The evacuation ship broke through Vikia's upper atmosphere, streaking into the void, its escort fleet escorting a cargo more precious than any relic—children. Their destination: the Geno System. Alongside the evacuees, they carried with them vital tactical data concerning the enemies that had devastated the planet.
Above, the mighty Imperial beacon still shone in space, a luminous symbol of mankind's enduring will.
The majority of the Imperial Guard forces had chosen to remain behind on Vikia, standing firm alongside the champions who had emerged from the simulated training theatres. Together, they would hold the line against the advancing Necron phalanxes and the roiling legions of Chaos.
They would hold until death. They would hold until the Emperor's reinforcements arrived.
As the evacuation ship entered the Geno System, the intelligence concerning the Necron incursion was instantly transmitted to the Departmento Munitorum. High command would be updated in real time, via the noosphere and the Imperium's vast network of virtual communication nodes.
The belief was unanimous: soon, the might of the Imperium would descend upon Vikia and purge the xenos and heretics with fire and steel.
Inside the Munitions Command on Macragge,
The chamber was filled with an uneasy silence as Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines and Lord Commander of the Imperium, stared at the freshly delivered datafeed.
"Are you certain?" he asked, voice low. "Necrons… and Daemons—together?"
It was not disbelief in the data that troubled him, but the implications. The Primarch who had returned from the edge of history had foreseen many dark possibilities—but not this. Necrons and Warp entities, cooperating? It defied all known logic.
And it threatened the very core of Imperial stability.
He scanned the strategic overlays, mind already calculating potential responses. This would shake the Senatorum Imperialis. The High Lords of Terra would panic. Every Magos and Inquisitor worth their cogitator would demand investigation.
But the timing was worse.
Dukel, the Imperium's Supreme Commander, was still deep within the Webway, cleansing it of remaining threats.
The Lion and Sanguinius pursued the traitor Horus and the abominable Fabius Bile.
Corvus Corax had vanished into the Immaterium—no sign of the Ravenlord had emerged since.
Guilliman weighed his options. Only one name remained in his mind. His own.
Dukel's instructions had been clear: Guilliman was not to enter the battlefield unless absolutely necessary.
But this was necessary.
With only a moment's hesitation, Guilliman reached out and grasped the hilt of the Emperor's Sword. The blade ignited, golden fire running down its length.
"Now is the time."
Clad in the armor of the Avenging Son, the Lord Commander stepped forward. The Thirteenth Son would go to war once more—against the soulless Necron threat.
Meanwhile, within the Webway:
Since the moment Dukel led his legions into the labyrinthine corridors of the Webway, the shrieks of daemons had not ceased.
The Webway—ancient, arcane, and infinitely complex—was not merely a passage, but a network of hidden dimensions woven into the fabric of the galaxy, created by the Old Ones, stolen by the Eldar, and now partially reclaimed by mankind.
It spanned the stars like a spectral net across the warp and realspace alike. Ever-shifting, mutable, treacherous.
Even the Necrons and Aeldari only navigated its broken remains through theft and trial.
And humanity—still new to its depths—had made tenuous inroads, guided by borrowed knowledge and raw determination. Its merger with the Human Webway made traversal even more perilous.
The slightest misstep in this unnatural maze meant eternal loss.
Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars—known for his peerless speed—had once entered the Webway. He had never returned.
Dukel pressed forward with his forces, the terrain around them reshaping with every passing moment.
Then, reality twisted—and in a flash of impossible geometry, a colossal city-state bloomed before them, suspended like a jewel in the void.
Magnificent and otherworldly, the city shimmered like a mirage yet pulsed with undeniable substance.
"Where are we?" Dukel asked, his voice calm but sharp. "Is this still the Milky Way?"
Beside him stood a lithe figure in ornate Wraithbone-infused armor—tall, noble, and unmistakably alien.
Isha, the Aeldari goddess of life, whose knowledge of the Webway was second only to its ancient creators. Without her guidance, even Dukel would not have dared this incursion.
Her voice trembled. "My Lord… this is…" She hesitated, disbelief coloring her tone. "This is Miracle City, a legend among the Eldar. It should not exist—not here."
Dukel's eyes narrowed as he observed the city.
Isha's uncertainty didn't concern him. What caught his attention was the encroaching tide of Warp-spawn besieging the city.
Demons swarmed the skies. Chaos clawed at the gates.
"It appears even miracles can die," Dukel murmured.
Isha's armored helm turned toward him, and beneath it, worry flickered.
"My Lord, please… save this city," she pleaded. "Every soul within will fight for you."
Dukel's voice was cold steel.
"No. I don't need them."
Despair welled in the heart of the Goddess of Life.
Though she had dwelled among the Imperial Legions for years, Isha knew the truth: the Eldar of this city could offer no real aid to the Warmaster. They were relics of a waning race—noble, perhaps, but powerless against the scale of destruction now sweeping the stars.
And yet, she had no other offer to make. If the Warmaster refused to intervene, the City of Miracles would fall.
Tears gathered in her eyes. Perhaps, as with countless other tragedies, she would once again be forced to watch her kin slaughtered, helpless to stop it.
"I have no intention of saving them."
Just as despair began to consume her, Dukel's voice cut through the silence once more.
The Warmaster laughed, loud and thunderous. The light of the Aquila Destina, the Eagle Banner of Destiny, gleamed in his hand like molten gold poured over the cosmos. The golden wings of the Emperor's eagle stretched wide over the battlefield.
"I have come only to destroy."
Red flame erupted.
Dukel's voice rolled like a thunderclap, and the millions behind him echoed his battle cry.
"For the Emperor! For the Warmaster!"
Amid that thunderous chant, Isha stood frozen. Her tears, poised to fall, halted in place.
Elsewhere in the maze of the Webway...
A lone warrior stepped through the remains of a long-abandoned Webway node. His armor, once pristine, now bore the scars of a hundred battles. Tall, muscular, and bloodied, he radiated the raw might of a born warlord.
The power sword in his hand was shattered. His armor was torn, streaked with blood and warp-burn. And yet, he carried himself with a noble bearing that bent the will of lesser beings. He moved like a beast loosed from a cage, every motion steeped in violence.
He had been lost for longer than he could remember.
The warrior was Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars.
During the Great Scouring, he had pursued a cabal of Drukhari raiders deep into the Webway. But in that cursed labyrinth, he had been ambushed—and lost.
Until now.
Something had changed.
A sudden disturbance tore through the psychic substrate of the Webway. The walls, usually phantasmal, now shimmered with golden light. In the back of his mind, he saw a burning eagle stretching across the skies of the soul.
"I have come only to destroy!"
The echo of that declaration stirred something within him.
A distant detonation of crimson flame shook the fabric of the Webway.
Drawn toward the noise, the Khan moved.
It wasn't long before he crossed paths with another raiding party of Drukhari. Even weakened and ill-equipped, the Primarch made short work of them. When the survivors turned and fled, he gave chase—only to misstep at a collapsing intersection and fall through a rupture in the Webway wall.
In a flash, his vision blurred—and then cleared.
He was back in realspace.
For the first time in centuries, the Khan looked upon the stars of the Milky Way.
But there was no time for awe.
He had emerged into a warzone.
Standing on a craggy hilltop, he looked down on a battlefield of carnage. A vast Imperial bastion lay at its center, crowned with a towering statue of the Emperor.
And around it?
War.
Orks. Uncountable green bodies formed a tide crashing against the walls. But they weren't alone.
From the other side swarmed a race the Khan had never seen before—xenos with chitinous armor, like monstrous insects spawned from the void.
Orks versus Tyranids.
The ground was red with gore. The air, thick with smoke and blood.
Above it all, the bellow of a massive warboss rang out—harsh and deep, but... strange.
Khan's eyes scanned the field. Several orkish warlords, easily five meters tall, had noticed his presence.
He tensed.
The Primarch knew these brutes well. In ork society, size was strength. And in his current condition—damaged armor, broken blade—he felt genuine danger.
Just as he prepared for the fight, ready to sell his life dearly...
The orks ignored him.
One massive boss, easily eight meters tall, instead turned and roared toward the battlefield:
"In the name of the Emperor! For our Warmaster! Let these bastards taste our wrath! For the Imperium, for our home! Dugo's warriors never back down! Waaagh!!"
The cry stirred the blood of every greenskin on the field. Even the Tyranids momentarily faltered.
Except Khan.
Khan: "...Ah?"
The great hunter, ever stoic, could not hide the astonishment on his face. His mouth hung slightly open, his gaze blank with confusion.
Who am I? Where am I? Is this... still the Milky Way?
His thoughts raced. Did this orkish warboss truly mean his Emperor?
Before he could process it further, the ground trembled.
Something massive approached.
A shadow fell over him as the towering orkish warboss stomped forward—nearly twice Khan's height. The Primarch readied his stance, gripping his ruined weapon. Sweat beaded in his palms.
If this was to be a duel, it would be his last.
But the warboss simply tossed something toward him.
A crude, massive chainblade, lined with brutal teeth.
"Drop the junk, big guy. Take the blade. The war's just starting."
Khan: "..."
Khan blinked.
He looked down at the weapon. It was hideous. Orkish. Crude. But it was functional.
With a sigh, he let his broken sword fall to the ground and hefted the brutal new weapon.
It was better than nothing.
And then, the voice came again.
"Big man, which regiment you from?"
The question caught him off guard.
The word regiment made his stomach twist with unease. He didn't know how much time had passed—or whether Guilliman had broken apart the Legions entirely. He didn't even know if the sons of Chogoris still existed.
But still, he answered.
"White Scars."
He spoke the name with cautious hope.
If the Emperor this ork boss swore to was his Emperor, then maybe... just maybe... his sons still endured.
When the orkish warboss heard the name, he nodded seriously.
"So you're one of them White Scars boys, eh? We're all mates then."
Khan's eyes flickered with surprise—and then relief.
So... they live. My sons still walk the stars.
But before he could speak, the warboss continued:
"Do well out there, lad. You might be a bit daft, but a brave Ogryn like you's no worse than any of them good boys from the Empire."
There was even a trace of encouragement in his voice.
Khan: …
For the first time since he was born, the eagle of the steppes genuinely questioned his own intelligence. Did I really just try to learn about the White Scars from an ork? Am I... stupid?
He stood there, stunned, as the warboss turned and stomped away.
Only after the massive greenskin was gone did Khan manage to compose himself.
As I thought, he mused bitterly. Even with all of Dukel's effort, teaching these "Imperial Orks" the structure of the Imperium's military is a herculean task.
This warboss had clearly never heard of the White Scars. He didn't know what a Primarch was, either. Seeing Khan's towering height and martial presence, he'd simply mistaken him for a particularly noble-looking Ogryn.
And just like that, Khan found himself drawn into the war.
Before he realized it, he was crammed into a battered, smoke-belching battlewagon, roaring alongside a mob of warboys toward the frontline.
The vehicle shook violently as it accelerated, its frame groaning under stress. The engine spat thick, oily smoke, and the armor plates rattled like they were one sharp turn away from flying off.
Yet somehow, impossibly, these scrapheaps were working. They tore through Tyranid swarms like chainswords through flak armor.
Crushed bodies and ichor coated the battlefield in their wake.
Khan wasn't spared the attention of the enemy for long. One of the larger Tyranid warriors spotted him and charged.
He met it without hesitation.
The brutal ork-style chainblade roared to life in his hands as he struck, matching the xenos beast blow for blow.
He still didn't know where exactly he was, or what madness had brought orks under the banner of the Emperor—but behind these orkish lines, he saw the silhouettes of Imperial cities.
That was reason enough to fight.
With a savage arc, the Khan split the warrior bug cleanly in half. Its bisected form collapsed in a heap, its shriek lost to the din of war.
Click.
The chainblade jammed—its crude ork design had finally given out.
Some things never change.
But Khan didn't need a weapon to be deadly. With the raw strength of a Primarch, he continued the fight barehanded, tearing through the alien tide like a living storm.
These Tyranids—xenos evolved to consume all life—had likely never seen a being like him. Their advance faltered as the bodies piled up, each of them cleaved, shattered, or crushed.
The Imperial orks—if they could truly be called such—were roused by the sight.
Their Waaagh! grew louder, wilder, fiercer.
Even though they had no idea who he really was, their admiration was clear.
To them, this towering warrior who appeared from nowhere was something special.
Something truly...
"WAAAGH!!!"