The bridge of the Carrion Triumph was a scene of eerie, disciplined calm amidst a tableau of brutal carnage. The bodies of the mutant crew and the un-made essences of the Plague Marines were the only evidence of the preceding fight. Captain Arken and his five Deathwatch veterans had already formed a perimeter, their training taking over as they secured the command deck against any potential counter-attack from within the massive, corrupted ship.
They expected a long, bloody fight as daemonic boarding parties and enraged crewmen tried to reclaim their sanctuary. They expected to die holding this ground. What they did not expect was for Rimuru to walk calmly past the slain Chaos Lord and place a hand on the grotesque, flesh-and-iron command throne.
"What are you doing, Tempest?" Arken growled, his thunder hammer held at the ready. "We must set demolition charges and prepare for extraction. This vessel is a nest of corruption."
"Demolishing it would be a waste of a perfectly good puppet," Rimuru replied, his eyes closed.
The moment his palm made contact with the throne, a psychic and informational shriek erupted from the machine. The daemonic entities and corrupted machine spirits infesting the ship's systems recoiled from the touch of pure, unblemished order. In Rimuru's mind, Ciel went to work.
<
For the Deathwatch, there was nothing to see but a faint, silver light that began to pulse from Rimuru's hand, spreading through the fleshy conduits and rusted cables of the throne. But internally, a war was being waged. Ciel's consciousness, a being of pure, perfect logic, descended into the ship's noosphere. She did not fight the daemonic scrap-code with faith or fury. She dismantled it with pure logic, treating the warp-entities like flawed equations and the daemonic presences like system viruses. She cornered them, quarantined them, and then systematically deleted them with overwhelming computational force. The entire, agonizing process took twelve seconds.
<
Rimuru opened his eyes. "Much better. It was very noisy in there."
He sat upon the now-inert throne, a strange, serene king on a conquered, monstrous seat of power. He looked at the main viewport, where the rest of the Chaos fleet was still advancing, utterly unaware that their master was dead and their flagship had a new god in its machine.
"Let the show begin," he murmured.
Aboard the Obelisk, Lord Inquisitor Varrus watched the tactical holo-lith, his ancient face a mask of iron control. He, Kael, and the Imperial fleet command expected the icon of the Carrion Triumph to go dark, or for a distress signal to be broadcast before it was silenced.
Instead, the icon remained active. And then it began to broadcast.
"By the Grandfather's will!" a perfect mimicry of the slain Chaos Lord's voice boomed across the Chaos fleet's comms channel. "Treachery! The squadron designated 'Gravepact' has consorted with servants of the Deceiver, Tzeentch! Their ships glow with foul sorcery! All ships of the line, open fire! Destroy the traitors!"
Simultaneously, the colossal lance batteries and weapons ports of the Carrion Triumph itself swiveled, not towards the Imperial fleet, but towards the named squadron. A devastating volley of plasma and ordnance erupted from the flagship, tearing into the side of an unsuspecting Plaguebringer cruiser.
The Chaos fleet, an entity held together by fear and fragile alliances, hesitated for a single, confused moment. Then, pure, unadulterated paranoia—the constant companion of all servants of Chaos—took over. The Gravenpact squadron, now under fire from their own flagship, screamed accusations of their own. Other ship captains, seeing a chance to settle old scores or gain favor, chose sides.
Within a minute, the disciplined Chaos battle line had shattered. The advance on Ryza had devolved into a massive, swirling brawl. Ships fired on their erstwhile allies, boarding torpedoes were launched at former comrades, and the cold void of space was filled with the fury of a fleet tearing itself apart.
Varrus stared, his mind, which had processed the strategies of millennia, struggling to keep pace. "By the Throne… what is he doing?"
"He didn't just kill the commander," Kael breathed, his eyes wide with a horrifying, brilliant realization. "He became the commander. He is using their own command structure to orchestrate a civil war."
As if to punctuate his point, a new, panicked order was broadcast from the Carrion Triumph. "The contagion is spreading! The Bloated Dirk is turning its guns on us! Fire! Fire at will! The Grandfather demands a glorious, messy battle!"
The fleet's self-destruction intensified.
Varrus watched the tactical display, where a wall of red icons had become a chaotic, self-consuming storm. A slow, terrible, and utterly predatory smile spread across his ancient face. He had unleashed a monster, but it was a monster of a kind he had never imagined. Not a beast of rage, but a beast of pure, terrifying strategy.
He keyed the fleet-wide command channel, his voice booming across the bridge of every Imperial ship.
"Admiral," he commanded, his voice filled with a cold, righteous fire. "The enemy is blind, deaf, and tearing out its own throat. They have given us the greatest gift a commander could ask for: their utter, absolute folly."
"Advance the fleet. All ships, fire at will into the chaos. Show them the price of heresy. Leave nothing but scrap and damned souls. The Emperor wills it!"
The Imperial fleet, which had been braced for a desperate last stand, now surged forward like a pack of wolves descending on a wounded, thrashing hydra. Lance beams struck with impunity. Macrocannon shells pounded ships that were already engaged with each other. It was not a battle. It was a slaughter.
Back on the bridge of the Carrion Triumph, Rimuru watched the masterpiece of self-destruction unfold, a calm, satisfied expression on his face. Captain Arken and his Deathwatch veterans stood amidst the filth and carnage, silent witnesses to a form of warfare so alien it defied their every instinct. They were warriors of the sword and bolter. This was a victory won by lies and logic.
"The orbital threat is neutralized," Rimuru announced as the last major Chaos vessel was torn apart by a combination of Imperial firepower and friendly fire. "Phase one is complete."
He stood up from the grotesque throne, turning his back on the celestial battlefield. He looked at the grim, silent Astartes who had been his honor guard.
"Now," he said, his voice returning to its usual, pleasant tone, "for the planet."