Under Guilliman's command, the Pilgrim Expedition Fleet operated like a well-oiled machine—ships in perfect sync, their firepower coordinated and deadly.
The hastily assembled Red Corsair interception fleet was battered into shambles, routed completely.
Explosions blossomed in the void, and the wrecks of traitor ships were hurled deeper into space by the shockwaves.
The battle's momentum shifted entirely to the Pilgrims.
But their target—the Blackstone Fortress—would not fall so easily.
On the ancient Eldar structure, countless turrets and lances bristled, spewing firepower that formed an impenetrable web of death.
Thick armor and shield fields repeatedly repelled the Pilgrims' barrages.
The engagement became deadlocked.
"We'll have to board her,"
Guilliman, eyes fixed on the tactical holomap's glaring firepower density, made his decision instantly:
"A frontal assault is too costly; only by seizing or disabling key nodes from within can we break the stalemate."
He quickly ordered a boarding action, planning to personally lead the elite Terminator squad.
At that moment, a carefree voice, out of place amid the tense bridge atmosphere, sounded at his side—
"Lord Regent, any tasks for me?"
Guilliman turned to see the Nameless One—Datch—wearing Terminator armor and sunglasses.
After earning experience and points treating wounded soldiers, Datch had gone off to play cards with others.
The game was so fun that when the NPCs lost badly, they'd sneak off to pry gold trim from the ship to fund a comeback.
Thanks to his cheating tools, Datch became a gambling god,
but when the minimap showed a new main quest, he gave up the cards and came to the bridge.
Guilliman's stern look softened. "Inside the Blackstone Fortress is a webway gate, a shortcut to Terra."
He pointed to a highlighted spot on the holomap: the fortress's core.
"But the enemy's outer firepower is too fierce—landing craft can't get close. I need you to infiltrate the fortress and disable or disrupt the main defense arrays from within, opening a safe window for the boarding teams."
As he finished, a mission prompt appeared before Datch's eyes:
[Mission: Assist Guilliman in defeating the Blackstone Fortress defenders and use the webway to reach Terra.]
The Pilgrim Fleet, drawn into the Maelstrom, learned of a shortcut from Fallen Angel Cypher and Shadowseer Veilwalker. To return to Terra quickly, they decided to take it, but the Red Corsairs' Blackstone Fortress is a major obstacle. Guilliman seeks your help.
[Rewards: 1000 XP, 1000 points, Paint Palette x5]
"Paint palette?"
Datch read the item description, his eyes lighting up.
It was basically a cosmetic editor, letting him customize his power armor's colors and save schemes.
He could repaint his helmet gold, make his limbs red, blue, green, and purple, becoming a glorious Five-God Champion—or cosplay other chapters.
What a great reward!
Spray it black and green for a Fallen Angels look and roleplay as Alpha? Perfect.
"Relax, leave it to me."
Datch smoothly produced a Sadako videotape. The minimap automatically highlighted a usable projector inside the Blackstone Fortress.
He chose one and, in front of everyone, vanished like erased pixels—no psychic surge, no teleport glow, not even a ripple in the air, as if he'd never existed.
"This..."
Veilwalker's face, hidden under her hood, betrayed astonishment. Cypher's brows knitted tight.
They were curious how he did it but didn't dare show it.
Guilliman and the others were used to it, calmly looking away.
Even Cawl only glanced over before returning to his work. He'd given up trying to analyze the Nameless Astartes' actions—
trying to understand him was self-torture; his actions defied logic.
...
Inside the Blackstone Fortress, in a dim, oil-and-sweat-stinking, blood-reeking ammo bay...
Ragged, dead-eyed mortal slaves shuffled like zombies, hauling heavy power cells and shells.
A few Chaos cultist overseers in tattered red robes, their bodies tattooed with runes, cracked barbed whips and shouted at the slow.
Suddenly, in a corner, a dust-covered, supposedly dormant backup projector flickered with static.
It powered on, the screen lighting up, playing a bizarre, silent black-and-white video.
In the video, the outline of an old well appeared.
A figure in a creepy pumpkin power armor crawled out in twisted poses.
With a few flickers, it plastered itself against the camera—
the sight sent chills down the spine.
Two cultist overseers, drawn by the anomaly, exchanged puzzled looks and swore as they approached,
wanting to see who was playing tricks or if the device was malfunctioning.
Just as they leaned in—
Two gauntleted hands shot out of the screen,
swiftly choking their throats!
Crack... crack...
The crisp sound of breaking bones was faint but clear amid the background din.
The cultists' faces froze in shock, their eyes bulging, the whips falling from limp hands.
The next second, they were flung aside like trash, collapsing lifeless to the ground.
In the terrified silence of slaves and cultists alike,
Datch clawed his way out of the screen and into reality.
"Praise to the Old Man of Yellow and the Second Old Man of Terror—let's go on a killing spree!"
He revved his chainsword, not knowing his exact location or how many enemies were around.
He only knew it was time for a massacre.
The pumpkin helmet's exaggerated grin, paired with the roaring chainsword, was terrifying in the dim light.
The ammo bay fell deathly silent—
only the faint hum of power cells and the chattering teeth of terrified slaves remained.
A few cultists, faces white and lips trembling, were left with only one absurd thought:
Haunted... by the Emperor! How did a corpse-emperor's minion crawl out of a ghost video?!
Datch turned to them and charged like a tiger into sheep,
butchered the cultists in a few breaths.
The slaves, screaming in terror, fled deeper into the fortress or into the shadows.
Datch ignored them and took out a Pokéball.
"Come out, Changeling."
A blue mist poured from the Pokéball, reforming the Changeling's shape.
This was the first daemon Datch had captured on Macragge.
He planned to send the Changeling to wreak havoc—to give the Red Corsairs some Tzeentchian terror.
But for some reason, the Changeling looked listless, its head drooping, body shrunken.
"What's going on?"
Datch poked the Changeling, but it barely reacted—still half-dead.
He took out the Master Ball and summoned Kairos.
This double-headed bird should know the answer.
…
Read advanced chapters at patreon.com/AbsoluteCode