The Hive Mind thinks, feels, hates, and desires. Its emotions are so alien that even the Eldar, with their finely attuned psyches, cannot comprehend this roiling storm of sensation. Compared to its vast ocean of emotions, human feelings are mere puddles along a roadside.
When the blinding golden light tore through the veil of the Warp, it was as if a new star had risen over the Baal system. Its brilliance was unmatched, yet it did not exist in reality. Instead, it burned within the hearts of humankind.
In that moment, a surge of revulsion and dread rippled through the Hive Mind's gestalt consciousness. It was akin to the instinctive terror a human feels upon encountering a venomous predator.
The Hive Mind did not fear strength; in its perception, all power was merely sustenance to be consumed. But this presence was different. It bore fangs that could inject a toxin potent enough to unmake it. The very thought of it brought a sensation akin to agony—a dread worse than death.
Instinct screamed for retreat, to flee the system immediately. But as the Hive Mind beheld the dark red world of Baal through its countless eyes, it hesitated.
This was the lair of the crimson warriors—the ones who had incinerated its feeding grounds and shattered its fleets. They were its prey, its hated adversaries. Yet more than hatred, there was hunger.
Within their genetic material lay untapped potential—mutations that promised the evolution of new and terrible weapons.
And within their sanctuaries, there were even greater prizes.
Faced with the twin forces of greed and peril, the Hive Mind chose greed. A true apex predator understands the risks of the hunt. But for the promise of honey, even a bear will endure the sting of bees.
With its consciousness unified once more, the Hive Mind directed its swarms into an all-out assault.
In the void above Baal, the Blood Angels' fleet stood against an impossible tide. They were too few to stem the overwhelming advance of the Tyranids, their vessels like scattered islands in a raging ocean.
Yet they fought on, defying doom itself. To relieve their embattled brethren planetside, they maneuvered in nimble strike groups, darting between the hulking Tyranid bio-ships, striking and retreating like lone skiffs against towering waves.
It was a desperate gambit—one that placed their lives on a razor's edge. But it was effective. Each engagement saw countless xenos slain, each retreat preserving the strength to fight another day.
Still, the swarm was vast beyond reckoning. No matter how heroically they resisted, they could not turn the tide forever.
Their exhaustion was absolute, their bodies pushed to their limits. If not for the golden light piercing the immaterium, rekindling their spirits and fortifying their resolve, the madness of the Black Rage would have claimed many more.
"This must be the power of the Holy Father!"
The Blood Angels whispered fervent prayers, their faith ignited by the miraculous glow.
"Perhaps it's just an illusion… but these damned creatures no longer seem as terrifying."
Aboard a Moon-class battleship, the captain nodded in silent agreement. But then, an urgent voice crackled through the vox.
"Wait… This isn't an illusion!"
"What is that?!"
No one needed to ask for clarification.
For in that moment, every Blood Angel bore witness to an awe-inspiring sight—
The once-cohesive swarm fractured in mere seconds, its previously relentless advance thrown into utter disarray.
Then, the impossible happened. A colossal rift was torn between realspace and the Warp. The boundaries of the material universe sundered, and through the gaping wound spilled golden radiance.
A light brighter than a thousand stars.
A warmth deeper than any sun, piercing the cold void and banishing despair.
Darkness fled before its brilliance, and within every human heart, frozen by terror, hope ignited once more.
A vast warship emerged from the tear, its prow breaching the void like the blade of a god. And upon it stood a giant, wreathed in the light of legend, raising high a golden standard emblazoned with the Sky Eagle.
Every soul, no matter how distant, beheld this sight with unerring clarity. Space itself defied its own laws to ensure the vision was shared across the system.
As the colossus brandished his banner, the immense warship revealed its true form—a fortress upon the stars, adorned with statues and temples to the Imperium's glory.
The captains of the Blood Angels' fleet could only stare in mute astonishment.
This was a Queen of Glory-class battleship, a sight unseen for millennia. And as it entered the battlefield, its mighty ramming prow speared into the nearest Tyranid hive ship, cleaving it in twain. Alien ichor erupted into the void, forming nebulae of gore thick enough to shroud planets.
From the celestial breach poured an endless armada, each vessel more resplendent than the last. Against this golden tide, even the Tyranids' countless numbers seemed paltry.
At the head of this fleet, another Queen of Glory emerged.
"I recognize the Macragge's Honour," murmured a voice over the vox. "And the other one… I think I know it, too."
The puzzle pieces fell into place. The Primarch had returned.
As the warships carved a path through the xenos, the Macragge's Honour led a detachment toward Baal Prime, while the flagship, glowing like a celestial beacon, descended toward Baal Secundus.
On the surface of Baal, the Blood Angels and Flesh Tearers—freed from the madness of the Black Rage—turned their fury upon the greater daemon Khorne had unleashed upon the world.
"No matter what it takes, I will drive you back, fiend!"
Lord Jor, his voice thick with wrath, charged toward Ka'bandha, the monstrous herald of the Blood God.
The daemon, having just sundered a Hive Tyrant with a single blow, turned to face him. A hideous grin split its face.
"Jor… you are not your father. Your Archangel fell before me, his body broken. What hope do you have, little mortal?"
A roar, thick with rage and the scent of blood, welled up inside Jor's mind. The temptation of Khorne whispered insidiously, beckoning him toward slaughter and damnation.
But he resisted.
"In the name of Sanguinius, the Blood Knights will never yield!"
Ka'bandha sneered. "Your will is meaningless. I am the inevitable. Your rage belongs to the Blood God."
Yet before the daemon could press further, the heavens erupted in fire.
A column of light, as brilliant as a newborn star, lanced down from the sky, vaporizing scores of xenos where it struck. The battlefield shook with its arrival, and in the wake of that holy fire, drop pods rained like a storm of meteors.
Ka'bandha's eyes narrowed in fury.
Then came the voice.
"Kabanha, I heard a boastful wretch, and it sounded like you."
The daemon bared its fangs in recognition, hatred igniting within its infernal heart.
"Dukel! You dare—"
The words barely left its lips before the ground quaked with a thunderous impact. In the haze of dust and war, a towering figure strode forth, wreathed in golden radiance.
The Blood Angels gasped in unison.
For standing before them, holding aloft the Sky Eagle standard, was their savior.
"Warmaster! You've returned!"
The once-great hero of the Blood Angels, a veteran of countless wars, surged forward in his Dreadnought frame, casting himself at the feet of the Primarch. His voice, thick with sorrow, rang through the chamber.
The gathered Blood Angels tensed.
Dreadnoughts were more than war machines; they were the honored ancients of the Chapter, living relics of the Imperium's past. These warriors had witnessed centuries unfold, guiding new generations from neophyte to legend.
If not for Baal's near destruction, Dante would have let these revered warriors sleep beneath the fortress rather than awaken them for war.
And now, one of these venerable figures had prostrated himself before the Primarch in open disregard for decorum.
The Blood Angels feared how their gene-sire would react.
Yet, heedless of their concerns, the ancient warrior remained bowed, his massive form trembling.
"Warmaster, your will was lost to those who came after you," he wept. "Horus rose in rebellion, and we failed the Imperium. Terra burned, our Father fell, and the Emperor was entombed upon the Golden Throne. The demigods vanished, and we could not protect them. We could do nothing."
"We're sorry."
His words, raw with anguish, were fractured and confused. The assembled Blood Angels exchanged uneasy glances, struggling to make sense of his lament.
Dukel stood motionless, an unyielding presence, his expression unreadable.
But within, his mind roiled.
Warmaster?
The title rang hollow in his thoughts. Had the will of the past truly been abandoned? In his final memory of ten millennia past, he had drawn his sword against the Emperor himself.
Was that a legacy worth preserving?
He extended his psychic presence, probing the Blood Angel's mind.
Chaos.
Disorder clouded the warrior's thoughts—his emotions, memories, even his very sense of self.
Has he lost himself to the ravages of endless war?
Dukel mused.
Yet he did not react with anger, as his sons feared. Instead, he stepped forward, placing a hand upon the ancient Dreadnought's armored hull.
"Rest easy, old warrior," he said, his voice calm and steady. "You have done well. There is no need for sorrow."
"Hope never dies."
…
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