M42
-BlackStone Fortress-
The Maelstrom's cursed tides churned endlessly beyond the reinforced viewports of the Silent Veil. After two Terran days of cautious travel through ancient relay routes.
Using drone placed teleportation node, the infiltration strike force materialized within the vast cyclopean halls of the Blackstone Fortress.
Naon immediately order her subordinate to place some null-fields across the infiltration point.
It will become their exit later. It will be prudent to guard it well.
"Chunin Bonnie, I will give you 10 shinobi from each company to guard." Seiji give order to one of the most competent chunin under his command.
Seeing the base team set up traps and other preparation, Seiji moves with the rest to start the rescue mission.
The interior was a cathedral of horrors. Twisting corridors of impossible geometry stretched into darkness, their walls formed of obsidian-metal etched with countless blasphemous sigils. The very air shimmered with residual warp static, the oppressive psychic pressure gnawing at the edges of mortal sanity. Every step the strike force took felt as though unseen things brushed against them, eager to unravel their minds.
Seiji crouched behind a jagged piece of alien stone, his HUD flickering as it struggled to make sense of the shifting data.
Pic-vids of clean inside of what blackstone fortress suppose to be and what horror he is seeing now churns his stomach.
But mission persist.
"Formation hold," he voxed, his voice a low whisper.
The Shinobi units fanned out with silent precision, phase-cloaks engaged, their movements little more than ghostly distortions in the gloom. The Sealing Corps remained at the center, their psychic null fields radiating a faint, stabilizing pulse. Even with their enhancements, the oppressive gravity shifts and malignant aura of the ancient structure made every step a battle of will.
Suddenly, one of the scouts sent a silent ping through the local vox.
Seiji's retinal display adjusted, focusing on the relay. A trail — faint disturbances in the dustless floor, shimmering fragments of residual wraithbone. A trace unmistakable to those trained to see it.
He keyed a command, and Captain Bruno of the 13th Battle Company and Captain Naon of the 4th Sealing Corps moved in alongside him.
"Eldar," Bruno muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his monomolecular blade.
"Harlequins," Naon corrected, his voice a low rasp. "No one else moves like that. The Laughing God's devils."
Seiji's jaw tightened. Harlequins. Even among the Aeldari, these enigmatic killers were a terror — beings who danced along the edge of sanity, speaking in riddles and moving with impossible grace.
Another figure shimmered into partial view ahead — a shape formed of liquid motion, clad in motley armor that shimmered like oil on water, its mask an emotionless visage of pale porcelain.
The Harlequin tilted its head as though hearing a song no mortal could comprehend.
"Ah… shadows in shadows," the figure spoke in a lilting, ancient tongue. The auto-translators struggled, rendering it as, "Lost children threading the storm's needle."
It gave a graceful bow, twin blades flickering into its hands.
Then, like mist in moonlight, it vanished.
Seiji's mind raced. If they reached Guilliman before them, the consequences would be catastrophic. Neither the Machinist's designs nor the Imperium's fragile survival could endure interference.
"We increase pace," Seiji ordered. "If contact occurs, eliminate quickly and silently. No pursuit. The Primarch is priority."
"Understood," Bruno and Naon intoned.
As the strike force pressed on, the fortress itself seemed to resist them — walls shifting subtly, distances warping, doors appearing and vanishing like a labyrinth designed by a mad god. The oppressive psychic presence gnawed at even their disciplined minds, sending flashes of impossible memories and alien whispers through their thoughts.
Naon keep reciting psychic mantra, her null-wards flaring faintly against unseen warp-things brushing close.
They moved deeper, encountering evidence of recent conflict: charred remains of traitor marines, warp-born ichor staining the walls, sigils of the Dark Gods carved into flesh and metal alike. The Blackstone Fortress had become a battleground not just between loyalists and traitors — but between reality and madness itself.
Seiji voxed to both captains. "Once we breach the jail, Naon — I want your dampener nodes anchored every fifty meters. No warp creature crosses that perimeter."
"It will be done," Naon replied.
Bruno grunted. "Seiji, if we cross blades with those xenos, we'll bleed. They're faster than anything mortal."
Seiji gave a grim nod. "Avoid direct engagements. Their interest lies elsewhere, for now. If forced, strike as one, from all sides. Do not fight them alone."
Another signal flared on Seiji's HUD. A new trail — faint but fresh.
The Harlequins were moving faster now.
"If they reach the Primarch before us, this entire operation collapses," Seiji thought darkly. "We cannot allow that."
He keyed the vox again. "We match their speed. No hesitation. The Emperor's son belongs to the Machinist."
"For the Machinist," came the grim reply.
As the strike force continued, Seiji caught sight of ancient Aeldari script scorched into the walls — dire warnings left from millennia before humanity's rise. Even in this cursed place, the old ghosts lingered.
High above, a Harlequin silhouette darted through the vaulted rafters, moving between reality and unreality, leaving only ripples in the warp's fabric.
Bruno tightened his grip on his weapon. "I hate those bastards," he muttered.
"Then be faster," Seiji replied coldly.
Even their enhanced bodies ached under the oppressive gravity shifts and psychic pressure that coiled through the ancient halls, each step a battle against the fortress itself. The Maelstrom's influence gnawed at their senses, bending time and memory. Some warriors began muttering oaths to the Machinist under their breath, a mantra against the encroaching madness.
Seiji opened a secure command channel. "Naon, keep your wards burning hot. If this pressure increases, we'll lose men."
Naon's voice crackled back. "Null fields at maximum. Any higher and I risk burning out the psykers."
"Do it if you must," Seiji ordered. "Guilliman's life is worth the cost."
A flicker of static interrupted them, a harsh, mocking laugh echoing through the vox.
A Harlequin's voice. "Your threads fray, little ghosts. Dance faster."
And then silence.
Seiji exhaled slowly, his fury contained. The enemy toyed with them — and yet, their path was clear.
"Maintain advance. No delays."
And so, in the endless cursed corridors of the fortress, two forces of shadows hunted one another — neither willing to yield, neither trusting the other, and all beneath the baleful gaze of the warp.