Chapter 85 The Pitiful People

Scorching explosive shells tore into the crowd, detonating upon impact with human bodies. The blistering flames evaporated the flesh corrupted by chaos, while the fragments of the shells whirled through the masses, shredding bodies and spraying blood and gore in all directions. In an instant, the air was thick with blood mist and dismembered flesh. Those struck directly by the shells on the metal deck at the docking point were the fortunate ones; their suffering ended in a heartbeat, their bodies reduced to steaming clouds of blood.

But the others were not so lucky. The shrapnel from the blasts ricocheted wildly among the people; some were mercifully struck in vital spots and granted the greatest kindness this despairing universe could offer. The rest stared in horror at the flesh strewn across the deck, the steaming blood pooling at their feet, utterly bewildered. They could not comprehend why, from the docking chamber where a rescue team should have emerged, there now came only these terrifying explosive shells.

The wounded clutched their injuries and howled in agony. Emaciated mothers cradled their children, pierced by shrapnel, their twisted bodies sobbing helplessly, calling out for aid from that great presence they’d seen in the Warp, begging it to save their pitiful offspring.

The rhythmic pounding of mag-boots on steel echoed from the docking chamber. Wang Xiaofa led the first squad of fifty Traversers into the battleship Starry Sky.

“We are entering now. Prepare the flamethrowers. Kill with explosives first, then gather and incinerate the bodies. Be decisive—do not hesitate. Not a single one must remain alive; they have all been corrupted.”

Wang Xiaofa gazed at the wailing, weeping survivors before him, repeating his orders to the Traversers.

This was not the first time he had emphasized this. Even aboard the Strike Cruiser, the Traversers had been briefed on their mission: to purge every crew member from this warship—none could be spared.

What pained the Traversers was that this time, those they had to eliminate were neither chaotic cultists nor gene-stealers, but the pitiful citizens of the Human Federation—a people from the “Golden Age”, lost in the Warp and corrupted by chaos.

These souls had drifted for fifty years in the Warp. If not for the storm that had sent them astray, perhaps they would have reached their destination in time, to live out their days in the brightest era of humanity—happy and proud as sons and daughters of mankind.

“Understood.”

The Traversers beheld the scene before them and responded to Wang Xiaofa with unwavering resolve.

They advanced swiftly into the ship’s interior. The auto-targeting systems in their helmets projected the faces of each corrupted human onto their retinas. One by one, they squeezed the triggers of their explosive guns, delivering the Emperor's mercy to these wretched souls.

“May the God-Emperor purify your suffering spirits,” they intoned, watching those struck down by their weapons, hoping these poor souls might find cleansing in death.

These people did not worship chaos; they claimed to follow some deity, but it was nothing more than chaos’ insidious influence. They clung to their identity as citizens of the Human Federation, filled with pride and the dignity of humanity, unable to truly believe in any gods.

Of course, that was not the case for all. Some among them, weaker in will, had come to regard the entity they’d glimpsed in the Warp as a god—but even then, their pride as humans prevented them from true worship.

In their hearts, they dismissed the being as some unknown creature, godlike perhaps, but nothing more. When they first encountered it, the ship’s scientists even debated whether the security team should attempt to capture and study it.

Such was the nature of “Golden Age” humanity: strong and proud, ambitious and arrogant, worshipping science, believing that all in the stars would eventually fall to mankind.

Yet these qualities alone were never enough to withstand the supreme powers above. Even with the robust genes of their era, every day, every hour, every minute of those fifty years in the Warp, the corruption gnawed at their bodies and minds.

They began to babble of faith in gods unknown to any human myth, to obsessively carve strange sigils into their own flesh with sharp implements—unconsciously, uncontrollably. They stubbornly insisted they merely suffered from some unknown psychological ailment caused by prolonged exposure to the Warp, an opinion shared by both the ship’s doctors and its medical AI.

As the food stores dwindled, their condition worsened—until the fortieth year.

The ship’s first infant was born. Though unexpected, this birth brought a glimmer of hope—a living symbol that survival was still possible. Even as they subsisted on the remains of their dead comrades, the newborn gave them something to cling to. They watched over this warped infant, praying he would live to see the day they escaped the Warp.

They hoped that rescue from the Human Federation would come for these children. With this hope, they endured, raising the next generation, convinced they would one day return to their people, to be healed in body and mind. By feeding on the dead, they had finally emerged from the Warp—but of the one hundred thousand who had set out for a new colony, only a little over two thousand remained.

They sent out desperate signals for help, yearning for the Federation’s rescue. But what awaited them was not the powerful, radiant Federation of old, but a scarred and battered Human Empire, forged in ten thousand years of suffering.

“Why? Why?!” Darcy Oak clawed at his withered, grass-like hair, watching his crew torn apart by explosive shells. Pain and despair overwhelmed him as he screamed, voice raw with anguish.

He could not understand—he had only begged Captain Wang Ming for food and medical aid. Why had these heavily armed soldiers invaded his warship and begun a massacre?

His cries went unanswered; the Traversers continued to fire upon the scattering, terrified crowd, ignoring his desperate pleas.

Darcy Oak, seeing the unceasing slaughter, screamed at the Traversers, demanding an answer for the slaughter of his people.

As his agitation peaked, his body began to transform—bizarre claws and tendrils of flesh sprouted rapidly, and unsettling psychic energies shimmered around him.

Within Darcy Oak’s mind, a 'holy' voice whispered relentlessly, urging him to save his crew, to slaughter the damned soldiers who had brought only death.