In the vast and boundless void, Shining Tiga and Ultimate Dyna drifted side by side amidst starlight and ruins. The two giants of light exchanged glances, communicating a tacit understanding without the need for words.
Moments later, gentle halos radiated from the edges of the two Ultramen's bodies. Like snow melting in the morning sun, the halos slowly transformed into billions of minute gold and platinum particles of light.
Rather than disappearing completely into the darkness, these particles of light returned to the ordinary people who had lent their light. In their hearts, seeds of hope and miracle were sown.
The giants never interfere with human choice—the only thing they can do is to plant the seeds within human hearts.
When true despair and darkness descend, and the ordinary, innocent people continue to uphold hope—continue to yearn for miracles and hope—then from within their hearts, light will arise. Then, the giants of light will descend, fighting for those who still cling to hope and the future.
…
Macragge's Honour Grand Strategy Room
A beam of light streaked to Datch's side. As he stretched out his hand, the light condensed into a card, radiating a warm halo and giving off a unique texture.
The background of the card featured a starry sky, and at its center was the dignified figure of Dyna in his ultimate form.
Datch opened the item info panel:
[]
Item: Miracle Proof of Ultraman Dyna
Effect: When the user transforms into Ultraman Tiga and uses this card, they can gain the power of Ultraman Dyna, greatly enhancing both combat capability and tactical flexibility.
Comment:
"These days creditors are the boss! Hurry up and 'borrow' some power!"
"Does summoning a random new Ultraman only give you one card?"
"This is a good deal."
[]
Datch delightedly flipped over the sparkling Dyna card.
"If I can summon a few more Ultramen, I'll have a full deck and become the King of Debt! When the time is right, I'll transform and borrow the powers of all the Ultramen—Zero, Ace, Leo, Orb—for the ultimate fusion and crush all our enemies!"
Datch happily deposited the card into his game inventory. Already, he was imagining a late-game scene where, upon transforming, countless phantom Ultramen would appear behind him—a grand, inflationary spectacle borrowed directly from the Land of Light.
Just then, a notification popped up, signaling task completion.
[]
[Congratulations!
You have overturned Eldar Farseer Natase's prophecy—and ensured Primarch Roboute Guilliman's survival during his first direct confrontation with Szarekh the Silent King.]
Quest Rewards:
EXP +2000, Points +2000, Prestige +500, Astral Express ×1
[]
Congratulations! You have successfully supported Regent Guilliman in the destruction of the Blackstone construct on the Paradis star system.
Task Rewards:
EXP +1500, Points +1500, Prestige +500, Skill: Chain Jump
[]
"At last, the Astral Express Project has landed in our hands. The infrastructure project should be starting soon."
As he pondered, a model train—full of futuristic technology and exquisite in detail—appeared in his palm. The streamlined body bore faint streaks echoing the trails of stars, with intricate couplings and panoramic windows, every detail finely wrought. It hovered quietly, awaiting activation and use.
"This is the Star Train in a honkai universe—capable of laying stable space routes. Not bad."
Datch examined the model cautiously, pondering how best to proceed with the infrastructure project. "With this, we could actually build roads in real space and greatly reduce humanity's reliance on the Warp."
"In that case, set our workhorse Lord Zarhulash to task. Let his labor spread from system to system."
"With so many prime beasts of burden, we must make full use of them! Speaking of which, if we're seeking or raiding in the Warp, we ought to capture a few Warp Bulls for road repair as well."
As Datch considered, a crucial doubt surfaced. "The Astral Express itself has no consciousness. Anyone can use it: the Empire could, but if traitorous Chaos followers, Orks, or even Tyranids found it, they could use it for their own gain."
"We need to establish a security verification system ahead of time. Otherwise, if we build interstellar routes and gift our enemies increased mobility, it would be a real joke."
Turning his attention to his newly acquired skill, Datch mused, "If I combine Chain Jump with Blink, wouldn't I become invincible?"
He was eager to test it out. Drawing his teleportation gun, Datch set the coordinates for an uninhabited planet and opened a teleportation portal.
Passing through a corridor of shimmering light, he found himself standing amid a vast plain covered in dark red gravel. The sky was an expanse of pure cobalt blue, with two suns of different sizes providing a mild, gentle warmth.
The wind whipped up fine sand, sending ripples across the landscape. All around was silent; only his own breathing and the wind could be heard.
"This is a good spot. Plenty of room."
Datch nodded, started leaping, and tested how high he could go combining his new skill...
…
Pardis II, Waterfront Defensive Line
Sonny, hidden in the trenches, cautiously poked her head out once the metallic undead's noise faded. To her surprise, the tidal wave of firepower from the undead forces had vanished without a trace.
All that remained was thick black smoke, scattered bodies, and burning ruins.
Only now could it be proved that the brutal, suffocating battle they had witnessed was not a product of imagination.
"Did... did we win?"
She glanced at the old veteran beside her, his face marred with terrible scars. He squinted, listening intently to the barrage of increasingly coherent reports over the comms channel. Raising his head halfway out, he scanned the sky and distant horizon with binoculars, then ducked back and spat dusty phlegm onto the ground.
"The commotion's died down. And that tin-can bastard... probably gone. At least, we won't see them around these parts for now."
"Long live the Emperor! Damn, we actually survived!" Not far off, a soldier with a laser rifle leaned against the trench wall, exhaling a heavy breath. Fatigue and relief at surviving the disaster mingled on his face.
"Gotta celebrate—let's break out some wine. Living through that was hell. Thought I'd bite it this time."
"You always want to drink! You drunk!" His comrade laughed, kicking him playfully. Relief painted all their faces.
"Hey, not true." The "drunk" soldier wagged his finger, dropping his voice for effect, and attempted a teasingly flippant tone but couldn't hide the deep weariness underneath. "It's not alcohol I'm drinking—it's the sorrow of surviving disaster. The pain of being the only one left as brothers fall. Without the comfort of alcohol, my heart is just too heavy."
"What gloomy poetry is this?" grumbled another veteran.
"Haha, you should be a poet, not a gunman."
"He'd starve as a poet. I hear poets make money by sleeping with rich young women, and he'd never manage that."
"Couldn't do it? Don't be silly. They called me Thirteen back in the day. Nobody could match my skill in surgery!"
"I'd like to hear in detail how you kept up with me…"
"If you can manage that thirteen times, I'll eat a can of live ants and beef in one sitting!"
Laughter filled the trench. Sonny looked around, at faces streaked with mud and blood, all beaming with smiles. The war raging moments ago seemed not to have touched them.
But when Sonny looked more closely, she noticed—beyond the fatigue and relaxation—her comrades' eyes hid a suppressed, inescapable sorrow.
Those who lived to this day were mostly veterans. When they first left home, their squads were energetic and full of lively young men and women. As the war dragged on, the villagers she knew fell one after another—her teams rotated again and again until the people around her were strangers from distant planets across the galaxy.
In the trench now, everyone huddled together were, in truth, total strangers.
Oh Emperor, O Emperor,
When will this hopeless war finally end?!
Sonny prayed silently, begging for an answer. But no one could give her one.
…
Planetary Command Post – Reinforced Underground Bunker
When the message "the main forces of the Necrons have withdrawn from the Pardis system" was received, it went through multiple verification stages, then appeared on the main screen.
The previously grim and heavy atmosphere abruptly broke; cheers of joy and exhaustion erupted.
Officers clapped each other's shoulders and celebrated. Technicians threw down their data pads and cheered. Even the usually solemn political commissar offered a relieved smile.
Everyone here was prepared to lay down their lives for the nation. Against such a massive fleet of undead ships, survival was nearly impossible.
Who could have imagined that a mysterious, unnamed figure would tip the scales in a single act?
Exhilaration washed over every strained nerve. Many laughed. Then many wept.
Aboard the Imperial Navy ships floating in the void, a similar feverish energy pervaded.
Captains watched as enemy markers blinked rapidly off the displays—red dots vanishing. Some placed hands on their still-beating hearts to check if they were really, truly alive. It all felt like a dream.
"When the lockdown alarm rang, I started making plans for how I'd die…"
"Who didn't? But the moment the Nameless One acted, all those metal skeletons fled."
"Incredible! Absolutely incredible! We might live a few more days… maybe rack up some merit points too!"
…
Macragge's Honour – Grand Strategy Chamber
The entire venue brimmed with celebratory mood; everyone wore a smile.
"It's just... curiosity." The energy-monitoring officer stroked his chin as he watched the energy curves logged when the two giant planets appeared and vanished.
"Every time these giants appear, they have to borrow light. Is there a special meaning behind that? Some ritual—an energy recharging system?"
The technical staffer beside him, just looking up from the sink array, adjusted the prosthetic eye set in his skull.
"What's not to understand? Think about it: last time your salary was three days late, you started complaining as soon as you clocked in. Your loyalty to the Emperor, your motivation—it vanished."
The officer's face twisted, full of shame.
"They're risking their lives, but can't even get paid on time? And we can't even complain?"
The tech calmly spread his hands.
"There it is. I bet that radiance is the giants' bonus for their work."
"They can do the job—but they're not paying the costs out of pocket. Whoever works pays the bill."
"Ah, I see now!" exclaimed the officer. "Now it all makes perfect sense!"
Sitting at the head of the table, Guilliman twitched his lips at this banter. Odd though it sounded, it also made sense.
Before receiving the blessing of light, no matter how hard you fought, you could never truly beat them. After receiving the blessing, a few punches and kicks were all it took to send them running.
As long as the light existed, defeating even all four Chaos Gods should be possible.
Guilliman also observed some subtle changes within himself—not just the exhilaration of victory, but a surge of hope and confidence. Anxiety over the future gave way, replaced by anticipation for hope and happiness.
He had always seen the Horus Heresy as a mad tragedy of fratricide. Yet when confronting the gods of Chaos directly, all the ultimate nightmares spawned from the negative emotions of living things—so carefully hidden by the Emperor and the Primarchs—would appear.
He realized that to fight daemons is to battle the murky echoes of humanity's collective unconscious. Every evil thought, every forgotten sin, every suffering—these are the food for the monsters lurking in the Warp.
The Emperor had spread the truth, using reason and science to dispel superstition and fear, sowing hope and confidence in people's hearts—in order to fundamentally weaken those powers.
It is not the demons themselves who pose the greatest threat—rather, it is the soil that breeds them.
Mankind's own despair and agony is the root cause empowering the evil gods.
The Nameless and the Giants gave humanity their most precious gifts: hope and confidence. When humanity no longer despairs for the future, and believes in the prospects of civilization, Chaos' source will wither away.
Only through this method can humanity redeem itself and break free from this terrible cycle—never repeating the mistakes of fallen races or the first Human Interstellar Empire.
As Guilliman's thoughts raced, in the midst of collective celebration, a Mechanicus messenger in a red robe hurried through the crowd, heading straight for Guilliman.
He held a message tube sealed in pure gold and inscribed with secret runes. Saying nothing, the messenger bowed deeply and handed it to Guilliman.
Frowning, Guilliman accepted and opened the tube. It contained only two items: a short encrypted instruction on parchment, and a small data storage chip.
The parchment read:
Urgent communication from the Ultramar sector, visual information, emergency level: CRIMSON.
Somewhat uneasy, Guilliman slotted the memory chip into the terminal at his strategy desk.
Buzz...
On the main screen, a few crystalline snowflakes flickered, then the feed cleared.
It was a world in flames.
The camera shook—the chaos of handheld recording was evident. Majestic Gothic buildings, now consumed by fire; thick smoke shrouding the sky.
Suddenly, people appeared on screen—twisted bodies, skins marred by grotesque cysts and sores, eyes mad and murky—cultists.
They screamed inhumanly, waving weapons, butchering civilians in the streets.
Unarmed townsfolk—women, children—fled, fell, were caught and hacked apart in blasphemous rituals.
Desperate screams, ear-piercing shrieks, and insane cackling stabbed the eardrums of everyone in the ops room.
A cut.
Captured guards, still in ragged uniforms, kneeled in rows. The cultists laughed as they slit each one's throat. The bloodied heads were hung from a star-shaped metal-and-bone frame as trophies.
Worse still.
Several Ultramarines, stripped of their power armor and clad only in under-shirts—wounded, chained, thrown into a crude, blood-stained pit.
Injected with stimulants, facing mutant monsters warped by Chaos, they fought to the very end—falling at last, powerless.
A close-up:
A huge, filthy cleaver fell—decapitating the warriors.
Ice gripped the entire command center—any joy there had evaporated, replaced by repressed fury.
At last, the warped giant appeared. Guilliman instantly recognized what he saw: his former brother, Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard (XIII Legion), now a despicable traitor who had embraced Nurgle.
By this stage, like Fulgrim, Mortarion was no longer a being crafted by ancient gene-tech, but a completely transformed, chaotic being by Nurgle's gifts.
Every human trait was exaggerated and grotesquely warped.
His swollen body was clad in Barbaran Power Armor—once white, now like a pool of sticky, putrid green plague water. The armor had fused with his body; with every breath, strange pus oozed from its surface.
From his back spread wings like those of a giant moth or a rotting butterfly, slow-beating and shedding glowing, diseased scales.
His wargear, once terrifying, had mutated—with his scythe now several times larger, sprouting barbed bone-like thorns and sacs perpetually dripping with corrosive ichor.
His entire being radiated a murky yellow-green aura. One glance brought nausea and overwhelming fatigue.
"Guilliman…" came a dull, slimy voice, thick with mockery and malice, as if from the depths of a foul swamp.
"A thousand centuries since we last met, brother. The time has come. I'm waiting for you at Ultramar.
If you don't want Macragge to be reduced to ashes, you'd best hurry."
The video abruptly ended.
The screen went black. The deathly hush in the command center was broken only by that last echoing, venomous phrase.
Guilliman's eyes blazed with fury as he glared at the blank monitor.
"That damnable Mortarion—how dare he make a move on Ultramar. I will make him regret it."
He was raging at his brother's shameless betrayal, but also saw opportunity—this was the perfect chance to seriously wound Nurgle and Mortarion.
Frankly, Guilliman still had no idea how to deal with the Nameless and those two overwhelming beings. For the evil gods, what a joke: in front of these invincible two, they were nothing but traitors.
The only thing to do now: lure Mortarion into a trap, force him to use every trump card, then throw him together with the Nameless and let utter chaos ensue.
"If I don't beat Mortarion into utter humiliation this time, he'll never stop boasting."