Cadian System, Bridge of the Fist of Iron.
On the ninth day of the Cadian Campaign, this Gloriana-class battleship had become the brain of the entire theater. The unceasing mechanical hum, the rising and falling commands over the vox, and the constantly refreshing data on the holographic projections marked a war of attrition that swept across the entire system with increasing fury.
Astartes sergeants from the Iron Hands moved through the corridors, their iron-gray power armor still stained with residue from the previous day's boarding actions. Imperial Navy commanders crowded around tactical projectors, pushing green light points representing fleet formations toward designated coordinates.
Everyone would occasionally look up. Their gazes of reverence passed through the flickering data streams to rest on the massive, oppressive figure at the highest point of the bridge.
Ferrus Manus. The Son of the Gorgon. Primarch of the Iron Hands Legion.
He stood there like an iron statue cast into the bridge's structure. In these nine days, everyone had witnessed the true meaning of being a "Son of God." It was a realm beyond mortal reach. A strategic vision that saw the whole picture, battlefield reactions that changed in an instant, the capacity to process massive amounts of information, and a decisiveness that crushed all opposition—every trait required of a legendary commander was magnified to a near-miraculous degree in the Primarch.
At this moment, Ferrus's gaze rested on the main holographic projection.
Since the planet-shaking duel between the Hope and the Morning Wood, the massive Chaos fleet had behaved like a pack of sharks smelling blood. Using the spatial turbulence torn open by the exchange between the two ultimate warships, they began an endless cycle of probing and biting at the Imperial defense lines. They used light frigate squadrons as tentacles, constantly testing every possible weak point in the Imperial perimeter. These high-speed groups cruised along the outer edges of the Imperial lines; if a sub-fleet's formation loosened even slightly, they would concentrate all fire like a poisoned dagger.
Vox-jamming and deceptive operations spread across the system. Warp whispers polluted astropathic communications, and boarding alarms sounded nearly every minute on the frontline ships.
In the most dangerous instance, the Chaos forces used the Hope as a spearhead, launching a suicidal charge toward a core Imperial defense line. They forcibly dragged the intercepting Morning Wood into the heart of the Imperial formation. The aftermath of the two ultimate warships clashing instantly tore a gap in the rigid Imperial array. The Imperial lines shuddered violently under that impact.
But every calculation was crushed by Ferrus Manus. He rewove the defense lines in a way that seemed almost prophetic. Retreated fleets were dismantled, reorganized, and redistributed, like a blacksmith reforging broken metal into a stronger shape. When the Chaos fleet tried to exploit the confusion, they crashed into an iron wall more lethal than before.
After that, Ferrus began his counterattack. Or rather, his invitation to trade pieces. The Son of the Gorgon was no longer satisfied with passive defense. He began to actively push the Phalanxes to the front lines, using their endurance to force the exposure of elite Chaos vessels. Under his command, the vast Imperial fleet—once known for being rigid and heavy—exuded a fluidity and ferocity rarely seen in Imperial history.
With every exchange, Chaos bled. The resources of the Imperium, meanwhile, were infinite.
The bustle on the bridge continued. The preparation for this campaign had been pushed forward under absolute secrecy by the High Lords of Terra and Guilliman's logistics department. To avoid drawing the gaze of the Four Chaos Gods to Cadia too early, they had not broadcast a general call for reinforcements, gathering only the basic Phalanx groups through secret orders.
However, the movement of the Chaos army's full strength could not be hidden forever. When the entire galaxy felt the Warp tremors emanating from the Eye of Terror, countless loyalists realized this was a battlefield where they could offer their lives to the Emperor and win glory.
Consequently, countless Imperial Navy elements, Mechanicus forces, and Astartes Chapters dropped their ongoing crusades to answer the call. Fleets arrived from the Shield of Terra, the Eye of Terror Watchers, the Cadian Fleet, the Scarus Fleet, and the Agripinaa Fleet. Over ten different Astartes Chapters appeared, including the Angels of Eradication, the White Consuls, the Relictors, the Night Watch, and the Subjugators. The fleet elements included the Black Templars' Eternal Crusade fleet, the Space Wolves' Blackmane Great Company, and fleets from the Blood Angels and Iron Hands.
To counter this convergence, the Chaos Legions also increased their stakes. Magnus the Red's Thousand Sons fleet arrived, with the Gloriana-class battleship Photep among them. Simultaneously, the Abyss-class battleship Trisagion of the Word Bearers appeared. Another Gloriana-class battleship of the Black Legion, the Will of Eternity, led the remaining fleet Abaddon had not taken to Pandorax, along with three Blackstone Fortresses previously left to guard Abaddon's home base.
The sheer volume of ships accumulated by both sides caused observers on Cadia to lose interest in counting vessels below the frigate class, focusing instead on cruisers and above. Even Astartes heroes who had returned from death and experienced the Great Crusade were awestruck by this scale. One rare fleet battle after another unfolded. Ships carrying ten thousand years of glory were swiftly laid to rest in the sea of stars.
Yet, it was clear that the scales of the battlefield were tipping toward the Imperium. Over a thousand Phalanx star fortresses were, in themselves, unreasonable war machines. These mobile fortresses possessed void shields thick enough to withstand a full salvo from a Gloriana-class ship. The iron line they formed meant that any Imperial ship damaged in a firefight could retreat into the depths of the formation to repair and quickly return to combat. Every Chaos charge broke against this wall, incurring unbearable casualties.
Furthermore, time was not on the side of Chaos. The dawn of victory was clear in the eyes of every Imperial soldier. Everyone believed that victory belonged to the Imperium.
Confidence permeated the bridge of the Fist of Iron. Except for one person.
Ferrus Manus stood at the highest point of the bridge, his gaze still fixed on the burning void. His brow furrowed slightly. Something was wrong. His right hand rose unconsciously, lightly brushing his neck. Even though he had been reborn through Adam's reality-warping power, the phantom pain of the strike delivered by his closest brother on Isstvan V remained like a maggot in his marrow.
This was not the fighting style of his old friend.
Ferrus's brow tightened further. This felt more like the style of Perturabo. Fulgrim would not fight like this. That purple-and-gold bastard who pursued perfection would either take victory flawlessly at the very start of the battle or design a drama of interlocking schemes, leaving his enemies to die in the humiliation of a revealed trick.
Ferrus's mind operated at the speed of an activated cogitator array. Infinite data surged, compared, and reorganized in his head. He pulled all combat information from the last nine days and analyzed it at a speed far beyond any mortal commander.
A process of elimination. As the direct Chaos commander in this campaign, the person playing this game against him could only be one of them.
Angron? Impossible. The Butcher's Nails had burned that man's brain into a lump of meat capable only of rage. Magnus? Possible. His talent in the psychic arts was unquestionable, but in fleet command—Ferrus sneered inwardly. Mortarion? A decent commander, but since the Garden of Nurgle was scorched by the Emperor's fire, Ferrus doubted the man had the heart to sit in the command throne.
So it could only be Fulgrim. This was fate. The fate between them.
If it was Fulgrim, why was the style like this? Ferrus's thoughts dove deeper. He began to switch perspectives. If I were Fulgrim, if I were that perfection-seeking bastard, what would I do?
His thoughts stopped abruptly. A flash of insight struck him.
Wait. Magnus's Thousand Sons fleet had arrived late, only after the battle broke out. Why? This did not fit Magnus's style.
Unless—
Ferrus's pupils contracted suddenly.