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[Everything started spiraling out of control a month ago.]
[First, the magnetic current, which caused at least 12,000 kilometers of destruction in the southern part of this world. Then, the global power and water supply systems shut down, killing tens of thousands of residents.]
[Initially, we thought it was just natural disasters and cultists seizing an opportunity, but the actual situation was far worse than we anticipated.]
[Over the next seven days, three more incidents occurred consecutively. Unexplained great storms had swept across the entire world, destroying all power grids and communication facilities. Food and water distribution were also affected, and the populace had begun large-scale riots.]
[And earthquakes, the strongest earthquakes! Dawnstar's largest Hive City has been completely swallowed by subterranean fissures, and three cities have successively vanished in hundreds-of-meter-high tsunamis, and... the Mechanicum's Techna-priests have deduced that the atmosphere has suffered severe erosion, and lethal radiation is about to sweep across the entire world.]
[In the past month, we have lost three-quarters of our population, social order has completely collapsed, and the situation is beyond salvage.]
[Given these circumstances, I, Conrad-Valga, Governor of Dawnstar by the will of the Emperor, formally declare the abandonment of this world.]
[We have issued evacuation orders on the last communication platform. Everyone on this world is flooding towards the planetary capital of Carena, where the infrastructure is strong and expansive enough to accommodate all of them, but we lack a fleet! An evacuation fleet!]
[Therefore, I issue a plea for aid here. Anyone, any child of the Emperor, any expeditionary fleet not far from us, I implore you, temporarily divert your course and save Dawnstar, fellow children of the Emperor!]
——————
"And that is precisely why we are here."
By the average standards of a Thousand Sons warrior, Hathor-Maat believed he had been sufficiently respectful to these pitiable mortals, explaining things as simply as possible.
After Dawnstar's Governor sent that desperate plea for aid via the Astropath, he and this pitiable world almost immediately received the Emperor's benevolence:
The Expeditionary Fleet of the Fifteenth [Thousand Sons] Astartes Legion responded within seventeen hours of the message being sent: they happened to be passing through the edge of this star sector, and the Legion's Primarch, Magnus of Prospero—in most cases, was also willing to help mortals.
Thanks to the successive guidance of countless powerful psykers, the 28th Expeditionary Fleet, in the blink of an eye, carried the entire Thousand Sons Legion to Dawnstar's low orbit. The situation here was worse than the Primarch had imagined: even the Imperial Governor himself, who had sent the distress signal, had lost contact within the chaotic masses. The Thousand Sons Legion had to deal with the myriad troubles on this world alone.
If it were the numerically superior Dark Angels or the Luna Wolves Legions, the situation might have been better, but the Thousand Sons Legion was true to its name: after the tragedy known as the Flesh Change, only about a thousand warriors survived, and a mere dozen Terran standard years were not enough for the Legion to regain its strength.
Thinking of this, Hathor-Maat couldn't help but sigh inwardly. If not for the severe lack of manpower, a neophyte of the Corvidae Cult like him wouldn't be engaged in trivial chores like village evacuation.
"Listen, mortals, I'll say it again, for the last time."
Magnus's son tried to remain calm. He narrowed his eyes, observing the old man before him: ragged clothes, trembling like a leaf, the only valuable item on him was a walking stick carved with a slender venomous snake. Hathor could see fear and utter defiance flickering in the depths of his pupils, a normal reaction for mortals facing the Emperor's Angels, and phlegm, uncontrollable black phlegm dripping from the corner of his mouth...
Hathor didn't look closely.
"You look back now, look at this mountain, the place where your ancestors have lived for generations. It is not as calm as it seems. It is a dead volcano, and now, the geomantic fusion of your world has reactivated it, turning it back into an active volcano, a true, volcano!"
"You know what that means, don't you, mortal."
"Now look around you. There are over five hundred of you here: farmers, blacksmiths, women and children, and over twenty houses, barren terraced fields, and the only connection this place has to the outside world is a railway, which is clearly broken."
The Thousand Son's arm, accompanying his outstretched finger, pointed towards the debris buried between the slopes: the so-called railway was dilapidated, curving below the village like a rotten snake.
And above this decaying structure, the sky already showed ominous signs. Any normal-sighted individual could see the gas lingering around the mountain peak gradually transforming into a sickly yellow, with layers of volcanic ash rising behind them, even interspersed with lightning and storms.
This dilapidated place would be utterly destroyed within ten Terran standard hours at most, yet he was still playing boring word games with these fools.
Anxiety steadily encroached upon Hathor's mind.
But he couldn't act. There were only five of them, unable to take all the idiots, and as an Astartes warrior, certain unspoken rules prevented him from attacking these unarmed children of the Emperor.
"Do you see those gases? Those volcanic ash, thunder, and storms, they will kill you, kill all of you. Your homes will explode, not even a speck of dust will remain."
"And now, by the grace of my Lord Magnus, you can board the Stormbird and come with us to a safe zone, such as Carena or somewhere else, to leave this world."
"The ones who should truly leave are you!"
Before Hathor, the trembling old man slowly raised his fist, clenching it in mid-air, as an answer to the Astartes.
"Now, you... cough, cough... should leave. We will stand guard here, by our homes and fields!"
He coughed incessantly, his gaunt body expelling thick, dark brown phlegm one after another, so much that it made one wonder if he was coughing up his internal organs.
"You will all die!"
Hathor almost couldn't contain his rage.
"If this continues, you will all die here, and my men and I are ordered to evacuate you... Don't make me say the same words again, those storms, they will kill you!"
"No, quite the opposite."
"The storm is a gift, a gift we have all awaited our entire lives. It will lead us to meet the great C'tan, Lord of the Storm, and we shall stand by its side, enjoying eternal tranquility and joy."
This utterly foolish statement caused Magnus's son to widen his eyes involuntarily, and when he saw the same conviction appear in the eyes of all the mortals, his anger surged twofold, transforming into a most absurd amusement.
He couldn't help but laugh.
"Lord of the Storm? Standing by its side? You believe in a crude god? Offering your lives for a cheap trick?"
"You shall not insult our faith!"
The mortals, all the mortals, instantly fell into hysterical rage the moment his words landed. Their faces contorted, showering this blasphemer with the most venomous curses.
But Magnus's son did not care. He turned and walked towards the Stormbird and his comrades.
"How is the situation?"
Someone asked him.
"They don't want to leave. Let's go."
Hathor waved his hand. After his laughter, his mood was still terrible due to this deeply ingrained stupidity.
"Is it that C'tan god again?"
The other Thousand Sons warriors were also unsurprised, but they quickly raised new questions.
"Then what about our mission? They will surely die here."
"Then let them die!"
Hathor's sharp rebuke caused a momentary silence in his squad, until his second-in-command gestured for him to look at the horizon: another Stormbird was wobbling, preparing to land.
"Ah..."
The Thousand Son's mood began to improve, especially when he saw the silver-haired, blue-eyed lady descend from the Stormbird. Hathor simply sat down with his squad, waiting for the mission to be completed.
Indeed, it was best to leave such matters to Lady Morgan. She never disappointed.
Hathor thought so.
——————
Regarding Lady Morgan's reputation, Hathor had already heard about it even before arriving at Dawnstar.
It was said that she hailed from the southern Great Rift, even northwest of the Ultramarines' home world, the Five Hundred Worlds. After an expeditionary fleet composed of Rogue Traders discovered her homeworld, she, as a scion of the local nobility, joined the Imperial military.
Some rumors claimed her origins were not entirely true, but those rumors, along with this mortal's exceptional performance, were naturally dismissed as jealous gossip.
This Lady Morgan quickly proved herself to be a gifted psyker and a capable pragmatist. In less than one Terran standard year, she distinguished herself from countless mortals, becoming a military official chosen by the short-staffed Thousand Sons Legion.
Hathor had always been uninterested in mortal affairs; he considered himself a higher life form. But after working with Lady Morgan for over fifty days, he had to admit that sometimes she could indeed be impressive.
And as he pondered, the conversation in the village had already taken a new turn: the silver-haired female official had, with just a few words, made these foolish cultists obedient. They scrambled to gather their belongings and then followed the lady's footsteps.
As they walked with bowed heads, queuing towards the Stormbird, the Thousand Son couldn't help but whisper to Morgan.
"How did you convince these fools?"
"By using some of the most foolish methods."
She spoke vaguely, but Hathor chose not to press further: for some reason, when facing that unsmiling face, he always felt a certain fear.
He considered it an illusion.
Magnus's son maintained his arrogance and vigilance. He watched coldly as his subordinates exchanged pleasantries with this mortal, while the fellows on the other Stormbird almost deferred to her—it had only been fifty-odd days, truly a disgrace to the Legion's name.
Just as the neophyte of the Corvidae Cult felt indignant, his communication device began to ring.
"What's your situation, Hathor?"
It was the voice of Ahriman of the Prodigal Sons Cult.
"It's done... with the help of our Lady Morgan."
After a moment's thought, Hathor did not claim the credit.
"I thought so, it is Morgan after all."
Ahriman first uttered a flat sigh of relief, then his tone became slightly urgent.
"Then quickly return to Carena. We urgently need manpower here now. We need to completely revise the entire world's evacuation plan. The two Primarchs now need the help of all available forces, both you and Lady Morgan."
"...Two?"
Hathor caught some information.
"Yes, two."
Ahriman confirmed this, then continued to speak in a casual tone. Hathor could hear his surroundings filled with hoarse commands and the clamor of moving crowds.
"Perturabo is here, and his Iron Warriors."