Chapter 179: How to Cage a Star God (And Survive the Paperwork)
The battle reached its peak. The remaining Primarchs stirred from their slumber, their forms swelling into massive displays of power.
The release of their divine essence sent ripples through the Dyson Sphere's foundations. Reality buckled under their fury. The veil between the material realm and the Empyrean tore like silk in a storm.
Above them, the heavens erupted in sheets of lightning. The bolts carved burning symbols across the sky. Night fell with unnatural speed.
Crimson rain poured down, baptizing the battlefield in blood that hissed and steamed on metal and flesh.
As the sons of the Emperor unleashed their might, the sky became transparent crystal, a window into the roiling depths of the Warp.
Massive orbs of malevolent intelligence gazed down upon the destruction.
Creatures whose forms defied mortal understanding accompanied them, things that existed only in nightmares.
The fundamental laws of existence collapsed entirely.
Countless Necron constructs sprouted flesh and sinew, violating their mechanical nature. Chaotic viral-code danced through their neural networks like fire through dry parchment.
Whispers from ages past and futures yet unborn echoed through the air, singing hymns of praise to the gods humanity would one day become.
The ignorant children of divinity would begin their path to transcendence this day.
The Outsider released a shriek that shattered space itself. Destructive winds poured through the wounds in reality.
The Primarchs' display of power brought a moment of terrible clarity to its fractured consciousness. Memories surfaced from the deep wells of madness.
It recalled an age when the Old Ones still ruled. Another pantheon had stood as their champions then.
The Outsider remembered that architect of its torment, the one whose lies had reduced it to this broken thing of rage and isolation.
Murderous wrath poured from the Star God's essence. It launched itself at the Emperor's sons with renewed fury.
The divine conflict escalated beyond mortal understanding. Luther, Abaddon, and their warriors retreated to the surface.
This was no longer a battle they could hope to influence. They were but dust before the storm.
Imperial forces evacuated through teleportation gates in disciplined formations. They abandoned the collapsing structure to its fate.
The Dyson Sphere's death throes rent the ground with chasms that glowed with otherworldly light. The fissures swallowed Necron constructs whole, reducing them to ash in moments.
BOOM!
Angron burst through the surface in a shower of debris. The Outsider's devastating blow had hurled him skyward. The Red Angel smashed through a towering spire of black metal. His impact triggered an explosion that lit the dying sphere like a newborn star.
The World Eater coughed and spat blood. He pulled himself from the wreckage, shaking twisted metal from his shoulders. Glancing down, he found only the hilt of his chainaxe remained. The rest had been vaporized in the exchange.
Angron stared at the useless fragment for a moment. His weapon had served him through countless battles. Now it was nothing but scrap.
He tossed it aside with a grunt. The building he'd demolished was magnificent, dozens of kilometers tall, constructed entirely of midnight-black metal in the form of an ascending spear.
Without hesitation, Angron grasped the fallen tower. He hefted it like a club, testing its weight with experimental swings. The improvised weapon would do nicely.
He let loose an earth-shaking roar. Then he leaped back into the fissure to rejoin the battle.
Nine giants wreathed in impossible energies converged upon the Outsider. Their combined assault shook the foundations of reality.
Again and again, the Star God struck them down. Again and again they rose, sustained by the fusion of advanced technology and mystical power that flowed through their enhanced forms.
The battle raged for days and nights uncounted.
The Primarchs fought with desperate determination. Each blow they landed seemed to wound the Outsider, yet it continued to regenerate.
Each time they thought victory was within reach, the C'tan would surge back with renewed violence.
But even gods could tire. Even the maddest of the Star Gods had limits.
Slowly, the Outsider weakened. Its regeneration slowed. Its strikes became less precise. The nine Primarchs pressed their advantage, coordinating their attacks with practiced efficiency.
The final blow came from Horus himself. The Warmaster's power claw pierced the Outsider's core matrix, disrupting the fundamental forces that held its consciousness together.
The Star God collapsed. For the first time in millions of years, silence fell across the battlefield.
Nine Primarchs had succeeded where entire civilizations had failed. They stood among the wreckage, breathing heavily, their enhanced forms smoking from exertion.
The cost had been severe, each bore wounds that would have killed lesser beings.
But they had won.
For long moments, none of them spoke. The magnitude of their victory was still sinking in. A Star God, one of the galaxy's most ancient and terrible entities, lay defeated at their feet.
Horus was the first to break the silence. "It's done."
Vulkan laughed, a sound edged with exhaustion and relief. "I thought it had me twice. Maybe three times."
"It had us all," Sanguinius said quietly, folding his battered wings. "But we endured."
The Dyson Sphere continued its death throes around them. What had once been a monument to ancient power was now collapsing into fragments scattered across the void.
Even the imprisoned star that had powered it was shattered, its remnants insufficient to maintain fusion. What had once burned with stellar fire became a glowing nebula, beautiful in its destruction.
They worked quickly to contain their prize. The defeated Star God found itself imprisoned within a Black Domain Force Field, a specialized containment system where time ceased to flow and space itself became static.
For a being like the Outsider, cut off from the Warp's influence, it represented the perfect prison.
The Primarchs entrusted Rogal Dorn with the sacred duty of returning their captive to Terra. The Imperial Fist accepted the honor without hesitation, understanding the weight of responsibility placed upon him.
"See it safely home, brother," Horus said, clasping Dorn's shoulder. "The Emperor will want to examine this prize personally."
Dorn nodded solemnly. "It will reach Terra intact. You have my word."
The journey through the Warp gave Dorn time to contemplate their victory. Six weeks of transit provided ample opportunity for reflection as the Eternal Crusade cut through the Immaterium's chaotic currents.
In his private chambers, Dorn often found himself staring at the containment cube that held their prize.
The Black Domain matrix hummed almost inaudibly, its alien technology keeping one of the galaxy's most dangerous entities in perfect stasis.
Sometimes he wondered what thoughts moved through the Outsider's fractured consciousness, if it could think at all in its timeless prison.
The victory had cost them. Every Primarch bore scars that would serve as permanent reminders of the battle.
Yet they had prevailed where entire species had failed. Nine sons of the Emperor had accomplished what civilizations spanning millions of years could not.
It was a testament to human potential. To what they could achieve when united in purpose.
As the Eternal Crusade approached the Sol System's borders, Dorn felt a mixture of pride and anticipation. He was returning home as a conquering hero, bearer of a prize that would secure humanity's future. Surely such service merited recognition.
The Gates of Elysium materialized ahead, their massive bulk dwarfing even his flagship. Home. After months of warfare in the galaxy's darkest reaches, the sight stirred something deep in his engineered soul.
However, his satisfaction dimmed when the security protocols were implemented.
"Identity confirmed: Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Seventh Legion," the vox crackled. "However, your fleet composition exceeds standard parameters. Prepare for inspection."
Dorn's jaw tightened. He understood the necessity, Terra's defenses had repelled countless threats, and vigilance was the price of security.
Yet after everything he and his brothers had endured, being treated as a potential enemy stung his pride.
"We carry sensitive cargo requiring immediate delivery to Terra," he responded evenly. "A Star God, captured through great sacrifice."
A pause. Then: "Acknowledged. The Eternal Crusade is cleared for an inner system approach. All escort vessels will remain at outer perimeter stations pending full security review."
The Lord of the Seventh Legion accepted the restriction without protest, but the slight rankled nonetheless. His own brothers had fought and bled to secure this prize.
Now he was subjected to the same scrutiny as any unknown fleet.
Such were the prices of vigilance in an age of war.
Yet as the Gates receded behind them, his irritation faded before the majesty of what lay ahead. The Solar System's transformation since the Emperor's return was nothing short of miraculous.
Massive shipyards orbited every major world, their skeletal frames giving birth to vessels that would carry humanity to distant stars. Computational matrices the size of moons processed data streams that would have overwhelmed entire civilizations.
Giant rings of metal and energy encircled both Mars and Terra, Microcosm gateways that opened pathways to realms beyond imagination. These monuments to human ingenuity seemed built by titans rather than mortals.
Dorn allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. This was what they fought for. This was the future they were building, one bloody victory at a time.
Terra's orbital port welcomed Dorn with full ceremonial honors, but the reception party was smaller than he'd expected.
Instead of Malcador or the Emperor himself, Perturabo waited at the docking bay.
"Brother," the Iron Warrior greeted him with a formal nod. "A complete Star God. You have rendered the Imperium invaluable service."
Yet beneath the congratulatory words lay something bitter. Dorn had learned to read his brothers' moods over the decades, and Perturabo's resentment was barely concealed.
News of the nine Primarchs' victory had spread across the Imperial network, becoming legend among Trillions of citizens.
While his brothers carved their names across distant battlefields, Perturabo remained in the Solar System directing construction projects. For a being bred for war, it must feel like exile.
"Fortune favored us," Dorn replied carefully. "Though the cost was higher than anticipated. The Outsider nearly killed Vulkan twice."
"But you prevailed. That matters most." Perturabo's expression softened slightly, then shifted to something resembling pride.
"I trust you've heard about my latest project? Perturabo's Wrath, a superstructure capable of striking any target in the galaxy, perhaps even beyond."
There it was, the need for validation, for acknowledgment of his own contributions.
Dorn chose his words carefully. "A monumental undertaking. The specifications you've shared are... impressive."
Perturabo studied his brother's face, searching for any hint of condescension. "Construction has only just begun, but when complete, it will be a sight to behold. Once humanity possesses Perturabo's Wrath, the entire universe shall bow to Imperial will."
The weapon's capabilities were staggering, with the power to ignore distance and destroy any target, given proper coordinates, whether a planet or a star system. In a universe spanning 96 billion light-years, such power would make humanity's dominion absolute.
"Should you require assistance—" Dorn began.
"I am perfectly capable of completing the project myself," Perturabo cut him off, his voice growing cold. "Or do you think otherwise?"
The tension that had been building suddenly crystallized. Dorn felt the familiar frustration, another brother taking offense where none was intended.
He'd just offered aid to his brother, but Perturabo has to act like a man-child.
"I meant nothing like that—"
"You didn't?" Perturabo stepped closer, his bulk casting shadows across the docking bay.
"The great Rogal Dorn, returning from his glorious victory, offering to help his poor brother who's trapped playing an architect."
The moment stretched dangerously. Both Primarchs felt the weight of unspoken grievances building between them.
Old rivalries, perceived slights, and the constant competition seemed to poison their brotherhood.
"Wow, my little rock."
Raven materialized without warning, perching on Perturabo's shoulder and completely disrupting the confrontation.
The corvid had been demonstrating French fry preparation techniques when the timestream shifted, revealing troubling possibilities.
The investigation had unveiled a potential future where this very meeting would end in violence. Perturabo would accuse Dorn of arrogance.
Dorn would depart in fury, carrying seeds of corruption in his heart. That timeline led to the Lord of the Seventh eventually embracing Chaos, corrupting several brothers, and leading a terrible assault upon Terra itself.
To prevent such a catastrophe, Raven had abandoned his culinary demonstration to play peacekeeper.
"Mr. Raven," Dorn offered a respectful nod, his tension visibly easing at the familiar presence.
Perturabo blinked, his anger deflating like a punctured balloon. It was difficult to maintain righteous fury with a cosmic entity nuzzling your shoulder.
"I can sense your desire to aid your brother," Raven said smoothly, "but unfortunately, duty will soon call you elsewhere. Perturabo has been extraordinarily busy lately, and with galactic unification proceeding smoothly, there's no immediate need for you to rush back to campaigning."
'That oversized bastard should be handling this himself, 'the corvid thought irritably. 'Why does crisis management always fall to me?'
Suppressing his complaints, Raven hopped to face Dorn directly.
"The Bureau of Celestial Management has established protocols for its first major operation. Perhaps you could oversee it? Ensure everything proceeds without complications?"
"Operation?" Dorn's brow furrowed, professional interest replacing personal grievance. "Against what target?"
Raven's expression took on a distinctly mischievous cast. 'Those adorable ship girls, naturally.'
Dorn tilted his head, studying the corvid intently. That particular look usually meant Raven had developed an attachment to whatever they were discussing. After their long association, the Primarch had learned to read such signs.
"I can't elaborate here," Raven explained. "Transfer the Outsider to the Mechanicus representatives, then report to the Bureau's Microcosm facility. You'll understand once you arrive."
With that, he vanished in a small explosion of displaced air.
The intervention had worked perfectly. The earlier tension dissipated, replaced by professional courtesy and shared curiosity about Raven's mysterious project.
After completing the prisoner transfer, watching the containment cube disappear into the deepest vaults of Mars, Dorn gathered his personal guard and proceeded to the Bureau of Celestial Management.
The journey gave him time to process the encounter with Perturabo. His brother's resentment was understandable, even justified.
While others won glory in distant campaigns, Perturabo shouldered the unglamorous but vital work of fortifying humanity's heartland.
Perhaps there was wisdom in Raven's intervention. Let sleeping grievances lie undisturbed.
The Bureau's Microcosm gateway loomed ahead, a massive wheel rotating around a central axis eight hundred kilometers in length. Half of this colossal spindle disappeared into the void, connecting to realms beyond conventional spacetime.
Every Microcosm gateway was a monument to human engineering prowess, but this one felt different. More purposeful. As if it led somewhere specific rather than into the general multiverse.
Dorn paused at the threshold, contemplating the implications. Another universe awaited beyond that gateway. Another realm for humanity to explore, understand, and potentially conquer.
The Great Crusade had never truly ended. It had simply expanded beyond the confines of a single galaxy.
His guards shifted nervously behind him, hands instinctively checking weapons and equipment.
They were veterans of countless campaigns, yet crossing into another universe will still inspire awe and unease.
"Ready yourselves," Dorn commanded. "We go into the unknown."
The transport craft carried them along the axis through barriers of reality itself. Space twisted around them, familiar physics becoming suggestions rather than laws.
His guards maintained discipline despite the disorientation, trusting in their Primarch's leadership.
Finally, they emerged into the Bureau's domain, a Microcosm that existed as one vast, incomprehensible machine. Structures beyond human understanding stretched in all directions, their purposes as mysterious as their construction.
Somewhere in this realm lay Raven's new obsession. Whatever had captured the corvid's interest was about to become Dorn's responsibility.
He found himself looking forward to the challenge.
[End of Chapter]
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