At the edge of the impact crater, the intensity of the battlefield spiked once more.
After the initial skirmish, the Iron Warriors recon squad adjusted their tactics with frightening efficiency, contracting their perimeter with seamless coordination. This was no retreat; they were clearing the stage for the destruction to follow.
The earth began to shudder.
From the depths of the crater and the shadows of the crashed hull, twisted amalgams of machinery and flesh emerged with heavy, thundering strides.
"...Daemon Engines!" An Astral Claw shouted, alerting his brothers to the profane sight.
A moment later, ruin arrived.
Warp-tainted fire, humming with a sickening, stagnant energy like clotted blood, rained down upon the Astartes. These shots weren't aimed at specific targets; they crudely plowed through the entire sector held by the Astral Claws and the Tyrant's Legion.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Under such overwhelming saturation, ceramite vaporized instantly, and rock shattered into molten slush. A dozen Tyrant's Legion soldiers, unable to find cover in time, vanished along with the bulkhead they were hiding behind, leaving only shallow, glowing red pits in the earth.
Under the cover of this barrage, the Iron Warriors began their slow, deliberate deployment. At the heart of their ranks were the Daemon Engines that had just unleashed the opening salvo.
These war machines of the Chaos forces are products of the most blasphemous craftsmanship. Warpsmiths bind Warp daemons into mechanical shells, turning machines into new prisons for these entities. Subjected to tortures that would make even a daemon scream, they are forced to obey the masters who orchestrated their imprisonment. Consequently, the sheer ferocity and cruelty contained within a Daemon Engine are easy to imagine.
One Astral Claw, covered by his brothers, managed to toss a melta bomb into a fissure in the underbelly of a Brass Scorpion. The resulting explosion tore the monster in half. However, the warrior was immediately struck by three bolter shells from different directions, his chest plate shattering as he fell. His sacrifice opened a brief gap, but it was instantly filled by more lumbering Helbrutes.
The scales of battle began to tip irrevocably.
While not every member of this Iron Warriors warband was a veteran of the Long War, their discipline remained staggering. Under the crushing weight of their firepower, every Daemon Engine the Astral Claws destroyed cost them multiple casualties in return.
The mortal Tyrant's Legion suffered the most. Not only were their weapons largely ineffective against the thick frontal armor of the Daemon Engines, but they also lacked immediate heavy armor support. Consequently, under orders from central command, the Astral Claws' line began to shrink.
With an unstoppable momentum, the Iron Warriors began to grind their way toward Hive Dominica.
Palace of Thorns, Command Center.
Adam withdrew his gaze from the displays.
On the holographic projection before him, the Astral Claw Astartes were still fighting to the death, but their positions were being systematically dismantled by the profane firepower of the Daemon Engines. The defensive line was riddled with holes; the decline was obvious.
A look of contemplation flickered in his eyes. He felt a hint of regret, but little true heartache.
In the original timeline, these Astartes would have slaughtered their loyalist brothers in the Badab War just a few years from now—a meaningless death. Now, at least, they were dying for humanity, their souls returning to the Throne. Perhaps later, Adam could simply summon them back as Heroic Spirits; essentially, they weren't "dead" in the permanent sense.
Almost simultaneously, Endymion, standing slightly behind him, took a half-step forward. The voice coming from beneath the golden helmet carried a trace of barely perceptible tension.
"My Lord... are you considering heading to the front lines again?"
Adam turned, looking at the Custodian Tribune. Even encased in auramite, Endymion's posture was exceptionally solemn. Adam raised an eyebrow with a touch of exasperation.
"Not this time." He paused, his tone bordering on amused. "Do I really look like the type who gets a rush of blood to the head and throws himself into the most dangerous spot? I'm not Roboute Guilliman."
Adam seemed entirely unaware that his previous habit of being the first to board enemy ships had already left a permanent, stressful impression on the Custodes.
"Because of the frequency of 'coincidences' we've encountered, I have to be concerned now—whether the eyes of the Ruinous Powers are already turning toward this battlefield." Endymion sighed softly, choosing not to engage with the joke about the Primarch. "Lord Adam, your existence itself is humanity's most vital strategic advantage. The longer you remain hidden, the lower the chance the Dark Gods can perceive you clearly and layout a targeted trap. Time is on our side."
"I know." Adam nodded, his expression turning serious.
When he first arrived in this universe, though he had cleanly wiped out a Chaos warband and a Slaaneshi Daemon Prince, there had been a fair amount of luck involved. Slaanesh is often preoccupied with extreme sensory indulgence; the Dark Prince's attention to mortal trifles can be erratic.
Had it been any of the other three gods, the result might have been very different. Khorne is petty, Nurgle is fiercely protective of his "children," and Tzeentch is a master weaver of schemes. Wiping out the souls of their daemons and followers on a large scale is a surefire way to draw unwanted attention. At this moment, Adam even wondered if there was a Tzeentchian Sorcerer on the other side just waiting for him to reveal himself.
"I was just thinking," he said, pulling his thoughts back to the present and pointing at the Iron Warriors warband on the map. "What can I gain from that warband across from us?"
During the struggle against the Hive Fleet, Adam had slain the Hive Mind within the Warp, and the soul energy harvested was massive in terms of "quantity." Simply destroying this warband would just add a bit more to that number—a linear increase that wouldn't trigger a qualitative change.
Wait, I have it. Adam's eyes flashed.
"To command a force like this—with a significant number of Daemon Engines and a high percentage of Long War veterans—this Warsmith must hold a substantial rank within the Iron Warriors. I wonder who it is?"
He frowned slightly, searching through his memories of the lore. He couldn't quite place them. The "talent pool" of this Legion was notoriously shallow compared to other traitor Legions. To some extent, that was likely thanks to their Primarch's... "suffocating" management style.
Looking at you, decimation.
"We can rule out the possibility of Perturabo himself being here," Adam mused.
Was it Barban Falk? Honsou the 'Half-breed'? Or some other named Warsmith? He shook his head, no longer obsessing over a specific name.
"Regardless of the name, anyone leading such an elite warband possesses knowledge, intelligence, and perhaps connections to certain entities in the Warp that are highly valuable. Especially... intel on the movements of their Primarch-turned-Daemon-Prince, Perturabo, or clues regarding other minor Warp deities."
The potential value of that information was far more significant than simply crushing the warband itself. He turned back to the two Custodian Tribunes, his gaze returning to its usual calm.
"You're right, Endymion," Adam said. "I shouldn't appear on the battlefield. And to minimize my footprint, I won't even send the Transformers to devour their souls."
"Then we shall handle it," Endymion finished for him. "As for that Warsmith... we will bring him to you alive."