The swarm's will recoiled in agony, and the tide of Tyranid organisms retreated like a receding wave.
Dukel would not allow the xenos to escape. Wielding his pitch-black power sword, he led the Slayers in relentless pursuit.
The indomitable will to fight spread like wildfire. Psychic energy, mental fortitude, and even the power fields of the beastmen radiated this determination, igniting the spirits of those across the war-torn world. Survivors among the ruins grasped at renewed hope, trench-bound soldiers stood defiant once more, Imperial dignitaries ceased their bickering, and the priests of the Ecclesiarchy raised their voices in hymn. Even the stray beasts howled in eerie unison.
At this moment, all who lived felt the unmistakable presence of a divine force descending upon them.
The node-creatures among the Tyranids screeched. These warrior-organisms, akin to officers among lesser bioforms, should have leveraged the swarm's advantage. Instead, they rushed forward recklessly, exposing themselves. The Doom Slayers cut them down without effort, their darkened blades severing chitinous limbs and spilling ichor.
As the node-creatures perished, the lesser Tyranids shrieked in collective agony. Many halted, trembling violently before succumbing, their bodies liquefying into pools of organic matter.
A massive sand python burst from beneath Dukel's feet, its maw gaping to swallow him whole. This was an evolved combat adaptation of the Hive Mind, shaped by previous battles, an attempt to exploit weaknesses in its foes. But this time, it had chosen poorly. The twenty-meter-long serpent was shredded within moments, its remains scattering in the wind.
Through this battle, Dukel truly grasped the power of the "Blade of Pain."
Slaying lesser Tyranids concentrated the psychic corruption into high-tier synaptic creatures. Slaying high-tier synaptic creatures sent psychic shockwaves through the lesser swarms, throwing them into disarray.
The overwhelming tide of psychic anguish distorted the Hive Mind's decision-making. The Tyranids, normally a cohesive force, now exhibited contradicting orders—some bioforms fled, while others charged with suicidal desperation. The swarm had become a chaotic maelstrom of conflicting instincts.
Dukel observed this with keen interest. The Imperials around him, however, were less enthused. Even in an age where they had witnessed countless horrors, the sight of a Hive Fleet's mass confusion was an unsettling anomaly.
The sky darkened.
A vast spore cloud, thick as a storm front, advanced over the horizon, blotting out the heavens.
As the Primarch and his warriors carved through the swarm, the Hive Mind's pain became unbearable. It issued two conflicting commands—escape from these cursed blades while simultaneously launching a desperate counterattack. It was a spectacle of desperation.
Imperial planetary governors watched from within their fortress walls, their expressions drained of color.
"Do we have any hope? If the swarm reaches the fortress, our deaths will be horrific," one lamented.
The dignitaries behind him looked even paler. None could remain composed before such an overwhelming xenos horde.
Explosions rocked the sky as beams of energy lanced through the darkened clouds. The last of the planetary defense forces fought on, artillery platforms belching fire, fighter wings launching in tight formations.
Lascannon bursts and storm bolter rounds wove a net of destruction. Spore drop pods were incinerated mid-air, torn asunder before they could disgorge their lethal cargo.
"We are the Emperor's currency. Our lives are spent to purchase the Imperium's survival."
Many soldiers had heard this phrase, but only now, facing the sky-blackening swarm, did they grasp its weight.
"For the Emperor!"
Their battle cries resonated across the warfront, reinforcing their resolve.
Dukel fought with methodical precision, his blade scything through the enemy as though harvesting a field of grain. The Slayers mirrored his every move, their mental engines thrumming with battle-lust. To fight alongside their Primarch, to face such a foe together—fear was an alien concept to them.
Through the carnage, Dukel scrutinized the enemy. This war was not just about reclaiming a fallen world; it was an opportunity to test the Blade of Pain against the Tyranid Hive Mind itself.
Each cut he inflicted twisted the Hive's collective psyche further. He slashed apart a lesser Tyranid, and synapse creatures miles away shrieked in agony. Spore capsules overhead ruptured, detonating midair as the psychic backlash spread through the bio-organic network.
Across the battlefield, Astra Militarum forces witnessed an impossible sight—the Tyranids convulsed violently, vomiting black ichor before exploding in grotesque showers of chitin and gore.
"It must be His Majesty's power!"
The faithful whispered fervent prayers. To them, such inexplicable miracles could only be the Emperor's divine intervention.
In high orbit, the battle raged on.
The Expeditionary Fleet clashed with both the Tyranid bio-ships and the dreaded warbands of Khorne. Despite their superior technology and firepower, the Imperials faced an arduous struggle.
"How long until victory?" Efilar demanded over the fleet-wide vox.
"Best-case scenario—ten hours," the data analysts replied.
Efilar frowned. On her monitors, she watched fortress cities succumb to the xenos tide. By the minute, countless Imperial citizens perished. The spore clouds choked the planet, rendering orbital airdrops near-impossible.
She clenched her fists. Even a Primarch could not save everyone.
Then, something impossible happened. The massive Tyranid hive ships—biomechanical leviathans that had withstood the fleet's heaviest barrages—began exploding spontaneously.
"Your Highness's experiment was a success!" Efilar's eyes gleamed.
Below, the sky was set ablaze. The immense organic constructs ruptured in a chain reaction, their remains plunging into the atmosphere. The sheer mass of biological matter created torrential downpours across the planet.
Dukel halted, watching as the rain pooled in the battlefield's craters. The biomass would not go to waste—eventually, the planet would reclaim it, nourishing what little life remained.
"The only good swarm is a dead swarm," he mused.
Though the ground battle was won, the void war continued. The Khorne fleet fought with mindless ferocity, refusing retreat.
At its helm was an old adversary—Khârn the Betrayer.
No longer merely the Chosen of Khorne, Khârn had been reborn as a Daemon Prince after his defeat at Dukel's hands during the assault on Ophelia VII.
Recognizing Dukel's presence, Khârn's rage eclipsed reason. Instead of retreating, he ordered a direct assault, launching boarding torpedoes toward the Soul Fire, Dukel's flagship.
Within moments, World Eaters stormed the corridors, their chainaxes revving hungrily. Yet as Khârn advanced, something was wrong—the ambient energies of the Warp grew dim. A psychic suppression field enveloped the vessel.
Even as a Daemon Prince, Khârn's strength waned within the null-field. But retreat was unthinkable. He pressed forward, slaughtering his way toward the core.
Imperial defenders withdrew in an organized retreat.
Then came the warning:
"Intruders detected. Initiating extermination protocols."
The corridors came alive with machine servitors—mechanized weapons of war, their red-lit optics locking onto the invaders. They opened fire with the fury of entire battalions.
Even the World Eaters faltered momentarily before charging into the storm of gunfire.
Yet their rampage was short-lived. Reinforcements arrived—Battle Sisters clad in resplendent armor, wielding faith as a weapon.
Khârn sneered, but something was off. The nuns fought not with stoic discipline, but with a fervor matching the berserkers themselves.
He scowled, recalling a similar madness—the same zeal he had seen in Dukel before his defeat at Ophelia VII.
The fear he once felt had now transformed into raw fury. Without hesitation, he surged forward.
Neither side wielded ranged weapons—only the deafening roar of chainswords filled the corridor.
Amid the brutal melee, ceramite plating was torn apart, and blood spattered across the ground.
Yet none faltered. Instead, the scent of gore spurred both sides into an even greater frenzy.
Chainswords shrieked as their whirring teeth bit into armor, sending showers of sparks cascading through the air. Flesh and bone were shredded with sickening efficiency, painting the battlefield in crimson.
Despite their savage resistance, the World Eaters found themselves overwhelmed.
Chosen by Khorne, they bore the Blood God's unholy blessings—each a frenzied avatar of war, faster and stronger than any mortal. Yet here, against these warriors, they fell.
The first of them crumpled, lifeblood spilling freely. Then another. One by one, the ranks of the World Eaters were reaped.
Even Khârn, the Betrayer, struggled. Ever since ascending as Khorne's favored butcher, he had never imagined himself being driven back—certainly not by mere mortals.
But these warriors, clad in power armor of ivory and jet, fought as one. Every strike was precise, every movement a seamless part of a greater whole.
Their weapons burned with the Emperor's holy fire, searing deep wounds into his flesh. The sacred flames clung to his injuries, sending agony lancing through his corrupted body.
With a resounding boom, Khârn's massive form—an avatar of carnage—was sent reeling by a devastating kick. A heartbeat later, another warrior lunged forward, chainsword raised high, poised to claim the Betrayer's head.
Then, without warning, everything changed.
Khârn's eyes blazed crimson. His muscles bulged unnaturally, surging with the raw might of Khorne's favor.
Power beyond reckoning erupted within him. He swatted the descending chainsword aside, the force of his blow shattering the attack. With another brutal swing, he sent his attacker hurtling backward.
Madness consumed him. He would kill them all—every last one of these defiant fools.
Then—clang.
A sudden, alien sound cut through the carnage. A small, glass vial struck the floor and rolled, its echo strangely hollow amidst the din of battle.
Khârn turned, eyes narrowing.
A lone warrior advanced toward him, clad in obsidian-black armor. Her raven hair framed piercing, jet-dark eyes—cold and resolute.
As she strode forward, a slender needle plunged into the artery at her throat, injecting a cocktail of combat stimulants directly into her bloodstream.
"Stand down, sisters."
This was Shivara, Captain of the Psychic Guard.
With the final dose of augmetic-enhanced hormones flooding her veins, the power within her surged to unimaginable heights.
Biomagnetic field: 120,000 horsepower—engaged.
…
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