The morning after Myrridian's first reprieve came heavy and grey.
Ash still drifted through the trenchlines, clinging to the battered ceramite of Aurelius's armor. Smoke pillars marked the carcasses of traitor tanks across the plain, their wreckage black against the ashen horizon. The air reeked of promethium, blood, and ozone — the scent of victory, if one were willing to ignore how hollow it felt.
The Imperial Guard commanders gathered in the dugout headquarters were no more pristine. Mud and blood marked their coats. Eyes ringed with sleepless shadow stared at the Custodian as if he were some half-remembered dream from a better time.
Aurelius planted his Guardian Spear point-first into the soil. "Yesterday bought us time," he said, voice carrying over the creak of the structure. "Time is nothing if we do not shape it. Myrridian will not be a line that bends and breaks. We will make it a wall that bleeds the enemy dry."
Some of the Guard officers looked skeptical. Others — those who had seen him break traitor Astartes with his own hands — leaned forward.
He turned to the Mechanicus Magos present, a wiry figure draped in crimson robes. "Your forge-works will shift to fortifications and munitions. I will send you locations before the day's end."
To the Navy liaison: "Orbital scans of all possible landing zones. I want firing solutions mapped before the next drop."
To the Guard: "Rotations will be established. Sleep, eat, train, in that order. The men will be ready when they are called."
They didn't question the orders. Not after Caltrius. Not after yesterday.
By the third day, the framework of the new defense line was underway. Aurelius moved between construction sites like a living standard, Observation Haki painting the shifting warfront in his mind. He could sense more than just the enemy movements — he felt the morale of the men and women around him, the subtle tilt of discipline in the face of exhaustion. Where it wavered, he was there, grounding them with the quiet certainty of an unbroken will.
It was not long before Chaos adapted. The warband commander had patience and cruelty in equal measure.
The first changes were whispers in the Guard barracks — rumors of failed reinforcement convoys, lies about high command abandoning Myrridian, false orders to pull back from key positions. Then came the assassins, slipping through the lines at night to cut throats or plant explosives. And always, just beyond the perimeter, the warband's small strike teams struck like vipers, testing for weakness.
Aurelius answered with steel and fire.
When the whispers began, he sought out the loudest voices in the barracks and stared them down until their tongues stilled. Conqueror's Haki rolled through the air like an invisible storm, making liars choke on their breath.
When assassins struck, he moved faster. A shadow in gold armor, spear flashing, catching the killers before their blades could fall.
When strike teams hit, he was already moving before the first shells landed — Observation painting their approach as lines of intent converging on weak points. His counterstrikes were precise and brutal, breaking the enemy before they could even deploy fully.
Weeks turned to months.
The ground hardened under the boots of soldiers who no longer looked like ghosts. The bastion walls rose higher, the trenches deeper. Myrridian became a fortress in truth — but Aurelius felt the weight.
It began with the small signs. He would come off a patrol and feel the lingering ache in his limbs. Not fatigue — Custodes were built to fight for days without pause — but the deeper burn of constant vigilance. His Haki never slept now. Observation was always running, scanning, watching for the next betrayal or push. Conqueror's Haki had become a shield for the morale of thousands.
And still, the enemy was not done.
The storm broke at the start of the fourth month.
It began with the roar of drop-pods slamming into the outer defenses. Not traitor Guardsmen this time — the ground shook with the weight of fully armored Astartes. Brass and crimson again, their helms snarling with the faceplates of World Eaters.
They came like an avalanche. The first bastion crumpled under their charge, defenders scattering before chainblades and bolters. Aurelius was there in moments, spear blurring, Haki flooding every movement. Observation showed him each kill stroke before it landed. Conqueror's Haki burst outward in waves, shaking even the frenzied traitors for heartbeats at a time — enough to slip a blade past their guard.
It was not enough to simply kill. He had to hold. He became an anchor, his will binding the Guard to their positions, their lasguns spitting in defiance even as the air grew thick with blood and ash.
The battle stretched for hours. By the end, the walls held — jagged, smoking, but still standing. The Imperial flag fluttered over Myrridian's bastions, stained and torn but upright.
From the enemy lines, the warband commander watched. Aurelius could feel the man's attention like a knife point. They had tested him, and he had not broken. But the next move was already being planned.
The siege was far from over.