The sky changed.
To be more precise, the entire firmament above Terra was warping in a way that defied all logic. The bizarre canopy, previously contaminated by various daemon-tides, was now being eroded and replaced from within by an eerie blue light.
That blue was not a mere color; it was a living, shifting, and grotesque existence—it flowed, swirled, and wove patterns that no mortal mind could comprehend. The clouds were saturated by this blue radiance, hanging low like shrouds soaked in phosphor fire. Tiny arcs of blue lightning leaped through the air, each flash accompanied by a faint, ghostly snicker, as if the sky itself were mocking the mortals struggling below.
On the ground, the first to notice the anomaly were the Imperial soldiers fighting on the front lines. The earth beneath their feet began to grow hot, then started to crystallize. Transparent blue crystal clusters, like the tentacles of a living creature, burrowed out from the rubble and corpses, spreading and growing at a speed visible to the naked eye.
A veteran of the Lucifer Black slipped and stepped on a freshly sprouted cluster while retreating; the crystal instantly pierced through his boot and into his flesh. Before he could even scream, his entire body was covered in the same blue crystals starting from his foot, finally turning him into a crystal statue frozen in an expression of terror.
"...It's Tzeentch."
Atop the battlements, Guilliman murmured the name to himself. But before his voice could fade, a world-drowning sound of shrill laughter erupted.
The laughter surged from all directions—from every crack, every shadow, and every blue flame. Tzeentchian daemons seemed suddenly injected with a thousandfold increase in fanatical energy. They tumbled and danced in the air, their staves tracing eerie trajectories, each strike precisely hitting the weakest links in the defensive line.
"Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee—" "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—" "Change! Change has arrived!"
Their shrieks converged into a tide, battering the sanity of every Imperial warrior. And in the deepest part of this blue mist, at the core illuminated like high noon by psychic brilliance, figures began to descend one after another.
Nine Lords of Change slowly emerged from the mist. They stepped out and stood apart, the psychic radiance emanating from them piercing the heavens, reflecting off the clouds like a burning blue ocean. Then, they raised their staves.
A psychic storm struck. The blue hurricane carried energy capable of tearing reality apart, sweeping across sections of the defensive line. The brave soldiers of the Astra Militarum didn't even have time to shout before they were swept into it—and then, they began to change. Some grew a second head, some had arms turn into tentacles, and some started to turn transparent, eventually dissipating into a swarm of blue butterflies amidst their wails.
The second, the third, the fourth...
Nine storms descended simultaneously from nine different directions. The Imperial lines were collapsing. Warriors who had stood as firm as Cadia within fortifications skillfully designed by the Primarch were now falling like stalks of wheat in a storm.
Such a sudden and shocking turn of events startled not only the Imperium. Even the daemons of the other two gods, who had been fighting alongside the Tzeentchian forces, fell into an eerie silence. The Bloodletters of Khorne halted their axes, staring blankly at the growing blue light in the sky. The Daemonettes of Slaanesh retracted their flirtatious smiles and looked at each other, as if checking if they were caught in some sort of illusion.
What was going on? Had Tzeentch changed his nature?
This was the common question circling the minds of every entity witnessing this scene. If Khorne had lost his temper and committed forces far beyond the norm, it would be understandable—it wouldn't be the first time. If Slaanesh had lost themselves in some extreme pleasure and pushed all chips onto the table, that too would make sense.
But Tzeentch? The Master of Schemes who always observed from the shadows and never personally joined the fray? The God of Change whom no one could figure out, and whose true intentions were a mystery even to his own followers?
He actually went "all-in"? This was completely inconsistent with his temperament over eons, so absurd that even entities accustomed to the madness of the Warp fell into deep self-doubt.
Under the relentless bombardment of those nine psychic storms, though the Imperial soldiers resisted with suicidal bravery, they continued to retreat step by step. The battle lines were shrinking. Positions were being lost one by one.
Just then—atop the battlements.
Guilliman made a decision. He raised his hand and, without looking back, made a simple gesture.
Then, the entire battlefield witnessed a phenomenon. A phenomenon that would be recorded in the annals of the Imperium and leave countless observers speechless.
The gates—slowly opened.
The sound they made was low and distant, like a sigh issued by ten thousand years of time. And within those gaping portals, a tide no less formidable than the Chaos daemon-tide was surging.
First to step out was the gold. The Adeptus Custodes.
They were heavily armed and solemn, every face looking like a deity stepped out of an ancient relief. They emerged from the gates in units of a hundred, forming one rigorous Shield Company after another, marching with a synchronization so perfect it was suffocating.
Beside them were the Sisters of Silence clad in combat suits. The design of those suits had originally originated from the technology of a xenos civilization, but they had been meticulously modified by researchers at Prometheus Labs. Now they didn't look quite so "xenos"—the heavy armor was covered in Imperial-style decorative engravings, the Aquila emblem was branded on the spaulders, and the originally too-slender silhouettes had been adjusted to better fit Imperial aesthetics.
The Talons of the Emperor had officially reappeared here after ten thousand years. Of course, no one cared about such trivial details at this moment.
What truly sent every observer into a daze was the ocean that poured out next. It was an ocean composed of power armor of various colors.
One Primaris Astartes after another stepped forth. Their physiques were even taller, burlier, and more perfect than ordinary Astartes. They held all manner of weaponry, from bolt rifles to plasma rifles, from power fists to thunder hammers. A massive amount of vehicles were mixed among them—Predator tanks, Whirlwind rocket launchers, even an entire squadron of Land Speeders—forming a mechanized torrent enough to strike terror into any enemy.
But what truly shocked people was not their equipment. It was the quantity.
Thousands? No—tens of thousands!
Members of the Inquisition watching from the side gaped, unable to make a sound. Where did so many Astartes come from? And this number and organization... it completely violated the Codex Astartes! Any Chapter that dared to expand privately would face investigation by the Inquisition and a penance crusade of a century or more.
But now? Roboute Guilliman was standing on the wall. The Lord Regent of the Imperium was looking down upon all of this.
I must admit this indeed violates the principles. But I am the one who set the principles. Do you have an objection?
Under the gaze of countless complex emotions, the two tides finally collided. Every splash created in the middle was the passing of countless lives. The clashing of metal, the screeching of psychic power, the tearing of flesh, and the roars of despair—all sounds converged, turning into a world-shaking symphony of death that only a battlefield could compose.
The state of the war, at this moment, had entered a state of total white-heat.