The near-orbit of Fular had become a furnace. Two devastating forces now collided within this section of space with all the force of titanic wrath. As the Iron Warriors fleet exited warp, they gleamed like freshly drawn blades—sharp, lethal, and cold.
"All ships, battle formation."
Dantioch's voice echoed across the bridge, his eyes locked on the view beyond the observation windows.
No targeting augurs or tactical overlays were needed. The old veteran's gaze was sharper than any sensor array.
"Hestia. Mark priority targets."
"At once, Captain," replied the AI, her silver-robed holographic form flickering onto the central console. Golden, circuit-like lines pulsed across her robe, data streaming through the hem like a waterfall.
"The enemy fleet is massing in Sector 3-7-1. Their primary ships are charging profane weapon systems."
Even as she finished, warning sirens blared across the holoscreens.
Three World Eaters assault ships surged from behind debris fields—twisted hulls bristling with bone spikes, their portholes leaking a malignant crimson glow. Most terrifying of all were their prow-mounted main guns—not machines, but grotesque organic growths with bulging arteries and twitching muscle-flesh barrel sleeves.
"Port side, 45 degrees. Enemy salvo incoming," reported one of the Iron Warriors crew in a calm, detached tone.
Dantioch required no further prompts. His combat instincts had already predicted the attack.
"All ships, evasive maneuvers. Deploy chaff barrage."
The colossal Hammer of Fearlessness moved with surprising grace for her size, spewing tens of thousands of reflective metal strips from either flank. Each chaff sliver was etched with hastily consecrated Hanzi wards, forming a shimmering barrier in vacuum.
The World Eaters' blood-flesh shells shrieked silently as they struck the shield—clots of warp-forged gore evaporating under the holy script's burning touch.
But not all were intercepted.
BOOM. BOOOM.
The deck shook violently. Lights flickered. One of the shells had struck the starboard armor directly. But it wasn't a blast—it was a mass of writhing, sinewy meat that clung and corroded the alpha-grade hull at visible speed.
"Starboard Section C compromised. Corrosion rate: 0.1 meters per second," another officer intoned.
Hestia's voice layered itself into a chorus of harmonized tones, her hologram fracturing into cascading data flows.
"Advising immediate activation of Purification Protocol, per Article 17, Subsection 4 of the Heretical Contamination Manual—"
"Execute it," Dantioch interrupted. He turned to the main console. "All Kingfisher-class cruisers, concentrate fire on enemy engine clusters. Valor-class squadrons, maintain suppressive crossfire."
The fleet adjusted with mechanized precision.
The six Kingfisher cruisers moved like trained wolves, striking from multiple angles at the flanks of the corrupted vessels. Their rapid-fire macro-cannons unleashed storms of needle-like tungsten rounds—each blessed with temporary purification prayers, erupting in halos of golden flame on impact.
One such barrage struck true—plunging into the rear of a World Eaters warship.
Its engines sputtered, bleeding foul warp-mist, the structure collapsing like diseased tissue. The bone-spikes quivered violently as the infected ship screamed—yes, screamed—and crumpled into nothingness, ignoring every law of physics in its death throes.
"Enemy flagship changing heading," Hestia warned. She swiped through a cascade of energy readings. "Distortion surge detected—potential warp transition."
Dantioch frowned.
He didn't know much about the World Eaters Legion, but he did know the War Hounds—brothers once. This wasn't a retreat. It was a lure. A feint to bait them into a kill-zone.
"All units be advised. Enemy intends to draw us into an ambush. Deploy the psychic disruptors gifted by the Inquisition."
Immediately, four Valor-class heavy cruisers launched twelve three-hundred-meter-long prismatic pylons. At predesignated coordinates, the structures unfolded into complex mechanisms, pulsing with energy.
Inscribed with runes of nullification, they stabilized local reality with suffocating force. The budding warp-rift choked, then slammed shut with a screech like a beast denied its prey.
"Well done," Dantioch said—a rare compliment. Then, with quiet conviction: "All units, full assault. Target: enemy flagship. Saturation fire."
Hammer of Fearlessness's macro-cannon arrays powered to full. The ship's two-kilometer-long barrel cooling fins extended like a beast baring fangs.
The four Valor-class cruisers locked in as well.
"Fire."
With that single command, dozens of annihilating beams screamed through the void—interlaced in a lattice of death.
The enemy's warp-shields held for less than three seconds before disintegrating. Desecrated armor plates liquefied in pure flame.
Through breached hulls, the World Eaters inside could be seen still fighting each other—slaughtering brothers as the vacuum ripped them into silence.
"Enemy flagship destroyed," Hestia confirmed. "Remaining enemy fleet scattering."
Dantioch didn't smile.
He simply observed the scattering red dots on the holomap, like a hunter tallying fallen prey.
Then he activated fleet-wide comms.
"Inform the ground assault teams. The surface of Fular is filthier than its orbit."
His words echoed through every ship, and the Iron Warriors battalion fleet began realigning.
Cargo hatches opened across their hulls. Thousands of drop pods launched like iron rain toward the burning world.
Among them: Iron Warriors Astartes, Helljumpers, and veteran Sangheili warriors from the Halo universe.
Their first strike target: the blazing ruins of Koseran Port.
The drop pods descended like divine judgment.
BOOOM—CRASH—!!
Heavy steel capsules cratered the ground with shockwaves, blasting debris and corpses in every direction.
CLANG~—!!
One pod's hatch slammed open. Six Iron Warriors in Titan-pattern power armor stormed out through smoke and flame, steel-gray plating glinting in the firelight.
Sergeant Qasim kicked his pod door open, magnetic boots throwing sparks across metal.
His visor instantly tagged a gruesome scene thirty meters out—
Four berserk World Eaters, drunk on bloodlust, hacking apart trooper corpses with chainswords. Armor crusted in coagulated gore. One of them yanked a decapitated head from a corpse and looped it on a belt chain.
"For the Emperor!"
BOOM—BOOM—!!
Qasim's bolter barked.
Three rounds screamed in a triangle formation—first smashing the enemy's warped visor, second punching through chestplate, third detonating inside the abdomen.
SPLOOSH—!!
Red-and-white viscera geysered through the cracks in armor. The decapitated corpse stumbled forward two steps before collapsing.
!?
The remaining three World Eaters spun around—steam blasting from exhaust vents, chainswords shrieking.
The lead berserker wore a trophy of flayed human skins, and cackled, "Well well, look who crawled out from under the Golden Throne. The Emperor's lapdogs finally found some courage?"
"…"
Qasim gave a contemptuous snort. His squad split into two fireteams and began flanking.
"At least we're not licking blood from a god's boots."
He sidestepped a sweeping axe, then activated his power fist. With a roar, he uppercut the berserker's jaw.
CRUNCH—!!
"RAAGH! DIE!!"
The blow caved in the helmet—but the maddened World Eater simply leaned into the hit, ramming his spiked shoulder into Qasim's chestplate.
On the right flank, another Iron Warrior had just crippled a berserker's knee with a precise bolt round. But the enemy still leapt forward, swinging—
VRRRT—!!
Teeth of the chainsword grazed the Astartes' shield, sending energy ripples bursting outward.
A new recruit seized the moment, shoving his plasma pistol against the berserker's flank and firing point-blank.
"You little—!"
The wounded World Eater still reacted with insane speed—throwing his spinning axe at the recruit.
FWOOSH—!!
But the plasma bolt struck first—vaporizing him into a charred skeleton.
WHAM—CLANG—!!
The thrown chainsword struck true, smashing through the recruit's shoulder shield and slicing into flesh and bone.
Two remaining berserkers fell into a back-to-back defensive stance—veterans to the core.
One deflected a plasma grenade with his axe, the explosion briefly disorienting Qasim's team.
"DIE!!"
"HAHAHA! Come on, pups!!"
They surged forward, targeting the wounded recruit.
Qasim lunged, body-checking his brother out of the way—his leg armor torn open by the counter-strike, blood soaking his undersuit.
"FOCUS FIRE!"
Ignoring pain, he ordered a coordinated strike.
The Iron Warriors shifted formation—three suppressed with bolter fire while the others flanked.
It took seventeen bolter hits to bring the last berserker down.
When the smoke cleared, four World Eaters lay in ruined heaps.
BOOM—BOOM—!!
More drop pods smashed into the battlefield. A medicae from their combat platoon sprinted over, tending to Qasim and the wounded recruit.
Elsewhere—
On the outer rim of the port, Helljumpers landed with precise, single-man pods on rooftop vantage points.
THUD—THUD THUD—!!
Clad in reinforced exosuits, they established perimeters. Gauss rifles barked in rapid succession.
"Team A, establish fireline! Team B, cover civilian evac!"
Their commander roared orders.
One sniper locked onto a pack of Flesh Hounds—his crosshairs perfectly steady.
BANG—!!
One daemon's upper half exploded in red mist.
ROOOAAARRR!!
The rest howled and charged.
But then—
From the defensive line emerged the Sangheili veterans.
Clad in their unique armor, wielding plasma rifles, twin energy swords, and spears, they surged forward.
One veteran bellowed, "For the Prophet!"
"These vile beasts do not deserve to touch a warrior's soul!"
"They want death?! Let them have honor with it!"
From above, the whole of Koseran burned in chaos.
Thousands of drop pods rained down. Iron Warriors' transport fleets offloaded auxiliary troops, clones, and armored vehicles.
Tactical squads emerged, immediately establishing defensive emplacements and zoning strategies to corral the berserkers.
The World Eaters responded with relentless close-combat aggression. The clashes weren't just of weapons—but of words.
"You traitors probably offered your brains as tithe too, huh?"
"At least we live freely! Unlike you, still licking the boots of a false god!"
"Shut up, filth! Your 'freedom' is built on the blood of innocents!"
"Hah! Khorne's blessings—you cowardly bricklayers wouldn't understand! Oh wait, no… construction slaves without pay! HAHAHA!"
"BASTARD! DIE! DIE!!!"
The insults matched the brutality, and as the battle spiraled further into madness, it became clear—
The Iron Warriors and World Eaters had forged a blood feud.
(End of Chapter)
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