Chapter 197: Kong Nue: What Are You Stirring Up Behind My Back Again |
The Impek System.
Today, the Impek System was far more chaotic and bustling than when Chaos had first invaded.
Initially, it was merely a liberation operation launched by the Mantis Warriors on a Planet plagued by a Tyranid swarm. However, shortly after the extermination campaign began, they discovered the telltale signs of Chaos Corruption.
Over the past few weeks, the early stages of the war progressed smoothly. The Mantis Warriors completed their sweep of the major cities, miraculously achieving zero casualties.
Yet, even as the cultists were eradicated, order within the cities stubbornly refused to be restored.
What was even more unsettling was the sudden, mushrooming emergence of various Chaos Space Marines, as if the entire Planet was being corrupted by some invisible force.
The Devouring Sharks Chapter subsequently arrived in this system.
The war should have ended right then and there.
Thanks to the technical support from the Adeptus Mechanicus, the fleet combat power of the Devouring Sharks far exceeded that of ordinary Space Marine Chapters, let alone those supply-starved Chaos warbands.
However, eerie Chaos sorcery shrouded the entire Planet. Any strikes from Space were twisted and banished, rendering orbital bombardments and global deployments impossible.
Ultimately, the Devouring Sharks chose to cooperate with the Mantis Warriors. They fortified Ansel, a key city in the southern hemisphere of the Planet, using it as a base to launch several raiding operations. Their goal was to delay the Chaos reinforcements while gathering intelligence, hoping to eventually destroy the enemy's ritual core.
But as intelligence accumulated, the situation became clearer—and increasingly desperate.
The dense clusters of Chaos portals, the ever-expanding scale of the warbands, and the growing presence of Daemons all indicated that this Planet might already be beyond salvation.
"Brother Tyberos."
In private, Chapter Master Hessen Neotera of the Mantis Warriors requested a meeting with Tyberos.
He stood before the Tactical Sandtable in the makeshift command post, gazing at the massive figure that occupied more than half of his field of vision.
This Chapter Master was terrifyingly robust; for the most part, Neotera felt as if he were conversing with a Dreadnought Mech.
"How much longer until reinforcements arrive?"
As a Chapter not known for its logistical prowess and plagued by a relatively severe genetic flaw, the Mantis Warriors' deployment and organization closely adhered to the doctrines of the Codex Astartes. They strictly maintained the standard ten-company structure, and their Chapter command squad, Apothecarion, armory, and fleet were all traditionally configured.
However, their location in a remote sector and a chronic lack of resources meant that throughout their long history, they had almost never entered battle at full strength. The severe shortage of heavy vehicles made every large-scale operation a daunting struggle.
The Chapter's manpower was also slowly draining away due to continuous attrition exacerbated by their genetic disease. The companies rarely received full replenishments, damaged armor went unrepaired, and fallen warriors had no replacements. The Mantis Warriors were steadily sliding toward the brink of collapse.
To survive, they concentrated their meager resources and manufacturing capabilities on equipment that best suited their tactical style—light, agile weapons that perfectly supported their preferred harassment and guerrilla warfare.
Over time, this became instinctive. When facing formidable foes, they leaned heavily toward avoiding direct confrontation, choosing instead to outmaneuver their enemies with cunning and speed.
Perhaps their recent skirmishes had infuriated the Chaos warbands, prompting the enemy to launch several fierce assaults on the city, resulting in significant casualties on both sides.
Had the Devouring Sharks not arrived with substantial weapon and equipment support, they likely would have withdrawn long ago and notified the Ultramarines to issue an Exterminatus.
"Barring any unforeseen circumstances, three weeks,"
Tyberos replied. "If reinforcements do not arrive within three weeks, we will evacuate."
Having campaigned all this way, he had a solid grasp of Romulus and the others' efficiency. Furthermore, with Kahurangi's Xenos advisor present, communications with the Dawn fleet within the Sector remained highly stable.
Moreover, the enemy's offensives were still manageable. The Devouring Sharks were intimately familiar with such strategic and tactical scenarios. Combined with the modifications of their all-Primaris Space Marine forces, they maintained a distinct defensive advantage despite being heavily outnumbered.
"Understood."
There were no extraneous doubts, nor were there any pointless arguments.
Neotera acknowledged the plan, preparing to return to his camp to relay this information to his Chapter brothers.
He was in their debt, after all.
The Devouring Sharks drastically outnumbered the Mantis Warriors and had brought batches of power armor and weapon supplies. Additionally, Tyberos possessed remarkably extensive battlefield experience as a commander. When it came to strategic decisions, Neotera had to respect his judgment.
Truth be told, whenever he faced Tyberos, Neotera always felt an inexplicable sense of unease, like prey encountering an apex predator.
Even through their polite exchanges, this unease gradually morphed into profound awe.
Stroking his brand-new Indomitus Terminator Armor, his gaze shifted to the Devouring Sharks warriors. The Sharks waited silently in their designated staging areas. Some stood motionless as statues, while others knelt on one knee, expertly and intently using precision tools to replace the teeth on their chainswords.
This was a habit born from a long history of chronic material shortages.
The Mantis Warriors shared it as well.
Every Mantis Warrior maintained their wargear with a unique, almost reverent dedication, far surpassing the standards of most Space Marines.
The Devouring Sharks and the Mantis Warriors had already reclaimed several Imperial worlds together, yet this Chapter remained exceptionally mysterious to him.
In battle, they were like blades in the shadows—silent, precise, and lethal. During combat, save for the mechanical hum of their armor, they made absolutely no sound, always achieving their strategic objectives at the minimal possible cost.
It was hard to imagine that such abundant logistical support could cultivate a Chapter like this.
Neotera frowned slightly.
Logically, warriors blessed with nearly unlimited resources often became overly reliant on firepower, sometimes even bordering on arrogant.
But the Devouring Sharks were different. They maintained an almost draconian efficiency, as if an insatiable, predatory hunger was still branded deep into their bones.
"Kahurangi, have you noticed that the enemy's style feels somewhat familiar?"
Paying no mind to the departing Mantis Warrior, Tyberos turned and asked his Chief Librarian.
"Are you referring to the forces under Lord Arthur's command?"
Kahurangi was still busy analyzing Chaos's machinations alongside the Farseer.
"Yes,"
Tyberos nodded.
As one of the first Chapters to encounter the four Primarchs, the Devouring Sharks' pragmatic approach allowed them to forge an extraordinarily deep connection with the Wings of Dawn.
Unlike other Chapters whose hands were tied by cultural traditions or codes of honor, The Sharks adhered to only two ironclad laws: remain fiercely loyal to humanity, and never touch Chaos.
Beyond that, they callously discarded all superfluous considerations.
As long as they could secure their supplies and fresh recruits, they would refrain from enforcing the brutal Red Tithe, and were even willing to pay a certain price to protect the human inhabitants of a Sector.
For the Devouring Sharks, atrocities were never committed out of sheer bloodlust or tradition. They were strictly necessary choices made under grim realities, completely devoid of personal sentiment.
They were like a pure, emotionless blade, entirely dependent on how the wielder chose to utilize them.
Because they had long drifted outside the Imperium's archives and lacked any official records, they became the most ideal subjects for tactical experimentation.
After Arthur took control of the Dark Angels, a series of covert military exercises had been conducted in coordination with the Devouring Sharks. Many deep secrets unknown to other Chapters were crystal clear to them.
Currently, Tech-Marines of the Devouring Sharks were undergoing training within the Ironwing—
In the future, the Devouring Sharks would gradually break free from the shackles of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the targets of their Grey Tithe would shift toward the Wings of Dawn.
Tyberos could acutely sense that the four Primarchs were consciously exploring an entirely new military framework, actively seeking to shatter the Mechanicus's monopoly on knowledge.
The only thing that left him mildly bewildered was that Archmagos Cawl, acting as the representative of the Mechanicus, showed absolutely no reaction to this, acting as if the entire ordeal had nothing to do with him.
"Indeed."
A thoughtful expression crossed the face beneath the skull-shaped mask as Kahurangi sifted through his memories.
"Dark Angels?"
——
"The Pale Nomads?"
Within a bastion occupied by Chaos, Baylor frowned as he scrutinized the battle reports.
They had crossed paths with these sons of the Raven Lord quite frequently back in the day. After all, before the World Eaters were handed over to Angron, they had served as Horus's premier vanguard assault force.
"Your tactics have all been seen through, you know."
Àgathà made an exaggerated, effeminate gesture with his bloated form, his fingertips stirring the murky air.
"It is absolutely repulsive."
His voice sounded as if it had been squeezed straight out of a rotting intestine, heavy with a sticky, cloying dampness.
"Do you have any more useless drivel to spout? If not, I am leaving."
A wisp of pale green toxic mist drifted from his side, slowly wafting toward Baylor and Seraphax. However, the moment it touched their Psychic Shield, it deflected and dissolved into a few dissipating threads of smoke.
The source of the poisonous mist was a Death Guard warrior. His dark green power armor had long been shattered by ten thousand years of decay, barely clinging to his swollen, mutated torso like a cracked eggshell. Pale yellow, translucent pus oozed steadily from the armored seams.
Àgathà's eyes brimmed with undisguised disgust.
Not long ago, they had been fighting tooth and nail over a single transport of pure water in the Eye of Terror. Now, they were forced to stand in the very same hall due to the strict commands of their respective masters.
And now, look at this mess.
He lowered his head, viciously scrubbing his own decadent shell with an aromatic balm rendered from fat. He grabbed a skull to forcefully polish away the grime on his armor plates, but the lingering, putrid stench absolutely refused to fade.
No amount of water would ever be enough.
"..."
The Death Guard merely shot him a cold, apathetic glance, showing no signs of anger.
He had already completed his own Sacrifice. Since that was the case, there was simply no need to provoke these deviants any further.
The Flawless Host warband boasted at least six lords. Day in and day out, they fought either the forces of Chaos or the Imperium, boasting an abnormally high deployment rate. They died in droves, their corpses piling up like mountains and filling oceans, yet the warband simply refused to be wiped out.
Nobody knew exactly how many of these unkillable deviants there truly were.
"Agathochka."
With half his face burning in spectral blue flames, Seraphax voiced his skepticism.
"If you had not run off mid-battle to indulge in your disgusting 'performance art,' the tactical situation would never have deteriorated to this point."
"Oh my, oh my~" Àgathà cradled his face in his hands, writhing his body in a drunken, rapturous swoon.
"I simply could not help it~ The Lord of Pleasure was calling to me~"
He blinked flirtatiously and added in a coy, delicate tone.
"And another thing~ You must call me Lady Àgathà~"
"..."
Baylor felt a sharp wave of nausea wash over him.
To be perfectly honest, even the Death Guard, who had practically devolved into a walking, humanoid pile of excrement, was not nearly as repulsive in his eyes as this androgynous degenerate.
"And you, Freth. I specifically emphasized that the enemy bastion was laced with a dense network of promethium pipes. You were supposed to lead your forces swiftly through them, not dawdle on the city's outskirts corrupting utterly useless plague zombies."
"The Benevolent Father loves every living creature. It is our duty to guide them to His divine domain."
Freth replied with deadpan seriousness. When it came to his sacrificial quotas, he absolutely refused to compromise.
Besides, his subordinates were already deeply immersed in the Sacrifice rituals. If his absence allowed other brothers to steal his blessings, he might wake up one day to find himself usurped and violently overthrown by some ambitious plague marine.
The Benevolent Father was exceedingly generous, but the competition among His favored children was overwhelmingly cutthroat.
"Tch, useless for anything good, but experts at ruining everything,"
Àgathà snorted softly, seething with jealousy that this brute had stolen his Sacrifice.
Suddenly, the rotting organs within Freth's abdominal cavity violently contracted, violently spewing a foul stream of yellow-green pus.
"You dare speak of ruining things?!"
His decaying vocal cords erupted into a deafening roar.
"If it were not for you, I would have already completed the Sacrifice of the water source and traveled to the Planet the Benevolent Father commanded me to go! I would not have been banished here alongside a half-wit whose brains are stuck between his legs, forced to listen to utterly nonsensical orders while choking on your cloying, whorish stench!"
"Why are you yelling so loudly?!"
Àgathà shrieked and leapt back, but was still thoroughly splattered in the vile pus.
His meticulously manicured nails were instantly coated in the foul slime, sending him into an immediate, explosive rage.
"I will murder you!"
Clang! Crash! The sounds of a vicious brawl echoed through the grand hall once more, as disgusting pus and eerily sweet fragrances gradually saturated the meeting chamber.
Squelch—
A strip of silk soaked in unidentified slime slapped limply against the Psychic Shield. It slowly slid downward, leaving a thick, murky trail across the shimmering energy barrier.
"..."
Baylor impassively stowed away his tactical Data-slate and turned his gaze toward Seraphax.
The mere thought of leading this pantheon of lunatics into battle against the impending arrival of the Dark Angels—or worse, the Primarch's forces—filled him with an overwhelming sense of despair.
He had Sacrificed precious, mystical minerals to invoke teleportation Spells, only to summon these utterly dysfunctional freaks.
A complete rabble.
Despite boasting triple the manpower and the potent buffs of Chaos sorcery, they still failed to crush two severely under-strength Chapters, even factoring in their inferior equipment.
These Ten-thousand-year Veterans had practically lived all these millennia for nothing.
"You never should have placed your hopes in Chaos to begin with."
Fabius Bile stood in the distance, silently watching the unfolding farce.
It was painfully obvious that both Nurgle and Slaanesh had their sights firmly fixed on the Primarch.
However, from what his treacherous gene-father had mentioned, the Four Gods had suffered a massive loss recently, so in the short term, they could only rely on these Chaos Space Marines.
"I assume you have had enough of Abaddon's lessons by now."
His arrival here was also prompted by a direct command from Fulgrim.
No matter how deeply he resented the situation, the fallen Primarch remained his greatest patron. Without Fulgrim's protection, Fabius would undoubtedly be forced into a long, miserable life on the run.
As for his gene-father, although intensely intrigued by realspace, he worshipped Slaanesh. Those who understood, understood—he was prone to Whimsical Acting. Currently, the daemon Primarch was utterly engrossed in playing with his new toys. By the time he remembered his actual responsibilities, who knew how much time would have passed.
As for the matter of troop strength...
Fabius's illicit bargain with the Chaos Warmaster Abaddon had long been finalized.
Upon receiving a bountiful harvest of gene-seed, Abaddon had "generously" bundled up all the insubordinate malcontents and unmanageable vassal warbands within the Black Legion and shipped them off.
Naturally, the superficial justification provided was touching enough—
Throughout this transfer, the Chaos Warmaster skillfully wielded his silver tongue, fully convincing these outcasts that this was an 'excellent opportunity.' He assured them they would be able to Sacrifice far more Souls and garner even greater divine attention.
As for the fleets and garrisoned personnel these warbands left behind, the Despoiler naturally assimilated them into his own forces without a shred of hesitation.
Abaddon had no idea what the Four Gods were stirring up this time. He also maintained a heavy skepticism regarding rumors of a new Primarch. Regardless, he currently needed to focus all his energies entirely on expanding his own power.
Watching the perpetually bickering Chaos Lords in the hall, Fabius unconsciously stroked his Scalpel with his fingertips.
These imbeciles would never realize, even until their dying breaths, that they were merely discarded pawns used by Abaddon to purge his dissenters. They were nothing more than living sacrifices, perfectly positioned for the Evil Gods to exploit for their own dark purposes.
"I will never harbor the slightest shred of illusion regarding them again."
The psychic flames blazing on Seraphax's face violently danced. His fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his power sword, practically burning with the urge to instantly hack this Primarch-defiling monster into a thousand pieces.
Yet, the figure standing before him was merely an empty husk, a puppet controlled remotely.
Ever since Fabius returned from his dark studies in Commorragh, eradicating this deranged gene-crafter had become an increasingly impossible feat.
Fixing his blazing psychic gaze on this husk that only carried a projection of consciousness, Seraphax asked in a grim tone:
"Are you truly so certain they will come?"
Initially, he had not anticipated Fabius providing any reinforcement.
"Of course."
Fabius stared into the burning flames, the corners of his mouth involuntarily curling into a mocking sneer.
"Someone has already foreseen it."
And Tzeentch, too.