Seraphs of the Emperor’s Judgment

Chapter 167: Aftermath

Billowing clouds of thick smoke blanketed the landing zone, obscuring the stars and filtering the moonlight into a sickly, dirty grey.

A ceaseless rain of ash coated everything in a slick, greasy film.

Campfires were scattered across the area, around which soldiers huddled for warmth and camaraderie. Others were hard at work fortifying their defensive positions, dragging the ruined husks of Sentinels and Chimeras back into the lines for cover.

At regular intervals, outward-facing emplacements had been dug out to house autocannons, heavy bolters, and lascannons.

If the greenskins were to attack again, this was the direction they would come from.

However, everyone knew the greenskins weren't coming back. The vast majority had been reduced to ashes in the recent orbital bombardment; there likely weren't many left on the entire moon.

Yet, the daily routines and defensive preparations remained paramount.

Yarrick stood beside the tracks of a Chimera parked within a fortified revetment, his gaze sweeping the horizon for any sign of movement.

But there was nothing, save for the flickering orange glow of distant fires.

The hazy, cold light bathed the former battlefield in stark monochrome. Yarrick slumped against the side of the armored vehicle, lost in thought. Finally, he let out a long sigh, shaking his head as he patted each of his pockets in search of a lho-stick.Eventually, he found one in his left breast pocket.

The young Commissar rhythmically tapped the Departmento Munitorum-issue lho-stick against the tank's armor before lighting it.

He took a deep drag, filling his lungs with the smoke, attempting to mentally process everything that had transpired that day.

Meanwhile, he could hear the men of the 4337th Regiment working behind him.

Most had recovered from the shock and were preparing for tomorrow's redeployment.

Some were still excitedly whispering about the arrival of the Space Marines, occasionally gasping in awe as they recounted the unbelievable feats accomplished by the legendary warriors.

Rumors and legends swept through the encampment like a contagion, reinvigorating every man and leaving them trembling with excitement.

Strictly speaking, however, it wasn't every

man.Company Commander Miller, for instance, sat alone, staring blankly at the corpses strewn across the ground ahead.

These soldiers still lay where they had fallen; there had been no time all day to recover their bodies. Intermingled with the corpses of greenskins, their combined blood had soaked deep into the earth. The most likely outcome was a massive pyre to burn them all together.

In a single afternoon, the 4337th Regiment had suffered over fifty percent casualties, and Miller's company had been reduced by two-thirds.

Yarrick sighed.

These men had also been his warriors, good men who had faced life and death with him.

Yet, bound by his duty, he had been forced to brand a portion of them cowards.

Taking another drag, Yarrick exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the night sky.

For a fleeting moment, he thought he could taste the metallic tang of blood seeping from the dirt.

Cowards.

The word was seared into his mind, like a glowing coal constantly circling his thoughts.

Things had indeed happened. Some soldiers had indeed turned and fled, and he had personally executed them—the memory caused a dull ache in his head.

Sweeping his gaze across the defensive line, Yarrick spotted several other men sitting alone in silence.

They clearly had heavy hearts, prompting them to temporarily distance themselves from their comrades and stare out across the site of the day's massacre.

The glorious tales of the Space Marines held no solace for them. The tiny cherries of their lho-sticks marked them in the darkness, like solitary fireflies scattered along the front line.

Yarrick had no desire to punish them for ceasing their labor.

The majority of the men were working with high enthusiasm, driven by newfound optimism. He was glad they were processing the day's events in their own ways—the absolute last thing they needed was a Commissar screaming at them about cowardice and dereliction of duty.

Everyone knew what had happened.

Some chose to forget, hoping to smooth over their terror of the battles yet to come.

Others relied on themselves, digging deep to unearth the last vestiges of their stubborn willpower.

Suddenly, a voice addressed Yarrick from the revetment behind him.

"Sir? Is everything alright?"

It was his orderly again, undoubtedly offering a cups of tanna tea with that same goofy grin.

"Everything is fine, soldier."

Yarrick turned, forcing a small smile onto his exhausted face.

"Everything is just fine."

"Would you like some more tanna tea?"

Yarrick chuckled. Just as he suspected, the soldiers were just as worried about him.

"No, thank you. I am quite well."

As the orderly climbed back into the revetment to rejoin his comrades, Yarrick shook his head once more. He tossed the lho-stick onto the ground, crushed it beneath his boot, and suppressed the lingering unease.

The Space Marines were a gift from the Emperor. They were the Imperium's most formidable warriors, handpicked from thousands of worlds and subjected to decades of rigorous training.

If not for the Space Marines, the position would undeniably have fallen. Compared to those legendary transhumans, a mortal's minor flaws seemed almost understandable.

He firmly believed their performance today would absolutely not leave an impression of cowardice upon the Astartes. Some soldiers had indeed succumbed to fear, but the vast majority were courageous, good men.

There was no need to be overly critical of everyone.

As the conflict on Vorenus V ground to a halt, the Astral Knights rendezvoused with the battle-weary Excoriators Chapter, who subsequently invited the former aboard their flagship, the Endless Night

.The reunion of the two Chapters naturally culminated in another grand feast.

The Endless Night was a massive Battle Barge, boasting a cavernous assembly hall steeped in a primal aesthetic. Firelight danced upon stone braziers, while censers spewed sparks, carrying billowing clouds of fragrant smoke toward the soaring wooden arches of the ceiling.

Rolls of crimson silk hung from iron standard poles, narrating the Chapter's glorious deeds in formal hymnal verse.

Servants emerged bearing massive platters of food and drink, each garbed in the diverse traditional attire of the Chapter's homeworld, Supol. The music of ancient stringed instruments drifted through the din of conversation.

"Hah!"

The two Chapter Masters were seated upon a raised dais, flanked by the command echelons of both Chapters.

Before them lay a wide expanse paved with stone slabs, every single piece quarried from the ancient mountains of Supol.

Warriors draped in ceremonial robes lined three sides of the sparring ring, their faces cast in bronze by the firelight, while the trays upon the tables overflowed with near-raw meat.

Within the open space, two duelists circled one another, each wielding a dulled, rusted cast-iron blade.

One wore a skintight black leather bodyglove, while the other wore silver-grey.

Both their faces were etched with absolute, unwavering focus.

The silver-grey warrior was slightly shorter, while the one in jet black was slightly taller; otherwise, they were remarkably similar in build.

Soshyan observed them intently, reclining in a low-backed chair as he chewed his food.

Lord Malakim sat beside him. He tossed an empty goblet onto the table, signaling a servant for a refill.

"Hmph!"

The silver-grey warrior struck first, delivering a sweeping blow.

The black-clad duelist immediately responded, stepping back to create distance before launching a counterattack.

They clashed, limbs blurring and blades dissolving into a haze of motion. Under the shifting, blood-red lighting, they resembled two differently-hued shards of ceramic crashing together.

The duel had dragged on for some time. The conversations among the warriors gradually subsided, and even the music had drawn to a close.

Soon, the only sounds echoing in the hall were the heavy pants of exertion, the scuff of leather-wrapped feet sliding across the stone floor, and the sharp ring of iron blades meeting.

Sweat flew, and the heavy blades clashed incessantly.

The purpose of the spar was merely to deepen the brotherhood between the two Chapters. It was a test of focus and agility, not a brutal deathmatch of pure strength.