Chapter 335: Run, Run!!
When you're faced with an enemy you know you can't possibly defeat—what do you do?
Hades's answer was simple: run. Run as fast as possible. That's how he survived on Barbarus.
The problem was, Hades wasn't alone this time—and worse still, the enemy was fast.
Even worse? Hades was the one drawing all the aggro.
And his "taunt" ability was passive. He couldn't turn it off.
He carried the scent of both Necron and C'tan—something that drew them like predators to blood.
Very bad C'tan. Very bad Necrons. Very bad Emperor for feeding him a shard of the Void Dragon.
All of Hades's hatred burned quietly inside him.
He took a long, weary breath.
Then decided: let those who can run, run as fast as they damn well can.
. . .
The blizzard howled across the plains as Hades rapidly split the army into two forces.
The larger one would escort Angron directly to the evacuation point on the plains, hoping to contact the fleet in orbit and get the Primarch aboard the moment communication was restored.
They were also tasked with calling down immediate orbital bombardment once contact was made—to buy time for Hades's group to retreat.
Everything depended on whether they could reach the ships still waiting above.
And Hades had to pray that the World Eaters' fleet hadn't already been attacked.
If it had, the troops trapped on the surface were as good as dead.
Hades led the smaller detachment himself—the bait. The group meant to draw enemy fire.
The only good news, perhaps, was that the Necrons seemed utterly disinterested in the World Eaters.
Their true target was Hades, the one tied to the C'tan shard.
But really, was that good news at all?
Mounting his Wraith Knight, Hades began plotting an escape route.
Following him were several Knights, a few elite World Eaters, and his own battle automata.
Since Angron's group was unlikely to face the Necron main force, Hades had taken nearly all the Knights for himself. Those massive machines might help soak up some of the incoming fire—heavy mechanical targets always drew a C'tan's attention.
The engines of the Wraith Knights roared to life beneath him. The Head of the Silent Sisterhood had given one simple order to all the mixed Knight squadrons:
Protect Hades. Draw the enemy's attention. At any cost.
Among the escort were even the priceless Wraith Knights of the Silent Sisters—an extravagant sacrifice, but there was no room for hesitation now.
The top priority was clear: get Angron and Hades back to the fleet.
To somewhere—anywhere—safe.
Or, at the very least, ensure that one of them made it out alive.
The forces escorting Angron were already preparing for a breakout, heading northwest.
Hades and his Knights would withdraw eastward.
Then, the comms crackled—not the fleet, as Hades had hoped, but Charon's voice.
Hades had sent the Black Bishop with Angron's group, while Charon remained by his side.
"My lord," Charon said, "our primary directive is to protect your life, not Angron's. Please reconsider."
Hades's teeth ground together; his voice came out cold, brittle as the wind itself.
"Charon, setting aside the Necrons' fixation on me, answer me this—if the World Eaters' air wing realizes their primary extraction target is me, while their Primarch is being left behind…"
He paused, his words cutting through the blizzard.
"Do you think they'll follow orders—or lose their minds rushing to save their Primarch? Do you still not understand what kind of Legion the World Eaters are? Don't make me teach you again, Charon. Now is not the time to test my patience."
Charon fell silent. The Custodian had expected Hades to spout some noble, self-sacrificing nonsense—words of personal heroism he would dutifully try to argue against as a loyal soldier.
But… no.
Charon realized then that the Lord of the Underworld had already weighed the crueler, less honorable options—and had chosen the one that might actually work.
At last, the towering golden warrior simply said, "Understood. Then I will fight and die for you, my lord."
Hades didn't respond. His thoughts were already racing, calculating every desperate measure that could slightly improve his chances of survival.
He could take a few more World Eaters with him, perhaps—but they would likely fall behind during high-speed movement, and besides, they seemed completely incapable of drawing a C'tan's attention.
Instead, he redirected several Knights to his group. That left only two to guard Angron's convoy. It would have to do. Unless the Necrons deployed heavy firepower directly against Angron, his warriors would buy enough time for the Primarch to escape.
The crimson wind crackled with tension. No more hesitation.
Hades raised the broken sword Nemesis, signaling the start of the breakout.
He almost felt grateful to his past self for having the foresight to bring it—Trazyn had coated his scythe, Obituary, with a thin layer of monomolecular C'tan-phase metal.
Which meant his scythe was completely useless against the C'tan.
Trazyn, damn you—but thank you, too!
Far off in the storm, darkness rippled. The imprisoned shard stirred, clawing at the edges of its prison, craving power, craving wholeness—craving freedom.
. . .
The scarlet mud churned under the storm. The Necrons surged forward in endless waves, a swarm of metallic locusts rushing toward their prey—but most of them tripped and collapsed in the blood-soaked mire before ever reaching their desired target.
For a species bred for war, nothing was more confounding than an enemy that refused to meet them head-on.
But these foot soldiers were only the smallest footnotes in a much greater tragedy.
A broken god had entered the field.
The storm shrieked and raged, but even the gale bent before absolute law.
Darkness spread like liquid matter—hunger, greed, wrath, and despair.
The Nightbringer watched silently as the Necron Overlord pointed out its target.
Lightning coalesced around it, but the being hissed in displeasure—the extradimensional gravity of this plane still bound its full might.
It lifted its gaze, sensing its prey.
It recognized the familiar spark of power.
And the Nightbringer raised its hand—
Hades, marching at full speed, felt it instantly. A dread pulse, heavy as gravity itself.
He roared into the comms, his voice tearing through the howling wind:
"All units, hard right! NOW—MOVE!!"
The world detonated. Space folded.
Hades spun his head, eyes wide—and saw three Knights twisted like crushed toys, their metallic husks bent into grotesque shapes, limbs curled inward as if some cosmic hand had squeezed them into scrap.
Sparks and lightning crackled around their shattered frames, and the once-mighty ion shields still flickered pathetically, as if mocking their failure.
The Head of the Silent Sisterhood could hear the dying pilots' cries through the vox; the World Eaters below cursed and shouted as they tried to keep pace with the retreating mechs.
But Hades felt nothing. There was no room left for emotion. Not fear, not grief—only calculation.
The cold wind lashed his face as he processed what he had just learned.
One: Distance meant nothing to the Nightbringer's attacks—or they simply weren't far enough yet.
Two: He could feel a faint resonance between himself and the Nightbringer—something that might, just barely, offer a chance at survival.
Hades strained to focus on that resonance. Weak green lightning flared around him, more symbolic than effective.
He opened his mouth and roared,
"All Knights—advance due north! The rest of you, regroup with the other convoy—NOW!"
North—toward the Nightbringer and the Necron Overlord.
At this scale of battle, Knights were little more than oversized infantry. Hades realized he didn't need the World Eaters here. They were liabilities now—better to send them where they could still make a difference.
This time, Charon asked no foolish questions.
Hades watched the infantry detach and fade into the storm, then turned his attention forward. He could hear Raibo's strained voice over the comms, engines screaming under overload, metal shrieking like tortured beasts.
And so they ran, charging straight toward the heart of the maelstrom.
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