Chapter 458: The fucking spiritual energy, come out!

If the Empire's combat power is calculated as 100%, then after eliminating the Space Marines, the combat power is still 99%, and this 99% is the mortal auxiliary army that is the cornerstone of the Empire.

As a sergeant of the 3rd Assault Regiment of Cadia, John has always followed the Death Guard to participate in front-line battles. Over the years, his previous comrades have been replaced one after another, but he still stands firm on the battlefield. Therefore, John is also called the lucky boy.

Even the Space Marines of the Death Guard have heard of his name.

There is no such thing as a wrong nickname, only a wrong name. John was quite satisfied with this nickname, because it made him familiar with the quartermaster, especially when distributing supplies, he could always get some special items such as cigarettes and chocolates.

Climbing out of the trench, feeling the unchanging roar of artillery fire, John came to the sentry post and handed over to the guard who had been up all night, and by the way, he maintained the heavy logging gun that was probably older than him.

Looking at the Emperor's Angel next to him wearing ancient green power armor, John was very curious about what face he had under his helmet. He had never seen this Space Marine take off his helmet.

"My Lord, would you like a cigarette?"

As a staunch traditionalist, John knew that this stuff was bad for the body, but in the Astra Militarum where the average lifespan was no more than six hours, he estimated that he would not live to see the day when he would be ravaged by nicotine.

In fact, John had his own reasons for doing this. He had made a bet with his men before, saying that the angel under the helmet must be a super tough man with a strong face and scars all over his face, otherwise why would the shoulder armor be so much larger than other angels? He even bet three bags of Reka coffee for this.

If John were in the First Legion, his behavior would probably lead to him being questioned, but the Death Guards were different. These big guys who loved to eat were kind and friendly, unlike the other legions, who always called them mortals. After getting to know them, he could even ask them to go to the Black Light Cult to exchange some small commodities.

Just as John's hand that was handing him the cigarette was already sore, the Death Guard took the cigarette and then put his hand on his helmet.

As the helmet was slowly raised, other soldiers who were still resting in the trenches came out. Everyone wanted to see what this mysterious Emperor Angel looked like, and whether he was really as strong and muscular as the sergeant said.

However, as the smoke column rose, everyone was dumbfounded. John, who had lost three packs of Reka coffee, was even more surprised:
"Fuck, dog!"

It's no wonder that everyone feels curious. Although dog-men are no longer a secret, their numbers are still rare in the empire, and seeing one is considered a stroke of luck.

Looking at the heads that came forward to stare at him, Magg Gear blew out a smoke ring and corrected him in standard High Gothic:
"Watch your words. Our Mag family has been loved by the Prime Minister for generations. In the past, unreasonable people like you would have been resuscitated by the dragon fruit. Fortunately, I am not one of those people wearing gray armor, otherwise you would have disappeared from the face of the earth."

On the battlefield, perhaps people can become friends just by smoking a cigarette with each other. Seeing that this super dog was so easy to talk to, several people quickly started chatting.

After learning that his fellow Magg Gears were serving in the Grey Knights, the well-informed John was glad to have saved his life, but was more curious as to why he did not become a noble Grey Knight, but instead ran off to the Death Guard, which had nothing to do with psychic powers.

But before Gou Zi could explain the reason, a Thunderhawk transport boat arrived above the trench, and several Black Watchmen wearing black armor walked out of it.

As the commander of this position, John was quickly called over, along with Mag Gear.

A few minutes later, as the Thunderhawk took off, a supply box was left in the middle of the trench, along with a test form.

Hearing that the head of the military department had sent out new equipment, the 12 team members gathered together to see what was in the supply box to make sure it was not some bad stuff. But to their surprise, the head of the military department was right this time. In addition to the 12 bottles of combat potions, there were also several combat daggers engraved with flame patterns.

Looking at the strange-looking dagger in his hand, John didn't understand why the higher-ups would issue these things. Wouldn't it be better to issue more explosive bombs? Wouldn't they be asked to fight the greenskins with bayonets? Isn't this funny!

But soon everyone realized something was wrong. Mag Gear, who had been so arrogant just now, was stunned on the spot, with two tears welling up in his eyes. Then he shouted:

"Woohoo! I, Magg Gear, can finally use psychic powers like my other brothers. Thank you, Your Majesty the Emperor!"

Along with the sound of dogs barking, John, who snatched the instruction manual, finally understood how to use these combat daggers. He then understood why Mag Gear did not join the Grey Knights but came to the Death Guard instead. It turned out that this guy was actually a psychic Muggle.

Without any hesitation, Mag Gear directly injected the oversized T3 potion and grasped the combat dagger.

As the flames rose, the combat dagger in Gouzi's hand turned into a pool of metal solution, which spread to his power gloves, and then several hideous bone spurs grew out of it.

Feeling the fiery power, a voice flashed in Mag Gear's mind:
"Are you my battle brother? Damn, why are you a dog?"

"Shut up, you ignorant thing, and give me your spiritual power! Shhhh!!"

Such scenes were played out at every position on the expedition front, and as those combat daggers were activated, the Emperor sitting on the Emperor's Dreadnought finally felt a sense of relief.

Looking at the emperor who was about to leave his seat, Hogg, who was desperately screwing in the screws, complained:
"Old man Huang, you still say you are not a god, but those cursed warriors are clearly your E-Demons, right? I already knew that you and those four losers are the same kind of people, come and help us quickly."

The Emperor was not angry because of Hogg's ridicule. He was in a very good mood. The Golden Throne was not a good thing. After so many years, the Emperor almost forgot the feeling of walking on his own legs.

The experience of having his psychic energy extracted all the time is extremely painful. If it were not for humanity, how could the Emperor have sat on that most terrifying torture device? Now he finally has hope of getting down.

Seeing that his three rebellious sons wanted to slack off, the Emperor slapped them with a few psychic slaps and scolded them:

"Hurry up and make another 130 million daggers so that I can stand up. I'll be watching you, so don't even think about being lazy."

The originally empty underground research institute was transformed into a dagger production line, and Hogg, Magnus, and Fulgrim became human assemblers, rubbing those Divine Emperor daggers that could be called holy relics.

Just as the Emperor was oppressing the three little ones and was excited about walking on the earth again, Mara finally made up his mind to listen to Elda's advice and left the green-skinned Colosseum that was ravaged by the warp storms.

"Good boy, mom has come to you for help!"

(End of this chapter)