The Primordial Language. It is the Ur-tongue, known across the cosmos by countless names: Incantations of the Old Ones, the Dark Words, Enochian, the Cryptic Language, the Tongue of Babel.
All languages, inspirations, and writings of intelligent races are said to have originated in its impossible geometry. With a history stretching back to a time even before the birth of the Daemons, it is now little more than a whisper of fleeting legend.
Some legends claim the Old Ones forged it; others, that it always existed, and they merely discovered its terror. Regardless of its origin, the Primordial Language is not a conduit for power, it is power itself. No psychic ability, no incantation or ritual is needed; a mortal, by merely mimicking its true syllables, can directly command the laws of reality to achieve the words' expressed purpose. Its power is infinite, allowing a mere mortal to fight on equal footing against a Greater Daemon, though the price extracted is heavy.
Tal Rasha let out a ragged, scorching breath. Each gasp was laced with the smell of ozone, a fire that burned his throat and lungs, the immediate cost of speaking the Old Ones' terrible tongue. Yet, it was a price his enhanced physiology already worked to repair.
Beside him, Blazkowicz watched, grimly impressed. The sheer destructive force had been a shock, confirming every caution issued by the Life Forger Primal. The tongue of the Old Ones, or the Primordial Language, as the Daemons knew it, was indeed terrifying.
Just two syllables had been a cataclysm, a word-shaped hammer blow that vaporized tens of thousands of Daemons, peeling the raw reality of the Shadow Realm into a silent, smoking vacuum.
"Follow me!" Taking advantage of the instantaneous clearing, Blazkowicz roared, shedding the defensive perimeter, and surged like a thunderbolt towards Be'lakor.
The Doom Slayers snapped into motion, instantly adjusting their formation. Their Gene-father was the spearhead of their charge, and they became the surging tide rushing toward the Daemon Prince.
"Fire!" Obelisk whispered the next Primordial word. The obstructing Daemons closest to the charging line were instantly consumed by an internal conflagration, burning from the inside out.
Obelisk coughed, the act racking his armored body, before relaying a message of safety through the psychic link: he was spent, unable to risk further casting for a critical duration.
"Lightning!" Tal Rasha roared, pushing through the searing pain. A bolt of raw, celestial fury descended from the false sky, blasting the area ahead into a crackling, deafening inferno.
Having witnessed such power, the Doom Slayers fought with renewed frenzy, eager to master the lethal syllables themselves. Tal Rasha, his voice closest to the ancient, impossible pronunciation, commanded the greatest power among his brothers.
Accompanied by the terrifying devastation of the Primordial Language, the warriors charged even faster, crushing Daemon bodies beneath their advance as they closed in on the spellcasting Daemon Prince.
"All your efforts are in vain, Slayer!" Be'lakor showed no hint of panic. He lifted his massive, cloven hoof and stomped down, sending a vast, dark magic circle extending from beneath him and sinking into the Shadow Realm's core.
"I have ruled this fractured plane for countless years, leaving behind numerous contingencies. I only need to activate them."
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" He burst into a thunderous, triumphant laughter, filled with the certain joy of victory. His colossal form pointed toward Blazkowicz. "Godslayer, we shall meet again!"
"A simple teleportation array cannot shake me," Blazkowicz countered. His steps did not falter; he instantly accelerated into a blur, breaking away from his sons and rushing toward the smug Daemon Prince.
He had no worries for his offspring. Having slaughtered a large number of Daemons, their combined strength and experience had grown exponentially.
"Shake you?" Be'lakor shook his horned head, his left eye widening into a vast, golden star. "I never thought I could defeat you. Bringing you into the Warp is merely part of my comprehensive retreat plan!"
"Plan? Retreat? Stop bluffing, you never had a plan!" Blazkowicz casually cleaved a Daemon in two and laughed, the sound dry. "The shamelessness of Daemons always exceeds my imagination. To speak of fleeing so grandiosely is a novel low, even for you Be'lakor!"
But even as he mocked, the Primarch came to an abrupt, skidding stop.
The ground began to tremble, not beneath their feet, but deep within the fabric of reality. Be'lakor was not teleporting himself; he was teleporting the entire Shadow Realm. The gargantuan subterranean array was activated, and the entire continent was about to rip itself away, plunging into the deepest, darkest pockets of the Warp to hide.
Be'lakor shook his head sadly. "No matter how you spin it, I won this battle. I achieved my strategic objective, and you failed to deliver the final blow."
He raised his arm and caressed the raw, dark scar running across his cheek, past his eye, and down his jawline. Hatred dripped from his voice.
"I will remember this wound, curse you in the depths of the Warp, and gather strength for my vengeance!"
As his words fell, the edges of the Shadow Realm began to dissolve into black starlight. The full weight of the realm was now being transferred.
"I await your revenge," Blazkowicz's tone was utterly calm. He raised his Crucible Sword, tearing open a jagged Warp rift in the dissolving air. He turned to his sons. "This place will collapse upon itself. We need to leave quickly."
"Heh heh heh..." Be'lakor's pleasure was palpable, his voice ecstatic. "The Four Gods never rest! They have prepared a grand plan to entertain you, oh...it will be glorious heh heh heh..."
Blazkowicz looked back at the fading Daemon Prince. "Tell them to hurry up. I have a score to settle with them."
"Hmph." Seeing Blazkowicz unmoved even in defeat, Be'lakor snorted softly, and his colossal body finally vanished into the dark, swirling light.
At the final possible moment, Blazkowicz stepped into the rift, followed instantly by his Doom Slayers, abandoning the former site of the Shadow Realm.
The Warp fell silent, a featureless void where a Daemon realm had just been. Warp creatures, drawn by the psychic turbulence, paused, staring into the emptiness, lost in confusion.
Blazkowicz and the Doom Slayers passed through the rift, emerging into a bizarre, unknown region of the Immaterium.
They stepped onto a vast, distorted continent, a living landscape of pulsating flesh and stone, with massive, wet eyes and writhing tentacles. Above them, shattered worlds floated, and in the far distance, a colourful sun with a single, colossal eyeball emitted a sickly, faint glow.
Their journey was strangely peaceful. Occasionally, a Warp creature would attempt to close, only to flee instantly, as if sensing an insurmountable dread.
Blazkowicz was not aimless. His C'tan arm guard had begun to react upon arrival, vibrating with waves of profound disgust, pointing him toward a fixed direction. Whatever could so repulse a Star God fragment must be a relic of ancient and terrible power, and he intended to find its source.
"This is it," Blazkowicz declared, stopping at the edge of the pulsating continent and gesturing for his offspring to follow.
Below them floated a monstrous ruin, a silent, static iron sea urchin formed from the welded wreckage of countless starships, suspended perfectly still in the void. It was impossible, even with the Primarch's superhuman sight, to identify the vessels; the Warp had long ago corroded every trace of their identity, leaving only the grim certainty that they were human-made.
"Lord, how do we cross?" Tal Rasha scanned the void. "We have no void propulsion. The distances are too great."
In the Warp, where physical laws are fluid, gravity can exist, but momentum fades quickly in the vast, empty gulf between floating masses. Without continuous propulsion, they risked becoming stranded.
"Indeed, a problem," Blazkowicz crouched, his brow furrowed. He hadn't used his Crucible Sword to instantly teleport for this exact reason: blind jumps in the Warp were suicidal, risking emergence inside a star or a planet's mantle.
"Sophia." He tapped his temple, calling the AI. "Any suggestions?"
Sophia's miniature figure appeared, shaking her head regretfully. "Lord, this is the Warp. Although everything is usable, the chaos makes offering reliable advice difficult."
"Thank you for the effort," Blazkowicz said calmly, accepting the limitation of logic in the face of unreasoning chaos.
He remained silent, gazing down at the massive, kilometers-wide ruins. His arm guard's hatred pulsed strongly. To be so close to the object of his inner revulsion, only to surrender? A sense of primal unwillingness surged within him.
This was the Immaterium. To miss this opportunity was to miss it forever; the chance of encountering this relic again was smaller than the Four Chaos Gods declaring peace.
As he concentrated, observing the ruins, a tiny fragment floating nearby caught his attention.
"Snap!"
Blazkowicz slapped his armored forehead, cursing his own Warp-centric thinking.
The Doom Slayers stared at their Gene-father, their helmets tilted in confusion.
"This is the Warp; it encompasses everything, including the natural laws of physics," Blazkowicz explained, a wry smile spreading across his face. "Look there." He pointed to the small fragment, which was slowly, inexorably, being drawn toward the ruin. "The wreckage has considerable mass. Its gravity is attracting surrounding objects."
"We just need an initial velocity to enter the ruins' gravitational field, then wait for capture."
"Feasible," Sophia's phantom confirmed, plotting a route. "Without interference, the trajectory is stable."
"Mm." Blazkowicz committed the route to memory, then clapped Obelisk on the shoulder. "Ready boy?"
Obelisk, understanding his Gene-father's intent, tensed up. "Please don't miss, Father."
Blazkowicz flashed a confident, brilliant smile, patted his chest with his right gauntlet, and held up three fingers with his left. "Thirty thousand times!"
His squad remained puzzled.
"Thirty thousand throws. That's how many times I hurled Harlan Ogilvy onto the Sky Pillar of the Nur Ring," Blazkowicz boasted, a hint of pride flashing in his eyes, Harlan's echoed cries still faintly audible in his recollection. "There wasn't a single error in throwing or receiving."
The Doom Slayers' scalps tingled. They knew the champion swordsman had embellished that tale of 'life-and-death struggle' to secure the Argent Nur. Hearing the Primarch's account, the reality was far more terrifying than the legend.
"We never doubted you, Lord Father" Obelisk said, his tall frame stepping forward to shield his brothers. His voice was deep and steady. "We can start anytime."
"Let's go!" Blazkowicz lowered his stance. With one hand, he gripped the ceramite armor seam behind Obelisk's neck, and with the other, he seized his lower leg, hoisting his son above his head as if he were a toy. He took a deep breath, veins bulging on his arms, and roared, "Go!"
Bang! The snap of air displacement was deafening as Obelisk rocketed from his grip, a black comet of ceramite screaming toward the ruins, breaking the sound barrier in the momentary atmosphere of the pulsating continent.
Ra immediately stepped up. Blazkowicz quickly seized him, hurling him toward the Warp ruins using the same, terrifyingly precise method. Junior, eager to try, was next.
"Hold for a moment." Blazkowicz signaled a pause. "Let them land safely."
After sending three warriors across, he decided to wait. Three men formed a capable tactical squad, ready to handle immediate dangers and confirm the stability of the landing zone.
Obelisk felt like a shell casing, explosively ejected from a cannon barrel and moving at supersonic speed through the void. His helmet readings confirmed his velocity had reached the second cosmic escape velocity. The Primarch's control was absolute; his trajectory had zero deviation from the calculated path.
"Estimated arrival in ten minutes," the super-intelligent chip in his helmet reported. "Current orbit is safe. No debris interference."
Six minutes later, the steel ruins rushed toward him. Obelisk sent a neural signal: "Activate gravity chutes."
Four gravity generator panels deployed from his armor, instantly engaging anti-gravity fields for massive deceleration.
Thud! With a muted impact, Obelisk landed in a half-crouch, his speed dropping from near-supersonic to absolute zero in a second. He immediately calculated his brothers' landing spots to avoid collision. Ten seconds later, Ra and Junior slammed down beside him.
"I thought there would be howling winds," Junior muttered, clearly disappointed.
"Gravity but no atmosphere," Ra explained, then moved to stand. Obelisk's hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"I'll inform them," Obelisk whispered. "You formulate a plan."
Junior looked confused. "Why? The Primarch is coming."
"We need a plan, or at least well-thought-out suggestions," Obelisk insisted. He looked at his brothers. "Didn't you notice?"
Ra signaled for him to continue.
"In large-scale battles, our Gene-father is a cautious strategist, cherishing every life. But in personal assault missions, where he leads the charge, he rarely overthinks or plans at all. His rage simply consumes him."
Ra shook his head, his voice hissing through his mask. "Lord Father doesn't need to think. No one can defeat him in a direct confrontation."
Ra's superhuman reflexes allowed him to process the argument in less than a second. The Primarch's tactical ability was great, but his combat ability was peerless. Invincible in direct combat, he had no reason to overthink preparation.
"Precisely," Obelisk agreed. "Because of his nigh invincibility, we must think for him. We must offer suggestions." He pointed to a half-open gate in the rusty battleship deck. "Just like now. We advise him, preventing him from doing anything too outrageous."
He placed a hand on Ra's shoulder. "We are not Harlan Ogilvy. The champion swordsman is his guard, but they are two of a kind. A tap on the shoulder, and a mischievous, crazy idea is born. We must seize this opportunity to gently correct the Primarch before they reunite."
Ra nodded silently, agreeing. Obelisk had guarded the bridge for years, observing the Gene-father meticulously.
"You notify the Primarch to proceed," Ra decided, taking a reconnaissance device from his belt. "I will scout first and assemble a provisional plan."
Obelisk sighed, relieved that Ra hadn't misinterpreted his intentions as ambitious. He turned to Junior, expecting confusion, but his berserker brother only spoke with a flippant air. "You haven't wasted your years on the bridge, brother."
Obelisk's eyes narrowed. Every Doom Slayer possessed both will and wisdom.
He sent the all-clear signal: "This area is safe. The main force can depart."
Junior then stepped forward. "I'll protect Ra. You lead the main force when they arrive." He stomped his foot. "I can feel it. This pile of ruins is not peaceful. Dangerous creatures lurk within, awakened by our arrival."
"I understand," Obelisk replied, never doubting the berserker's instinct.
Once the all-clear was given, Blazkowicz propelled himself off the edge of the continent, leaping across the kilometers of void toward the wreckage. A few minutes later, he landed silently atop the ruins.
He observed the steel behemoths up close. Macro-cannons and lance arrays stood majestic, surrounded by smaller, unrecognizable artillery. Despite the rust and time, an inviolable majesty still emanated from the sheer scale of the derelict fleet.
At the stern, above an engine that hadn't yet been fully absorbed into the ruins, stood a strange structure resembling a church. Blazkowicz despised religious faith, it was too often linked to Chaos, and a primal aversion rose within him, though he dismissed it as absurd. Who builds a church on a battleship? It must be a functional building disguised by the Warp's influence.
"Sir, Ra and Junior have gone to scout and will return soon," Obelisk spoke first, before the Primarch could choose a random entry point, asserting the tactical objective.
"Alright." Blazkowicz tapped the derelict ship's armor. "Tell them to be careful. Something is crawling inside the ruins, slithering through the pipes and cramped spaces."
"Junior warned me. He went specifically to cover Ra," Obelisk confirmed.
A flicker of pride touched Blazkowicz's eyes. His offspring could sense danger and operate independently. He stood silently at the edge of the immense steel cliff, gazing into the distance. The Warp's true domain was a realm of absurdity, where inanimate objects grew eyes and tentacles, and everything existed between the material and the immaterial.
The sight was peaceful, but Blazkowicz felt a keen regret. This trip to the Warp was dull. The Four Gods must have known he was here, yet they refused to show themselves, failing in their duty as hosts and violating the Warp's bizarre hospitality. He waited, counting the seconds, for the reconnaissance report.
"Sir." A few minutes later, Ra returned, accompanied by Junior.
Blazkowicz turned. "What's the situation?"
"More complex than we imagined." Ra shook his helmeted head, the red plume swaying. He projected a holographic image. "This is a resting place, formed by ships that sank in the Warp. The internal environment is intricate, forming a deformed ecosystem." He regretted the limits of his gear. "Our portable equipment cannot scan the ruins accurately."
Blazkowicz stroked his chin. His original plan, to blast a hole with a dimensional weapon and dig straight for the source of his arm-guard's disgust, was suddenly less appealing.
"But..." Ra paused, a hint of hesitation in his voice.
"Speak freely."
"I have a plan." Ra projected a blue schematic. "What we can confirm is that this is an Imperial battleship. I found some equipment inside that is still operational."
"We can enter the ship, and utilizing the similar architecture across Imperial vessels, find the ship's scanning bay. If we restart or repair the large auspex, we can map the entire ruins."
Blazkowicz nodded deeply. Ra's plan was convincing. He strode toward the largest hatch, signaling his sons to follow. He very much wanted to know the origin of this battleship and the purpose of its strange, church-like structure.
Ra and Obelisk exchanged imperceptible sighs of relief before quickly following.
Bang! Blazkowicz kicked open the alloy hatch, tearing it from its hinges, and stepped inside the echoing darkness.
The Doom Slayers threw floating reconnaissance spheres deep into the corridor for route mapping. Images were instantly projected onto their helmets and the Primarch's arm-guard.
"Based on existing Imperial battleship designs, we are on the lowest deck," Sophia's phantom offered. "We should take the left passage."
The left passage was pitch black, a throat of a giant beast, with only a few dim emergency lights flickering like anglerfish lures. Blazkowicz narrowed his eyes, and the darkness dissipated in his vision; he could see perfectly.
"Follow me." He led them into the gloom.
Alistair walked behind the Primarch, his head tilted up. In the dark corners, something was watching them.
"Prepare for close-quarters combat," he warned his brothers over the comms, his voice low and languid.
The Slayers silently retracted their spears, equipping their electrified, three-dimensional claws for combat in narrow spaces. They maintained optimum readiness as they moved.
The creatures watching from the shadows did not attack, allowing the humans to pass through the derelict ship, waiting for the opportune moment.
As they proceeded, they made novel, unsettling discoveries. In the Admonition Hall on the training deck, Blazkowicz found a statue of Roboute Guilliman.
"Quite stylish," he observed, seeing his brother crowned with a laurel wreath, his gaze profound. Only the raised arm was broken, obscuring the weapon he might have held.
Further in, the relaxed expression left Blazkowicz's face. Traces of fierce, past battles were everywhere. Bolter shells had pierced walls; melta had melted alloy. Analyzing the marks, both combatants were Astartes.
"Sir, you need to see this," Junior called from ahead.
Blazkowicz covered the distance in a few strides. Lying on the ground was the desiccated corpse of a Space Marine and a broken servo-skull.
The Primarch slowly squatted down. Despite the heavy rust, he was certain he had never seen a similar power armor pattern. The corpse leaned against the corridor, helmet missing, its shriveled head bowed and covered in thick dust.
"He is from the future," Blazkowicz said slowly, his voice deep, as he brushed dust from the shoulder pad. "Or rather, this battleship is from the future."
"Time in the Warp is not fixed. During the Rangdan Campaign, I arrived in the Morse Solar System ahead of schedule, which allowed me to rescue the First Legion in time."
The shoulder pad was revealed: a winged sword emblem, sharp, noble, and majestic.
"No records," Tal Rasha shook his head, having searched legion data.
"Don't dwell on it," Blazkowicz commanded. He placed his hand on the left shoulder pad, feeling an uneven texture. "It's probably a legion from the future."
The shoulder pad was black with a bright metallic outline, and engraved with a textual relief. In the center was something resembling the Roman numeral "Ⅰ," with a faded skull carving in the middle section of the "Ⅰ."
Blazkowicz's gaze swept back and forth, comparing the two different markings, and found that they were completely different, with no cultural connection.
He muttered to himself, two different insignias appearing on one warrior, the information revealed was very complex.
Among existing legions, a space marine's left shoulder would bear the legion's insignia, indicating which legions he belonged to. The right shoulder would be emblazoned with the primary insignia of the grand company or battalion, plus specific company markings, forming a detailed identity.
This contained the inheritance of legion culture, and there was some connection between the symbols; the situation before them would never occur.
Two different insignias indicated that this space marine had served in two different legions , and both legions recognized his identity.
Are the legions of the future so harmonious?
Blazkowicz stroked his chin, unable to imagine a scene of brotherly respect. Leaving others aside, Russ's barbarism would be hard to accept.
Handing the servo-skull to Tal Rasha, he took a deep breath and blew it towards the corpse with a whoosh.
When the dust receded, the corroded power armor was fully revealed, and everyone saw the full appearance of the fallen warrior.
This space marine of unknown identity had many shallow and deep scars on his power sword, but only one fatal wound.
Three claw marks ran downwards from his neck, tearing open his chest, ripping through his bone plates to extract his internal organs, and finally severing the space marine's hip bone, causing him to lose balance and fall, dying from organ failure.
Blazkowicz's hand traced the corpse's neck, following the wound downwards, feeling the swiftness of the claw marks.
Quick, without the slightest hesitation, it instantly dispatched this space marine, then withdrew and departed.
His extraordinary brain immediately built a model, using the available information to reconstruct what had happened inside this battleship.
A conflict erupted among the space marines, leading to the battleship's fall and its loss in the cold universe. The mummified corpse before them boarded the battleship with a mission, but encountered aliens who had gotten there first, and ultimately died by their claws.
For unknown reasons, the battleship entered the Warp, traveling through time to the present.
Having roughly understood the sequence of events, Blazkowicz slowly stood up and sighed, "The Warp truly is a wondrous place."
He smiled and said to his Gene-sons, "Here in the present, we can actually touch the future, glimpsing a corner of the elusive future."
"Father," Junior said excitedly, having confirmed the ship was from the future. "If this ship is from the future, wouldn't it be very advanced?"
Blazkowicz's smile had not faded; instead, Junior's comment made it even wider, and he burst out laughing.
He lightly patted Junior's shoulder pad, saying with a smile, "Normally, your thinking isn't wrong, but reality is absurd."
"In our impression, technology is always developing, constantly updating and iterating, and the future is always stronger than the present."
"Alas," Blazkowicz shook his head, a hint of regret in his eyes, "technology can experience large-scale discontinuities for certain reasons, leading to a future that might not be as advanced as the present."
From the moment he entered the battleship, Blazkowicz had observed its interior and found no advanced designs; in some aspects, it was even inferior to current Imperium battleships.
Junior raised his hand to scratch his head but hit his helmet. To cover his embarrassment, he asked, "Then what could have caused the technological discontinuity in the future?"
This question instantly stifled the cheerful atmosphere. The Gene-father's laughter ceased, replaced by a serious expression.
Blazkowicz's smile gradually receded, his hand sliding from Junior's shoulder. A contemplative look appeared on his heroic face, and he murmured, "Good question."
In the current galaxy, the Imperium of Man was like the morning sun, rising majestically from the horizon of decline.
Under the Emperor's leadership, humanity had rediscovered technology, resisted the Four Gods with reason, and established an unprecedented unified government.
No matter how one looked at it, the human race was bound to rise, and wielding control of the galaxy was only a matter of time.
So why?
In a future that seemed so bright, why would technology experience such a large-scale discontinuity? The ship had structures similar to a cathedral.
Blazkowicz disliked cathedrals; they were symbols of human ignorance, while a spaceship was synonymous with enterprising spirit and adventurous exploration.
Why would two completely opposing existences become intertwined?
"Do not attempt to peer into the future," he sighed, unable to answer Junior's question, and offered a thought: "The future is fleeting; doing our best in the present and striving for a better future is the correct path."
Silence fell within the derelict ship. The heavy topic that the Primarch found difficult to answer seemed to stifle the very air.
Drip ~
Just then, an electronic mechanical sound broke the deadly silence, drawing the attention of the superhuman warriors.
After Tal Rasha's efforts, the damaged servo-skull rebooted, its remaining single eye glowing red in its socket.
As the machine restarted, the anti-gravity system came online, and the servo-skull stumbled and lifted off from the palm of his hand.
"Retrieving... retrieving..."
The skull's lower jaw opened and closed, its internal sound array system speaking in a cold, hoarse voice, beginning to retrieve information.
After a few seconds, it hung motionless in the air, and a green light projected from the base of its spine.
This was the posture of awaiting authorization; the servo-skull needed to confirm authorization before proceeding with further communication.
Everyone stood still, looking at each other around the servo-skull.
Of everyone present, besides the corpse on the ground, who had the authority to restart the servo-skull?
But that unknown warrior had been dead for who knew how long, his corpse weathered into a mummy.
"Never give up hope," Blazkowicz said with a relaxed expression, his armguard ejecting an identification code, which he placed beneath the servo-skull.
Beep beep ~
The skull's scanning beam swept over it, remained silent for a long time, then the green light flashed red, indicating the identification code was invalid.
He wasn't disheartened, and gestured for his Gene-sons to step forward and display their identification codes to the skull.
One after another, as time passed, a strange atmosphere enveloped the squad, the warriors staring at the servo-skull with disdain.
They thought the skull was broken, believing it impossible for themselves to disappear from Imperial records, to vanish into the long river of history without a trace.
Until the second to last person, Alistair, who stepped forward with a nonchalant expression and displayed his identification code.
Beep beep ~
It was still the scanning prompt. The warriors were unenthusiastic; the same sound had appeared ten times, but not once had it succeeded.
Ding ~
A different sound from before rang out, striking the Doom Slayers' nerves. Their movements were incredibly fast as they stared intently at Junior.
Before they could react, the servo-skull's mechanical voice sounded again: "Authorization confirmed... Blazkowicz... Space Marine, Junior...."
'Retrieving mission re... cord...'
Under the murderous gazes of his brothers, Junior passed the authorization, causing the servo-skull to stutteringly begin its work.
They couldn't understand why they couldn't, but Junior could activate the servo-skull.
While waiting for the servo-skull to retrieve data, Blazkowicz's voice carried pity as he said to Junior, "Your future may encounter some hardships."
Only then did everyone realize, looking down at the corpse leaning against the wall, then back at their brother, understanding why the Primarch felt pity.
Their brother belonged to the legion , yet his personal identification code could pass the servo-skull's verification, indicating that Junior had left the legion .
A fate of leaving one's brothers indeed held a touch of desolation.
"Whatever," Junior shrugged, nonchalant, his tone as relaxed as ever, not at all worried about his future.
Just then, the servo-skull flew in front of him and began to report information: "Mission record re... trieval successful: Deathwatch, ordered to recover [RECORD DELETED], encountered Tyranids, resulting in total annihilation."
Blazkowicz gestured for Tal Rasha to silence the relic. Its internal data had been scoured, leaving only this grim, final conclusion. The future Imperium's emphasis on information security was extreme; these Deathwatch warriors had used their last breaths to delete all critical data, preventing intelligence leaks. This action successfully guarded their secrets, but it left a chilling fog of mystery and zero warnings for those who came after.
"Tyranids?" Blazkowicz murmured, then his head snapped up.
The Doom Slayers' internal sensors and primal instinct also locked onto the threat. In the absolute darkness of the passage ahead, a black, flickering silhouette rapidly disappeared into a ventilation pipe.
It was only a fleeting glimpse, but the superhuman warriors clearly identified the creature: a bipedal xeno encased in dark biological chitin, its head deformed and heavily armored. Judging by its sudden, panicked retreat, it hadn't expected its presence to be instantly detected.
Ignoring the skulking xenos attempting to instill fear, the Doom Slayers had no desire to pursue them into their warren. They would not chase an unknown enemy on its own turf, preferring to keep their true strength concealed and their foes wary.
Yet, the threat was undeniable. Faint rustling, clicking sounds, barely perceptible even to an Astartes' enhanced hearing, emanated from within the warship's twisted pipes, indicating they were gathering for an ambush.
Blazkowicz retracted his gaze. His left hand opened, and with a flare of intense heat, the silver armor plate erupted with Star God flames. The ethereal fire instantly enveloped the Deathwatch warrior, consuming his corroded power armor and mummified corpse until nothing remained but a wisp of ash.
He glanced at the heavily scarred bulkhead, riddled with monomolecular claw marks and bolter impacts, and instructed his sons, "Follow the combat traces and search for other warriors' bodies."
In this desolate pocket of the Warp, Blazkowicz's keenest interest was now the Deathwatch's mission objective: what was so vital that its recovery justified the annihilation of nine Space Marines?
The group moved out, following the chaotic signs of the last battle. Junior, usually at the forefront, paused, staring down at the swirling ashes of his future counterpart for a long moment. He knelt, his gaze shifting to a weapon concealed beneath the dust: a heavy bolter.
Ever since arriving, Junior had keenly sensed a faint, resilient consciousness emanating from the weapon. His Gene-father had surely noticed it too, but the Primarch paid such mundane relics no heed.
Buzz,
Suddenly, Junior's left arm blurred. He snapped it up and instantly retracted it in a hundredth of a second, his Dimensional Claw flashing like a silver streak against the pervasive gloom.
Behind the black-armored warrior, red, viscous blood poured down. A head crashed silently to the steel deck. The xeno, which had been hanging upside down from the ceiling, poised for a lightning-fast ambush, was decapitated mid-crouch. Its massive, chitinous body twitched, the brain's final command never executed.
Junior slowly rose, shaking the dust from the salvaged bolter. He tied a thin, braided string to its grip, a simple memento of his journey through the Warp.
He then grabbed the xeno's tail, dragging the monstrous, still-spasming carcass behind him, and swiftly caught up with the main group.
Blazkowicz led the team deeper, finding more bodies scattered along the ruined corridors. As the count grew, his initial confusion diminished.
There were a total of nine Space Marines in this squad. Their left shoulder pads bore the unified, embossed skull insignia (the Deathwatch symbol), while their right shoulders displayed a perplexing variety of distinct legion insignias. None were familiar to Blazkowicz; he now strongly suspected the Emperor had created new legions in the future.
"This thing is pretty cool."
While Blazkowicz was contemplating this dramatic future, Obelisk, crouched beside the latest casualty, pulled a strip of white, parchment-like cloth sealed with thick, vibrant red wax from a Deathwatch shoulder pad. The strip bore black, tadpole-like markings, writing that remained legible.
It was baffling. Under the Warp's ravages, steel had disintegrated and flesh had mummified, yet the temperature-sensitive wax and the simple cloth strip had survived.
Obelisk, unfazed, used the melta-gun muzzle of his shoulder cannon to heat the wax, restoring its original, aggressive scarlet luster. He pressed the seal and the cloth strip onto his own pauldron, then coolly pressed the hilt of his sword against the wax to imprint his Doom Legion mark.
Blazkowicz tilted his head, observing Obelisk's new armor decoration. The black, gleaming gold armor, adorned with the splash of vibrant red wax and white cloth, created a stark, aesthetic contrast.
"Your aesthetic is quite good," he said, genuinely approving the 'coolness.' The somber son with the pale, withered hair and unique demeanor possessed an unexpected eye for beauty.
Obelisk, embarrassed by the rare praise, aimed his shoulder cannon at the fallen Space Marine. The disintegrator weapon fired, and the final Deathwatch warrior dissolved into a fleeting mist of atomic starlight.
While the team paused, Junior arrived, dragging the grotesque xeno. He threw the xeno at his Gene-father's feet. "Father, please look at this."
Blazkowicz's combat boot flipped the corpse over. His gaze fell upon the twin pairs of arms. The primary pair, extending from the shoulders, was long and thick, with human-like joint mobility and three sharp claws reflecting a paint-black, monofilament sheen.
He lifted his boot and pressed down on the xeno's arm. The claws effortlessly sank into the steel deck as if cutting through soft clay.
"Monofilament biological structure?" Blazkowicz's magnetic voice was filled with genuine surprise. This xeno's biological strength, possessing claws that could easily tear through steel, exceeded the weapon capabilities of normal carbon-based organisms.
This pair of claws had slaughtered the Deathwatch. They were capable of piercing Space Marine power armor without resistance.
Even in the future, the galaxy's enemies were only stronger, not weaker!
"Keep moving." Blazkowicz moved the xeno aside and resumed their rapid advance. Their final destination, the bridge, was just a few bulkheads away.
The Doom Slayers followed, their footsteps heavy and powerful. Now, however, all their Dimensional Claws were extended, and their composite shoulder cannons were frequently aimed at dark corners.
In the light-devouring darkness, clicking and hissing sounds intensified, the xenos crawling in the shadows, their chitinous exoskeletons rustling in anticipation.
Had they been mortals, their minds would have shattered under the relentless pressure of the lurking specters. But these xenos had chosen the wrong targets.
They strode forward. There were no more Deathwatch bodies. Under their Gene-father's leadership, they no longer lingered.
The team advanced toward the derelict ship's bridge, seeking the auspex array to map the entire Warp ruin.
Passing through a final, relatively narrow pipe, their vision suddenly opened up into the vast bridge. The xenos' "escort" had delivered them.
"What a perfect place for an ambush," Blazkowicz remarked, surveying the scene.
Around the bridge's main consoles and across the iron walls of the ceiling, were numerous iron burrows, clawed-out nests from which hidden hunters could swarm out at any moment. Intense, desperate combat had clearly occurred here; judging by the signs, another unit must have entered and taken something from the bridge.
"It's up to you," Blazkowicz instructed Ra, and then led his sons to form an impenetrable defensive formation to shield the tech-marine.
Ra nodded silently, his movements quick and decisive. He rushed to the auspex array, and with a single, light swing of his Dimensional Longsword, he sliced open the protective casing and pulled out the internal cables. "I hope this method works!" He reached back and retrieved a cold fusion core from his power armor. He had planned this many times; now, he was merely executing the decided plan.
As he worked, the xenos could wait no longer. Their hunched bodies spilled out of the iron burrows.
"Don't let them get close!" Blazkowicz roared, drawing his Crucible Sword from his waist and igniting the God-slaying blade.
The Doom Slayers pulled their spears from their backs; in the spacious environment, long weapons could unleash their full power. Their shoulder-mounted composite cannons aimed upwards, locking onto the swarm crawling from the ceiling.
The Genestealers shrieked, their abominable, crimson tongues whipping from their fanged mouths. Their faces were horrifying: honeycomb-like bone plates covered their foreheads, and their limbs were covered in dark green chitin. Their digitigrade hind legs bunched for an explosive charge.
"Fire!" Before the xenos could launch their charge, Blazkowicz roared, giving the order to attack the oncoming swarm.