Inside the Phalanx, the killing intent had solidified into something tangible.
Without a moment's hesitation, the Astartes present—all legends who had survived great battles whose scale was among the few in human history—sprang into action. Although they were joining forces against a single foe, their peerless martial skills allowed them to unite with a synergy so perfect they moved as one.
The instant Vashtorr let out his roar, nearly all the besieging Astartes moved simultaneously.
Clad in power armor, the whine of servo-motors grew loud as their internal strength flowed naturally, their power surging once and then twice more!
The massive scythe traced a bizarre arc of death through the air. Silver psychic light condensed into solid blades that pierced forward like meteors. Chainaxes roared, tearing through the air. Power swords moved with precision and elegance. In the blink of an eye, the negligible distance between them was bridged!
As the primary attacker, Sigismund—
He did not move. He simply stood there, black sword slightly raised, those hollow eyes locked onto Vashtorr's neck, waiting for a specific, inevitable moment.
In an instant, a dense web of blade-light and sword-shadows enveloped Vashtorr's massive daemonic frame.
Slash!
Slash, slash, slash, slash, slash!
Attacks from different directions, different angles, and different weapons precisely sealed off all space for evasion, covering every vital point on Vashtorr's body.
But Vashtorr's response was extremely simple. He chose neither to dodge nor parry.
Chain-teeth tore through hide, ripping large holes in his body where alloy skeleton and daemonic flesh intertwined. The long scythe pierced through his abdomen, the blade emerging from his back. Power sword strikes left deep, bone-exposing scars on his ribs. The chainaxe gnawed savagely at his knees, sending sparks flying everywhere.
A dense network of wounds appeared on his body. Yet, Vashtorr endured, standing firm. These injuries, which would have banished an ordinary Greater Daemon back to the Warp, were borne by this Warp demigod through gritted teeth.
If I move now, I lose. The man with the black sword posed the greatest threat, and his attack power was beyond what the others could produce. Vashtorr knew exactly which hits he could take and which he couldn't.
But—this hurts so much...
Vashtorr's iron pupils contracted violently. The immense agony left him speechless, his previous arrogance utterly extinguished. To put it simply, after taking a combined assault from these heroes, Vashtorr's vision cleared up instantly.
It could only be said that when a person is unlucky, there is no limit to it—even for a Warp demigod. Vashtorr began to question his existence.
This isn't right. I am a Warp sub-god, the master of the domain of Soul-Forges, the Great Presence of the future Warp... Why? How am I being beaten like this? Just a moment ago, it was a scene of vibrant growth and expansion, but in the blink of an eye, has this place become my grave?
He did not understand. There were too many strange things happening. Putting aside the attacker who had just appeared—whose strength was so explosive it didn't seem possible for an Astartes—what was the deal with these other Astartes? Why was each of them strong enough to surpass an ordinary Chapter Master? Where did they come from? Why had they been unheard of until now? Was this a scheme by that Inquisitor who appeared behind him to lock the Warp?
Vashtorr had some understanding of the Imperium of Man, and his instincts told him something was wrong. How could someone who had been lurking in the shadows for so long be targeted by a mere mortal!
Thoughts flashed like sparks. Vashtorr had no time to think. He raised his newly repaired mechanical hammer, and as the scorching, smoldering fire at the head was about to burn with a blinding light—he was interrupted.
Dense runic chains surged from the void, wrapping around his body and causing his Warp energy to stagnate! Zharost held his crystal scepter high, the silver psychic light turning into solid chains that bound Vashtorr's arms, wings, and neck!
Sigismund finally seized the opportunity. He moved.
That strike was so fast it seemed to transcend time itself. The black sword did not whistle, made no sound as it broke the air, and gave no warning. It was simply—there.
Then, it impaled Vashtorr's chest.
"ROAR—!!!"
Vashtorr let out an inhuman shriek, a sound mixed with the screech of tearing metal and the death wails of a daemon. He swung his claws violently, the iron talons tearing the air as they slammed toward Sigismund!
Sigismund withdrew his sword and retreated. As the black sword pulled free from the wound, a spray of scorching daemonic blood followed, sizzling as it hit the floor with a corrosive hiss.
Vashtorr staggered back a few steps, clutching his chest. The wounds on his iron body were deep enough to see bone, and the edges of the flesh torn by the black sword showed a bizarre charred state—that sword was damaging his very essence.
But he did not fall.
Vashtorr gritted his teeth and utilized his Warp power with unprecedented strength. Soul-Forges, emerge!
A dense hail of melta-shells erupted from the massive mechanical hammer, spraying the surroundings like a curtain of rain! These melta warheads were not scattered aimlessly; they locked onto each attacker with tracking precision!
Normally, such a powerful attack would be enough to easily destroy anyone daring to challenge the God of Machines. But this time was different.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!
The blinding light of the melta explosions bloomed in the air. As the shockwaves expanded, the disruption fields on the warriors' blades vibrated. Under the exquisite control of their masters, every light-shell was intercepted in mid-air.
However, Vashtorr—who had just been used as a target dummy for testing damage—had no intention of succeeding with a single strike. He swung his hand heavily, roaring as a wave of Warp energy expanded outward from him!
In an instant, the corpses of the slaughtered Dark Mechanicum Skitarii began to twitch! Their eyes snapped open, burning with a crimson, mad fire. Suddenly empowered to an extreme degree, they rushed frantically toward the unsuspecting Iron Warriors!
The daemon engines underwent an even more terrifying transformation. Their sizes swelled, daemonic faces emerged on their armor plates, their cannon calibers doubled, and their claws grew thicker and longer. Blessed with immense power, they charged at the attackers, attempting to save their creator!
Even as Dantioch immediately reacted and began directing his forces to pin the daemons in place, Sigismund still heard heavy footsteps behind him. He did not turn; the image of the enemy appeared naturally in his mind.
Obliterators.
These Astartes, corrupted by Chaos, had fused their bodies with a vast array of ranged weaponry, possessing formidable firepower. They raised weapons fused with their hands, and a tide-like hail of bullets poured forth! The barrage covered everything, enveloping Vashtorr along with the other attackers!
Zharost calmly raised his hand. A psychic shield appeared before everyone. Silver light condensed into a translucent wall. Bullets struck it, stalled, shattered, and fell—every piece of ammunition stopped before that wall; none could penetrate it.
Vashtorr let out a low click of annoyance. It's not working again? The enemy understood him so well that his tricks were being countered over and over.
Ranged technological weapons could not harm him; he could absorb them into his daemonic body and repurpose them for a counterattack. These people clearly knew this, which is why they had used only melee weapons from the start. And now, that psychic shield had directly blocked his attempt to create chaos using the Obliterators' ranged fire.
Vashtorr roared and charged at the psychic shield, slamming his hammer into it! The silver light trembled violently, and web-like cracks appeared on the surface, but it did not break.
In that exact moment, the five Astartes figures pounced again.
Slash! Slash, slash, slash, slash!
Another round of blade-light. Blood exploded from Vashtorr's body—every strike precisely tore through his armor and pierced his flesh before withdrawing, pulling out more pitch-black blood. He staggered back, his iron wings drooping powerlessly.
Wait...
Feeling the increasingly intense pain and the holy power clinging to the wounds like maggots on bone, and remembering his previous experiences—those Imperial Fists who felt like Warp daemons... a thought flashed through Vashtorr's consciousness like lightning.
"...The Emperor?"
His voice was raspy, low, and filled with a fear he hadn't even realized he possessed. Yes, that would make everything clear. If it wasn't for that powerful entity who had been worshipped by human faith for ten thousand years—whose power was enough to wrestle with the Chaos Gods—who else would have such terrifying capability to set such an incredible trap?
Once this thought surfaced, it could no longer be suppressed. The more Vashtorr thought about it, the more logical it seemed.
Everything makes sense now! Could it be that this predecessor, who has traveled much further on the path to godhood than I have, saw something in the future? Is he so determined that he must eliminate me here? And he's striking first?
That's not right! I can negotiate! I can love the Imperium too!
"Wait, wait a moment..." he suddenly shouted, his voice carrying a hint of hysterical urgency. "I am willing to submit! As long as you are willing to help me ascend to godhood! I am also willing to become the 'Omnissiah' for humanity's use! I can even sign a contract—"
I want to become a god so badly!
Vashtorr's thinking was simple. Since the moment this guy sat on the Golden Throne, this was the first time He had truly reacted to the outside world! If he had His approval and gained the faith of the entire human galaxy... although he knew it was unlikely, Vashtorr had to consider if this was the only chance in his divine life!
However, naturally, the Creator received no response. Or rather, the only response was the swinging blades.
Garro's scythe tore a new opening in his side, Tarvitz's sword pierced his shoulder blade, and the World Eater's chainaxe gnawed savagely at his other leg.
"Hnnn-aaaaargh!" Vashtorr howled in pain, the rest of his words choked in his throat.
There's no other way. You forced my hand!
The Creator finally finished a ritual spell he had been secretly channeling. The massive amount of daemonic blood spilled on the floor earlier seemed to come alive at this moment. It wasn't simple blood, but the blood shed by a Warp sub-god—a sacrifice of his own essence. The blood writhed, spread, and seeped into every crack of the metal floor as if it had a life of its own.
And then—the entire hall came alive.
The iron pillars, the floor, the ceiling, and even the walls came alive at this moment. Twisted masses of metal rose from every corner, forming grotesque mechanical arms—some waving claws, some gnashing gears, some tipped with roaring muzzles, and some simply a mass of twisted metal tentacles. They were like the hands of zombies suddenly reaching out from the grave, striking at everyone present!
With Vashtorr's roar, these arms became more active and frenzied. It was as if this specific chamber within the Phalanx had become a living thing. Anywhere a technological creation existed, it was ruthlessly carrying out Vashtorr's will, attacking the enemies he loathed!
The Iron Warriors were entangled by these metal arms, the corpses of the Skitarii were torn apart, and even the daemon engines were caught in the crossfire of this madness.
Amidst this chaos, Vashtorr did not hesitate to slam his hammer heavily onto the floor! A massive melta-blast roared out, melting a large hole through the floorboards! Flames shot up, metal melted into scorching liquid flowing everywhere, and the edges of the hole glowed in a molten state. Below was a deeper chamber of the Phalanx—
This is my escape route!
Vashtorr leaped down in joy. And then, he saw a human who had suddenly appeared in front of him.
Adam leaned against the wall below with a playful expression on his face. He looked up at Vashtorr, whose tattered wings cast a large shadow on the floor in mid-air.
The two met each other's gaze.
Vashtorr: "???"
Time seemed to stand still at that moment.
"Sorry, this place is already full!"
Adam laughed and raised his right hand. In his palm, a miniature black hole had already condensed, aimed straight at the face of Vashtorr, whose expression was slowly turning to one of absolute horror!