[center][h1][u][b]The Slaughter of Sanctii[/b][/u][/h1]
Carnage
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A hazy red tinged the corner of his vision. Shapes, shadows, and unrecognizable figures passed him as he carved out a bloody path. Viscera cascaded against his armor in unquantifiable lumps. His limbs felt numb and invigorated at the same time. Every swing of his chainaxe was greeted with something, either armored or not. After that, whatever was inside of those things would explode out in a shower of gore. It wasn’t possible for him to tell what they were, who they were, or when they were killed. Their screams were muted to his ears. Every part of his body burned with the familiar sensation of fatigue and blood loss. Something heavy on his shoulders should’ve prevented him from sprinting, yet he ignored it to savagely attack whatever was before him.

Nero.

He had heard his name spoken yet it was ignored. His armored greaves had taken him far from the last place that he remembered. His last vision was of him running through the snowfields with the Primarch, lunging over bodies of his comrades and the auxilia all the same. Something had obliterated their formation, forcing him to sprint away and attack an undefended position of the Sanctiian menace. After that, he couldn’t remember what had happened or how it had occurred. The walls had greeted him, covered in the hybrid lifefluid of the genewarriors. Reddish-orange vitae covered every inch of his warplate, their bodies tossed aside and torn apart like morsels to a hound. His brethren had been alongside him at that point, butchering the defenders that had hid behind their precious wall. Their cries of anguish and desperation were a fitting offering to the Master of the Lines.

[b]Victorius Nero.[/b]

The full length of his given name buzzed in his ears. It tried to draw him back from the carnage, yet he wouldn’t surrender to it just yet. The city had fully opened up to their massacre after one of the walls had exploded. He hadn’t expected it, nearly shaking him from the bloodrage that dwelled within his veins. Truthfully, he was thankful that it happened when it did. The defenders became more desperate from that point on, attempting to fight with every ounce of their being. It wasn’t enough though, he had cut through them and tore out their entrails. His rampage had bled out into the streets of the great city as they fled from him. Less armored foes greeted him closer to the heart of Sanctii. He treated them much the same as he did the more durable ones, though he couldn’t help but feel how dull the fighting was in these sectors. Once or twice, he had seen the shadows of things that he recognized. The Astartes. He considered testing their mettle with his chainaxes, yet something deep within compelled him to ignore their presence. They either never noticed him or chose to not meddle with his slaughter.

[b]Captain Victorius Nero.[/b]

A fist slammed against his helmet. To his surprise, it was his own. It was as if his own soul was desperately fighting to bite back the mayhem that he desperately sought. No. He rejected it with all of his mental power. He wouldn’t be shackled by the chains of the God-Slayers. His slaughter continued. He couldn’t tell how long the bloodlust had lasted nor did he care how long it persisted. All he knew was the simple and glorious battlefield. Only when he murdered through a building of the Sanctiians did he realize that only a handful of his brothers remained. They had fought tooth and nail to keep up with him. A legendary feat, one that he would remember them for. Both of his legs sprinted forward, propelling a new level of slaughter to pursue. New shapes began to coalesce as he inched closer to Sanctii’s spire, some were the size of great machines and others were large masses of terrified men. He tore them apart all the same without heed or warning. Those large boxes of metal failed to hold him back, both of his axes tearing apart plating to rip the defenders from their seats. They screamed in his face yet he couldn’t understand the words they spoke. It didn’t matter, they died as easily as they yelled.

[b]Captain Victorius Nero, Commander of the Second Cadre.[/b]

His head throbbed with uncontrollable pain as if a tumor threatened to burst within his skull. He slammed the shaft of his chainaxe against his helmet, quelling the pain and voices in a fit of fury. The second set of walls within Sanctii had greeted him as an obstacle of stagnation. A huge mass of shadows had gathered around the spire like a horde of obsidian insects. They waxed and waned as projectiles, prismatic or furious, burst apart the swarm in horrific chunks. He understood what to do without having to think on it. Both of his chainaxes started to chop through the writhing mass, accompanied only by a daring few warriors that helped clean the tide. Their screams meant nothing to him, more gibberish jumbled with piercing yells of agony. Perhaps it was their bodies that had begun to weigh him down, or was it their entrails that decorated his hulking form that encumbered him. The thought left him as the white citadel greeted him. They were close. He could feel their heartbeat with fear as both his axes slammed into the wall. Nothing would save them from his wrath and ruin. 

[b]Nero.[/b]

It finally became clear to him who had been whispering in his ear. It had been the Primarch. The crimson haze began to stir away from the edge of his vision as the last defender died in a horrific gorepile before him. The source of his fatigue became clear. He had several holes in his armor where plating should normally be. It did little to slow him down despite the vicious wounds he had sustained. He turned to face the few that dared to accompany him and found none. Their bodies had been mutilated beyond recognition with a pair of chainaxes, then torn open by something. His alabaster pelt cape had long been torn from his armor, only bloody scraps were left behind in the wake of his carnage. The Sanctiians had been cleared on that section of the wall, now beginning to flood over with the red-garbed auxilia of the Excertus Imperialis. He stared down at his viscera-coated gauntlets through his helmet. Countless thoughts raced through his mind, yet confusion was at the forefront. Without consciously attempting it, he had rampaged for the entirety of a day. Longer than any previous campaign that he had fought in. It frightened and impressed him in the same thought.

His attention turned to the citadel as white creatures began to vomit forth from entrances and exits. The auxilia around him desperately tried to hold off the beasts as they came, slicing through sinew and carapace in similar quantities. The Third Cadre Captain tightened his grip on the chainaxes, filtering fresh rage into his veins as a new horde of enemies greeted him. A hazy red tinge began to coalesce around his visions as the bloodlust took hold. He unleashed a wicked snarl, slammed his armored foot down and howled into the Urshite lands with terrible laughter. Those around Nero watched as he dove into the first wave of creatures, chainaxes tearing through sinew and chitin with blissful ease.

[i]Brother.[/i]

It was the last thing he heard as he fought through the swarm, fresh laughter erupting from his lungs. Nothing mattered anymore other than the splendid joy of slaughter. Not even the single voice of reason in the entire legion could cause him to falter. Even if the Aeternus were to stand before him, Nero was certain that he would kill him.