—THUD.
The Commissar's boots hit the crumbling earth with a soft thud, the rappelling line still taut in his gloved hand.
Around him, the air pulsed with a sickly, blue-purple glow that seemed to breathe with malevolent intent.
He ignored the instinctive revulsion, his gaze sweeping the immediate area. He gave the rappelling cable a quick tug to check for stability then nodded for the others to follow.
His Guardsmen followed, their heavy boots kicking up dust and shattered rock, their faces grim under the flickering light of their helmet lamps, most breathing hard inside their gas-masks.
The Ogryns landed with bone-jarring impacts that seemed to shake the very ground itself.
Renoir unlatched his harness, dropping silently to the pockmarked ground. He swept his bolt pistol across the maw's jagged opening, his eyes sharp. This was no natural collapse.
His gaze snagged on faint but undeniable scorch marks on a thick, exposed rebar beam—precise, distinct, the tell-tale signature of las-pistol fire. Ulysses's work.
His grim certainty solidified when he saw the splintered fragments of ceramite from a grenade embedded in the surrounding earth.
They didn't fall, Renoir realized, a grim resolve hardening his features.
They escaped. And whatever they escaped from was still down here.
"Servitor!" Renoir barked, his voice raw, cutting through the oppressive silence.
"Confirm ingress point. And accelerate trace protocols."
The multi-limbed Mechanicus construct, which had been guiding their descent, tilted its optical lenses, processing the ambient data.
"Noospheric's footprints confirmed," the Servitor's synthesized voice grated, devoid of inflection.
"Trajectory detected." Its eyes focused on the middle tunnel, the ceiling was charred, the flora around it was still mending.
"Tracking... sustained localized purity anomaly, Unknown distance."
Philos. That Enginseer was a walking miracle, or a walking target. Renoir knew this
"purity anomaly"
was the result of Philos's constant litanies and, likely, Aurora's unwavering faith.
It was a beacon in this hell, both a guide and a liability.
"Fan out! Flamers, sterilize that growth!" Renoir commanded, gesturing deeper into the winding tunnel.
The designated Guardsmen immediately aimed their promethium flamers. Streams of fire erupted, hissing and snarling as they licked across the unnaturally glowing flora clinging to the tunnel walls.
The effect was immediate and visceral: the glowing vines shriveled, their phosphorescence dying as they blackened and turned to ash, releasing a foul, sweet odor.
The very air around the flames seemed to briefly crackle, a raw wound against the Warp's pervasive influence. Yet, even as the physical corruption burned away,
Renoir felt the chilling presence of the Immaterium remain, a deep, pervasive cold that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Promethium cleared the path, but it didn't cleanse the soul of this place.
Renoir turned around to count his men. Before him stood forty faithful Artinites Guardsmen, five Ogryns, and five Servitors.
He looked back at the gaping maw above, then to the twisting tunnel ahead.
"Two Ogryns, five Guardmen hold this entrance with Servitor Gamma-1," Renoir ordered, his voice cutting through the rising wind.
Random personnel immediately stomped into position, weapons held ready. Roy and Grunt, the two largest Ogryns, took up positions flanking the entrance, their ripper guns held low. The five Guardsmen arrayed themselves behind them, forming a tight, disciplined cordon.
"Servitor Gamma-1, establish and maintain a pulsating Noospheric Firewall at this ingress point. Prevent Warp re-manifestation in this immediate area. This will be our secure return."
The Servitor's head pivoted, its optical lenses whirring in acknowledgement. From a concealed port on its chassis, a thick, armored cable, glowing faintly with internal power, unspooled and settled onto the tunnel floor, stretching back into the relative safety of the outside.
This cable, reinforced with ceramite and inscribed with binary canticles, was the physical backbone of the Noospheric Firewall.
Gamma-1 began to emit a faint, rhythmic thrumming sound as it projected its counter-Warp field.
"Servitor Gamma-5, give me active projection," Renoir commanded, his voice cutting through the ambient hum of the tunnel.
"Project the Noospheric footprint left by Enginseer Philos onto the ground. I want a visual trace for the entire team."
The designated Servitor's multi-socketed optical implants hummed, focusing with a faint whirring sound.
A moment later,
a faint, shimmering line of almost ethereal blue light began to resolve itself on the decaying tunnel floor.
It wasn't a solid beam, but rather a series of interconnected, glowing patterns that danced and shifted, outlining the precise path Philos's purity anomaly had taken.
Where the Warp was strongest, the line flickered and struggled to hold form, but it persisted, an undeniable beacon through the chaos.
"This is their trail," Renoir announced, gesturing to the glowing path with his bolt pistol.
"Follow this light. It leads to our comrades, do not stray from it."
The Ogryns, simple but obedient, immediately fixed their gaze on the blue shimmer, their heavy boots thudding into place behind the faint light.
The Guardsmen adjusted their stance, their formation tightening around the glowing guide.
Now, they weren't just plunging blindly into the abyss; they were following a visible thread of logic and purity through the maddening corruption, a tangible manifestation of their comrades' defiant presence.
"The rest of you, move!" Renoir barked, pointing into the gloom.
"Form groups of five Guardsmen, each with one Servitor from Gamma-2 to Gamma-4."
"You will advance three hundred meters, then halt. Your Servitor will establish a pulsating Noospheric Firewall, exactly as Gamma-1 is doing at the entrance,"
"ensuring its physical cable connects to the previous node. Conserve power, but maintain the barrier. No re-manifestation will be tolerated in our wake."
"Then, the next team will advance another three hundred. We will secure our path as we go."
With a clatter of gear and the soft thud of boots, the remaining three Ogryns took point, their massive frames pushing past the residual glowing tendrils.
Behind them, thirty-five Guardsmen and four Servitors formed a tight, disciplined column, lasguns held ready.
Servitor Gamma-5 glided silently amidst them, its projected blue line weaving across the irregular tunnel floor.
Three hundred meters.
The steady thrum of their advance was the only constant in the disorienting gloom. Every hundred paces felt like a great effort, the air growing heavier, the pulse of the Warp more insistent.
When the faint chime from Gamma-5 indicated they had covered the first three hundred meters, Renoir raised a gloved fist.
"Hold!"
Immediately, the first designated group, consisting of Servitor Gamma-2 and five Guardsmen, peeled off from the column.
They quickly moved into position, forming a defensive perimeter around Gamma-2. The Servitor's head tilted, its bionic eyes whirring, and a low, thrumming sound filled the immediate area as it began to project its own pulsating Noospheric Firewall.
From its chassis, a glowing armored cable unspooled, trailing back to connect with Gamma-1's position at the entrance.
The ambient blue-purple glow seemed to recoil from the invisible waves of logical energy, a faint shimmer of defiance against the oppressive corruption.
"Advance!"
Renoir ordered, and the column pushed forward once more, leaving Gamma-2's group to anchor their nascent safe zone.
Another three hundred meters.
The tunnel continued its descent, winding and twisting, the glow-vines growing thicker, pulsing with an almost hypnotic rhythm that cast long, dancing shadows.
The air grew thick with unseen energies, and the mental whispers of the Warp were no longer subtle, but a cacophony just beyond the edge of hearing.
When Gamma-5 chimed again, the second group, Servitor Gamma-3 and its five Guardsmen, peeled off with grim efficiency.
They halted, taking up defensive positions. Gamma-3 immediately began its own hum, its cable extending to link with Gamma-2's position, adding another node to the growing chain of purity, creating a distinct, if temporary, pocket of realspace stability.
"Move!"
Renoir urged, his voice raspy, fighting against the oppressive psychic pressure.
A final three hundred meters.
This stretch felt endless. The pressure from the unknown enemy intensified, a cold spike of malice that threatened to buckle Renoir's knees.
He pushed through it, refusing to break, his bolt pistol a cold comfort in his hand.
When Gamma-5 signalled, the last contingent, Servitor Gamma-4 and its five Guardsmen, dropped back.
They secured their designated spot at the nine-hundred-meter mark, and Gamma-4's new firewall added to the chorus of counter-Warp energy, its cable securing the network to Gamma-3's node, a defiant pulse echoing back up the secured corridor.
Renoir stood with his core force: three hulking Ogryns, their loyal bulk a comfort, and twenty Guardsmen.
Servitor Gamma-5 continued to project the shimmering blue path, a lone thread of hope in the suffocating gloom.
They were plunging deeper now, truly within the earth's corrupted veins, and the Warp's grip was undeniable.
Now,
After barely twenty meters more of advance beyond their last Servitor, the Ogryn leading the advance grunted, pointing a massive finger at the ground.
There, stark against the pulsating glow of the tunnel, was a small patch of earth where the corrupted vines seemed to recoil and avoid, leaving a clear, untouched circle.
Within it, gleaming faintly amidst the dust and shattered rock, lay a shattered glass vial and several scattered pieces of scorched charcoal.
Renoir knelt, his gaze sharp. He reached out, his gloved fingers touching a piece of the charcoal. It was surprisingly not too cold, a faint warmth still lingering within its blackened surface.
He then touched the shards of the broken vial; they were still damp.
A surge of grim satisfaction cut through the oppressive chill of the tunnel.
They're not far ahead, he realized, the physical evidence cementing the Servitor's digital trace.
Their comrades were still fighting, leaving these defiant marks in their wake.
"Gamma-5," Renoir called over, his voice low,
"Estimate time of deposit for these materials. How long ago were they left here?"
Gamma-5's optical lenses whirring, analyzing the residual energy signatures and material degradation.
"Analysis complete, Commissar," its synthesized voice replied.
"Approximately thirty standard minutes."
Renoir's gaze sharpened. Thirty minutes. Despite the vast depths of the Warp, the trail was remarkably fresh. It confirmed their proximity, a tangible link to their comrades still moving ahead. Every second counted. They were truly close now.
Suddenly,
from behind them, came the unmistakable crack and sizzle of lasgun fire, sharp and desperate, cutting through the oppressive silence.
A high-pitched, mocking giggle, too fragmented and chaotic to be human, echoed faintly up the tunnel, followed by more concentrated volleys.
The daemonic threat was re-manifesting, pushing against the newly established firewalls.
Renoir didn't break stride, but a grim line formed on his lips. He clenched his jaw, the sound of the distant fight a chilling reminder of the relentless danger.
Hold, you fools, he thought, his hope a silent prayer to the Emperor. Hold your ground.
"Gamma-5," Renoir spoke, his voice tight, not looking back.
"Report on Noospheric integrity behind us. Have any nodes fallen?"
"Negative, Commissar," Gamma-5's synthesized voice responded immediately, devoid of emotion but clear.
"All Noospheric Firewalls remain operational. Localized re-manifestation contained within projected fields. Engagements ongoing, but barriers holding."
A long, satisfying sigh escaped Renoir's lips, a sound of profound, if fleeting, relief in the face of absolute horror.
"Good," he grunted, the word a promise and a threat.
"Maintain course."
He glanced at his chrono-gauge, then back at Gamma-5.
"Gamma-5," he barked, his voice hard with renewed urgency,
"We have covered approximately nine hundred and twenty meters to this point in ten perceived minutes."
"Ulysses's team dropped these items at this 920-meter mark forty-five minutes into their perceived journey, and they've been down here for a total of seventy-five perceived minutes."
"Calculate their current estimated position, and then tell me how long it will take us to intercept them if we move at double time."
The Servitor's optical lenses focused, its internal processors whirring with the new parameters.
"Recalculation underway, Commissar. Enginseer Philos's team's average perceived pace is twenty point four four meters per minute."
"Their current estimated position is one thousand five hundred thirty-three point three three meters from the entrance."
"Remaining distance to intercept: six hundred thirteen point three three meters."
"Your doubled pace is one hundred eighty-four meters per minute."
"Estimated time to intercept: three point three three perceived minutes."
Three minutes and a half. Renoir's eyes narrowed. The numbers, though complex, painted a clear picture of their dwindling time.
It was a race against time, not just against the Warp's horrors, but against the insidious passage of time itself.
"Move! Double time, as calculated! Ogryns, set the pace! Gamma-5, maintain the lead, and warn me of any significant deviations!"
—
"Philos," Ulysses gasped, chest heaving. Each breath felt like it scraped against a lead weight pressing down from the inside. The air was thick—not just with heat or dust, but with something wrong, something that clawed at the edges of reason.
"How far to the center?" He stumbled, caught himself.
"Give me numbers, Enginseer. Are we close?"
Philos paused mid-step, his servo-limbs twitching as if struggling to recalibrate in the sickened gravity of the place. His vox-grille crackled—raw static interlaced with binaric sub-tones.
"We have traveled... seventy-five minutes," he finally intoned.
"Approximately one thousand five hundred fifty meters. Based on original schematics and preliminary data."
There was a brief, almost imperceptible waver in his synthesized voice.
"The center should be a few hundred meters before us, but our pace is too inconsistent that precise time calculation is impossible. Warp fluctuations are... significant."
"Any sights of our pursuer?" Ulysses asked, his voice strained, glancing back the way they came.
"No," Philos checked, his mechanical voice now tinged with an unusual note of analytical perplexity, then a pause.
"But something else is coming."
"Foes?" Ulysses asked.
"Unable to confirm," Philos stated flatly.
Ulysses sighed, then raised his las-pistol. He fired once in the direction of the incoming forces.
—PEW!
The round lit up the tunnel walls as it traveled, then—
TINK!
A sound of the las round ricocheting off a metal surface echoed through the confined space.
Then a voice, "Seriously? I'm here to save you, you know."
A familiar figure emerged from the darkness.
Aurora let out a soft chuckle at the sight of their friend, Renoir.
"How are you holding up?" Renoir asked, his gaze quickly assessing each of them.
Aurora's censer was barely lit, its white smoke now a thin wisp.
The only thing that truly seemed to keep the corruption at bay was Philos's echoed prayers booming from the tank's vox-grille, a defiant binary chant against the encroaching madness.
Philos whirred, preparing to give his usual detailed assessment of their current tactical and environmental situation.
"Commissar, our current physical integrity is at sixty-eight point three percent efficiency. Anti-Warp wards are at sixty-"
Ulysses raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Did you encounter a sorcerer on your way down?" Ulysses asked Renoir, his eyes fixed on the Commissar's face.
Renoir blinked, a frown creasing his soot-streaked brow.
"What sorcerer?"
Ulysses opened his mouth to reply, to describe the towering figure clad in azure and gold, the crackling psychic might that had driven them into this hell...
But before he could utter a word, the very air in the tunnel screamed.
A wave of raw, mind-shattering psychic force erupted from behind them, washing over the newly reunited group like an invisible, burning tide.
It wasn't physical force, but a targeted assault on the mind, a cacophony of forbidden knowledge and crushing despair that slammed into their thoughts.
The tunnel's glowing flora pulsed violently, as if in agony. Philos's binary chant garbled into a shriek of static. Aurora fell to her knees, clutching her temples. Ulysses stumbled into the tunnel wall, gasping as his vision blurred.
Then the screaming began.
Guardsmen, hardened veterans of Artine's endless trials, began clawing at their helmets and eyes, their lasguns clattering to the floor.
Their mouths opened in silent, tortured howls before erupting into full-throated wails of anguish.
"Eyes! Emperor—my eyes—!"
Blue ichor began to stream from their sockets, thick and luminous, weeping like tears of corrupted light. Skin blistered. Fingers spasmed. Their bodies twitched uncontrollably.
Then—
POP!
One head burst like an overripe fruit, skull and helmet fragments spraying in all directions.
POP! POP! POP!
More followed in rapid succession—silent victims to a force they could not fight, their minds ruptured by impossible truths and invasive psychic filth.
Their bodies crumpled, limp, collapsing in the dirt like puppets with their strings cut.
And then… something began to rise from them.
Shimmering orbs—flames of twisting blue and violet—floated free of their corpses. Each one pulsed with ethereal energy, flickering like spectral fire contained within a glass sphere. Some screamed. Others whispered. A few wept.
They hovered for only a moment—then shot forward, drawn by an unseen force deeper into the tunnel. Toward something.
Ulysses watched, unable to breathe. "What… what is that?"
Aurora gasped. "They're feeding."
Immediately, the terrain changed.
The narrow, vine-choked tunnel walls fell away without warning. One more step forward—and the ground beneath them opened into a cavernous void.
A vast, gaping chamber stretched out before them, impossible in size and shape. No engineering explained it. No mining record ever mentioned it. The air shifted—less a breeze, more a breath. Warm, fetid, and ancient.
The ceiling was lost in shadow, but from it hung thick, veined tendrils of warp-twisted matter, pulsating slowly with dim violet light. The ground underfoot was no longer stone—it was slick, blackened bone, fused with metal and root.
Ruined equipment and armor fragments jutted from the floor like grave markers, half-melted and twisted by heat or time or worse.
In the middle of the chamber—suspended above the ground amidst the choking darkness and shimmering currents of unseen power—a figure levitated.
Massive. Still. Like a statue wrought from obsidian and gold.
The twisted orbs—each stolen soul, aflame with Warp-fire in hues of blue and violet—shot toward him with blinding speed. One by one, they sank into the figure's armored form, disappearing into the rune-carved plating with a low, resonant hum.
Each impact made the towering form shimmer with reflected light. Not illumination, but a burning aura of wrongness, as if the armor itself remembered pain.
The curved plates twisted slightly, flexing like something organic. Ancient gold filigree caught the light of the orbs, reflecting in brilliant, shifting patterns.
Then his visor lit up—a pair of eye-lenses flared open, glowing a piercing, unnatural blue.
A pulse of raw psychic energy rippled outward from his core, distorting the air in visible waves. The levitating figure raised one hand, fingers splayed.
The air screamed as the Warp responded, threads of reality fraying around him.
Ulysses staggered backward, gripping Renoir's arm to steady himself.
"That's not just a Sorcerer," Renoir's mouth was dry.
"That's a fucking Thousand Son."
Philos's vox-systems began to glitch again—his prayers hiccupping in binary as the machine-spirit struggled to maintain coherence near such concentrated malevolence.
Aurora stepped forward, eyes wide with dread but steady.
The being's gaze finally swept toward them.
His armored gauntlets lifted, and from between the spread fingers crackled bolts of Warp-lightning, coalescing into a single point of searing blue brilliance.
Renoir's eyes went wide.
"Find cover!" he bellowed.
Before the words had even finished echoing, the Thousand Son unleashed his wrath.
A beam of pure Warp-energy lanced forward—blinding, twisting, screaming with a thousand inverted voices.
The first to fall were the ones too slow, too stunned by awe or terror. The beam cut through them like paper, cleaving two Guardsmen in half, their torsos disintegrating mid-scream.
A third managed to turn—only to have the blast shear through his flak armor and leave nothing but a smoking pile of limbs.
The Ogryns roared, instinct taking over. One slammed his massive slab-shield into the ground, creating a crude wall. The others two stood beside him, shield raised high.
Behind them, several Guardsmen dove for cover, piling behind the Ogryns or ducking into the melted craters and shattered debris littering the warped chamber floor.
The beam struck the Ogryns' shields, sending out a shower of sparks and Warpfire, but the massive brutes held fast, grunting with the effort, teeth bared, boots skidding back against the ground.
Another beam arced out—not at random, but precise—raking across another group.
Screams erupted as a cluster of Guardsmen were caught mid-sprint. One's head burst into blue flame, his body toppling lifelessly.
Another turned into a twisting mass of writhing limbs before collapsing into a steaming heap of meat and armor.
"This is a battlefield of psionic saturation! Recommend strategic withdrawal or immediate escalation!" The Enginseer roared over the din.
Renoir ducked behind the Ogryn's shield, teeth clenched. He swept his gaze across the chaotic battlefield, searching for the Servitor still projecting Philos's path.
His eyes snagged on it. Servitor Gamma-5 lay on the ground, its upper torso and optical lenses still flickering faintly, but its entire lower half was gone, replaced by a charred, smoking crater in the fused bone and metal floor.
Renoir didn't hesitate. He rushed to its side, dodging a sizzling bolt of psychic lightning, and dragged the ruined Servitor behind the shielded Ogryn, pulling the damaged but still-functional machine out of the direct line of fire.
"Gamma-5! Is the Firewall still functional?" Renoir bellowed over the continuous hum and crackle of Warp energy.
The Servitor's remaining optical lenses whirred, struggling through the psychic interference.
"Affirmative, Commissar. Primary firewall protocols... integrity compromised but operational. Secondary nodes... maintaining ninety-three percent efficiency. Core function... still active."
Renoir grunted, a grim satisfaction cutting through the chaos. The chain of Firewalls was holding, a defiant line of order against the Warp's onslaught. But that didn't help them against this.
He glanced at Ulysses, then at the towering, shimmering form of the Thousand Son. The sorcerer was too powerful, his attacks too devastating for a direct assault.
They needed a weakness. They needed an angle.
"Philos!" Renoir shouted, leaning closer to the tank, his voice raw.
"We need a way to fight back! Do you have any idea? Anything?"
Philos's vox-grille crackled, the binaric stream fighting to maintain coherence.
"Commissar, standard engagement protocols are obsolete. The Thousand Son operates as a conduit for raw Immaterium. Direct confrontation is unsustainable."
His optical lenses focused on the towering figure, a flicker of computation within their depths.
"However. My current anti-Warp systems, though strained, represent a localized anomaly of pure realspace. If I can reroute core logic processors and amplify output, I could generate a focused Noospheric Pulse."
"It would not be a physical impact," he clarified, his voice gaining a strained urgency,
"but a wave of absolute reality. A psychic counter-shock designed to rupture his communion with the Warp, or disrupt his current feeding cycle."
"It would require significant energy, and I cannot guarantee system integrity afterward. But it could create a brief window of vulnerability."
Ulysses, still leaning against the rough cavern wall, his face pale from the psychic assault, pushed off and stumbled toward them.
"A pulse of... reality? Against a creature of the Warp? Philos, can you even do that here? The interference is-"
"The interference is precisely why it might work, Seneschal," Philos cut in, his voice more resolute despite the static.
"The Warp is already at peak saturation. A sudden, concentrated burst of counter-resonance could cause a localized psychic implosion for the target."
Renoir slammed a fist into his palm.
"A window. That's all we need. How do we power it? You said it would take significant energy."
Philos's optical lenses swept towards the damaged Gamma-5, then to the glowing cable further down their secured path.
"Connecting directly to a robust, auxiliary power conduit would provide the necessary surge. Servitor Gamma-5, though damaged, still houses a formidable Noospheric nexus, the primary cable still linked to the wider network."
Renoir's gaze snapped to the ruined Servitor he'd just dragged clear. Its optical sensors still glowed faintly, but its lower half, where the power conduits and primary cable link would normally be, was a mangled mess of wires and ruptured servomechanisms.
He could see the thick, glowing cable from the Noospheric Firewall network, connected to the other Servitors down the line, trailing loosely from the ruin of Gamma-5's chassis. It had snapped clean.
"The cable's disconnected!" Renoir roared, pointing at the severed end.
"It was severed when he took the hit!"
"Emperor's grace, make haste!" Aurora cried out, her voice tight with fear and urgency as she scrambled forward, her eyes scanning the tangled wreckage of Gamma-5.
"We don't have long!"
Philos's remaining optical lenses narrowed, projecting schematic overlays over the ruined Servitor's form.
"Negative. Connection integrity requires physical re-establishment. Locate the severance point, reconnect the primary conduit to my interface port. Direct current flow required for full power amplification."
The Thousand Son, having seemingly absorbed enough of the fallen Guardsmen's souls, raised his gauntlet again, a new, more malevolent hum building in the air around him. He was ready for another attack.
"Find it!" Ulysses yelled, pushing past Renoir and peering into the mangled remains of Gamma-5.
"The main cable! We need to reconnect him!"
The pressure in the chamber intensified, the air growing colder, vibrating with ancient, terrible power. The very walls seemed to writhe as the sorcerer prepared to unleash another devastating psychic torrent.
The window was closing, and their desperate gamble hinged on finding a single, vital connection in the heart of this Warp-fueled nightmare.
"Ogryns! Guardsmen! Fire everything! Focus your fire on the sorcerer! Don't let him get a clean shot!" Renoir bellowed, raising his bolt pistol.
He unleashed a burst of explosive rounds, the heavy impacts echoing uselessly off the shimmering aura surrounding the Thousand Son.
With a guttural roar, the three Ogryns responded, their ripper guns spitting torrents of explosive shells that shredded the air with their passage.
Behind them, the remaining ten Guardsmen opened fire, a desperate storm of las-bolts lancing across the chamber, tracing crimson lines through the gloom.
The combined firepower was immense, a deafening cacophony of human defiance.
Aurora, seeing the need for a diversion, pulled a flamer's fuel pack from her belt.
With a fervent prayer to the Emperor, she flung it directly at the Thousand Son.
It detonated mid-air in a flash of blinding, holy fire, momentarily flaring bright blue against the sorcerer's azure armor, disrupting his concentration.
Amidst the chaos of incoming fire and the blinding flash, Ulysses plunged into the mangled remains of Gamma-5's lower chassis, his hands frantically searching through severed wires and shattered components for the thick, armored conduit that would reconnect Philos.
His fingers brushed against raw, exposed circuits, the air alive with residual energy, but he ignored the searing pain, driven by the knowledge that their lives depended on this single, desperate connection.
His fingers closed around it—a thick, ceramite-reinforced cable, glowing faintly with latent power, snapped cleanly at its end.
With a surge of desperate strength, Ulysses found the external port on the side of Philos's cylindrical cranium preservation unit and slammed the severed cable into it.
A jolt of energy coursed through the connection, and the faint whirring within Philos's unit intensified, a clear sign of renewed power.
"Connection established! Full power amplification now possible," Philos boomed, his voice no longer static-laced but resonating with newfound purpose.
"Seneschal! Aim my primary projection array directly at the target! Maximum coherence required!"
Ulysses didn't hesitate. He seized Philos's cylindrical tank, his muscles straining as he lifted and angled the unit, swiveling the Enginseer's main optical lens and various delicate sensors toward the still-floating Thousand Son, who had momentarily faltered, his armor reflecting the last fading light of Aurora's fiery diversion.
Then,
a muffled, unseen power surged through the air. It wasn't a crackle of lightning, nor a burst of fire, but a profound, overwhelming wave of pure realspace stability.
The very fabric of the Warp-ridden chamber seemed to flinch.
The Thousand Son, caught mid-incantation, was violently pushed back by the unseen force. He slammed into the cavern's distant ceiling with a sickening crunch of ceramite, then fell, a heavy, ungraceful impact that sent a tremor through the slick, bone-fused ground.
The impact was too much for the already stressed rock and fused bone. With a groaning, tearing sound that momentarily drowned out the roars of the Ogryns, the ceiling directly above the Thousand Son collapsed.
A cascade of massive rocks and jagged debris rained down, engulfing the armored figure in a suffocating cloud of dust and shattered stone.
They didn't hesitate. With a primal roar from Renoir, the Ogryns lumbered forward, their ripper guns thundering. The Guardsmen followed, their lasguns spitting, while Ulysses, still holding Philos, took point alongside Renoir.
They formed a tight circle around the smoking rubble where the sorcerer had fallen, and unleashed everything they had. Bolter rounds tore into the debris, las-bolts sizzled, and ripper gun shells exploded, each shot a furious testament to their desperate will to survive.
Then, with a deafening
BOOM!
An unseen psychic force erupted from the heart of the rubble, slamming into everyone.
It wasn't physical concussive force, but pure, raw psychic energy, a wave of malevolence that pushed them back, lifting them off their feet. Lasguns clattered. Ripper guns spun uselessly. Guardsmen, Ogryns, Renoir, Ulysses, and even Aurora were knocked off their feet, sent sprawling across the slick, bone-littered floor, their assault utterly disrupted.
The ground groaned. Amidst the settling dust and the last echoes of the psychic shockwave, the rubble began to stir. Not simply shifting, but defying gravity, levitating upwards in jagged, grinding chunks.
Larger fragments of rock, the remnants of the fallen ceiling, rose slowly into the air, revealing the void beneath.
In the eye of this rising storm of debris, impossibly, stood the Thousand Son sorcerer. His azure armor, though scored and chipped, shimmered with renewed, malevolent energy.
His helmet's eye-lenses glowed with an even more intense, piercing blue, and the air around him crackled with unrestrained Warp power. He was unbroken, his will a tangible force, pulling the very earth around him to his will.
Immediately, with a violent, unseen command, the levitating rubble that surrounded the Thousand Son was sent hurtling outwards in full force. The chunks of rock, some jagged and sharp as knives, others massive and crushing, became deadly projectiles.
They slammed into the Guardsmen and Ogryns who had been flung back by the psychic blast, hitting them with brutal, indiscriminate power. Shouts of pain mingled with the crunch of ceramite and bone as bodies crumpled, adding more casualties to the chaotic chamber floor.
Then,
before anyone could react, the Thousand Son raised his hand, not to strike, but to command. An invisible, suffocating grip seized the remaining survivors.
One by one, their bodies lifted into the air, dangling grotesquely by their necks, caught in an inescapable telekinetic vice.
They spun slowly in a macabre circle around the towering sorcerer, their weapons falling uselessly to the ground, hands clawing at their throats, gasping for air that refused to enter their lungs.
He began to crush them.
POP!
The first Guardsman's helmet crumpled inward with a sickening sound, his body convulsing once before going limp.
POP! POP!
Two more followed, their struggles ending abruptly as life was snuffed out by the unseen pressure.
Ogryns, too, were not immune, their immense necks straining, faces purpling, until even their formidable frames slumped.
The horrifying procession continued, a gruesome tally of the fallen. Ulysses, Aurora, and Renoir watched, horrified, as their comrades were extinguished, one by one.
The air filled with the wet, final sounds of breaking bone and gurgling breaths, until only a few remained.
Then, it was Renoir. His own neck felt as if it were in a crushing vise, vision blurring at the edges. His lungs burned, screaming for oxygen.
He could hear the faint, triumphant hum of the Thousand Son's power.
Suddenly—
a loud tremor ripped through the very foundations of the cavern, deep and resonant, shaking the entire chamber.
Dust rained from the ceiling, and the ancient bone-fused floor vibrated underfoot.
The sorcerer's glowing eye-lenses, fixed on Renoir's struggling form, snapped upwards to the ceiling, then through it, to the very ground above.
A flicker of something akin to concern, or perhaps recognition of a greater threat, crossed his impossibly ancient face.
Without a word, the Thousand Son let go of his telekinetic hold, dropping the remaining victims in a heap onto the floor.
The moment they hit the ground, he phased through the ceiling like smoke through a sieve, vanishing instantly. He was ascending toward the source of the tremors.
Renoir hit the slick, bone-fused ground with a harsh thud, the air rasping in his abused lungs. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, fighting to drag in a ragged breath.
A searing pain shot through his neck, and when he finally managed to push himself onto an elbow, his gloved hand came away smeared with something wet and metallic. He coughed, a painful, hacking sound, and wiped the blood that dripped from his eyes.
He looked around at the carnage, at the crumpled forms of his Guardsmen and Ogryns, at the fresh, horrific casualties of the Thousand Son's final, contemptuous attack.
Ulysses was stirring nearby, groaning, and Aurora was already crawling towards Philos, her medicae instincts overriding her own pain.
Renoir pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He could still feel the phantom grip on his throat, the memory of impending death.
His gaze, however, was already drawn upwards, to the spot where the sorcerer had vanished. The tremors from above continued, deeper now, more insistent.
The very rock of the cavern pulsed with a distant, destructive rhythm.
"Damn it, Thessia," Renoir muttered, his voice raw and hoarse, a grim mix of frustration and morbid curiosity.
"What are you doing now?"