Suffer Not The Radiant

Chapter 43: Malevolence

With an air of desolation clinging to the ruins of the European-like castle, its crumbling facade entwined with verdant vines, fifty soldiers, four Valorant agents, and the presence of an Astartes. The scars of recent activity lingered, evident in displaced rocks, discarded swords, and the scorch marks etched into surfaces, testaments to the wielded powers of radiants. In the course of this operation, Ranesk could feel his animosity towards Radiants resurfacing, a smoldering fire within him. Yet, he understood the need to temper his emotions and let reason guide his decisions. Uncertainty clung to his thoughts, acknowledging the possibility of being both right and wrong. Whatever the truth may be, he resolved to take the necessary actions.

Tyberos seized the opportunity to shed first blood, revealing the disquieting capabilities inherent to an Astartes. The shock of witnessing such brutality coursed through their veins, mingling with a sense of revulsion. Nevertheless, this macabre act yielded valuable intelligence about the structure they infiltrated. Tyberos made it abundantly clear that the devouring of cultists would not cease with this solitary instance.

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"Advance as one," Tyberos proclaimed, his voice tinged with a primal hunger that still dripped with the fresh blood of his prey. His words hung in the air, a command that echoed with certainty. "Vox channels are of no use the deeper we venture," he added, his tone matter-of-fact.

A soldier, his curiosity piqued, dared to question, "Vox channel, sir?"

Tyberos cast a dispassionate glance in the soldier's direction. "You would refer to them as radios," he replied, his response devoid of emotion.

The tension in the air thickened as the shade lord continued to forge ahead, his silent march a stark contrast to the soldiers and agents who exchanged uncertain glances. Ranesk fell in line behind Tyberos, and one by one, the others followed suit. Each step they took within the labyrinthine corridors was deliberate, their movements careful to minimize any disturbance. With bated breath, they marveled at the unsettling spectacle unfolding before them—the colossal figure of Tyberos traversing the shadows with an eerie silence that belied his immense stature. His footsteps barely whispered against the ancient stone, a sound akin to the hushed tread of one walking barefoot on the very tips of their toes.

With each measured step, anxiety coiled around them like a constrictor, its grip growing ever tighter. The labyrinth stretched out endlessly, an intricate web of stairways that led to more stairways, a cyclical descent into a maddening abyss. It was a spiral of lunacy, woven by the hands of Tzeentch himself. Beads of sweat formed on their brows, silently betraying the dwindling resolve that lay beneath their stoic façade. At times, faint echoes of distant footsteps reached their ears, prompting them to halt, only to find the phantom footfalls cease in perfect synchrony. It was as if an unseen presence shadowed their every move.

Undeterred, they pressed on, their spirits resilient, their determination unyielding. And at long last, they emerged into a vast expanse, a space reminiscent of a grand colosseum from the age of Rome. But instead of cold plastic and modern materials, the entire arena stood resolute in stone, of ancient craftsmanship. This sight alone shattered the mystery behind the labyrinth's desolation, revealing the true purpose hidden within its winding passages. Hundreds, if not thousands, of robed figures congregated there, a throng of cultists. Their attire, though laughably cliché with its concealing robes, only served to accentuate their shared devotion.

In this congregation of "Empyreans," every last member seemed to have gathered. The veil of anonymity stripped away, revealing their united front.

A lone soldier broke the tension with a muttered exclamation, "Holy shit." All activity halted, and every individual present cautiously checked their weapons, fully aware that whatever they were planning to do would not go unnoticed by the overwhelming horde of cultists before them. Though outnumbered by the hundreds, they were just a mere half a hundred.