Chapter 47 46:
Varnak-Sul, holding his side with one hand, used his other hand and hurled it with all his strength against another squadron. The corpse of their leader, at impossible speeds, seemed to disintegrate, not before having collided with them, killing one of them on impact.
The others, completely dumbfounded, barely managed to react when a flat hand cut another one of theirs in half. The secondary explosion of the unstable energy swept away the remaining two.
Four more were murdered beneath the hands of Varnak-Sul, who, to him, were nothing more than muds capable of speaking and defying him.
Then, he had to cross through a Column of millions of compact spears, which had been a mistake. For upon seeing that they would continue dying long before completing the mission while separated, the remaining Lanthers used the sacrifice of those four to pull away and regroup, then launch a camouflaged attack.
For among those millions of spears, perfectly grouped together, there were also beams of piercing rays.
One beam touched the general's left shoulder, it had only been a graze, but it had been enough.
Varnak-Sul felt his arm losing strength, while he felt the bones of his clavicle being almost atomized by that ray.
This thing, somehow, did what forces or energies were incapable of doing against Viltrumites, destabilizing their atoms, nullifying the bond that intertwined their organic matter.
It was, to Varnak-Sul, simply ridiculous.
He looked at his shoulder and saw the torn flesh, it would probably be almost impossible to regenerate from wounds as problematic as these.
He could not continue advancing toward the organized group of Lanthers, who had found the way to keep up with the Viltrumite, even if they had lost people for their objective, at least they felt they had the certainty of avenging them.
Varnak-Sul cursed inwardly, refusing to remain on the defensive against inferior beings.
He disappeared in a blur of acceleration that seemed to displace space itself.
However, the millions of spears of light seemed intent on engulfing him, which had begun taking its toll on him. He was forced to avoid physical contact with each one of those spears, escaping their reach, not because he could not destroy them on his own, but because of the possibility of the piercing ray camouflaged among the constructions. A single one at some vital point, and his possibility of dying would increase.
His left shoulder hung uselessly, it remained in position, pressing against his pierced torso through the tightening of his muscles and his own willpower.
He tried to calculate the trajectory he needed to make in order to reach the remaining team of those beings, he even considered the possibility of using a reduced Venatici team to intercept them.
But it would be unviable, because the hounds could not absorb that strange energy. Then, it would only serve to lead them to the slaughterhouse, therefore it was not practical.
So he forced himself to keep thinking of a solution.
However, as his diversion and escape began to falter, being grazed once more, this time in a thigh, he understood that he most likely would not leave that raid alive, from those cockroaches with annoying toys.
But he did not care, in fact, he accepted it very easily. He was Varnak-Sul, General Varnak-Sul.
No, he was more, he was glory for the empire.
Varnak-Sul, although temporarily degraded, was Division General of Class 12, Commander in Chief of the Strategic Front of the Luminus Sector, Supervisor of the Great Regent's Vanguard Colonial Fleet, Senior Officer of Astro-Tactical Logistics and Defense, Responsible for the Tactical Reconfiguration of Subjugated Forces, and the colonial forces, Creditor of Six Pacification Campaigns in the Drakonis Quadrant, posthumously decorated for his berserker lineage, and currently, glorious and proud sacrifice commander of the Vanguard Cannon Fodder under the direct orders of the Great Regent Thragg.
What greater glory than a death worthy of being recorded in the very annals of imperial history?
His life, from the very first minute of his existence, had always been for the prosperity and growth of the empire. And today, in what he considered would be his final moments of life, he had decided to take the step of sacrifice in order to rip out the hearts of his annoying, disgusting, inferior and despicable enemies, a threat to be eradicated for the absolute security of the empire.
Varnak-Sul prepared himself to die.
He clenched his fists, stopped holding his wounds, and his body tensed. He would give the final push until collapsing.
But that glorious moment in which he would redeem his failure in securing the interests of the empire, in which he would be martyred like other imperial heroes before him, never arrived.
For by the time he had focused more to know what had happened, it turned out that someone had evaporated more than 10 Lanthers in only a single instant.
Varnak-Sul was able to recognize him. It was one of the regent's guards, the Asian, the oldest berserker in the empire.
He was so fast and lethal that Varnak-Sul was not capable of perceiving him in time. The difference in power was evident.
He was bald, and seemed to have twice the muscles of even the regent himself. His jaw was square and his eyes, black like the void of space now internalized, seemed to lack any iris whatsoever.
Varnak-Sul recognized his name, like all the other Viltrumites and colonials. He was ruin, the end, the despair of civilizations, the extinction of existence made flesh. He was the great praetorian, the first custodian, Conquest.