Mahamadou Christian was aboard one of the twenty Thunderhawk gunships aboard the Relentless Destroyer.
It was a charcoal-black beast, its thick outline covered with spikes, and its surly and aging machine soul grunting inside its body like a trapped animal.
The massive turbines bear the pressure of the planet's dry winds on their way down, rocking and tilting in the turbulence.
Mahamadou had always disliked reckless action.
If he were one of the bloodthirsty berserkers of Abaddon's pack, he would be shouting now, brandishing a bloody blade ready for carnage.
However, he is an iron warrior who likes to keep his feet on the ground and play it safe so that he can carefully consider how to attack his enemies quickly and violently.
Others in the combat crew cabin had the same idea. Etienne Moss and his Terminators, as well as everyone in the warband, all remained silent.
The Thunderhawk swayed, and suddenly there was a bang, and the engine thundered, but they kept their mouths shut.
Formerly part of the Iron Warriors, a dreary and meaningless daemon world serving a daemon primarch they had barely met, they were now members of the Black Legion.
Many people deliberately used this to ridicule him, but Mahamadou rarely refuted or explained, because no one could understand an Iron Warrior.
Reforged in shame and shadow, reborn in black iron and gold——
The Iron Warriors silently chanted the words of the Black Legion.
He understands the feeling of a person hating himself. Nothing can be more fanatical than those legions who have converted to the dark gods. But in fact, Mahamadou has never had a true belief so far. He only has a desire for power and just wants to use it. These gifts become even more powerful.
Mahamadou never cared about any beliefs. He just wanted to take revenge on his blurred past and rule the species with which he had severed all ties.
It was about dignity, even if his Legion no longer understood that concept.
Sometimes, he also doubted whether he had chosen the right side of the traitors.
The Thunderhawk roared and began to land. The oil-stained warning light came on. Mahamadou heard the roar of the buffer and deceleration engine, and the direction of the power also changed.
He reached out and grasped the iron chain ring to steady himself, and soon the Thunder Eagle landed heavily on the land of another world.
Etienne roared like an animal. In this small space, the blacksmith looked like a dragon coiled in a cave, spewing steam from the sides of his helmet.
As the hatch creaked open, the warriors sprang into action, stepping into a hurricane of dust and organic matter.
Etienne was the last to emerge, temporarily sheathing his chainsword and letting the wind dry the rough surface of his body and evaporate the moisture that had accumulated in the Thunderhawk's dank interior.
They end up in a junkyard, surrounded by Imperial installations that have been placed on every world in the galaxy, mundane and uninspiring according to ruthless and unimaginative standards.
The underpowered lights flickered faintly in the strong wind, and Mahamadou already knew that this was going to be a boring killing.
He squeaked toward the entrance, while Étienne moved in the other direction.
While banging, they unscrewed the reinforced steel bolts and pushed the door panel open.
The Iron Warrior walked down a narrow corridor, dust following him in, falling from his knees and accumulating on the plastic steel wall panels.
Soon, he saw the residents here, carefully spying on him.
They looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then ran away.
Mahamadou followed them slowly, his footsteps thumping on the floor. He heard a scream in the distance and guessed that it was Etienne's work.
Not far away, more Thunderhawks were landing, four or five, and the howls of Khorne's berserkers were heard, and that was enough.
Attica was just a pathetic little place, not worthy of much effort from the Black Legion.
They don't even understand why they want to attack this world, because there is nothing worth plundering here.
But the Warmaster's decision cannot be questioned.
Mahamadou stomped to what appeared to be a command center and broke in easily.
There were hundreds of humans inside, some armed, all terrified.
Then the Iron Warriors got to work.
The laser flickered on his scratched black armor, slightly burning the patina on the surface.
Mahamadou did not move his gun, but directly reached out to grab the person at the front, grabbed the person, and broke his back.
The next man's eye socket was shattered by a gentle slap, and Mahamadou had to slam down again to stop the creature from writhing in agony.
The glove full of barbs quickly turned into a bloody weapon.
He had been idle aboard the Relentless Destroyer for too long and needed to stretch his atrophied muscles.
Soon, he spotted a woman in uniform. Her slender thighs were covered with stockings and she looked pretty.
She struggled to get away from him, exuding fear, but she still held a laser gun tightly and fired at him with determination.
After a few shots, Mahamadou started to get annoyed.
He suddenly accelerated and rushed towards her at an incredible speed, ignoring her attacks and grabbing her throat.
"Get away!"
The woman screamed.
Mahamadou hesitated, suddenly amused.
"Get out of here?"
"Get away!"
It was so ridiculous that the woman turned pale with fear and swung her limbs at the Iron Warrior as if he were a pest under her bed.
This act only brought a smile to his scarred and weathered face.
"Louder, scream for help at the top of your lungs."
This is what he really wants. Send a message and summon an army worthy of the challenge.
Instead, she shot him again - with the gun still in her hand.
This shot hit Mahamadou under the neck. The Iron Warrior laughed loudly, grabbed the opponent's hair, and smashed him against the wall on one side, causing blood and flesh to fly everywhere.
Looking at the bloody scalp hanging by the hair in his hand, Mahamadou felt a little sadistic pleasure.
Then, like a shepherd, he lazily whipped the rest of the flock, and the screams began to numb his ears.
"Warsmith!"
He shouted as he killed, wondering if Étienne could hear him.
"Is there anything else worth killing?"
"Just some weak pigs and dogs!"
The war blacksmith's enthusiastic voice came.
"too boring."
The Iron Warrior shook his head and walked towards the last person standing.
"I guess we won't be here long."
The remaining Iron Warriors were scattered among the chaotic peripheral buildings and facilities, executing their own killing plans without discipline. Standing in the smoke-filled wind of Attica night and looking out, there was only a blurry and silent scene.
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