12: Ash Gate and the Shattered God

[Deduction Epoch: M29 · Black Basalt Fortress · Main Entrance Corridor]

Rumble—!

A dull, massive roar shook the ground, and radiation dust accumulated over centuries rustled down from the crevices of the Black Basalt Fortress gates.

The hydraulic winches let out an overwhelmed metallic wail. The alloy gate, half a meter thick and capable of withstanding siege artillery, was slowly lifting upward. The grinding sound of the interlocking gears was sharp and piercing, and sparks flew in the dim corridor.

This was not a surrender by the defenders.

Inside the control room, Arik Taranis's armored giant hand gripped the long-rusted mechanical gate lever tightly.

Servo-muscles writhed frantically beneath the armor, emitting a tense hum. With a tooth-aching sound of twisting metal, he forced the manual brake lever to the "Open" position with sheer brute strength, causing the rivets of the base to pop and fly off.

Outside the gate, a radiation dust storm obscured all vision.

Jon lay prone on the edge of a shell crater, his bulletproof vest covered in bits of shredded meat. He gripped his hot Autogun tightly, his fingernails packed with black mud. His respirator filter hissed, the air he inhaled tasting of rust and blood.

The door opened.

Jon expected to be met by a frantic counterattack, a dense rain of bullets. He had prepared himself to die at the threshold.

But behind the door... there was only dead silence.

A wave of heat so intense it was suffocating hit him. It was a mixture of the stench of charred protein, the pungency of ozone, the cloying sweetness of high-energy Fuel, and the heavy scent of old engine oil.

This was the smell of death.

"A... Advance?"

The squad leader shouted hesitantly, his voice trembling.

Two thousand Mortal auxiliaries poured tremulously into this once-invincible black fortress... [Holographic Perspective: Fortress Interior Plaza]

The sensation beneath his feet was sticky.

Jon looked down; his combat boots were stepping on a layer of dark red sludge. It was coagulated plasma mixed with dust.

The scene before him completely shattered his meager understanding of the word "war."

This was a slaughterhouse.

The plaza floor was covered in a thick layer of brass shell casings—the 0.75 caliber rocket casings fired from the early Bolters held by the Thunder Warriors.

Each casing was as large as a small drinking cup, emitting the residual warmth and blue smoke of unburnt propellant.

And the bodies... Jon looked around and couldn't find even a single intact corpse.

The Bolter's unique delayed fuse exploded inside the human bodies, turning those elite guards wearing exoskeletons into a rain of blood.

On the walls, on the ceilings, even on the ten-meter-high lampposts, there were radial spray marks everywhere.

Several once-proud half-track vehicles lay overturned by the roadside, their heavy composite armor bearing massive, curled-back tears—marks left by being hacked open by a Chainsword.

The metal at the cuts curled outward, appearing as glass-like molten slag from the high heat, still making a sizzling sound as it cooled.

"Emperor above..."

Jon's stomach cramped, and bile surged up his throat.

Behind a bunker to the left, the upper body of a barbarian heavy infantryman had been smashed directly into his chest cavity by a Power Fist, looking like a soda can flattened by a hydraulic press embedded in the concrete wall.

Is this what those "Giants" do?

This wasn't a battle. It was absolute annihilation on a species level.

"Zzz— Zzz—"

Heavy, turbid breathing sounds came through. Servo motors were overloaded, and lungs were filled with fluid.

"Contact!"

Thousands of gun barrels trembled as they pointed toward the smoke and dust.

The dust cleared.

The figure of Arik Taranis was revealed.

He sat upon a throne of scrap iron, holding a Chainsword with broken teeth that dripped with black oil and blood.

The Ceramite shell of his Mk I power armor was charred black, with a burn wound on his chest deep enough to see bone. His muscles were carbonized, but he seemed to feel nothing.

The massive radiator grilles on his back were running frantically, spewing white, high-temperature steam. Because the cooling had been shut off for so long, his skin was cooked, red blisters had burst, and blood mixed with tissue fluid flowed, dripping audibly onto the ground.

But he sat bolt upright.

Like a statue forged of steel, blood, and agony.

Dozens of corpses were stacked beneath his feet, serving as the foundation of his throne.

"You... are too slow."

Arik looked up.

His crimson lone eye swept over the trembling Mortals.

His voice came through a damaged vox-grille, carrying electrical static—majestic yet exhausted.

"Thud."

Jon knelt.

His mind went blank. Fear, awe, and a submission stemming from the depths of his genes took over.

His knees hit the scalding metal floor, and his forehead touched the ground, not daring to look directly at the god-like figure.

Then, a second, a third... spreading like a plague, the surviving Mortal auxiliaries all knelt in unison.

Clatter—

Autoguns were tossed onto the ground.

At this moment, they no longer believed in weapons; they only believed in the "God" before them.

"Praise the Emperor! Praise the Thunder!"

Someone led the cry, hoarse and fanatical.

The fanatical shouts erupted like a tsunami, drowning out the silent fortress and overpowering the sound of the wind... [Era League · Judge Group 103 Livestream Room]

Dead silence.

The bullet chat was sparse. The audience was awestruck by this scene filled with religious ritualism.

This was not a liberation of civilization, nor was it justice triumphing over evil.

It was more primitive, darker, and more real.

"This isn't normal."

Tactical analyst Karen stared fixedly at the data, clicking his electronic pen. "The morale index of the Mortal units is locked at 'Fanatical.' Their psychological threshold has been breached. They would jump into lava without hesitation."

"Is this the power of 'Fear'?"

"Not entirely."

Isabelle adjusted her glasses, her gaze falling on Arik.

The camera zoomed in.

The hand gripping the sword was trembling uncontrollably and violently. His nervous system was collapsing.

A trickle of dark red nosebleed ran down, dripping onto his collar and instantly evaporating into red smoke.

"He is bleeding."

Isabelle's voice was full of pity. "His internal organs are dissolving. Gene Alchemy is overdrawing his life. Every battle is a burning of his lifespan. He is holding on by sheer willpower."

"The Mortals are not worshipping a god."

"They are worshipping a group of sacrifices that are burning and destined for destruction."

...Arik didn't care about the worship. Glory could not stop the pain, and adoration could not repair his genes.

He didn't have the strength to respond. As the drugs wore off, agony and weakness rushed in like a tide.

But he still had one last task.

"Clear the battlefield."

The command on the comms channel was as cold and hard as iron.

"Collect the metal. Dismantle the reactors. We need resources."

"And..."

His gaze fell upon the corpses, including the dead auxiliaries.

"Initiate Biomass Recovery Procedures."

"Transport the bodies to the food processing plant. Do not let them go to waste."

Jon looked up, watching the Thunder Warrior dragging his heavy steps, skillfully stacking the corpses like cargo.

He froze.

His stomach churned.

Cannibalism? Turning comrades into rations?

But he didn't vomit, and he didn't resist. Fear and fanaticism had numbed his nerves, and the survival instinct overrode morality.

He stood up silently, wiped away the blood, and joined the transport effort.

On the wasteland, dead men had no value. Dignity was a luxury.

Only by becoming starch could they complete their final sacrifice.

This was the Imperial Truth. Cruel, cold, and efficient.

Arik watched this scene and slowly closed his eyes.

Deep within his retina, that golden figure seemed to be watching.

"Mission... complete."

"Awaiting... the next... burning."