ZZZRAK————!!
With a shrieking hiss, the greatsword tore through the air as if ripping through the fabric of space itself. The crimson plasma of Darth Vader's lightsaber shattered like fragile glass. The blade of the greatsword carved effortlessly through adamantium armor and corrupted flesh, cleaving Vader's body from bottom to top—cleanly in two.
SPLAT————!!
A torrent of thick, black-purple blood spewed from the bifurcated corpse. Tainted by chaotic energy, the blood solidified mid-air into screaming demon faces, only to be instantly vaporized in waves of pure psychic light.
The Dark Lord's halved body plummeted like debris toward the shattered ground.
And in that instant, the collapsing manifestation of a twisted reality—wrought by the clash of god and demon—snapped back into place.
The fleshy vegetation rapidly dissolved, revealing the charred desert floor beneath. The countless crimson eyes in the sky shut one by one, erased like blemishes by an unseen hand.
The warped horrors fashioned from the dead disintegrated as they moved, bones crumbling to dust.
But the physical damage caused by the clash of divine and infernal forces remained as eternal scars.
Spiderweb-like canyons radiated from the pit's center to the horizon, glowing with flowing magma. Debris from ruined buildings floated momentarily before falling like tombstones, silent witnesses to a battle beyond mortal understanding.
At that moment, the Goddess of War—Athena—or rather, the Emperor's will operating through her body, ceased her suspended stance and descended, stepping toward Vader's broken remains.
The greatsword morphed back into the Spear of Victory, its crystalline tip dragging across the ground, scattering golden sparks.
Where those sparks touched earth, ephemeral phantoms of peony blossoms bloomed and vanished—a brief anomaly caused by the restructuring of reality under pure psychic light.
Step by step, her armored boots pressed against the crystallized battlefield, leaving luminous golden footprints in the scorched earth. The godlike eyes—wholly overtaken by divinity—now gazed down at the dying Dark Lord.
There was no pity in those golden eyes, nor contempt—only a chilling, almost mechanical analysis.
Darth Vader's severed body still twitched.
Black-purple ichor flowed from the exposed wounds, instantly evaporating into rancid vapor upon contact with the ground.
This was meant to be Chaos' perfect piece—
A natural Force prodigy.
The butcher of the Jedi Order.
A vengeful soul forged in endless suffering.
Given time, Darth Vader could have dragged the entire Star Wars galaxy into a pit of corruption.
He would've replayed Coruscant's tragedy on every human world, feeding the Warp's insatiable gods with despair and agony.
But the Emperor of Humanity—Samuel Young—did not give him that chance.
The Emperor's will coursed through Athena.
He knew the ways of Chaos all too well: the longer one delayed, the deeper the rot.
If Darth Vader, this puppet of Chaos, had been left to the Primarchs, there was risk—pride, ambition, competition could have interfered, opening small cracks Chaos would gleefully widen.
Only the father himself could eliminate this threat, decisively and without delay.
With no sons to question him, his judgment was final.
Now—
Vader's ruined body began to thrash violently. Chaotic energy, writhing like maggots, wove itself at the severed edges, trying to mend the broken vessel.
Flesh writhed and reformed, tissues regenerated, bones restructured under swirling black-violet currents—Chaos' blessings still stubbornly attempting their duty.
But inside… there was nothing left.
When the Han-style greatsword, empowered with pure psychic energy, bisected Vader's body, Samuel Young's will lunged into a deeper battlefield—
The Warp itself.
In a rift between realities, the Chaos Gods still clutched Anakin Skywalker's soul.
A twisted spirit soaked in pain, rage, and hatred.
Limbs bound by crimson chains.
His chest cavity hollowed and stuffed with a pulsing Chaos core.
Slaanesh's threads had sewn shut his lips.
Khorne's brands burned across his back.
Tzeentch's glyphs writhed across his eyes.
But Samuel Young struck before any god could react.
His pure psychic energy sliced through Chaos' grip like a blade, severing every tendril of corruption with pinpoint accuracy.
The sword had cut more than flesh—it delivered a conceptual severance, yanking Anakin's essence from Chaos' narrative, and placing it into the Emperor's domain of judgment.
This was all carefully calculated.
Using Athena's supposed weakness in psionics as bait, he had baited Vader into overconfidence. At the peak of battle, he seized control of her body—giving Chaos no time to respond—and stole the soul.
If it had been left to a Primarch, it could've become a drawn-out struggle.
Each second would have allowed Chaos to dig deeper. But now, this potential eternal threat was cleanly removed from the board.
Had Anakin's essence remained in Chaos hands, Vader could've resurrected again, using rituals and sacrifices from his fleet to return to the physical realm.
But no longer.
Now, Vader's vessel convulsed one last time, then collapsed like a severed puppet.
The swirling Chaos energy lost its anchor and receded like a vanishing tide.
The Dark Lord of Chaos had truly fallen.
And with him, the will of the Chaos legions collapsed.
The once-tight blockade around Tatooine descended into madness.
Without Vader's control, fleet formations fragmented into horrifying disarray.
Captains and assault leaders screamed in fury—some tore off their tunics, revealing bodies etched with daemonic sigils. Others dropped to their knees, shrieking hysterical prayers to the Warp.
Some warships fell into total insanity.
Energy shields overloaded and exploded. Main batteries spun downward, firing indiscriminately onto the planet.
Entire districts were plowed into molten trenches by superheated beams. Entire refugee convoys evaporated, leaving only bloody tunnels through sand and bone.
A Nurgle-blessed transport veered off course, disintegrating mid-air into plague-laden meteors that crashed into the ground like diseased comets.
Others turned on each other.
Khorne-worshiping vessels rammed allies.
Slaaneshi ships unleashed sonic pulses that liquefied flesh.
Tzeentchian sorcerers triggered self-destruct protocols, just to please their master with grandiose explosions.
Orbit bloomed with corruption-tainted blossoms, the purple-red wreckage of madness raining onto the surface.
A few still-sane officers attempted to flee.
These were former Imperial Navy officers who had, out of fear, submitted to Vader's will. Though tainted, they had preserved some remnant of reason.
They cut comms to avoid daemonic whispers, overloading engines, trying to jump into hyperspace.
But even escape was deadly.
One Star Destroyer, seconds before jumping, was seized by massive blood-flesh tendrils, torn from space with an interdimensional scream.
Back on Tatooine, billions of remaining civilians became tragic sacrifices.
In Anchorhead's ruins, a Khorne cult squad was stacking severed heads into a twisted eight-pointed star.
In the deep desert, nomadic tribes were herded into corrupted iron altars, their screams drawing smiles from the demon faces engraved there.
One witness even saw a rogue transport suck an entire refugee group into its turbines, then spew a rainbow of gore and bone shards from its exhaust.
Meanwhile, Sigismund's forces—Imperial Fists—established a temporary defensive base roughly 200 kilometers south of Mos Eisley in the rocky desert.
When Sigismund ordered all units to evacuate to the surface, volunteer engineers deployed with the troops, bringing Hex bots, Terminators, and Hunters, plus materials and prefab structures.
Thousands of drop pods struck premarked coordinates. A hundred meters above ground, reverse-thrusters engaged, fusing the sand into glass landing pads.
As hatches blew open, Hex-engineering bots swarmed out, multi-jointed arms whirring into construction mode—hydraulic drills and plasma welders buzzing in the desert silence.
Efficiency was jaw-dropping.
Heavy units leveled terrain with melta cannons, turning sand into hardened surfaces.
Hex bots built the structures using air-dropped materials. Micro units swarmed over prefabs, welding joints tighter than the originals.
Within hours, a functional base emerged.
With machines doing the labor, the Imperial Fists didn't need to waste precious manpower on building defenses.
Of the Imperial forces stranded on Tatooine, over 40,000 remained, including about a thousand Imperial Fists, with the rest being clones, Terminators, and Hunter-killers.
Inside the temporary HQ, Sigismund stood before a command console, reviewing real-time force readouts.
They had lost over 60% of their strength since the orbital war began.
One entire clone unit died to protect refugees. Even Sigismund's honor guard was halved.
They had faced an overwhelming enemy—orbital dominance, chaotic magic, and superior numbers.
But now, everything had changed.
Recon drones confirmed that at least one-third of the Chaos fleet was fighting itself.
Ground forces, leaderless, now scattered—some butchering civilians, others praying madly.
Most encouraging: Warp rifts were shrinking visibly.
Amid Chaos' disorder, they now had time—and hope.
With the aid of four legions of Battle Knights and Sisters, the Ironwing Knights, Nidhogg, and two goddesses, they could hold out until more reinforcements arrived.
Back in Mos Eisley, a mass migration had begun.
Forty thousand Sisters and Knights advanced in iron phalanxes, escorting hundreds of thousands of civilians southward.
They marched in formation, .50-caliber bolt rifles aimed at every possible shadow.
Elderly were carried on backs, children hidden beneath armored cloaks.
Their trail carved a 20-kilometer lifeline through the dunes.
Ironwing griffon riders circled low, diving to eviscerate Chaos squads. Their .75-caliber bolt rifles picked off entrenched artillery.
RI~ROAR————!!
Nidhogg roared from the skies, incinerating gathering enemies in blazing breath.
At the front, Hera walked with gentle strides, raising translucent psychic shields with a wave.
Explosions and stray shots rippled harmlessly into warmth. Any surviving heretic that got close was incinerated by her golden gaze.
In the ravaged city center, Athena performed her final purification.
Kneeling at the crater's heart, her spear planted deep, she poured divine power into the earth.
The spear blazed white. Psychic light cleansed every tainted inch.
Vader's husk writhed in the flame, then vanished into smoke—leaving nothing behind.
As she rose, her eyes returned to blue, though golden fire still flickered in their depths.
She did not follow the others south.
Instead, she turned toward the deep desert—walking alone.
Her spear etched a straight trail in the sand, quickly lost to the wind.
Her figure blurred in the heat, fading into the desert storm beyond the city.
Ahead of her, drones reported a large cluster of Chaos remnants.
The War Goddess's hunt was not over.
With no Vader, Athena—Emperor-possessed or not—was now Tatooine's strongest entity. Unquestioned.
Suddenly, she looked up, seemingly locking eyes with a Chaos Star Destroyer in low orbit.
Then she stopped, raised her arm, and mimed a throwing motion—
WHOOOSH~——————!!!
The Spear of Victory screamed through the sky, breaking the sound barrier—
Soaring from the desert floor toward the Chaos warship hundreds of kilometers above…
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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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