Chapter 195: The Liberation of Drune (Part 2)
The bone-white front split open from within. The towering Wraith Knight burst forth, a gale screaming past its hull. Chainswords roared. Melta cannons scorched through everything. The shambling crowd was flung aside like splattered blood and meat.
The Wraith Knight carved a brutal path through the sea of flesh.
Most of the mob, however, collapsed the moment they drew near the Knight. Trembling, they dropped like marionettes with cut strings—both Hades and Nyx were Untouchables, and the null-field they projected had severed the psychic control the xenos had over these puppets.
Standing atop the charging Knight, Hades gripped the welded-on handle tightly, calculating their current position.
The engines howled. They were pulling farther and farther away from the Death Guard's battle line, closing in on the altar. The crowd surging toward them grew increasingly deranged—no longer controlled by a few hidden psykers, but each and every human now bore a tentacle fused to their head. Waves of psychic energy rolled toward them, layered and pulsing, each one more violent than the last.
[My lord… I'm reaching my limit.]
Inside the Wraith Knight's cockpit, blood trickled from Nyx's mouth. The enemy's frenzied psychic barrage was finally beginning to take a toll, even on him—a Pariah.
Raibo remained silent. Even she feels the crushing pressure now. But instead of faltering, it only made her drive the Knight into greater fury—determined to bring down as many xenos as she could before they overwhelmed her.
Back on the front, Branka frowned as he watched the Knight nearly engulfed by the crowd and its whipping tendrils. He double-checked Hades' comm channel to confirm it hadn't been cut off.
What the hell is that kid doing? Does he need backup?
Branka muttered internally, troubled. Sure, he knew Hades and his team could nullify psychic effects—but the situation looked dire.
Every wave of enemies that fell was quickly replaced by another. The mass of bodies and tentacles seemed endless, eager to bury them alive. The Warp fluctuations from that direction were stronger than anything he'd ever felt. Just looking toward the altar made his soul reel with nausea.
Hearing Nyx's voice, Hades blinked in surprise—
'That's it? He's done already?'
He had intended to use this mission to give Nyx more live combat experience.
'Looks like I overestimated the strength of this batch of Untouchables,' Hades thought, his mood sinking.
What he hadn't realized was that it wasn't Nyx or the others being too weak.
It was that the enemy was far too strong.
'Still, the distance was close enough now. '
Hades blinked, and unleashed his Black Domain.
Screams.
Thousands of screams, howling in agony at the edge of every soul present. Curses, guttural and raw, burst open like an overboiling furnace—colorful and chaotic, exploding across the psychic sky.
But those screams lasted only an instant. A bubble in a dream popped. After that dazzling, soul-searing flash—came silence.
A silence as deep as sleep.
The raging soul-sea rolled and surged like ten thousand crashing waves… and then, in a breath, it went still. As smooth as a mirror.
Death is silence.
Branka slowly lowered his weapon, disbelief etched across his scarred face. The veteran stared toward the heart of the battlefield, even as every fiber of his soul screamed in alarm—revulsion bubbling like bile in his throat. Yet he couldn't tear his eyes away.
And it wasn't just Branka.
All the Death Guard stared in stunned silence toward the battlefield's center.
They were dead.
All of them.
In a single, instantaneous moment, every trace of life had vanished. The bodies fell like rain, limp and lifeless.
Tendrils coiled among the corpses. Fluids oozed slowly from ruptured masses of flesh. Some bodies still twitched in death—a residual biological reflex. But their souls were gone. Empty puppets.
To the naked eye, the corpses still trembled. But within their helmets, the Astartes' dataslates displayed the same result: no signs of enemy life remained.
Even for veterans who had seen countless battles, this was unprecedented.
Not even orbital bombardments. Not even virus bombs. Those left carnage—explosions, screams, fire and agony.
But this…
This was silence.
In a single blink of time, every soul on the battlefield had been extinguished.
[Branka. Advance the line. Cautiously. Keep your distance from me.]
Hades' voice cut through the stillness—buzzing with static, but grounded, calm.
It snapped Branka out of his daze.
He stammered slightly before replying,
[Understood.]
The Death Guard line began to move again.
But this time, their steps were slower. More cautious. The enemy was gone, but unease clung to them like mist.
It wasn't fear of the enemy.
Even though the veterans of the 7th Company had been briefed on Hades' "Black Domain" null-field ability… witnessing it firsthand was an entirely different matter. The sheer psychic weight of it had left a mark on their souls.
Their instincts recoiled. Their very being wanted nothing to do with that thing at the battlefield's center.
They were only thankful… that this power belonged to an ally.
[Are you still alive?]
Hades tapped the Wraith Knight's leg with the shaft of his scythe. Though the Black Domain had been quickly retracted—and diluted, at that—the two Untouchables inside had still taken a beating.
The massive war machine remained frozen for a moment longer… then stirred, lifting its foot once more, resuming its slow march forward.
[Thanks, my lord. Barely.]
Nyx's voice was faint and shaky. Just before blacking out, he had completely lost control of his limbs. The last thing he remembered was being grateful that he had written a will.
But he had woken up. He was still here. Still piloting.
Raibo didn't speak. The Black Domain had hurt her too, but she focused all her effort now on maintaining control of the Knight.
Seeing that both were still functioning, Hades said nothing more, simply riding the Knight as it carried him to the final destination.
When they reached the altar's edge, Hades dismounted and leapt down.
The altar—woven from tendrils and writhing flesh—screamed mindlessly, flailing in a last-ditch effort to overwhelm him with psychic attacks.
Hades released the Black Domain once more.
And the world fell silent again.
There were still over a dozen altars like this.
Hades noted that grim detail in silence.
He had to pick up his pace, failing to regroup with the main force in time would be disastrous.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Around the altar, sickly yellow bolts of psychic lightning crackled violently. Stormclouds pressed low, suffocating the air. Breathing became labored. Thoughts grew hazy. A creeping weakness crawled upward from the legs like icy vines.
A rasping, labored breath hissed through the storm.
Mortarion swung his great scythe, cleaving into the swarm ahead. Countless tendrils latched onto the backs and necks of the thrashing, enslaved human masses. Each step forward was an effort.
Every time he slew one of the tendril-bound aberrants, a deepening soul-fatigue followed. Mortarion could clearly feel the toll—weariness bleeding from the soul itself.
Around him, the Undertakers remained tightly grouped. Ugo's staff bore a lantern that cast a steady white light, flickering with faint, stabilizing psychic pulses. From within it, the Librarians' psy-focus shimmered faintly, gifting Mortarion fleeting clarity.
Not far off, the Lupercal was faring no better.
Both Primarchs had become priority targets of the warp-spawned psychic barrage. Soul-weakness crept into their limbs, like lead in the blood.
[Brother... are you alright?]
Mortarion said nothing. It was clear Horus was struggling even more. But the Death Guard Primarch did not falter. They were endurance incarnate. On the battlefield, the Death Guard were always the last to fall.
With fatigue hung from his shoulders like chains. Horus watched his brother press on, unwavering.
Mortarion raised his immense scythe. With practiced motion, he wrapped the chain of Silence—his weapon—around his wrist, then hurled it forward.
＋SCCRRRAAAAEEEAAAAA!!!＋
The altar erupted in an ear-splitting, soul-raking scream. A wave of darkness swept across everyone's vision. Some of the weaker-willed collapsed on the spot, unconscious.
Ugo clutched his staff tightly, the lantern swaying violently under the pressure of the psychic backlash. Yet the Undertakers did not waver. They chanted prayers, their white light shielding Mortarion and the Death Guard from the brunt of the attack.
Around Ugo, other Undertakers joined in, pooling their power in a unified defense against the warp-born assault.
Mortarion took a long, ragged breath. With a yank, he reeled back the chain. His scythe had caught something.
The altar's grotesque mass of tendrils and flesh tore open—torn apart from the inside. Severed tentacles spasmed. The once-coherent shape of the altar collapsed into gore. Psychic pressure waned immediately.
From a distance, Horus added his own volley of precision fire, striking the warp-gate at the altar's core and amplifying Mortarion's attack.
[Well done, brother.]
Horus' voice came as the last wave of corruption faded from their souls.
[There are still several more. Perhaps it's time to call for air support.]
[…Alright.]
[We underestimated these xenos psykers.]
Mortarion's eyes lingered on the blasphemous remains of the altar. He gave the slightest shake of his head.
[We did.]
His armor HUD pinged—telemetry returning from another battlefield.
The display showed Hades, leading his detachment of Death Guard, advancing toward the main city at maximum speed.
They had little time left.
The battle for Drune was far from over.
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