BOOM. RUMBLE—!
Tatooine's crimson sky was torn apart by countless scarlet streaks.
Those drop pods—bloated like rotting tumors—pierced the atmosphere only to be met by the Imperial Fists' fierce interception fire.
Point-defense batteries wove a dense net of fire, and the silent roar of macro-cannons shook the near-orbit space. The pods struck by the barrage exploded violently, turning into a rain of burning meteors, their pus-colored contrails streaking toward the desert below.
"Maintain suppressive fire!" Sigismund's voice echoed across the fleet-wide comms. "Prioritize destruction of large transport units!"
The broadside batteries of a Kingfisher-class cruiser unleashed kilometer-long tongues of fire, instantly vaporizing a group of Chaos transports attempting to break through the blockade.
But for the Chaos fleet, such losses were trivial—
More and more of the warped drop pods spilled from the blistered hulls of their corrupted warships, falling like spores from the abyss of space, blotting out the sky as they descended on Tatooine.
On the bridge:
Cortana's hologram flickered rapidly atop the central console, her tone still calm:
"Current interception rate holding at only 17%. Commander, based on projected trajectories, the first wave of Chaos ground forces will complete deployment in six minutes."
Sigismund stared at the starmap.
The red markers representing enemy forces were forming a full encirclement. Their numbers exceeded the Imperial fleet's by over fifty times.
His only top-tier asset was the Valor-class super-heavy flagship, whose electromagnetic main gun could carve massive holes in the enemy ranks with each full charge.
The Kingfisher-class cruisers could contend with Star Destroyers, but their energy shields were nearly depleted.
Meanwhile, the Chaos fleet—
Thousands of warped vessels, like a pod of rotting space whales, filled the orbital void.
Corrupted by Warp energy, their hulls squirmed with visible flesh. Gun turrets had mutated into grotesque organs growing from pulsating meat.
Most disturbing of all were three massive Chaos vessels, seemingly "glued" together from dozens of other ships. Each rivaled an Emperor-class battleship and began unfurling their blasphemous ramming prows, covered in slime that inexplicably remained liquid in vacuum.
"Commander, if the fleet continues direct engagement, we will not last sixty minutes," Cortana reported, projecting damage reports—one Kingfisher's starboard section had already been melted by corrosive Warp fire. She continued:
"Recommend immediate civilian evacuation—otherwise, we will miss the optimal window."
Suddenly, the bridge trembled violently.
A glob of viscous green Warp fire exploded just outside the observation window, splattering across the energy shield with a silent hiss.
Sigismund watched the shield's energy readings plummet. His fingers dug deep into the metal edge of the command console.
On the tactical display, the blue zone representing orbital control was being rapidly devoured by red. Without the firepower of a Voyager-class dreadnought or the overwhelming presence of an Emperor-class, the outcome of this space battle had been decided from the start.
But the deadliest threat had yet to descend—
Once Chaos seized full orbital control, their macro-cannons could begin scouring the surface like a plow.
Even if the Astartes, auxiliary forces, Spartans, and all remaining combat units survived the initial bombardment, the endless tide of Chaos troops would drown the defenders completely.
"Deploy all combat units to the surface. Instruct the transport fleet to accelerate evacuation." He finally spoke, his voice like rough steel grinding, "All ships form a ring formation to buy the surface at least thirty minutes. After that... all vessels with civilians aboard are to warp-jump out of Tatooine space immediately."
Even in the face of certain defeat, Sigismund's iron will did not waver.
He took one last look at the tactical starmap—at the shrinking blue lines—then turned and strode toward the bridge exit, saying:
"Maintain orbital suppression. Buy time for the landers."
And with finality, he added: "By the Emperor's will, we will hold until reinforcements arrive."
Having issued his orders, Sigismund prepared to board a Thunderhawk gunship bound for the surface.
Not long after—Mos Eisley.
The first wave of tumor-like drop pods slammed into the city like meteors.
Instead of shattering into metal debris, these pods burst open with jets of viscous pus and writhing fleshy tendrils.
The walls of nearby buildings began to melt as acidic fluid splattered across them.
From the ruptured drop pods crawled fully mutated shock troopers.
Their once-white armor was bloated with tumors and overgrowths. Some had helmets fused with flesh, now sprouting twisted horns; others had ballooned into grotesque two-meter-high flesh mountains, their armor seams oozing yellow-green pus.
Worst of all, their—
Or its—
Blaster rifles had mutated too, with bony spikes protruding from the barrels.
Terminator units and clones stationed on the outskirts engaged first, opening fire.
With every roar of gunfire, mutated bodies burst apart in sprays of gore.
But more corrupted troopers poured in from all directions, shrieking inhuman cries—some hacking through barriers with bone-blades, others spewing corrosive slime from festering palms.
Pew—pew!
Tat-tat-tat—!
The entire city was instantly engulfed in a storm of bullets.
Clone troopers' Gauss rifles drew blue arcs through the air, bisecting the oncoming horrors at the waist.
Even severed at the torso, the Chaos beasts continued crawling forward with their hands—until explosive rounds shattered their skulls.
Ri~tat-tat-tat—!!
Cyclops mechs spun up their tri-barreled Gauss cannons, spraying azure fire. At such high speed, the rotating barrels blurred into phantom limbs.
A storm of 20mm armor-piercing spikes engulfed the entire street. The leading heretics burst open like overripe fruit, splattering rotten organs and bone against buildings—coating yellow-white walls with blood-red and putrid green.
"Keep up suppressive fire! Left flank breach!" the mech pilot roared, sweat streaming down his temples.
"Understood."
Three clone squads, coordinating with the Cyclops, responded in flat, nasal tones over comms—completely devoid of emotion.
Using the mech as an anchor, they built overlapping kill zones. Gauss fire and cannon rounds turned the street into a web of death.
In minutes, they had repelled five assault waves. Heretic corpses now blocked the entire street.
Then the cannon fire fell silent—
The Cyclops was out of ammo.
And from the shadows at the end of the street, more twisted figures surged forth.
"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"
A thunderous roar announced the arrival of a towering figure, shoving its way past lesser mutants.
Once a shock trooper, the creature now stood nearly three meters tall. Bulging red muscles laced with veins bulged beneath its torn armor. Fragments of white plating were embedded in its warped flesh.
It wielded a colossal axe formed from twisted vertebrae, its blade dripping with corrosive blood.
"Shit!"
The pilot yanked his control lever, hydraulics screaming as the mech raised its alloy shield.
CLANG—!!!
The axe struck with such force that every window on the street shattered.
Inside the cockpit, alarms screamed. The pilot bit through his tongue, blood dribbling from his lips.
Through the cracked viewport, he saw the creature sneering, lifting the axe once more, red light writhing across its edge.
"For the Emperor!"
He roared back and slammed the emergency trigger. The mech's left arm burst forth with a dragon of flame.
"RAAAHHHH!!"
The giant howled in agony—but still pressed forward, its burning axe rising again.
Just before it could strike, the pilot activated the Emergency Protocol.
A crimson light filled the cockpit as the onboard AI intoned coldly:
"Self-destruct sequence initiated—"
The creature's grin froze mid-swing.
It smelled something acrid. The axe was only half a meter from the cockpit when a sun-bright flash consumed the entire street.
BOOM—!!!
The blast leveled everything within ten meters. Clone troopers stood silently as they were engulfed in fire.
In their lifeless eyes, a micro mushroom cloud bloomed. No screams, no struggle—just silence, like wheat cleanly reaped.
The heatwave vaporized dozens of Khornate fanatics. All that remained of some were their bronze-insignia boots, still nailed to the ground.
When the smoke cleared, surviving heretics stumbled through the burning rubble.
A goat-horned mutant pawed through clone remains, then snarled:
"No soul! These tin cans are empty!"
It kicked a charred skull in rage—
Just a standard-issue clone cranium, even in death as featureless as mass-produced goods.
"Blood God above..."
The giant crawled from the rubble, half its body blackened. Bone and skin regenerated visibly, but its face had lost all trace of humanity.
It plunged bloody fingers into a clone's chest—no warmth, no fear, nothing.
The clones had lived and died without ever stirring even the faintest ripple of emotion.
Elsewhere, surviving heretics turned on each other in frustration. They needed true pain, real screams, to fill the void this slaughter had left.
At the center of the scorched earth, one half-melted clone helmet still sparked.
Its recorder looped the final combat log—
No last words. No regrets. Just flawless tactical execution, until the flames reduced everything to ashes.
Within the massive war machine of the Human Empire, the Astartes, auxiliaries, and special forces were the precise "blades"—
Deployed at the deadliest fronts to tear through enemy lines, destroy fortifications, and collapse fire networks.
But the ones who bore the burden of full-scale advancement were the low-cost, expendable clone soldiers and cold, efficient combat machines.
These soulless warriors were merely another currency of the Empire—
Mass-produced, ruthlessly consumed, reduced to statistics amid mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
When their steel shells were torn apart, their clone flesh shredded, the Chaos minions found no satisfaction.
No screams of fear. No cries of despair. Not even a whisper of a soul.
These silent warriors died as they lived—hollow, precise, unflinching.
Yet it was this very efficiency that enraged the Chaos heretics.
Amid Mos Eisley's ruins, Darth Vader's followers became increasingly deranged.
They howled, swinging bloody bone-swords to grind clone corpses into paste. They unleashed warped sorcery to burn lines of combat droids.
But no matter how much they slaughtered, they couldn't sate the gods' hunger or fill the void within their own souls.
In their frenzy, they turned toward the city's civilians—toward warm flesh and fearful souls.
Mos Eisley, once a prosperous port, was becoming hell on Tatooine.
The streets were piled with clone and Terminator remains. Deeper within, human screams echoed under a burning dome.
And at the civilian landing pad held by the Spartans, the battle was just as intense.
Ri~PEW—!!
A sharp shriek tore through the night. A crimson Spartan laser beam pierced the darkness like a spear of judgment, striking a slowly advancing corrupted tank.
The abomination, long since consumed by Chaos, writhed with maggots and rot. Its cannon, warped like a tentacle, exploded as the beam ignited its diseased fuel cells.
BOOM—BOOM!!
The explosion sprayed foul blood and metal shards like acid rain, scarring the ground for dozens of meters.
Spartans locked down landing zones with pinpoint crossfire.
Gauss rifles roared. Plasma weapons hummed. Heretics in tattered power suits and skin inked with Chaos sigils were shredded to pieces.
Beneath their visors, the Spartans' eyes were cold as machines.
No war cries. Just efficient execution.
Behind them, the once-noisy civilians of Tatooine were silent. The ragged refugees huddled in shelters, lips trembling—but no longer dared to speak.
In their clouded eyes reflected the horrors of the sky and the flaming corpses on the ground—visions that shattered their understanding of "war."
At this moment, their only hope of survival lay with the silent Spartans and the equally unyielding forces of the Human Empire.
------------------
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Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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