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<>[Warhammer 40K: A Multiverse Saga] <>
<>[Warhammer 40K: They Said I Have No Soul] <>
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"Heretic… die!"
No one knew when, but the Savior's fierce general, Titus, had already charged in.
He swung a massive axe, hewing apart the daemons that barred his path as he drove straight for the Destroyer, Pelofolai—his unstoppable advance blaring like a warhorn.
War exploded in an instant!
BOOM BOOM BOOM—
The Titan-Armour cohorts unleashed a deluge of fire that swallowed the daemon-engine lines; a single salvo toppled dozens of fiendish constructs.
The black fires of the blasts washed over nearby Chaos units, wringing from them shrieks of agony.
DONG—DONG—DONG!
Then the Titan-Armour cohorts thundered forward in great strides, and the Space Marine formations followed close behind, charging in compact groups.
"Why would the Savior be here—why with so many legendary warriors?!"
Pelofolai finally realized whom he faced—and what manner of foe had come. Dread welled up inside him.
This was not the battle he had envisioned, not the style of war he associated with the Imperium.
In the normal tale, he would be the one to unleash calamity and war, while the Imperium barely endured.
And then, out of the depths of despair, some legendary warriors would break through to reach him, the Destroyer, and—amid blood and tears—delude themselves that they could prevail over him, even a Primarch-slayer!
Even when he pictured combat with a primarch, the scene wasn't far off from that.
Chaos always held the advantage. The Imperium always struggled.
No exceptions.
Yet this time the Hope-Primarch, the Savior, had arrived with so much assembled might that it shattered his every expectation.
For the first time, the Destroyer grasped just how terrifying the Imperium's strength truly was when gathered as one—and what majesty such massed power could project.
It was an inevitable result.
Once, the Great Rift and shattered warp-lanes left the Imperium's forces fighting in isolation, their strength seldom united.
But the Savior's rise had rallied the Imperium, while Dawn-City's webway routes enabled swift musters and deep logistics.
Once more, grand-army operations by Space Marines had become possible.
ROAR!
Pelofolai barely had time to react before several heavy shells smashed into him. Pain tore a bellow from his throat.
He swept his warp-wrought pinions to bat aside the rest of the barrage and turned to flee back through the Warp rift—to escape this cursed world, this accursed place!
"No—"
But the instant he turned, fury seized him. The rift was bent by some Imperial witchcraft.
Thousands of Librarians, in concert with their Chief Librarians, were disrupting and binding the fully-formed tear in realspace.
With sorceries of the mind, they severed the daemon host's line of retreat.
Pelofolai could not withdraw. Gazing upon the encircling Titan-Armour cohorts, the legendary champions, and the Space Marine host, he sank into deeper despair.
He only wanted to unmake a single, ordinary hub world—not invade Holy Terra.
Why this?
"Savior!"
The Dark Fiend, the Destroyer had just loosed his roar—when holy light flared and seared his vision, and his skull took a hammerblow from the Grey Knights' Grand Master, Corwin.
Whatever curse he had prepared for the Savior stuck in his throat.
Only one thought roiled in him now:
That Savior was shameless, bereft of any honor.
Simply put—this Savior fought without scruples, bringing overwhelming force to pen him in and beat him senseless, a helpless daemon prince of Chaos!
THUD-THUD-THUD—
Centurions and warriors in Terminator Armour reaped the Chaos monstrosities with saturating heavy fire; the blaze from their muzzles never dimmed.
It was as though ammunition cost them nothing.
Behind them came rank on rank of line Space Marines; belts of bolt-shells knitted into a tangible wall of fire that mowed the foe like grass.
Chaos forces fell in swathes, scarcely able to resist.
Moments after the war began, the legionary host had already smashed into the enemy lines—
Claiming ground, step by pounding step.
"This is the power of the Imperium! This is our momentum—our pride!"
From a mechanical dais, Eden watched with satisfied nods, wholly approving of the unleashed volume of fire.
What was that pinching pennies, those miserable slugfests of old? Absurd.
We, the Savior's legions, do not lack for shells. Steel tides and firepower supremacy—that is the true path!
Across the battlefield—
Artillery and war-cries filled the air; the heretics' howls of Chaos never ceased.
Avka led the Fallen Angels in the melee.
Everywhere the naked eye could see were his battle-brothers, their lines stretching to the horizon itself.
After emptying a magazine, the ancient Chapter Master—this veteran of millennia—trembled as he looked around.
"This is our Imperium—this is what humanity's legions should be!"
For a heartbeat, Avka thought he had dreamed himself back to the Great Crusade.
Returned—everything had returned!
Since emerging from the Warp into the galaxy of today, this old warrior had watched the Imperium. Too much had changed.
He had seen its frailty and its fall, and it cut him to the quick.
Especially watching the new-bred Space Marines' manner of war—how they bled, struggling under the blows of the Imperium's foes.
Those young Astartes had never witnessed the Imperium at its zenith. Avka had marched in that age. He had seen with his own eyes the Imperium, unstoppable, invincible.
In the Great Crusade, wherever the fleets went, the stars crouched beneath their thunder; the enemies of Mankind quailed before the blades of Space Marine Legions.
Even when Horus rebelled, their struggle made the galaxy boil and the stars fall.
And then—nothing after.
Tragedy followed. The primarchs vanished. The Space Marine Legions were broken into Chapters.
Never again did the Imperium wield such titanic might; weakness ate at it.
Heretics and xenos ran riot through Imperial demesnes, and the Imperium watched world after world fall, forced to fight only rearguard wars.
Avka, a veteran of ten thousand years, looked upon those lost provinces and felt only helplessness.
He could not see hope for mankind, nor could he do aught.
For the Fallen were the Imperium's traitors, hunted by their blood-brothers—forced to flee even as they watched the Imperium slide into the abyss.
What sorrow could cut deeper?
In such grief he had resolved to remain upon Avalons, to lead the Fallen in one last, glorious fight.
And then…the Savior descended—
Avka lifted his gaze to the high mechanical platform, to the Savior whose golden armour shone; awe and sanctity radiated from him.
Thank the Throne—the Savior had set it all aright, mustering the Imperium's arms once more.
He had given humanity another chance to claim dominion.
"Humanity has returned to the Great Crusade…"
So thought Avka.
The next moment a vox bark snapped him back: "My lord! Our rate of advance is lagging. We're going to be late!"
…?
The scout's report yanked Avka to the present.
When he saw the other Astartes formations—especially the Redemption Legion—and their pace and firepower, he went numb.
Were those maniacs truly this ferocious? Did their heavy weapons not even have recoil?
Some of the formations' output left him gaping—their red-hot muzzles hadn't cooled once, as if guns were disposable.
Their rate of fire, their endurance, their density of shot—all exceeded the Fallen's own.
Even in the Great Crusade, the Legions hadn't let it rip like this, had they?!
Avka and the Fallen felt their pride sting.
Veterans of a thousand wars, exemplars of arms and tactics, and yet their assault was not as savage as these others'.
But it made sense.
The Fallen had lived in privation too long; they hadn't adapted to the Savior's battle doctrine. They were still in the conserve-resources, ration-your-ammo mindset.
The Savior's legions were different.
They were routinely sent to "dispose of expired munitions dumps," and had long since trained muscle memory for rate-of-fire and recoil rhythm.
No motion wasted. No shot wasted.
Ferocity came naturally.
Avka swept the field with his gaze and saw the root cause—
Logistics.
Even mid-battle, the Savior's supply trains kept hurling ammunition into the theatre.
His Marines could fight without a single care.
Dedicated Astartes logistics detachments even roved the lines to swap weapons, replenish ammo, and speed turnarounds for other formations.
Such a thing had never existed before.
Avka snapped new orders: "Fallen—increase tempo across the board! Burn your ammo dry and push. Push!"
"For the Savior!" Fearing to be left behind, the Chapter Master bellowed and led the charge, reaping a fresh harvest of foes.
The Fallen were rattled.
They had only just received the Savior's gifts. If they failed to win sufficient glory, they would bring shame upon the Chapter.
Worse—there weren't many enemies left!
THUD—
"De—mon!"
Avka plunged into the central killing-ground, kicked his jump pack to life, and arrowed for the ten-plus-meter daemon prince.
Blades flashed.
At last the Fallen's commander joined the main melee, piling on with a dozen legendary champions to batter their quarry; gashes multiplied across that steel-sintered warp-flesh.
Had he been a heartbeat later, the daemon prince would already have been dead.
In the center—
The merciless beat-down continued.
The daemon prince Pelofolai's armour had been smashed to rags. His face was a ruin, his body a map of wounds.
Even the lovingly polished horns on his head—one was shattered.
A sorry sight.
"S-Sa…vior, I…"
The Destroyer's vicious gaze dimmed; his voice grew slurred as he tried to speak.
He…wanted to parley.
But the Dark Fiend, the Destroyer, got no words out before an alchemic blast-bomb splashed over his face—and a follow-through axe strike put him on his back.
Avka, Dante, Tiberos, and the other legends swarmed him, hammers and fists falling in a storm—swing by swing, their joy rose.
To drive off a greater daemon or daemon prince, they once had paid oceans of blood. Now, this simple, overwhelming pile-on was intoxicating. The more they struck, the smoother it flowed.
Never had they fought a war so…wealthy!
They beat the daemon prince until he howled, then whined, then rasped, then practically gasped his last.
"My judgment: he's no Ka'Bandha."
Eden glanced at the so-called Destroyer—this daemon prince—and shook his head. "Tch. I haven't even found a chance to get involved."
The thing was strong enough—on any other front, he'd have kicked up a storm, butchered legendary warriors, even destroyed a Chapter.
Hard luck. He met Eden.
"I wonder when that unknown enemy will reveal themself—and what they plan to do?"
Even as Eden watched the battlefield, his thoughts slipped to the foe that truly could tear worlds asunder and rip starships apart with bare hands.
That was his equal.
Yet the trouble was—he had almost no data on them, no idea how they would appear, no clue to their aims.
Too little to analyze.
The news that had just bled out of the Warp—dire tidings about his blood-brother—
Old Ka had rested up; chest out, head high. On the advice of that conniving daemon-brain, Baal the Destroyer, he had set out for the Silent King's domains to stir up something grand, all for the Imperium.
He hadn't even cleared the threshold before a hidden foe waylaid him, beat him senseless, and carried him back to his hell-palace.
They said the wounds were horrific. No one knew how long recovery would take.
Even as he fell, Old Ka did not yield; he vowed to return for the challenge. He admitted only one defeat in his existence, and it was to the Savior!
Chances were, Old Ka had been wrecked by that same unknown enemy.
If even Old Ka—who could brawl a host of greater daemons at once, who had weathered blows from two primarchs, just a hair below Eden—if even he was crushed so utterly—
Then Eden's own bout with that foe would be perilous indeed. The risk spiked again.
"So—someone dared lay out my estranged, half-kin blood-brother."
Eden drew a long breath. "Old Ka, rest easy. Your brother will even that score."
Well—so he said. Perhaps it would be wiser to bring a few primarch brothers along. For…insurance?
WHUMP—
A sanctified radiance burst, drawing his eye—holy ash grenades blooming.
Though the Emperor's evolving nature had shaved some potency off those grenades, they still bit deep.
Eden turned and saw the Grey Knights' Grand Master, Corwin, consigning Pelofolai to ash.
The wretch had died under that glorious pummeling, his crimes finished, his very soul shredded by a forbidden relic.
As for his daemon host—nearly wiped out.
All this in a bit more than an hour. The Astartes were already policing the field.
The main task was burning the corrupted carcasses, to spare the land undue taint.
Fortunately, this was desert; the harm would be contained.
Eden spared no more attention for a war already won. With the re-formed Custodian Guard, the Grand Master of the Deathwing, and others at his side, he boarded a massive lander and rose for the edge of atmosphere.
Hanging in the near void was a colossal fortress of meteoric iron and rock.
The Dark Angels' fortress-monastery—the Rock—had arrived.
The lander kissed down upon a hangar deck. Wind clawed at a rank of black-green cloaks.
The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels—the Keeper of the Truth—Azrael, was already waiting with his Grand Masters.
Word of the Savior—the Emperor of the Imperium—had reached them, and they were unsettled, more so after glimpsing the war on Avalons.
Their awe only grew.
To the strains of sacred hymn, the Savior, ringed by a grim Custodian phalanx, set foot upon the Angels' monastery—radiant, implacable.
"Savior… Your Majesty. The Dark Angels bid you welcome."
Under Eden's gaze, Azrael could not help the slight bow, offering his reverence.
Submission—plain and simple.
They knew they could not defy him. They knew all too well the "means" of that being.
"Azrael, you will personally show me through this fortress. Start with your librarium…"
Eden nodded minutely and issued the order in a tone that brooked no dissent.
"Your Majesty, forgive me—I cannot…"
Azrael faltered. The instinctive refusal slipped out.
Too many secrets lay within the Rock's libraries, chambers barred even to members of the Inner Circle.
"Oh? You mean to say the Dark Angels keep truths so hidden that not even the Custodian Guard, nor I—the Hope-Primarch, Emperor of the Imperium, nor even the Emperor himself—may know them?"
Eden cut him off, eyes narrowing, voice heavy with doubt.
The meaning was plain.
What secrets could the Dark Angels possibly possess that must be denied to the Custodians and the supreme rulers of the Imperium? Your loyalty stands suspect.
Azrael and the other Grand Masters felt cold sweat prick beneath the gaze of the Savior, the Custodians, and the legendary champions.
This was half the Imperium's fist, staring them down.
At last—they yielded.
Azrael sagged a fraction. "All the Dark Angels' secrets… You may know them, all that we ourselves know."
A Hope-Primarch, an Emperor indeed had right to such knowledge.
"You are loyal."
At last Eden smiled, satisfied.
This was his design—
To come with numbers at his back, riding the aftershocks of victory, to "inspect" this fortress and, in the name of the Imperium and its Emperor, place it under temporary control.
The Dark Angels had hoarded too many secrets, and most of them were buried within the Rock—some unknown even to the Angels themselves.
This fortress brimmed with lore and esoteric technologies.
Treasure maps, antediluvian tales, ancient xenos relics—plasma that didn't overheat—tactical time-devices—
And most critically, the things he had come for: the Tuchulcha Engine and the Ouroboros—to be combined into the Disharmonic Engine.
One of the greatest prizes of this journey, and a key instrument against that terrifying unknown foe.
The Angels had let these things gather dust. A waste.
Now, he would set them to work for the Imperium.
A thrill of anticipation warmed Eden's chest as he followed the Supreme Grand Master down into the fortress' shadowed depths.
…
Meanwhile—
Avalons' surface, the desert battlefield.
Sand plumed as a bestial silhouette raced out of the wastes and reached the field.
The figure skidded to a halt, breath heaving—it was the First Primarch, the Lion, Lion El'Jonson.
He looked up—and his eyes went wide. "The… Savior?!"
(End of Chapter)
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