19: When bullets cannot penetrate nightmares

[Simulation Epoch: M29 · Caucasus Mountain Wasteland · Inside the Corridors of Fortress Nadvak]

The air changed.

It was not a gradual shift, but a sudden, jarring discontinuity.

One moment, Jon could still smell the nauseating battlefield stench—a mix of stale machine oil, charred flesh, and concentrated ozone.

The next, these scents belonging to "reality" were violently erased by an invisible hand.

Replacing them was a cloying, viscous, thick, almost throat-cloggingly strange fragrance.

It smelled like a sea of lilies scorching under the summer sun, and also like piles of rotting entrails fermenting in a basement for three months.

This extreme contrast caused Jon's stomach to spasm, instinctively wanting to retch, but his throat could only produce a hollow "gurgling" sound.

The feel underfoot also became wrong.

The hard metal grating floor seemed to soften; each step down transmitted a slippery sensation like stepping on damp moss or decaying flesh.

Jon gripped his Autogun with white-knuckled intensity, his fingers bone-white from the strain, even emitting faint cracks from his joints. The rough anti-slip texture on the stock was the only "reality" he could cling to at this moment.

He looked up, gazing ahead.

Five meters in front of him, the massive silhouette of Arik Taranis's Mk II power armor, its once-clear outline now seemed somewhat blurred, as if the surrounding air was being distorted by some high temperature—or some indescribable energy.

"Maintain... formation..."

The squad leader beside him tried to issue an order, but the voice sounded as if through a thick layer of water—muffled, distant, with a strange echo.

"The readings here are off."

In the comms channel, an auxiliary trooper Technician frantically tapped his Geiger Counter, "Radiation levels are zero... impossible! This is near the reactor! And... and the gravity parameters are jumping erratically!"

The surrounding walls were no longer cold black basalt and riveted steel plates.

They were breathing.

At first, it was only an extremely subtle undulation, as if something was crawling beneath the wall surface.

Then, the hard rock surface began to soften, liquefy, revealing indistinct, blurry faces.

They were human faces.

There were the elderly, children, men, women.

Their features were twisted and displaced, mouths gaping open to an exaggerated angle, emitting silent screams.

"Save me... it hurts so much..."

"Give me your skin... it's so cold here..."

"Jon... is that you? Jon..."

That voice wasn't heard through the ears; it was like a damp, slime-covered maggot burrowing directly into Jon's cerebral cortex, wriggling and gnawing at his brain matter.

Jon whipped his head around, looking at the wall to his right.

The face emerging there looked exactly like his dead father!

That ashen face streamed bloody tears, a half-formed arm made of stone reaching out, trying to grab his shoulder.

"No... this can't be..."

Jon's pupils contracted violently, his breathing rapid as if he were suffocating.

Reason told him it was stone, an illusion, but his senses screamed that it was real.

"Agh—!!!"

A piercing, agonized scream suddenly erupted from the ranks, instantly tearing through the eerie atmosphere.

A young soldier walking ahead of Jon suddenly threw down his weapon.

He clutched his head, his fingernails frantically clawing at his own cheeks, instantly covering his face with bloody gashes.

"There are bugs! Bugs in my brain! They're eating my memories!"

The soldier knelt on the ground, his body convulsing violently, his gaze scattered and frenzied.

His mental defenses had been shattered in an instant—the inevitable outcome when a Mortal faces the whispers of the Warp.

"Come out! Get out!"

Under the horrified gazes of everyone, the soldier yanked the Trench Knife from his belt.

Without the slightest hesitation, nor any fear of pain, he aimed the sharp blade at his own eye socket and stabbed it in with brutal force.

*Squelch!*

The eyeball burst, splattering black-red blood onto Jon's Gas Mask.

"What is he doing?!"

"Hold him down! Medic!"

Chaos erupted like a plague in the narrow corridor.

"There are people in the walls! People in the walls are watching me!" Another soldier began firing wildly at the empty walls, ricochets flying chaotically in the confined space, wounding several comrades.

"We're going to die here! This is a curse! Divine punishment!"

The fanatical morale built up from breaching the outer defenses crumbled like a sandcastle at this moment.

Facing guns and cannons, they could charge fueled by adrenaline and blind faith in the Emperor.

But facing this supernatural, inexplicable horror defying physical logic, Mortal will was as fragile as a sheet of paper soaked by rain.

Fear was contagious, and faster than any virus.

Jon felt his vision begin to blur, the world spinning.

He saw his comrades around him turning into monstrous, tentacled abominations.

He saw the Autogun in his hand transform into a coiled viper, flicking its tongue at him, venomous fangs about to sink into his wrist.

An intense urge surged within him—to pull the trigger and end it all, or to turn the muzzle on himself.

If escape was impossible, then destruction.

At this critical juncture, the very moment his sanity was about to snap.

*Boom!*

A thunderous, metal-vibrating roar of a Bolter exploded within the corridor.

This gunshot didn't sound like it was meant to kill an enemy; more like a heavy hammer smashing down on everyone's skulls.

The head of that self-mutilating, mad soldier trying to scramble his own brain was directly blasted into fragments by the 0.75 caliber bolt shell.

The headless corpse was flung back two meters by the kinetic impact, slamming heavily against the wall before slowly sliding down.

Blood and brain matter sprayed in a radial pattern, coating the "whispering" wall.

The echo of the gunshot still reverberated; all the whispers seemed to pause for a moment, startled by this violent blow.

Arik Taranis slowly withdrew the smoking barrel.

He turned around.

The massive Mk II power armor seemed particularly oppressive under the dim lighting.

He wasn't wearing his helmet; his scarred, expressionless face was directly exposed to the air.

That single crimson eye held no trace of confusion or fear, only a coldness like polar ice.

He scanned the surrounding Mortals caught in chaos, crying, and self-harm, like a stern shepherd looking upon a flock of panicked sheep.

"Quiet."

His voice was not loud.

But amplified by the power armor's neck-mounted speaker array, it carried an undeniable metallic authority and low-frequency vibration, like a basin of ice water poured over everyone's heads, even suppressing that cloying fragrance.

"These are illusions. Heretical Psyker witchcraft."

Arik's voice was terrifyingly steady, "They are afraid. Because they cannot stop us with steel, they try to break us with fear."

He took heavy steps toward the wall nearest to Jon, which was still writhing.

The face resembling Jon's father seemed to sense the danger, emitting a sharp screech like nails on a chalkboard, its expression turning vicious and resentful.

Arik showed no hesitation.

He raised his massive hand, clad in a Power Fist, servos humming.

"Watch."

He said to Jon.

Then, he threw a punch.

*Thud!*

This punch, propelled by the power armor's kinetic force and the Thunder Warrior's terrifying explosive power, compressed the air into a visible ripple.

The seemingly soft, writhing wall disintegrated upon contact with the fist.

Rock shattered. Metal bent.

That twisted face was smashed to pulp. It didn't dissipate into smoke but oozed a black, oil-like viscous liquid from the cracks, emitting a nauseating stench.

"See?"

Arik turned, raising the fist covered in black slime and rock debris, showing it to everyone.

"They are matter."

Arik's voice rose an octave, echoing in the corridor.

"If it's matter, it bleeds."

"If it bleeds, it can be killed."

This was the logic of the Thunder Warriors. Simple, brutal, materialistic.

In their worldview, there were no ghosts or gods, only targets not yet physically destroyed.

These words acted like a shot of adrenaline, directly injected into the Mortals' teetering hearts.

Yes.

It bled.

Though the blood was black, though it looked terrifying, if it could be smashed by a fist, then it could be shot apart by bullets.

As long as it could be killed, then there was nothing to fear.

Jon gasped for air, sweat drenching his undershirt.

The suicidal impulse receded like a tide, and the hallucination before his eyes shattered—the venomous snake in his hand turned back into a cold Autogun, and the surrounding monsters reverted to terrified comrades.

Watching Arik's mountainous back, an inexplicable sense of security welled up in his heart.

In this dark universe filled with monsters, sorcery, and unspeakable horrors, only a 'tyrant' stronger than monsters and crueler than daemons could bring Mortals hope of survival.

"Check your gear," Arik ordered coldly. "We're going in."

... [Holo-Perspective: Fortress Depths · Flesh Altar]

This was an underground hall located at the heart of the fortress.

The surrounding walls were hung with dripping biological tissues, and countless transparent tubes connected to a massive pool of churning red liquid at the center.

The ruler of Nadvak, the gene-tyrant known as the 'Flesh-Weaver,' stood on a floating platform at the edge of the blood pool.

He possessed four arms, and his lower body had been modified into mechanical spider-like prosthetics.

Watching the gray giant in the holo-projection who had easily shattered the psychic illusion, a flicker of surprise crossed his four compound eyes.

"Interesting willpower."

The tyrant extended a forked tongue, licking his lips, his voice sharp and grating.

"Ordinary gene-enhanced warriors, even those so-called super soldiers, should have suffered mental collapse and turned into drooling idiots when faced with psychic interference of this magnitude.

But him... his brain is still functioning. His logic remains clear."

"Something seems to be burning in his soul. Is that... rage?"

"No, my lord."

A blind Psyker standing beside the tyrant, clad in black robes with his eyes sealed shut by crude black sutures, shook his head.

He held a staff made from a spinal column, his body trembling slightly.

"I cannot see his soul."

The Psyker's voice was hoarse, like two bones grinding together. "There... is a void."

"That giant's soul is incomplete. And sealed.

He has no fear, no love, no hope, not even a complete sense of self.

He is like a killing machine programmed to execute that ultimate command, and nothing more."

"This kind of soul... is like a stubborn stone, slippery and unyielding. My whispers cannot take root in his mind."

"Useless."

The tyrant snorted coldly, all four arms moving simultaneously to press several runic buttons on the console.

"If the mind cannot be eroded, then destroy him with physical means."

"My children are hungry."

As he operated, the blood pool began to boil violently.

"Activate Hatching Chamber 3. Release the 'Flesh Puppets.'"

"Let the souls of the dead give our guest a warm embrace."

... [Battlefield Perspective: Jon]

At the end of the corridor, a bronze gate carved with blasphemous runes slowly opened.

A stench even more pungent than before assaulted his senses.

Immediately after, came a series of heavy, dragging, horrifying footsteps.

Squelch. Squelch.

It wasn't the sound of uniform military boots, nor the hum of machinery.

It was... the sound of wet, heavy, rotten flesh scraping and slapping against the ground.

A group of massive, bloated figures emerged from the shadows.

With the aid of the tactical flashlight beam on his Autogun, Jon saw those things clearly.

His stomach churned again.

They were monsters. True monsters.

They stood over three meters tall, their bodies bloated like balls, skinless, exposing red muscle fibers and layers of yellow fat directly.

Their bodies were clearly crudely stitched together from the limbs of countless corpses.

Some had two left hands growing from a shoulder, some had a still-rolling eyeball embedded in their chest, some parts revealed stark white bone, others hung with sacks of rotting entrails.

They wielded massive, rusted iron hooks, cleavers, and even dismantled heavy industrial drill bits.

Flesh Puppets. The most repulsive product of Nadvak's gene-sorcery.

"Open fire! Aim for the head! The head!"

The veterans screamed in terror, their Autoguns spewing fire frantically.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!

Dense solid rounds wove a net in the narrow corridor, shooting toward the monsters.

But it was utterly ineffective.

Bullets striking them were like hitting thick mud, merely splashing black blood and bits of flesh.

They felt no pain, and had no vital points.

Jon saw with his own eyes a puppet whose head was half-blown apart by several bullets. Yet, it still staggered forward, even reaching out a hand to grab a severed arm from the ground and stuff it into a gash on its belly.

"Roar—!"

A Flesh Puppet suddenly accelerated. Its bulk of fat erupted with astonishing speed, charging into the Mortal line like a meat-made chariot.

It swung a two-meter-long rusted iron hook in a wide, sweeping arc.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

No resistance whatsoever.

Three Auxiliary soldiers wearing simple flak armor were instantly bisected at the waist.

Blood sprayed, entrails spilled across the ground, and screams instantly filled the corridor.

The defensive line collapsed.

Faced with these unkillable, unbreakable monsters, Mortal courage seemed utterly pale and powerless in that moment.

Jon fired while retreating until the firing pin clicked empty. The blood-drenched puppet had already charged before him, raising its cleaver.

It's over.

At that moment.

A gauntleted hand suddenly reached out from the side, grabbing Jon by the collar and tossing him backward like a chick.

"Move aside, nuisance."

Arik Taranis strode forward, placing himself between Jon and the monster.

He looked at the rampaging Flesh Puppets, his red tactical lenses streaming with data.

[Target Analysis: Bio-Stitched Construct.]

[Scanning for Structural Weaknesses...]

[Confirmed: Neural hub located at 3rd spinal vertebra; suture lines structurally fragile; internal pressure excessive.]

There was no fear in Arik's eyes, only the cold, clinical scrutiny of a surgeon examining diseased tissue.

"Stitched freaks."

He snorted. "Crude craftsmanship."

Vrrrrr—!

The Chainsword in Arik's hand roared to life, monomolecular teeth spinning wildly with a hungry snarl, blue electrical sparks dancing along its edge.

"First Company of Thunder Warriors."

He gave the order over the comms, his voice as calm as if directing a routine drill.

"Converge on me. Don't waste bolts."

"Let's teach these heretics what true... genetic modification is."

Thirty Thunder Warriors clad in Mk II power armor, like a school of gray armored sharks, formed a wedge formation and charged into this sea of flesh.

This was a war of monster against monster.

A Flesh Puppet swung its still-dripping cleaver with a howling wind, aiming a vicious blow at Arik's head.

Arik neither dodged nor evaded.

He shifted slightly, directly meeting the blow with the thick Ceramite pauldron on the left shoulder of his Mk II power armor.

Clang!

Sparks flew.

The cleaver, capable of severing Mortal bodies, left a deep dent on the power armor's surface but could not penetrate further.

Using the recoil from the impact, Arik stabilized his stance, unmoved.

"Too slow."

Seizing the moment of the creature's recoil-induced stiffness, the Chainsword in his right hand arced upward like a silver lightning bolt, brutally plunging into the puppet's bloated belly, filled with rot gas and preservatives.

Rrrrip—Squelch!

Black blood, yellow fat, and rotten flesh erupted instantly, splattering over Arik.

But it wasn't over.

Arik did not stop. Gripping the hilt with both hands, the power armor's servos shrieked under overload, his muscles bulging as he roared, exerting upward force.

"Split... OPEN!!!"

The Chainsword carved upward along the crude suture line on the puppet's belly as if slicing through moldy cheese.

It cleaved through the chest cavity, severed ribs, split the throat, and finally erupted from the top of its malformed head.

Splurtch!

The massive monster was forcibly split into two halves, collapsing to either side like two sides of pork on a meat hook.

Organs spilled out with a wet slosh, emitting a suffocating stench.

Arik kicked aside the obstructing carcass, shaking the gore from his Chainsword.

He lifted his head, his crimson gaze piercing the dark corridor as if looking directly at the tyrant in the fortress's deepest depths.

"Next."

His voice echoed in the deathly silent corridor.

"Nadvak, your god is bleeding."

"And my Emperor... is watching."