Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 505 A Lament for Blasphemy

The hiss of the blaster, like a sharp blade tearing through cloth, instantly drowned out the groans of the zombies, a mixture of pain and blasphemy!
A dense barrage of precise bullets rained down, like the divine wrath of an emperor, brutally piercing through those already rotten shells.

Each bomb exploded into a filthy firework on the target.

The foul-smelling pus and rotting flesh, saturated with plague, were hurled into the air by the violent force, tracing disgusting paths against the dim sky.

A cloyingly sweet yet deadly stench, like a tangible poisonous fog, instantly spread and thickly enveloped the entire battlefield.

Nurgle's "blessing" endowed these zombies with a hideous and tenacious life.

Many monsters, with limbs blown off or even half their bodies shattered, still dragged their worm-infested remains, driven only by their twisted will.

They leave sticky trails on the ground with their remaining teeth covered in rotting flesh, or bony claws glistening with pus, or the ends of severed limbs dripping with murky fluid.

They struggled to crawl toward the Ash Knights' steel lines, which gleamed with the Imperial insignia.

Immediately afterwards, the roars of the chainsaw swords rose and fell, like the most violent and resolute chorus in a purifying hymn!
The chainsaw blade, spinning at high speed and its teeth already covered in filth, finally met these blasphemous beings.

"Sizzle—crack!" The ear-piercing sound continued.

That was a death symphony—the forceful tearing apart of tough, decaying flesh and tendons, the violent sawing apart of rotten bones!
Each swing of the sword was accompanied by a fountain of filthy blood.

Fragments of bone and rotting tissue rained down on the Terminators' heavy, cold-blooded power armor, leaving behind a solidified, blasphemous mark.

Plague warriors or the most stubborn walkers who get close are ultimately and completely dismembered in the face of this devastating power.

They turned into piles of blasphemous remains that no longer posed a threat and reeked of a strong stench.

The Terminators, these walking imperial statues, form an unbreakable steel bulwark on the battlefield.

They walked with steps as heavy as mountains.

Each step seemed to make the ravaged earth of Elegy VII tremble.

They advanced like an unstoppable torrent of steel.

Each roar of the Storm Bomb Gun was like a heavy hammer slamming into the decaying coffin.

The hordes of zombies were blasted to pieces, their limbs flying everywhere.

The mangled torso was even thrown backward by the enormous impact, crashing into the filthy ranks of its kind.

However, Nurgle's twisted grace is everywhere.

Some zombies, relying on their deformed, proliferating limbs, hardened scabs embedded in rotting flesh, or the cover of battlefield ruins, stubbornly continue to wriggle, crawl, or even stagger closer.

The enormous power gauntlets, enveloped in the chilling, deadly blue light of the disintegration field, slammed down like battering rams at the even more powerful blasphemers with a piercing shriek that tore through the air.

These blasphemers are Nurgle warriors who wield rusted plague warhammers, staggering yet exuding a chilling blasphemous resolve!

"Thump—Pfft!"

Each heavy blow was accompanied by the ear-piercing groan of metal being squeezed and twisted by immense force.

Each heavy blow was accompanied by a dull thud as the bones shattered under extreme pressure!
The heavy Nurgle Plague Plate Armor, along with the festering, suppurating flesh beneath it—which had become unusually tough due to the evil power—was smashed into deep dents and twisted into deformities!
Foul-smelling, viscous pus and blood, writhing like living creatures, gushed out from the gaps in the deformed armor, like a giant abscess bursting from a violent sac.

Pus and blood splattered onto the Terminator's gleaming armor, emitting a soft, corrosive sizzle. These plague warriors possessed a vitality that defied logic!
Even if their breastplates are smashed and their internal organs are turned into mincemeat under a fist, they often only stagger back a few steps.

They squeezed out muffled, malicious roars from the depths of their decaying throats.

Relying on the unnatural support of the twisted, proliferating bones and decaying muscles within his body, after a brief pause, he once again brandished his weapon, oblivious to pain and ignoring destruction.

Dragging their more broken and filthy bodies, carrying a more intense, almost suffocating stench and a purer, more blasphemous will, they once again surged forward like an unstoppable wave of decay!
Each kill by the Terminators requires a more thorough and brutal destructive blow.

It's as if they want to completely erase all traces of their existence from the real universe.

"Left side! Plague Pustule Cannon! Focus fire! Watch out for their rotting flesh armor!" The crimson glow of a Terminator squad member's helmet visor locked onto the target.

A cold, emotionless voice boomed through the internal communication channel.

A sense of gravity lurked beneath, like a turbulent current surging beneath the ice.

Those blasphemous turrets, made of writhing, rotting flesh, hardened scabs like rocks, and grotesque, protruding bone spurs, possess a twisted, resilient defensive capability far superior to that of ordinary zombies or plague warriors.

Several veteran heavy firepower soldiers from the 5th Company, equipped with Gravis-type heavy power armor, responded immediately as if answering a divine call.

The heavy magnetic boots crushed the filthy rocks and congealed putrid liquid beneath their feet.

Each step produced a muffled "plop" sound, as if rocks were cracking under immense pressure, mixed with the squeezing of viscous fluid.

They quickly and steadily established their position, forming a mobile steel fortress shoulder to shoulder.

On the thick shoulder and chest armor, condensation circulated in a complex network of pipes, shimmering with a cold, eerie light.

In the eerie light of the planet Elegy VII, perpetually shrouded in a sickly yellowish-green mist, they appeared exceptionally solemn and cold.

Like a judge who has just emerged from a sacred furnace.

The Gravis armor gives them mountain-like protection and rock-solid stability that surpasses standard power armor.

This makes it an irreplaceable pillar of heavy firepower on the battlefield.

Brock, a veteran of heavy firepower, codenamed "Broken Hammer," has a sharp black broken hammer insignia clearly visible on the side of his heavy Gravis armor shoulder armor—a symbol of his honor.

His thick arms were as steady as a rock, and the hydraulic joints hummed with each movement.

At this moment, this power was perfectly harnessing the violent recoil of the "Punisher" heavy-explosive gun.

With each shot, the heavy armor frame trembled, and the already crushed rock dust mixed with blood was once again sent flying.

His target was that recently desecrated pustule cannon.

The swollen abscess was emitting a heart-pounding, pulsating green light, like the beating of a dying heart, indicating that it had reached its critical point of charging.

The surface of the abscess was almost transparent, and the churning, highly toxic pus was clearly visible.

"For Dorne! For the Emperor!" Brock's roar over the communication channel was deep and resolute, each word seemingly squeezed out of his steel chest, carrying a rough texture.

He pulled the trigger: Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom—!
(End of this chapter)