The Aeldari stepped out of the Webway, and the Wraithbone gate behind them dissolved into nothingness.
The ancient technology of the Old Ones made the Webway portals omnipresent, yet entirely traceless.
Envoys of the Laughing God Cegorach—a Harlequin Troupe—led over a hundred Aeldari warriors onto this chaotic world.
Given the sparse population of the Aeldari race, deploying over a hundred envoys for a single contact was testament to the profound sincerity of this ancient species.
Through the pitch-black rain curtain, their slender silhouettes moved with greater agility than mountain ibexes, poised with powerful elegance as they treaded upon jutting cliff faces, scaling a sheer, ninety-degree vertical precipice.
The Aeldari had not come to fight; they skirted past their former allies—who had long forgotten them—and moved like ghosts through the dark, torrential rain.
Upon the rugged mountain peak, ice-cold rain beat down on their bodies as the Aeldari warriors concealed themselves in the shadows, observing the utter mayhem of the distant battlefield.
"He is there!"
The leader of the Harlequin Troupe—the Troupe Master, acting as the avatar of the Laughing God—raised a slender hand, pointing toward the brilliantly lit fortress in the dark. His voice trembled uncontrollably.
The frayed edges of the Troupe Master's motley coat bristled as warp energy wrinkled his garments, his breath catching in his throat.
This instinctual dread did not stem from the freezing winter rain, but from a terror buried deep within his very soul.
In the supernatural vision of a powerful Psyker, the luminous fortress appeared devoid of light—resembling a dark, void-like primordial behemoth crouching in the rain, devouring every gaze that dared to peer at it.
A single glance from afar was enough to make a Psyker's skin crawl.
That was the domain of the Enemy of the Gods—a place that suppressed warp power, despising the Ruinous Powers and their servitors alike.
When such an extraordinary concept manifested in physical reality, it transformed into a profound void where all warp energy foundered, swallowing and crushing every supernatural will!
"Reverend One," the Troupe Leader whispered, pressing himself tight against the rock as he asked with utmost caution, "how are we to gain an audience with the God-Slayer?"
He had voiced the core predicament: they could not draw near.
Sweeping his gaze across the horizon from the mountain peak, the closer one looked toward the fortress, the denser the Ork horde became, expanding into an endless sea of green.
The Orks stood shoulder-to-shoulder, jammed together without a sliver of space between them. No matter how nimble the Aeldari techniques or how agile their movements, it was impossible to wade safely through that green tide.
The envoy group numbered barely a hundred Aeldari. Placed within a free-for-all of this scale, they were nothing more than a drop in the ocean, incapable of raising a single ripple.
Rain trickled down the Harlequin mask. The Troupe Master remained silent for a long moment before shaking his head in helpless resignation: "I do not know."
He raised a delicate hand, tiny shards of fragmented starlight swirling around his slender fingertips. "Within the God-Slayer's domain, warp energy is exceedingly fragile. The River of Fate holds no prophecies regarding Him."
"We did not come here to fight. There is no need to involve ourselves and sacrifice the precious lives of our kin."
"We shall continue to observe the battlefield and wait for an opportune moment. To avoid collateral harm, we may even wait until the war concludes."
---
"Understood." The Aeldari kin nodded in agreement one after another. The Troupe Master held supreme status, representing the will of the Laughing God Cegorach, and possessed absolute authority in this mission.
"Let us move," the Troupe Master called out, leaping down from the mountain peak. "We will get as close to the battlefield as possible, lingering on the edge of danger to seek a fitting opportunity."
Over a hundred Aeldari followed close behind, their fluid silhouettes disappearing into the rain curtain.
---
Upon the Adamantium Flats, searchlights atop the high fortress walls swept back and forth, illuminating vast swaths of the green ocean.
Withstanding the relentless bombardment, the Orks ignored all casualties, using their own flesh and blood as a foundation to lay down steel plates and crossbeams just ten kilometers from the fortress.
The green ocean surged as the Ork Boyz glared with wide, bloodshot eyes, holding back an ever-mounting fury, their faces growing increasingly monstrous.
So long as they kept building, it wouldn't be long before they crossed those cursed trenches and tore the human humies into flying shreds!
High above on the fortress walls, rain ran down Blazkowicz's thick hair, tracing the lines carved by his dense muscles.
His sculpted, powerful upper body was bare, while his lower torso and arms were encased in half-plate armor.
Crack-zap! Electric arcs flashed as the electromagnetic sentry cannons lined along the ramparts opened fire, their dense, cerulean streams of projectile fire sweeping back and forth in alternating patterns to form a grid of absolute death!
Under the dense barrage of hypersonic rounds, flesh and blood proved as fragile as paper. Orks fell in massive swathes, turning into slick, shattered pulp upon the ground.
Yet the Orks cared not. Roaring fiercely, they pressed forward, welding steel plates together millimeter by millimeter beneath the grinding net of electromagnetic autocannons to cross the life-devouring swamp of death.
"Cease fire on seventy percent of Wall One autocannons."
Blazkowicz's voice was not loud, yet the fortress AI executed the command with absolute perfection.
While the remaining fortress walls maintained their continuous fire, the majority of the autocannons along Wall One—the primary forward rampart—went silent.
Along the ten-kilometer stretch of the wall, only the flank cannons remained active to hold off the surrounding green tide.
"Open the gate."
RUMBLE—!
Accompanied by a massive roar, hydraulic fluid surged through the pipelines and giant gears rotated slowly, pulling open the massive adamantium gate set into the hundred-meter-tall wall.
Beams of light squeezed out through the opening gap, splitting the darkness and cascading down the grand staircase before the gate, appearing extraordinarily divine.
As the adamantium gate was drawn wide, a hundred towering figures clad in black armor stood bathed in the endless radiance.
At this moment, they appeared as though they were warriors descending directly from the heavens!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Adamantium war-boots slammed against the floor with a rhythmic, thunderous boom. Their synchronized footsteps beat like war drums, suppressing the sky-filling roars of the Orks.
Like warriors stepping out of myth and into reality, they marched down the mid-mountain with measured, unflinching steps, descending the dark-gold glinting stairs.
High above on the wall, Blazkowicz took a deep breath, marshaling his entire strength to unleash a single, earth-shattering roar:
"FACE ME!!!"
BOOM—!!!
That roar of declaration evolved into a terrifying physical phenomenon.
The torrential rain falling from the sky was blasted open by a visible shockwave; a vast, spherical air-pocket pushed back the rain curtain, shattering the very heavens!
The shockwave swept across a radius of dozens of kilometers. Upward, it tore through the pitch-black storm clouds, revealing the sky-blotting fleet above; downward, it transformed into a atmospheric blast wave akin to a nuclear detonation, flattening hundreds of millions of Orks backward onto the mud.
The entire battlefield ground to a violent halt. The Khrave's psychic essence wavered, their hearts and brains humming with painful disorientation.
The Aeldari clutched their ears tightly, chanting mind-soothing incantations. Even as their bodies trembled uncontrollably, crimson blood trickled from their seven facial orifices.
Beneath the silent sky, every living creature turned their gaze toward the figure atop the high wall: clad in half-plate arcane armor, his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, as if one could witness the heavy, majestic beat of a godlike heart.
Was that a being that truly belonged in the material realm?
A single roar had suppressed an infinite, deafening warzone.
---
Inside the Ork command post at the edge of the basin, Big Tooth swallowed with great difficulty, suppressing the uneasy trembling in his chest.
Looking left and right, the various Bosses—who had just been flushed red with battle-lust—were now staring at one another in absolute, terrified shock.
They bit down hard on their jaws to keep their chattering teeth from making a fearful sound, their ears drooping flat as all color drained from their horrified faces.
Pitter-patter...
As the shockwave completely dissipated, the rain curtain returned.
Following that brief, suffocating silence, the roaring sound of the downpour shattered the stillness.
Orks near the fortress staggered to their feet. Looking around, they found that many of their brothers were bleeding from their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths, their eyeballs bulging out—having been vibrated to death where they stood.
Further out, the Boyz shook their heads to clear the dizziness, pulling each other up. The bloodthirsty violence in their eyes had vanished, replaced by an extraordinarily clear, sober gaze.
A single roar had shattered the heavens, making the Ork Boyz realize with absolute clarity what kind of monster they were truly up against.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Big Tooth stepped down from his ramshackle throne, using a furious roar to respond to the big humie. Though his bellow lacked a measure of its usual confidence, it shattered the suffocating silence.
"Waaaaaagh!"
Hearing their Overboss's roar, the gloom in the Boyz' hearts lifted considerably. Raising their weapons high to prove their courage, they charged once more toward the human fortress.
Blazkowicz unleashed a roaring challenge, ordering the defenses along one side of the wall to disengage—issuing a formal invitation to battle through direct action.
Sure enough, the Orks were no cowards. The green wave immediately converged, shifting their movement toward the zone where the big humie had challenged them.
With the Doom Slayer at the lead, he strided down the grand staircase with swift, purposeful steps. The Elite Legion followed close behind, deploying into the defensive positions flank on either side of the adamantium gate to form a layered crossfire network alongside the rampart's heavy emplacements.
The autocannons along this section of the wall abruptly ceased fire, intentionally leaving the entrance open to lure the enemy deep into the trap.
While this move was designed to relieve pressure on the other sectors, it instantaneously multiplied the burden carried by Wall One.
The moment the Doom Slayer brought his advance to a halt before the trench, the defensive firepower along all other sectors erupted into absolute, unbridled fury!
The electromagnetic autocannons fired at blistering speeds, their hypersonic rounds possessing terrifying armor-piercing capabilities—a single projectile tearing clean through over a dozen Ork Boyz and whipping up a local tempest of pulverized flesh and bone.
Artillery fire shook the foundation of the earth as a rotating arsenal of specialized ordnance carpet-bombed the ground, blasting out wide, vacant clearings that disintegrated even the remaining corpses into ash.
Along the ramparts, dense, high-energy beam arrays flashed continuously, melting structural steel and punching through heavy armor.
Across the hundred-meter-tall wall face, spike structures shuttled back and forth inside dense arrays of firing ports, their flashing molecular-disintegration arcs vaporizing the falling rain in an instant to leave a dry, vacuum-sealed void along the wall.
Between the battlements, power-armored warriors wielded heavy electromagnetic rifles, standing motionless against the tempestuous downpour as they locked onto any enemy brave enough to enter their effective range.
Save for Wall One, every other section of the high wall stood as an impenetrable Wall of Sighs—a monument that could only be gazed upon from below, never breached.
Beneath Wall One was the precise meat-grinder Blazkowicz had chosen.
Though they could technically hold off assaults from all four quadrants simultaneously, doing so would exact a staggering toll on resources and energy.
Blazkowicz's reasoning was simple: rather than forcing his warriors to exhaust themselves rushing between every sector, it was better to deliberately open one side and send an arrogantly bold signal of absolute confrontation to the Orks and all lurking scavengers.
It was an invitation that left no room for refusal, as well as an utterly shameless provocation.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The Ork vanguard let out bloodcurdling shrieks, driving the Gretchin and Mekboyz to weld steel plates at breakneck speed to clear a path forward.
Unable to contain their burning eagerness, they cracked their knuckles and locked their glares onto the black-armored warriors. Their rapid, wrathful gasps spat hot jets of vapor into the cold air.
Before the Thirsting Waters, the three hundred Doom Marines stood unyielding, like stone statues carved into the rain. Silent, cold, and utterly composed, they watched the forward horizon, treating the hundreds of millions of Ork hordes as if they were mere dust.
Instead, their eyes periodically shifted toward the distant horizon, tracking the purple psychic arks maintained by the Khrave.
Compared to the vast, disorganized mob of greenskins, the potent psychic ripples emanating from the Khrave stood out as the most glaring target on the entire battlefield.
Yet, the Khrave appeared to have stumbled into severe trouble.
"Greenskins!"
The Primordial unleashed a horrific, piercing shriek, dropping a portion of its previous arrogance as it called out to the distant Ork Bosses: "Our targets are aligned—both of us seek to claim those relics!"
"Setting aside our enmity temporarily serves both of our interests!"
Faced with brutal reality, the Primordial was finally forced to bow its haughty head.
The increasingly oppressive aura of psychic suppression was crushing its confidence to dust.
It had drastically underestimated the strength of the null-field.
The closer they drew to the human fortress, the more arduous psychic channeling became. Now, having closed the distance to fifteen kilometers, the potency of their warp incantations had already suffered severe degradation.
Should they press forward until they were within two kilometers of the suppression source, their connection to the warp would be completely severed.
If their psychic link collapsed entirely, then any plan to carve through the Ork ocean, storm the human fortress, and seize the divine artifacts would become nothing more than a baseless delusion.
The Primordial was forced to accept reality and seek an alliance with these lowly greenskins.
"HAH! HAH! HAH!" A coarse, booming laugh laced with absolute contempt erupted from the lead Ork Boss, who sneered: "Gork an' Mork would never allow Jaw-Breaker Steel-Bristle to team up wit' ugly freaks like you!"
Swinging his massive two-handed axe in a wide, sweeping arc, Steel-Bristle coordinated with two of his fellow Bosses, launching a joint strike against these uninvited interlopers.
The other two Bosses were equally unyielding: "Da big humie's head belongs to da warriors chosen by Gork an' Mork! It's gonna be one of da grand prizes of dis Waaagh! crusade!"
"We ain't ever gonna share da loot wit' ugly gits like you! Co-operatin' wit' you would be a insult to da Waaagh!"
The three Ork Bosses delivered their final answer with swinging steel and flying spittle. Sparks and saliva sprayed as they met the hideous aliens head-on.
"Then perish, all of you!"
Driven to absolute fury, the Primordial blocked their incoming heavy blows with three of its primary limbs, while its secondary appendages whipped out a crackling psychic lash. Cutting through the pitch-black rainy night, the lash lashed out to strike down the boastful, impure beasts.
Jaw-Breaker's eyes widened in rage as he felt the chilling breath of death creeping up his neck.
There was no time to dodge!
As hideous as this creature was, its power was beyond question—it had already slaughtered three Ork Bosses, and Jaw-Breaker was about to become the fourth.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Just as he prepared to return to the embrace of Gork and Mork, a bizarre, high-pitched screech echoed out. A surging bolt of green energy struck the purple whip mid-air.
It was an Ork Weirdboy, wielding a ramshackle scepter, who had channeled the collective Waaagh! field to unleash a counter-blast, buying the Boss a vital fraction of a second.
The raw Waaagh! energy collided violently with the purple psychic whip, reacting explosively before dissolving into a shower of strange, shimmering starlight.
"EAT DIS!" Jaw-Breaker seized the opening without hesitation. Retracting his axe, he slammed his crude, steel-shod boot straight into the ugly creature's chest, shoving it back to establish a safe distance.
Glance shifting toward the Weirdboy, he cracked a vicious, blood-soaked grin.
Steel-Bristle considered himself exceptionally lucky; this Weirdboy had a sharp head on his shoulders, managing to pinpoint that microscopic window of opportunity to cleanly neutralize a lethal blow.
The Primordial was momentarily stunned: its wrathful, full-power strike had been undone by a frail greenskin?
In less than a millisecond, it realized precisely what had occurred.
The greenskin's crude, raw psychic energy had been directed with uncanny precision at the structural node of its psychic lash, causing the entire spell matrix to collapse instantly.
"Primordial!" The accompanying Khrave honor guard surged forward, swatting aside the Ork bodyguards with high-frequency blades while unleashing arcs of psychic lightning from their palms to repel the advancing Ork Bosses.
"Fall back! Retreat from this area!" The Primordial's figure became a shimmering blur. Abandoning its forward momentum, it made a decisive retreat: "Pull back beyond the suppression perimeter to regroup!"
The host required time to breathe, recover their psychic reserves, and restore their mental focus. Furthermore—
It cast a sinister, icy glance behind itself. This bloated legion had become a liability.
While the Rangdan and Slaugth were necessary to act as meat shields once psychic abilities failed completely, their current numbers were far too vast.
Throughout their march, the Khrave had been forced to maintain massive psychic shields to protect the trailing hordes from artillery fire, expending an excessive amount of precious energy.
"Feign exhaustion and gradually contract the psychic shields," the Primordial commanded in its native tongue, laying out a cold-blooded scheme. "Purge the redundant weaklings. Preserve only the strongest shock assault units."
"Harvest the souls of the fallen weak, condensing them into psychic shards to store for use within the null-zone to replenish our power."
"It shall be done," the Khrave honor guard responded immediately. Had they not required cannon fodder, they would have abandoned these feeble xenos long ago.
With the order given, several Khrave sustaining the energy shields feigned complete physical collapse, falling helplessly to the ground.
The broad psychic barriers instantly began to shrink inward. Wild, unguided Ork artillery shells rained down, blasting the marching columns into scattered fragments and igniting massive panic throughout the ranks.
Ruthless and cunning, the Khrave sold out their allies without a second thought, using incoming artillery fire to filter out the cannon fodder worthy of protection.
"DON'T YOU RUN, YA COWARDS!" Jaw-Breaker Steel-Bristle bellowed continuously, swinging his massive two-handed axe as he rallied his fellow Bosses to launch a fierce pursuit.
Before long, a towering green wave gathered its momentum once more, surging relentlessly toward the retreating purple arks.
---
Seeing the Khrave pull back, the Doom Marines withdrew their vigilant gazes, turning their focus back toward the Orks bridging the trench.
Piercing through the dense curtain of rain, their vision clearly caught every jagged line etched into the greenskins' faces; their nostrils twitched subtly, registering the heavy scent of sweat floating through the air.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The Orks roared with fanatical excitement. The big humies were right before their eyes, and the impending slaughter set their hearts pounding at breakneck speeds.
Across the crowded steel land-bridges, several restless Orks raised their shootas and opened fire blindly.
They harbored no illusions about their pitiful accuracy—they simply wanted to make as much noise as possible to catch the big humie's attention.
"Feeble marksmanship," Astran growled softly. His arm blurred into a dark phantom. When he reopened his palm, a fully intact, crude bullet lay resting upon it.
Gasp—!
A collective gust of wind blew across the bridge as countless Orks gasped in unison.
The Boyz stood dumbfounded, staring blankly at the shootas in their hands, suddenly feeling as though their favorite toys had lost all meaning.
"DAT'S TOO COOL!!" The Boyz erupted into excited roars, immediately swinging their gun muzzles around to point directly at their own heads: "I WANNA LEARN THAT!"
Without a moment's hesitation, they pulled their triggers, attempting to mimic catching bullets with their bare hands—and blowing their own heads apart on the spot.
"Doom Marines!" Ignoring the bizarre antics of the greenskins, Astran raised his spear high and roared: "We march! With blade and steel, we shall forge a Wall of Sighs!"
"Legion, deploy!"
The moment the Orks' makeshift land-bridge latched onto the edge of the trench, it was met with a roar as heavy and unyielding as a mountain.
"A Worthy Death!"
The Legion warriors thundered in unison, raising their weapons high. Lightning streaked down through the downpour, casting a chilling, radiant sheen across their pitch-black power armor.
"Kill!"
Astran dropped his stance, locking his grip around the adamantium shaft of his spear as its dimensional light-blade burst forth in full bloom.
Standing along the slope of the mountain staircase like divine guardians shielding a sacred temple, the Doom Marines ignited their mythic weapons, glaring with righteous fury at the endless tide of fiends surging toward them.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Saliva sprayed from the Orks' jaws as their underbit mouths gaped wide, their thick red tongues tracing wild, savage arcs through the air.
They had endured for far too long; their faces were flushed red with burning rage, and the bloodthirsty malice deep within their eyes was nearly spilling over.
Driven by madness and fury, the greenskins swung their ramshackle weapons high. Replacing all emotion with their bellowing Waaagh!, they charged up the hillside like a raging fire.
RUMBLE—!
The downpour grew even more ferocious, the flashes of lightning seemingly tainted with a sickly red hue in the echo of their roars.
The metallic tang of rust gradually permeated the air. The falling raindrops themselves seemed steeped in crimson, transforming the storm into a vast, sky-filling shower of blood!
The war had long begun, and the slaughter was now reaching its crescendo.
In the material universe, as the warriors' blades descended and blood sprayed from open wounds, reflections flickered within the Immaterium.
Seated atop his Brass Throne, the god turned his watchful gaze toward his favored warriors.
With a deafening CRACK, lightning split the sky in two.
Crimson thunder struck the earth like a clarion call for slaughter; beneath the witness of the Blood God, tonight would see rivers of blood!
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
The first Ork leaped high into the air as it closed into the Doom Marines' strike range, bringing its rusted cleaver down with ferocious force, the blade reflecting the cold glint of thunder.
In the next microsecond, a flash of cerulean light flickered and vanished. A fine line of blood split open across the Ork's face—its upper and lower jaws parted, and the top half of its skull flew backward into the air.
"Slay them all!"
Before that first corpse even hit the ground, the command to kill echoed through their neural link—cold, merciless, and dripping with lethal intent.
Shimmering cerulean phantoms flashed continuously across the hillside. Unleashing peerless speed and strength, the Doom Marines executed over a hundred strikes per second, the lingering light of their dimensional spears weaving around them like glowing cocoons in the rain.
The Orks crashed forward like a tidal wave, only to shatter against an immortal wall!
SPLASH—!
Torrential rain beat down, clear water flowing down the adamantium stairs from the mountaintop—only to turn into a river of deep blood by the time it reached the base.
Severed limbs and shattered torsos of Orks tumbled down the slick, blood-soaked steps; not a single corpse remained intact.
Even in death, their eyes burned with lingering fury, though overwritten by a dazed, uncomprehending shock.
Their memories of dying were a blurred haze—they remembered only charging toward the big humies, before their bodies involuntarily collapsed and their fading consciousness tumbled down the mountain.
The Doom Marines moved too fast—far beyond the capacity of the naked eye to track or the mind to process.
By the time an Ork realized it was under attack, its brain held nothing left but a lingering remnant of utter bewilderment.
Corpses rolled down the slope without pause, piling up at the base of the mountain as silent testaments to the greenskins' absolute feebleness.
They trampled over the dead, scaling the mounting rampart of flesh, only to become a part of it moments later.
Yet those extraordinary warriors remained immovable as mountains, ruthlessly swinging their blades to slice every trespassing Ork into flying fragments.
They even found the time to intercept incoming bullets with the edges of their weapons.
"Advance forward! Push the Orks back onto the bridges and let their corpses sink into the Thirsting Waters!"
Astran never halted his executioner's rhythm as he called out to his Legion brothers, taking the initiative to press forward: "If the bodies continue to pile up here, the mound will drown out the defensive lines of the mortal legions!"
"Understood!"
The Legion warriors acted as a singular mind, their telepathic synchronization seamless, grasping the Primarch's Guard Captain's intent instantly.
"On me," a heavy, mechanical voice growled through the comms.
At the edge of the Doom Marines' defensive formation, six Doom Knights anchoring the flanks burst forward. Their massive frames transformed into humanoid tanks, their sweeping blades plowing two distinct assault lanes through the horde.
The Doom Knight mechs stood seven meters tall, equipped with synchronous feedback control systems that perfectly mirrored their pilots' movements.
Though their heavy footsteps shook the earth, their movements bore not a trace of clumsiness.
Horizontal sweeps, vertical chops, diagonal cleaves—the long-handled war-blades wielded in their right arms unleashed boundless devastation. Every pass of their dimensional light-blades whipped up a storm of pulverized flesh, leaving no living creature within a ten-meter radius.
Beneath the Knights' left arms, triple-barrel rotary electromagnetic cannons spat forth lightning dragons. Hypersonic rounds traveling at twenty times the speed of sound linked into solid streams of lead, cutting down ranks of Orks like reaped wheat.
Across their left and right shoulders, integrated shoulder cannons fired with full fury—melta rays, volkite beams, leaping arcs of chain-lightning, and molecular-disintegration sparks flashing in brilliant arrays of color.
Set between the square-molded shoulder emplacements, cross-patterned containment apertures fired crisscrossing cutting rays. Five compound firepower profiles stood ready to counter virtually any class of enemy.
"Brothers," the Doom Knight leaned low, adopting a human sprinting posture. "Follow me! Seize the Ork bridgehead!"
As the heavy voice echoed across the comm-channel, the sixty-four-cell missile pods mounted on the Doom Knights' backs snapped open.
THUD—
The Doom Knight's heavy war-boots slammed into the earth as it lowered its frame, locking its war-blade at a optimal height in front of its chassis. With agility that defied belief, it initiated an unstoppable charge!
"A Worthy Death!" Calling out the Primarch's creed, several micro-nuclear warheads streaked out from the launcher pods, blanketing a path from a hundred meters ahead of the assault team straight to the Ork bridgehead.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Miniature mushroom clouds rose one after another. Chaotic shockwaves rattled the rain curtain, blasting a scorching, vacant corridor straight through the green ocean.
"Unleash the Primarch's fury!"
The Doom Marines roared in cold, calm unison. Holding nothing back, they unleashed the full output of their compound shoulder cannons, surging out from their defensive position at the base of the mountain: "Stay tight on our brothers' heels!"
With every discharge of chain-lightning, dozens of Orks were reduced to ash; melta beams bored through armor and flesh, punching straight through long lines of bodies; volkite ray arrays ignited bone and muscle, burning targets into charred lumps of charcoal.
Under the flash of atomic sparks, victims had no time to scream before dissolving on the spot into atomic dust.
Adapting seamlessly to the evolving battlefield, the Doom Marines launched a decisive counter-offensive, coalescing into an irresistible, pitch-black blade.
They marched forward trampling the blood of their enemies; the Orks fell without a shred of dignity, reduced to cold corpses, shattered meat, or ashes and atoms wiped from existence.
The greenskins screamed, roared, and launched hysterical, reckless charges!
Only to die tragically, helplessly, and without a grain of value—nothing more than cold numbers ticking up on a kill-counter.
In under a single minute, three hundred Doom Marines slaughtered an entire army of twenty thousand Orks.
The greenskins surged forward like a roaring tide, only to crash against the hardest reef in the universe, shattering into flying spray before settling into the silence of death.
Upon this battlefield, the Orks' savagery met no equal response; corpses were their only reward.
"All who stand in our way shall perish!"
A wild, thunderous roar crushed across the battlefield as a tangible physical wave, grinding the Orks' sky-filling "Waaagh!" battle cries into dust.
The Doom Knights kept their hulking frames low, holding their dimensional blades horizontal two meters off the ground, charging toward the bridgehead with irresistible, overwhelming momentum.
Along their path, every blocking Ork was cleaved in two at the neck, brutally plowing a road of pure blood through the horde.
Three hundred Doom Marines—some clad in Terminator armor, others in standard power armor—followed close behind the Doom Knights, surging toward their objective.
Clear-purposed and swift-moving, they used their spears and shoulder cannons to carve out a vacuum zone around themselves.
"Stop dem stompa mechs!" Atop the bridgehead, an Ork Boss shrieked at the top of his lungs, grabbing a Squig and frantically hurling it toward the humie mechs.
From within the bridgehead, tens of thousands of Squigs surged out in a dense, writhing horde, resembling a dark-crimson river.
These mutated, medium-dog-sized beasts were deep red all over, resembling small prehistoric dinosaurs. They moved on two thick hind legs but possessed no necks—their massive heads featuring mouth-to-body proportions that were absurdly oversized.
Intermingling among the charging feet of the Ork Boyz, they launched a surprise assault on the human humies.
`[Detecting high volume of critical-threat targets.]`
Inside the Doom Knight mechs, the onboard AI system detected the threat and transmitted the warning directly to the pilots' brains via neural link:
Squig Variant — Suicide Squigs incoming. Danger index: EXTREME.
The analysis completed in a microsecond, processed by the super-chips integrated within the Doom Marines to provide immediate tactical counter-options.
In the span of a spark, the threat level hit maximum, and over a hundred response tactics flooded into the Knights' consciousness like a cascading waterfall.
`[Coordinated Strike Profile Activated.]`
The Knight pilots initiated thought-commands, transmitting the coordinated strike plan via electronic neural signals into the minds of every nearby brother.
In the very next instant, the shoulder cannons of all three hundred Doom Marines locked simultaneously onto the incoming Squigs.
CRACKLE! Three hundred arcs of lightning erupted in unison, blinding white light painting every retina as the electrical grid swept down upon the Squigs beneath the greenskins' feet.
Triggered by the volatile external stimulus, the unstable chemical compounds inside the Suicide Squigs suffered a chain reaction, exploding directly within the packed ranks of the Ork horde!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Electric arcs cascaded back and forth between adjacent enemies, setting off a rapid, spreading chain reaction of detonations.
The Suicide Squigs detonated into flying gore, blasting nearby Orks into nonexistence. The resulting shockwaves sprayed corrosive, acrid blood everywhere, melting through flesh and drawing agonized shrieks from the Orks.
In less than a few seconds, tens of thousands of Ork warriors perished in the mass detonation of their own Suicide Squigs.
"USELESS GITS!" Seeing the Suicide Squig assault so easily neutralized, the Ork Boss bellowed in panic, his expression turning flustered.
Gazing down at the rapidly approaching stompa mechs, he paced frantically in place, unable to think up a single viable tactic.
The Boyz surged forward without pause, yet every single one fell—without even scuffing the paint on the humies' armor.
A brutal, tragic battle—
No! Thus far, there was nothing "tragic" about this battle at all; it was nothing short of a one-sided slaughter by the big humies.
The Boyz crossing the bridge and rushing forward were like cattle stepping into a slaughterhouse, reduced to livestock waiting for the butcher's blade to fall—dying completely without purpose.
Observing for a long moment, the Boss noticed something profoundly unnatural.
The moment the Boyz closed into melee range with the big humies, it was as if they had eaten rotten Squig meat—their legs turning to jelly as their combat capability plummeted to the level of weakling Gretchin.
He couldn't fathom what was happening, but his gut insisted that something was fundamentally wrong.
As the Boss was trying to figure it out, the Doom Knights had already plowed straight to the front of the bridgehead, chopping the green-skinned Orks into flying bits.
Led by the Doom Knights, the three hundred Doom Marines pressed steadily forward, grinding the Orks into microscopic debris.
"Your time has come!"
The thunderous roar snapped the Ork Boss out of his thoughts. To his horror, he realized the human humie was now barely a hundred meters away!
The lead Doom Knight hurled his adamantium spear, sending it whistling straight toward the Ork Boss's face.
Snapping to his senses, the Boss jerked his neck sharply to the side. The spear scraped past his cheek in a razor-thin miss, ripping away a spray of blood droplets and leaving a horrific, ragged wound.
"Waaaaaagh!!!" Driven to absolute madness, the Boss roared in fury, the sheer acoustic blast knocking nearby Boyz off their feet.
Yet the only response he received was a bizarre, incomprehensible scene.
"Teleport." The Knight pilot's expression remained icy as he activated the warp-relay command with a thought.
The Stars of Nur possessed highly advanced teleportation technology, and as medium-to-small mechs, the Doom Knights were naturally equipped with localized warp-translocators.
The adamantium spear embedded with the targeting beacon had already landed directly behind the Ork Boss.
CLANG!
The Knight's spear struck the earth, its dimensional light-blade embedding smoothly into the adamantium surface as the butt of the shaft slammed down with a resonant thud.
Like a phantom, the seven-meter-tall Knight vanished from the Ork Boss's field of view in a flash of white radiance.
In that microsecond, a chilling cold swept across the Boss's back, a suffocating sense of absolute mortality rising from behind him.
In that hair-trigger instant, a distant, resonant voice echoed out—divine, sacred, and carrying an ancient timelessness that transcended the ages.
Though he had never heard this language in his life, the Boss froze.
He felt as though he should know it—an absolute certainty etched deep into his very genes, awakening a memory both hauntingly familiar and entirely foreign.
"Anti-Gravity." The strange syllables penetrated through multiple layers of output grilles, hissing sharply across the noisy battlefield.
The Knight pilot materialized directly behind the Ork Boss while simultaneously reciting the Old Ones' Word of Creation.
Still caught in stunned bewilderment, the Ork Boss suddenly lost all sense of weight. His massive, seven-meter-tall body slowly floated off the ground; by the time he snapped back to reality, he was hovering helplessly in mid-air.
"WHAT DID YA DO TO ME?!"
He screamed out in accusation, flailing his thick, muscle-bound limbs in a desperate attempt to grab hold of anything stable: "HOW DO YA KNOW THAT TALK?!"
Knowing death was at hand, the Ork Boss struggled with increasing violent franticness, desperate for an answer.
The Doom Knight offered no reply. Sweeping up his long spear with a single hand, a horizontal lash crushed the surrounding Orks into raw paste.
As the mist of blood sprayed outwards, the compound shoulder cannons locked onto the floating Ork Boss's spine, discharging all five distinct weapon profiles simultaneously against his back.
"AAGGGHHH!!!"
He unleashed a bloodcurdling shriek as volkite energy burned his body from the inside out; melta rays bored through his heavy armor, liquefying his spine and flesh; dimensional beams pierced his heart, while the disintegration cannon blasted a gaping void straight through his chest.
The Boss's agonized screams drove his Ork bodyguards into a rabid frenzy. Their shootas chattered wildly, bullets hammering harmlessly against the flickering, outer particle shield.
With another massive sweep, the Doom Knight's irresistible strength swept the spear shaft through the air, whipping up a cloud of pulverized bone and flesh.
Without pausing his assault, the Knight's left arm extended three four-meter-long dimensional energy claws, driving them deep into the immobile Boss's pelvis.
Then, the Anti-Gravity incantation expired. The Boss's massive frame plummeted downward into the upward-thrusting dimensional claws, which slashed through his torso with unstoppable momentum.
Before blades that severed the very fabric of dimension, steel, flesh, and bone were entirely meaningless—offering no more resistance than a hot knife through butter.
The light-blades tore his body wide open, churning his internal organs into pulp. The superheated blood ignited by the volkite rays poured out like a boiling torrent, running even hotter than molten magma.
The Ork Boss could feel his life force and strength draining away rapidly, while the watchful gaze of Mork—which had been fixed upon this battlefield—slowly turned away from him.
He could no longer speak or scream; scorching blood choked his throat as his skin and bones dissolved into liquid!
"Your roars are meaningless. Your strength is pathetic. Your death is without dignity—"
The Knight raised his left arm, the dimensional claws tearing the Ork Boss into ribbons of shredded meat, leaving behind a final, spirit-crushing verdict.
RUMBLE—!
Thunder crashed alongside the crimson rain. A few soft, burning strips of flesh splashed onto the mud, shattering the remaining courage of the greenskins.
"DA BOSS IS DEAD!"
The Boyz shrieked in absolute terror. The moment the Ork Boss perished, the surrounding Waaagh! field collapsed with a violent backfire, sending shockwaves through every nearby greenskin.
In the distant command post, the remaining Ork Bosses felt a sharp pang in their instincts, knowing instantly that another Boss had fallen.
"DA BOSS IS DEAD!"
The panicked shrieks spread outward from the bridgehead like a contagious plague. Overwhelmed by primal fear, the Ork Boyz broke ranks and fled in every direction, scattering like panicked vermin.
The Doom Marines charged forward to lock down the bridgehead constructed by the Orks, immediately establishing a forward defensive perimeter.
With every passing second, thousands upon thousands of Ork Boyz fell, turning into broken corpses—a sight that gradually silenced the watching Bosses in the distance.
The big humies carved through the bridgehead at will, kicking the Ork corpses into the deep trench below, letting the Thirsting Waters feast to its heart's content.
In just three minutes from the opening clash, three hundred Doom Marines had repelled the Ork assault, counter-attacked the bridgehead, and slaughtered over a million greenskins.
Yet the battle had only just begun. While a million dead Orks sounded vast, compared to the true scale of the greenskin horde, it was nothing more than a single drop in the ocean.
The wind reeked with stench so thick that a single breath could render a mortal unconscious.
A major Ork Boss had fallen. The very pillar supporting the greenskin Boyz' conviction collapsed, shattering the gathered Waaagh! force field and triggering a massive psychic backlash.
An invisible shockwave exploded outward. Rain, steeped in the bitter emotions of death and defeat, poured down to extinguish the fanatical fire within the Boyz' hearts.
Like frantic, unhinged apes, they slouched their backs and fled, their aggressive momentum visibly deflating before the naked eye.
"The time has come," the Elite Legion commander ordered. "Keep pace with the Doom Marines! Seize the bridgehead and shoulder their defensive burden!"
From within the adamantium gates, automated battle-automata converged into a river of steel, streaming down the steps toward the bridgehead array.
Three ten-thousand-strong legions followed immediately on their heels, beginning to sweep the Orks isolated at the base of the mountain.
The rainy night was pitch-black, devoid of natural light. Yet, for these mortal warriors, this posed no optical hindrance whatsoever.
Clad in advanced power armor with night-vision systems integrated into their visors, the pitch-black night was no obstacle to their field of view.
CRACKLE— CRACKLE—
Deploying in fireteams of three, their electromagnetic weaponry discharged continuously. Flecks of blue lightning detonated in the darkness, coalescing into a shimmering sea of stars.
Yet beneath the surface of this brilliant starlight lay the most lethal killing intent of the mortal legion.
Their power armor and firearms were equipped with self-targeting lock-on systems. Coupled with the Elite Legion's extraordinary military discipline—honed through two decades of professional combat training—they executed their duties with absolute, unhurried composure.
With a light squeeze of the trigger, the electromagnetic needle-rifles fired standard three-round bursts.
The kinetic power of these rifles was astonishing. Their hypersonic projectiles easily punched through Ork skulls, while strikes to limbs blew open fist-sized craters of shattered flesh and bone.
Two rounds to the torso, one through the brain—the catastrophic wounds caused by these high-speed rounds left even the Ork Painboyz entirely helpless.
ZZZT— ZZZT— ZZZT—
This was far more than a simple sequence of three-round bursts; it was lethal, elegant, and synchronized into a unique rhythm of death.
The veterans serving alongside Blazkowicz were survivors of the desperate stand during the Rangdan Genocide.
Having witnessed true hell, the fear and panic in their hearts had long been ground away by decades of brutal combat, leaving behind souls that were cold to the absolute extreme.
Compared to the Rangdan slaves who could flatten mountains, fill oceans, and launch synchronized charges, the Orks' chaotic, disorganized assault held not a shred of threat.
The Elite Legion was elite in the truest sense. They had no need to cower behind super-soldiers; they were formidable warriors capable of holding a front on their own.
Blazkowicz cherished mortal life and thus held compassion for them, placing them behind the Doom Marines to minimize casualties as much as possible.
Yet the true combat capability of the Elite Legion was such that even the Space Marines who had fought alongside them on J-11 turned heads in quiet respect.
The actions of a mortal legion were far from as lightning-fast as Space Marines, and their individual physical prowess was naturally lower.
However, they were a mountain, an ocean; when their sheer numbers crushed forward like an oncoming tide, they were utterly impossible to stop.
Operating off their three-man tactical teams, the Elite Legion's purge was simple and devastatingly efficient.
The team snipers prioritized greenskin Boyz wielding ranged weapons, suppressing enemy return fire through precision headshots to guarantee their own safety.
The heavy-fire teams denied the Orks any chance of closing into melee range, steadily widening their firepower advantage through terrifyingly accurate long-range volleys.
With electromagnetic rifles synchronized with auto-targeting suites working alongside the battle-automata, not a single Ork could cross the Elite Legion's three-hundred-meter perimeter.
Keeping their stances low, the mortal warriors advanced step by precise step, closing the net around the Ork Boyz trapped by the Doom Marines.
Where the Doom Marines delivered absolute force, shock, and overwhelming suppression, the Elite Legion was singularly elegant. Aside from trampling over enemy corpses, not a single drop of enemy blood stained their armor.
This manner of combat possessed no heart-pounding close-quarters thrill, nor any shocking twists.
Its sole defining feature was sheer efficiency.
Target, fire, confirm threat indicator cleared, re-aim, acquire next target.
With their boiling rage finding nowhere to vent, the Ork Boyz collapsed into pools of blood, the warmth of their bodies rapidly stolen by the icy rain.
Everything was methodical; everything was routinely mundane.
Like returning home in the evening to clean out trash with a broom, it was purely routine work that stirred not a single ripple of emotion.
In the darkness, the Ork Boyz could no longer even let out their iconic "Waaagh!" battle cries. Unsure of where to direct their wrath, they fell silently beneath the washing hail of fire.
With the Doom Marines severing the bridge, the Orks were caught between two fires.
In just a few short minutes, the Elite Legion completed the purge, pushing every Ork between the mountain's foot and the bridgehead into the Thirsting Waters.
All three ten-thousand-strong legions fortified the bridgehead, constructing a hardened forward bastion to lock down this thousand-meter-wide bridge.
Meanwhile, the battle along the bridge deck had reached a state of pure frenzy.
Along that thousand-meter-wide bridge—cobbled together from scrap metal and extending to the edge of the depression—the Doom Marines' battle had never paused for a single second.
Across the rusted bridge deck, Ork blood flowed in thick streams. Shredded internal organs and severed limbs blanketed the surface, glistening with a slick, greasy sheen under the faint night light.
Agonized shrieks, dying screams, and roaring "Waaagh!" battle cries intertwined with the furious crash of falling thunder, orchestrating a symphony of mindless slaughter.
The Doom Marines remained silent, their resolve far sharper than the weapons in their hands.
Cleave, slash, thrust, execute!
The edge of their dimensional light-blades was unstoppable, whipping up arcs of lethal radiance and leaving behind mountain after mountain of mangled corpses.
Carrying the blood of Blazkowicz within their veins, the Doom Marines possessed endless stamina and endurance. Their muscles and reflexes remained permanently at peak condition; even after swinging their weapons a million times, not a trace of fatigue touched them.
The Orks were held completely at bay.
No matter how furiously they bellowed or how hysterically they charged, they could not breach the living wall formed by three hundred men.
With every passing second, thousands of Orks died along the bridge, while countless more tumbled off the edges, falling into the surging trench below—its waters now washed clean once more.
The Doom Marines relentlessly repeated two movements: raise blade, execute strike! Shoulder cannon discharge!
Ten minutes in, the roaring "Waaagh!" cries across the bridge began to subside.
The Ork Boyz no longer had the strength to scream. The packed mob moved forward numbly, stepping before the big humies only to meet a flash of light or a scorching beam before quietly ending their lives in dazed silence.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
"Waaaaaagh!!"
"Waaaaaagh!"
"Waaaaaagh..."
The battle cries degraded from high-pitched fury to hollow weakness. Even for the naturally optimistic Orks, their very souls were undergoing sheer torture.
Far worse than death was an assault that offered not the slightest glimpse of reward.
Furthermore, the Ork Boyz realized that as they drew near the big humies, an unfillable void welled up in their hearts—their Waaagh! power vanished, and they could no longer feel the presence of Gork and Mork.
Terror!
An indescribable dread spread through the empty hearts of the Orks, eating away at the mind of the vast army bit by bit.
The Ork Boyz pondered to themselves: these humies were simply too strong.
They began to guess among themselves: how many Orks could those unreachable, towering figures cut down?
"Waaagh!! Humies! Humies!"
Half an hour later, the Boyz rushing to their deaths raised their arms and shouted, a hint of reverence creeping into their roars.
At the rear of the bridge, the Boyz watched their kin charge forward only to be slaughtered. The bloodthirsty onlookers let out cruel roars, waiting for an outcome.
"Big humies! Big humies!"
Two hours later, the dimensional blades showed not a tremor of hesitation. Ork corpses slid weakly down the rising mound of flesh, falling away off the sides of the bridge.
"Big 'uns! Big 'uns!"
Twelve hours later, the bloodthirsty roars continued, though the title had changed—their shouts now filled with the absolute worship of pure strength.
Atop the dam formed by a mountain of corpses, a line of figures stood tall at the summit. Their movements remained as flawlessly precise as ever: every slash without hesitation, every cannon shot delivered with pinpoint accuracy.
The Orks foolishly attempted to scale the slick mountain of bodies to challenge the big 'uns, only to become another layer of its foundation.
Across the entire battleground of the Adamantium Sinkhole, every living creature stared at that steadily rising peak of dead flesh, their expressions shifting through a spectrum of awe, dread, and horror.
Slaughter! Blood!
Crimson thunder rolled across the sky, echoing like Khorne's booming laughter; a torrential rain of blood poured down, outlining the wild silhouette of carnage.
Amidst the endless slaughter, the icy blades of the Doom Marines struck the entire battlefield of the Adamantium Sinkhole dumb with silence.
That wild yet restrained combat posture, illuminated by the flashes of lightning, imprinted itself indelibly in the eyes of every onlooker.
To defeat the big humies with their own hands, the greenskins refrained from using siege engines or heavy firepower—they wanted to triumph over those human warriors honorably, right under the gaze of Gork and Mork.
Thus, wave upon wave of the green tide surged forward, one after another in relentless succession.
On a mountain surrounding the battlefield, the Harlequin Troupe remained hidden, their eyes fixed on those human warriors as a tense silence fermented in the curtain of rain.
Day broke.
A hazy light pierced through the cloud cover, falling upon their armor and revealing the elegant contours of the Aeldari warriors, yet failing to dispel the gloom in their hearts.
They should have been glad: the stronger these genetic scions who inherited the God-Slayer's divine power grew, the greater their confidence would be when confronting the Four Gods.
Yet these transcendent, otherworldly warriors harbored pure malice toward any xenos outside of humanity.
The combat capability they possessed touched the very pinnacle of the mortal realm, and they would never know weariness.
This meant that the Doom Marines' hunt would never cease—they would eradicate everything that was deemed a deity, or associated with deities, including the Aeldari themselves.
"Regardless," the Great Harlequin sensed the tremors in his kin's hearts. He shook the frost from his folded collar and offered a cold, soothing reassurance amidst the rain: "We must establish contact with Him. At least before the deities fall, humanity and the Aeldari share a common enemy."
He could only use pale comfort to quell the deep-seated trepidation welling up inside.
The Four Gods were deities, and the Aeldari pantheon were deities as well.
To the God-Slayer, there was no fundamental difference between the two—both were targets within His oath of deicide.
The gods were immortal, and the God-Slayer would never rest.
Attempting to cooperate with such a being was, as an ancient human saying went, "bargaining with a tiger for its hide."
As the avatar of the Laughing God, the Great Harlequin traveled the cosmos, bringing enlightenment and salvation to the gradually fading Aeldari.
He often accompanied the god, listening to His teachings, understanding countless secrets and perils. He knew the fear and hesitation the Laughing God displayed whenever the God-Slayer was mentioned.
Yet for the sake of the Aeldari, the decision was still made to send an envoy to contact that supremely dangerous entity.
"Venerable One," the Troupe Leader spoke softly, asking carefully, "it appears this battle requires no intervention from us. It has severely diverged from the plan we formulated."
As the words fell, the meditating Aeldari warriors snapped out of their trance, nodding and turning their gazes toward the envoy of the god.
The envoy group's original plan had been simple: wait for the Orks to swarm the fortress, then teleport into the arena to offer assistance, using the bond of comradeship to lay a foundation for negotiations.
Now, however, the overwhelming power of the Doom Marines exceeded all imagination, thoroughly crushing the incompetent Orks.
Plans could not keep pace with changing circumstances; what should they do next?
Crouching at the entrance of the cliff cave, the Great Harlequin watched the shifting battle. His elegant chant swept into the cavern along with the wind: "Observe and await the changes."
"The prophecy has failed completely. We can only choose an opportune moment based on how the battlefield evolves. The Aeldari may refrain from acting, but we must not act rashly."
"Incurring the God-Slayer's disfavor is a price the Aeldari cannot afford."
"My Lord," a faint question echoed inside the cave—a female's delicate voice, carrying a trace of innate pride. "Why must we humble ourselves to come pay homage to Him?"
"The God-Slayer is the enemy of all gods. Our race need only wait, staying idle while He hunts the gods to extinction, and then reap the fruits of His labor."
"The threat of the gods hangs over every race; humanity suffers deeply from it as well, which is why the God-Slayer must destroy them."
The soft voice flowed across the rough cliff walls, conveying both racial pride and a questioning desire for understanding.
When she finished, many Aeldari warriors looked up at the Great Harlequin, a distinct gleam lighting up the depths of their eyes.
Clearly, the Aeldari lady's doubt struck a silent chord with the warriors.
They yearned for an answer—one that could persuade themselves and the factions behind them.
The Great Harlequin nodded in silent agreement, turned around to face his rear, and let his gaze drift across the young Aeldari faces.
His kin were elites gathered from various Craftworlds, along with representatives from Commorragh, who had answered the Laughing God's call to form an embassy for the future of the Aeldari.
Such a question carried the curiosity of youth, but it was also the precise answer the factions behind them sought.
"We could sit back and reap the rewards," the Great Harlequin spoke slowly, his tone of affirmation catching the youngsters somewhat off guard. "We could wait for that Lord to cleanse the Immaterium, wait for the Dark Prince to fall, and wait until the will of our race ushers in true freedom."
A slight commotion stirred within the cave as the Aeldari traded glances. This answer from the Great Harlequin was entirely different from what they had envisioned.
The young Aeldari had expected the Venerable One to speak of the greater good of their race, reclaiming some dignity for a journey that compromised their pride.
The Aeldari, who had ruled the galaxy for sixty million years, humbling themselves to seek aid from an upstart race—even if the God-Slayer fought for humanity—was not something worthy of the Aeldari dropping to their knees.
"And then what?" the Great Harlequin asked softly. Though none could see the expression beneath his Harlequin mask, his voice sounded gentle: "In our self-righteous arrogance, do we simply await the extinction of our species?"
"Ten thousand years ago, blinded by arrogance, we believed the Aeldari to be eternal and immortal, ignoring the crisis festering beneath the peak of our prosperity."
"In the end, the newborn cry of the Dark Prince shattered the core territories of the Aeldari Empire and devoured the gods of our Pantheon."
Hearing these ghosts of the past, the Aeldari warriors tightened their grip on their blades and hung their heads in shame, hiding their faces in the shadows.
The history recounted by the Great Harlequin was an unbearable past for the Aeldari, a wound that would never heal.
The Aeldari had inherited the legacy of the Old Ones, yet through deep-seated arrogance, they had destroyed the glorious empire that once spanned the galaxy.
"Cast aside your arrogance," the Great Harlequin wore his mask, but the Aeldari could feel his warm smile. "The Aeldari must re-examine themselves if we are to continue to thrive in this galaxy."
He gently raised an arm, soft psychic light gleaming from his distinct, slender fingertips. "The God-Slayer's oath reflects across the Immaterium. Unyielding and relentless, He will undoubtedly send the Chaos Gods to their Blazkowicz—there is no question about this."
"So then, what comes next?" The psychic light at his fingertips shifted and flowed, soft white radiance tracing out a face.
She was radiant, a breathtakingly beautiful Aeldari maiden brimming with vital energy, possessing long golden hair that cascaded like a waterfall.
She possessed a golden beauty capable of captivating divine beings, representing the purest grace and vitality—yet her eyes were blurred with tears, her gaze filled with profound mercy for all living beings, brimming with helpless sorrow and pain.
"Isha."
The atmosphere in the cave grew solemn in an instant. Sorrow poured forth from every single Aeldari as they softly chanted the name "Isha." Grief and longing caused the Aeldari to clutch their chests: "Isha, Goddess of Life... please forgive our powerlessness."
One after another, the Aeldari fell to their knees, suppressing the sobs in their throats. Their tall, slender frames could no longer maintain their elegance as they wept in silent choked tears.
Legend had it that when the newborn Dark Prince shattered the Pantheon and devoured the Aeldari gods, the Goddess of Life was taken in His grip.
The Dark Prince did not devour Isha right away; instead, He sought to bring Her back to His divine realm, to enjoy the goddess at His leisure, defiling Her purity with corruption and desecration.
Realizing the tragic fate awaiting Her, Isha wept, and Her cries aroused Nurgle.
The Grandfather of All Mortals acted without hesitation, forcibly snatching the Goddess of Life from the newly risen Slaanesh and placing Her within the Garden of Nurgle.
Nurgle granted Her the right to leave, yet outside the Garden, Slaanesh's gaze never strayed.
He coveted the pure goddess.
Trapped within the domain of a Dark God, Isha seemed to have found protection, but it was merely another abyss.
The Goddess of Life held authority over life itself, representing prosperity and healing—a power that conflicted with Nurgle's domain while simultaneously intersecting and blending with it.
Thus, Isha became a living cauldron of remedies.
Nurgle created plagues and decay from his foul cauldron, pouring them down Isha's throat and demanding that the goddess cure the viruses and death.
Decay and life—two diametrically opposed authorities—tormented Isha's soul day after day.
She was Nurgle's prized collection, the Plague Father's living test subject.
Isha remained alive, subjected to Nurgle's endless torment through the eternal spans of the Immaterium.
The Aeldari longed to rescue the Goddess of Life, yet lacked the strength to enter Nurgle's realm.
"Beloved Isha," the Great Harlequin sighed softly. A flick of his fingers dispersed the starlight as he questioned the younger Aeldari: "Now, do you understand?"
"The Goddess of Life is trapped in captivity, tormented by an evil god. Her tears fall upon the mortal realm, becoming legends of resurrection."
"When the God-Slayer moves to fulfill His oath... do you think that god-slaying weapon, inscribed with vile curses, will hesitate to sever the Goddess's head?"
A shiver ran through the Aeldari warriors—it was an indisputable fact.
To the God-Slayer, a deity was a deity; there was no distinction, only entities to be eliminated.
The Great Harlequin shook his head to suppress the grief, speaking with utmost gravity: "The Aeldari must make contact with Him. We must shed our shattered pride and approach Him in a posture of supplication."
"Everything we do today is for Isha."
"Perhaps a single moment of mercy from Him will serve as the ray of hope for the future of the Aeldari—"
"Therefore, the Aeldari cannot passively wait. We must take the initiative and strike out to save our god who is imprisoned and tormented in darkness."
"Now," he withdrew his gaze, turning back toward the fiercely raging battlefield, "do you still question the arrangements of the God of Trickery?"
Cegorach, the Laughing God, was also known as the "God of Trickery" in Aeldari legend, symbolizing profound wisdom and cunning.
"We understand."
The response was soft, carrying a resolute, unshakeable determination.
The Great Harlequin composed the emotions of the embassy before turning his gaze back toward the endlessly bleeding battlefield.
The sky roared as unyielding crimson mists surged upward, staining the rolling clouds blood-red to reveal a horrific countenance emerging from the shadows.
The will of Khorne, the Blood God, descended to gaze upon the warriors bravely executing their slaughter.
The earth bellowed as streams of blood flowed like rust-colored lava, pooling into a reflective lake that mirrored an image of sheer hell.
Through endless slaughter and the collision of raw emotion, the Adamantium Sinkhole battlefield seemed to transform into the Blood God's war domain—choked with sulfur, smoke, and rivers of blood.
Slaughter! Slaughter! Slaughter!
The Doom Marines struck everything silent; mercilessly butchering with every fall of their blades, they used their weapons to demonstrate their unshakeable resolve to the alien enemy.
Across the pitted surface of the rusted iron bridge, Ork corpses piled into a dam, repeatedly collapsing and rising in a perpetual cycle.
As corpses and debris slid down either side, blood dyed the waters running beneath the bridge, rushing through the trench to saturate every crevice.
Looking down upon the Adamantium Sinkhole was like watching foul blood flow through living veins, circulating into every corner of the battlefield.
After three planetary rotations, the Orks could no longer even muster a "Waaagh!"—a sentiment named "despair" supplanted the joy they usually derived from the eternal Waaagh!
Yet when things reach an extreme, they reverse. Driven into an increasingly hopeless corner, the Orks' combat capability spiked instead.
Their "Waagh! Field" became unprecedentedly active, turning almost tangible and unlocking the primal savagery embedded deep within their genetic code.
In their desperation, the Orks yearned for an unprecedented warrior to emerge and crush the human big 'uns.
Bound by collective belief, numerous "Challengers" were born.
Savage and towering, these entities lacked the leadership demeanor of an Ork Boss, yet possessed strength that was in no way inferior—standing over five meters tall with gnarled, bulging muscles.
Beyond the Challengers, many new Ork Bosses also emerged, assembling along the edges of the sinkhole to suppress their rage while awaiting an opportunity.
---
Inside the fortress, Blazkowicz double-checked the security of the Chaos Artifacts and the Ancient Tooth ritual before slowly descending the high staircase.
"You possess remarkable potential as a collector."
A synthetic mechanical voice resonated across the mirror-smooth steel corridor with elegant composure, displaying flawless nobility.
Beside Blazkowicz, a floating green phantom hovered in mid-air with crossed arms, reluctantly withdrawing its gaze from the chamber.
"Chaos artifacts, the tooth of Kroak, and even a fragment of divine essence..."
The mechanical voice vibrated softly without concealing its desire, chanting the epic scale and power carried by each item.
"I believe we should be friends." Trazyn the Infinite extended a lead-gray metallic finger to touch the smooth wall, feeling the tangible reality before him.
His voice remained refined and unhurried as his iron spine extended into a hood covering his gaunt skull. Holding the Staff of the Overlord, a emerald cloak forged from the skin of a C'tan draped behind him.
"Perhaps," Trazyn tilted his metallic head—incapable of making facial expressions, yet revealing twin pools of dark green light glowing within his eye sockets—"we could exchange a few items from our collections as gifts between friends."
The Necron Overlord was thoroughly suave, yet probed constantly at every moment.
"Oh?" Blazkowicz uttered a short grunt, ignoring Trazyn's gaze as he strode forward. "I don't recall us being friends."
This Necron Overlord had arrived two days ago under the guise of a visit—appearing inside the fortress like a ghost via mysterious Necron projection technology.
Blazkowicz had wanted to expel the phantom early on, but found himself unable to breach Necron technology.
He was equally baffled as to why the Necron Overlord would appear here amidst this war, brazenly clinging to him.
This question had puzzled Blazkowicz ever since Trazyn made his presence known.
It was akin to a burglar who, rather than hiding his tracks, casually strolled right up to the homeowner.
Blazkowicz deliberately quickened his pace, tapping his tactical vambrace to make subtle arrangements. "An uninvited, unwelcome guest who seeks to steal my private property—and covets the Doom Marines."
Blazkowicz had not forgotten Trazyn's sleazy demeanor back on the Saurus homeworld of Sarz.
This alien thief's ambitions remained alive and well!
He was still secretly eying the Doom Marines.
"No, no, no..." Trazyn shook his head, wagging a finger gently. "How can a collector's passion be called 'stealing' or 'coveting'?"
"Please do not attach such dark accusations to the preservation of cultural relics and precious artifacts." He clutched his chest in dramatic grief, the green light in his eyes dimming as his tone turned deeply hurt. "I have merely committed... the error that every collector commits."
"My greatest flaw is that I simply have zero resistance to historical events and relics—my heart and mind are overflowing with respect for them..."
"Only within the Galleries of Solemnace can those treasures be properly preserved. I harbor no personal selfishness."
He spoke with righteous indignation and deep remorse, acting entirely like an injured victim maligned by harsh words.
"Give it up," Blazkowicz said without looking back as he stepped into the elevator. "I will not make deals with a Necron Overlord harboring ill intent."
"That is truly a shame." Before the elevator doors closed, Trazyn "squeezed" inside, shaking his head with regret. "I originally thought I could acquire these precious collectibles for my gallery through legitimate means."
"Is that so?" Blazkowicz turned toward the Necron Overlord, his dark eyes filling with scrutiny as he appraised him up and down. "Does that imply you have illegitimate means prepared as well?"
"Sigh." Trazyn let out a sigh and straightened his spine, his refined voice sounding helpless. "It cannot be helped. Intelligent life is always so stingy, lacking any spirit of sharing."
"When hoarders refuse to cooperate with my work and leave treasures to gather dust, I am forced to rescue those relics from such narrow-mindedness."
"If they turn a deaf ear to polite persuasion, I am also somewhat versed in physical negotiation—I do command an Overlord Dynasty, after all."
His voice echoed smoothly inside the enclosed space of the elevator, dripping with absolute confidence.
Thinking of what would transpire four planetary rotations from now, Trazyn felt immensely pleased.
Ever since he abandoned his body and fled in disgrace last time, he had returned to the Nihilakh Dynasty, wandering alone in the Galleries of Solemnace for a long time.
Having witnessed the grandeur of the Doom Marines, facing his existing warrior exhibits again left his processing nodes feeling strangely empty—plagued by a melancholy sense of yearning.
Ambition festered within his cold processing logic: those perfect warriors belonged in the Galleries of Solemnace, their magnificent postures frozen forever in time.
To obtain these precious collectibles, Trazyn performed simulations inside his galleries, engineering an abduction plot.
Yet fate was fickle, and an opportunity quietly presented itself.
A few days ago, Necron Overseers detected that an awakening Phaeron Dynasty had broken out of stasis, executing pre-awakening protocols ahead of schedule.
As an active Necron Overlord across the galaxy, Trazyn was commanded to investigate the situation.
When he received the quantum predictive models, his logical processing unit nearly crashed out of sheer excitement.
Trazyn immediately boarded his Tomb Ship, utilizing inertialess drives to cross the cosmos at absurd speeds toward the event site.
It was just as predicted by the quantum models: Orks, a xenos coalition, Space Marine Legions, and the Doom Marines were engaged in a chaotic melee—awakening the sleeping Phaeron Dynasty beneath.
However, Trazyn had no desire to assist the Phaeron Dynasty's awakening; he even hoped the unknown Phaeron would perish.
The Necron Overlord merely wanted to leverage the chaotic battlefield to acquire the collectibles he pined for.
To capture those perfect warriors, he knew he had to seize every opportunity and exploit every variable.
An awakening Phaeron Dynasty was an unexpected force that Blazkowicz Novik had not accounted for—more than enough to throw the current battle lines into chaos.
Errors born of chaos would yield the finest opportunity.
Relishing the thought of how many precious collectibles he could acquire amidst the turmoil, Trazyn felt a surge of joy, the faint glow in his eyes flickering softly.
With such leverage, he dared to show himself so brazenly, lingering before the owner of the collectibles to assert his presence.
"Is that so?" Blazkowicz surveyed the Necron Overlord once more with deep seriousness. Though vigilance surged beneath his gaze, he replied coolly, "I look forward to seeing how tough your 'negotiations' really are."
As he spoke, he silently issued several security commands through the neural link, making covert deployments.
"Where is your physical body?" Blazkowicz casually reached out, his arm passing straight through the solid-looking illusion. "I would like to extend proper hospitality."
"Heh heh." Trazyn formed his steel hand into a fist and held it against his mouth, using a dry cough to hide his embarrassment. "Right on this world, awaiting the right moment to act."
He had never concealed his intentions, standing tall and admitting them openly.
"To celebrate our reunion, I brought a small gift." The Necron Overlord turned his staff, projecting an image of a mountain peak. "There are little mice lurking along the edges of the battlefield."
Blazkowicz's brow furrowed. Inside a cliff cave on the leeward side of the mountain, over a hundred Aeldari were concealed, observing the entire battlefield.
The situation was growing increasingly complex.
The battle had become a runaway horse, resisting the reins and veering off its controlled, predetermined course toward madness and chaos.
The vortex of war had already swept up a xenos coalition, Orks, and humans. The Necrons represented by Trazyn were about to enter the field, while the Aeldari watched closely from the sidelines.
"Good."
The elevator settled smoothly onto the ground floor. As the doors opened, servitors were already waiting.
"Let them all come." Blazkowicz reached out and accepted a single-handed warhammer from a servitor, feeling the cool chill of the adamantium handle. "Resolving multiple problems at once makes the operational cost-efficiency of this war even higher than I planned."
"May victory crown your banners." Trazyn performed a Necrontyr noble salute as his projection gradually faded, his voice carrying a well-timed sense of anticipation: "I shall capture the timeline to record your glorious combat posture, my Lord."