Warhammer: Become a Saint Starting with the Banner of Souls

The two fell silent.

Jill stepped forward, knelt down, and said in as gentle a tone as possible:

"Gernal, Torger, you know the extent of your injuries. Sven says they can't be healed with the current conditions. But Elder Brod's Dreadnought is now empty. One of you can go in, saving your lives and allowing you to continue fighting in the Dreadnought."

He paused.

"Who would like to?"

silence.

There was a silence that lasted for about three seconds.

Then, Grenard spoke first.

"Let Torg in," Grenal said in an extremely sincere tone, his voice weak from blood loss but firm.

"The Torger brothers are more seriously injured than I am; his lungs are punctured, and he needs the sarcophagus's life support system more than I do. And—"

He forced a smile:

"Besides, Torg's shooting skills are better than mine. If he pilots the Dreadnought, his firepower will definitely be higher than mine. From a tactical standpoint, he should be the one to go in."

Upon hearing this, Torger immediately put on a "What nonsense are you talking about?" expression. Although the expression was crooked due to his injuries, it conveyed the meaning perfectly.

"Gernal, what nonsense are you spouting?" Torger's voice was laced with the bubbling sound of a punctured lung.

"You've lost your right leg, who else should go in? At least I still have all four limbs, even if the left half is a bit clumsy! You only have one and a half legs left! You're the one who should go in!"

"What did you say?" Grenard's eyebrows shot up.

"I still have one good leg, don't I? Besides, I'm a melee fighter; losing a leg is no big deal—I can just use a crutch and keep hacking away. You're a fire support type; joining the Dreadnought would be perfect for utilizing your strengths. The Dreadnought's assault cannon and heavy flamethrower are far superior to your current weapons. Joining them would be the best use of your talents!"

"Gernal, listen to what you're saying, using a cane to chop people up? Are you a space wolf or from the Imperial Veterans Sanatorium?" Torg's voice grew increasingly agitated, then he coughed violently a few times, spitting out a mouthful of bloody phlegm.

"And think about it, you have more combat experience than me. You joined the army thirty years earlier than me, you've fought more battles than me, and your close combat skills are better than mine."

"Instead of having you hop and skip across the battlefield on crutches, why not send you into the Fearless Ranks? That way you won't need legs, solving the problem perfectly!"

"Bullshit!" Gennar's eyes widened. "You're definitely more suitable!"

The two of them started arguing back and forth.

On the surface, it appears to be two brave and fearless space wolves deferring to each other, each wanting to give up the honorable and fearless position to the other.

Such noble camaraderie and such moving spirit of self-sacrifice could easily be written into the epic of the war.

But the space wolves present were all seasoned veterans who had roamed the Fenris ice plains. How could they not see through the true intentions of these two?

Those high-sounding reasons, like "You're a better shooter than me," "You have more experience than me," or "It's all tactical considerations," are all nonsense.

There is only one real reason.

They didn't want to join the Fearless.

To be precise, none of them wanted to lose their ability to drink.

The Space Wolves are the most alcoholic Space Marine Chapter known in the Imperium, bar none.

Fenris mead is more than just a beverage; it is a culture, a tradition, a belief, and a core component of the Space Wolf's identity.

The bonfire banquet in the Giant Wolf Hall, the celebratory drinking after a battle, the brothers drinking and laughing together, and the libation of wine to commemorate fallen comrades.

Throughout Space Wolf's life, almost every important moment was inseparable from alcohol.

Once you're inside that iron coffin, you'll never be able to drink again.

For the space wolf, this was worse than death.

Literally, it's worse than death.

Jill listened for a minute.

His expression shifted from initial感动 (moved/touched) to helplessness, and finally to a blank, expressiony look that seemed to say, "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"That's enough," Jill said.

Gnar and Thorg both shut their mouths.

"Do you think I can't see it? You practically have it written all over your faces that you don't want to go in because you can't drink."

Gnar and Thorg both froze.

The embarrassment of being exposed made the two severely injured space wolves momentarily forget their pain. Their eyes darted around, but they dared not look at Jill.

Gennar coughed lightly: "Wolf Lord, you...you misunderstand, I really was speaking from a tactical perspective—"

"Shut up." Jill said expressionlessly.

Grenard shut up.

"Thorger?"

"...I have nothing more to say." Torger wisely chose to remain silent.

Jill took a deep breath, preparing to forcefully make a decision—

A voice came from the side.

"Oh."

Everyone looked in the direction of the sound.

Qin Mo stood a few steps away, observing the farce unfold.

From beginning to end.

To be honest, he enjoyed watching it.

Throughout the thousands of years of cultivation, Qin Mo had witnessed far too much deceit, treachery, and intrigue.

Most relationships among cultivators are based on interests; they may be brothers today, but become enemies tomorrow over a spiritual herb.

Friendship, loyalty, and camaraderie—these things do exist in the world of cultivation, but they are extremely rare.

And these wolf cubs in front of me.

Two critically wounded soldiers, on the verge of death, refused to enter the Fearless Valley, not because they were afraid of dying, but because they did not want to lose their right to drink.

Ridiculous?

absurd.

Is it ridiculous?

ridiculous.

But beneath that absurdity and ridiculousness...

It is a purity akin to that of an innocent child.

They loved wine so much that they would rather die than give it up.

This dedication, whether it's to wine, sword, the Dao, or anything else, is worthy of respect in Qin Mo's eyes.

Moreover, this scene reminded him of someone.

An old friend from a very, very long time ago.

The Xuanhuang Realm, the Great Southern Wilderness.

When Qin Mo was still a rogue cultivator in the Nascent Soul stage, he once took shelter from the rain in a dilapidated temple in the Southern Wilderness Swamp.

There was already a visitor in the dilapidated temple, a ragged, drunken rogue monk who was holding a broken wine gourd in his hand and humming an off-key tune.

That rogue cultivator was named He Changgeng.

He was addicted to alcohol, literally.

He Changgeng once ventured alone into the cave of a Golden Core stage monster for a jar of Nine-Turn Drunken Immortal Wine. He was beaten half to death and crawled out, still clutching the jar of wine tightly in his hands.

He Changgeng once got drunk while undergoing a tribulation of lightning and was struck by lightning eighteen times, burning off all his hair. When he woke up, the first thing he did was not to check his injuries, but to check if the wine gourd at his waist was still there.

He Changgeng once took a sword for Qin Mo during a siege by demonic cultivators. Afterwards, Qin Mo asked him why, and he said, "Because the wine you treated me to last time was quite good, and I want to drink it again. If you die, who will treat me to a drink?"

He was one of Qin Mo's few close friends in the cultivation world.

Later, He Changgeng died in an ambush by the Tianluo Sect.

When he died, he was still holding that broken wine gourd in his hand.

That happened many, many years ago.

Qin Mo thought he had forgotten.

But at this moment, looking at the faces of Gnar and Torge, which were contorted with embarrassment because they "didn't want to give up their right to drink," those distant memories suddenly surged up.

A different world.

Different people.

But that same dedication to alcohol remains unchanged.

A smile curved Qin Mo's lips.

A faint smile tinged with nostalgia.