203: "Pay back the debt!" Istvaan's ghost spoke.

The The Cursed Host Legion.

A phantom unit existing only in the Imperium's oldest legends and most desperate battlefields.

"That old geezer..." Zhang Yuan muttered two almost inaudible words into his private comm channel, "Finally decided to join the fight."

These pitch-black specters ignored the surrounded Imperial forces; their actions had only one objective.

Purification.

The figure of a Cursed Host Warrior flickered in the flames, appearing the next second behind a heavy Bolter emplacement. The antique Bolter in his hand rose, and the black flames burning at the muzzle reflected the terrified and stunned face of a Red Corsairs Traitor Astartes.

There was no gunshot, only a muffled detonation.

The Bolter round, wreathed in black flames, pierced directly through the traitor's back and exploded out of his breastplate. There was no blood at the wound, only rapidly spreading black flames silently incinerating both power armor and flesh into ash.

Chaos spread through the encirclement like a plague.

These spectral warriors of unknown origin traversed the fire net, ignoring the laws of physics. Every appearance meant the silent annihilation of a Chaos minion. They were the most efficient executioners, the Spirits of Vengeance walking the world.

Above the dome, the mocking smile on the face of the Chaos Sorcerer riding a Tzeentchian Disc completely froze. He screamed and unleashed a twisted bolt of sorcerous lightning, blasting toward a Cursed Host Warrior who was "executing" a foe.

However, the Cursed Host Warrior did not even turn back. The black flames burning around him suddenly surged, forming a twisted black barrier. The sorcerous lightning struck it and instantly vanished, like a clay ox sinking into the sea.

"What the hell is that thing!"

"Open fire! Kill them!"

The Red Corsairs' command system completely collapsed. The gun barrels previously aimed at Roboute Guilliman and the others began frantically turning, fruitlessly chasing the black specters flickering across the battlefield.

A fatal breach appeared in the encirclement.

"Now!"

Roboute Guilliman's roar exploded like thunder across the chaotic battlefield. The holy flame burning on the emperors sword was the brightest beacon in the storm.

"We break out!"

The Primarch was the first to charge, his blue and golden figure transforming into an unstoppable comet that slammed violently into the enemy lines, which had loosened due to the confusion. Every swing of the emperors sword brought forth a wall of purifying fire, erasing the demons and traitors in its path.

"For The Emperor!"

Cato Sicarius let out a long-suppressed battle cry, leading the Ultramarines like a blue torrent of steel, following right behind the Primarch.

Titus and his Deathwatch Squad did not shout; they merely followed silently beside Zhang Yuan, using horrifyingly precise burst fire to eliminate any enemy attempting to approach the advisor.

The previously airtight death trap was forcibly torn open by the The Cursed Host Legion, a force representing the will of ultimate vengeance. The Chaos encirclement was no longer a noose, but rather a spiderweb set ablaze, disintegrating in silent immolation.

The Imperial forces and the The Cursed Host Legion—two armies with vastly different styles—broke out in the same direction with an uncanny understanding.

The The Cursed Host Legion focused on precise decapitation, clearing out high-threat Sorcerers and heavy fire points.

Roboute Guilliman, leading his sons, used the most brutal and direct method to crush a bloody path through the enemy lines.

The battle erupted quickly and ended even faster.

When they rushed out of the massive domed cavern, they left behind only ruins burning with black flames and the terrified wails of the Red Corsairs.

The group rapidly advanced down a new, deeper corridor.

On the surrounding rock walls, massive, vein-like energy conduits began to appear, emitting a faint red glow that stretched everyone's shadows long and short.

Zhang Yuan looked at the Cursed Host Warriors leading the group, silent as statues, his curiosity growing like wildfire.

That was the The Cursed Host Legion! One of the greatest mysteries in the Warhammer 40K universe! A living legend!

He glanced at Roboute Guilliman beside him. The Primarch was examining the black-armored warriors with a complex gaze—there was wariness, doubt, but mostly an unspeakable... sorrow.

Zhang Yuan knew this was not the time for Roboute Guilliman to ask questions.

But he could.

He quickly stepped forward, walking alongside the Cursed Host Warrior who was clearly the leader, whose armor had the most skeletal reliefs, and whose burning black flames were the fiercest.

The surrounding Ultramarines, including Titus, showed tense expressions. Cato Sicarius even instinctively tightened his grip on his sword hilt, as if Zhang Yuan were approaching a bomb ready to explode.

"Are you..." Zhang Yuan began, his voice exceptionally clear in the silent corridor, "sent by The Emperor?"

The leader of the Cursed Host Warriors did not react, continuing to walk in silence.

Roboute Guilliman paused his steps and looked at Zhang Yuan, his eyes holding a hint of restraint. Interacting with these entities was inherently full of unknowns and risks.

Zhang Yuan seemed not to notice the Primarch's signal. He continued to press, his voice low, yet clearly audible to all the Imperial high-ranking personnel around him.

"How is the old man... The Emperor, doing now? Can he still speak?"

This question struck everyone's nerves like a heavy hammer.

The proud look on Cato Sicarius's face vanished instantly, replaced by sheer horror.

A flicker of movement crossed the silver eyes on the solemn face of Grand Master Valdes.

Even Cypher, who had been following like a shadow, slightly raised his bottomless hood, as if trying to get a clear look at Zhang Yuan, this reckless mortal.

The Emperor's condition was the highest level of Imperial secret, the cornerstone maintaining the faith of the entire Imperium. In public, The Emperor was always the deity seated upon the Golden Throne, protecting humanity.

Yet Zhang Yuan, using a tone as if greeting an elderly neighbor, asked this "treasonous" question—one that could get him burned by the Inquisition ten thousand times over.

However, the Cursed Host Warrior remained silent, only the faint sound of armor joints rubbing, like the sigh of a specter.

Zhang Yuan paid no heed, throwing out one shocking question after another, like an ecstatic fan finally meeting their idol.

"What is your origin? Are those black flames the Will of Vengeance?"

"Is the heroic spirit of Ferrus Manus... also among you?"

When the name "Ferrus Manus" was spoken, Roboute Guilliman's tall body violently trembled. He looked at Zhang Yuan, his gaze no longer holding restraint, but a complex mix of shock, pain, and disbelief.

Ferrus Manus, the Primarch of the Iron Hands Legion, his brother, was beheaded by Fulgrim at Isstvan V, becoming the first loyalist Primarch to fall during the Horus Heresy. His death was an eternal pain in the hearts of all surviving brothers.

And the legend of his spirit transforming into a Spirit of Vengeance circulated only in the most ancient Chapter secrets, bordering on heresy.

Zhang Yuan actually knew this!

Zelander Veilwalker's mask turned toward Zhang Yuan, and a thread of psychic energy mixed with admiration and confirmation quietly entered Zhang Yuan's mind: [The Laughing God said you are the variable; he did not deceive me.]

Every question Zhang Yuan asked was like a boulder thrown into the still lake of everyone's hearts.

However, no matter what he asked, the leader of the Cursed Host Warriors remained silent as gold, like a true specter.

Just when everyone thought this one-sided "interrogation" would end awkwardly, Zhang Yuan stopped, looked at the Cursed Host Warrior leader's back, and asked one last question.

"Are you... from Isstvan III? Or V?"

This sentence, like a key, unlocked eons of silence.

The leader of the Cursed Host Warriors stopped.

The entire group stopped with him.

He slowly, and extremely stiffly, turned his black flame-wreathed helmet to face Zhang Yuan.

A hoarse, twisted voice, seemingly composed of the overlapping screams of countless specters, emerged from his helmet's vox-caster. Every word carried bone-chilling coldness and infinite sorrow.

"Repay... the debt... with... souls."

Having said this, he turned back and continued forward.

Almost the instant the words were uttered, Roboute Guilliman's grip on the emperors sword tightened abruptly. The blazing holy flame flickered wildly due to its master's turbulent emotions, emitting a low hum. His gaze toward Zhang Yuan had changed from initial restraint to a complex mix of shock, scrutiny, and an endless sorrow, sealed for ten thousand years, called 'Fratricide's Grief.' In the depths of his eyes, the blood-darkened soil of Isstvan V seemed to be reflected.

On the other side, Cypher's millennia-long unchanging posture faltered for the first time. A golden light seemed to flash within the deep shadow of his hood, as if he had heard a name from the distant past.

Zhang Yuan, beneath his helmet, revealed a smile mixed with pity and relief. He had received the answer and confirmed that the heavy echo of that bloody history still wailed throughout the galaxy.

Silence returned to the corridor.

But this time, everyone's gaze was fixed on Zhang Yuan, filled with awe, fear, and scrutiny.

The group continued forward, but the atmosphere was completely different. No one dared to underestimate this advisor, who appeared to be merely a mortal. The secrets he knew surpassed even those of the Primarch.

Finally, after passing through a tunnel that seemed endless, a crimson light, mixed with the smell of sulfur and blood, poured out from the suddenly opened exit ahead.

Accompanying it were deafening sounds of fighting, explosions, and the blasphemous roars of demons.

They had arrived at the very heart of the Blackstone Fortress.

It was a massive space, indescribable in words, likely over a hundred kilometers across. The dome was impossibly high, with countless enormous, inverted mountain-like rock structures hanging down. The ground was formed by innumerable layered and interwoven gigantic arches and platforms, several kilometers wide, beneath which lay a bottomless, pitch-black abyss.

The entire hall was a boiling battlefield.

A crimson torrent composed of blood and brass was engaging in the most primal and bloody collision with a blue storm composed of shifting colors and sorcerous fire.

Khorne's Bloodletterss wielded great axes, battling Tzeentch's Lords of Change on the arches.

Countless Bloodletterss, Horrors, and Horrors of Tzeentch were locked in combat, severed limbs raining down from the air, plunging into the abyss below.

"Oh my god..." Cato Sicarius exclaimed in astonishment.

This was the realm of demons.

"Over there!" Zelander Veilwalker's voice echoed in everyone's minds. She raised her slender arm, pointing toward the far end of the hall.

There, a massive archway emitting a soft white light stood silently on an isolated platform, like a lighthouse in the darkness.

The Webway Gate.

But to reach it, they had to cross this maze of bridges and platforms, stretching for tens of kilometers.

Worse still, their arrival was like a drop of water falling into boiling oil.

Some of the fighting demons simultaneously ceased their actions, turning their malicious gazes toward the unwelcome guests.

A Bloodletters tearing at a Horror roared, dropped its prey, and charged with its hooves toward their platform. Then came a second, a third... Soon, a crimson wave composed of hundreds of demons broke away from the main battle and surged toward them.

Roboute Guilliman did not look at the charging demons; his gaze was fixed firmly on the Webway Gate in the distance.

He raised the emperors sword in his hand, and the burning holy flame appeared even hotter under the bloody light.

"Target: The Webway Gate!"

The Primarch's voice pierced the demons' roars, clearly reaching the ears of every warrior.

"All forces! Charge!"