Chapter 519: If You Raise a Million Men, Even the Dark Gods Will Take Notice
A monsoon of fire tore into the barricades, steel plating, and masonry.
Metal was shredded like chaff in the wind. The air grew heavy with the pulverized grit of ferro-crete, turning the sky into a grey shroud that made the lancing laser bolts shine with even greater brilliance.
Deep within the bowels of the Palace of the Beast, inside the hollowed-out thoracic cavity of a colossal, derelict Great Gargant, the beast-thing had finally achieved a state of semi-resurrection. It stood motionless, a titan of scrap and malice.
Drip.
A single, oily droplet fell, striking the cooling metal floor with a sharp hiss.
It was fungal ichor—a secretion of the spores that composed the greenskin biology. In the Ork, a single type of cell could replicate the function of a trillion specialized human tissues, allowing a simple mold to transform into a green predator capable of scouring the galaxy.
Drip.
Another drop of sweat fell.
The sound was sharper this time. The liquid rolled into a shallow indentation in the metal—a pit formed by thermal contraction. The pheromones, not yet denatured by the blistering heat, diffused into the stagnant air. The surrounding Orks, who had been forced into a state of unnatural calm, tasted the scent.
It was the smell of fear.
And it was coming from the Beast.
"Boss..."
A Nob pointed a trembling claw at the gathering pool at the construct's feet.
The potency of the scent sent a wave of confusion through the greenskins, who were already struggling with the "Post-Waaagh!" clarity that Arthur's presence had imposed upon them.
"?"
The Beast finally emerged from the void of its own consciousness, its mind having been scrubbed clean by the psychic "baptism" of the intruder. It followed the Nob's gesture.
It looked at the puddle of liquid boiling against the hot steel.
"It's just... sweat," it rumbled.
Orks don't leak like humies.
The Beast wiped its face, feeling the sudden, unnatural chill creeping over its frame.
It was the coldness of the atmosphere, the contraction of its hyper-compressed muscles.
A predator's scent was licking at every inch of its skin. A threat from the material world was isolating it, forcing a purely biological reaction from its massive, transhuman body.
Inhale—
The Beast took a deep breath. The air, thick with the smell of sulfur and cordite, flooded its lungs, reigniting a spark of the combat-lust buried in its soul.
It forced its head up. It exerted its will over the linked brains of the Warbosses that composed its "nervous system," making them face the front.
It looked at the creature that was generating this pressure.
The hot wind howled through the thoroughfare—a path the Humies and the "Beakie-Cans" had cleared as they retreated in terror from the Beast's awakening. At the threshold where the light of the fires met the shadows of the palace, a single figure stood.
He did not possess three heads or six arms. He had no flaming wings. He didn't radiate a shifting aura of shadow or the leonine majesty of a Primarch.
He was a man.
Clad in plate of black and red, standing tall and still. In his hand was a blade, held loosely at his side. The radiance of the dying sun caught the razor-edge, reflecting a warm, golden glint.
He stepped forward with measured, clinical precision. Every stride was a calculation of weight and distance. He was entirely composed.
Orks fell around him in a rhythmic sequence.
The souls of the greenskins shrieked. The "Waaagh!" essence of the frenzied Boyz was being siphoned away as if by a black hole. Their fanaticism did not deliver them to the side of Gork and Mork for the eternal brawl; they simply vanished into oblivion. Around Arthur, the boundary between life and death was as sharp as a monomolecular wire.
The Beast's eyes went wide. A recognition, rooted in the very bedrock of its genetic memory—a sensation of something ancient, alien, and utterly lethal—erupted in its mind. Simultaneously, a roar thundered from the deepest reaches of the Empyrean.
"IT IS A STAR-GOD!"
"NO, IT FEELS WRONG. IT IS SOMETHING... ELSE."
"IT CONSUMES THE SOUL. IT CONTROLS THE LAWS. IT CLOSES THE DOOR TO THE WARP. IF IT IS NOT A STAR-GOD, WHAT IS IT?! AM I THE ONE WHO IS WRONG?!"
"THEN TREAT IT AS ONE!"
"WE CANNOT LET IT SUCCEED. WHATEVER THE ENEMY WANTS, WE MUST BREAK IT."
"AGREED!"
"KRUMP IT!"
"KILL IT!"
The fires of war ignited within the Beast's skull. Gork and Mork, who usually viewed the material universe with a boredom bordering on contempt, were now bellowing with infinite fury.
It was only natural. Facing the very reason for their creation—the entities that had liquidated the Old Ones and turned reality and the Warp into a slaughterhouse—did they shake hands? Or did they continue the War in Heaven, a conflict that had never truly ended?
"KILL IT!"
The Beast finally shattered the shackles of its own fear. A sickly green radiance erupted from its chassis, only to be crushed back into the armor by an invisible, absolute weight.
"WAAAAAAGH!!!"
A massive shockwave rippled through the fortress, as if a giant were hammering against the atmosphere itself.
For a heartbeat, the Astartes outside thought they were under direct assault. The very floor beneath them buckled and warped under the psychic gravity.
Then came the landslide. The greenskin host surged forward, driven by an unstoppable momentum, charging straight at Arthur.
Even as their genetic code shrieked warnings of the horror before them, the Orks moved with absolute, suicidal resolve.
Arthur looked up.
He watched the emerald tsunami crashing toward him. He watched the twisted, screaming, murder-drunk faces of the xenos.
Having already deployed his legions and set the parameters for the purge, he made no grand gesture. His face was a void. No mockery. No anger. No pity. Only a total, clinical indifference.
He looked like a butcher at a workstation, watching a line of ducks being moved toward the blade.
Slaughter is not the goal. Slaughter is the methodology for the objective.
He did not ignite the fires of Excalibur. The power of the World-Shaper was too volatile; it would destroy the ancient technologies the Orks had painstakingly unearthed. Against enemies who had lost their spirit—beings driven only by a hollow survival instinct and the prodding of distant gods—such power was unnecessary.
"WAAAAAGH!"
The first Ork reached him, a power-sword raised, its face a mask of bestial fury.
Arthur's wrist flickered.
Puff.
The sound was negligible. The Ork felt no pain. Its perspective simply began to spin. It watched as its own headless, gore-fountaining body continued to charge, the psychic blade in its hand going dim before shattering into scrap.
Clatter.
The Knight stepped through the rain of blood. Before the ichor could strike the deck, the forward momentum of his blade claimed two more lives.
Ten. A hundred. A thousand.
He utilized no "Art" of the sword. There were only horizontal slashes, vertical cleaves, and diagonal thrusts.
When his steel met the green-wreathed weapons of the enemy, the "Theoreticals" of the Ork imagination evaporated. The "Magic" failed. Only the raw "Practical" of physics remained.
And in that arena, Arthur was absolute.
An armored boot slammed into the Beast's frenzied face, sending the titanous construct staggering back.
Arthur followed through with a thrust. The kick had already shattered the Beast's faceplate.
A "Killa-Kan" lunged for him from the flank.
Arthur's blade moved without friction, weaving through the Kan's defenses. A single strike pierced the logic-housing of the walker.
HUMMM—
Excalibur emitted a faint, steady glow. As the Nightbringer shards began to pulse, the projected blade expanded with the swing. A terminal sweep cleared the immediate radius. The surrounding Orks simply detonated into red mist. Only the Beast remained, cowering behind its iron plates, tanking the damage through sheer mass.
Arthur stood in the center of the narrow choke-point—a one-man meat-grinder. Any entity that entered his reach—be it a Mega-Armor Nob or a walker wielding a sputtering psychic-saw—met the same finality.
Basic motions. Absolute efficiency.
Arthur delivered a swift, heavy strike, severing the head of a gasping Ork.
He had a fair amount of experience in this particular trade.
"My Lord."
Tu'Shan was still riding the high of the victory.
He stepped forward, intending to join the Primarch in the center of the fray. His instinct urged him to confront the Beast that had claimed his Father's life.
"Patience, Chapter Master."
A hand stopped him.
Ragnar was busy organizing his packs to bypass the epicenter of the duel. His goal was to sever Ghazghkull's line of retreat.
Even with the outcome inevitable, Ragnar and his veterans weren't relaxing the noose. The "Prophet" was the target.
If he dies, he deserved it. That's the Protocol.
"What is it?" Tu'Shan asked, confused.
Ragnar scratched his topknot, looking exasperated.
"Look, brother. We're useless up there. We'd just be getting in Master Art's way. Unless you want to find out what happens when you stand in the swing of a God's blade?"
He gestured to the Dark Angels.
Even the Knights of the Round Table weren't intervening.
Unlike the Lion, who could manifest a "Caliban Domain" to buff his warriors, Arthur was a Null-factor. He was isolated by his own nature. He didn't need teammates; he needed people to stay out of the splash-zone.
The Astartes had linked to the Armageddon Command Network, executing orders from the tactical hub rather than lingering in the Sire's shadow.
They didn't need to prove their loyalty through proximity. Proximity in this fight was just a liability.
"Want the truth?" Ragnar asked, pulling Tu'Shan onto a Land Speeder Storm.
As heavy assets like the Fellblades and Sicaran tanks returned to the Astartes armories, the Land Speeder—the backbone of Chapter-scale armor for millennia—was being phased out of the front lines.
But the Dawnbreakers had found its niche: high-speed, short-range tactical transport in dense terrain. Stripped of excess armor and optimized for speed, the new generation of Speeders acted as mobile fire-platforms and troop-carriers.
"It might sting a bit."
having been "educated" by the two Old Men of the VI for years, Ragnar considered his social-protocols to be quite advanced.
"Speak then," Tu'Shan replied. The disappointment was visible in his posture, but the legendary patience of the XVIII kept him calm.
"We're just clutter up there," Ragnar said bluntly.
"..."
Tu'Shan went silent.
That does indeed sting.
"Look at our numbers," Ragnar said, pointing to the joint task force—less than a thousand warriors remaining after the deep-strike.
"We're a fraction of a fraction of the host that fought the original War of the Beast. If we jump in now, Arthur has to waste bandwidth making sure we don't get squashed."
The Imperium had a clinical understanding of the Beast's power. It had killed two Chapter Masters in a single heartbeat and slaughtered hundreds of Astartes before Vulkan could even draw its eye.
Astartes were not meant to fight a "Beast."
If the main army were here, we wouldn't need a Sire to do the heavy lifting. But the Boss is out putting out fires with the rest of the Legion.
The Lion was currently the galaxy's premier fire-brigade. He was also utilizing his unique... "temperament"... to intimidate local planetary governments into compliance.
It was ironic. In the sectors not yet touched by the Dawnstar—the ones still clinging to the "Authentic 41st Millennium" vibe—even the Crusade-era Lion looked like a model of stoic diplomacy.
The Lion loves a good Exterminatus order, but even he can't match the Inquisitorial 'scorched earth' policy of this age.
As for the local governors? If they didn't listen, the Lion killed a few. The vox-link was always open. A report would be filed, Dawnstar would acknowledge the "Change in Leadership," and a new administrative cadre would arrive via the Webway.
We don't even need your roads anymore.
"I understand," Tu'Shan sighed, the realization hitting him. He had almost become a tactical complication for the Primarch. He abandoned his pursuit of the Beast.
But acceptance didn't cure the bitterness.
He had lost his chance to stand with his Father ten millennia ago. Now, he didn't even have the right to stand before his Father's killer. He was just "clutter."
To an Astartes born for war, it was a heavy blow.
"Sigh..."
The giant's eyes dimmed.
The Salamanders behind him looked equally dispirited. They didn't hate the Wolf for speaking the truth; they hated their own inadequacy.
"Look, brother," Ragnar said, noticing the mood. He took a swig of Fenrisian Ale to sharpen his mind.
"Truth is, you can't change a war like this through 'Stat-Lines.' You don't have the mass."
"I know," Tu'Shan nodded bitterly.
"So, we fix the problem," Ragnar grinned, clapping a gauntlet onto Tu'Shan's shoulder.
"You know what the root cause of this is?"
Tu'Shan opened his mouth to answer, but Ragnar beat him to it.
"YOU'Z TOO FEW!"
"You lack the weight. You lack the power."
The Salamanders exchanged a look of embarrassment and reluctance.
Ragnar ignored it. He took another swig.
"In this era, an Astartes Legion exists to hold a front. We're First Founding. We're supposed to be the ones the Primarchs don't have to worry about."
"Look at Huron. Look at us. Even without a Sire, the Dawnstar trusts us to hold the Eye and the Maelstrom. Why? Because we have the numbers."
Huron was a bureaucrat of the highest order. He had unified a dozen successor chapters into a single blade.
Tu'Shan paused, thinking of how the strategic nodes were being managed by the Wolves and Huron. He thought of the Maelstrom campaign.
Before the Primarchs arrived, Huron had held off Chaos, Orks, and Tyranids alone. Even Abaddon's decapitation strike hadn't broken him. If the Sires hadn't arrived, Huron would have just executed a "Fighting Withdrawal." Badab and the twelve surrounding systems would have continued to give Abaddon nightmares.
And the Wolves?
Why did Abaddon pick the Maelstrom for the 13th Crusade?
Because you don't pick a fight with Bjorn and a hundred thousand Space Wolves if you have a choice.
You go find someone smaller to krump.
"See? I'm right, aren't I?" Ragnar noted the look on Tu'Shan's face.
The Wolves had been expanding aggressively. With a Primarch's backing, even the "lone wolf" Vylka Fenryka knew they couldn't stay isolated forever.
But the Iron Hands—their closest technical allies—were more interested in finding a "Glorious Death" than building an army. The Dawnstar units were a law unto themselves. That left the Salamanders.
"Think about it. If the Salamanders could have put a hundred thousand men on the field during the War of the Beast, would the ending have been different? Honestly, brother, you've been brooding over missing that war for eight thousand years. But what would you have changed with seven hundred men?"
"Right?"
Was he right?
Tu'Shan hesitated. He couldn't find a counter-argument. He nodded slowly.
"There you go. That's the 'Practical.' Without an army, you're just a legend with no teeth."
Ragnar slapped his thigh and leaned in.
"And it's not just 'Ten Thousand Marines.' That's rookie thinking. You need the whole package. The Auxilia. The Navy. The Titans. The industrial, logistical, and recruitment pipes to sustain the frame. Only when you can re-forge the Legion in a heartbeat is the work finished."
"I... see."
Tu'Shan was genuinely surprised. He had assumed "Expansion" was just a matter of making more Marines. He hadn't seen the "Theoreticals" of the infrastructure.
"Tell me more," Tu'Shan said, his tone turning serious.
"It's about the reach. Look at the components. I'm not talking about the fleet yet. Look at the recruits. Nocturne's environment is too small. A few million people can't support an industrial Hive-World. You need to link with the neighboring systems."
"Don't worry about the High Lords. The Primarchs want us to grow. They want us to be a 'Sovereign System.' Dawnstar has a set of standards for governance—mostly about civilian welfare. The Dark Angels check in periodically, but I know you boys would handle it. You're Salamanders."
"Then there's the tech. The industrial labor pool. We work with the Iron Hands and the Mechanicus. But you're natural smiths; that's easy. You just need to standardize the 'Master-Apprentice' lore into a formalized curriculum. Build academies under Chapter control. You'll catch up in no time."
"And diplomacy..."
Ragnar lectured with a relentless stream of professional terminology. He didn't look like a barbarian anymore.
He looked like a manager.
Nine years in the 'Administrative Pits' of Fenris will do that to a man, Ragnar thought, watching Tu'Shan absorb the data.
Nine years!
The memory of the spreadsheets, the economic models, and the personnel audits triggered a phantom pain in his brain.
"The industrial and talent matrices are the lynchpins, brother..."
"Trust me. Don't worry about the Sires. When you can put a Legion on the board, that is when you're truly helping them!"
As the Land Speeder Storm roared over the wastes, Tu'Shan's eyes began to glow with a new light.
A new world was opening before him.
"Movement in the Empyrean," Ramesses signaled Arthur.
"Gork and Mork are being... proactive. They're providing the 'Boyz' with a sequence. I can't confirm a direct intervention yet, but I'm keeping the link hot."
"Understood. I'm moving in."
Arthur wiped his blade one last time.
The habit allowed him to lock his focus.
The vanguard was at the breach. As the ultimate biological weapon of the species, he had to be the first.
Orks were not the Eldar. A blade had to strike to mean anything.
"Targeting the Prophet?" Ramesses asked.
"Correct."
"I am the absolute pressure. If the Twin Gods put a finger on the scale, I'll be there to break it. We control the meta."
Ramesses sometimes thought Arthur treated his foes with too much respect.
Master Art never cared about "Efficiency of Force." If a target existed, it was countered with the absolute maximum. No holding back.
Saturation intent.
"And if Gork and Mork really jump in?" Ramesses asked.
"Then it's their lucky day."
"And if they actually make it into the Webway?"
"Then it's our lucky day."
"And if we just delete him?"
The Knight looked at the approaching Beast.
"Then he deserved it."
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