It had to be said — Necron technology was genuinely formidable. Even the basic weapons carried by the lower-tier Necron Warriors had improved the efficiency of the Imperium's interstellar warfare by a significant margin.
Angron's return hadn't come early — but a late return didn't necessarily mean a disadvantage.
Because of Perturabo, the various Legions had actually become somewhat less expressive in their individual specialities.
When you can just roll over everything with an iron tide and shove a volcano cannon in their face, who needs tactical nuance?
That said, tactics were still necessary. One couldn't be this wasteful of resources every single time.
And so boarding actions, decapitation strikes, and raids on enemy command centres remained essential tactics the human Imperium could not do without.
Like right now — Angron, with Kharn, Lhorke, and his bodyguard, was hitting the central command post of this hive city.
Two phase glaives swept from the hive's southern end to its northern end, from the upper hive down to the lower hive, and back again — completely forgetting what the objective actually was.
The Eaters of Worlds — all in Primarch-enhanced Tyrant Terminator plate — had followed their father into full frenzy.
Gauss rifles and phase weapons made them something like lions in a flock of sheep inside these hive defences, which frankly weren't all that impressive.
In truth, Angron's education at Macragge should not have left him this savage — but these dregs had really pushed it.
What did they mean, demanding the highest possible treatment? Territorial and political autonomy had to remain in their own hands? And the Imperium was supposed to allocate a portion of annual tax revenue to support their local development? And furthermore—
Angron had been becoming genuinely more refined. But the moment he heard those demands, for just a fraction of a second, he felt the Butcher's Nails had actually been quite useful.
The faint residual sting in the back of his skull told him: it was time to ease humanity's population burden somewhat.
And so the God-Engines had been unleashed. The armoured columns had begun grinding everyone foolish enough to be on this planet into the earth.
Angron kicked the palace doors open and looked at the trembling old man on the throne above — and the acrid stench of yellow fluid — with undisguised contempt.
He genuinely could not understand how a hive city of this military capability had thought it appropriate to make demands of the Imperium, and even entertained thoughts of resisting.
That kind of baseless arrogance left everyone bewildered.
But reality doesn't always operate on logic. Some people's arrogance has no foundation whatsoever — like a part-time intern making less than three thousand a month who insists on exaggerating his abilities in front of friends, entirely oblivious to how his grotesque manner and creeping mentality have already driven those friends to the very edge of their patience.
You genuinely couldn't believe such a person could make it this far in life without having been beaten up.
Angron had no interest in looking at this kind of creature a moment longer. He drove his phase glaive into the floor, drew a custom oversized gauss blaster from his hip, fired three shots, and disintegrated both the old man and the throne together.
"Lhorke — clean up the aftermath quickly. Contact the rear construction forces for follow-up."
"Yes, Father."
Angron walked through the burning hive city. The Legion had already swept through it. Severed limbs and rivers of blood was, if anything, underselling it.
If Guilliman or Lady Yuton ever found out, they would almost certainly condemn him as a savage and revoke his command authority again.
But Angron didn't regret it. Some people — until your blade was actually inside their neck, they would assume you were bluffing and deliberately stick their head out further.
For that kind of creature, early extinction was genuinely a benefit to human civilisation. That was how Angron consoled himself. It counted, indirectly, as a contribution to humanity's future development.
The only annoying thing was that phase glaives had poor feedback when cutting. Whatever you hit was torn apart instantly — the sharpness was so extreme that Angron sometimes felt like he hadn't connected at all.
Chainswords and chainaxes had feeling. The howl of the chain teeth. The resistance when the blade bit into flesh and bone — the tactile response feeding directly back through your hands. That sensation was particularly addictive for anyone who preferred a wide, sweeping combat style.
But phase weapons were genuinely superior in function. In that respect one couldn't be selfish. A good weapon could send a warrior's combat effectiveness straight through the ceiling.
Looking at the devastation across the entire planet, Angron felt he really needed to cleanse his spirit somehow.
Right. Decided. Going home to write two poems before sleeping tonight.
He walked across ground where the pooling blood had risen almost to the level of his boots, thinking exactly this.
"Father — there's no need to board these xenos. Our fleet is sufficient to destroy them."
Kosswain very much wanted to talk Lheor out of it. The situation was already clear — however powerful these Cravian xenos were, there was no way they could escape from them.
"Their abilities are unusual. That parasitic capability — even if we kill every last one of them here, I suspect they still have some method of resurrection."
"I need to deal with the Cravian king personally — with my own hands — before I can be at ease."
"Did you see what they did to those worlds? We've already issued thirteen Exterminatus orders. These xenos are too dangerous. I must resolve them myself. You take command of the fleet."
Knowing his father was increasingly set on this, Kosswain could only look toward Garad, Kai, and the others — hoping they would keep their father safe.
"Let Duriel go with you. Since the Cravians are skilled in psychic domination, I believe he can be of use."
The Lion didn't refuse this time. Though he considered it unnecessary — the boarding party included Castellax and Thanatar automata — there was no harm in it.
"Where exactly are we? Yesugei — what's the situation down there? Jubal?"
Jaghatai Khan asked his sons, who had gone down to the surface to scout.
"Father — this place is strange. The population has been completely dominated, but we cannot locate the source of the control — no device, no origin point."
"And we can't find a single trace of xenos presence either. We believe they're buried underground — and this is a psyker-specialised xenos species of considerable power. We may need fleet orbital strike support."
"Understood — stay alert. The Castellax and Thanatar forces have already deployed, and the Titan and Knight Lances are preparing for atmospheric insertion. Something is very wrong with this planet. If anything happens, find cover immediately — don't be heroes."
"Understood, Father."
Jubal cut the channel, exchanged a look with Yesugei, and looked at the city-state standing before them. In the end, they didn't force their way in.
Beneath the ground, creatures with heads resembling enormous cephalopods were closing in on the White Scars — seeking the moment to strike.
"Gahet, Auguston, Hill — take your fleets immediately. The Osirian xenos cannot be allowed to escape. I'll follow shortly with a flanking force."
Guilliman had received word from an expedition fleet that the Osirian xenos were at war with an Ork empire. He had sworn to shatter this species completely — and the moment the report arrived, he gave orders for his sons to move at once.
He had sworn it. He would destroy them utterly. Let those fallen sons rest.
But right now he couldn't free his hands — the Sahaduini xenos were locked in fierce combat with him. These Space Shark-kin were genuinely capable: carrying their water tanks on their backs and still matching most of his Primarch-enhanced sons in combat.
But that was as far as it went. The Castellax and Thanatar would teach these creatures that the Imperium was not something they could touch — and that the Imperium never forgave those who enslaved humanity.
No xenos survived beneath the Imperium's endless fleet. If any did — unleash the Exterminatus without hesitation.
Sactrada.
Ferrix led the First Warband here, under orders to eliminate the Hrud infestation that had taken root.
These xenos were dangerous. Their entropic field and extraordinarily powerful technology gave Ferrix genuine cause for concern.
If his father hadn't already uploaded every known characteristic of this species into the logic engines — and sent along some very useful countermeasures — this engagement would likely have gone badly.
The enormous generation ship, comparable in scale to a small continent, surrounded by its terrible entropic field — which had already reduced an asteroid belt to dust on the journey in — was deeply unsettling.
He had serious doubts whether fleet weapons could even reach it before being corroded and rusted away in transit.
Under previous circumstances, Ferrix would have been genuinely at a loss against something like this. But now—
Ferrix looked at the micro-black hole bomb in his hand. His father had refined and tested it again. Its range and area of effect were now controllable — nothing like the uncontrollable situation during the assault on Randan.
A thin smile of anticipation crossed his face.
You use entropy, do you? Planning to flee with your entire people? Let's see whether your capability is stronger — or whether a black hole's gravitational pull is stronger.
He loaded the micro-black hole bomb into a hundred-metre macro-cannon shell. The shell fired. Inside the Hrud's entropic field it began corroding and rusting almost immediately — but whatever stimulation the field provided to the black hole device inside caused it to condense rapidly into a small black sphere.
The sphere began to grow.
The entire Hrud fleet was irresistibly drawn in, compressed, and swallowed by the expanding singularity.
Wordless dread passed through both the expedition fleet and the Warband. No one could look at something that devoured all things without feeling it somewhere in their core.
It was a shame — based on his father's descriptions, this species' technology did have some value. But the hazard level was too extreme. Never get close if you can help it. Spot them, issue Exterminatus immediately.
Ferrix produced a circular device. He sent it forward via drone. The moment it emerged, the black hole began to contract — collapsing into a small black sphere and disappearing into the device.
How does Father even make these things?
Ferrix looked at the captured singularity — a tiny, weightless black sphere — and struggled to comprehend how his father had compressed something this catastrophically powerful into something this small. With zero apparent mass.
Regardless. The campaign continues.
He set the thought aside and directed the fleet onward.
"So the xenos we're about to face are extraordinarily twisted and exceptionally powerful?"
Fulgrim looked at the image of the purple, four-armed, serpent-tailed creatures transmitted by the logic engine — and instinctively showed revulsion.
Filthy abominations. Fouling his eyes just looking at them.
"Correct. The species known as the Laer are formidable — and they practise extreme forms of torture and killing that actually exceed the Dark Eldar in depravity. There are no humans on this planet worth saving anymore, and the strategic value is negligible."
"My recommendation is immediate Exterminatus. Bipolar cyclonic torpedoes — destroy the planet outright. This world, by every indication, resembles very closely what the Warmaster has warned us about in terms of Chaos corruption. Rather than risk anyone going down there, we should resolve this permanently while the planet's technological development is still relatively low."
Toramino generally preferred running over enemies with an iron tide — but in honesty, this planet had no value that justified the effort, and it was potentially extremely dangerous. No grounds for a ground assault whatsoever.
Fulgrim looked at the phase sword Perturabo had given him — and felt a mild regret that he wouldn't be drinking xenos blood today. That blade was remarkably good to use.
"Very well. We'll do it your way."
Neither Fulgrim nor the perpetually arrogant Eidolon pushed back against Toramino. Eating from someone's hand counted for something — but the primary reason was simply that wasting time on worthless xenos planets was pointless.
The Great Crusade's current pace was extraordinary. Perturabo's orders now met with no effective resistance — not even from the First Legion or the Warmaster.
On the drone feeds, the Laer were going about their activities in complete ignorance. The bipolar cyclonic torpedoes were already shrieking downward toward the planet's core.
The creatures had no idea. They were still fully absorbed in pursuits that would make even the Dark Eldar nod in recognition — throwing themselves into it with complete commitment. The next instant the entire planet detonated, and they never even understood what had happened as their bodies turned to ash.
"Easy deaths for them. They went out... enjoying themselves."
Eidolon's contempt was undisguised. Nobody disagreed. The Imperium had never extended mercy to xenos.
The Ork assault gave absolutely no warning whatsoever. Not a single piece of intelligence had been received by the Imperium — whose administrative efficiency had improved dramatically.
The Ullanor Ork tide erupted inside the Solar System without preamble. Nobody knew how they had become this powerful so quickly, or how they had punched into the Solar System without any detection.
By the time Kulander noticed, Ullanor itself and sixteen Battle Moons had already burst out of the Warp and were right on top of them.
The two hundred capital ships and one star-fortress garrisoning Planet 56-789 were barely adequate to receive this — and on top of that, the Orks had caught the Imperial Fists completely off-guard.
Kulander immediately reported to his father and the Imperium. But within three days, half the fleet in orbit had been destroyed, and the star-fortress — with its twenty-two layered void shields — was showing extensive structural failure across its surface.
It was too fast. Too violent.
However hard Kulander thought about it, he couldn't begin to understand how they had converted an entire planet into a super-scale Battle Moon — and then launched it directly into the Solar System with zero warning.
This was completely unreasonable.
Kulander could only hold the ground lines and endure. Looking at the Orks — two and a half metres on average, with their Warbosses pushing three and a half — he felt the sky was falling.
Why had the Imperium never heard of this Ork empire before?
To evolve to this level, they would have needed to fight enormous internal wars for centuries of progressive development. How had none of this ever filtered through to Imperial intelligence?
Fortunately, the Warmaster had previously built an extensive network of fortress worlds throughout the Solar System's defence lines — and left substantial Abominable Intelligence assets on each of them.
Three days. The Castellax and Thanatar units held the lines without yielding a step. Titan Lances and Knight formations had even mounted multiple counteroffensives against the Ork lines.
The Dreadnought host moved across the battlefield — Necron technology and melta fire meant the planet didn't even need post-battle decontamination; the spores simply could not propagate.
WAAAAAAGH!
Orks never feared death. Blood-hot fighting was the life ambition they were born with. A Great WAAAGH was the most WAAAGH war there could ever be. The tin cans before them were the finest enemies they'd ever wanted.
And what greeted them was the Abominable Intelligence cohort's endless firepower and war-hammers.
Only a million mortal auxilia and twelve hundred Imperial Fists were serving as support — holding the garrison on this fortress world.
Looking at the lines still holding firm, Kulander breathed out. This Ork tide was ferocious, but support would come. He had already received word: the Warmaster would be coming to this battlefield personally.
When that happened, these Orks could start counting their remaining moments.
Support arrived faster than expected. Kulander had assumed he would need to hold for at least two more weeks — but on the fourth day, Dorn arrived with the Imperial Fists and entered the lines.
Watching the Phalanx enter the engagement alongside two star-fortresses and four Gloriana-class ships, Kulander thought: this battle can be won.
But when Kulander reached the Phalanx, Commander Matthias delivered another piece of very bad news.
"How is this possible?! There are already more than sixteen Battle Moons worth of Orks here — plus one Super Battle Moon! And you're telling me the entire Solar System has been invaded simultaneously?! Three more Ork empires attacking at once?! Forty Battle Moons?!"
"This is impossible!"
Kulander instinctively refused to believe it. But looking at the grave expressions on his father's and brothers' faces, his heart sank entirely.
"What is happening?"
He received no answer — because even Dorn was not certain. He had his suspicions. He hoped Perturabo arrived quickly, because otherwise Terra itself might be under threat before long.
News of the Ork tide's assault on the Solar System spread rapidly. Primarchs and expedition fleet commanders reacted with disbelief the moment the report came in.
Four Ork empires. More than forty Battle Moons. Unknown total fleet strength. Without warning, they had blockaded the entire Solar System.
Dorn had already issued an emergency recall — all forces to halt the expedition and return to defend the Solar System. He also confirmed that Perturabo was returning.
With no alternative, the Legions began hurriedly concluding their current engagements. Even resting Legions began moving back toward the Solar System.
The Lion, who had only just finished eliminating the Cravian leader, hadn't had time to sweep up the remnants. He left a portion of his sons to continue the pursuit and returned personally.
Jaghatai Khan had been using his psychic suppression equipment to conduct systematic planetary extermination of a xenos population at the time. The xenos leader — powerful enough to suppress three Primarchs simultaneously — had been brought to its knees by the anti-psychic devices, and Jaghatai had taken its head personally with the White Tiger dao.
No time for battlefield cleanup either. They moved.
"Father, we—"
Guilliman, who had been on the verge of committing to a large-scale boarding action to personally kill the Osirian xenos leader, had no choice but to abandon it.
"Auguston, Gahet — this is yours now. Make sure every one of their fleets is vaporised. Virus bomb every planet they touched and burn the atmosphere. Leave no possibility of survival."
"Yes, my lord."
"Has the Warmaster already ordered your return, my lord?"
Dantioch asked Ferrus Manus, who was advancing with him into the Eye of Terror.
"Yes. Continue your push — this region is high-value. The Chaos corruption is severe, though. Be careful."
Ferrus started to add something — but then thought of how these Iron Warriors moved freely through heavily corrupted zones without any sign of mutation or degradation, seemingly immune. He ultimately said nothing.
"Take this place quickly. The Warmaster has said there are Blackstone Fortresses in these regions that must be secured — but we haven't found a single one yet. They're likely close to the large Warp rift. You may be the only ones who can retrieve them without losing themselves."
"My lord — we will not fail the Warmaster's or your expectations."
Ferrus nodded. He took the Legion and turned back toward the Solar System.
"I believe these Orks were also caused by one of the enemies you've described. Orks don't operate on logic, but an Ork empire that's been completely unheard of throughout our entire campaign suddenly evolving to this level is simply not possible on its own."
"Unless something deliberately pushed them — concentrated them on one planet and drove internal war after internal war to force this evolution."
Dorn looked down at the Orks below, evolving at an accelerating rate, and spoke with a grave expression to Perturabo.
"No need to wonder. Gork has been blessing these Orks — pushing them toward something approaching the ancient Krork. The Emperor and I will handle it. You hold the worst of this pressure while it's at its peak. Lheor and the others are on their way back — once they arrive we can encircle this whole mass and resolve it completely."
Dorn nodded. Now that the source had been identified, and Perturabo had expressed confidence, the battle still had a path forward.
Psychic awareness reached through the barrier of realspace — through Ullanor itself, now converted into a Super Battle Moon under Gork's protection — and Perturabo found what he was looking for without difficulty.
Gork's chosen champion. The Ullanor Ork Great Warlord.
The creature's body had expanded to twelve metres. Even a Primarch couldn't go toe-to-toe with it directly. And beneath it stood eight Ork Warlords. Eight.
Plus the other three Ork empires that had simultaneously assaulted the entire Solar System — the total number of Warlords in this engagement was probably not less than twenty.
Hard to say whether something Primarch-equivalent might emerge from among them.
Nobody knew what had possessed Gork to do this. Had the human Imperium grown powerful enough that it now warranted a Great WAAAGH?
Perturabo couldn't read Ork minds — and nobody in realspace ever really could.
But right now, Perturabo needed to think about how to drive Gork away without the other three Chaos Gods interfering.
Their power was considerable. Even working together, he and the Emperor would already find it difficult to manage Gork. If Khorne and Nurgle added themselves to the equation — and the Great Blue Bird and the Smelly One decided to cause some additional mischief — it was hard to say how this Solar System Defence would end up.
The core issue of this battle remained in the Warp. Until Gork was driven off, the Orks would never stop coming — and would likely keep evolving.
Perturabo had brought anti-psychic devices. Dorn had brought some Custodians and Silent Sisters. But this level of preparation was probably insufficient when it came to Gork specifically.
Short of something like a Blackstone Obelisk or a Blackstone Fortress — weapons specifically engineered to suppress the Warp — completely sealing off Gork was out of the question.
One thing Perturabo could say with certainty: even Necron Whispering Deadzones wouldn't hold something like this.
And Gork — alongside the four Chaos Gods — was old power. The barrier between the Warp and realspace was thick, but when something truly committed and spent the resources, a great deal became possible.
The swollen-Horus of his other memories was the most typical example.
He still couldn't work out why Gork had suddenly felt moved to do this. But Perturabo was increasingly certain that the Great Blue Bird was somewhere behind it.
"Any ideas? This can't go the same way as last time — they won't be stupid enough to draw fire for you again."
Inside the daemon factory, the Emperor appeared at Perturabo's side and watched Gork continuously hammering at the black void shields surrounding the outer perimeter.
Perturabo had already made his move. When the Legions began successively returning to the Solar System and encircling the Orks, he had appeared in the Warp and severed Gork's ongoing blessings to the Ork forces.
But actually eliminating an Ork tide that had already reached this scale was going to take time.
Perturabo's mind was running at full speed. Nothing was coming.
If you asked Perturabo to produce twenty-two viable weapon design concepts and strategic plans for a campaign to sweep the entire galaxy — he would hand them to you in moments, each with detailed projections and probability assessments.
But in a situation that came down to pure brute force, Perturabo ran out of ideas quickly.
He wasn't someone who lived by the strength of his arms. In realspace his firepower could leave even the Emperor in a bad state. But in the Warp there was none of that — pure essential power was the only currency, and it rendered all his technical advantages meaningless.
In terms of raw Warp presence, he was probably at the table with the Smelly One. But against the Emperor or any of the other three — there remained a gap.
"Thought of anything? They're here."
The Emperor looked at the approaching tide of blood-red mist and the roar that had arrived almost at their ears — and knew Khorne would never miss an event this significant.
An enormous chain-glaive dropped from above without any warning or targeting — it didn't matter whether Gork would get hit first, Khorne just swung it.
Gork's two aspects split apart and dodged. The chain-glaive crashed into the daemon factory's void shield hard enough that Perturabo felt a spike of discomfort.
"Can you hold?"
"For now."
"Hold it together — it looks like Gork and this big idiot are about to go at each other. Maybe this time we survive again."
The Emperor watched the two entities squaring up, and felt a genuine if reluctant sense of appreciation. Khorne being Khorne had, unexpectedly, helped them again.
Sure enough — Gork was cunning and calculating. But both Gork and Mork shared a fundamental love of war, and they regarded the Blood God — who also loved war and killing — with considerable mutual antagonism.
Gork seized its power claw and enormous war-hammer and charged straight at Khorne.
The Blood God had absolutely no interest in backing down. If Khorne flinched from this, how could it call itself the God of Blood and Skulls, Courage and Honour?
COME ON.
WAAAAAAAAGH!
RAAAH!
Perturabo watched from the side as Khorne — one hand on a great-sword, one hand on a chain-axe, additional arms emerging from behind in quantities that defied counting, deploying every powerful and satisfying weapon available — brawled with Gork's two aspects in a contest that couldn't be clearly decided.
Chaos was never stupid. But the Ruinous Powers, unable to act against their own natures, had always operated purely on instinct. Born from infinite accumulated emotion and soul-mass, bound completely to the Warp's essential nature — they could never possess independent will the way Perturabo and the Emperor did.
This was precisely why both Perturabo and the Emperor continued to insist, to themselves and each other, that they were still human.
They would never be capable of this particular brand of stupidity.
"Watch out!"
Golden flame suddenly surrounded the outer perimeter of the daemon factory. Perturabo instantly retracted all the mechanical arms he had extended outward.
Above, a vast cauldron appeared — silent, without warning. Inside, a thick soup bubbled with green foam and dense emerald vapour.
The soup began pouring downward in a torrent, carrying countless plague viruses and things that defied description, all of it cascading onto the golden flame below.
Even flame capable of incinerating anything struggled to fully combust against something of this purity and concentration. A portion still made contact with the daemon factory's void shields.
Perturabo felt a powerful, pervasive sensation of corrosive resistance and slick revulsion across every surface of himself.
"You fat disgusting thing — playing dirty!"
On the other side, Slaanesh came in from a flank — a razor-sharp bone-spike sword thrusting directly toward the area now drenched in Nurgle's concentrated soup, its defences severely weakened.
But at that moment the Emperor appeared above, gripping a great-sword wreathed in golden flame, demonstrating techniques that even Slaanesh couldn't help but find intoxicating — the engagement between them continued with the Emperor currently holding a slight advantage.
Perturabo turned his attention to the Father of Plagues — whose paternal smile was revolting — and sent the endless mechanical arms erupting outward again toward Nurgle.
What a shame about that batch, Nurgle thought mildly. This had been the closest approximation yet to the Great Unclean One's legendary soup — originally prepared for a beloved one to savour. Another accident had wasted it.
Ku'gath and Rotigus — such good children — and all the other good children too, had spent considerable time and effort on it. They had wanted to give Father a surprise.
All of it wasted on this. Such a pity.
Ah well. The Iron Lord remained too stubborn, still unwilling to join the family.
While all this was happening — in realspace, on the actual battlefield — with Gork being contained by the Eldest Brother, the Orks' rate of individual advancement and overall strength began to decline sharply and rapidly.
The Primarchs seized the opportunity simultaneously, unleashing their Legions and expedition fleets in coordinated strikes.
The Battle Moons, facing equivalent star-fortresses in direct engagement, began coming apart one by one. The Ork Warlords began falling — picked off by Space Marine boarding actions and Primarchs hunting in person.
Only the Orks at Planet 56-789 remained truly WAAAGH — hammering relentlessly at the defensive lines Dorn had established, refusing to slow.
But even there — despite the Orks maintaining their fastest possible growth rate — Dorn could see it clearly in them now.
The thing that had been driving their explosive advancement was gone.
Now — it was time to counterattack.