On a high ground.
An Iron Warriors outpost had already been established.
Even though the starship crash site was only twenty kilometers away from the industrial hive they were determined to seize, that distance was enough to become a fatal flaw in a brutal siege. If the False Emperor's lapdogs were allowed to organize a flanking maneuver or strike their rear, things would turn ugly. Thus, despite the time pressure, the Warsmith had ordered this forward base to be built.
And as for the commander of this outpost?
With a dismissive wave, the Warsmith had left Honsou—the "Half-breed," a warrior who, despite his competence, would never receive full recognition from the Legion due to his origins—to ensure the security of the logistics lines and the flanks.
Honsou stood before the tactical display in the center of the outpost, his crimson oculars scanning the rapidly refreshing data streams. Though he was dissatisfied with the assignment, he had been discriminated against by the rest of the warband for ten thousand years due to his bloodline (created by Fabius Bile from a mix of Iron Warriors and Seventh Legion Imperial Fists gene-seed). He was used to it.
"Wait..."
Just then, at the edge of the tactical display, a set of anomalous energy readings abruptly spiked. Honsou tilted his helmet slightly.
What was this? He was about to find out.
On the eastern side of the outpost, the air suddenly began to warp and shimmer. The fabric of reality rippled like parchment crumpled by an invisible hand. A brilliant golden radiance bloomed out of thin air.
Figure after figure stepped out from the light.
Clad in gleaming auramite, towering and perfect, they did not shout or roar. They descended in silence, like a hundred deities stepping out of ancient myth.
"Enemy attack!!" an Iron Warrior Sergeant shrieked.
Honsou's tactical oculars flashed frantically, attempting to identify the intruders. Though Honsou was a veteran of the Long War, he had been born during the Horus Heresy and had not participated in the Siege of Terra. He did not immediately recognize the exact identity of these newcomers.
However, the Iron Warriors' reaction was as fast as instinct.
"Fire! Tear them apart!" Honsou's command exploded alongside the roar of cannon fire.
Every weapon that could be pointed east unleashed a torrent of destruction in the same heartbeat. Las-fire scorched the air, and solid slugs wove a metal storm.
Yet, it was all in vain.
At the front of the Custodes' ranks, massive figures carrying tower shields had appeared. Their movements were so fast they left afterimages. Before the shells could even reach them, the massive Praesidium Shields were slammed into the ground. Their built-in energy fields hummed to life, forming an indestructible wall of sighs.
The incoming fire slammed into this wall, stirring only brilliant ripples—like a torrential rain hitting a deep lake. Beyond the futile display of light and shadow, it achieved nothing.
And the Custodes were never an entity that only knew how to defend.
The next moment, engines shrieked.
Several streaks of golden light shot out from behind the shield wall—Vertus Praetors mounted on Dawneagle Jetbikes. They were like thunderbolts crossing the battlefield, instantly cutting into the Iron Warriors' formation before it could fully adjust.
The massive Guardian Spears in their hands became scythes of the Reaper. Every precise sweep cleaved an Iron Warrior, armor and all, in half. Every thrust buried a spear tip into the weak points of the Daemon Engines, causing the profane machines to collapse in wailing heaps. The Dawneagle Jetbikes beneath them were weapons in their own right, their side-mounted hurricane bolters unleashing a hailstorm of shells, while micro-missiles picked off key firing positions.
In a single charge, the Iron Warriors' defensive line was torn open in multiple places, descending into chaos.
But it wasn't over.
More Custodes stepped through the gaps opened by the Shield Guard, surging forward like a golden tide.
There was the legendary Custodian Tribune, son of a water thief, member of the Dynastic Squad: Ra Endymion.
There was the legendary Custodian Tribune, member of the Dynastic Squad, and author of The Master of Mankind: Diocletian Coros.
There were Shield Captains, members of the Sagittarum Guard, Shield-Company veterans, Allarus Terminators, Aquilon Terminators, Venerable Contemptor Dreadnoughts, Contemptor-Achillus Dreadnoughts...
They were unstoppable. They pierced the outpost's defensive grid as if it were made of paper, whipping up storm after storm of slaughter within the enemy ranks. At this moment, the different ranks within the Custodes mattered little. Whether it was the overwhelming might of Tribune Endymion or the most "ordinary" Shield Guard veteran, the Iron Warriors they faced couldn't survive a single exchange. Heads were severed and blood sprayed across the ground instantly.
Honsou didn't even have time to feel shock or terror before a bone-chilling premonition of death seized him. He only had time to raise his power axe.
The next moment, the world turned upside down.
He saw his own headless body slowly sink to its knees, blood geysering from the neck. His final consciousness caught the sight of Diocletian calmly retracting his Guardian Spear.
The vox-channel was dead silent. A distress signal? There hadn't been time to send one.
This Chaos Lord, who in the future was destined to become a representative figure of the Iron Warriors Legion—second in status only to Perturabo—saw all his ambitions vanish in an instant, turning into a lonely ghost.
An equal death had descended upon him. Much like the atrocities Honsou had committed in the past, death was impartial and made no distinction.
Ten minutes later.
"What do you mean the outpost has lost contact?"
The Warsmith's brow was deeply furrowed, a sense of absurdity rising in his mind.
How long has it been?
The outpost had just been established, and it had gone silent immediately. Not even a single signal had been transmitted!
"What the hell is Honsou doing? How can he be this useless!"
He turned to the Tzeentchian Sorcerer standing nearby. The Sorcerer clearly shared his confusion; he closed his eyes to focus, channeling psychic energy to perform a divination.
A moment later, the Sorcerer opened his eyes, looking lost, and met the Warsmith's questioning gaze.
"What did you see?"
Can I say... I saw nothing at all? The Sorcerer thought. This wasn't right.
The Sorcerer remained silent for a moment before speaking ambiguously about the blurry images he had glimpsed: "...I saw a group of the False Emperor's lapdogs in golden armor appear. They tore that outpost apart in an instant."
"Golden armor?"
The Warsmith froze for a second, then realization dawned on him as he muttered, "Could it be... could it be..."
Suddenly, his eyes lit up with recognition.
"...The Imperial Fists? Those yellow-clad turtles with no sense of aesthetics!"