four-Claw Dante roared. It moved faster than its massive body should allow, appearing before Mephiston in an instant, opening four scythe-like claws.

This Gene-Stealer Chieftain, having lived for centuries and evolved on Bar's crimson wastelands, bore traces of the Blood Angels' genetic lineage—its strength rivaling that of a typical Successor Chapter Master.

The claws descended from all four directions, striking at Mephiston.

Mephiston raised his soulblade, Vitarus, to block it. The silversteel of the blade, as if sensing its master's rage, ignited in furious flame.

"Get away!!!!!!" A roar of fury erupted from Mephiston's mouth.

In an instant, reality trembled and screamed. Vitarus sang with searing heat.

The Gene-Stealer Chieftain's four arms were severed by the blazing fire, then turned to ash and scattered by the wind.

"Grrr…" the Gene-Stealer Chieftain emitted a low, mournful cry.

Its body, grown and evolved over centuries, meant nothing before Mephiston.

Vitarus glowed blue, then plunged deep into the Gene-Stealer Chieftain's chest, armored in deep-purple chitin.

The sturdy carapace offered no resistance—it parted like butter beneath a hot knife.

Seething psychic flame surged from the blade, erupting from within the Chieftain, reducing the monstrous beast to ash in an instant.

Fourteen Saint Guilliman's Wings, the brain-altered Gene-Stealer Bishop, and the unique, powerful Gene-Stealer Chieftain—combined, they held against Mephiston for only seven or eight seconds.

Mephiston's blazing, furious gaze settled upon the Neural Lictor.

The Neurolikaht was covered in layers of spiritual energy that concealed its form, its own carapace slowly dissolving into the gaps between light and shadow.

This Tyranic spiritual unit, possessing immense spiritual power and stealth ability, was nearly vanishing before Mephiston.

The Hive Mind had once clashed with Mephiston in the Underworld.

But Mephiston not only withstood the Hive Mind's power—he also slew within the gaps a psychic beast whose spiritual strength surpassed Alpha-class.

Knowing this, the Neurolikaht understood that Mephiston was far beyond its match.

Only by exploiting the few seconds bought by the Gene-Thieves had it barely secured a chance to escape.

"No way!!!"

A bestial roar erupted from Mephiston's mouth; a terrifying spiritual wave radiated outward from him, and the sand grains drifting in the air ignited instantly—the desert floor around him turned into shimmering, rough black glass.

Behind him, blazing crimson wings nearly sprouted; with a single leap, he flew to the Neurolikaht's side in the blink of an eye.

Mephiston raised his Soulblade Vitarus high; the furious spiritual flames burning upon it nearly obscured the crimson rift in the sky.

The Neurolikaht let out a piercing shriek and summoned all its spiritual energy into thick, layered spiritual barriers.

A crimson rift exploded between them; reality trembled, the surrounding desert ignited and collapsed, and the light of the stars dimmed.

The Likaht ultimately managed to block Mephiston's blade for a fleeting moment—even though it consumed nearly all its spiritual power—and seized that brief opening to vanish completely into the gaps between light and shadow, beneath the veil of reality.

Mephiston's Soulblade Vitarus struck empty air; the blade, laced with immense spiritual power, plunged directly into the desert.

Instantly, a crimson lightning bolt, like blood, slashed across the desert night; centered on Mephiston's blade, all surrounding sand grains were burned into black, murky glass.

Mephiston let out a furious roar, muttering curses at the damned beast and his own stupidity.

He had never seen a Brainlikaht, nor heard of the Neurolikaht's existence outside that book, "Tyranic Biology for Ogres Too"—he had instinctively dismissed the possibility that the Likaht might be this psychic subspecies.

Added to his overconfidence and pride in his own spiritual power, this caused him to reveal his identity at the last moment, allowing the Likaht to escape.

Mephiston suddenly recalled what Zhou Yun had said: Many things in the galaxy go wrong because of honor, pride, and brotherhood.

At that moment, a breeze stirred beside Mephiston, and a door of rose-tinged red swung open beside him.

"Neurolikaht." Zhou Yun's voice sounded beside Mephiston, followed by the sound of a cane striking the sand.

Four thousand five hundred words this chapter—made up a little of what was owed.

(End of Chapter)