dmims Chapter 9 The 2th Legion
Chapter 9 The 2th Legion
Meanwhile, in the command room of the strike cruiser HMS Executioner, docked in the port.
The command deck was shrouded in a low hum and the ticking of the Thinker server.
A massive holographic projection displayed Hector's imposing figure, as well as the situation of the Trojan system and the surrounding star system, but no one paid any attention to it at the moment.
Holmes, who had been acting commander of the Second Army Corps nine months earlier and also served as the company commander of the First Company, stood beneath the portrait of Hector.
The air within the fleet seemed to solidify, filled with a cold metallic scent and suppressed rage.
Holmes's tall figure stood before the tactical platform, his Mark II power armor gleaming with a cold, hard metallic sheen in the dim lighting.
His resolute and handsome face was tense at this moment, veins bulging on his forehead, and cold, angry flames burning in his brown eyes.
Holmes gripped his power knuckles tightly, his knuckles making a faint metallic scraping sound as he exerted force.
Just seconds ago, a one-sided punishment had just ended.
The number three leader of the Ninth Dalian was sent flying like he had been hit by a battering ram, crashing heavily onto the deck of the command room.
His breastplate bore the incredibly clear and enormous shoe print of Sherlock Holmes.
The injured man was lying on his back, his power armor servos emitting discordant hissing noises, indicating that he had temporarily lost the ability to move.
Holmes's gaze swept across the silent, trembling officers of the Ninth Company with razor-sharp eyes.
His voice wasn't loud, but it was like ice scraping across a deck, penetrating the helmet's built-in communicator, and reaching the very heart of every Astartes:
"Moriarty, where is he?!"
"My dear Ninth Company Commander, my brother, where is your company commander?"
A pause, a deathly silence.
Faced with the legion commander's furious questioning, no one dared to answer; only the low hum of the power backpacks and the hissing of the fallen comrades could be heard.
"Ninth Company. Two empty seats." Holmes pointed to the glaringly empty space marked with the location of the Ninth Company on the tactical platform.
"Father, he is about to inspect his legions, and the entire legion is converging on Troy at this time, with everyone fully prepared and ready to go."
"And you!"
Holmes chuckled twice.
"We're missing a company commander and a deputy company commander!"
"shame!"
This word exploded like a bomb.
His gaze finally settled on Jefferson.
Jefferson, the commander of the Bloodhounds of the Second Battalion of the Ninth Dalian, subconsciously tensed his body.
He should have been the commander of the first battle group, just like his old superior.
But Jefferson, who was only in his seventies, was still too young; he had just managed to block the tactical baton thrown by the corps commander on instinct.
This now seems to have become some kind of "fatal" mistake.
Jefferson.
"Agile, brother."
Holmes offered a word of praise, but it did not warm Jefferson's heart.
"Now, I command you—"
Holmes took a step forward, the sound of his boots hitting the ground sounding particularly heavy in the silence.
"Go find your company commander, Moriarty, and bring him back to me!"
Jefferson was clearly taken aback, his gaze involuntarily drifting to his brother lying on the ground.
Enraged, Holmes keenly noticed this; he clearly realized that Jefferson, or the one lying on the ground, certainly knew something.
"This is an order!"
Holmes' voice suddenly rose, carrying an unquestionable air of authority.
"Find Moriarty! That's an order! Immediately! Right now!"
"Bring him to me before he throws his father's patience, the legion's honor, and his own head into Troy!"
Jefferson's face was flushed red under his helmet.
He could feel the silent gazes of his brothers behind him. He punched his chest hard, the power armor emitting a dull thud.
"Yes, sir!"
A muffled sound came through the helmet speaker, carrying a suppressed hoarseness and an iron-like determination.
He stopped looking at his brothers on the ground, turned around, his power backpack roared, and he strode toward the deck exit, his red goggles casting a blur in the dim light.
Holmes watched Jefferson's departing figure, his anger still burning.
He turned to the holographic star map, manually pulled up a surface scan of the planet Troy, and focused on the Upper Nest selection area.
Holmes' fingers tapped rapidly on the console, retrieving the last known location of Moriarty's power armor beacon and relaying it to Jefferson.
After doing all this, Holmes' voice was neither cold nor warm, and his face was calm: "How long are you going to lie here?"
"Now."
The fallen soldier dusted himself off and got up amidst the indifferent gazes of the others. He patted the dent in his chest and said with dissatisfaction, "You almost kicked me to death."
"Then I will grant you the best of the best, so that you may rest in peace with the sages, Ferre."
"Then forget it, I'm perfectly fine."
"The commander of the First Regiment of the Ninth Company, Fei Rui, resisted fiercely."
His desire was to fight for humanity and for the empire, but to be buried in the fearless was out of the question.
"Looks like a promising talent." Ferrier flicked his finger slightly, striking the armor again. "Moriarty isn't one to be reckless."
Holmes glanced at his old comrade: "That's never the point. The point is that we must always be prepared to await Father's scrutiny."
"Relax, your concern for your father is amplifying your impatience and drowning out your wisdom, brother."
“We’ve observed Father, you know, he’s not the kind of person who gets angry easily,” Ferrier said.
However, his eyes darted around, and the pressure in his heart remained unabated.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have allowed you to make early contact with Father's planet." The nerves in Holmes' skull throbbed uncontrollably.
Now, the entire Second Legion is filled with statues of Primarch Hector, and the interiors of almost all the warships are decorated in a way that resembles the culture of Troy.
If Hector were to randomly select any warship to board, he would only feel an awkward sense of familiarity.
Inside some warships, there were even Trojan Minotaur, specially raised by the Second Legion warriors.
"If you really did that, then the person talking to me now might be the new legion commander Moriarty, haha," Ferrie joked.
"The young man will not hesitate to shoot you in the back."
Holmes paced anxiously inside the warship.
But completely contrary to their expectations, Moriarty did not stay because of Achilles' promising talent.
Achilles was even better at thinking than Moriarty; whenever Moriarty's attention lingered too long, Achilles would warily turn his gaze in his direction.
Moreover, Moriarty will not interfere with Achilles' battle; it is a selection process in itself, and warriors need to be stained with blood.
His attention was more focused on Hector's brother.
"Paris..."
Silence, repression, anger.
But Hector quickly swept these emotions off his face and hid them.
Hector raised his wine glass to thank the Emperor, Macardo, and the assembled imperial officials.
His gaze lingered on the flustered Holmes several times, and the blood connection made him immediately realize who the emperor's heir was.
Hector had intended to get to know his offspring, who looked at least a generation older than himself, better.
But the guards he placed in the selection process brought him news that was neither surprising nor infuriating.
Paris has run for office.
As for the knight who brought Paris to the election, Hector wanted to pardon him, but the man committed suicide before Hector could even approach him.
Holmes's attention was fixed on the Primarch's face. He was occasionally impressed by his father's composure, and occasionally filled with apprehension because of Moriarty's behavior. Finally, he noticed a fleeting hint of annoyance on the Primarch's face.
A sudden jolt went through him, and he thought to himself:
broken!