It wasn't entirely the Warsmith's fault for making such a miscalculation. To him, it was the only logical conclusion.
To silently wipe out an outpost garrisoned by a hundred veteran Iron Warriors, fortified with Daemon Engines, in such a short window—and to do so without allowing a single distress signal to escape—was not a feat achievable by ordinary military forces. Add the "golden armor" into the mix, and the answer practically presented itself.
Because he had been adrift in the Warp, the Warsmith was unaware that the Adeptus Custodes had finally left the Imperial Palace in force. Thus, he drew the most familiar conclusion.
"Imperial Fists..."
His voice was a mixture of deep-seated hatred and a twisted, jagged delight.
The blood feud between the two Legions had been saturated by ten thousand years of history. From the rivalry and contempt between their Primarchs, Perturabo and Rogal Dorn, during the Great Crusade, to the cataclysmic Siege of Terra during the Heresy, and through ten millennia of slaughter across countless battlefields like the Iron Cage.
As a veteran of the Long War, the Warsmith had dealt with his yellow-clad cousins more times than he could count. A powerful sense of exhilaration replaced his initial shock. The war he was currently waging was a grand sacrifice to the Warp, intended to elevate him to the status of a Daemon Prince. What better offering could there be than the Imperial Fists, who had fought the Iron Warriors to the death for ten thousand years?
His original plan had been to strike the world of "Hydra Cordatus," an Imperial world housing a vast repository of gene-seed—including that of the Fists. It seemed fate had brought his enemies to him early.
"A perfect opportunity..." the Warsmith whispered.
He could already see himself bathed in the gifts of Chaos, returning to the Iron Lord's side in a new, immortal form, boasting of a glorious victory over their ancient rivals. The Imperial Fists capable of instantly annihilating Honsou's outpost had to be elites; slaying such foes would only double his glory.
With that thought, the Warsmith immediately activated an encrypted channel to summon his most trusted and brutal lieutenant.
Heavy footsteps echoed as a thick scent of blood and fire flooded the temporary command post. The newcomer was more massive than a standard Iron Warrior, his darkened armor crusted with dried gore. The snarling Mark of Khorne on his pauldron glowed with an ominous red light.
Kroeger. Ten thousand years ago, he was a Warsmith within Perturabo's "Trident." Now, he was utterly lost to the fury of the Blood God.
"My Lord," Kroeger's voice sounded like grinding gravel.
"Kroeger, traces of what appear to be Imperial Fists have surfaced to the east. Honsou's outpost has been erased." The Warsmith pointed to the dead signal on the tactical display, his tone chilling. "I want you to take your grand battalion to that sector immediately. Find them, surround them, and use every method at your disposal to crush them! Just as you defeated that Imperial Fist Captain, Fafnir Rann, at the Lion's Gate Spaceport ten thousand years ago!"
"Fafnir Rann... I still remember the taste of his blood." Kroeger's oculars flared with a sudden, violent intensity. He let out a low, guttural laugh. "And this time, there won't be another Sigismund jumping in to interfere."
Grinning savagely, Kroeger turned and strode out of the command post with thunderous steps.
The room fell quiet again, save for the hum of servers and the muffled thumping of distant artillery. The Warsmith watched Kroeger leave, confident in the efficiency of his champion.
However, the Tzeentchian Sorcerer, who had been watching in silence, shifted slightly. A psyker's intuition brought a wave of inexplicable unease—not a clear prophecy, but a lingering dread. In fact, the visions regarding these "Golden Warriors" remained blurred and indistinct, which was highly irregular.
"My Lord," the Sorcerer began cautiously. "Forgive my intrusion... but perhaps now is the proper time to use the 'Contract' and summon the projection of the Lord's avatar. Rather than spreading our forces thin, it would be wiser to ensure a certa—"
"What?" The Warsmith snapped his head around, locking a crimson gaze on the Sorcerer. "Are you questioning my judgment, or do you believe Kroeger will lose to a mere handful of Imperial Fists?"
Cold killing intent filled the room. To suggest that the Iron Warriors might fail against the Imperial Fists—especially during a revenge mission the Warsmith had meticulously planned—was an insult.
Feeling the pressure, the Sorcerer lowered his head. "No, my Lord. I meant no such thing. I only suggest that in the face of any variable, preparing a retreat or extra security is the path of wisdom. After all..."
His words cut off.
Not because he ran out of things to say, but because an unheralded aura of death, as tangible as ice water, instantly soaked the command room. The Sorcerer's psychic senses shrieked in warning, yet he could not pinpoint the source of the danger.
The Warsmith felt it too. His massive frame tensed, his hand gripping his power maul so tightly the energy field hummed with instability.
It was too quiet.
The cacophony of Kroeger's troops mobilizing outside had vanished completely. A deathly silence blanketed the command post.
Then—
Schlick.
A faint, horrifying sound of cutting came from outside the heavy metal doors. This was followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor.
The Warsmith and the Sorcerer fixed their eyes on the door. There was no thunderous breach, no alarm, no challenge from the guards, and no screams. The door slid inward silently, opening a narrow gap.
A head rolled slowly across the floor, tracing a jagged, dark red smear on the cold metal. it came to a stop at the Warsmith's feet, facing upward.
The face was contorted, frozen in a mask of extreme shock and unbelievable terror. The crimson oculars were dark. At the severed neck, the cut was impossibly smooth, as if cleaved instantly by a high-energy blade.
It was Kroeger.
The Khorne Berzerker who had just marched out to slaughter "Imperial Fists" was now a rolling head.
How is this possible?!
A chill raced up the Warsmith's spine. He knew Kroeger's strength well—he was a master of slaughter favored by the Blood God, leading his most brutal shock troops. How much time had passed since he left this room?
Minutes? No...
A terrifying and, in this moment, perfectly logical realization wormed its way into the Warsmith's mind like a venomous snake.
As if to validate his thought, the doors swung wide.