Chapter 390: Flower Rope, Revolver, and the Gunslinger

Valerian could not understand what had happened; even the Adeptus Custodes' transcendent minds could not comprehend the battlefield before them.

Blood, blood flowed everywhere across the battlefield, the entire field drowned in blood, even submerging Valerian's ankles.

He saw the great demon descend from the burning sky, spreading his torn wings, opening his ruined single eye, and swinging two grotesque battle-axes with arms scarred beyond count.

His flesh was shattered, his head split and bleeding, skull exposed, horns broken—he looked like a wounded demon, like a man under torment.

But in the next instant, as if the blood-soaked battlefield nourished him, as if the Blood God's blessing healed him,

his wounds vanished instantly, his torn wings repaired themselves.

Blood continuously streamed down his wings, vast enough to cover the heavens; eight thousand eight hundred burning war-planets reflected in the black flesh, drenching the entire battlefield in a torrential downpour of fire and blood.

Mortals turned to ash in the flames; even Astartes clad in ceramite power armor could not withstand this rain of blood and fire.

Then the beast charged, its two fang-like axes slicing through the blood-rain, lunging into the front line.

Whoever—human or daemon—stood in his path had their life taken by those twin axes.

The Silent Sisters tried to bind the monstrous demon with their anti-psyker powers, but instead had their skulls severed by the demon's blades.

A Galatus Contemptor Dreadnought, supported by eight Araelus Terminators, charged forward—but the demon struck only eight times, cleaving through the Dreadnought's armor and crushing its ruined body inside, while the eight Terminators' skulls now hung from the demon's waist.

Even the Praetor Italeo fell beneath the demon's roaring axes; before those two grotesque blood-axes, their proud adamantium power armor was as fragile as parchment.

The demon roared toward them, and the Grey Knight Alquin shouted his name: Skarbrand.

The former chief daemon of Khorne, now forgiven and blessed by Khorne, the Blood God of slaughter.

Skarbrand stomped forward, a flood rising from the sea of blood; his great axe surged along the blood-tide, roaring toward them.

A Silent Sister, merely grazed by the axe, burst into flames and screamed as she burned to ash.

He was a horrifying engine of slaughter, his veins filled with leaden fluid forged from battlefield smoke, his heart burning fuel called massacre, endlessly pumping eternal malice into his muscles—he was nearly impossible to stop.

But Valerian chose to face the impossible.

Behind him marched three Silent Sisters; the Grey Knight Alquin attacked from his side.

Left and right, gold and grey, two creations of the Emperor struck Skarbrand simultaneously.

As Valerian drew closer, he felt the monster's terror more clearly than ever.

He felt he was not facing a physical enemy, but a living volcano, a volcano spewing hellfire without end.

And Valerian, in horror, realized the beast had no reason at all—just by approaching, he felt every corner of its will was pure, unrelenting slaughter and rage.

The Blood God had restored his body, granted him his former strength, even bestowed new blessings.

But He had not returned his sanity; all the Blood God left him was rage.

Perhaps an illusion, perhaps Valerian's mind had truly glimpsed the horrors of the Warp,

he saw superimposed over Skarbrand a terrifying entity clad in blood-soaked brass armor, its face twisted like a bloodthirsty hound.

The Blood God's will dwelled within Skarbrand; Skarbrand was merely a vessel for that will.

But Valerian and the Grey Knight Alquin still charged forward, summoning their courage.

Valerian could not fathom how Alquin had found his courage.

But Valerian knew one reason he himself had the courage to raise his spear: this goddamn humiliation.

He could not accept that the Adeptus Custodes' first battle after their return would end in such a horrific defeat.

He could already imagine how the Astartes and mortals would view the Custodes after the war.

Disappointment? Contempt? Is this all the Emperor's guardians are?

No! The Custodes must never become this!

Valerian would rather charge toward death than face such a future.

Either he protects the Custodes' honor—or let him die.

Valerian heard the sound of axes cleaving ceramite: the axe called Carnage struck the Grey Knight Alquin's silver-gray power armor.

But intense psychic energy mingled with blood, gushing from the armor, surging into lightning that roared and coalesced upon Alquin's hammer.

The hammer, screaming through the air, slammed into Skarbrand's face; the exorcism runes burned his thick crimson skin—but inflicted no real wound.

It only slowed his axe swing toward Valerian by an instant—just an instant.

Yet strangely, though they had never spoken, Valerian somehow understood Alquin's intent.

The Grey Knight had sacrificed himself, poured every ounce of his psychic power, to grant Valerian one single moment—only this one moment.

Within Valerian, inexplicably, a surge of power erupted—fury and courage.

He roared, seized the fleeting opportunity Alquin had bought, and leapt toward Skarbrand's head.

Valerian targeted the patch of skin thinned by the Grey Knight's psychic assault and drove the spear called Intellect deep into it.

Blood gushed out; the spear pierced Skarbrand's skin and flesh—but struck something harder: bone. The recoil nearly tore the spear from Valerian's grip.

Then, searing pain shot through his left rib—he heard the sound of Intellect's tip snapping.

The axe called Carnage shattered his gold-plated armor, sending Valerian, spear broken in hand, flying like a ragdoll into the blood-pool below.

Not far from him lay the Grey Knight Alquin.

Thank the Emperor, Alquin still lived—though his skull was shattered, his armor split in two, his organs exposed to air.

At that moment, death's shadow fell over Valerian, yet his wounded body moved unnaturally slow.

Valerian's years of training told him: he could not dodge this axe.

THUD!!

A psychic warhammer slammed into Skarbrand's skull—directly onto the wound Valerian had made.

The broken tip of Intellect, lodged inside Skarbrand's skull, tore open his scalp, exposing the pale bone beneath.

Skarbrand roared in fury, his movements slowing slightly.

But Valerian seized the chance, grabbed the mangled body of the Grey Knight Alquin, and pulled him clear of Skarbrand's axe.

Then Valerian saw who had struck.

Leina, gasping heavily, stood before Skarbrand in her gray-green Cadia uniform.

Leina was dizzy, she could not explain where she had drawn that immense psychic power from.

That psychic energy—filled with rage, killing intent, and courage—had suddenly erupted within her.

Just as Leina summoned her courage, preparing to face Skarbrand with her frail mortal body,

she could only believe it was the Emperor's and Saint Doraemon's blessing.

Khorne had blessed Valerian, Alquin, and Leina, granting them power.

The Blood God praised courage, praised rage, praised the will to fight.

He loved the Grey Knight Alquin—for his dying strike, blood for blood—and granted her power.

He loved the Custodes Valerian—for his fury, for dying to protect honor—and granted him power.

He even loved the psyker Leina,

a mortal whose psychic power was spent, yet still furious, still filled with hatred for demons, still courageous.

And Khorne admired her understanding of psychic energy—so he granted her power.

Though all three were enemies of the Blood God, He still praised their courage, granted them blessings—and

granted them death in battle.

The Blood God felt no mercy; he only lamented why such souls did not belong to him.

Skarbrand raised his twin axes, Carnage and Carnage.

Leina, her uniform soaked in blood, her face smeared with grime, watched silently.

She felt no fear—only calm, a gentle calm, as if summoned, as if destined.

She suddenly remembered her mother, a devout worshipper of the Emperor.

She could never have imagined her daughter, born in the hive city, would one day die beneath a daemon's axe protecting the Imperial Palace.

If she knew—"Would you be proud of me?" Leina whispered.

No one answered—but Leina lifted her head.

She remembered the question she had once discussed with Zhou Yun in the hive city: "Can maternal love surpass faith?"

Leina suddenly understood: the Emperor loved humanity as humanity loved the Emperor.

The Emperor was humanity; the Emperor's love for humanity was humanity's love for itself. Devout faith and true maternal love were one and the same, for all beings would return to the Emperor.

Leina looked at Skarbrand—looked at the axe charging toward her.

"By the Emperor."

Leina whispered, murmured a prayer:

"By Saint Doraemon."

"Save us."

Deep within the palace, the brown-haired boy raised his head in confusion—he sensed the portion of power he had given to Zhou Yun shifting.

He faintly heard a voice—a voice coming from Zhou Yun's fourth-dimensional pocket.

"Parenting materials added."

"Parenting program: Child behavioral correction and re-education progress: 88%."

"Child behavioral correction and re-education, preliminarily completed."

A wind from the Wild West swept across the blood-soaked battlefield; faintly in the distance, the jingle of cowbells sounded.

The scarf fluttered in the wind, a cowboy hat pressed firmly atop the head by fingers entwined with flower ropes.

Between Skarbrand and Leina, the sound of a revolver spinning abruptly rang out.

(End of Chapter)