Chapter 153: Ram Another One
The crescent-shaped scythe tore through the void, its dim green glow heralding death. The Necron fleet marched through space, sovereigns of their own domain.
Data hammered against Perturabo's veins and nerves in dense torrents. The Iron Warriors' fleet scattered and reformed like a swarm, every flicker of light signaling an attack. Countless light points ignited the deep, dark firmament.
According to prior calculations, Perturabo had reserved ample firepower for this assault. By unleashing the Iron Warriors' main fleet's immense ammunition stores, the casualties and losses would remain within tolerable and expected bounds. The barrage of fire and lasers would ignite these dark, inert Necrons.
Necron naval warfare had always been a brutal equation, built on immense computational power and staggering technological superiority.
Yet, they now faced Perturabo — a master of calculation and data in his own right.
Though the Iron Warriors' standard warships were far less advanced than those of the Necrons, they made up for it with sheer numbers.
With every ten additional cruisers, Perturabo could increase the complexity of the ship formations by another magnitude.
There was no mud or randomness as found on planetary surfaces — this battle in the vastness of space was pure calculation.
A deluge of data flooded Perturabo's mind. For once, fully engaged, he momentarily abandoned his command over the surface of Graia-106 and silenced his other senses, throwing himself wholly into the war.
There was no blood spatter, no bestial howls — only flashes of light and steel etching faint traces in the cold, indifferent cosmos.
Only logic and data. Only coldness and hardness.
Millions of years of buildup had led these two races to this gladiatorial confrontation, where the blood and tears of billions could only afford one minor explosion.
In the universe, only war remains.
A rare smile crept onto Perturabo's lips. Wrestling with the furious flood of data and watching the icy projections fed back by his sensors made his brain burn with exhilaration.
But it wouldn't be long before he realized something was wrong.
. . . . .
Nas lifted its head, looking up at the space above the fleet it commanded. The enemy's main fleet was shifting formation in a way that made it dizzy — every single gap now filled with spears of light.
Nas was certain that if it were still a Flayed One, it would have already been pierced by those beams or melted away, screaming beneath the intense radiation.
But it wasn't anymore. It had no flesh left.
The overwhelming radiation now merely brought a hint of warmth to its metallic body.
Perhaps it should be afraid, because the outermost defense line — the Jackal-class raider ships — were shedding layer after layer like the decaying skin of a Flayed One.
But it didn't matter.
Nas could resurrect. Even if its entire fleet was annihilated, they would open their eyes again in the shallow tombs of Necro-construct. As for ships like these, they had plenty. They'd just make more.
Nas's true goal was to locate information about that shard of the C'tan. Beyond that, the King did not care.
And neither did it.
The enemy's target ships were attempting to flee — they needed speed, even more extreme speed. Nas wanted to shorten this space battle as much as possible. As a Praetorian, being far from the King it was sworn to protect made it uneasy.
To ensure maximum speed, only the necessary Jackal-class raider ships, under Nas's direction, detached from the fleet to draw enemy fire. The rest of the main fleet remained locked tightly onto the Fourth Horseman.
Almost there.
. . . .
Mortarion silently watched the augur display. On it, the pale green friendly fleet appeared as a chaotic, tangled mass, twisting and compressing in dizzying formations.
But no matter how much Perturabo manipulated his fleet, that red enemy fleet still tore a straight line through them, and their target was the Fourth Horseman, the very ship Mortarion stood on.
He silently watched that enemy fleet. From its ships, flecks of red occasionally broke off and turned grey—Mortarion knew those were the sacrificial raider ships, discarded to maintain the speed of the main fleet.
Ha.
It was as if he were back on the battlefield of Galaspar. This moment, this feeling—it mirrored that time exactly.
But the Death Guard's position had long since shifted.
What puzzled Mortarion now was the goal of these xenos.
Why were they relentlessly pursuing the fleet he commanded—even after they had ceased all support for the ground forces?
Perhaps this was simply how xenos were. You couldn't think of them from a human perspective.
His gaze drifted down, unfocused.
In the comms channel shared with Perturabo, static buzzed incessantly. But Perturabo never spoke a word.
Meanwhile, the Iron Warriors were going nearly mad trying to delay the Necron ships. They were throwing themselves into the fight with increasing desperation.
No matter what, it was clear: the enemy's current target was the Death Guard under Mortarion's command, and it seemed Perturabo's plan had failed.
The only silver lining was that Mortarion happened to be aboard the Fourth Horseman.
And this ship's engines and structure had been modified to suit the battle of Galaspar—refitted to survive exactly such a situation.
Mortarion began issuing commands: engine warm-up, activate all shields, tighten formation.
He was well-versed in the art of struggling on the brink of annihilation, the Death Guard always were.
The Necron ships were closing in.
Finally, the persistent static stopped. And then came the voice Mortarion loathed—Perturabo:
"Push your engines to the maximum. Have the other ships intercept them. The Iron Warriors can hold them back."
Perturabo was on the brink of madness. The calculations thrilled him, but he couldn't comprehend the Necrons' behavior. Even if their tactics followed optimal computational logic, the choice of objective was sheer lunacy!
They showed no concern for losses, nor any interest in engaging the Iron Warriors. Their sole focus was the Death Guard.
He had even deliberately exposed weaknesses in the Iron Warriors' formation—offering the enemy an easy opportunity to deal significant damage at minimal cost and interruption.
But those crescent-shaped ships didn't take it. As if their only goal was to catch the Death Guard ships—they didn't even seem to care if they won the battle at all.
Following the Necrons' current trajectory, all cold calculations pointed to one outcome.
To one cruel, inevitable result.
The one outcome Perturabo could not accept.
Perturabo may have wished for Mortarion's death, but not within the jurisdiction of his Iron Warriors!
If Mortarion were to die here, it would be a disgrace in the eyes of the other Primarchs.
What would the Father, the Emperor, think of him?
What would his brothers say when they spoke of him?
This filthy brother would become a stain on his name, one that could never be scrubbed clean.
. . . . .
Hearing Perturabo's voice from the other end, Mortarion gripped his scythe, Silence.
The censer hanging from his armor clinked faintly with the motion.
Mortarion could never read emotions in people's voices well, not in day-to-day matters, but when it came to despair and fear, no one could sense it better than he could.
Perturabo was in despair.
He was afraid.
Mortarion pressed his lips together. He was quite happy to witness this moment.
Then he spoke, his voice hoarse:
"Brother… let this hick teach you a lesson."
With that, Mortarion closed the comm channel and began commanding his forces.
. . . . .
The Necron fleet was rapidly closing in on the Death Guard.
Their vanguard raider ships split apart, revealing the main vessels hidden behind.
Mortarion blinked once, focusing all his attention.
As expected—the Necrons began to slow slightly.
A telltale sign. Boarding action was imminent. Mortarion had bet right.
The Death Guard launched their lances and torpedoes—but, unsurprisingly, they were easily torn apart by the Necron main ships.
The Necron ships tore through the Death Guard formation like wild beasts.
[Fourth Horseman, rotate the hull.]
A slow stream of toxic vapor drifted upward from Mortarion's censer.
The Fourth Horseman, which had been speeding forward, suddenly began to turn.
This sudden brake closed the distance between it and the pursuing Necron vessel almost instantly.
The Necron ship was about to smash straight into the Fourth Horseman's vulnerable side—
Now.
[Reverse thrust. Left engine, full burn.]
The Grim Reaper gave his order.
The Fourth Horseman burst forward with immense speed, the sudden acceleration making even its thrice-reinforced main beam tremble!
It was a force strong enough to rip the spine out of a mortal crew member.
In Mortarion's vision, the skin of those mortals stretched tight against their bones, then tore open—blood spraying in straight lines behind them.
Inside their bodies, most of their organs had likely been liquefied from the impact.
But Mortarion had no time to care. The Primarch was calculating angles.
[Right engine, full burn.]
Even before he finished speaking, a deafening crash echoed through the hull of the Fourth Horseman!
Success.
Under Mortarion's command, the Fourth Horseman had executed a full-body pivot in an instant and crashed straight into the side of the Necron capital ship.
Its prow, specially reinforced and once used to batter down the main hive of Galaspar, had sacrificed itself to tear open a breach in the Necron flagship.
But the Fourth Horseman's front was now a ruined wreck.
Alarms screamed from every console.
Air was being violently sucked out from the front and midsection.
Unlucky mortal crewmen were dragged by the swirling winds and flung into the cold void of space.
Mortarion didn't hesitate. The moment he realized that the Fourth Horseman had collided with the enemy ship, he immediately began making his way to the front of the vessel.
The Death Guard squads had already started moving toward their designated positions.
His gray cloak rustled with his stride. Mortarion knew—they could begin the real fight now.
Compared to the hollow clash of voidships, this was where he truly excelled.
. . . .
Perturabo stared in disbelief at the Death Guard fleet.
There, where both sides had once been charging at full speed, they had now come to a halt.
Between the dueling cruisers and Jackal-class raiders, the two largest ships had collided. The Fourth Horseman had rammed itself deep into the inner crescent of the Necron ship.
But the scene he expected—the Fourth Horseman being obliterated on impact—hadn't occurred.
Perturabo realized that Mortarion had heavily modified the ship, reinforcing it enough to withstand such a devastating collision without disintegrating.
They had survived.
Maybe Perturabo wanted to freeze in disbelief for a moment—logic told him that wasn't realistic—but he still immediately resumed his cold command, ordering the Iron Warriors to surround the now-stalled enemy ships and pick off the Necron raiders piece by piece.
At the center of this chaotic battle, a different kind of war had begun.
A boarding action, right atop the capital ships.
Led by Mortarion himself, the Death Guard brought their scythes down against these Xenos warriors—who, curiously, also wielded scythes of their own.
But in melee, the Necrons were clearly weaker than the Death Guard.
As long as they avoided the Gauss blasts, the Death Guard could take the upper hand with ease.
Mortarion hooked his scythe and tore through a metallic skeleton. Then he raised his pistol and fired—each bullet claiming another xenos "life."
To Mortarion, the enemy warriors were just metal skeletons with Gauss rifles slapped on.
Maybe they looked a little different from each other, but it hardly mattered.
Metal bones. More metal bones clambered up from the recesses of the ship like soulless corpses, only to be sent back into death by the Death Guard.
Led by Mortarion, the Death Guard pressed forward, step by step. Soon they reached a clear platform within the Necron vessel.
A larger skeleton stepped out—one hand held an axe, the other a coffin-shaped shield.
Mortarion didn't care. To him, it was no different from the others.
He raised his pistol and fired—Lantern's shot scraped the shield and scorched the Necron's leg with a blackened mark.
Nas, the Necron, faced the towering enemy and understood it couldn't win this fight.
But it didn't need to win.
If it truly wanted Mortarion dead, it could've destroyed the ship earlier with the fleet.
What frustrated Nas was that the signal of the C'tan Shard had vanished. Even at close range, it was clear—the Shard was no longer here.
Maybe it could ask, even if it made it look stupid.
At least then it could prove to the King that it had tried.
"Wretched flesh-being."
Nas spoke.
"I speak for the will of the King—I ask you—"
Seeing the metal skeleton actually speak surprised Mortarion for a split second, and then, he sprinted forward.
Mortarion had no interest in xenos speeches. He'd heard too many already.
In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance. The Primarch's heavy scythe tore through the Necron's shield. Nas barely dodged the blow, stepping back at the last moment.
Mortarion's attack irritated Nas.
It now saw clearly how foolish it had been to attempt communication.
Why bother reasoning with such base creatures?
But a subroutine within Nas tried to reassure it. At least Nas had come here—and the King was safe, far from the insult of the flesh-things—
[■*＋&aJsihskdpa]
Then, a signal from the surface hit Nas, a signal that filled it with despair, halting it in its tracks for just a moment.
It had to return. Back to the King's side!
Mortarion seized the opportunity and sliced the Xenos down.
The Reanimation Protocols activated. As a high-ranking Necron, Nas's consciousness was transferred back to its cryptek body on the surface of Necro-constructs.
Without their commander, the Necron ships began to falter.
Under Perturabo's orders, they were hunted down and destroyed.
Leaderless, the Necron ships launched erratic, autonomous attacks, and the Iron Warriors paid a heavy price to contain them.
Mortarion, meanwhile, continued leading the Death Guard to purge the Necron remnants from the enemy flagship.
The Necron infantry stood no chance in close combat.
Compared to the Iron Warriors still locked in naval battle, the Death Guard's offensive went unnaturally smoothly.
Mortarion had hoped he might encounter another leader among the Necrons, but it seemed the one he had just slain was the only one.
If this was the peak of Necron infantry combat performance…
Perhaps Hades wasn't under quite as much pressure as he'd feared.
Mortarion thought.
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