Despair seeped into every inch of steel and flesh throughout Heralius Hive City like cold, viscous tar, slow yet unstoppable.
The gray tide, that desperate charge that had once turned the tide of battle, was now being suppressed and devoured by an even deeper, more profane darkness.
Chaos Space Marines, those fallen superhumans, were not merely warriors. They were walking catastrophes.
I Am Not God witnessed with his own eyes as an Iron Warrior used his armored fist to pulverize a Sentinel walker. Both machine and pilot were crushed into scrap metal and pulp.
The Black Legion moved like phantoms between cover. Each short burst from their bolters precisely claimed the lives of several Krieg soldiers with chilling efficiency.
The Thousand Sons sorcerers merely raised their hands lightly. Entire areas of Krieg soldiers would collectively descend into madness, opening fire on empty air or on comrades beside them.
Wherever the Plague Marines passed, they left behind more than corpses. They left rapidly spreading, bubbling zones of foul corruption. Soldiers who drew near, even if they did not die immediately, would gradually mutate in agony.
Individual valor and collective sacrifice seemed pale and powerless before such inhuman strength and Warp sorcery.
---
I Am Not God had lost count of how many times he had crawled up from the cold resurrection monument inscribed with the Emperor's maxims.
Each rebirth carried the same cost. At least a squad, perhaps even a platoon, of nearby Krieg soldiers became cold casualty statistics after his fall.
He had tried to command. Using the authority granted by [Krieg's Recognition], he maneuvered the gray soldiers around him through flanking tactics, concentrated fire, and even suicide bombing charges.
Those silent soldiers executed every order faithfully, charging toward death without hesitation.
Yet before the absolute power of Chaos Space Marines and the psychic countermeasures of Thousand Sons sorcerers, these tactical adjustments meant nothing. They were like trying to extinguish a grease fire with water, instantly vaporized and crushed.
---
The frontline was retreating irreversibly.
On the tactical map, the red representing Imperial-controlled territory shrank smaller and smaller. It compressed into a few isolated remnant zones in the hive city's lower-middle levels.
Overall hive occupation dropped below 10%, reaching a glaring [5%].
In contrast, battlefield intensity skyrocketed. Countless deaths, explosions, psychic releases, and supernatural collisions caused the region's "value," or rather, its destruction rating, to climb continuously.
It reached [40%].
This meant two things. On one hand, even more terrifying Chaos reinforcements could appear at any moment. On the other, the Imperium might now deploy something truly strategic in scale.
---
I Am Not God leaned against a shattered wall, gasping heavily.
His armor was damaged beyond recognition, and his lasgun's energy cell had long been depleted. In his hand was a filth-stained ballistic pistol scavenged from a fallen Krieg sergeant.
After such prolonged high-intensity combat, kills, and battlefield contributions, his points had accumulated to an astonishing number.
[12,850 Points]
This was wealth he had never imagined possessing. Yet it brought no joy. Instead, it carried a heavy, almost burning weight.
He knew exactly what these points represented. They were bought with countless Krieg soldiers' lives and his own repeated deaths, the final, most weighty chips on this scorched battlefield.
---
He had to spend them.
He had to spend them on something that could truly change this suffocating situation.
He opened the support panel again. His fingers trembled slightly from exhaustion and tension as he scrolled past conventional artillery support and air strikes.
He went straight to the bottom.
[Strategic Support]
Only a handful of options existed here, each radiating an unusual aura of danger. Their point requirements were frighteningly high.
Beyond the familiar [Tactical Orbital Bombardment], another option, previously grayed out due to insufficient battlefield intensity, now glowed with a cold, dark-gold radiance.
---
[Basilisk Artillery Cluster Strike]
[Required Points: 10,000]
[Required Battlefield Intensity: ≥ 30%]
[Description:]
This is the Emperor's hammer, mortal wrath incarnate. It summons an unprecedented, landscape-reshaping artillery barrage. Compared to precise orbital bombardment, this is an older, more brutal, and more thorough response.
Endless artillery and steel will erase traitors and heretics from the map. To the Imperium, artillery shells and human lives are equally cheap.
All that is demanded is complete annihilation.
No sacrifice is too great for the Emperor to bear. No betrayal is too small for the Imperium to forgive.
---
The text radiated undisguised Imperial coldness and extreme pragmatism. It equated sacrifice with artillery shells, viewing both as expendable resources with erasure as the sole objective.
I Am Not God's gaze locked onto the button.
Ten thousand points meant spending nearly everything. Even so, he knew that this crumbling defense line, the remaining Krieg soldiers, and even himself needed a final resolution.
Even if that resolution involved self-destruction.
---
He slowly raised his head and peered through a gap in his cover.
Through the drifting smoke, he could still see gray figures flickering and falling. Farther away, the massive, grotesque forms of Chaos Space Marines appeared and disappeared, spreading death and despair.
Hive occupation remained at [5%]. Perhaps this truly was the final holdout.
"Is there a difference," he asked himself hoarsely, "between dying here and dying under artillery fire?"
There was.
Dying beneath Chaos's profane power was a double insult to faith and existence. Dying under artillery he himself summoned, purging traitors for the Emperor, was different.
At least it was a choice.
More importantly, this saturation strike would target those arrogant Chaos Space Marines. If he could drag them to hell as well, then so be it.
---
His eyes sharpened like quenched steel.
Hesitation and confusion vanished, replaced by a burn-the-boats determination. He remembered Commissar Mors's speech.
He remembered the silent charges and the sacrificial tone that had defined this battle from the very beginning.
No sacrifice too great to accept.
No betrayal is too small to be forgiven.
Then let me become the spark that ignites this final sacrifice.
---
His finger pressed the dark-gold button.
[Confirm expenditure of 10,000 points to summon Basilisk Artillery Cluster Strike?]
[Target Area: Full-area saturation strike centered on your position. Radius: 1.5 km.]
[Warning: Indiscriminate destruction. Confirm no critical units in area or prepare for appropriate sacrifice.]
He confirmed without hesitation.
Ten thousand points vanished instantly.
---
There was no immediate explosion.
Instead, a profound silence spread. The battlefield's clamor dulled, as if muted by an invisible hand.
Then came the rumbling.
Low.
Oppressive.
Everywhere at once.
It rose from the earth, from the sky, and from beneath his feet, like countless distant thunders converging into an apocalyptic prelude.
---
I Am Not God straightened and discarded the useless pistol.
He took one last look at the tactical map's lonely 5% occupation zone. Then he raised his head toward the hive city's sky, obscured by smoke and warp energy.
He drew a deep breath and roared, not as a transmission, but as a declaration:
"Emperor… bear witness!"
---
The sky blazed.
Not with sunlight, but with countless trajectories tearing through the heavens.
They were molten spears hurled by the divine, dragging trails of destructive brilliance behind them.
From the hive outskirts, from distant Imperial rear lines, perhaps even from the planet's far side, they fell upon Heralius Hive City's final position like a steel waterfall.
The Emperor's wrath had come.
And I Am Not God, along with his gray warriors, would be the first to burn, and the brightest sparks.
۞۞۞۞
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