Chapter 27: Secrets of the Ultramarines
Nykona Sharrowkyn's sword flickered in the darkness, its energy field slicing through the demon's eye-like organ, provoking another enraged shriek. With a swift, calculated movement, his power sword came down again, severing the creature's razor-sharp beak—the very weapon that had just claimed the life of an Ultramarine.
Despite appearing to be nothing more than a bony protrusion, that beak had proven capable of cutting through fully armored warriors.
Hill followed closely behind, driving his power sword into the demon's exposed throat. Pale pink flesh and translucent bone split apart under the blade's energy field. Even these nightmarish creatures, spawned from the depths of the warp, still possessed anatomical structures similar to living beings.
The demon roared in fury, its massive body convulsing. The more damage it sustained, the closer it came to losing its physical form. If it suffered a fatal blow, its connection to the material world would shatter, exiling it back into the chaotic abyss.
Hill and Sharrowkyn continued their relentless assault, preventing the demon from focusing its attacks on any single warrior. As their blades tore into its monstrous form, lifeless bodies spilled from its ruptured torso—both mortal soldiers and Space Marines alike.
The corpses were barely recognizable. Most had been reduced to skeletal remains by the creature's horrific digestive fluids, their armor and flesh melted away.
No one wanted to fall prey to these creatures. Death was one thing, but to be devoured by a demon was a fate far worse. The souls of the consumed did not simply perish—they were trapped in eternal torment within the warp.
"The beast is weakening," someone shouted over the comms. "It's trying to retreat!"
Hill had anticipated this. From his growing experience in combating these horrors, he had deduced a crucial fact: demons were not mindless. They were intelligent, and they could feel fear.
"We cannot let it escape! Cut it off!"
The demon moved with terrifying speed, slithering away like a serpent into another chamber.
Hill and the Ultramarines with him did not hesitate. They hurled their grenades into the chamber just as the hatch sealed shut.
"Take cover!" Hill barked.
A blinding explosion followed, sending flames and molten shrapnel bursting through the seams of the hatch. The deck trembled under the force of the detonation.
Silence.
The demon was gone—reduced to nothing but ash.
"With enough firepower, even demons cannot escape death," Hill muttered.
He quickly transmitted his findings through the ship's vox network, ensuring every Imperial soldier could hear:
"Do not fear them. They are simply another kind of enemy, and now we have a way to fight them."
"Do not be afraid—they should fear our courage."
"We are the Emperor's angels. We are the loyal sons of the Primarch. We are the harbingers of vengeance!"
The rallying cry surged through the ranks of the Ultramarines. Their fear gave way to resolve, their battle fervor renewed.
Bit by bit, the demons' mystery was being unraveled, their invincibility disproven. Hill's strategic mind was guiding the warriors of the XIII Legion toward victory.
---
Command and Control
Marius Gage watched from the sidelines, impressed by the sergeant's leadership.
Hill and Sharrowkyn's kill team was growing rapidly, their strategies proving devastatingly effective against the demonic horde. In a matter of hours, they had slain over a dozen of the twisted creatures, learning more with each engagement.
A single Ultramarine struggled to match a demon's strength, speed, or supernatural abilities. Their venom, razor claws, and warp-born resilience made them some of the deadliest foes the Astartes had ever encountered.
But no enemy was unbeatable.
Through coordinated teamwork, the Ultramarines had turned the tide, expelling the creatures from Macragge's Glory one by one.
Ultramarines were often seen as rigid, bound by doctrine. But when they adapted to a battle's rhythm, they became an unstoppable force.
Now, with each engagement, the XIII Legion refined its tactics. They fought smarter, targeting weak points, coordinating attacks, and using overwhelming firepower.
The ship was being reclaimed.
One corridor at a time.
---
The Auxiliary Bridge
The Ultramarines arrived at a reinforced security hatch. Hill activated the override, and the door hissed open, revealing the ship's auxiliary bridge.
Macragge's Glory was too vast to rely on a single command center. With the primary bridge compromised, this chamber would now serve as the ship's nerve center.
Cogitators hummed to life, flickering screens displaying strategic data. Tech-sergeants and mortal officers scrambled between stations, working tirelessly to restore control over the vessel.
At the command console stood Captain Houmid of the Salamanders, a battle-scarred veteran who had barely escaped the destruction of his own ship.
Marius Gage approached him, holding out a command key—one of three in existence, aside from the Primarch's own.
"Take command, Captain," Gage said.
Houmid hesitated only for a moment before nodding. Personal reservations were meaningless in the face of war.
"I am ready, Chapter Master," he answered, his voice cold as steel.
Gage, Houmid, and the senior tech-marines gathered at the bridge's primary control station. A gene-locked identification sequence was performed, allowing Houmid to interface with the ship's ancient systems.
Through the neural link, the new captain felt the presence of Macragge's Glory's machine spirit—a vast, wounded intelligence mourning the loss of its Primarch and its previous commander.
There was no time for grief.
The ship needed to fight.
Houmid whispered words of Techna-Lingua, offering comfort to the machine spirit, soothing its anger and sorrow.
With newfound purpose, Macragge's Glory stirred to life.
"Scan the surrounding space," Gage ordered. "I want a full report on all enemy forces in the vicinity."
What he didn't say—what he couldn't say—was that he was also searching for something else.
Or rather, someone else.
He had to know whether the Primarch still lived.
But such words could not be spoken. Not yet.
If Guilliman was dead, the XIII Legion would descend into madness, consumed by rage and despair.
Gage had to keep the secret.
At least until the battle was won.
Even if his brothers later cursed him for it, he had no choice.
Macragge's Glory surged back to full operational status. Vast amounts of tactical data poured into its cogitator cores.
The screens flickered.
Enemy warships detected.
Multiple Word Bearer vessels surrounding the flagship.
To be continued...
(End of Chapter)
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