The Lord of Change was somewhat confused.
What is going on?
It looked around at the humans and Aeldari before it, a sense of absurdity rising in its mind. Faced with such a powerful daemon army of Tzeentch, shouldn't they be trembling? Shouldn't they be kneeling for mercy or struggling in despair?
It had planned to toy with these suicidal ants—perhaps offering a few humiliating conditions, like kneeling to kiss its toes, killing each other for its amusement, or performing a ridiculous dance on the spot. But now, these people just stared back with expressionless faces, making things quite difficult.
No matter. The Lord of Change shook its avian head, tossing the thought aside. This had to be an illusion. Its plan was perfect. Even if the Great Changer of Ways were to see it personally, He would surely marvel at it and bestow His supreme favor.
Although there had been some hiccups—such as the accidental exposure of that foolish Aeldari Farseer—it was all still part of the plan. Great Tzeentch governed all change; it was perfectly normal for twists to occur. In its long daemonic life, it had grown accustomed to this. Or rather, any daemon that couldn't adapt was unworthy of being a Lord of Change and would have vanished into ash long ago.
However, the current situation was indeed a bit different. The Lord of Change scrutinized the battlefield once more. It truly couldn't see any possibility for the enemy to turn the tide. Even if a brainless Horror or a Chaos Spawn looked at this situation, they would reach the same conclusion.
It couldn't lose. How could it?
The disparity in strength was immense—it had hundreds of Tzeentchian daemons under its command, and an endless stream of fanatic corpses behind it was being transformed into new daemons. The opposition was merely a group of Aeldari Aspect Warriors and a squad of human elite soldiers. Even with those two powerful psykers, they were only putting up a deathbed struggle. It could win by simply trampling over them.
How could it possibly lose?
Yet, why was it that in such a desperate situation, not a single trace of panic appeared on their faces?
The Lord of Change's gaze swept over the Aeldari. The old Seer Ulthran was calm, even having the leisure to straighten his robes.
Ulthran was indeed not panicked. Ever cautious, he had made absolute preparations before infiltrating Holy Terra. He carried a relic extremely precious even among the Craftworlds—a portable temporary Webway portal, sufficient to evacuate his forces with ease.
As for the Inquisitor, her remaining so composed at this moment was truly remarkable. If he brought her into the Webway and saved her life later, he might gain a shred of goodwill, which could assist his future plans. After all, her psychic power—even to a Farseer who had lived for twenty thousand years—was the pinnacle of what a mortal could achieve. Not only was its scale immense, but its stability was something he had rarely seen, rivaling Seers who had spent ages honing themselves on the Path. It was simply absurd.
The Lord of Change's eyes fell on Sibyll. She looked relaxed, with a faint, ghost of a smile on her lips.
Something was wrong. The Lord of Change couldn't help but grow tense. It watched Sibyll's movements closely as she unhurriedly pulled an object from her trench coat pocket.
Is that... a Warp beacon?
The Lord of Change froze for a moment, then burst into laughter. "What are you thinking? You're not going to do what your Inquisition colleagues do—mess around with Warp teleportation and try to pull out a squad of Custodes, are you?"
It laughed so hard its wings shook. Take it away! It had tasted that trick enough lately!
If Sibyll could think of it, other Inquisitors certainly could too. Using oneself as bait—was there any Inquisitor in the Imperium who feared death? Previously, the conditions hadn't allowed for it, but now they would definitely show the heretics the meaning of cruelty!
"That move is devious to the extreme, and many of my kin have suffered for it on Terra!" The Lord of Change stopped laughing, a gleam of pride in its eyes. "So, I am well prepared! Why don't you check the current state of the Warp? Any Warp teleportation has been shielded by my psychic spells! So, what other tricks do you have?"
It looked at Sibyll mockingly, waiting for despair to wash over her face. Then, the Lord of Change watched in surprise as Sibyll casually tossed the beacon aside like a piece of useless trash.
"You may have misunderstood something, heretic." Sibyll was composed, her voice as calm as if she were discussing the weather. "That was merely a signal—or rather, a marker. Nothing more."
What? The Lord of Change blinked.
"The real teleportation was completed long ago."
As she finished speaking, a dark green dimensional rift slowly began to take shape behind Sibyll. The gate emitted an eerie glow, with arcs of energy not belonging to this dimension dancing around its edges.
The Lord of Change's pupils contracted violently.
Clang.
A golden step emerged from the portal. First to be revealed was a foot covered in golden plate. The craftsmanship was exquisite; every leaf of armor was a flawless work of art, inscribed with ancient heraldry and litanies.
Leonardo stepped out. Behind him were three Achilles-pattern Contemptor Dreadnoughts. The behemoths lumbered through the portal, each step making the ground tremble. Their armor was so thick it looked capable of withstanding planetary impacts, and the heavy weapons mounted on their arms gleamed with lethal light.
The Lord of Change's beak opened, but it could make no sound. How is this possible?
To the side, the Aeldari warriors who were preparing to retreat were equally shocked. As Aeldari, they naturally recognized what this was—the technology of their ancient nemesis, the Necrons! A dimensional portal!
Why were these humans able to master it? Are they cheating?
A galaxy of thoughts appeared in Ulthran's mind. He had lived for nearly twenty thousand years and witnessed countless miracles and absurdities, but the scene before him still exceeded his understanding.
The Farseers who had been to Macragge had always harbored a doubt: how had the so-called Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, bypassed the interference of the Chaos Gods and reached Holy Terra so quickly? Now, looking at this sci-fi scene, he seemed to have a guess.
But was it truly possible? The humans... had mastered Necron technology?
The Lord of Change sized up the uninvited guests. Fine—in reality, there were only three Dreadnoughts, the leading Custodian, and two others following closely. But...
It thought for a moment. A smile was squeezed onto its face. "Hee... can we reconcile?"
"At this moment? Heretic, you must be joking." Leonardo snorted, gripping his Guardian Spear. The blade emitted the faint blue glow of a molecular decomposition field.
The Lord of Change's smile froze on its face.
Half an hour later.
The Greater Daemon of Tzeentch lay helplessly on the ground. It had been bisected at the waist by a Guardian Spear, half its body slumped in a pool of glowing blue daemonic blood. The daemons it had summoned had long since been annihilated—the Horrors burned, the Screamers cut down, and even the Mutalith Vortex Beast had been reduced to scrap by the Dreadnoughts' heavy weaponry.
Above it, Leonardo stepped on its chest, aiming his sharp blade at its head. The Lord of Change looked up and shouted weakly, "Do not think you have won! I will return!"
"I'm afraid you shouldn't dream that dream," Leonardo said coldly, swinging the power blade down heavily.
The moment the blade severed the head, he saw a strange smile appear on the daemon's face.
BOOM!!!
A massive tremor shook the area.
What? Leonardo steadied himself, looking around warily. The Aeldari had already used the chaos of the battle between the Custodes and the daemons to retreat; only the human forces remained.
But everyone was filled with confusion. The earth was shaking. The tremor came from deep underground, from the very bottom of the hive, from...
What happened? Leonardo recalled the expression on the daemon's face. Another backup plan?
The Imperial Palace.
Guilliman, who was writing furiously amidst mountains of documents, suddenly looked up. His pen stopped in mid-air, his gaze seemingly piercing through the palace walls, through the rock strata of Terra, and through the veil of reality, looking toward the source of the vibration.
"It's finally here," he murmured.
"Yes, indeed it is." In a nearby seat, Adam stood up and stretched his limbs. "It seems that no matter how tightly we suppress them, we can't stop the probes of the Chaos Gods. A slip-up in a thousand calculations."
During this time, having nothing better to do, he had been watching Guilliman work with great interest. To be honest, it was quite a good pastime. But now, he finally had real work to do.
"However, those Chaos Gods would never imagine that this is our opportunity." Adam walked to the window and looked at the distant sky. "This will be a massive turning point in the fate of humanity."
"How are your preparations?" The Lord Regent looked at the existence he himself could not fully fathom. "If everything goes perfectly according to your plan, it's one thing. But if we fail and let Vashtorr escape into the Warp, then..."
Guilliman paused. "You will be directly exposed to the Chaos Gods, rather than remaining hidden behind the scenes as you are now."
"This is a great battle concerning the future of all mankind," Adam replied. His face remained calm, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. "In that case, let the storm rage even more fiercely."