"You brat—finally in my hands."
After Eden issued the order, the Redemption Titan locked onto the fleeing Huron Blackheart. To the surge of exultant hymns, the God-Machine thundered after him.
"Bring all synaptic link strength to 100%. Initiate overload mode."
Suspended in an amniotic command cradle, the Titan's captain—red augmetic eyes flickering—intoned:
"By His Majesty the Savior's direction, let the heretic behold the Omnissiah's wrath!
"And a reminder, people: if any module slips up, the All-Machine Sanction Protocols will light us up. Then it's back to babysitting the little toys…"
Among Titan crews there is, of course, a pecking order.
At the very top stand the Savior's own Titan Guard—every crewman entrusted with an Imperator-class holy Titan bristling with reliquary weapons.
By any measure, they are one of the largest and most powerful Titan formations in the galaxy.
And the "little toys" the captain sneered at? Warhound-class scout Titans—barely as tall as a mainline Titan's knee, built to recon and draw fire.
In other words: Titan fodder.
Pilots who aren't up to par—or who make costly mistakes—get bumped down to Warhound scouts. The truly unlucky are expelled from the Redemption's fighting roster entirely…
…to "drive the big trucks" for the Redemption's engineering corps—construction Titans, ore-haulers, superheavy transports.
For a Titan pilot, few fates cut deeper.
This war is under His Majesty's personal command. If the God-Machine's pilots introduce error and squander the tempo?
They'll almost certainly face the All-Machine Sanction Protocols.
Linked mind-to-machine, every pilot received the captain's packet in the same instant—and focused harder.
No one wanted to lose their place in the Savior's Titan Guard and be sent to haul rocks.
They watched every datastream and micro-anomaly, hunting down any seed of failure.
"Obstacle ahead: perigrinating Profane Knights. Threat index: ten percent."
"Left-side collapse zone—pushing coordinates now."
"Damp the sway—maintain His Majesty's safety and comfort."
"Advance. Grind through."
Millions of signals—status, orders, confirms—flashed through their shared noösphere in milliseconds, resolving into crisp actuation commands.
Every module drove the colossus as one.
Primary gunner keyed the strike. "Target locked: sector C-13 ruin belt. Weapon pre-heat ninety-five percent… fire!"
Thought moved faster than speech. Before Eden's last syllable faded, the Redemption Titan's heart-reactor roared—like a thousand megafauna howling at once.
Stride quickened; the wasteland danced beneath iron feet.
KRA-CHAK—KRA-CHAK—
On the left arm, the reliquary-grade Volcano Cannon spooled. Heat-sink vanes bloomed; superheated plasma steam huffed from hairline vents—
—air itself took on the bitter stink of char.
Watching a God-Machine light its war-relic at this range—it shook the soul.
Few Imperial beam weapons hit harder.
After a breath's stillness, a sun-white lance cleaved outward with a sky-splitting thundercrack.
Everything in its path—four, five meters of fused ruin wall—vapourized, laying bare a startled Huron Blackheart and the Red Corsairs at his back.
Those too close didn't even have time to scream—their helm-grilles sagged as armour ran, glowing, to slag. Molten ferrous torrents slicked the broken ground—
—like streams of liquid carmine.
"Masters… I require more power!"
Terror twisted Blackheart's features. He begged his patrons for strength—and little answered.
He felt it now: the blackstone systems' interference bit deep, choking the flow of empyric energy and scrambling warp-craft.
Worse, the Savior's God-Machine wore blackstone armour as well, warding out the Immaterium.
His corrosive blight failed outright.
Only one path remained: flee.
Without a heartbeat's hesitation, the Tyrant wheeled for the ship's denser superstructure. The Doom-Ark sprawled over twenty kilometres; its innards were a maze with many a bolthole.
But the blows kept falling—boxing him in.
"Hey, hey, hey—evil meets the judge in the end.
"Huron Blackheart, you're surrounded. Scuttling like a rat won't help. Drop your arms; surrender is your only road!"
Eden's voice rolled out from a specialized vox-projector on the Redemption Titan—resolute, ringing with righteous authority.
He sat at ease upon the throne on the Titan's shoulder-borne grav dais, nested in overlapping shield-auras, calmly watching the shellacking of the Blackheart.
He was no Roboute Guilliman—no urge to grandstand at knife-range while holding every card. The optimal play was to remain secure and let the hammering finish.
Never give the Dark Gods a handhold.
Especially the Changer of Ways—the one who delights in dropping a boulder on victory at the finish-line.
At the throne's flank, Abaddon stood like a taciturn chamberlain—face ruddy with pent-up ire.
What could he do? There was one throne on the platform. The Savior sat; the Despoiler stood.
He seethed—but he didn't dare step away.
Right now the Savior held the field.
If he leapt down to chase Huron or rejoin his own companies, what if the Savior swept the area with the God-Machine and erased him in one treacherous salvo?
Knowing the Savior's shameless streak, Abaddon considered that very likely.
He watched the throne itself, too—an unknown relic-weapon, and a potent one. He could feel it.
He stayed wary.
"Old 'Don…"
The instant Eden turned his head, Abaddon flinched—muscles bunching.
Eden smiled, offering a goblet. "Relax. With my sterling character, I'm not going to knife an ally at a time like this.
"You're not frightened, are you?"
"You've eked out a temporary advantage—hardly enough to daunt me. And compared to the reeking gods you defy, you still fall short."
Neck stiff, Abaddon took the cup and drank.
Eden regarded the Warmaster, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
If he could, he'd end this butcher's tally here and now.
But as Emperor of Mankind, he had to weigh the board. Abaddon couldn't die—not yet. Killing him wouldn't shift the balance enough.
Worse, with the Dark Gods propping up Blackheart now, the power vacuum could get uglier.
Abaddon had broken with the Ruinous Powers. Better to let him dog-fight their chosen pet.
Eden had already run the future: after this grand raid, the Eye of Terror would descend into an even uglier bout of internal war until one side crawled out on top.
He'd use that time to build—throwing bastions around the Eye's marches—
—to blunt its taint as far as he could.
BRRRT—BRRRT—BRRRT—
A Hellfire rotary battery chewed apart Chaos engines in swathes. Return fire couldn't even scratch the outermost void screens.
Eeden's attention slid back to the kill-box. The noose around Blackheart was cinching tight.
He wanted this "Chosen of the Four" ended here.
Towering, rune-scarred mech-spires toppled like dominoes. Huron fought tooth and nail, but blastwake after blastwake tore into him. He was a ruin—raw bone showing, twisted limbs snapped—spent.
Hunter and prey had traded places.
Soon, Carter led the Thunder Wardens in, coordinating with the Redemption Knights for a good old-fashioned dog-pile.
Holy cinder rounds sparked again and again; Huron's shrieks went ragged.
"Wait… just… wait—I still… have a chance!"
Bleeding, reeling, he clung on—eyes slitting to venom.
He was biding.
Waiting for the Savior to step in for the coup de grâce.
What greater trophy than a head that wore the Four's new favour? Who'd pass that up?
Certainly not that vainglorious Savior.
And then he'd spring the trap—the patrons' bespoke toxin—cripple or even kill the Savior outright.
At worst, it would drown him in torpor. Far richer than the poisons used on primarchs of old. Tenfold nastier. Near-uncurable.
"He's coming!"
A fever-glow kindled in Huron's shot-through gaze.
His warp-sight felt the Savior rise from the throne and stroll his way.
The executioner's step.
His black heart fluttered with hope.
Which crashed a heartbeat later.
The Savior stopped at the grav dais's edge—pointed down, shared a laugh with Abaddon—mocking him.
Huron's witch-eye even lip-read their exchange:
Eden plucked a glass from a hovering servo-tray, gesturing at the war-wreck below.
"Tell me the little clown isn't congratulating himself. He's dying to lure us down and try for a cheap shot."
"Hmph. The clown is a fool. Such crude bait deserves failure."
"The gods chose poorly."
(Truth be told, Abaddon had just suggested they finish Huron together—Eden had nixed it. So the Warmaster settled for waiting safely until Huron died.)
"Detestable…"
Face flushed, Huron bit down hard.
Humiliation like acid. Rage like wildfire. No counterplay.
The Savior's layered kill-net had sealed every lane. Holy cinder rounds crippled warp-work at the root.
"Save—yor—!"
With a last, broken roar, Huron stumbled—and Carter took his head. The Thunder Wardens closed in, bathing the carcass in melta until it sloughed to ash.
They popped a compact cinder charge into the pile, then drew the residue into a reliquary canister—prayer-latticed, hymn-loud, soul-quieting.
An artful, ash-to-ash finish—no loose ends.
But upon the Redemption Titan's shoulder, Eden and Abaddon didn't smile.
Blackheart's soul hadn't unraveled.
The Dark Gods had snatched it—together.
And with power like theirs, a resurrection would be trivial.
Now bodiless, the Tyrant would no doubt take deeper pacts—maybe even claw for daemonhood.
Eden didn't sulk.
He'd forecast this branch. At least he'd fished the biggest agitator out of the drain.
Strategic objectives: met.
Under Abaddon's watchful stare, he pulled the force back—abandoning the Doom-Ark and returning to the Dreamweaver.
Soon, the Dreamweaver broke away—resource-armadas in tow, holds fat with plunder—homeward bound for Dawn City.
…
Salvador.
The Stardust Nebula's fires were dying. Fleets and freebooters had had their fill and were slipping away.
Even the Red Corsairs' blackstone bastion-ships.
Abaddon rallied the surviving Black Legion, beat back the leftover heretics and xenos flotillas—but the red harvest was bitter. Outposts sacked, ships lost, vaults emptied—blackstone stockpiles gone.
Worst were the nine Blackstone Doom-Arks:
Eden seized three; the Red Corsairs made off with two; two were blasted to wrecks in void war.
A sliver of grace—the last pair caught would-be thieves and were retaken by Black Legion reinforcements en route.
Not a total bloodbath.
At the forges' port-plate.
"Traitors. You will pay."
Abaddon stood at the brink, Chaos lords and chosen crowding behind him.
He stared into the near-empty slips—only two Doom-Arks at anchor—and his eyes burned.
He hated the Savior.
He hated the Red Corsairs—and Huron—more.
He'd let them share in the glory of a Black Crusade, gift them escalations in name and deed—only to be stabbed in the back.
Unforgivable.
"Moriana. It was no surprise the Savior moved on Huron the jester. But why did he save me?"
The question came hard.
The robed prophet's eyes glazed white—warp-sight questing.
Moments later, she hesitated—and fell silent.
Some answers could not be said.
Abaddon understood—and fell silent too.
"Damn him."
He'd seen it. The Savior had saved him because, should Abaddon die, Huron as successor would be the nastier, thornier foe.
Which meant the Savior judged Huron the stronger.
If Huron was a clown, what did that make him?
In the shadowed angles, his storm-grey features twisted—like he'd swallowed the sour heart of the galaxy. An artwork in grimace.
Silence stretched. Everyone knew. No one spoke.
"As of today, the Black Legion suspends its crusade against the Imperium."
At last, his voice returned, iron-flat. "We consolidate. We rebuild. We cut out the rot. Huron Blackheart and his Red Corsairs will be annihilated."
The Imperium could not be stormed today—but Huron threatened his throne here and now.
There could be only one Warmaster in the Eye. Abaddon.
When Huron lay dead and the spoils were his, he would launch another Black Crusade—show the Savior who truly ruled the Eye.
Make the man regret the rescue.
In the gutter-glow of furnace-flames, the Despoiler's shadow loomed—unyielding.
He'd walk the same hard road as ten thousand years ago.
And win.
—
Dreamweaver, bridge.
"Old 'Don should be licking his wounds and gearing up to gut Huron by now, right?"
Eden murmured at the viewing panes.
Salvador dwindled in the starscape—and he smiled. That storm would buy him seasons of quiet growth.
"Brother, your healer-sages messed up my treatment, didn't they?"
The Khan stalked over, frowning.
He'd taken a nasty cut in the fight and been whisked to the Savior's private medicae afterward.
The White Scar primarch, however, was… unimpressed with the outcome.
Eden turned—and nearly laughed.
The iron-rider of Chogoris was three shades lighter; his skin had grown absurdly refined.
Clearly, without a warning, the healer-sages had given him the full spa package.
"Nothing to fret over," Eden said, lips twitching. "Go get some sun. Or spend an afternoon in my solarium."
Then he waved it off, pivoting. "Anyway, old Khan—let's survey the haul. Not every day we do this well."
A hololith unfolded in midair—the ledger of prizes.
Crown jewels: two Blackstone Doom-Arks, complete with fresh blackstone technologies.
He had no intention of stripping their blackstone.
Instead, he'd turn Archmagos Belisarius Cawl and the Urth Mechanicus loose on them—refit the structures into super-capital warships fit for human hands.
Thirty-plus kilometres from prow to stern—floating battle-continents—ready to mount stupendous batteries, armies, and bays.
With blackstone's warp-damping, they'd thrive on battlefields others feared.
Between his reliquary parts and macro-guns, he had every confidence he'd forge the fiercest space-war engines in the galaxy.
After the Doom-Arks came holds upon holds of raw blackstone.
Perfect for Dawn City's builds—the main point of this raid.
Add in blackstone mechanisms, fortress hulks, xenos warships, caches from the Black Legion—arms and treasure alike.
Plus a scatter of exotic xenos weapons and materials—including a certain void-overlord's sceptre.
A king's ransom.
"What a glorious war," Eden said, eyes dancing at the figures. If you want to get rich quick, crack open the heretic piggy banks.
With these spoils, construction could finally sing.
…
Half a month later—micro-gardens.
Morning. Rills whispered; rare blossoms thickened the air with dew-sweet perfume.
Eeden sat at a desk nested in flowers, paging through the latest dispatch—the charter for a Pan-Galactic Commercial Association.
It would oversee all of Dawn City's trade, rally every Imperial guild into a single spine, and plot secure, efficient star-routes.
It also proposed a suite of very… Savior-flavoured commercial measures.
Not long ago, Eden had addressed all Imperial space—
—declaring, as Savior and Master of the Imperium, that the realm would enter a period of reconstruction. The long night was ending. The people's days would grow sweet again.
Regional authorities were ordered to cooperate.
Warm light slid through the garden's hemispheric dome.
Eden stretched and glanced up—Dawn City lay aglow in gentle sanctity.
Hope brimmed in his eyes.
Dawn City was about to open its gates. As the provinces rose, the Imperium's very face would change beyond recognition.
And beyond that—he would give the Imperium, the galaxy, and even the warp itself a few small shocks from the home he once knew.
(End of Chapter)
(End of Chapter)
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