One hour ago.
When Lion El'Jonson and his group of Risen were traversing the dense forest.
Light was sliced into countless shattered flecks by layers of overlapping foliage, dappling across the Lion's dark green power armor in shifting patches.
Right at that moment, a voice sounded from behind him.
"Father."
The Lion halted his steps, turning back in curiosity.
Amidst the squad of Risen clad in pitch-black power armor, a figure was approaching him.
The man's movements were equally silent, but every action carried a concise and capable aura all too familiar to the Lion.
Holst.
Captain of the First Company of the Dark Angels, and his most trusted second-in-command.
In terms of swordsmanship, no one in the entire Dark Angels Legion could claim with certainty to be superior to him.
Except, of course, for a certain Kai who didn't know his own limits.
"What is it?"
Lion El'Jonson exercised a touch of patience to ask.
Though eager to cross the forest and enter the Webway, he was always willing to grant a little extra patience to Holst.
Naturally, Holst did not waste words either.
He raised his hand and tossed over something that looked like a cloth pouch.
The Lion casually caught it with one hand; the pouch felt light, almost weightless.
"What is this?"
"This is support provided to you by Lord Adam."
Holst's voice was like his swordsmanship—devoid of any unnecessary flourishes, delivering the answer cleanly and directly.
"A 'handy little gadget,' as he called it. Most of its contents originate from treasures within the Legion's forbidden vaults, serving as dedicated support for this mission."
The moment those words left his mouth, almost every Risen nearby cast a death glare toward Holst that could kill.
'What?'
'You went and blabbed all the Legion's secrets to an outsider?'
'Is that how you act like a Dark Angel?'
'You're an absolute disgrace among us!'
Yet at the thought that this guy was Holst, the Dark Angels veterans could only shift their gazes away in frustration.
There was no helping it—his seniority and stature in the Legion were right there. Forget them, even the Lion himself had to grant him a degree of deference.
The Lion bounced the pouch in his hand, feeling very little weight, and continued to ask: "You are saying that the items inside are all ancient secret stores of the Dark Angels? Are you certain they are real?"
"Yes."
Holst nodded, calmly uttering two words.
"And it's—all of them."
'What did you say?!'
The other Risen stared with wide, bewildered eyes, and even the Lion unexpectedly showed a rare flicker of surprise.
'All of them?'
That First Legion of old that once dominated the galaxy, that legion that had erased uncounted xenos empires in the shadows, and even bore the ultimate countermeasure against a Mechanicum rebellion—the "Omega Protocol"—assigned by the Emperor himself...
During the Great Crusade, the enemies faced by the Dark Angels were the most terrifying, their very existence capable of plunging Imperial citizens into utter panic, to the point that they had to be exterminated in complete secrecy.
A vault of this caliber was no laughing matter.
Even compared side-by-side across all legions, it was an absolute heavyweight presence.
And this tiny cloth pouch contained 'all' of it?
"—Including the Excindio Class?"
The Lion tentatively put forth a question.
The Excindio—the last remaining Abominable Intelligences still serving humanity.
Those AI tortured into madness had been rebuilt as multi-armed automated battle automata, mounted with the most horrifying ancient weaponry; every single one was a monster among monsters.
To give a concrete idea: during the Thramas Crusade of the Great Heresy, the Dark Angels deployed seven Excindio automata all at once just to deal with the traitor Primarch Konrad Curze.
That was a Primarch—the Night Haunter, the most dread-inducing nightmare of all.
"Including the Excindio Class."
Holst answered without a moment's hesitation.
The Lion fell silent for a short while, his subtle gaze dropping back onto the pouch in his hand once more.
Then, he stowed the pouch away properly.
How to put it? Though he felt he could handle things on his own...
The reserved, restrained smile on his face gradually transformed into a look of overwhelming firepower capability.
'Tactical maneuvers when poor; saturation bombardment when rich!'
---
Back to the present.
"Then, prepare to move."
Having naturally taken over military command, the Lion's gaze swept over everyone present.
The White Scars warriors had already mounted their anti-gravity jetbikes. The hum of engines echoed through the Webway's wraithbone structure like a low growl before an impending storm.
He set the timer inside his helmet to a fixed value, then issued the command without hesitation: "White Scars, you are responsible for the main frontal assault. Leverage your speed advantage to carry out harassment on the perimeter of this camp.
One minute after your action begins, I will lead the Risen to teleport directly into the core of the camp to execute a decapitation strike."
He paused, his eyes scanning every warrior present: "Synchronize timers now. If there are no objections, the plan is set."
No one raised an objection.
Those Space Marines who had a clear concept of what a Primarch truly represented naturally wouldn't refute a plan that appeared so crude on the surface.
After all, the person executing the plan was a Primarch; even the simplest plan would become extraordinarily lethal.
Of course, a certain someone failed to realize this.
Commander Shadowsun stared blankly at the distant camp.
It was a fortress monastery constructed from blackstone, bristling with giant banners. Every banner was painted in blood with twisted Chaos runes that writhed slowly in the dim light as if alive.
Fixed gun emplacements lined the walls densely, and behind every turret stood Word Bearers clad in power armor, an unholy light burning within their helmets.
The outer perimeter of the camp featured several defense lines—barbed wire, spiked stakes, and foul-smelling sacrificial pits piled with the skeletal remains of unknown creatures.
The tight defenses of this place left even Shadowsun finding it extremely tricky.
Then she looked at her own side.
Fewer than twenty Risen, plus that giant who had been chatting with her moments ago.
"You mean to say... without understanding their situation at all, without knowing how tight their defenses are, you plan to teleport straight into the camp to attack?"
Shadowsun was thoroughly baffled.
"Are you serious?"
In T'au military history, decapitation strikes were generally referred to as the 'Mont'ka'.
Though compared to her senior battle-brother Commander Farsight, Shadowsun was less specialized in this particular tactic, she still knew that executing a 'Mont'ka' absolutely required meticulous planning and detailed intelligence gathering to have any chance of success.
Executing a decapitation strike without adequate intelligence wasn't bravery—it was suicide.
Yet why didn't a single one of these battle-hardened, experienced Space Marines raise a single objection?
'Am I going crazy, or are you all crazy?'
In response, Kor'sarro Khan merely glanced at her with a matter-of-fact look.
"It's fine."
His tone was calm, as if stating common sense: "After all, he is a Primarch."
Shadowsun opened her mouth, but in the end, not a single word came out.
'BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!'
The roar of bolters echoed throughout the Webway corridor.
The White Scars rode their brand-new anti-gravity jetbikes, leaping out from the dense forest like a bolt of lightning, their war cries shaking heaven and earth.
Their speed was simply too fast—so fast that the fixed gun emplacements on the walls operated by Chaos Space Marines couldn't lock onto their targets at all.
Bullets tore through the air with shrieking trajectories, showering precisely onto the camp's outer defensive lines. Every hit kicked up clouds of blood spray and shattered rock.
The T'au forces followed closely behind.
Flocks of drones were deployed, their dense ion fire dragging blue light trails through the air as they pelted the walls and turrets.
Clad in her battlesuit, Shadowsun poured out firepower as well; the heavy ion cannons and fusion blasters mounted on her arms spat lethal tongues of flame.
She leveraged her battlesuit's cloaking capability to approach the walls under the cover of the White Scars, then unleashed her attack, obliterating everything in sight.
And amidst this sky-covering barrage, Lion El'Jonson calmly drew his sword.
"Let us go."
A flash of green light from dimensional teleportation flickered and vanished.
All the Risen, along with the Lion, disappeared on the spot instantly.
When the Lion opened his eyes again, his surroundings had completely changed.
He stepped onto a plaza paved with blackstone, the air thick with a foul stench mixing blood and incense.
Around him, at least a dozen Word Bearers were staring jaw-dropped at this green giant that had abruptly appeared out of empty space, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.
As Space Marines, their reaction speed was by no means slow.
However, it was entirely meaningless.
There was no need for the Lion to even raise a hand.
The roar of plasma and bolters exploded at point-blank range simultaneously. Accompanied by the fluid movements of Great Crusade veterans that were smoother than breathing, the surrounding Word Bearers didn't even have time to scream before turning into a pile of scattered, mangled corpses.
"Feels... inferior to the Rangdan," Zabriel offered a sharp critique from within the Risen formation.
"Maintain focus."
The Lion unsheathed 'Fealty' from his hip, stepping forward with long strides.
As a Primarch, his transcendent mind processed all incoming information in a fraction of a second—sounds in the air, vibrations in the ground, psychic fluctuations emanating from Chaos runes, as well as the footsteps and heartbeats of enemies surging toward this direction.
All data was integrated, rapidly sketching a clear path through this massive camp, pointing directly to its core.
With a sweep of his longsword, the Lion's voice was calm to the point of cold indifference.
"Keep up."
And so, this squad began an unhindered slaughter through the camp.
Throughout the process, the Lion didn't even slow his pace.
---
"Ha? What's going on?!"
Deep inside the command center.
Erebus stared with wide eyes.
As a notorious figure across the Legion and the entire galaxy, the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers hadn't ended up here without reason.
Perhaps because he had clung to his genetic father for too long, Lorgar seemed to have finally grown somewhat sick of his presence; or perhaps the upcoming grand scheme didn't require his company.
Thus, Lorgar kicked him out with a single boot, assigning him to guard a camp here.
Naturally, Erebus was more than happy with this arrangement.
Once he set up the camp, he began lazily slacking off.
Under the modifications of a master in Warp rituals, this place quickly became extremely dangerous.
Even constrained by the Webway environment, it posed no challenge to a genius like Erebus.
So, when Erebus realized that someone had dared to teleport directly inside his camp, his initial reaction was not hard to guess.
'What, who do you think you are?'
'Daring to barge into my camp—you must be tired of living.'
Even if Khârn came knocking on his door, the present-day Erebus wouldn't feel a shred of fear!
"Likely just another human exploration team that managed to enter the Webway," he thought.
Holding a mindset of finding a bit of amusement out of boredom, Erebus began sharing a view of the battlefield through the eyes of a demon bound to a unholy device.
A vision constructed of Warp sorcery unfolded before his eyes.
Then, Erebus saw a tall, green-armored giant holding a shield in his right hand and a sword in his left, slaughtering his Word Bearers at terrifying speed.
He fell silent.
Alright.
This one actually... might be able to do it.
Without a single shred of hesitation, Erebus didn't even waste time cursing fate.
On his face covered in Chaos runes, his expression underwent an oscar-worthy transformation in a split second, switching instantly from shock to a flattering smile.
Erebus raised his hand and directly dialed an internal comms channel within the camp.
"Hello? Is that you, big guy?"
"Erebus, what do you want?"
A rough voice tainted with obvious Warp mutations came from the other end of the comms.
"I've found a good job for you."
Erebus put his acting skills to work, speaking in a tone as casual as if discussing dinner: "A little kitty got into our camp. Though not big, it's quite annoying. Go handle it."
"HAHAHAHA! You're unwilling to handle even a minor thing like this? You have to bother me?"
The Possessed Space Marine let out a coarse, wild laugh, his tone filled with unhidden contempt.
"Isn't it because I see how capable you are?"
Erebus hung up the comms with a smile.
Then, with blinding speed, he dialed a second call, a third, a fourth—
For every comms call, he used an entirely different tone and phrasing—there were overbearing orders, requests between battle-brothers, compliments to certain experts, and even calls for help disguised as urgent military reports.
Yet the objective of every call was identical.
Erebus directly dispatched all the Word Bearers company captains under his command—sent them all out!
His intent was crystal clear:
'You, go fight Lion El'Jonson!'
After completing all these operations within a brief minute, Erebus stood up with a calm expression.
He pressed a hidden mechanism on the inner side of his armrest.
The wall behind him slid open silently, revealing a narrow, dark secret passage.
Without a moment's hesitation, Erebus turned on his heel and ran!
What a joke.
If he didn't run now, was he supposed to wait for someone to deliver a Lion Flying-Head Punch straight to his face?