The creature's multifaceted eyes shimmered with hunger, its mandibles twitching in anticipation. A grievous wound marred its chitinous abdomen, a lingering injury from its clash with the Blood Knights. Weakened and desperate for sustenance, it lurched toward the human before it.
Then—
Bang!
The deafening roar of a grenade launcher echoed through the confined tunnel. A volley of explosive rounds struck the xenos, fracturing its thick, armor-like carapace.
The Genestealers, gathered in ritualistic fervor, abruptly halted. Their slitted eyes burned with rage as they turned toward the source of the disruption. They did not know how these interlopers had infiltrated their sanctum, but any who dared to defile this sacred ceremony were marked for death.
They had no doubt—under the watchful gaze of their so-called 'angels,' they would strike down the intruders.
Yet they failed to notice.
Their 'angels' recoiled in fear as a massive figure, towering nearly three times their height, emerged from the gloom.
A grotesque, bulbous head shrank deeper into the cavern's recesses.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The grenade launchers roared once more, their concussive blasts ripping into the oncoming swarm. The Genestealers charged heedlessly, their razor-sharp claws flashing as they leaped into the fray.
Yet, even as most firepower focused on their supposed 'angel,' their bodies were torn apart by the relentless storm of munitions.
The purple-skinned Patriarch, a creature of vile psychic potency, raised its bone-crafted staff, intent on unleashing its powers. Before it could utter a single syllable, a grenade struck its skull. A wet explosion followed—alien brains and ichor splattering in all directions.
The sight only fueled the fury of the Imperial warriors. The Doom Slayer led the charge alongside Dukel, their armored forms tearing through the xenos ranks with methodical precision.
A small alien, resembling a human child no older than six, raised its six arms in a desperate attempt to shield its 'angel.'
But at barely a meter in height, it was nothing more than an insect.
The charging Space Marines crushed it beneath their ceramite boots, leaving only a bloody smear behind.
"Trying to flee?" Dukel's voice carried the weight of his wrath.
Scouring this world's underground labyrinth had been the correct decision. These vile creatures had survived undetected, lingering beneath the Imperium's notice. But no longer.
Piecing together intelligence from the Blood Knights, Dukel now understood the grim history of this war. The Blood Knights, while retreating, had been caught in a battle against a Tyranid splinter swarm and had fallen into this forsaken world.
Joining forces with the Planetary Defense Force, they waged war against the Tyranids. Sensing the encroaching xenos, the Genestealer Cultists emerged from the depths, inciting insurrection under various guises.
Humanity had won the war, but at an unfathomable cost. Worse still, the Tyranids had not been eradicated.
Recognizing their inability to consume this world outright, the creatures had gone into hiding. Left unchecked, they would recover—and, in time, their presence might even summon the Hive Fleet itself.
A chill settled over Dukel. These creatures were not mindless beasts; they were cold, calculating, and horrifyingly efficient in their invasion strategies.
The creature the Genestealers were sacrificing—a high-ranking node organism, akin to a Swarm Lord—was the key to their survival.
A piercing hiss echoed from the cavern.
Sensing imminent doom, the xenos within let loose an alien cry. The very walls of the mine trembled. Soil shifted, and chitinous bodies burst forth from the earth—lesser Tyranid organisms, grotesque and innumerable.
A tide of horrors surged forth, flooding the tunnel in a nightmarish wave.
Some resembled towering worms with gnashing, spiral-shaped mandibles. Others stood upright, wielding razor-sharp bone scythes in their clawed hands.
The swarm enveloped Dukel, their talons raking against his armor.
But this was no battle. This was an execution.
With a roar, flames erupted around him. Like a battering ram of destruction, he surged forward, incinerating and crushing everything in his path.
The lesser Tyranids, mere flesh and bone, shattered against the Primarch's adamantine-clad form. The power of his transhuman physique rendered them utterly helpless.
It was akin to a mantis hurling itself against a charging war machine.
One by one, the xenos were obliterated—either crushed beneath Dukel's unstoppable might or incinerated by roaring flames.
Breaking through the swarm, Dukel hurled himself into the cavern, pursuing the retreating node creature.
His burning form vanished into the depths.
A moment later—
Boom!—
A seismic force erupted from below, shaking the entire underworld.
Had Imperial mining techniques been any less advanced, the entire subterranean complex would have collapsed from the sheer impact.
The effect on the Tyranid swarm was instantaneous.
Disarray spread like a virus through their ranks. Deprived of synaptic guidance, the lesser creatures turned feral, attacking at random—some even devouring one another.
This was the Tyranids' sole weakness: sever the chain of command, and the swarm would devolve into chaos.
The Doom Slayer and the Psyker Guard capitalized on the opportunity, eradicating the disoriented xenos with ruthless efficiency.
Over the following days, Dukel assumed command of the planetary authorities. A complete and systematic purge began.
Not a single xenos organism could be allowed to survive. Even one remaining egg could spell doom, calling the Hive Fleet down upon the planet.
Dukel mobilized the Planetary Defense Force, Astra Militarum regiments, and even auxiliary troops from orbiting warships.
Guided by psychic auguries, the purge lasted twenty-two days.
This was the Primarch's final effort to spare this world from extermination.
If any Tyranid traces remained, the only recourse would be Exterminatus.
Dukel would not hesitate.
Entire settlements suspected of harboring Genestealer influence were reduced to rubble under heavy bombardment. Tyranid corpses were burned en masse, their foul stench rising into the void.
When the twenty-two-day purge ended, Dukel ordered one last sweep.
Orbital weapons primed. Whirlwind torpedoes loaded.
If any Tyranid presence remained, he would unleash the Exterminatus decree without remorse.
Across the world, civilians gazed skyward in despair. Mothers clutched their children. Factories stood silent. Schools remained closed. Even the planetary governor waited in solemn resignation.
They understood the necessity of extermination. If the Tyranids were to return, they would be consumed, body and soul.
But Dukel had not acted in haste. Unlike others who would have glassed the planet outright, he had given them a chance—a chance bought with blood and fire.
Then, the final reports came in.
Not a single trace of Tyranid infestation remained.
Dukel exhaled. A rare relief.
Every planet was a treasure of the Imperium. Every human life, a resource of the Emperor.
With the war over, the people of this world rejoiced.
To honor their survival and those who perished, a new holiday was born—Insect Elimination Day.
Each year, citizens would burn effigies of xenos under a grand statue of the Primarch, praying for his continued protection.
As Dukel's warship departed, he returned to his laboratory.
A thousand methods of torment awaited the captive Tyranids.
Their screeches filled the chamber, alien voices contorted in agony.
For the first time in their existence, the Tyranids knew pain.
…
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