Within the warped void of space, countless beams of light suddenly erupted from the vanguard of the joint fleet.
Tracing the path of those strangely configured beams, one could soon see innumerable explosions bursting deep within the fleet's heading.
"What is happening?"
Though they had been prepared for their mechanical allies to open fire unexpectedly, the sheer intensity of the strike was clearly extraordinary. The Iron Men had evidently engaged with the firepower of their entire fleet.
Aboard their respective vessels, Marneus Calgar and Jaghatai Khan demanded situational updates from their command bridges. Yet, in truth, those stationed before the auspex arrays, both mortal crew and tech-priests alike, were even more bewildered.
"My Lord, we only know that the Iron Men's fleet opened fire first. As for what they are targeting, we cannot ascertain."
"To be precise, we have detected absolutely nothing."
The tech-priest's hands, augmented by snapping servo-arms, flew across the console in a frenzy, repeatedly calibrating a multitude of parameters. Yet the reality remained unchanged: the auspex screens were utterly blank. Aside from the flickering, unstable icons marking their own allied vessels, not a single hostile identification signal registered.
"My Lord, it appears we are accelerating."
As the crewmen reported the anomalies one after another, the ship captains turned their gazes toward the commanders on their bridges. However, neither Calgar, the Great Khan, nor any of the other Imperial commanders issued countermanding orders. They wished to see exactly what the Iron Men had uncovered.
Soon enough, they sailed through the residual blast zone. Countless shards of metallic wreckage drifted through the void.
"These appear to be space mines."
Examining the fragments, a tech-priest identified the nature of the metallic detritus. It was an exceptionally ancient device; unlike sea mines of antiquity designed to float in water, these space mines could be anchored directly into the void.
Because the veil of reality was exceedingly thin here, these explosives, typically concealed within asteroid belts or meteorites, had been deployed by the Red Corsairs right at the spatial fractures, left in a state semi-submerged within the Warp.
In a matter of seconds, the mechanical fleet had detonated thousands of these drifting void-bombs.
According to the ancient tactical data of the Federation, it was elementary knowledge that once defensive traps were triggered, they would typically be followed by an overwhelming, saturated counter-barrage to effectively reduce the enemy's combat capability and living forces. Yet, after the mechanical fleet annihilated the space mines, no subsequent assault materialized.
The only logical conclusion was that the enemy was attempting to flee.
The reality matched Axion's calculations perfectly. Deep within the Maelstrom, Huron Blackheart was urgently mobilizing his fleet for evacuation.
A pirate's intelligence network was far more responsive than the bureaucratic machine of the Adeptus Administratum. Though Huron had once managed to capture Roboute Guilliman with the aid of Kairos Fateweaver, he knew all too well the vast gulf that separated him from a Primarch. He harbored no illusions regarding the sheer combat prowess of the Emperor's genetic sons.
Even with Kairos's assistance, he had been pushed to his limits facing Guilliman. Jaghatai Khan, the Great Khan of the White Scars, was a completely different matter; one Huron was distinctly unequipped to face. Truth be told, Huron lacked absolute confidence even against Calgar; after all, in his former life, he too had respected the legendary Chapter Master's strength.
Most daunting of all was learning the exact reason behind Jaghatai's relentless hunt. For the first time, a flicker of regret stirred within Huron for having tortured Jubal Khan. Had he foreseen this reckoning, he would have executed the Great Khan outright.
But regret was useless now.
"My Lord, we still require time to load the cargo. The vessels that are already prepared await your command," a mutated, daemon-tainted crew member reported, his form twisting unphysically as he bowed before Huron.
Huron's expression remained carved in stoic stone, but a subtle undercurrent of unease rippled through his mind. The meteoric rise of the Red Corsairs had inadvertently become Huron's undoing; the infrastructure here was fundamentally primitive, and they had plundered far too many ships.
The moment his paid informants sent word that the newly returned Primarch of the White Scars was coming to personally claim his head, Huron had begun planning his withdrawal. Yet the massive fleet and the disparate pirate warbands he had painstakingly united now acted as an anchor slowing his escape.
A fleet of over a thousand capital ships was an immense logistical nightmare. Moving them and securing a suitable staging ground was no simple feat. Without the shroud of a proper defensive stronghold, a thousand isolated ships facing the wrath of the Imperium would be systematically ground to dust.
Huron had considered appealing to Abaddon the Despoiler for aid, but the Warmaster of Chaos had vanished into the void alongside his Balefleet. Rumors suggested Abaddon was leading the Black Legion to scour ancient, forbidden ruins in search of power capable of rivaling the Iron Men. More insidious whispers claimed that Abaddon had squandered vast swathes of his forces in this reckless pursuit, suffering catastrophic losses.
Yet the Chaos Gods seemingly favored Abaddon's endeavors; travelers spoke of seeing the Warmaster flanked by several Chosen of Chaos.
Whatever Abaddon was doing, it offered Huron no immediate salvation. Huron needed a stronghold like the Maelstrom—a natural spatial barrier that blocked Imperial intrusion while allowing the forces of Chaos to navigate unhindered.
Unfortunately, time had run out.
"My Lord! The outermost minefield has been detonated!" a renegade Space Marine bearing the Eight-Pointed Star of Chaos caught onto his armor burst onto the bridge, his panicked shout startling Huron.
"Order the fleet to weigh anchor immediately! We move out now! Detonate all remaining supplies on the docks!"
Watching the stellar vistas begin to accelerate and recede past the viewscreen, Huron sank into his throne, lost in thought. He still harbored a grand, sweeping ambition for the galaxy, but it seemed he would never have the chance to realize it.
Gazing out at the warped distortion of space in the distance, Huron knew with absolute certainty that a Primarch was hunting him down. It brought back memories of his past confrontation with Guilliman.
When Huron had captured Guilliman, he had gone to speak with the politically masterful Primarch. He had attempted to articulate his vision of the Imperium, trying to explain his philosophy to the Avenging Son.
Guilliman, however, had utterly rejected him.
Huron viewed his actions as a necessary revolution, a brutal but vital surgery to cut out the rot of a decaying, stagnant empire. Guilliman had met Huron's betrayal and corruption with nothing but cold fury and condemnation. Speaking from the absolute authority of Imperial orthodoxy and the survival of mankind, the Primarch had systematically dismantled Huron's twisted justifications. He maintained that despite its flaws, the Imperium remained the solitary hope for humanity; Huron's actions were an unpardonable treason that inflicted grievous wounds upon the species.
They stood at absolute, irreconcilable opposites. No common ground could exist between them.
From that exact moment, Huron had realized a bitter truth: there was no turning back, no path to redemption. Rather than seeking a forgiveness that would never come, it was better to forge ahead blindly, using his own brutal methods to prove those deluded loyalists wrong.