Meanwhile, in the core region of the Imperial Coalition's encirclement, inside the bridge of a Thousand Sons cruiser, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
The Thousand Sons Sorcerer, Izkarah, paced anxiously back and forth across the rune-engraved deck. The staff in his hand—crafted from the spine of an unknown xenos—unconsciously tapped against the floor, making rhythmic thump, thump sounds.
In just the past few minutes, he had sent at least twelve psychic messages to Grendel through the warp communication channel. At first, there were faint responses—the cold, mechanical mental touch unique to Iron Warriors—but soon, that side fell completely silent.
It felt as though the communication cable had been violently severed with a pair of shears, or worse—the recipient was no longer capable of responding at all.
"Damn digger, flaking out at a time like this—" A profound sense of foreboding welled up inside Izkarah. While Grendel was an insufferable paranoid, he was always rigorous in tactical execution and would never cut the chain of command without cause. Unless, of course, they had met with an insurmountable disaster.
Just then, the bridge's vox-array suddenly blared with a glaring pinkish-purple light, and a communication request filled with static and decadent noise forced its way in.
It was the warlord of an Emperor's Children warband, a degenerate renowned for pursuing the ultimate sensory overload.
"Hey, trickster!" A warped, glamorously grotesque face appeared on the holographic projection. His voice was sharp and piercing, dripping with unconcealed accusation. "What's going on? Where is the promised fire support? Where the hell did the Iron Warriors go? Why can't my sonic array hear the roar of their heavy artillery? Instead, those Mantis Warriors bastards are pushing right up on us!"
Izkarah suppressed his irritation and brushed him off: "Warp turbulence interfered with communications. Grendel is adjusting his formation to prepare for a heavier assault. All you need to do is hold the line—"
"Hold the line? Ha! Looks to me like you're using us as cannon fodder!" The other party was clearly no fool and screamed back, "If you don't get those tin cans moving right now, we're retreating! A fight devoid of aesthetics is pure torture!"
"We are contacting them. Stand by."
Izkarah cut off the transmission before the warlord could finish.
Gazing at the dimming hologram, the sorcerer's expression beneath his mask grew dark as iron.
He knew all too well that this so-called anti-Huron alliance was now dead in all but name, completely shattered.
Those Khorne Berserkers couldn't be counted on anyway. Once those lunatics who knew nothing but "Blood for the Blood God" started fighting, their brains retained nothing except slaughtering. They were likely locked in a desperate meat-grinder battle with the Ogryns, fighting until the last man fell.
As for those Plague Marines—Izkarah glanced at the few green icons representing the Death Guard on the strategic star map. They were eerily quiet, neither calling for help nor launching an attack. But that didn't mean they were holding their ground.
On the contrary, Izkarah understood these surprisingly resilient walking corpses all too well. They didn't call simply because they couldn't be bothered to talk. In truth, those guys knew the situation clearly; the moment things went south, with their thick armor and ability to fight while retreating, they would run faster and more steadily than anyone.
"A rabble of useless scum."
Izkarah sighed, his gaze falling onto the massive, slowly revolving psychic ritual circle at the center of the bridge.
That was his ultimate trump card—a large-scale sorcery capable of forcibly tearing open the veil of reality to perform a short-range warp jump. As long as he activated it, he and his flagship could instantly escape this lethal encirclement.
But what then?
Izkarah's fingers hovered over the edge of the ritual circle.
Even if the spell succeeded and allowed him to jump clear of the current battlefield, where could he go?
The entire Maelstrom region was now Huron's backyard. Since the "Tyrant of Badab" dared to set this trap, he had undoubtedly woven a net tight enough to cover the heavens and the earth. The outer shipping lanes were certainly locked down by the Astral Claws fleet.
If he chose to plunge directly into the deep warp, fleeing toward the Eye of Terror or other regions active with Chaos forces—
Izkarah shook his head. That meant not only a long and perilous journey, but also absolute defeat. He had operated in the Maelstrom for so long, collecting artifacts, recruiting men, and plotting schemes. Was it all just to flee back like a homeless dog in disgrace?
Besides, wandering the warp alone in a damaged warship carried a ninety-percent mortality rate, even for a sorcerer.
Those warp predators wouldn't show mercy just because he was a follower of Tzeentch.
While Izkarah was still hesitating over what to do, harsh alarms blared once more.
"Massive warp jump signals detected! Dark Gods above! The numbers... the numbers are overwhelmingly massive!"
Accompanying the sensor operator's terrified screams, the once-dim void backdrop was instantly illuminated by dense clusters of warp flashes. Battleships as immense as mountain ranges tore through the veil of reality—it was the main fleet of the Astral Claws, deployed in strict, disciplined battle arrays.
This was the Tyrant of Badab's true confidence. The arrival of these fresh forces completely crushed the last shred of wishful thinking within the anti-Huron alliance.
If the previous battle had been an evenly matched meat grinder, now, it was a one-sided slaughter.
"Damn it! How do those madmen have so many ships?!"
The Emperor's Children warband that had been shouting moments ago made their decision almost the instant they confirmed the enemy's banner. The pinkish-purple cruiser turned its bow without hesitation, its engines spewing overloaded flames. It didn't even care if it rammed and destroyed a few allied escort frigates in its desperation to forcibly break away from the battlefield.
Meanwhile, the few Death Guard warships that had remained silent smoothly began deploying vast clouds of thick fog and viral haze for cover. Their hulls slowly turned toward the most turbulent currents of the warp—they had long since mapped out their escape routes.
The battle line collapsed in an instant. For the forces of Chaos, defeat was sealed. The only remaining question was how much ammunition Huron was willing to spend turning them into space debris.
Yet, as he looked at the massive red dot symbolizing destruction on the tactical display, Izkarah felt no despair.
On the contrary, beneath his mask, the eyes burning with psychic fire erupted with a light of wild ecstasy.
"Hahahaha! Finally! You finally decided to crawl out of your rat hole, Huron!"
Izkarah laughed maniacally as he grabbed the ritual control hub beside him. All his previous hesitation and calculations vanished into thin air at this moment. Run? No, there was no need to run anymore.
Since Huron was on that flagship, and since the Tyrant dared to appear so openly in the center of the battlefield, this was a godsent opportunity!
"You want to treat us as prey? I'll shatter your teeth!"
The Thousand Sons Sorcerer violently twisted his staff, crudely modifying the warp coordinates that had originally been set for a long-distance escape.
Obscure incantations poured from his mouth, and blue Tzeentchian warpfire instantly consumed all the Rubric Marines on the bridge.
"Target locked! Astral Claws flagship bridge! Decapitation strike! Everyone, follow me!!"
With his command, the spell that was supposed to carry them into the depths of the warp transformed into a highly directed teleportation beam.
Space distorted, and reality screamed.
The next second, Izkarah and his Rubric guard felt the light and shadow shift rapidly before their eyes, the sickening sensation of warp compression vanishing in a flash. Immediately after, a solid metallic touch met the soles of their feet. Their surroundings no longer held the familiar stale stench of their own warship, but a mixture of machine oil, incense, and a chilling intent to kill.
The teleportation was a success!
Overjoyed, Izkarah raised his staff high, his psychic energy surging violently, preparing to unleash a lethal psychic bolt at the unprepared Tyrant the moment he landed.
"Die, Hu—"
However, his roar caught in his throat.
As the teleportation light faded, what met his eyes was not a chaotic and panicked command room, but a wall.
A wall made of Terminator armor.
At the center of the vast strategic hall of the flagship, at least a hundred veterans of the Astral Claws 1st Company, clad in heavy Terminator armor, stood in a perfect semicircle.
Directly behind these steel giants, a burly figure in heavy armor sat imperiously on the command throne.
It was Lufgt Huron.
Izkarah froze. Although the Rubric Marines behind him raised their bolters, being faced at this range by a hundred Terminators left no doubt about the outcome.
Huron raised an eyebrow slightly, a fierce grin appearing on his scarred face. He spoke slowly, his voice echoing through the hall: "I was just wondering how much effort it would take to board your ship and clean you rats out."
He stood up, the blades on his Lightning Claw extending with a crisp metallic clatter.
"I didn't expect that before I even launched a boarding action, someone would voluntarily present themselves to give me some exercise. The service of your Thousand Sons Legion is truly... thoughtful."