Chapter 132: Encirclement and Reinforcements
Ferrus stood quietly nearby, his face grave. Mechanized warriors surrounded him; the Iron Hands were famously more thorough in their integration of flesh and machine than most legions. Two entirely different paths of mechanical ascension lay before them now, diverging more sharply than they had in years.
Their combined forces displayed power armor in colors beyond the standard Imperial grey and silver, reds, deep indigos, and bronze. Each cohort had deliberately marked itself, identities forged in the fires of their respective legions.
"Here we go?" Francis frowned, his voice low and contemplative.
"Well, Guilliman argued we should first differentiate the armor aesthetics while preserving combat doctrine," Perturabo said, raising his head.
His gaze swept across a nearby warrior's dark bronze plating, and he sneered. "To be blunt, it's just letting them grow accustomed. If I'm being honest, it's like removing your pants to scratch an itch."
Ferus, standing to the side, studied Francis with an expression that mingled confusion and concern. "When did this happen? How did all the Soul Drinkers transform into silver-clad mirror images?"
Francis raised an eyebrow, his posture stiffening slightly. "Don't look at me. They asked to do this themselves."
He crossed his arms. "I opposed it firmly, but they were determined. They conducted the modification in secret and reorganized themselves without my knowledge. By the time I found out, it was done."
Perturabo "..."
Ferus "..."
Just then, a deep rumble gradually built from the distance. They looked up and saw a white streak cutting through the void.
A warband of White Scars appeared, their jet-powered bikes screaming through the void like predators cutting through an atmosphere. Leading them was the Khan, whose silhouette blazed in the harsh light. His armor burned white as fresh snow, with brilliant crimson lightning traced across his shoulder guards. His cloak billowed behind him, woven with patterns of hunting raptors in gold and shadow.
The Khan rode a massive combat bike, its frame sculpted from raw metal in the ancient grassland style, its engine thrumming with dangerous potential. He gripped the controls with absolute confidence, his long hair and cloak streaming behind him as if he himself were the driving wind.
He brought the bike to a halt with practiced ease, dust erupting beneath his boots. His warriors formed ranks before Francis with precision that would have impressed any Iron Hand sergeant.
The Khan dismounted in one fluid motion, still radiating controlled violence and barely-restrained hunger for battle. "My warriors and I have arrived. I heard you need more manpower to deal with those disgusting presences infesting the network-realm."
His lips curled upward, his gaze sharp and burning with the kind of joy that only comes before blood.
Francis and his two companions instinctively shaded their eyes; the Khan's presence was simply overwhelming in its brilliance. He seemed incapable of being anything less than dazzling.
"Kill your headlights; they're blinding us," Francis said, waving his hand toward the bikes.
The Khan complied without protest, and the lights dimmed instantly.
After entering the Webway proper, the scene shifted entirely.
A human warship hung suspended in the labyrinth-dark, its hull mottled with scorch marks and ruptures. It emitted a faint glow, as if barely clinging to void-survival.
The communication signal stuttered and warbled, weak but defiant: "We're under attack here. Urgent assistance needed. Fuel reserves critical. SOS..."
A fleet of raider craft appeared silently from the Webway passages. Their captain examined the damaged human vessel through a holographic lens, cold calculation and greed gleaming in his eyes. "Human warships? They can't fully adapt to these channels either. Brothers, this is an opportunity made simple for us."
An older member of the raider crew standing nearby frowned. "Could this be a stratagem? How does a human ship break down this perfectly? Look at those scorch marks, they're clearly from capital-grade weaponry. Why didn't their enemies pursue? Why would they dare broadcast for help?"
The captain dismissed the concern with contempt born of centuries of successful hunts. "These primitives possess no such sophistication. They understand only destruction! At worst, we approach with caution."
As they spoke, the raider fleet moved cautiously toward the seemingly abandoned human vessel, preparing to board and plunder.
Then it happened.
Bright energies flashed across multiple vectors simultaneously. Psionic distortion rippled outward like a shockwave. A dense constellation of Imperial warships tore into being from the Webway's hidden passages, dozens of them, forming a perfect encirclement. The Eldar raiders found themselves ensnared in a net of Imperial firepower.
"Don't move. This is a robbery," Francis's voice transmitted across all frequencies, edged with grim humor.
The Eldar raiders stared in genuine shock at the Imperial warships materializing in their tactical displays. The sheer numbers exceeded their intelligence estimates, and each vessel bristled with crude but devastatingly effective weaponry.
The Abyss Roar, positioned at the fleet's heart, radiated danger itself, a mobile fortress sheathed in psionic emanations that made their instruments scream warnings.
"We're nothing more than a small trading vessel," the raider captain said, his voice cracking. He'd come for salvage. Now he faced annihilation.
Resistance was futile. Imperial torpedo barrages shredded the raider's void shields, and the Eldar were swiftly captured, their raiders tractored into Imperial holds.
Khan "..."
Ferus "..."
Perturabo's expression did not change, though his eyes remained fixed on Francis, waiting.
"Aren't we being too slow?" the Khan stepped forward. He distrusted ambushes; he preferred to seize dominance and strike with overwhelming force. "We should move faster and hit them all at once."
"Indeed, this approach feels sluggish," Ferus agreed, exchanging a knowing glance with Perturabo.
Though Perturabo remained silent, his gaze fixed firmly on Francis, awaiting his response.
Francis realized they'd misunderstood his strategy and moved quickly to clarify. "Don't rush. We possess an overwhelming numerical advantage here. We cannot afford to proceed recklessly."
He gestured toward the tactical hologram. "My strategy is for each engagement group to conduct similar operations and consolidate all prisoners to our custody."
Hearing this, the Khan's puzzlement deepened. "Why consolidate so many prisoners? What purpose does that serve?"
"It's crucial for the next phase," Francis replied, pointing to the operational map. "Gamo serves as their primary hub, a major transit nexus with numerous entry and exit passages."
"Even if we breach it now, escapees will simply vanish back into the Webway. To prevent complications, we must locate every exit and mount railguns at each one. Then, one synchronized strike, and we eliminate them. No survivors. No stragglers haunting the tunnels afterward."
Ferrus and Perturabo exchanged glances and nodded slowly. The strategy was sound, brutal, efficient, and complete.
The Khan stroked his beard, his dissatisfaction evident. He wanted direct combat. This was a careful, methodical strategy. "Once your railguns have done their sweeping attack, then we charge in. Don't worry, you'll have your turn to fight. But you must keep my communications device active at all times."
"Here are maps of the Webway passages," Francis said, handing him a data-slate with careful emphasis.
"Don't venture into them carelessly. The scale here is genuinely vast; you will get lost. And that would be problematic, to say the least, if rumors spread that some Primarch became lost before the war even truly began."
Francis left the sentence hanging, his eyes studying the Khan's response carefully.
"Don't worry!" the Khan replied, his confidence unshakeable. "I've traversed the grasslands since childhood. Once I've traveled a path, I remember it."
"Khan, listen to Francis," Ferus urged quietly. "His predictions are always accurate."
The Khan fell silent, the warning at last registering.
With tactics established, orders were dispersed through secure channels to every battlegroup. An invisible net began closing around Gamo, the dark city's corridors already filling with Imperial presence moving into position.
"Don't worry, I'll simply return with some... recruits," Francis said, turning to address the three Primarchs before him. "This is all for the Emperor. These populations are precious Imperial assets. To waste them would be nothing short of criminal."
Looking at Francis and the Soul Drinkers, who had modified their appearance to resemble the Dark Eldar of Commorragh, the three Primarchs sensed something profoundly amiss, though none could quite identify it.
The Khan felt it especially.
Yet looking at his newly-acquired combat bike, its frame constructed in brutish orc-style plating, its machinery crude but powerful, the engine lights pulsing with raw energy and jet-assisted speed capability, he genuinely could not bring himself to abandon it. The sheer destructiveness was intoxicating.
"Fine, proceed if you must," he said, turning back to Ferus and Perturabo, who were grinning foolishly as they inspected strange metal objects in their hands. "Let him go if he wants."
By the time the three Primarchs had settled into their satisfaction, Francis had already led the Soul Drinkers toward the Society of the Flesh and Blood Prophets, moving through the Webway like hunters slipping through familiar territory.
Deep beneath the inquisitorial fortress, the chamber was dim, heavy with ancient sacred runes and the smoke of burning incense. The Grey Knights stood ramrod-straight in their armor, gleaming like burnished silver, their bearing absolute, their resolve unshakeable.
After the daemon's capture was complete, the interrogation chamber had fallen into eerie silence. The bound creature showed no panic. Instead, it radiated disdain.
Chained to an iron platform inscribed with binding sigils and runes of containment, the daemon wore a contemptuous smile despite its imprisonment. Even caged, it retained its arrogance and absolute certainty in its power.
"You mortals," the daemon spoke, its laughter hoarse and tearing. Its eyes gleamed with derision, with the supreme confidence of something older than empires.
"Do you truly believe capturing me changes anything? At best, you've merely arranged my death another way. Your pitiful mortal certainty is... laughable."
"You think we cannot make you speak?" Sacher, the Grey Knight commander, lowered his head and stared directly at the daemon. His voice carried the chill of absolute conviction. He stepped closer to the binding platform, fear absent from his bearing entirely.
"Ha! If you possessed any other method, you would not have expelled me three times already," the daemon rasped, its chains rattling as it thrashed against the restraints. "Your so-called 'trials' are merely my entertainment. Come then! Come and amuse me!"
The daemon laughed with the confidence of something that had endured epochs and seen empires crumble to dust.
"Grand Master, we have conducted thorough investigation," a Grey Knight stepped forward, opening a data-device. "According to records obtained by the Primarch Francis, this is an Unbound Daemon of the third classification. The Primarch specified precise protocols for such entities, drawn from his extensive research."
Sacher's expression remained controlled, but his grip on his warhammer tightened just slightly, the metal creaking beneath the pressure.
The daemon's arrogance faltered, just for a moment.
[End of Chapter]
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