?!
Only now did the female repair technician react. Her voice trembled slightly as she asked the armored giant:
"Are... are you the demons the Terran Empire talks about?"
"Heh..."
The giant's chuckle reverberated through the chamber with a metallic resonance, his laughter echoing from behind his helmet.
He released her safety strap and replied:
"Demons?"
Though the voice was filtered through his helmet, it still carried a teasing edge. "To the tyrants of the Terran Empire, yes—we are demons. Demons who have come to end their rule."
As he spoke, he adjusted his bolter.
"But to you—"
BANG—!
Before he could finish, he raised his arm. The bolter fired a blinding white flame, a single shot piercing a Hydralisk that had just crawled through the hatch twenty meters away, hitting its neural node with precision.
SPLAT—!
The creature exploded in the weightless air, its purple blood congealing into glistening strings of beads.
"We are the battle angels of the Human Empire. Sons of Sanguinius," he said, lowering his bolter and halting the rotation of his chainsword's teeth. "We are the Mourners, and we fight to protect you."
The female technician stared wide-eyed at the drifting Zerg remains around her.
These monsters that had driven her to despair were no more than playthings in front of this giant. What stunned her even more were the gouges on his power armor—some made by bone spines were several centimeters deep.
In truth, for this giant—or for any Mourner—this battle hadn't even counted as a warm-up.
If he hadn't deliberately disabled his Titan armor's energy shield and reduced his bolter's explosive yield, the Zerg wouldn't have been able to get close.
But doing so came with a cost—he had to absorb enemy attacks with his armor, because standard-yield bolts would easily kill or injure the survivors within the chamber.
Of course, the technician knew none of this. She was simply stunned by the stark contrast—the same killing machine that had obliterated a chamber full of Zerg in seconds was now patiently explaining himself, and she could sense that he would rather be injured than let a civilian be harmed by stray fire.
Such meticulous protection was in stark contrast to the Terran Empire's propaganda that Astartes were merely bloodthirsty lunatics.
THUD—THUD—!
Two more Mourners entered the observation deck, their power armor smeared with alien blood. One even bore signs of acid corrosion on his shoulder plate. The pair instinctively took up positions on either side, their bolters constantly aimed down the corridor in case more Zerg emerged.
"This area is secure. Begin evacuation."
The original Mourner gave the order, his voice transmitted through external speakers. "Prioritize those with respiratory trauma."
The technician felt herself being lifted gently. The Mourner's armored palm was as wide as her back, yet his touch was as precise as surgical equipment.
Other survivors were assisted just as carefully, guided through the weightless environment. The severely injured were carried or borne on backs to speed their movement.
From her perspective, the evacuation resembled a surgical operation.
At every corner, the Mourners cleared the path. When encountering damaged conduits, they shielded civilians with their own bodies. In pressure transition zones, they slowed their pace to avoid causing secondary injuries.
The technician couldn't fathom what she was seeing.
After all, if a Terran marine possessed this kind of power and speed—enough to slaughter Zerg by the dozens—they wouldn't even acknowledge civilians.
Yet these giants treated them with extraordinary care.
As the blast door to the central chamber came into view, she noticed temporary shield generators installed—clearly placed by the Mourners to prevent pursuit.
With a hiss, the hydraulic system opened the door, which slid open in zero gravity.
The technician drifted along with the others into the chamber. The emergency lighting cast a cold white sheen that made her pupils contract slightly.
This cylindrical space, over a hundred meters in diameter, was twice the size of the previous room—and packed like a sardine can with over five hundred survivors.
Floating bodies clustered in eerie clumps due to the microgravity. Occasional bumps into the walls caused minor disturbances.
The air reeked of battlefield reality: the acrid scent of chemical antiseptics, the metallic sweetness of coagulation gel, and the scorched tang of plasma burns.
But all of this was overshadowed by the monstrous object in the room—
A Thunderstrike assault craft, its prow designed as a massive thermal drill, stood in the center. It spanned at least three decks.
The drill's muzzle still glowed a dim red. Twelve drones worked at the breached hull, spraying rapid-curing foam. These smart materials solidified into a dense honeycomb seal even in zero-G.
Around the craft, five Mourners had established a surprisingly orderly system amid the chaos.
One warrior's right arm was equipped with a medical probe, six scanning beams projecting a hologram over an engineer's abdominal wound. Colored bands identified damaged organs and blood vessels for precise treatment.
Two Mourners moved among the crowd using their mag-boots, checking the condition of every survivor.
At the assault craft's hatch, guards stood in classic angular sentry stances. Their bolters were angled slightly upward—low enough to target incoming threats instantly, high enough to avoid stray shots harming civilians.
The technician noticed even more details—each warrior's crimson armor was freshly scarred. Their wing-and-blood insignias bore gouges from bone spines.
What she didn't know was that every Mourner had set their bolter's yield to within safe thresholds.
One Mourner, while checking an airlock seal, deliberately avoided all floating casualties. The hum of his servos stayed within low-frequency ranges.
This level of control—fusing killing machine with guardian—was more awe-inspiring than any battlefield myth.
On the Thunderstrike's hull, dozens of small hash marks were etched. Each likely marked a successful boarding operation.
The latest mark still bore uncooled metal burrs, matte under the lights—these were ancient battle sigils, recording the Mourners' cycle of destruction and salvation across galaxies.
Meanwhile, in Corridor D of the station, six Mourners advanced in a wedge formation.
Their mag-boots beat a death rhythm against the deck. The hum of servos mingled with the shrieks of Zerg in a haunting chorus.
The lead warrior bore the title "Herald of Grief" on his shoulder plate. His chainsword snarled in standby, a shard of carapace still lodged in its hilt from the last engagement.
"Purification protocol: engaged."
The metallic announcement echoed across their comms.
BANG—BANG—!
The corridor filled with bolter fire.
The leader's chainsword plunged into a Hydralisk's chest, tearing through exoskeleton, muscle, and organs into a bloody paste.
Purple and yellow-green ichor sprayed the walls, only to be vaporized by their energy shields into acrid steam.
To his right, a warrior swung a power sword. Its precision-forged blade and high-energy plasma field cleaved through three Zerglings effortlessly.
Even as their limbs twitched from nerve reflexes, he reversed grip and sliced off a fourth's head and half its torso in one stroke.
The blood formed strange, spherical clusters in zero-G, which burst into finer beads when hit by follow-up bolter fire.
At the rear, a heavy weapons specialist adjusted the angle of a 1.0cal heavy bolter. When the swarm broke through a bulkhead, the gun's roar shattered them to chunks. Meat and chitin slammed into walls with muted thuds.
The Mourners' combat style was brutal art—elegant and flawless, just like their Primarch Sanguinius.
Every pivot came with a chainsaw's howl. Every lunge left dismembered Zerg in its wake. They sniped distant threats and butchered nearby ones in a macabre ritual dance.
Yet, when passing human corpses, they paused. Their helmets scanned the faces, perhaps to upload to the mothership's memorial database.
In New Canaan's orbit, the Mourner fleet clashed savagely with the Zerg bio-fleet.
The Emperor-class battleship Wings of Grief had just unleashed a salvo. Twelve electromagnetic "light spears" pierced three Leviathans.
Their carapaces shattered into carbonized chunks. Acidic internal fluids crystallized into massive emerald formations in the vacuum.
But the swarm's numbers were terrifying.
Millions—tens of millions—of flyers dove in suicidal waves, crashing into cruiser shields one after another.
Each death released a burst of corrosive acid mist, gradually depleting the defenses.
One frigate's port armor was already drenched in mucous secretions from Overlords. The biomatter rapidly corroded the hull, while onboard drones and exterminators scrambled to disinfect the affected areas.
"Prioritize the evacuation corridor."
"We must not allow the civilian transport fleet to be harassed."
The Mourner channel remained focused solely on protecting civilians.
Near the station, a frigate's CIWS array spun, spewing tens of thousands of rounds per minute. The flechette storm shredded Zerglings in space, creating a hail of ricochets across hulls and station walls.
Only those inside could hear the dull impacts.
Tactical data showed the Mourners had the upper hand in most areas, but Zerg numbers were still growing exponentially.
Recon units reported that spore towers on New Canaan's surface were still spawning space-capable units. Based on current attrition rates, unless the Zerg production sites—i.e., New Canaan—were destroyed, the Mourners could only maintain fire superiority for another twelve hours.
On the Wings of Grief's bridge, the tactical holomap constantly updated the evacuation's progress. The first transport group had docked and was transferring survivors to safe zones.
Company Captain Marakin Foros stared at the pulsing numbers. He knew every second lost meant more Zerg reinforcements.
He glanced at the station's live feed.
Civilians hugging and weeping. Guards saluting Mourner brothers. It reaffirmed his order: "Continue covering the evacuation until the last human leaves that doomed planet."
The holomap also faithfully depicted the surface's devastation.
Once-thriving colony cities now resembled festering wounds. Purple-black creep covered the land.
Skyscrapers of the central district stood like corroded tombstones. The few remaining buildings were entwined with pulsing biotubes.
The ground battle was worse than expected.
Unlike Agria, which was beyond hope, New Canaan was still in the early stages of infestation. Drone footage showed the northern industrial zone resisting fiercely—autoturret grids shredded Zerglings by the thousands.
But the distress signals scattered across the wilderness were heartbreaking—
Seventeen agricultural settlements' beacons still blinked. Each represented hundreds, even thousands, of lives.
Assault craft and gunships changed course mid-flight, diving toward the most urgent signals.
One Thunderhawk gunship plunged toward Settlement 7, encircled by the swarm. At three hundred meters above the ground, it released a team of veteran warriors.
They slammed into the Zerg like meteors, bolters and plasma guns blasting purifying circles into the creep, clearing paths to the barns where civilians were trapped.
At that moment, the orbiting battlefield shifted—
A warp rift burst open on the main battlefront's flank, glowing deep blue.
The fleet of the Salamanders Third Company descended like gods, their flagship Unyielding Flame's plasma lance vaporizing a bioship besieging the Mourner support fleet.
Newly arrived ships deployed into standard purge formations. Tactical squads with flamethrowers dropped immediately.
Clad in dark green armor, the Astartes landed at the creep's edge and erected a wall of fire.
The two companies worked in perfect harmony—
The Mourners focused on rescues and evacuations, pushing into the most dangerous zones. The Salamanders held the lines, using flame to keep the swarm at bay.
Six hours later, the last confirmed distress signal finally went dark. The final transport closed its hatch and lifted off, packed with survivors heading for orbit.
The two fleets regrouped at designated coordinates. All shipboard weapon systems completed final calibration.
And on the bridges of the Wings of Grief and Unyielding Flame, the captains almost simultaneously activated a protocol:
The Exterminatus order for New Canaan was officially signed.
(End of Chapter)
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