Chapter 334: Hades Wept
Khorne chose His toys with meticulous care.
The Great Rift—a cesspool of corruption and chaos.
Millennia ago, a planet belonging to the Necron Novokh Dynasty was dragged into the Great Rift's gravitational pull, severing all contact with the rest of their kind.
When the planet finally reappeared, it was clad in the war regalia the Lord of Skulls had so graciously prepared for it.
No duels, no contests of honor, no glory.
It was time for the worms of the Warp to learn what true war meant.
The horns of battle blared on the material plane; even the Lord of War himself could scarcely influence its course. Both sides entered the fray—its outcome uncertain.
But the Blood God never panics. His foes are mere vermin, cowards who survived only by fleeing the Warp's embrace.
Guns roared and blades clashed, blood dripping into the snow.
. . .
Hades drew in a sharp breath, the biting wind stinging his nose.
He smelled blood—the ancient scent of it, dry and lifeless from millions of years past. Narrowing his eyes, he saw soldiers charging toward them in the distance.
Necrons were always distinct in their design, each dynasty leaving its mark upon its legions. Yet the force before Hades and his men bore an unmistakable character.
Their faces were smeared with blood; silver and green adorned their bodies. Compared to the Necrons Hades had encountered before, these exuded a feverish lust for battle.
He recognized them at once—the Novokh Dynasty. This "reborn" Necron kingdom revered war itself, favored close combat, and decorated themselves with the blood of their enemies.
Khorne, Hades thought grimly, truly knew how to play his games.
A faint, bitter smile crossed his lips as he reached into the warp with his Black Domain—only to find, as expected, nothing. These were pure Necrons, untouched by Chaos. Yet after spending so long within the Great Rift, their minds had dulled; they charged blindly, devoid of strategy or coordination.
Perhaps that was the only good news so far. They had yet to encounter Necron ranged units or aerial support; air superiority still belonged to Hades. But the blizzard made it nearly impossible for his aircraft to provide effective ground support.
Acting quickly, Hades ordered more Stormbirds to descend from orbit. Their primary goal was retreat—if they could just reach calmer atmospheric zones, evacuation would be possible.
The problem was, the nearest plains suitable for retreat were still far away.
Over the vox, Hades shouted for the fleet, but the signal kept breaking up. What he heard back were fragments of distorted data—too scattered for him to decipher.
He cursed under his breath, praying it wasn't a distress call from the fleet under attack by a Necron starship.
The storm had severed communication with orbit. Far away, Stormbirds were being forced to crash-land under the extreme weather—others, too slow to pull out, were blasted from the sky by Necron gauss fire.
Now Hades could command only those who had landed with him: over half a legion of World Eaters, along with the Silent Sisterhood's already meager number of Null Maidens and their Knights.
He immediately ordered the Nulls off the front line—skilled warriors though they were, throwing them against Necrons would be a waste beyond measure.
Gritting his teeth, he commanded the Knights to integrate with the World Eaters, turning them into mobile fire platforms. Watching the smaller Knights among the towering war machines of the World Eaters made Hades' heart bleed.
But it was necessary. Without air support, and with the World Eaters' forces composed mainly of infantry, they lacked sufficient ranged firepower.
Hades was frantically directing his forces while cursing Khorne under his breath—and Trazyn too.
Everything had gone so well in the negotiations, yet only now did Hades realize that Trazyn had never actually given him a direct line of contact.
No red button to smash, no emergency channel to summon the Lord of Figurines.
Your figurines are about to be destroyed, Trazyn! Come get your Hades, damn it!
But Hades was trapped deep within the Great Rift, a place where time and space twisted in unnatural ways.
Could the Lord of Figurines even sense him here?
Or would Khorne allow any distress signal from this planet to escape its cursed gravity well?
It was humiliating, but Hades had never longed so desperately for the aid of an alien before. Even though all he could see were the endless ranks of advancing Necron infantry… a gnawing unease lingered in his heart.
If Khorne truly wanted him dead, the Blood God wouldn't have chosen a weak dynasty for the job—yet neither would He pick one too strong. After all, once this was over, Khorne would still need to reclaim Angron and the World Eaters from the Necrons' grasp.
"For Angron!"
The roar from the front lines snapped Hades out of his thoughts. There was no time for speculation now—only action. Though he kept whispering Trazyn's name in his mind, Hades knew he couldn't gamble the fate of his army on such a fragile hope.
He took another deep breath. For now, his role was clear: to act as Angron's carrier, staying behind the front line until the World Eaters could secure a retreat corridor.
Sensing a sudden surge in Hades's Black Domain, Angron stirred on his back, slowly awakening. His voice was hoarse, rasping:
"Is it over?"
Though Hades's mind was still boiling with rage at both Khorne and Trazyn, his tone remained calm.
"Just the start of another round."
He paused for a moment.
"I might have to move to the front soon. Angron, I'll place you beside one of the Knights in the rear. The Null Maidens and the wounded World Eaters will guard you. Their presence will suppress your soul's unrest for a while."
Angron let out a weak, amused laugh.
"I was just wondering—what kind of warrior fights with a wounded man on his back?"
"We're retreating, Angron. Carrying the wounded is common in a retreat. Victory isn't the priority now. Survival is. You need to live… and so do I."
Hades could feel the faint shake of Angron's head against his back. The Lord of the Red Sands seemed puzzled, his voice low and weary:
"I don't understand, Hades. Where did the fire go—the fury I saw when you cleaved through those vermin? The victor is always the one who lives… and only the one who lives."
Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, Angron recalled broken flashes of battle: Hades at the front lines, absurdly carrying a massive, bleeding Primarch on his back—yet still wielding his scythe with deadly precision. The daemons had been nothing but stalks of wheat before his blade.
So why now, when he had awakened, had Hades fallen back—radiating worry and dread instead of bloodlust?
Angron tried to think, to make sense of it, but the nails, the Black Domain, and his own battered body clouded his thoughts.
And just as he spoke, Hades's eyelid twitched.
He felt it—an aura he knew all too well.
Far, far too well.
And it was the last thing he wanted to feel right now.
At the very edge of his vision, Hades saw it—a Necron Overlord, standing motionless amid the storm, a crimson scythe clutched in its corroded hands.
Even at this distance, it was clear the creature no longer possessed true sentience. Though an Overlord in rank, the endless drift through the Great Rift had left its joints flecked with rust, its movements stiff and jerky—like a puppet animated by some long-forgotten will.
Then, it raised its scythe.
Behind it, on the howling tundra where the blizzard screamed across the wasteland, something colossal began to rise—a titanic structure, black stone pillars marking its four corners. Between them, arcs of lightning cracked and twisted, carrying with them wails of agony that tore through the wind and cut straight into Hades's ears.
A C'tan shard…?
Which star god is that?
The thought flickered through his mind, then died. It didn't matter.
For a brief, surreal instant, Hades's mind went utterly blank.
If he were alone right now, he already knew exactly where he'd dig his own grave.
Up to this point, almost every battle Hades had fought involved psychic entities—daemons, sorcerers, warp-spawned monstrosities. That was the kind of war he understood, the kind he could control.
But now? Khorne's brilliant matchmaking system had paired him with… a pure physical player.
And Hades knew it—his own "fragment" of the Void Dragon was only that: a fragment of a fragment, a power so faint it barely registered. He had never once tested it in real combat.
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but couldn't. Around him, none of his warriors had yet realized what they were about to face.
Expressionless, Hades began issuing orders. The World Eaters were to fortify their positions; Techmarines were to re-establish contact with the orbital fleet at all costs.
They were likely going to die here. All of them.
Maybe he could try forcing a Stormbird to crash-land, get Angron out? But there was no telling what state the fleet was in now—what if Khorne's influence had already reached orbit?
Hades exhaled sharply, feeling the immense weight of Angron on his back. He thought of the Death Guard… of the Emperor's last words before his departure: "Don't die."
No. They had to make it out.
Angron must have sensed something. Just as Hades was about to set him down beside a Knight for safety, the Primarch stirred first. Weakly, he patted Hades's pauldron.
"Is it just me, Hades… or have you changed?"
A wet cough, blood spattering his lips.
"You're a fine gladiator, Hades. I can tell. The fight ends when the fight ends—war always favors its best warriors."
Hades said nothing.
Only the darkness around them deepened—the Black Domain flaring like a silent storm.
Angron drifted back into unconsciousness.
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