Bab 63: I am a Son of Valorian
Captain Steven Armstrong, the Liberator's Executioner, carved a path of destruction through the Q'orl horde. His power fists, crackling with energy, swatted aside warrior drones as if they were nothing more than annoying insects. Every step of his massive form crushed the chitinous bodies of the dying xenos beneath him.
"Atlas," Armstrong growled, addressing his personal AI, "give me a sitrep on the area."
The AI's voice, cool and clinical, responded in his helm. "Scanning complete, Captain. Interesting energy readings detected beneath the planet's crust. High probability of Standard Template Construct technology."
A smirk spread across Armstrong's face, hidden behind his helm. "Well, well," he mused, "looks like we've got ourselves a little treasure hunt. Father's gonna love this."
As he continued his relentless advance, Armstrong's mind raced with the possibilities. An STC could revolutionize their war effort, give them an edge against the enemies of mankind. And if anyone deserved such a prize, it was Franklin Valorian, the Liberator himself.
"Atlas, pinpoint the entrance to whatever's housing that energy signature," Armstrong ordered, his fists pulverizing another group of Q'orl warriors.
"Entrance located, Captain. Marking it on your HUD now."
A bright marker appeared on Armstrong's display, indicating a heavily fortified bunker entrance not far from his position. As he made his way towards it, he opened a vox channel to his right-hand man.
"Jetstream, you copy?" Armstrong's voice boomed over the vox.
A moment later, Samuel Rodrigues, better known as Jetstream Sam, responded. "Loud and clear, boss. What's the word?"
"Rendezvous at the bunker entrance. Got something interesting down there."
"On my way," Jetstream replied, a hint of excitement in his voice.
Armstrong arrived at the bunker entrance, his massive form dwarfing the fortifications around it. Q'orl defenders swarmed towards him, their bio-weapons firing in a desperate attempt to stop his advance. Their efforts were futile. Armstrong's void shields flickered, absorbing the attacks, while his modified plasma pistols reduced entire squads to slag in seconds.
"Come on, you Xenos scum!" Armstrong roared, his voice amplified by his suit's vox-casters. "Is that all you've got?"
As if in answer to his challenge, a particularly large Q'orl warrior drone lunged at him, its mandibles snapping furiously. Armstrong caught it mid-air with one massive hand, his power fist crushing its exoskeleton with a sickening crunch.
"Weak," he spat, tossing the broken body aside. "You're all fucking weak!"
A blur of motion caught his eye, and suddenly Jetstream Sam was there, his hyper-phase blade singing as it carved through the Q'orl ranks. Where Armstrong was a unstoppable force of nature, Jetstream was a deadly swordsman, each movement precise and lethal.
"Took your sweet time, Sam," Armstrong chuckled as his comrade approached.
Jetstream sheathed his blade, a cocky grin visible behind his transparent visor. "You know me, boss. I like to make an entrance."
Armstrong nodded towards the bunker entrance. "Atlas picked up some interesting readings. Might be an STC down there."
Jetstream's eyebrows shot up. "No shit? That'd be one hell of a prize."
"My thoughts exactly," Armstrong agreed. "You up for a little spelunking?"
"You kidding? I wouldn't miss it for Nova Libertas."
As they prepared to enter the bunker, Armstrong's vox crackled to life. Colonel Jaxsen's gruff voice came through, tinged with concern. "Captain, we've got a situation up here. Q'orl reinforcements incoming, and they've brought something big."
Armstrong exchanged a glance with Jetstream. "Sounds like a party," he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "You handle it, Colonel. Liberty Eagle reinforcements are coming."
"Understood, Captain. Give 'em hell down there." Jaxsen responded.
The reinforced doors of the underground bunker groaned and buckled under an immense force. With a final, ear-splitting screech of tearing metal, they flew off their hinges, revealing two towering figures silhouetted against the harsh exterior light.
The duo plunged into the labyrinthine corridors, immediately set upon by a swarm of Q'orl warriors. Armstrong charged forward, plowing through the first wave like a bulldozer through balsa wood. Chitinous exoskeletons cracked and splintered under his augmented fists, each punch accompanied by a booming laugh.
Rodrigues moved with lethal speed, his blade a blur of motion as he danced between the insectoid aliens. Each slash left a trail of bisected Q'orl in its wake, green ichor painting the walls in grotesque patterns.
"They're like a bad Terran infestation," Rodrigues quipped, decapitating three Q'orl with a single swing. "Except these ones bleed."
The narrow corridors worked against the Q'orl's superior numbers, forcing them into a bottleneck that Armstrong and Rodrigues exploited mercilessly. Armstrong's laughter echoed through the bunker, punctuated by the wet crunching of his fists meeting alien flesh and the high-pitched whine of Rodrigues' blade.
As they pushed deeper into the complex, the resistance grew fiercer. Q'orl gun-beasts unleashed volleys of bio-plasma, forcing the duo to take cover.
"Played college ball, you know," Armstrong grunted, ripping a section of wall free to use as a shield.
Rodrigues raised an eyebrow. "At some cushy Ivy League school?"
"Try University of Neo-Texas," Armstrong shot back with a grin. "Could've gone pro if I hadn't joined the Astartes!"
With a roar, Armstrong hurled his makeshift shield like a discus, crushing few dozen Q'orls and creating an opening. Rodrigues capitalized immediately, his blade flashing as he carved through the Q'orl ranks with surgical precision.
The duo fought their way down level after level, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Armstrong's Void Shield shrugged off plasma and acid that would have felled a normal Space Marine, while Rodrigues' augmented reflexes kept him one step ahead of the alien swarm.
As Armstrong and Rodrigues delved deeper into the labyrinthine bunker, the air grew thick with an acrid, alien stench. The corridors widened, the architecture shifting from utilitarian to something more... organic. Chitinous growths sprouted from the walls, pulsing with an eerie, bioluminescent glow.
"You smell that, Sam?" Armstrong growled, his enhanced senses on high alert. "Smells like... victory."
Rodrigues, his hyper-phase blade humming with anticipation, nodded grimly. "And bug guts. Lots of bug guts."
Suddenly, Armstrong's helmet display lit up, his AI companion Atlas chiming in with urgent information. "Captain, detecting significant biomass concentrations ahead. Genetic markers indicate... oh shit."
"Spit it out, Atlas," Armstrong barked, his massive frame tensing for action.
"Queen's Guard, sir. Elite warriors, heavily augmented. They're... they're not like anything we've faced so far."
As if on cue, the corridor ahead erupted with movement. Massive Q'orl warriors, their exoskeletons a deep, blood red, burst from concealed chambers. Unlike their lesser brethren, these monstrosities bristled with bio-mechanical implants, their limbs ending in vicious, weaponized appendages.
"Well, well," Armstrong grinned, his nanomachines surging beneath his skin. "Looks like the welcoming committee's here."
The first of the Queen's Guard lunged at Armstrong, moving with shocking speed for its size. But the Liberty Eagle captain was faster. His power fist, met the alien's head with a sickening crunch. Chitin and brain matter exploded in a gruesome spray as Armstrong's fingers closed like a vise.
"Guess you guys aren't used to fighting something that can hit back, huh?" Armstrong laughed, his other arm coming up. The plasma pistol, seamlessly integrated into his armor, roared to life. Searing bolts of energy lanced out, turning two more of the Queen's Guard into smoldering husks before they could close the distance.
Rodrigues, meanwhile, was a blur of motion. His hyper-phase blade sang through the air, parting chitin and cybernetics with equal ease. But even he was pushed to his limits, the enhanced speed of the Queen's Guard forcing him into a deadly battle of blade and claw.
"These bastards are quick," Rodrigues grunted, narrowly avoiding a swipe that would have taken his head off. His blade flashed, and the offending limb hit the ground, still twitching. "But not quick enough."
The battle raged on, the clash of war filling the alien corridors with a cacophony of violence. Armstrong's laughter cut through the cries of the dying Q'orl, as the hum of Rodrigues' blade wove through the chaos. Steadily, the two Liberty Eagles pressed forward, leaving behind a trail of mangled bodies and broken cybernetics.
"Atlas," Armstrong called out as he grappled with a particularly large guard, "how much further to the queen?"
The AI's voice was strained, as if it too was feeling the effects of the prolonged combat. "Life signs indicate... just ahead, Captain. But sir, the readings... they're off the charts."
With a final, bone-crushing punch, Armstrong dispatched his opponent. "Off the charts, huh? Sounds like fun."
Rodrigues, his armor splattered with alien ichor, fell in beside his captain.
The Q'orl Queen was a monstrosity that defied description. Easily the size of an Imperial Knight walker, her bloated form pulsed with malevolent life. Multiple limbs, each ending in vicious talons or bio-organic weapons, writhed in the air. Her head, a hideous fusion of insectoid features and malign intelligence, swiveled to face the intruders.
The cavernous chamber echoed with the chittering rage of the Q'orl Queen, her massive form towering over Armstrong and Rodrigues. But even as they squared off against the monstrous alien, Atlas' urgent message crackled through their comms.
"Captain Armstrong, critical update," the AI's voice was tense with excitement. "Detecting Standard Template Construct signatures directly beneath the Queen's position. Probability of intact STC: 57.3%."
Armstrong's eyes widened behind his helmet visor. It's Beneath the Queen? This changed everything. His initial plan—calling in an orbital strike to carve a massive hole from the surface to the deepest chambers—was no longer viable. He couldn't risk destroying what could be one of the most valuable relics in human history. The thought of an intact Standard Template Construct, a potential addition to the Sector's Database, made his mind race with possibilities. But beneath that excitement, he knew the danger hadn't lessened—if anything, it had grown tenfold. The Q'orl would fight to the death to protect their queen.
Armstrong's eyes widened behind his helmet. "Time to bug-squash and treasure hunt!"
Rodrigues, his hyper-phase blade humming with anticipation, scoffed. "STCs, Queens, it doesn't matter. In the end, we're all just pawns in this cosmic joke."
"Save the philosophy for later, Sam," Armstrong barked, his nanomachines surging beneath his skin. "I'll keep her majesty busy. You carve her up like a Thanksgiving turkey."
"Right," Rodrigues nodded, a grim smile playing on his lips. "Let's dance with the insect royalty."
Armstrong charged forward, his massive frame a blur of tyranimite and crackling energy. His power gauntlets, each housing a unique plasma pistol, came to life. Searing bolts of energy lanced out, striking the Queen's grotesque face.
"Hey, ugly!" Armstrong roared, dodging a massive, chitinous limb. "Ever heard of moisturizer? You look a little dry!"
The Queen's shriek of rage shook the chamber, but Armstrong stood his ground, his nanomachine-enhanced physiology absorbing the psychic backlash.
"That all you got?" he taunted, reaching for his bandolier. "Let me show you some real fireworks!"
With practiced ease, Armstrong lobbed a cluster of plasma and melta grenades directly at the Queen's face. The resulting explosion was blinding, the heat intense enough to melt through the creature's thick carapace.
Meanwhile, Rodrigues had become a whirlwind of death. His hyperphase blade sang through the air, each strike precisely calculated to sever critical points in the Queen's anatomy.
Rodrigues called out as he nimbly avoided a spray of corrosive ichor, "I almost feel sorry for her. Born to rule, only to die for someone else's ambition. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
Armstrong grunted, his power fist connecting with a Queen's Guard that had tried to flank him. The alien's exoskeleton caved in like paper under his powerful blows.
"Save your sympathy, Sam," Armstrong shot back, his other fist firing a barrage of plasma bolts. "The strong survive, the weak perish. That's the law of nature, and we're the apex predators!"
The battle raged on, a violent clash of willpower and brute force, orchestrated by the two Liberty Eagles. Armstrong's power fists slammed into the Queen's immense limbs, focusing on the vulnerable joints. Each strike sent a resounding shockwave through her massive body, the crunch of shattered chitin reverberating through the battlefield.
"Come on!" Armstrong roared, his armor blackened and battered but his resolve undiminished. "Is this all the mighty Q'orl can muster? I've had harder fights at Sweet Liberty's parties!"
The Queen's Guards attacked in waves, their bio-mechanical bodies a blur of slashing limbs and organic weaponry. Yet Armstrong was an unstoppable force, every punch and movement honed from decades of battle-hardened experience, his immense strength turning each swing into a devastating blow.
"Sam!" Armstrong shouted over the chaos, grabbing a Guard by its head and swinging it into another like a grotesque club. "This is what it looks like when you back up your beliefs with strength!"
Rodrigues, meanwhile, moved with an almost serene efficiency. His blade flashed in the dim, flickering light, cutting through Q'orl flesh and circuitry with chilling precision.
He weaved effortlessly through the Queen's defenses, exploiting weak spots that even the Liberty Eagles' advanced scanners would have missed.
As the fight dragged on, the Queen's movements grew frantic, her towering form wounded and faltering. Ichor poured from deep gashes, and several of her colossal limbs dangled, shattered by Armstrong's relentless barrage.
The death of the Q'orl Queen reverberated through the hive like a psychic shockwave. Deep beneath the surface, Captain Steven Armstrong and Samuel Rodrigues stood over the Queen's massive corpse, their armor splattered with alien ichor and debris.
"A Successful Regicide," Armstrong quipped, his nanomachines already repairing the damage to his mechsuit.
Rodrigues, sheathing his blade, nodded grimly. "The head of the snake is cut. Time to mop up the rest."
As if on cue, the remaining Queen's Guard, their minds suddenly bereft of the Queen's guiding influence, charged at the duo in a frenzy of uncoordinated attacks. Without the Queen's orders, they were little more than oversized, albeit dangerous, bugs.
As the duo continued their gruesome work, the effects of the Queen's death began to manifest on the surface.
Colonel Samuel L. Jaxsen, standing atop a makeshift command post of twisted metal and alien corpses, watched in amazement as the Q'orl forces suddenly fell into disarray. The once-coordinated swarm devolved into chaos, with warrior drones stumbling about aimlessly or attacking each other in confused panic.
"Well, I'll be damned," Jaxsen muttered, a grin spreading across his face. He grabbed his comm unit, his voice booming across the battlefield. "Listen up, you beautiful bastards! The big bugs down below just pulled off a miracle. Their command is down! I want every able-bodied soldier, whether you're Liberty Guard, PDF, or a civilian with a pointy stick, to push forward NOW! It's time to take out the trash!"
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Liberty Guardsmen, their exo-suits humming with power, charged forth with a battle cry that shook the very ground. The planetary defense forces, emboldened by the sudden turn of events, emerged from their fortified positions with renewed vigor.
----------------------
The Q'orl queen's death throes had torn open the very foundations of the structure, revealing a nightmarish scene below.
Armstrong's enhanced vision pierced the gloom, his eyes widening at the sight. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, his voice a mix of disgust and fascination.
Rodrigues peered over the edge, his hand instinctively tightening on the hilt of his hyper-phase blade. "What in the Emperor's name is that?"
Below them, stretching as far as the eye could see, was a writhing mass of Q'orl grubs. But this was no ordinary alien nursery. The grubs, each the size of a small car, were engaged in a frenzied cannibalistic orgy. They tore into each other with mindless abandon, the stronger devouring the weaker in a grotesque parody of natural selection.
"It's a fucking bug bowl," Armstrong spat, his lip curling in revulsion. "Looks like these xenos bastards have their own version of 'survival of the fittest.'"
For several minutes, the two Liberty Eagle warriors methodically made their way around the chamber's edge, crushing any eggs they found and dispatching the occasional adult Q'orl that had survived their initial onslaught. The work was grim but necessary; they couldn't risk leaving any of the xenos threat alive.
A red haze began to creep into the edges of Armstrong's vision. His fists, already deadly, began to strike with increased ferocity. Each crushed grub, each splattered egg, sent a thrill of savage joy through his body.
"You feel that, Sam?" Armstrong called out, his voice tight with tension.
Rodrigues paused, his blade dripping with ichor. After a moment, he nodded. "Yeah, boss. Feels like something's trying to turn up the heat in our heads."
Armstrong grunted in acknowledgment, redoubling his efforts to clear the chamber. With each act of violence, the urge to give in to mindless slaughter grew stronger.
The 2nd Captain of the Liberty Eagles gritted his teeth, feeling the nanomachines in his body surge in response to his heightened adrenaline. Part of him—a primal, violent part he usually kept carefully leashed—wanted to give in to the bloodlust. To lose himself in an orgy of violence and destruction.
But Armstrong was no ordinary warrior. He was a son of Valorian, heir to the ideals of liberty and self-determination. And he'd be damned if he'd let some Warp-spawned influence dictate his actions.
"Stay focused," he snarled under his breath, each word punctuated by another crushed grub. "We're Liberty Eagles, not mindless berserkers."
As they neared the center of the chamber, Armstrong's enhanced senses detected something different—a change in the air, a faint energy signature that didn't match the biological mess around them. Following this new lead, they pushed through the dwindling swarm of grubs.
There, nestled amidst the carnage like some grotesque pearl, sat what appeared to be an STC. The air around it shimmered with heat, and Armstrong could swear he heard the distant sound of battle drums and bestial roars.
"Atlas," Armstrong called out to his armor's built-in AI, "analyze that thing."
A moment passed as the AI scanned the device. "Analysis complete," Atlas reported. "The device appears to be an STC template for Paragon Blades. However, caution is advised. Anomalous energy signatures detected. Warp contamination likely."
Armstrong approached the STC, feeling the aura of rage intensify with each step. The red haze in his vision deepened, and unbidden images of glorious carnage flashed through his mind.
Rodrigues stepped up beside him, his voice strained. "Boss? What's the play here?"
Armstrong closed his eyes, centering himself. He thought of Valorian, of the ideals they fought for. Liberty. Self-determination. The right of all sentient beings to chart their own course, free from the tyranny of gods or demons.
His eyes snapped open, a fierce grin spreading across his face. "The play, Sam, is that we're gonna disappoint some Chaos fuckers today."
With deliberate movements, Armstrong reached into his pack and pulled out a set of melta charges. Rodrigues' eyes widened in understanding.
"You sure about this, boss? That's a genuine STC we're talking about."
Armstrong nodded, already setting the charges. "Liberty Eagle Operations are clear on this, Sam. Any STC corrupted by the Ruinous Powers is to be disposed of. No exceptions."
As Armstrong worked swiftly, the malevolent presence grew stronger, the very air around them seeming to warp and distort. For a brief, terrifying moment, he glimpsed the shadow of a massive, bestial figure—a Bloodthirster, one of Khorne's deadliest servants. Its attention zeroed in on Armstrong, its baleful gaze searing into his mind.
Armstrong, as the Liberator's Executioner, realized with dread that he had drawn the attention of this servant of Khorne. The daemonic influence pressed harder now, not just images but a voice, raw with bloodlust, echoing in his thoughts.
"TAKE THE STC, MORTAL. FORGE WEAPONS OF UNIMAGINABLE POWER. SPILL OCEANS OF BLOOD IN KHORNE'S NAME!"
With the charges set, Armstrong and Rodrigues retreated to a safe distance. The Bloodthirster's influence swelled to a fever pitch, threatening to overtake them. But Armstrong's focus never wavered.
Finger hovering over the detonator, he smirked. This choice—this moment—was his. No daemon, no matter how powerful, could claim that.
"Hey, ugly," Armstrong called, a savage grin cutting across his face. "Got a message from the Liberty Eagles."
He pressed the detonator.
"Fuck off."
The melta charges ignited, obliterating the corrupted STC and vaporizing part of the chamber in a surge of plasma. The psychic backlash hit Armstrong like a freight train, dropping him to one knee. But even as the rage of the Bloodthirster clawed at his mind, Armstrong stood tall, undeterred.
For a heartbeat, the Bloodthirster's fury surged, flooding his thoughts with visions of endless bloodshed. Armstrong met it with defiance, fists crackling with energy.
"You think you can break me?" he growled. "I'm a Son of Valorian—the Great Eagle, the Liberator. I don't kneel to tyrants or demons."
He raised his fist, the energy radiating from him like a shield.
"You want a fight? You got one. Give me liberty, or I'll take it through your blood!"
Slowly, but with undeniable force, the presence of the Bloodthirster began to fade, driven back by Armstrong's indomitable will. The chamber fell quiet, save for the distant rumble of collapsing ruins, as Armstrong stood victorious—not just over the daemon, but over the temptation of Khorne.
"You alright, boss?" Rodrigues asked, his voice shaky but relieved.
Armstrong stood, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. "Never better, Sam. Nothing like telling a Bloodthirster to shove it to really get the blood pumping."
Rodrigues chuckled, shaking his head. "Only you, boss. Only you."
As they made their way out of the now-silent chamber, Armstrong felt a sense of pride. Not just in himself, but in what he and his brothers stood for. In a galaxy filled with daemons and xenos and madmen, the Liberty Eagles stood for something greater.
Freedom. Choice. The right of every being to forge their own path.
And no daemon, no matter how powerful, could ever take that away.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone