With a flick of a finger, you instantly travel to the brilliant world of Chapter 133, "News of Vashtorr."
The main doors were thrown wide open.
Two tall figures clad in resplendent golden armor stepped into the command center. Their stride was steady, as if walking through the corridors of their own palace rather than into the heart of an enemy formation.
The figure on the left was agile, his armor adorned with complex and ornate engravings, wielding a power sword that radiated a cold, chilling light. The figure on the right was more massive and imposing, his shoulder guards decorated with ancient eagle crests. The tip of the Guardian Spear in his hand—which had just claimed Kroeger's head—still shimmered with the lingering glow of energy.
Ra Endymion's lenses swept across the room, instantly locking onto the Warsmith and the Chaos Sorcerer.
The process of them reaching this place was not particularly complicated. When an infiltrator's speed is fast enough and their killing efficiency high enough, they can simply travel the shortest distance between two points, simplifying the route into a straight, blood-stained path.
False Infiltration: Hiding one's tracks and avoiding all eyes and ears.
True Infiltration: Charging at speeds exceeding the enemy's reaction limits, turning all potential witnesses into silent corpses before anyone can raise an alarm.
From Honsou's outpost to Kroeger's newly assembled forces, and through the layers of security surrounding this command post, Endymion and Diocletian had done nothing more than pierce straight through using the mobility and killing arts of the Custodes—skills that surpassed the understanding of mortals and even most Astartes.
Before absolute speed and power, the Iron Warriors' defensive network was as thin as a cicada's wing.
The Warsmith's mind raced, trying to comprehend the scene before him.
Golden armor... it is indeed golden armor. But the craftsmanship, and the tangible pressure radiating from the wearers...
—The Emperor's Adeptus Custodes!
Even as the situation took a sharp turn for the worse, he felt a massive sense of absurdity.
It's fine, they are also guards of Terra... not much different from the Imperial Fists...
The hell they aren't!
Custodes? Those guards who haven't left the vicinity of the Golden Throne in ten thousand years? Why are they here? This is illogical! This defies everything I know about this era!
It was as if one went to pick an opponent in a boxing ring; seeing Mike Tyson step up would be tough enough, but then Tyson smiles and says he's just the referee, only for an Ultraman to step out from behind him. It was that ridiculous.
Just then, a sharp, inhuman shriek of terror erupted from the Warsmith's side.
"No... impossible!!"
The "Tzeentchian Sorcerer" looked as if he were seeing his worst nightmare. He staggered back, and beneath the armor encasing his body, countless inhuman limbs seemed to squirm and struggle.
"Diocletian? Ra Endymion?! You... you should be dead! In the Webway! Under the siege of those demons! I saw it... a part of me saw it with my own eyes!"
"Oh?"
Endymion's helmet turned slightly toward the hysterical sorcerer. His honed senses allowed him to see the truth instantly.
That was no ordinary Chaos Sorcerer, but a cunning Tzeentchian daemon possessing or disguised as an Astartes shell. Furthermore, judging by its words and reaction, it was a veteran who had experienced that brutal Webway War ten thousand years ago.
"Quite the... coincidence," Endymion's voice echoed through his helmet, calm and undisturbed.
Before the words had even faded, he moved. There was no thunderous burst of momentum, only a golden blur of extreme speed.
The power sword carved a precise arc—not directly at the daemon, but first slicing through the warp spells the creature had hastily conjured to slow him down. Endymion closed the distance instantly; there was no longer any barrier between him and the Tzeentchian daemon, which was now revealing its inhuman form and flailing limbs.
Simultaneously, Diocletian moved. His target was clear: the Warsmith. The Guardian Spear was thrust forward with a will that could pierce anything—simple, direct, and lethal.
"Block them! Use the contract! Now! Immediately!" the Tzeentchian daemon shrieked. It dropped all pretense, unleashing its full power. Dazzling spell-lights, reality-warping force fields, and sensory-dulling illusions erupted simultaneously in an attempt to entangle both Custodians.
At this moment, as cunning as it was, the daemon knew it stood no chance in a fair fight against either one of them. Its only hope was to create enough chaos to snatch a desperate moment of opportunity.
Jarred awake from his daze by the daemon's scream, the Warsmith's survival instincts overrode his shock. He remembered the sorcerer's earlier suggestion and reached quickly for a container at his waist made of human skin and black iron.
However, the Warsmith had clearly underestimated the combat prowess of the Custodes. Seeing this, the two Custodian Tribunes struck with sudden ferocity!
Did he really expect a common Tzeentchian daemon to hold off two legendary Custodian Tribunes who had survived the Webway War and returned from the Legion of the Damned? Just how much had he been drinking to dream such a dream? Unless the daemon had been Kairos Fateweaver himself, it might have stood a chance.
The spell barriers the daemon had just conjured collapsed within a hundredth of a second. Endymion's figure blurred amidst the energy impact, but his sword-light was unmistakably clear, effortlessly piercing the daemon's final defenses and striking precisely into its core essence.
With a final wail, the Tzeentchian daemon fell dead!
On the other side, Diocletian's Guardian Spear pivoted almost simultaneously. The spear tip appeared as if by teleportation right where the Warsmith's arm reached for the contract.
"No—!"
The Warsmith only had time for a short, startled roar. The severed arm clutching the human-skin contract flew into the air. Before the blood could even spray, the haft of Diocletian's spear slammed into the side of the Warsmith's helmet like a heavy hammer.
The massive force—enough to give a Space Marine a concussion or shatter a skull—sent the Warsmith into a blackout. All his thoughts, ambitions, and dreams of becoming a Daemon Prince plunged instantly into bottomless darkness. His massive body hit the floor with a heavy thud, kicking up a cloud of dust.
All his grand ambitions were now for naught.
Endymion did not touch the human-skin contract, which twitched slightly on the floor as if it still possessed a life of its own. His sharp gaze scanned the terms written in blasphemous script, quickly skipping over the long, tedious offerings and descriptions of the price to be paid, looking directly at the signatures at the bottom.
There, two names were signed in a malicious hand:
Party A: Warsmith Barban Falk
Party B: Master of the Soul Forge, Vashtorr the Arkifane
Endymion and Diocletian exchanged a silent look.
This was going to be interesting. Adam would certainly be very pleased.