The world of Hive Thraxos was burning. Again. But this time, the fire did not belong solely to Nurgle. Rot-spawned monstrosities swarmed the battlefield in endless waves—Plague Frames, forged in filth and mad mimicry, marched across the ruins with synchronized cruelty. They screamed in binary, in daemonic tongue, in raw feedback from corrupted Synth lungs. Bio-mechanical limbs leaked rust-colored ichor as they thundered across shattered causeways, their frames groaning with every step as though the metal itself were in agony. Smoke choked the air, thick with the reek of viral combustion and slagged ceramite, as green lightning crawled across the storm-torn sky.
Then came the counter-volley. Steel-clad Guardsmen braced behind charred barricades. But they didn't carry standard-issue lasguns. These new weapons hummed, sizzled, and charged with volatile brilliance. Slabs of gleaming alloy with glowing heatsinks and shaped muzzle vents—tools built for obliteration, not suppression. The first Plague Frame to breach the outer wall died mid-charge, its skull atomized by a thunderous crack from a Slab Marksman rifle. The shooter, a corporal from the 88th Vostroyan Assault, ejected the rail slab with a hiss and reloaded in a blink. Two more Frames fell as molten bolts from Heat Shotguns punched through their corrupted armor, leaving bubbling ruin in their place. A third staggered toward a command post, its body riddled with holes, until a final Hand Railcannon blast cored it through the chest, leaving a steaming tunnel of melted plague flesh.
For the first time in months, the Imperium was not retreating. They held their line with fury and precision, carving through the tide of synthetic rot like razors through mold. The Chaos Sorcerer known as Grilvok the Mulched watched from a ridge of shattered spires, his swollen eyes twitching and bubbling with disease. "They burn like suns," he hissed, bile dripping from his tongue. "These are not Imperial weapons..." He was right. The soldiers did not know the origins of these miraculous instruments. They only knew they came through the hands of a Rogue Trader—Dominia Virellia Merikova. A name whispered with respect, suspicion, and awe. Her fleet had arrived without fanfare, delivering arms of unknown make, forged with materials that baffled Tech-Priests. There were no rites, no prayers, no Machine Spirit appeasements. Just slabs, barrels, and precision-kill instruments that spoke with heat and thunder.
Unknown to all but a select few, those weapons were gifts from another world entirely—from the mind and forge of Dr. Dew.
Far from the burning streets of Hive Thraxos, beyond the reach of Nurgle's filth, Eden basked in artificial sunlight. The city of Harmonia glistened like a living jewel on the planet's surface, its towers humming with Isu resonance, its air clean and warm. Here, in this carefully cultivated sanctuary—hidden in an uncharted, untouched region of space, isolated from all known factions of the Warhammer galaxy—Dr. Dew stood in his central command dome, watching the battle unfold from afar. Screens surrounded him, each showing a different angle of the fight. Railgun trajectories, heat bloom readouts, structural integrity graphs, viral dispersal maps—all calculated in real time. He said nothing for a long time, only watching, processing, thinking.
Behind him, his inner circle assembled. Cassidy stood nearest, arms folded, her luminous Nova Kid glow dimmed in concentration. Da Vinci floated several diagrams in midair, stylus dancing across augmented space. Paracelsus examined a corrupted Plague Frame sample rotating on a holo-projector, making notes on its twisted biology. Morgan le Fay and Merlin hovered nearby, their magic-senses attuned to the broadcast, searching for traces of Warp interference. Artoria Pendragon remained silent, her stance straight and resolute, watching both sides collide into echother like a battering ram with squinted eyes.
Dr. Dew waved his hand, changing the display. The image of Hive Thraxos vanished, replaced by a star map of Eden's system. Three concentric rings pulsed outward from the central star, each glowing with a distinct frequency.
"The Eden Barrier is fully online," Dew continued. "Three layers, each built using Isu-Tesla resonance harmonics. The inner shell protects Eden and its moons. The middle layer distorts warp scrying and long-range scans. The outer ring filters out psychic interference completely. Nothing gets in or out without passing through three separate lattice matrices. Not even thoughts."
Morgan le Fay raised a hand, letting a ribbon of magic dance between her fingers. "I tested the wards myself. They reflect even subtle warp pulses. No echoes. No bleed-through. It is, for now, the safest place in the galaxy."
Merlin added, "That said, we should remain cautious. The Warp learns. And Chaos is more then patient. There forces grows larger every passing day, waiting for any opportunity to strike."
Artoria looked at Dew. "What do we do with the time we've have?"
He considered the question. Outside the command dome, teleportation rings shimmered as more evacuees from Pangea arrived—synths, humans, androids, children, soldiers. All of them weary. All of them finally free from the screams of dying worlds.
Dew took a breath. "We don't waste it. We take every hour, every moment, and we make it count. Build stronger defenses. Train smarter. Advance what we know. Because when they come again—and they will—I want us to be three steps ahead."
"Still," Dew murmured, turning back to the console. "We traded weapons with them, even if indirectly. The hand held railguns pistol, slab marksman and the heat shotguns. I thought we could slow Chaos down by arming the Imperium. It worked—but that doesn't mean the Imperium of Man has a indefinite victory over chaos just yet."
Dr. Dew didn't respond. He stared at the starlight-filtered sky beyond Eden's barrier, where the stars twinkled like distant eyes.
"We're safe here," Artoria said.
"For now," Dew replied. "But safety is an illusion. It only lasts as long as your enemies stay predictable."
He turned back to the projection. The image of Hive Thraxos reappeared. Burned. Scarred. But still held.
"They held the line," Merlin said quietly.
Dew nodded. "Yes. And we made that possible. But for how long?"
He looked once more at the corrupted drone, frozen in stasis, still twitching.
"We supplied them wirh weapons that could change the outcome of failure. Now we wait to see what the outcome is."
End of Chapter.