Inside the Phalanx.
When a literal god of machines stepped into its corridors, the slumbering megastructure seemed to snap its eyelids open. Within the dim hallways, rows of illuminators flickered to life one after another. They bloomed in succession from near to far in a gesture bordering on pilgrimage. The light dispelled the shadows of long ages, illuminating the murals on the corridor walls—ancient histories depicting the glory of the Imperial Fists surfaced in the glow.
Dust floated slowly in the beams of light, like grains of time itself.
Vashtorr narrowed his eyes slightly. His will transcended the shackles of his physical shell, transforming into countless invisible tentacles. They raced along the light, surged through the void, poured into data channels, and leaped through cabling. At this moment, the obstruction of metal walls was non-existent to the Arkifane.
Computational power surged to its peak. Even if the logic-engines of every Mars Forge World were stacked together, they could not compare to the power Vashtorr displayed now. His will was a data-level apocalypse, unfolding in dimensions mortals could not comprehend. Its complexity and volume of information were enough to drive any senior Tech-Priest into eternal madness.
Information reassembled within his consciousness. Vashtorr snapped his eyes open.
He calmly spread his palm. Light bent and focused under his will, projecting the collected, cross-referenced, and repeatedly verified data into the air—a highly detailed three-dimensional structural map. The internal layout of the Phalanx. Every corridor, every chamber, every energy node, every void shield generator... all appeared vividly in the light.
That grand construction, the peak creation of humanity's Dark Age of Technology, was compressed and presented in Vashtorr's palm.
"Truly an incredible power."
Dantioch's voice sounded from beside him. He stared at the holographic map, his tone filled with genuine admiration. He even unconsciously tightened his grip on the weapon at his waist, his peripheral vision quietly scanning Vashtorr's form. Such authority over the path of machines forced even a hero of the Great Crusade to remain on guard.
Behind the Warsmith, the elites he had carefully selected—including several heroes who had left their names in the Great Crusade—stared straight ahead, acting as if nothing were happening.
However, Dantioch soon found a blind spot.
"So, aren't you a god of machines?" he asked, his tone neutral. "Since we have entered the Phalanx and you have accessed its systems, why not just claim it for your own immediately? Why not seize total control?"
Vashtorr's movements paused. "...Are you provoking me?"
Dantioch tilted his head slightly, his expression subtle. Provoke you? Why would I do that? I'm just worried that if you, the self-proclaimed god of machines, aren't up to the task, Lord Adam will be disappointed after we kill you. You dying is one thing, but we have much more to consider.
After a long moment, Vashtorr, clearly oblivious to Dantioch's true thoughts, finally spoke.
"This creation originates from the Dark Age of Technology; it possesses an extremely powerful Warp resonance. It has existed as the symbol of the 'Phalanx' for over ten thousand years. It has accumulated too much meaning, too much history, too much... faith."
His gaze fell on the light map, specifically on a blinking red dot.
"Indeed, this is not something I, who have yet to ascend the divine throne, can easily control right now. But—" He pointed his finger. "We only need to go here. The core of the Phalanx. Once I inject my scrapcode into it, I can take control of the entire Phalanx by right. It will become one of my most magnificent collectibles."
"Very well," Dantioch nodded. "Let's move out."
The forces from the transport ship moved quickly through the corridors aged by millennia. Due to the Imperial Fists' limited numbers, they were unable to stretch their defense to cover the entire Phalanx. Large areas had been sealed for later use—now, these areas became a clear path for the invaders.
Dim light brightened inch by inch under Vashtorr's will. In these corridors wide enough to accommodate super-heavy tanks, the Iron Warriors marched in file. Behind them were various daemon engines roaring in fury, their surfaces a chaotic blend of machine and flesh. Dark Mechanicum priests and Skitarii under Vashtorr's command wore black robes, their footsteps synchronized like a single entity.
The corridors were deathly silent, save for the constant thrum of marching feet.
As time passed and they crossed a vast distance, the Iron Warriors' auspex finally showed enemy life signals. They were in the hall just ahead. Scouting units sent earlier—Ruststalkers—had already reported back. The location of the hall was clearly designed by the masters of this place; all internal passages converged here, making it an exceptionally refined defensive pivot.
Vashtorr calmly snapped his fingers. He quickly found a breakthrough via a sensor platform inside the hall and captured the specific situation within. Moments later, the image of that hall appeared before everyone.
It was a heavily guarded position set by the Imperial Fists. The hall featured numerous hatches and a massive circular structure. Rings of elevated platforms extended from the walls, with the different levels connected by cables and stairs.
The Imperial Fists, masters of defense, had placed solid permanent bunkers and various automated turrets on every level. Vashtorr even saw several Land Raiders parked in extremely hidden positions—blind spots that could not be covered when attacking from the main entrance.
With such a defensive pivot, as long as the opposing commander was not incompetent, they could easily shatter any incoming enemy with concentrated fire.
"What do you think?" Vashtorr asked.
After looking at the image in silence, Dantioch said in a low voice, "I will show you the siege techniques of the Iron Warriors."
The words had just fallen when, following the throw of other Astartes, thick smoke erupted. The Iron Warriors stepped forward, raising their shields against the crossfire that swept the corridor like an iron broom. The roar of heavy weapons in their hands echoed through the metal halls. These were specialized Storm Shields, thick enough to withstand direct hits from anti-tank weaponry.
Bolter shells and las-fire exploded against the energy shields in bursts of fire, but the shield wall remained unshaken. The Astartes stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields overlapping into a wall of steel, grinding forward step by step.
Crushing subtlety with raw force.
"Suppressive fire!" Dantioch's voice exploded in the vox-channel.
Whirlwind missiles from Tyrant Siege Terminators launched, their tail flames weaving a magnificent web at the ceiling of the hall. The heavy fire points marked by Vashtorr—every automated turret, every bunker—were blown into fragments in a series of precision kills. The shockwaves of the explosions made the floor tremble and the steel wail.
The Imperial Fists' counterattack was equally fierce. Land Raiders roared from hiding, their lascannons' searing beams instantly piercing two Iron Warriors, literally vaporizing them.
But then, the movements of those tanks froze. Vashtorr stood calmly with his hand outstretched. Under his will, the machine spirits of the Land Raiders fell into chaos. No matter how frantically the crew operated the controls or prayed to the machine spirit, the steel beasts stood frozen—then, their turrets began to rotate.
The lascannons began firing wildly. Naturally, they fired toward the Imperial Fists' defensive lines. The searing beams instantly tore through the flank of the fortifications, vaporizing several Astartes along with their cover. A bloody gap was torn into the defense.
"Charge!" Dantioch pointed his sword forward.
The Iron Warriors roared as they surged into the gap. Bolters thundered at close range, chainswords tore through ceramite armor, and battle unfolded in every inch of space. The Imperial Fists fought to the death and did not retreat—even when suppressed, even with half their numbers dead, they stood like steel statues. Every Astartes' weapon spat fire until the final moment they were struck down.
Blood soaked the floor of the circular hall, mixing with smoke and dust into a thick mire.
When the last defender fell, Vashtorr frowned. There was no mockery, no taunting. Such behavior did not suit his arrogant nature—but Vashtorr had no time for that now.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
His will reached into the waves of the Warp, trying to seize the souls that had just dissipated to use as fuel for his forge.
...Nothing happened.
Those souls seemed to be pre-ordered and protected by an existence sitting upon the Golden Throne. The moment they entered the Warp, they were snatched away by a golden light so fast that Vashtorr could not even touch them.
How was that possible? This gave Vashtorr a feeling that was far too similar to a... Warp daemon.
That wasn't right. Wasn't that fellow always supposed to be disdainful of the godhood he so craved?
He tried to hack into the Imperial Fists' communication channels to search for the movement of their reinforcements. After all, if they defended this place so stubbornly, there should be a follow-up response; it was impossible for them to just die defending it.
But... there was no reaction. All channels were deathly silent. This wasn't because the enemy's defense was excellent; it was because they had no communication channels at all!
This abnormal result made the machine god's danger instincts throb. If this opportunity weren't so once-in-a-lifetime, involving the Ouroboros fragment, he would never have delved into such a dangerous place.
Wait, this foreboding feeling seemed to have appeared before. Vashtorr began to reminisce. Yes, it had appeared just before he launched the attack on the Phalanx from the transport ship, though he hadn't thought much of it then.
This time, he did not ignore it. Vashtorr gripped this instinctual warning firmly.
"What is wrong with you?" Dantioch, who was delivering coup de grâce shots to the Imperial Fists in the battlefield, immediately noticed his abnormality.
"Things aren't right," Vashtorr said solemnly. "Didn't you find the performance of those Imperial Fists strange?"
Dantioch narrowed his eyes slightly.
"...I have decided. We need to return to the wreckage of that transport ship now," Vashtorr continued. "I will use my power to modify the materials within, allowing me to tear a larger Warp rift and summon more daemon engines. We will proceed steadily, one step at a time—then, regardless of how strange this matter is, we will have a position to defend or attack from."
Dantioch fell silent. The situation turning so abruptly caught him slightly off guard.
"...All the military common sense I possess tells me this is a wrong decision. Speed is paramount. If we don't quickly deal with the lapdogs of the False Emperor and seize the Phalanx, the guards on Terra will surely react. Reinforcements might already be on their way."
"You aren't thinking of tearing up our contract right here, are you?" Dantioch said coldly, attempting to intimidate him.
After all, the plan Adam had initially set was to use seemingly real Astartes lives to gradually lull Vashtorr into a false sense of security, making him believe the Phalanx was within reach until he walked into the trap. He hadn't expected Vashtorr to actually notice something and stop moving!
Vashtorr: "On the contrary, this is the best decision I can make."
"You will regret this, Vashtorr!"
"I am the leader of this operation," Vashtorr snorted. "Do as I say."
Dantioch was somewhat helpless. A target suddenly changing their mind on a whim was indeed the hardest thing to prevent in tactics. In a mental communication, he immediately sent a quiet message to the distance—
"Lord Adam, what should we do now?"
A moment later, a reply came.
Adam: "Do not panic. This is part of the plan. I have prepared a full contingency."
What contingency? Dantioch had his doubts, but he knew this was not the time for questions. The Warsmith remained impassive, continuing to close in on Vashtorr along with the other squads.
Vashtorr was clearly not just talking. He immediately commanded his forces to reorganize their formation and begin moving in the opposite direction, retracing their steps.
Then—an abrupt change occurred.
BOOM!
At the side of the corridor, the plasteel wall that showed no gaps in the data scan exploded outward without warning. Fragments sprayed like buckshot. The surrounding Dark Mechanicum priests and Skitarii were caught unprepared; dozens were cut in half, and fragments of organs and cybernetic prosthetics flew everywhere!
Smoke and dust filled the air. A figure burst out from the haze.
The Black Sword of the Emperor streaked forward like flying light, thrusting directly at Vashtorr's head!