Vashtorr gently closed his eyes.
As his will surged, the powers he held as the master of malevolent arts within the Warp stirred great waves, expanding in overlapping ripples that enveloped the transport ship with unimaginable speed. Under the shroud of his consciousness, Vashtorr felt the entire vessel become an extension of himself.
He felt the roar of the plasma engines, the searing energy pulsing like a heart. He felt every stress point in the steel skeleton, transmitting rhythmic pulses of force through their vibrations. He felt the flow of the fuel lines, the viscous propellant surging through the pipes like blood through veins.
The whole ship came alive. Or rather, it had never been dead.
"Now, obey my command."
A supreme decree was issued.
At that moment—in the void.
All witnesses watched in horror as a seemingly ordinary transport ship turned its direction with a grace that completely defied physical common sense. Cold starlight spilled across its surface, making it look like a poisoned dagger.
Then... the engines roared. The incandescent plasma engines spat out blinding fire!
The ship completely ignored the tidal wave of incoming vox-transmissions. It charged out from the neatly arranged fleet waiting to enter the starport and lunged toward a target everyone could understand—the Phalanx.
How was this possible? What kind of heretic would dare issue such a reckless challenge to a divine creation of such immense power?
To any observer, the gap between the two was beyond measure; such an act seemed more like a moth flying into a flame, a suicidal endeavor. But—what if? In such a lightning-fast interval, none of the other ships could react in time. Fire upon it? Too late. For the conventional Imperial Navy command structure, the time taken for an order to travel from the bridge to the gunnery officers on the broadside decks would exceed the time remaining!
However, one warship was different. That was the Phalanx itself.
Pinpoints of energy light condensed in an instant—a herald of impending destruction. Incredible high-energy signatures flooded Vashtorr's perception. Every piece of evidence told him: High energy ahead!
Then, the Phalanx opened fire.
From one side of the grand star-fortress, as if the galaxy itself were opening its eyes, streaks of blinding light erupted. Because the attack was sudden, the Phalanx could not activate its more powerful, massive macro-cannons, but several lance arrays could be brought online.
In an instant, traveling at three hundred thousand kilometers per second, crimson lances pierced the sky, tearing through the eternal darkness of space. Over this short distance, they accurately struck the object flying toward the Phalanx.
No target could ignore such power. Even a battleship would struggle to survive such a salvo. One wouldn't even need to consider the fate of a Charter ship that theoretically lacked void shields—it should have been reduced to basic particles in the void.
But the reality was different.
Vashtorr looked up, his gaze seemingly piercing through the many obstacles within the cabins to look at the void shield array transmitter he had installed in the ship's core. At the center of that array, a powerful daemon was currently bound. It shrieked, roared, and wailed in agony. Its power was being continuously drained, and massive wounds appeared on its form, causing it to vanish into ash in an instant.
Then came the next one, and the one after that.
Relying on the "noble sacrifice" of these daemons, a thick void shield—one that should not have existed—surfaced in front of the ship like a glass dome. The energy of the lances poured violently onto it, but the barrier only trembled violently and cracked—before finally shattering.
Yet the ship continued to plunge toward its target.
There was no time for the Phalanx to fire a second salvo. At this moment, the ship had crossed the short distance and crashed into its target.
Those witnessing this scene were struck by a second question. What... was the point? To enter the Sol System under a false identity, this ship was not equipped with a giant adamantium ramming prow. Against the Phalanx's resilient defensive armor, it should have been like an egg hitting a rock; the only thing that should have shattered was the transport itself.
But then—a sight like a rising red sun shattered their thoughts.
Melta bombs.
Terrifying energy exploded at the prow—untold numbers of melta bombs detonated simultaneously upon contact. The red light rose like a brilliant sun, stinging the eyes of everyone who saw it. Under the influence of temperatures reaching millions of degrees Celsius, steel melted and armor flowed. The Phalanx's invincible hull was cleanly melted through, leaving a massive breach under the violent energy impact.
Like a nail, the entire transport ship embedded itself firmly within.
Was that... a boarding torpedo?
Indeed, this was Vashtorr's tactic—boarding. Or rather, treating a transport ship larger than a Lunar-class cruiser as a disposable boarding torpedo!
And he had a reason for this method. If judged solely by space combat, the Phalanx was nearly invincible. A single broadside from its batteries could cripple or sink a Blackstone Fortress that had lost its shields. Its thick void shields allowed it to trade fire with Gloriana-class battleships and maintain the upper hand.
However, at the same time, it had a flaw that could not be overlooked.
Under the influence of the Codex Astartes written by a certain someone, the Imperial Fists Legion, which once shook the galaxy, had been split into standard Codex Chapters. Their total number of Astartes was only around a thousand.
So, one might ask: how big is the Phalanx? The answer is... thousands. The unit is kilometers.
In the most ideal scenario, if one Imperial Fist Astartes were responsible for defending every kilometer, they still couldn't cover the entire space of the Phalanx. Do you think that's all? That was already the most optimistic calculation. Within the Imperial Fists, there was a specific force serving as its guards, known as the Phalanx Guard. The number of Astartes in this guard was—one hundred.
The rest of the Imperial Fists were usually inclined toward crusading across the galaxy.
How could he lose? When Vashtorr learned of this intelligence, he almost laughed out loud. As long as he moved fast enough, the fall of the Phalanx was practically guaranteed. As long as the reinforcements from Terra were occupied, this was a perfect plan.
He currently had thousands of Iron Warriors at his disposal, along with a massive number of daemon engines and countless daemons he had brought along.
Thousands against one hundred. In this battle, the advantage is mine.
Finally, the transport ship came to a halt. It was like an arrow shot from the void, its head buried deep in the flesh of its prey. And the toxins contained within the arrowhead were about to play their critical role.
Vashtorr smiled slightly and stepped out. He looked around.
Dim lights flickered in the broken circuits; the edges of the metal bulkheads melted through by the melta charges were still dripping with glowing red iron, and alarms wailed shrilly in the distance. It was obvious that the interior of the Phalanx was currently in a state of chaos.
Beside him, Dantioch followed closely, his expression calm, his right hand tightly gripping the weapon at his waist. Behind them, the Iron Warriors filed out, heavily armed and armored, the lenses of their helmets gleaming with cold light.