The issuance of the Final Defense Line directive was like casting several supernovas into a war-torn quagmire on the brink of collapse.
Elsewhere, the same story was playing out, just with different soldiers and different odds. The Imperium's massive yet terrifyingly potent war machine began its frenzied operation regardless of cost. In its most desperate moments, it was capable of explosive, overwhelming force.
The level and diversity of power it displayed shocked even players already accustomed to the grim darkness of Warhammer 40K's setting.
---
Outside Sicarne Hive City, on a relatively intact defense platform.
I Will Carry You had just respawned from another brief feeding spree and was nervously checking her equipment. Then she froze, completely stunned by the troops assembling before her eyes.
This was a vanguard regiment of the Ventrilian Noble Army, just deployed here and roughly three thousand strong. They hadn't occupied any critical position, merely serving as mobile reserves and flank fire support.
But their equipment was another matter entirely.
I Will Carry You's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Below her platform was a leveled assembly area. Parked there were not the common Chimera transports or Leman Russ tanks she expected, but an endless vista of Baneblades, super-heavy tanks like mobile mountains of steel.
Those iconic twin-linked main cannons, thick sloped armor, and numerous weapon stations scattered across each hull reflected cold light under the dim sky. A rough count revealed no fewer than two hundred in this area alone.
And that wasn't all.
Around the tank clusters stood neatly arrayed noble army infantry. They wore deep green power armor, not crude flak armor, but true power armor threaded with miniature servo-systems and energy circuits, with family crests marked on their breastplates.
Instead of ordinary lasguns, each soldier carried sleek melta rifle variants and plasma guns fitted with precision sights and bayonet lugs. Their backpacks were twice the size of standard Imperial Guard issue, bulging with premium supplies.
Nearby, Mechanicus techpriests, robed engineers devoted to the machine-god, maintained several elite Sentinel walkers resembling upright scorpions, or bipedal walking artillery pieces.
I Will Carry You reflexively opened the points shop to check prices. Masterwork power armor cost 450 points. A standard-issue melta rifle ran 280 points.
This noble army handed both to ordinary privates as standard equipment.
She glanced down at her own system-issued Catachan jungle armor and mediocre lasrifle.
"Holy crap..." she muttered, her voice clearly audible through the livestream microphone. "Which Warhammer 40K billionaire came to war? This isn't filling the line, this is a military parade with some combat on the side!"
She shook her head slowly. "I really believe Old Devil Medici's lies now. Even the rich carry guns here? Is it really this extreme?"
Watching those noble army soldiers, their faces mixing pride, discipline, and a trace of fanaticism, utterly unlike the grim death-masks of the Death Korps of Krieg, she suddenly felt that every war zone she'd been in before was impoverished militia fighting guerrilla skirmishes.
The Imperium's true strength, or rather the true strength of certain Imperial strata, had just revealed the very tip of the iceberg.
"No way, I've got to figure out how to scrounge some of that equipment..." I Will Carry You's eyes gleamed as she began scheming how to buddy up with these rich and handsome friendly forces.
---
Heralius Hive City, scorched earth battlefield core.
I Am Not God was locked in mortal combat with a Bloodletter of Khorne, a towering war-daemon of the Blood God. Four meters tall, its body sheathed in brass and blood-red bone plates, it wielded a massive two-handed sword wreathed in roaring blood-flames.
This daemon's power far exceeded the lesser Bloodletters he had faced before. It was more agile and deadly than even a Helbrute, a corrupted war machine twisted by Chaos. Its every sword stroke carried tremendous force and soul-rending violence, forcing I Am Not God to constantly dodge and skirmish, unable to meet it head-on.
Despite the anti-daemon blessing and attribute enhancements granted by the Living Saint, his mortal flesh remained outmatched in raw strength and speed. Several deep wounds marked his body, visible to the bone. Blood soaked his tattered clothing. The absence of his missing arm made every exchange more dangerous than the last.
He side-rolled to avoid another sweeping slash. The sword wind stung his cheek. He came up panting, stamina and focus draining fast. At this rate, he'd be worn down before he found an opening.
Just as he steeled himself to advance again, a gentle yet firm warmth surged from behind, flowing rapidly through his entire body.
The searing pain of his wounds lessened. The bleeding stopped. Even his exhausted spirit revived. He felt his strength and reaction speed climbing back toward something workable.
"Hm?" He retreated several steps to open distance from the daemon, then turned with wary confusion.
A roughly three-hundred-strong infantry unit was advancing from the flank ruins at a punishing march pace. Their equipment was unlike anything in the standard Imperial Guard. They wore lightweight dark brown field uniforms, intricately woven and inlaid with biological bone plates and exotic metal.
Archaic helmets with neck guards and faceplates covered their heads. Their weapons were long-barreled laser carbines of unusual design, fitted with curved blades for close quarters.
Several officer-types in more elaborate armored cloaks led them, bearing mysterious symbols. One held no weapon at all, both hands clasped before his chest, palms gathering a soft emerald-green glow.
That glow was the source of the warmth now restoring I Am Not God's condition.
The unit deployed in formation at his flank with practiced, wordless coordination. The lead officer maintained the healing energy with one hand and rendered I Am Not God a crisp salute with the other, speaking quickly:
"Hebrew Blade Legion, Sixth Anti-Psyker Combat Company, reporting! The Emperor guides our blades! Sir, focus on the enemy, leave purification to us!"
I Am Not God had no time to question their origins, but the healing method threw him. "What is this? No injection, no medicine, healing from thin air?"
The officer signaled his subordinates to begin disrupting the Bloodletter with precise laser fire, then answered briefly:
"Sorcery, sir. A medical technique from our homeworld's ancient traditions, it stimulates the body's life essence and accelerates natural healing. Our company specialty." His tone was completely calm, as if discussing field rations.
"Sorcery." I Am Not God let the word sit for a moment.
But this was not the moment for deep inquiry. The Hebrew Blade soldiers had already drawn the daemon's attention with dense, accurate fire, and their weapons appeared to have a disrupting effect on its energy shield.
"Good. Coordinate the attack!" He suppressed his doubts, gripped his chainsword, a roaring blade edged with motorized teeth, and joined this peculiar, sorcery-wielding unit in encircling the Bloodletter.
---
Omsk Hive City, before the core district's final defense line.
User114514 had just used his bolter to blow apart a Nurgle zombie's head when more came. Zombies, Plaguebearers, and stinking Plague Beasts surged from every direction like a green tide of rot, nearly swamping his small fortification entirely.
His Blood Angels power armor, deep crimson ceramite built for an enhanced transhuman warrior, was covered in viscous pus. His power sword's blade had begun to dim. He fought while retreating, but his space kept compressing.
"Damn! Too many!" He cleaved an attacking Plague Beast with his chainsword, but on his other side, several zombies had already closed to dangerous range.
Just as he prepared to let the Red Thirst, the savage battle-hunger buried in every Blood Angels warrior's blood, take over entirely:
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Dozens of searing, concentrated blue melta beams lanced down from the sky at precise angles, like surgical cuts from above. Where the beams passed, Nurgle zombies and Plague spirits vaporized instantly, no explosion, just smooth-edged craters and rising smoke. Even a thick-skinned Plague Beast, struck simultaneously in several vital points, shrieked once before dissolving into a pool of boiling green pus.
User114514 looked up.
Roughly fifty soldiers in crisp black uniforms hovered in tactical formation overhead. Each wore a fully enclosed helmet and carried a large jetpack. Their melta rifles still glowed faintly with residual heat. Every movement was perfectly synchronized, the result of ten thousand hours of drilling.
The lead soldier, a sergeant, judging by his shoulder insignia, descended slowly and landed several meters away. He holstered his melta rifle and rendered User114514 an extremely formal, respectful salute. His synthesized voice came through the faceplate clearly:
"Great Astartes! Tempestus Scions, Seventh Airborne Assault Company, reporting! Under the Final Defense Line directive, we are here to provide support. May our loyalty clear the filth from your path!"
User114514 looked at these well-equipped, well-trained mortals showing him such reverence. He looked at the wide swath of plague enemies already erased from existence around him.
For a moment, he was still.
So this was what the Imperium could truly deploy when its back was against the wall.
He took a deep breath, pushed down the Blood Angels gene-seed's battle-lust, and nodded to the sergeant. "Your support is timely. The Emperor witnesses your loyalty. Now, advance. Purify this land."
"At once!" The sergeant saluted again, then issued orders through his comm. Fifty Tempestus Scions reactivated their jetpacks and rose like a black swarm, beginning organized sweeps of the Nurgle forces ahead, clearing a path for User114514, the Angel of the Emperor, to follow.
---
That was the Imperium's true power. Not in any single weapon or warrior, but in the depth of what it could throw into the fire when the fire burned hot enough.