The battlefield had descended into utter chaos.
The Tech-Priests of the Dark Mechanicum, who worshipped Vashtorr as the true Omnissiah, shrieked frantically. Their mechanical lenses flickered in a panic. They pulled all manner of bizarre weapons from beneath their robes—servo-skulls modified into plasma cannons, portable meltas, and cluster launchers that used living flesh as ammunition—all desperately attempting to surge toward the center of the fray.
But they could not break through.
The Iron Warriors and daemon engines were hopelessly entangled, their front lines locked in a brutal melee with no safe firing angles. A massive daemon engine roared as it tried to crush a path forward, only to be held back by three Iron Warrior Tyrant Terminators, their power fists pounding deep craters into its armor.
Only a few slender figures managed to bypass the wall of men.
Ruststalkers.
These mechanical assassins, bred for the hunt, climbed along the ceiling of the corridor with incredible agility. They bypassed the chaotic front lines and pounced toward Sigismund from the flank.
Vashtorr saw this. He did not move. Because Sigismund was right in front of him, black sword pointed diagonally at the floor, those hollow eyes staring at him.
It wasn't a gaze. There was nothing in Sigismund's eyes. He simply stood there. Yet the danger sense Vashtorr had honed over long ages told him one thing: Do not move.
Then, Vashtorr watched as the Ruststalkers lunged at Sigismund's back.
The black sword moved.
"Casual."
When that word surfaced in Vashtorr's mind, he found it absurd—yet it was the only fitting description. Sigismund did not turn, did not dodge, and did not even seem to exert much force. He simply swung the black sword backward as if shooing away a bothersome fly.
The blade swept through three Ruststalkers. They disintegrated in mid-air. Every joint, every connection, every armor plate fell apart in the wake of that single swing, turning into a cloud of flying scrap metal. Sigismund didn't even give them a second glance. His gaze remained fixed on Vashtorr. Or rather, on his neck.
A chill rose up Vashtorr's spine. This was wrong. This was far too wrong.
If the opponent wanted to finish the decapitation strike, that previous swing should have continued toward him. If they wanted to surround him, they should have called for reinforcements by now. Waiting like this—what was the difference between that and seeking death?
Wait. Reinforcements? Ambush? Trap?
These thoughts flashed through Vashtorr's consciousness like lightning. He suddenly remembered how this all began—the Warsmith suddenly contacting him with the Ouroboros fragment to lure him into attacking the Phalanx; those seemingly sturdy lines that broke so quickly; those Imperial Fists who fought to the death without any communication—
He snapped his head around to look at Dantioch. The Warsmith was standing thirty meters away, his bolter lowered toward the floor, watching everything with an expressionless face.
"Barban Falk!" Vashtorr's voice boomed like rolling thunder, exploding through the corridor. "You betray me?!"
Dantioch looked up. His expression held no panic, nor even any surprise at being discovered. He simply looked at Vashtorr calmly and shook his head.
"Apologies, Heretic."
He reached up and removed his helmet, revealing a face completely different from that of "Barban Falk." As things stand, I'll stop pretending! I'm laying my cards on the table!
"You might have misunderstood something. I am not Barban Falk. My name is Dantioch."
Vashtorr's mechanical pupils contracted violently. Dantioch raised his bolter and gave a slight smile as Vashtorr stared in disbelief.
"By the way, I've been an undercover agent from the very beginning." He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly rising to a roar—
"FOR THE EMPEROR!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR!"
A wave of roars exploded in the corridor!
The Iron Warriors who had just been grappling with the daemon engines tore off their disguises in the same instant. Their muzzles turned, their pre-adjusted formations snapped into place, and the loyal soldiers of the Empire poured their full firepower—bolters, meltas, plasmas, and power swords—unreservedly into their former "allies" standing beside them!
Unbelievable martial skill was unleashed. The Skitarii ranks fell like wheat before the first volley of bolter shells. The Dark Tech-Priests didn't even have time to cry out before being vaporized into blood mist by plasma beams. Daemon engines were shot at point-blank range from behind by their own "comrades," their joints torn by power fists and their engine cores melted by meltas.
Blood. Explosions. Death.
The battlefield reversed in an instant. As the Iron Warriors carried out the slaughter, they felt a strange sense of liberation surging in their chests.
Many of them had participated in the infamous Isstvan campaigns. Whether it was Isstvan III or Isstvan V, those events were far too memorable—those rebels, those lapdogs of Horus, hiding their fangs and malice only to turn their fire upon their brothers when the loyalists were most vulnerable.
The agony of hiding, the joy of exposure—a strange empathy appeared in their hearts. To be honest, this feels too good!
Vashtorr roared in fury. He violently triggered the contract—the one signed with "Barban Falk" with a soul as collateral.
Nothing happened. Dantioch even spared him a small smile. "Don't bother, Heretic."
Vashtorr finally snapped out of his shock and rage. Self-preservation. I must save myself. He could no longer think about the Phalanx—he had to leave this place first!
He swung his iron claws, tearing at the void before him! The Warp veil trembled and cracked under the call of his authority—
Then, nothing happened. The Warp was as calm as still water.
Vashtorr froze. He tore again—harder, more frantically, mobilizing almost all of his authority—but the void remained calm. It was as if it were completely locked down by some invisible force.
Following his perception, Vashtorr snapped his head around. In the shadows of the corridor sat a mortal woman in Inquisitorial garb, her legs crossed. Her hands were folded on her lap, her eyes half-closed, a faint smile on her lips. Psychic light flowed around her—an Alpha-level psyker!
Sibyll looked at the enemy before her and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, it worked.
Back beneath the Hive of the Eternal City, she had faced a psychic spell released by a Tzeentchian daemon that locked the veil between the Warp and reality, prohibiting Warp teleportation. Although the original caster failed to achieve their goal and was instead killed by Sibyll via dimensional teleportation, Sibyll had secretly memorized the technique.
At this moment, she had followed Lord Adam's request, using the power of a Reality Warper to perfectly recreate that spell here.
Vashtorr's face finally turned deathly dark. He suddenly remembered something. Back on that transport ship, before the attack on the Phalanx, he had a brief premonition. If he had listened to that premonition then...
But it was pointless to think about that now.
The sound of footsteps came from all around. Vashtorr turned slowly. Sigismund was still standing there, black sword in hand, those hollow eyes still watching him. He finally understood what Sigismund had been waiting for all this time without attacking.
He was waiting for everyone to arrive.
The first figure stepped out from the shadows. His armor bore the green Legion livery, his pauldrons etched with the sigil of the Death Guard. A long scythe dragged along the floor, making a harsh scraping sound against the metal.
Captain Nathaniel Garro.
The second. Silver-white Artificer Power Armor, surrounded by immense psychic power. He held a crystal scepter in one hand and a longsword in the other. The Grey Knights' insignia gleamed faintly in the dim light.
Grand Master Librarian Fel Zharost.
The third. The newcomer wore no helmet, his face savage and covered in pits and scars. A crimson chainaxe was slung over his shoulder, a bloodthirsty grin stretching to his ears.
A World Eaters Loyalist.
The fourth. Clad in highly ornate decorative armor, every step seemed to measure some perfect rhythm. His longsword pointed diagonally at the ground, his handsome face as calm as water.
Captain Saul Tarvitz.
Vashtorr looked around. These Astartes had formed a faint perimeter, surrounding him. More importantly, Vashtorr noticed they were wearing no technological gadgets. Every piece of equipment that might be related to machinery had been tempered by the power of faith, making it impossible to manipulate. The weapons they used were almost entirely melee weapons.
They came prepared.
Vashtorr laughed from extreme rage. The laughter echoed through the corridor, raspy, low, and carrying a hint of hysteria.
"Hehehehe..."
If this were a configuration meant to deal with a Greater Daemon, that daemon would surely be ground into dust here, both body and soul destroyed. This was indeed a certain-death trap.
But how did they dare? Who did they think they were?
"I am Vashtorr. I am the God of Machines. I am a Warp sub-god who has mastered the authority of the Forge. I am the Great Presence of the future Warp! Before coming here, I made countless plans and prepared countless contingencies."
"Then—" Vashtorr looked up, his iron wings snapping open, a frantic fire burning in his mechanical eyes.
"COME!"