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"The Destroyer… Dark Daemon?!"
The terror in that soul-sight vision made Afka's whole body tremble; even his voice carried a thread of fear.
He could feel the horror of that Chaos thing—power enough to crack a world—something that had butchered many high-tier beings.
Countless souls wailed around its shadow. Despair spread.
That was not an enemy he could face. There wasn't the slightest chance of victory!
"Something's changing…"
The Fallen Angels' Chapter Master's sudden reaction drew the attention of the legendary champions nearby. Faces hardened. Silence fell across the mech-platform where the war council met.
Then, all eyes snapped to the Warp rift.
Deep in the desert, the rift seethed with violent change—plain even to those without a trace of psychic sense.
Within it, prismatic colors churned, then tore outward.
They formed the shape of a vertical, set pupil.
As if some dreadful thing were staring unblinking at this world. Hearts pounded. Even mortals—far away in the fortress cities outside the deserts, who had neither seen nor approached the rift—began to crack under mounting mental stress.
As the rift widened, more and more Chaos taint gushed out, rolling within the atmosphere into a vast black vortex that blotted out the blazing sun.
The whole desert went dim—grim, silent, oppressive.
"Your Majesty the Savior?"
A golden-armored figure had stepped to the edge of the mech-platform. Everyone's gaze shifted to him.
Eden did not notice their eyes.
He stared at the ever-widening rift, and his face grew more and more grave.
At the same time, on the other side of the planet's desert—
The sun burned like a brand.
"We truly walked out of Caliban's forests into Avalons?!"
The First Primarch—the Lion—felt the hot sand underfoot and the searing sun overhead, hardly daring to believe it.
Even if he had caused it—leading his knights through a forest on one world and out onto another—the distance they had crossed spanned multiple sectors. Not even a Warp voyage could be this fast.
But the Lion took no joy in this power. Something in him recoiled.
He had confirmed it already: this was some form of warp-sorcery, or some other warp-born phenomenon.
The Lion had always held to Imperial Truth—he had never liked warp-sorcery. Especially after the Council of Nikaea, where the Emperor himself had forbidden Librarians and psyker-cults.
Thus the First Legion had largely abided by Nikaea.
Yet he knew he could not wholly reject this warp-change. It was in his very nature.
"When I reach Terra, I should ask my father how to deal with this."
The Lion frowned.
He knew the Emperor, his father, understood the warp—and warp-craft—far better than anyone; the greatest psyker alive.
"Perhaps it is fate. This warp-born knack lets me reach Terra faster—lets me create strikes that cannot be intercepted—and it will better let me steer the Imperium."
The Lion tamped down his distaste.
Until he saw the Emperor, he would keep using it. Everyone knew what strategic value lay in crossing distance as if it did not exist.
Especially in an Imperium shrouded in dark.
He felt this ability would grant him immense advantage—and that, the Emperor aside, none would serve the Imperium more than he!
"My lord, where is this? Have we reached the place you spoke of?"
"A miracle…"
Zabriel, Hada, and the knights stepped out of the scrubby deadwoods, staring at the Lion in awe.
Their reverence only deepened for the one who wrought miracles.
"My lord, what do we do next?" Zabriel asked.
He did not doubt for a moment that this was Avalons. The Lion—their gene-sire—never lied, and always made good.
"Avalons is a civilized world."
The Lion allowed himself a small smile; his voice lightened. With a civilized world beneath his feet, the rest would be simpler.
"First find a human settlement.
Then have them bring us to the Planetary Governor. We'll need the Governor's aid to raise forces—and to find the Fallen Angels."
Within the Imperium, the Emperor's faith and the legends of the Primarchs ran deep. A Primarch's very identity was power of the highest order.
The Lion need only appear to command and to be obeyed.
Of course, that held for ordinary worlds.
For the Terran high lords, he would need to bring full authority and subtlety to bear.
"My lord… we may not easily find traces of a settlement…"
Doubt tinged Zabriel's voice.
The Lion paused.
He turned to look past the deadwoods. All he could see, to every horizon, was sand. Not a hint of civilization.
Nothing but endless dunes and a pitiless sky. Even vox was heavily disrupted.
This… was likely a massive desert.
Thunk, thunk, thunk—
The Lion rapped the scarred helm on his head. The cracked eyepiece spat arcs and coughed up a few readouts.
Going by dryness, temperature, and latitude… they were near the desert's heart.
With that conclusion, he felt momentarily numb.
Here again? Someone targeting me? Really?
"Then we'll have to work for it," the Lion said after a long breath. "The good news is that Avalons isn't overrun. Once we clear the desert, we'll find people."
That in itself was a fine result.
He picked a direction that seemed likeliest by his readings and began trudging through the dunes.
The knights hurried after him—men struggling beneath the blast-furnace sun.
Heat boiled away every drop of moisture.
In such extremes, humans could not survive.
Fortunately, Astartes power armor had life-support. Zabriel would hold. Hada and the others wore single-soldier suits with life-systems enough to endure the sands.
The hardest press was on the Lion.
His war-plate was wrecked. Life-support had long since died. Only his transhuman physique kept him going.
The dry wind turned his hair to straw; his lips cracked.
His body cried out for water. He could endure—an unwatered month at least—but still.
Suddenly, he felt water.
The Primarch's survival instinct drove him to hunt anything to restore his strength.
He glanced back. Knight Hada was chugging from a canister.
The Lion fixed on the cylinder, throat working as he swallowed what little saliva remained—and dragged in a sear of desert air.
His throat stung.
He hesitated, then turned away.
He could still endure. He would not beg water from his knights. Mortals needed moisture far more than he did.
"My—my lord!"
At some point, Hada hurried over and offered the container with great respect. "Please, take this. You should drink."
"No, knight, I—"
The Lion lifted a hand to refuse the precious water—only to be cut off.
"We have more, my lord," Hada said, earnest. "Our suits have cooling—and they collect, then filter, moisture inside and out. We can survive even worse deserts."
The Savior's single-soldier combat suits integrated a suite of life-systems—more advanced than the Imperium's older power armor—enough for nearly any environment.
Harvesting water from inside the suit and the air was just one function.
The Lion and Zabriel felt the comfortable chill from within the mortal suits; Hada scarcely even sweated.
Their own armor—even the Lion's legendary panoply—had no such comfort.
Imperial kit was the purest utilitarianism. Every resource was saved to the bone.
Comfort? Forget it. Some designs inflicted pain—devices of penance and devotion.
Not like the Savior's gear—so… humane?
Now, most Savior-forged power armor, mortal suits, and vehicles bore the system—meeting as many extreme-operational profiles as possible.
In short: old Imperium kit made you rely on raw physiology; the Savior's kit used tech to sustain you—extending life and operational endurance.
Zabriel eyed the mortal armor with a flicker of envy.
How did it feel like mortals' suits were better than his prized gear? That made no sense…
"Thank you for your kindness, knight."
Once the Lion understood, he didn't stand on pride. He took the roughly half-meter cylinder with a smile.
He did need water to restore strength—and face whatever came.
A taint of rot hung over this world. There could be Chaotic abominations.
He unscrewed the lid. A breath of cold air curled out.
The Lion stared down at pure water—chilled water—and couldn't help a quiet whistle.
The canister had a refrigeration module?
Extravagant. Nobles used such things—not soldiers.
"The Savior…"
He noticed the Savior's half-bust sigil engraved on the casing and murmured to himself.
The man's shadow was everywhere.
The Lion found himself more and more curious. What could that fellow do?
At the very least, he had the wealth to forge such equipment.
He wet his cracked lips and lifted the water.
Cold slid down his throat, into his chest, flooding out through his limbs—a bliss that washed away fatigue.
He exhaled long. A smile tugged at his mouth. Perhaps the Savior was… not entirely bad.
The next instant, his breath caught. His eyes went hard.
Chaos.
The sun dimmed. A reek of pressure and rot drifted from a vast distance—strong enough that even the mortals sensed it.
"What's happening?" Hada's eyes flicked, uncertain. He could not feel Chaos—
—but unease gnawed.
"My lord, I fear a warp-demon has invaded this world. A very terrible one."
Zabriel's voice shook.
Instinct—predator meets apex—made even a veteran shiver. Like a small beast flinching at the scent of a tiger.
"Yes. It's strong. Very strong…"
The Lion's tone went iron.
He had never felt this much taint condense on a single being. Stronger by far than Luther at the moment of his treachery.
Fortunately, he himself was not what he had been. Accepting his nature had sharpened his strength further.
"Get yourselves out of the desert. I'm going to stop it. Otherwise this world will die."
He flung the words back over his shoulder—
—and launched forward, sprinting toward the source of the taint like a desert-borne god-engine. Sand roared.
He had to break that blasphemy.
On this planet—or in the whole Imperium—perhaps only he could.
An enemy fit for a Primarch.
Run, Lion.
He burned his body for speed.
Flesh dragged wrecked war-plate faster, and faster, across endless dunes.
But the rift yawed on the far side of the world. He had to be faster.
"I can make it. There's still time to mend this…"
He ran, mane whipping, eyes like a hunting lion's—
Blazing with will.
…
The warp.
Chaos filth boiled to the horizon. Space twisted, tore, and more shrieks of despair bled through.
A vast, dreadful shadow walked out of fire.
His voice rolled:
"Human strength is nothing beside the warp's bounty. Any who deny this know nothing of the torments they face. They will pay.
Go. Unmake this world. Burn every life."
At his words, Chaos surged toward a tear into realspace. On the far side lay—Avalons.
The shadow watched his host—watched the flood—without a flicker.
He knew the world would die. As so many before had. No one would stop him.
For he was the Dark Daemon, the Planet-Destroyer, a Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided—Pelofolai.
"How dreary destruction can be…"
Skulls and shattered armor plated him. He sighed.
Ever since his tally had surpassed the Four's favored, no foe had measured up.
Legendary champions, Grey Knights Grand Masters—ripped apart by his peerless talons, their helms and skulls trophies on his frame. World after world fell. Repetition.
No one stopped him.
No number of kills birthed glory. Perhaps only a Primarch's head could stir him now.
"Let's hope this time is interesting."
Pelofolai thought—and pressed himself through the tear.
…
Deep in the desert—
A monstrous shadow swelled within the rift.
Worse, it grew taller as it sharpened—
And looked down on the world.
All life on Avalons sensed the evil now. They knew calamity was about to break.
Panic climbed.
"O Eternal upon the Golden Throne—your humble servant begs you to look with mercy on Avalons—shield us from the heretic warp…"
In a camp beyond the desert—
The acting Governor—Lord Marshal Haragha of the sector's Astra Militarum—clutched a cruciform pendant, forcing herself not to look at the far-off darkness.
She knelt in devout prayer, hoping the Master of Mankind would shelter Avalons—and the warriors in the desert—so victory could be theirs.
She knew: if even the Savior could not stop this, Avalons would be swallowed and die.
And the billions on this world would perish in torment.
"His Majesty the Savior will save Avalons… won't he?" Haragha thought—hope rising in her heart.
In the camp, more mortals added their prayers.
The warp-taint was too strong. To avoid cascading panic, they were barred from the fight.
They could only give what little they could this way.
Some, after a short prayer, fell silent—then quietly stripped and cleaned their guns.
If the last moment came, they would charge Chaos one final time.
Thus they would not fail the Emperor—or Avalons.
On the mech-platform—
All waited in silence, eyes on the Savior.
Afka let his own gaze slide past the Savior—back to the swelling shadow in the rift—and his heart hammered harder.
"Good thing the far side of this world is all desert," he thought, trying to calm himself. "We need only hold one front—or the price would be higher."
Suddenly, he heard the Savior sigh—long and deep.
Afka's gut clenched tighter.
A thought leapt up: Is even the Savior unsure he can face what's coming?
Every eye fixed on Eden, waiting for his next move.
"Why isn't the rift growing any further?"
Eden frowned at the tear—mere kilometers across.
"This warp output's not enough."
As it stood—
At most, this was a Daemon Prince or something just above a Primarch. Nowhere near the ship-rending nightmare he'd dreaded. He'd been jumpy for nothing.
He shook his head and sighed. "Haaah. Brought too many people. Wasteful…"
???
Afka blinked.
Huh?
So the Savior wasn't worried he couldn't win—he was annoyed the enemy wasn't strong enough and his deployment was a waste?
It clicked.
He glanced at the golden-armored Savior—then at the dozen-plus legendary champions—then let his eyes walk the mountain range of Titans, the Custodian Guard massed by cohort, the Grey Knights arrayed by Brotherhood, and the endless rectangles of Astartes fading to the horizon.
Okay… maybe there were a few too many.
In a heartbeat, Afka calmed. Even that heart-squeeze of dread almost went away.
"Your Majesty, I told you you overstacked the roster," Dante said, arms folded, pure bro-banter in his tone, lazy as ever. "With this lineup, anyone who shows up—face to the floor, skull popped."
"At this point, prepare to receive," Eden said, eyes on the rift as it reached its final phase.
Adjustments were pointless. They were here. They'd fight. Consider it a warm-up for grand-army Astartes operations.
Time to build the habit.
A Primarch, a crowd of legends, a Titan mountain, and everyone in the Astartes—all in one theater. In an age when Space Marines fought in small tactical packets—
Unheard of.
Vmm—
The rift detonated open.
With whispers and shrieks, a flood of warp-stuff spilled out. Black contaminants spread like oil.
Daemon engines marched, shaking the earth. Daemons, cultists, twisted beasts—all mindless rage—surged like a tide.
Blotting out the land.
No world—no garrison—no Space Marine Chapter—could withstand such a force!
From the rift, a chant rose—hoarse, twisted, thousands of throats calling, exulting:
Destroyer! Destroyer! DESTROYER!
KA-ROOM—
The burning shadow vaulted from the rift and crashed into the center of the field. Ground cracked. Dark-red magma jetted up.
Then wings—burning, sky-wide—unfurled with crushing, terrible majesty.
"Proclaim my name!
The fire of destruction will consume every lowly life. War will burn across the whole of the Haze Sector to the Imperium's heart. With every world undone, my might will swell—my armies of blasphemy will multiply.
These are my sacred words!"
Pelofolai's roar—flame and sound—blew holes in the clouds.
But no human scream of fear answered him. The moment hung—awkward.
???
The Dark Daemon—the Planet-Destroyer—looked up, confused.
High on the mech-platform, the Savior's honor-banner snapped in the wind. Beneath it stood a golden giant, arms folded, cloak stirring—staring down at him without a flicker.
Around him, in a mountainous wedge, stood famous legendary champions—and a massed body of golden Custodians.
Behind them loomed an entire range of Titans—and beyond that, an Astartes grand host to the horizon.
Thud… thud… thud.
"N—"
Pelofolai's pupils pinpricked. He actually stumbled back a step, heart pounding.
The Destroyer was lost—mind buzzing.
What is this—did I get dropped on Holy Terra by mistake?
Come on. He hadn't stabbed the Golden Throne. Why field this against a Daemon Prince?!
As the Planet-Destroyer questioned reality, the answering roar rolled across the desert…
(End of Chapter)
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