Adam looked up at the falling figure, the smile at the corners of his mouth deepening.
To be honest, he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Ever since confirming that a big fish like Vashtorr could truly be lured out, Adam—who was far too eager for "progress"—had no intention of letting this guy leave alive. Resurrecting Sigismund and granting him the Black Sword was merely the most insignificant part of the entire plan.
The true killing blow he had prepared was hidden within a chamber deep inside the Phalanx.
To hunt Vashtorr and assist their deity in ascending to godhood, the researchers at Prometheus Labs had racked their brains, bringing out almost everything they had in storage. Added to that was the Pariah Nexus—forbidden technology provided by the former Necron Cryptek, Suttungr—which had been laid out around this predetermined ambush point, severing the connection between this space and the Warp completely.
Of course, that wasn't all.
Adam had even prepared a newly designed, menacingly styled "Little General" cannon for Vashtorr. This device, with a caliber comparable to a ship-mounted macro-cannon, was loaded with the most luxurious shells in the entire galaxy: Astronomican Ash.
These were the remains of countless psykers burned to nothingness within the Astronomican, a substance more lethal than the deadliest poison to Warp daemons. Normally, this rare material was only used to make a few dozen bullets for the Grey Knights or high-ranking Inquisitors to deal with the most dangerous daemons. No one had ever dared to turn them into cannon shells. There simply wasn't enough of it, and it was considered an extreme waste.
But Adam could do it. If it was him, he could make it happen!
Regrettably, the prey had changed his route midway due to a sudden whim, narrowly escaping that particular fate by sheer accident. Adam felt it was a pity at the time, but thinking back now—he felt this was just as well. After all, the feeling of hunting something with his own hands was much more exhilarating.
As his thoughts flashed by, Vashtorr had already fallen within Adam's range.
Adam raised his right hand. In his palm, the miniature black hole spun slowly. It was not large, roughly the size of a fist, but the air around it had begun to warp. Light bent near it, and dust was pulled by invisible gravity, spiraling into that absolute darkness.
There was no sound. A true black hole was silent. It simply swallowed everything that touched its gravitational boundary, dragging matter, energy, and even space itself into eternal nothingness. Adam looked at the creation in his hand, feeling a slight sense of wonder. This was his strongest attack.
Vashtorr's expression at that moment was a sight to behold. On that hideous iron face, there was first shock, then confusion, and finally a near-absurd sense of terror.
"You—"
He only managed that single syllable. Vashtorr recognized the object. As the master of Soul-Forges and a great being holding the authority of the forge, he was naturally well-informed.
That was a black hole weapon. It was something that theoretically only existed in vanished histories—such as the War in Heaven of the Necrons or the Dark Age of Technology. It was an ultimate weapon that could truly threaten a Warp sub-god.
How could a mortal have such a thing in his hand?
Wait—is this guy really a mortal?
Vashtorr had no time to think. Adam's arm jerked, and the black hole flew out.
In that instant, the entire chamber seemed to freeze. The black hole traced an incredibly slow arc—a result of gravity warping the flow of time—toward Vashtorr. The air along its path was violently sucked away, creating a sharp whistling sound, but the sound was swallowed by the black hole as soon as it was produced, forming a strange, intermittent wailing.
Vashtorr roared frantically. On his broken body, the mechanical structures began to twitch violently. Countless tiny mechanical tentacles grew out from his flesh, intertwining on the surface of his body, manifesting various bizarre technological weapons.
Simultaneously, a force field erupted from within him—a direct manifestation of the Soul-Forge authority, a Warp intervention capable of twisting the laws of reality.
The two forces collided in mid-air.
The black hole's gravitational field began to warp. Its perfect spherical edge was forced into an elongated, irregular ellipsoid. Vashtorr's body crumbled under the gravity, turning into countless fragments sucked into the transforming darkness, but more structures grew frantically, doing everything possible to push the object off its trajectory.
"GET AWAY FROM ME!!!"
Vashtorr's roar shook the entire chamber. The black hole grazed his shoulder. It wasn't torn or blown apart; it simply vanished. It was as if nothing had ever existed there. At the edge, the cross-section of metal and flesh showed a bizarre, mirror-like luster.
Vashtorr let out a shriek that didn't sound human. The sound was a mix of tearing metal, daemonic wails, and a deeper, essential agony. His body fell from the air, his tattered wings flapping powerlessly, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
The black hole continued to fly for several meters behind him before finally reaching its carrying limit. It contracted sharply, burst with a final blinding flash of blue light, and then—annihilated.
Nothing was left behind. Only the victim, whose shoulder had been mostly swallowed, lay in a pool of blood, gasping for air. Vashtorr struggled to crawl up, but he could no longer do it. The loss of half his torso caused his balance to collapse completely. His remaining mechanical structures twitched in vain, only managing to scrape harsh shrieks against the metal floor.
Footsteps sounded.
The heroes of the Great Crusade, having broken free from the chaos, had now gathered around. Sigismund's Black Sword was lowered, daemonic blood dripping from the tip. Garro's massive scythe was held across his body, cold light shimmering on the blade. Tarvitz's longsword was slightly raised, ready to deliver a fatal thrust. The World Eater's savage chainaxe was still idling. At the tip of Zharost's scepter, psychic light condensed once more into a lethal edge.
Including Adam, there were six figures from six directions. Every possible escape route for Vashtorr was sealed.
Adam stepped out from the shadows. Vashtorr raised his head with difficulty, staring fixedly at the "mortal" walking toward him with his remaining eye. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something—to stall for time, or perhaps simply to beg for mercy.
"Wait..."
Adam did not give him the chance. What a joke. Villains die because they talk too much! Once you're dead, I can say anything I want to your tombstone!
His right hand rose again. Within his palm, a new power was condensing.
This time, it wasn't a black hole. Although the power of a black hole was formidable, it seemed the effect was diminished against a Chaos demigod who mastered Soul-Forges and represented the pinnacle of galactic technological progress.
Lesson learned; I'll apply this next time.
However, there would be no "next time" for the observation.
With a thought from Adam, a sharp, pure-white ceremonial sword appeared out of thin air in his palm.
The Solomon Ceremonial Sword.
The blade began to vibrate the moment it appeared, as if feeling its master's current exhilaration. Flames rose from the hilt, spreading frantically along the spine of the blade, engulfing the entire weapon in an instant. But the fire was not an ordinary red; it was a brilliant, dazzling white. It was as if the sword could feel the excitement of its two creators who had finally waited for this moment.
Adam gripped the sword with both hands and raised it high. The brilliant white flames pulled a long trail of light behind him, illuminating the entire chamber like broad daylight.
Vashtorr looked at that sword, at the figure holding it high, and an emotion he thought would never appear within him finally surged.
Despair.
It wasn't a fear of death, but horror at a deeper fact. This entire situation had been a trap from start to finish. From the moment he stepped onto the Phalanx, the outcome was decided.
But he didn't want to die! He still wanted to become a god, to ascend to that highest position, to—
There was only one final way left. A gleam of mad determination flashed in Vashtorr's eyes.