Chapter 181: Greetings, Sanguinius's Finest Progeny |
"We do not have much time left."
Exodite Eldar Ranger Orell closed her eyes slightly, her long eyelashes trembling in the dust-filled air.
She felt the whimpers of the World Soul transmitting through the cracked earth beneath her feet. The mournful cry pierced her nerves like fine needles, igniting a cold fury in the depths of her eyes.
In the distance, the figures of the Adeptus Astartes faintly appeared through the thick smoke, standing like bloodstained monuments.
The Tyranid Hive Fleet surged forward like a roaring tsunami, crashing against a scattered handful of warriors.
Even the sturdiest of dams would eventually collapse against such a tidal wave, but these warriors erupted with unprecedented courage and Combat Power. Their bright yellow armor linked together to form an unbroken fortress wall, stubbornly refusing to let even a single drop of that deadly tide slip past.
This sight caused Orell to slightly set aside her deep-seated prejudices.
"Chapter Master Phoros, we must evacuate."
She risked moving through the rampaging Tyranid Hive Fleet, her agile figure darting across the battlefield like a sudden gust of wind until she finally came to a halt beside Chapter Master Phoros.
Now, the Chapter Master's armor was covered in deep dents, and his breathing was as heavy and ragged as a broken bellows.
"My ancestors cannot hold out much longer."
Compared to their cousins who still roamed the cosmos freely, the Exodite Eldar possessed far more primitive technology, and their Combat Power fell squarely into the realm of the weak.
They had to rely on the Adeptus Astartes fleet for cover to break through the Tyranid Hive Fleet's blockade. Only then could they send the last of their refugees into space via small shuttles, heading toward the webways of another Planet to seek the Divine Protection of their Craftworld cousins.
As for why they did not simply travel through the webway directly...
Asteria's webway gates had long since been destroyed by the relentless erosion of time.
"But there are still so many people."
Phoros was bathed in gore.
The Lamenters had completely exhausted their Bolt Shells. They could only rely on the structural integrity of the ancient Eldar ruins, engaging the Tyranid Xenos in brutal melee combat at every chokepoint and blast door.
The grating screech of rubbing chitin echoed from deep within the corridors of the ancient Eldar ruins. Every heavy impact caused the bronze gates to shudder, shaking loose cascades of thick dust.
"They are my Comrades."
The Lamenters similarly viewed the Xenos as their sworn enemies.
However, their immediate goals aligned. Had these Eldar Xenos not activated the ruins' defense systems, the millions of Imperium humans left behind would have lost their sanctuary entirely, leaving them without the slightest chance to hold the line against the Tyranid Hive Fleet.
"My lord, I am filled with even more sorrow and heartache than you,"
Orell could not help but explain.
"Our ancestors are still suffering in agony. I can even hear the wails echoing from the World Soul. It will plummet into the halls of the Youngest Goddess to endure eternal torment. They are reaching their breaking point."
"If the World Soul is completely corrupted, the Minions of the Youngest Goddess will face no further barriers. Once they tear through the veil of reality, we will all perish alongside this Planet."
Orell admired these warriors who were laying down their lives for their Comrades, just as she revered the elders who merged their very lives into the World Soul to resist Slaanesh, securing a path of survival for their younger descendants.
But they truly could not delay any longer.
The distress call sent to the Craftworld remained unanswered, and they had to relocate this final spark of hope.
It was not that they refused to leave alone, but rather that the transport ships required the covering fire of the Lamenters' fleet to safely ascend.
Crack!
A blood-drenched broadsword severed the head of a synapse Tyranid Organism. Flame-trooper squads composed of Mortals began incinerating the twitching corpses.
Phoros did not look at the Endless Chattering Xenos.
He silently turned his head to look behind him, gazing at the Comrades who were currently still safe under the psychic aegis of the World Soul.
There were not enough transports. Even with the support of the Ultramarines, it was still far from sufficient.
But they still had Comrades behind them.
The Blade swung in a vicious arc, sending a carapace-covered arm flying through the air in a high parabola. The horrific injury did not draw a single scream from the creature; these emotionless Organisms merely advanced with mechanical precision, intent only on slaughtering the enemies before them.
Shhk!
The broadsword impaled its chest. Spilling ichor dyed the armor green, seeping in through the damaged gaps as Phoros viciously wrenched the Blade upward, slicing the enemy wide open.
"How much longer?"
He panted heavily. Even an Adeptus Astartes as mighty as he could not help but feel exhausted under such crushing pressure.
"According to your human calendar, eight hours,"
Orell replied. She knew Phoros was asking about the limits of the World Soul.
"Go then. The fleet will provide cover for you, treating you as equals."
The blood-soaked warrior remained standing firm at the chokepoint, the mounting pile of corpses beneath his feet threatening to bury him entirely.
Having received permission, Orell swiftly turned around.
After taking a few steps, she glanced back and asked,
"What about you?"
"We will stay and fight,"
Phoros declared. "Even if it means a glorious death in battle."
Orell was momentarily at a loss for words. She simply raised her shuriken weapon, unleashing precise bursts of fire at the encroaching Tyranid Hive Fleet.
It was not until she had emptied the last shuriken from her magazine that she offered a faint word of encouragement, turning to leave without another word.
"Fight well."
Her voice was as frail as a wisp of wind facing a tidal wave, instantly drowned out by the piercing shrieks of the advancing Tyranid Hive Fleet.
Phoros stared at the endless Tyranid Hive Fleet in the distance, every muscle in his body trembling with strain.
"For those we cherish!"
Fearless, he roared as he swung his Blade.
The bright yellow wall of armor erupted with a heroic response once more!
Their strength was beginning to wane. No matter how much astonishing courage they mustered for the resistance, Phoros had to admit the bitter truth: his Battle-Brothers were already pushed to their absolute limits.
In this utterly hopeless war, some warriors had already succumbed to the Black Rage. The Lamenters did not know the true origin of this curse, merely viewing it as a deeply ominous affliction.
"We die in glory!"
"Horus!"
"Brother, come back!"
Some warriors unleashed frenzied roars, breaking formation as their battered, scar-riddled bodies suddenly exploded with unprecedented power.
But this was, ultimately, their final, blinding blaze.
Before long, these berserk warriors were completely swallowed by the tide of the Tyranid Hive Fleet, never to be heard from again.
"..."
Phoros clenched his fists in agony, doing nothing else but swinging his Blade.
Facing an ever-growing horde of enemies, witnessing the gradual sacrifice of the Emperor's Angels, and looking back at the transport ships that were still slowly yet resolutely evacuating the refugees...
When they noticed that scattered Tyranids had managed to slip onto the platform where the transport ships were docked...
Many finally realized that all hope of escape was lost.
A restless stir rippled through the crowd.
Yet, it was not a panic born of despair.
Rather, it was the beginning of an almost suicidal counter-charge to buy time.
"Get back!"
Cries of alarm immediately rang out from the reserve forces on the platform. Phoros, entrenched in the battlefield, froze for a second. He snapped his head around, and through his vision, blurred by Flesh and Blood, he spotted a solitary figure emerging.
A stick-thin civilian. He had once been a respectable estate owner—the living standards on an agri-world had always been excellent.
At this moment, this young man, who had been raised in a proverbial greenhouse, stood like a firm Steel Nail right in front of the Tyranid Hive Fleet. His brown eyes were locked onto the Xenos with unwavering intensity.
In normal times, this cowardly estate owner would often be terrified by mere rumors of Xenos lurking in the forests. But now, there was no fear in his eyes, only the burning fury of vengeance.
"Halt your advance! Get back, now!"
Phoros, who showed zero fear when facing endless Tyranid swarms or the specter of death itself, now sounded almost hysterical as he shouted at a civilian of the Imperium.
But it was too late.
The young man gave Phoros a distant glance. Just before he was blown apart by the vile living artillery of the Termagants, the explosives strapped to his body detonated.
Boom!
An intensely searing wave of energy blasted outward, and Flesh and Blood was instantly evaporated. The surging Tyranid Hive Fleet suddenly had a massive chunk blown right out of its frontlines.
It was a reckless, suicidal assault.
Phoros swayed only slightly, his eyes locked onto the burning crater left in the swarm.
The young man had died instantly the moment the flames erupted, yet Phoros could not shake the feeling that he had been smiling.
Before his eyes, a group of civilians—aided by the Astra Militarum—strapped time bombs to their backs and began charging, one after another, straight into the flooding Tyranid hive.
"What are you doing, Colonel?! Tell me, what are you doing!"
Thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind as Phoros roared.
Boom! Boom!
Shockwaves rippled outward once more. The partially melted Eldar structures were blown to pieces alongside the Tyranid Hive Fleet. Phoros's vision flickered as shrapnel, Steel, chunks of rubble, and human remains flew wildly through the air.
The relentless tide of the Tyranid Hive Fleet was forced to a halt in the narrow corridor by these suicide bombings. The Astra Militarum even used the opportunity to push forward, linking up directly with the Adeptus Astartes' defensive line.
The critically endangered transport ships, which were on the verge of being destroyed by the swarm's artillery, managed to lift off. The Tyranid Hive Fleet had completely failed to anticipate this sudden counter-charge, and their Biovore artillery positions were smashed to pieces in the blink of an eye.
In this universe, intense emotions truly had the power to turn the tide of fate!
"My lord! Go! You must leave!"
The Colonel shouted.
"No one forced us to do this. This is our own choice."
"We would rather die as free men than become rations for the Xenos or a burden to the Emperor's Angels."
"Leave! Go quickly!"
His tattered uniform flapping wildly in the wind, the Colonel stood high atop a command vehicle, bellowing at Phoros.
"Then drop the Emperor's fury from orbit and grant us a merciful death!"
A continuous barrage of artillery fire rained down as the Astra Militarum launched a fierce counter-charge, capitalizing on the bloody tide of suicide bombers.
The command vehicle brutally plowed through the charred remains in its path, driving right past Phoros and leaving his ears ringing violently.
Only the back of the Colonel remained in his sight, carrying with it that lingering, fearless smile.
"You are no burden!"
Phoros bellowed.
"Yes! You were the one who taught us that we are not burdens!"
A Mortal man shouted as he walked past him.
Phoros met his eyes and saw only pure satisfaction—the profound contentment of a man who finally had the worth of his life validated.
"Go, my lord. You shouldn't be buried here. There are still countless others waiting for you."
After he finished speaking, he continued his steady march forward.
They were supposedly worthless Mortals, capable only of following the Astra Militarum's orders to plug the terrifying gaps in firepower with their own bodies.
He set the timer, and then he began to run.
It was as simple as that.
It was almost his turn.
"Chapter Master, what should we do?"
The hoarse inquiry of Chapter Chaplain Andler crackled through the comms. In the background, the suppressed groans of the wounded mingled with the agonizing groan of distant blast doors bending under extreme pressure.
"Andler, evacuate the critically wounded immediately. Take the last of our Comrades with you."
Phoros ordered, his eyes tracking the advancing human wall.
"And you?"
"I will stay behind. Have the First and Second Companies remain with me."
He took a heavy step forward, catching up to the crowd. His power boots crushed fragments of chitinous armor, producing a teeth-setting crunch.
"I'm staying behind!"
The Chapter Chaplain's voice spiked sharply.
"I am staying,"
Phoros replied with iron stubbornness.
"You are the Chapter Master!"
Andler squeezed the words out in a furious growl.
"It is precisely because I am the Chapter Master."
Phoros replied calmly, the raging inferno reflecting in his eyes behind the visor.
"I will not leave. I will hold the line. Let the ships launch—we can still save more people!"
He stepped to the very front of the formation. As a demigod, chosen from the absolute finest among Mortals, having survived unimaginable trials to earn his ascension...
...He rightfully belonged at the vanguard. It was his duty to defend humanity's most precious treasure.
Life.
Phoros raised his Blade high.
'Genetic Father above, let me save just one more!'
He prayed silently in his heart as the power sword in his hand erupted with brilliant arcs of azure energy once more.
Thud—
Phoros stomped his left foot down, causing the entire Eldar ruin to shudder violently as if struck by an earthquake.
He couldn't help but look up in confusion, facing the heavens to stare at the deafening roar erupting from the pitch-black depths of space.
Time seemed to freeze in that exact moment.
Just as everyone was shifting from despair to resolute sacrifice—
The sky suddenly brightened.
Light suddenly tore through the pitch-black veil of night. A blinding crimson radiance illuminated the faces of countless souls below.
Their minds went blank. They watched as the colossal silhouette of a mighty warship, vast enough to blot out the sky, manifested above them. Blistering sunlight pierced through the darkness, washing over the battlefield.
Orell, who had just been preparing to evacuate alongside the refugees, stared blankly up at the heavens.
In the past, Orell had deeply despised these lower lifeforms who invaded their home, though the elders had frustratingly forbidden her from ever initiating conflict with humanity.
Back then, she could not understand why the wise and experienced elders would actively avoid going to war against such primitive creatures. Their bodies were frail, and their technology was woefully backwards compared to their Craftworld cousins.
It wasn't until she realized that these humans were not here to destroy their home that Orell finally heeded the elders' warnings. She reined in her temper, living deep within the forests for years, keeping out of sight so as not to be bothered.
But now, she finally understood.
—
Rumble—
The sky was set ablaze.
Right above the Tyranid Hive Fleet, literal clouds of fire manifested. What had been suffocatingly black just a moment ago was now so dazzlingly bright that it was impossible to look at directly.
Phoros closed his eyes, only to violently force them open again seconds later. Just as living creatures instinctively yearned for the sun, a light thousands—no, tens of thousands of times brighter could not force his eyes shut. A profound connection resonating from the very depths of his soul made him utterly refuse to look away.
His bloodshot eyes, stained red from prolonged mental torment, stung fiercely, yet he continued to stare unblinking at the unfolding spectacle.
The sky was burning!
It was like a sea of raging flames churning violently above their heads.
Countless streaks of fire cascaded downward, igniting the Tyranid Hive Fleet and purging the final remnants of darkness.
It was a scene of indescribable magnificence, so spectacularly brilliant that it blinded the eye. No words could truly capture its glory; even the most radiant fireworks of a grand Mortal festival would seem like mere fireflies in comparison.
The survivors watched, utterly dumbfounded. The relentlessly charging Tyranid Hive Fleet suddenly began convulsing on the ground, as if their central nervous systems had been critically jammed.
Phoros kept his gaze fixed upon the heavens.
A single figure in crimson and gold plummeted from the sky, flanked by countless deep-red knights.
Like The Angel descending upon the mortal realm.
Dozens of Stormbirds escorted thousands of Valkyries as they breached the atmosphere, laying down an unending carpet of explosives. Like an eraser sweeping cleanly across a chalkboard, they drowned the sprawling sea of Tyranids in a torrential ocean of fire.
The Stormbirds touched down upon the scorched earth. Mortal auxilia, fully clad in Void Plate Armor, drove massive Super-heavy Vehicles out of the holds, establishing fortified firebases one after another to begin a fresh round of devastating suppression against the distant Tyranid Hive Fleet.
Inside the Eldar ruins, scattered Adeptus Astartes advanced alongside a massive contingent of Battle Sisters, sweeping away any lingering enemies hiding in the shadows. The communications corps sought out secure zones, and command tents rapidly sprang up throughout the ruins to serve as tactical nodes.
The darkness would surely be reduced to ashes, and radiant glory would finally return to the world. The stunned survivors suddenly realized that the relentless, howling gales—caused by the extreme atmospheric pressure differences from the Tyranids digesting Biomass—had finally ceased.
With the breaking of dawn, the winds had died down.
After several seconds of awe-inspiring magnificence, the world descended into absolute tranquility. The raging sea of fire rapidly burned out, and the suffocatingly dense swarms of Tyranid flyers vanished without a trace.
In the blink of an eye, the desperately held frontline where Phoros stood had miraculously transformed into a secure rearguard.
Thud—
The figure in crimson and gold touched down right in front of Phoros. The thrusters on his back powered down into standby mode, venting residual heat that heavily distorted the surrounding air.
"Greetings!"
The imposing figure spoke.
Phoros gazed at him, feeling the crushing weight on his sanity vanish into thin air, like a drifting piece of duckweed finally finding a solid shore to anchor itself.
The towering warrior extended a gauntleted hand.
"Sanguinius's finest Progeny."