Sibylla let out a soft click of dissatisfaction.
However, this was within expectations. The convergence of xenos and heretics in a combined conspiracy was something she had mentally prepared for during her investigation, especially after discovering that the xenos had provided high-precision weaponry to the Chaos cultists.
Sibylla waved her hand. At her signal, a large number of Tempestus Scions turned their muzzles toward the incoming enemies.
A continuous torrent of fire erupted from the various calibers of weaponry held by the squads. Accompanied by the shrieking of grenades tearing through the air, those elite weapons from diverse origins began to exhibit terrifying efficacy. The Scions moved with tactically precise movements to form ranks; guided by servo-skulls, every trajectory of fire was calculated to a gruesome degree, pouring down upon the cultists in an exquisite display of lethality.
Under such horrific output, the limbs of the unarmored cultists shattered, their flesh and blood splattering across the floor. Their lives were being snuffed out every second, yet they continued to charge forward, their deranged laughter echoing through the vast, empty spaces of the underhive.
Hmm?
Everything seemed to be going well until a sudden mutation occurred.
Bolts of psychic witchfire, twisting in shape as if warping the very space around them, flew out like falling stars, tracing eerie arcs through the air. The intense heat scorched the atmosphere, leaving a pungent scent of ozone. Caught off guard, a heavy melee guardian wielding a storm shield was struck directly.
The searing witchfire burned beneath his carapace armor—in a way, even bypassing his integrated deflection shields—incinerating his flesh to ash and leaving only a hollow suit of armor to collapse with a hollow thud.
"Attention! There are psykers among the Chaos cultists!" the combat squad leader barked into the command node.
"Wait, this number..." Before he could finish, the group watched in shock as one cultist after another, wielding staves, appeared within the ranks with mocking grins. Their faces had mutated; some had grown nine eyes, each glowing with an eerie, pale blue light.
Barrage after barrage of psychic witchfire swept toward the Imperial defenders, and the intensity of the fire briefly suppressed the outnumbered Tempestus Scions.
How is this possible?
Pressured by the psychic flames, Sibylla was forced to pull back most of her attention, beginning to use psychic spells to pick off the hidden sorcerers. She merely focused her mind, and wherever her gaze landed, a sorcerer's neck would tear open out of thin air, flesh exploding in a spray of blood. Then a second, a third—one by one, the sorcerers burst like overripe fruit under her will.
It was a bit troublesome. The Inquisitor cast her gaze back toward the xenos Farseer, whom she had pinned down with suppressive fire.
No, not yet. Sibylla forced down her restless thoughts. She reached inside her trench coat and tightened her grip on the teleportation beacon once more. She still had to lure out a bigger fish.
However, Idranel knew nothing of this. Even as an Aeldari Farseer, he lacked the ability to read the mind of an Alpha-level human psyker. He took a sharp breath, his expression relaxing slightly. Although he was still pinned down by heavy fire and unable to escape, he could, in a sense, maintain his position.
Once his elite reinforcements arrived, or once the Chaos cultists gathering from across the hive surrounded these humans—everything would be fine.
Just then, a voice reached his ear. "What are these?"
Idranel turned to see the old Seer Ulthran, who had reappeared beside him as if by magic. He let out a cold snort and began to mock him. "You're still here?"
The old Seer ignored the remark. He had heard far more poisonous words in his nearly twenty thousand years of life. However, the Farseer's face was now tight with concern—something he cared about so much that he could easily ignore this minor offense.
"The psychic spells of those sorcerers... why do they look so familiar?" the old Seer asked in a low voice.
Hearing this, a gleam of pride flashed in Idranel's eyes. Despite his deep prejudice against his kinsman, he was delighted to see that the "all-knowing" elder was ignorant of something in the face of his brilliant plan. A sense of vanity occupied his heart, clouding his judgment.
"It is simple: I taught those stubborn monkeys," Idranel boasted. "How could those monkeys possibly understand the depths of Aeldari psychic knowledge? Revealing just a fraction is enough to elevate their strength by an entire tier."
"What did you say?" Ulthran could hardly believe his ears. Deep in his eyes, an undetectable flash of shock and sorrow appeared.
You call that psychic witchfire—which clearly originates from Tzeentchian Horrors—Aeldari magic?!
No, he had to be sure. He couldn't help but ask again, "Then, have you considered that even so, this number is too abnormal? There are psykers in almost every cultist squad. How was this achieved?"
"Quite simple. In a hive the Mon-keigh call 'Necromunda,' I found a special combat drug called 'Spook,'" Idranel gloated over his latest accomplishment. "This drug allows those monkeys to briefly awaken psychic talent. Of course, the price is rapid death."
He paused, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism. "If this drug is applied to those who already worship the gods of the Warp, their psychic power can be amplified significantly. Thanks to the inefficient and backward management of the Mon-keigh civilization, I can easily find an inexhaustible supply of talent. Applying this drug to strengthen the forces under my command—"
Idranel's voice grew louder. "One day, even if that Primarch is too cowardly to descend into this hive to face me, I will have mobilized an army large enough to pose a lethal threat to that so-called Palace!"
After saying this, he looked at the old Seer Ulthran. "...What is wrong with you?"
Ulthran remained silent. His face was like ten-thousand-year-old ice, and his eyes surged with complex emotions that Idranel could not decipher—sorrow, anger, pity, and deep despair.
He calmly gripped his Staff of Ulthamar. Along with a surge of psychic energy, one teleportation light after another ignited behind him. One by one, Aspect Warriors from Craftworld Ulthwé appeared behind the old Seer. Warp Spiders, Fire Dragons, Striking Scorpions, Howling Banshees, Dire Avengers, Guardians...
Their armor flashed with lethal light in the dimness, weapons drawn, filled with killing intent.
Idranel's eyes lit up. "It seems you have finally understood, my kinsman." He smiled and reached out his hands, attempting to welcome the elder who had made this "important decision." It seemed his eloquence was as sharp as it had been a thousand years ago. Even the oldest of Farseers had been persuaded by his logic.
As Idranel was immersed in his own world, he saw with confusion that Ulthran was looking at him with pity—a gaze one would use for a pathetic creature about to die.
"I am sorry to pronounce your death sentence, my kinsman," Ulthran said calmly.
Behind him, all the Aspect Warriors and Aeldari soldiers raised their weapons in unison, muzzles and blades aimed squarely at the bewildered Farseer.
"Believe me, this is for your own good. Once your Soulstone is placed into the Craftworld's Infinity Circuit, you will surely be moved to tears of gratitude toward me."