The gray steel flood, wrapped in the cold will of martyrs, tore open a savage, blood-soaked breach in the seemingly impregnable Chaos defensive line at Heralius Hive City.
I Am Not God fell within the charging torrent, then rose again at the rear rally point and hurled himself back into the fight.
His mind was still reeling from the Commissar's speech, words that seemed to transcend understanding, yet his body obeyed without hesitation: charge, shoot, fall, charge again.
He could not grasp the meaning of such sacrifice, and yet, in this cycle of repeated death, he found a strange sense of fulfillment, something that pushed back the emptiness gnawing at him.
Each time he respawned, he shouted, "For the Emperor!" What had once felt like an awkward slogan gradually hardened into genuine resolve amid the roar of lasguns and the shriek of incoming explosives, a change he himself barely noticed.
Krieg soldiers silently filled every gap in the battle line, using their bodies to absorb the daemons' brute force and the traitors' ammunition.
Baneblade superheavy tanks advanced like mobile fortresses. Commissar Morse stood atop one of them, his cold mechanical augmetics constantly swiveling toward the fiercest fighting, the main cannon's every thunderous discharge carving burning furrows through Chaos formations.
This was not tactical finesse, but sheer will and attrition made manifest.
Against all expectations, this seemingly suicidal death charge, paid for with staggering casualties, forced the battle line back from the brink of collapse and drove it deep into the hive's mid-levels.
The repelled Chaos renegades and lesser daemons roared in frustration, while regular Astra Militarum units, their morale previously faltering, seemed swept up by this gray tide of martyrdom. They began to reorganize, following in the Krieg regiment's wake and surging into this newly formed, large-scale meat grinder.
"I Am Not God! Left corridor, traitor heavy weapons team!" a teammate's hoarse shout crackled through the earpiece.
"Copy!" I Am Not God rolled aside, narrowly dodging a sweeping burst of laser fire. His lasrifle barked in controlled bursts, the shots punching cleanly through the head of a traitor rocketeer.
Before he could acquire his next target, a different sound cut through the chaos.
Bang!
It was not the hiss of lasers, nor the shriek of bolt rounds, but an older, heavier roar, raw with destructive intent.
His vision instantly flooded with crimson. The impact was not focused on a single point; instead, it erased most of his body in a single, overwhelming moment.
A bolt pistol.
In the heartbeat before darkness reclaimed him, he dimly perceived several massive figures striding out of the gunsmoke.
They wore crimson power armor bristling with vicious spikes and blasphemous runes, like giants dragged from ancient nightmares, their heavy steps shaking the ground as they advanced.
---
At the same time, within a relatively intact bunker behind the Chaos front lines.
Scorchwind was reborn amid the twisted resurrection ritual of Chaos cultists, his soul still echoing with the tearing agony of being struck head-on by an Baneblade main cannon, a blow powerful enough to shatter an ordinary person's will.
He flexed his newly formed body. The Berserker form blessed by Khorne recovered with frightening speed, though the lingering aftershock still burned through his nerves.
"Tch, a bunch of suicidal maniacs," he spat, his crimson gaze fixed on the tactical map.
The red marking Imperial-controlled territory was eating into the black of Chaos at an alarming rate. That Baneblade, and the gray tide surging in its wake, had become the most unstable variable on the battlefield, and the greatest threat.
He opened his support interface. The number [7000] glowed a glaring crimson, an undeniable testament to his status as Chaos's top killer and advancing core.
With both sides pouring frenzied commitment and sacrifice into the fighting, battlefield intensity had climbed to [10%]. A support option that had never before been available now shone ominously in dark gold at the top of the list:
[Chaos Space Marine Company Support]
[Battlefield Intensity ≥ 10%]
[Required Points: 5000]
[Description: Summon a ten-man Chaos Space Marine squad, directly deployed via drop pod to your designated war zone. They will bring true terror and despair from the stars and the seas.]
[Squad Composition: Black Legion ×3, Iron Warriors ×5, Thousand Sons Sorcerer ×1, Plague Marine ×1]
Scorchwind did not hesitate. Without a second thought, a smile curved across his face.
He confirmed the summon, marking the drop point at a critical intersection on the flank of the Baneblade advance.
Five thousand points vanished instantly.
Almost the moment the command was accepted, the smoke-choked, warp-tainted clouds above Heralius Hive City were ripped apart by several meteors trailing pitch-black flames.
These were no ordinary drop pods. They were Chaos pods, etched with eight-pointed stars and blasphemous scripture, radiating palpable malice.
Like spears of divine punishment hurled from the heavens, they screamed downward on sulfurous winds and slammed into the hive's mid-levels. Steel and rock exploded outward as shockwaves tore through the ruins.
The pod doors blasted open amid rolling smoke and dust.
Ten giants emerged, their heavy, deliberate steps making the ground itself tremble.
Each stood well over two meters tall, clad in power armor long since stripped of Imperial standardization. Spikes, skulls, self-growing fleshy tendrils, and corroded metal patches marred their forms.
Their armor colors were a chaotic blend of deep red, ochre, iron gray, ghostly blue, and sickly green, like an overturned palette of evil, yet all were unified beneath the eight-pointed star of Chaos.
At the front strode three warriors in dull gray-black armor, faint remnants of moon sigils and wolf-fang motifs still visible. They moved like phantoms, swift and silent, the muzzles of their bolt pistols still warm from recent fire. One of them had casually obliterated a distant Imperial player with a single shot.
They were the Luna Wolves, once paragons of perfection, now fallen assassins and vanguard killers.
Behind them advanced five figures in thick iron-gray and brass armor. Massive shoulder plates bristled with rivets and reinforcement. They deployed methodically, heavy bolters, meltaguns, and rotary cannon platforms emitting low, menacing charging hums.
Iron Warriors. Masters of siege and attrition, experts at grinding everything to dust.
Among them stood a particularly striking figure, draped in robes etched with intricate arcane runes. His helm was shaped like a bird's beak, eerie blue light flickering around him. He carried no physical weapon, only a floating grimoire and crackling psychic sparks dancing at his fingertips.
A Thousand Sons Sorcerer, bearer of Tzeentch's secrets, his very presence a distortion of reality.
At the rear lumbered an abnormally bloated figure in gray-green armor, its surface slick with constantly dripping filth and corrosion. Turbid, bellows-like breathing echoed from beneath his respirator, green flies buzzing thickly around him.
A Plague Marine, Grandfather Nurgle's walking benediction, a grotesque fusion of life and decay.
They spoke no words, and spared no attention for the lesser daemons and traitor guards nearby.
The leading Luna Wolf raised his arm, bolt pistol leveling toward the thunderous advance of the Baneblade.
In the next instant, the terrifying squad moved as one, a perfectly coordinated engine of slaughter.
Their footsteps across the shattered ruins were not the sounds of mortal running, but the crushing, muffled impacts of steel and stone being ground into dust as they drove straight toward the most lethal flank of the Imperial counterattack.
True superhumans had entered the battlefield.
Mortal courage and sacrifice were about to face their harshest trial against absolute power and the blasphemous blessings of the Warp.
With the arrival of these ten giants, the battle for Heralius Hive City was hurled headlong into an even deeper, more unfathomable abyss of destruction.
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