Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 451 Sister Figsine

The howling air currents tore at the Valkyrie transport plane's armored hull, emitting a piercing screech.

Through the narrow observation window, the cold, hard, steel-gray landscape magnified rapidly—the massive main structure of Novaya Zemlya Airport was faintly visible in the thin mist, while below, huge steel piers and busy tugboats crawling like ants outlined the bustling silhouette of this rail hub.

The charred ruins are visible everywhere on the metal surface, silently telling the story of the fierce fire of purification that occurred not long ago.

Inside the cabin, the air was filled with the scent of metallic coolant and sacred incense.

The bulkhead lights flickered, illuminating the solemn figures of the nuns.

A squad of combat nuns sat upright, conducting their final silent prayers and equipment checks before landing.

Their commander, Captain Figsin, stood beside the tightly closed hatch.

Her calm gaze, sharp as a hawk's, pierced through the porthole, sweeping across this unfamiliar point—a crucial outpost that had only recently been thoroughly purified by the sacred flame and steel.

Experience told her that in a place like this, the air must still be filled with the blasphemous smell of burnt aliens.

This imagined "purified air," in the perception of the devout, is both a hymn to the emperor's victory and a silent warning of eternal vigilance.

Figsin's lips moved silently as he recited an ancient prayer in his heart: "By God the King, grant your humble servant the insight to see through the filth in the shadows; grant us the fearlessness to cleanse all forms of blasphemy."

May your holy flame guide our steps, purify this land, and forever secure our imperial domain.

She subconsciously twitched her nostrils, as if she had already smelled the invisible threat and wanted to imprint this warning along with the prayer deep into her soul.

Ten years of battles, from her apprenticeship on the Rostov II to countless burning battlefields, have long since stripped away her naivety and tempered her into steel.

Countless encounters with the disasters and betrayals brought about by mutations have forged the steely will in her eyes, as well as an absolute vigilance and deep concern for the deviation of humanity from its pure form in the face of any form of pollution.

The roar of war, the cries of martyrs, the flames burning alien lairs, and the countless scars etched on her body all combined to shape this battle-hardened captain of the nuns.

Her image was unique among the nuns.

There was no chainsaw sword or flamethrower, symbolizing close-range purification, hanging from his waist or back.

Instead, there were two huge, worn-out but meticulously maintained bomb guns.

One gun was slung across her right leg, its barrel emblazoned with the intricate rose pattern of the Holy Rosary Order; the other was carried across her back, its stock slightly worn, with a line of small, clear Gothic letters engraved on the handguard—Fiona.

The bloody battle at Rostov II crypt, the grotesque metallic faces of the aliens, and the last glimmer of light in Fiona's blue eyes were etched deeply into her memory like a brand.

This heavy bomb gun was the weapon Fiona gripped tightly in her final moments.

The moment that blue-eyed sister fought for with her life elevated this steel creation beyond the realm of weaponry.

It became Figesin's undying vow, a lasting memorial to her fallen comrades, and a tangible embodiment of her constant vigilance and awareness of threats.

She had long been accustomed to the weight of her twin pistols; they were her most loyal companions and silent witnesses to her dual vocations—defending her faith and eliminating heresy.

She slightly bent and stretched her fingers, which covered the terracotta armor plates, feeling the power hidden beneath the armor, enough to control this destructive force.

Ten years of battlefield experience have honed her skills to a level of unparalleled mastery, precision, and lethality—enough to crush any threat to the empire.

"This aircraft has arrived at the Novaya Zemlya spaceport and is expected to land in three minutes," the pilot calmly reported over the communicator.

“Received.” Figshin’s voice was clear and steady, with a hint of icy coldness, piercing through the roar of the engine: “Novoland Airport is a key node for the transfer of supplies for the Rostov expedition, and it is also a territory that has just been desecrated by aliens and urgently needs to be stabilized.”

We have come to support High Sister Katarina; her purifying fire is beyond question.

Her tone shifted to a resolute firmness, like a command striking metal: "Remember the blood and fire of the past! Remember the cunning of the aliens! Piety as armor! Faith as blade! Prepare for the mission! Maintain order, eliminate all signs of corruption!" "For the Emperor! For the Supreme God Emperor!" The unified response was powerful, and every battle nun's eyes burned with unwavering resolve.

Figuesin's gaze fell back to the window, where the entire airport was now clearly visible.

The main buildings are covered with turrets, anti-aircraft beams pointing straight to the sky, and the huge imperial double-headed eagle emblem shines brightly.

She could see tiny figures below, toiling on the edge of the charred ruins—mutants, those beings that existed in the shadows.

Judge Chen Xi's new policy...tolerance? Management? A deep sense of unease welled up within Figesin.

To her, limiting rather than eradicating pollution is like building a fragile barrier at the edge of an abyss, where the dangers lurking below could spread at any moment.

This contradicts the Battle Sisters' creed of prioritizing purification.

But obeying orders is a duty, especially when facing the governor and judge.

The judge's orders must be carried out to the fullest extent.

She would be on high alert, closely monitoring those "managed" areas. Any concrete sign of pollution spreading would provoke her and her sisters to unleash a world-cleansing blaze—this was an ironclad rule, inviolable.

The cold wind seemed to carry something else as well—not a physically terrifying alien, but rather… a subtle, ethereal aura, the fear and confusion that permeated the hearts of countless mortals.

This invisible unease also stirred her alert heartstrings.

She knew all too well that mutation and despair were the very breeding ground for chaos.

Therefore, in this airport, Figueir's figure is like a sword hanging over the shadowy settlement, constantly scrutinizing every corner.

She felt the coldness of the metal seep through the armor into her palms—she had unconsciously tightened her grip on the double-headed eagle pendant on her chest.

That hard, clear touch brought an almost unforgettable sense of determination.

The Valkyrie transport plane's engines let out a final low growl, and its massive body gently sank onto the heavy-duty helipad.

Figesin felt a slight vibration coming from the sole of the armored boot, which was then interrupted by the sharp hiss of the hatch hydraulic system.

The moment the hatch opened, a gust of cold air with a distinctive smell rushed in—a faint, persistent odor of burnt protein immediately replaced the recirculated air in the cabin, a reminder of the blood and fire that had recently taken place here.

Figueir was the first to step onto the cold deck of Novaya Zemlya airport.

In the dim light, her silver-white power armor reflected a cold light, and her footsteps on the metal floor made a solid and rhythmic thud.

She didn't rush to speak; her sharp gaze slowly moved, scrutinizing the welcoming crowd before her.

The local officials wore an almost numb respect on their faces, while the guards appeared taut and tense.

Her gaze drifted further into the distance, where figures shivering in the cold wind came into view. The gazes directed at them were a mixture of instinctive awe and barely concealed fear—the state of ordinary people often best reveals the true atmosphere of a place.

The acrid smell in the air, though faint, was persistent. While it signified the price and victory of purification, it also suddenly tightened the string of vigilance in her heart.

Novaya Zemlya, this cold airport that has just been cleansed by fire but is now implementing new policies, must not become a new prey for chaos.

As a combat nun captain, Figesen is well aware of the heavy burden on her shoulders: her promise to her deceased sisters and her insistence on the inviolability of human purity drive her to maintain the highest level of vigilance here.

“Mission briefing.” Her voice was not loud, but it traveled clearly through the cold wind to the planetary defense officer’s ears, as concise as a drawn blade.

Her question went straight to the heart of the matter: the special "residents" of District D-7, and the specific scope and extent of support that High Sister Katharina needed.

(End of this chapter)