Five pillars of battle smoke reached toward the heavens, staining the skies of Alacaster a sickly dark red and iron gray.
The five massive hive cities resembled erupting volcanoes, spewing lava of steel, flesh, and destruction in all directions. Among them, Heralius Hive City faced the most brutal fighting.
The Chaos forces had committed two supreme combat assets: Scorchwind, Khorne's Everchosen, and See You Tomorrow, Tzeentch's Everchosen. They slashed through the Imperial Guard's defensive lines like poisoned daggers.
Scorchwind's Berzerkers led daemons and traitors in brutal assaults, creating bloody breakthroughs on the front lines. See You Tomorrow moved like a ghost. He used cunning psychic sorcery to dismantle defenses at key nodes, sowing chaos and riddling entire defensive lines with holes.
"I Am Not God" had lost count of how many times he'd crawled up from cold respawn points.
Each rebirth meant another section of defensive line lost, another batch of comrades sacrificed.
The barrel of his lasgun had long since overheated and warped, his armor was covered in cracks and scorch marks, and his mind was exhausted from sustained high pressure and cycles of death.
What frustrated him most was the enormous gap in strength between the two sides.
Imperial Guard soldiers, even those silent, hardened veterans of the Death Korps of Krieg, remained as fragile as wheat stalks when facing true Chaos elites.
Daemon claws could easily tear through their armor, and Traitor Guard lasguns could easily puncture their protection.
Not to mention those two Everchosen. Wherever Scorchwind's chainaxe passed, severed limbs flew. The blue lightning or bizarre flames See You Tomorrow casually unleashed could silently reduce entire squads to nothing or plunge them into frenzied fratricide.
Numbers? Before absolute quality and bizarre supernatural powers, numerical advantage was infinitely diluted.
They were like using flesh and blood to fill a bottomless pit. Each charge bought only more devastating casualties, while Chaos's battle lines continued their steady advance.
"This isn't fair..."
After one respawn, I Am Not God slumped against the cold metal floor, watching the rapidly decreasing friendly force counter in his HUD and that slow but steady growth of Chaos-controlled territory.
A deep sense of helplessness nearly consumed him.
He'd accumulated over 6,000 points, enough to summon several specialist regiments or even orbital bombardment, but now he didn't even know where to invest these resources.
Everywhere was collapsing, everywhere needed support. It was a drop in the bucket.
When he was once again ignited by a psychic sphere fired from some dark corner, turning to white light amid pain and chaos, he felt almost numb.
But this time was different. This respawn shattered the last trace of hope in his heart.
When his vision returned, he wasn't at the familiar lower hive rally area. He wasn't at any frontline respawn point.
Around him were cold metal walls and dim emergency lighting. The air reeked of machine oil and blood. From deep below came a heavy, rhythmic rumbling, the sound of massive treads on steel.
His viewpoint was forcibly locked by the system, unable to move, only following as the camera slowly panned upward, finally focusing on a tall figure.
It was a man standing atop a war machine so massive it was suffocating.
The machine was an Emperor's Baneblade superheavy tank, like a mobile steel mountain range, its main cannon caliber dwarfing the previously seen Leman Russ tanks.
The man standing on the turret command platform wore a crisp dark gray Krieg officer's greatcoat and matching regulation cap. His face was weathered and scarred, with a vicious mark across his left eye. His right arm was entirely mechanical, adamantium and hydraulic systems replacing flesh and bone.
His gaze was cold and resolute, like frozen iron from deep permafrost, devoid of any superfluous emotion.
Commissar Mors. Supreme commander of the Death Korps of Krieg for this campaign.
The camera followed him closely.
Commissar Mors stood atop the roaring Emperor's Baneblade, looking down at the Krieg soldiers assembled below in silent gray tides.
They packed densely, filling the massive evacuation plaza of the lower hive, yet were nearly silent, only heavy breathing through gas masks and faint sounds of weapons clinking.
Behind them stood the gates to evacuation passages, while before them lay lifts and corridors leading upward to the already-lost upper hive, toward Chaos-ravaged territory.
Commissar Mors's mechanical prosthetic slowly rose.
Without any amplification device, his voice nevertheless carried across the entire plaza, cold, flat, and absolute:
"Soldiers of Krieg."
No response came. None was expected.
"We have failed to halt the enemy's advance. That failure is ours alone."
His remaining eye swept across the ranks.
"There will be no retreat. There will be no surrender."
The words fell like iron weights.
"The Emperor demands this ground. We will pay its price in full."
A pause.
"Remember your creed. Remember your oath."
"Only in death does duty end."
The words were spoken once. Final. Immutable.
"Today we advance not for victory, but for obligation. Not for survival, but for mankind."
"By our blood, the line will hold."
"By our bones, the enemy will break."
"For the Emperor. For Holy Terra."
Silence followed.
Then, tens of thousands of voices replied in perfect unison, low and emotionless:
"Only in death does duty end."
Commissar Mors turned, pointing his mechanical arm toward the burning upper hive.
"Advance."
The Emperor's Baneblade beneath him roared to life, its engine howling like a waking god-machine.
The massive main cannon elevated, locking onto the passageways above already infested with Chaos.
The enormous hull began to move, treads grinding forward with the scream of steel on stone, crushing debris beneath its weight as it charged toward the fallen zones.
Below, the Death Korps moved.
No cheers. No cries.
Bayonets were fixed. Weapons raised.
With uniform, heavy strides, the gray tide advanced behind the Baneblade, silent and relentless, marching toward the abyss of certain death.
"I Am Not God's" viewpoint control was released.
He stood frozen, body rigid, mind blank.
Shock. Overwhelming shock. Then disbelief as his worldview collapsed.
For an unseen Emperor? For an empire that demanded death as currency?
Marching forward without hesitation. Without doubt.
Using life itself to fulfill duty, knowing survival was unlikely.
He didn't understand it. This faith went beyond instinct, beyond reason. It shattered everything he believed about individual value and rational choice.
And yet…
His body trembled.
Not from fear, but from something colder and heavier settling in his chest.
His heart pounded, blood rushing as if pulled forward by that silent gray flood.
He watched their backs. He watched the unstoppable Baneblade. He heard the distant shrieks of daemons and the thunder of artillery from the upper hive.
If he stayed behind now, if he let them march alone into destruction, it would hollow him out completely.
The confusion in his eyes faded, replaced by a resolve he did not fully understand.
He chose to follow.
"I Am Not God" took a deep breath, gripping his scarred, battered lasgun.
The weapon was cold in his hands, yet faintly warm, as if carrying borrowed conviction.
He made no cry. No vow.
He simply stepped forward, a single drop joining the gray tide, marching toward the burning upper hive and the end of all things.
Launching his own final charge.