The first thing that caught Raynor's eyes was a completely warped realm.
A massive purple Warp domain sat horizontally across Midtown's sky like a monstrous, hideous eye.
Its sphere of influence had already enveloped nearly one-third of Midtown's districts.
The laws of reality within the domain were eroded and distorted by Chaos forces.
Disgusting flesh tumors and writhing blood vessels grew on the outer walls of the originally dark gray industrial factories.
Flocks of Tzeentchian daemons floated through the sky, present everywhere and scattering mind-clouding whispers.
Thousand Sons warriors clad in blue power armor strode through twisted streets, their helmets carved with the eerie runes of the Architect of Fate, their power swords flashing with cold psychic light.
Following behind them were countlessly numbered Chaos cultists and mutated monsters, roaring as they slammed into the Imperial defenders' lines.
The battle was exceptionally horrific.
Over thirty percent of Midtown had fallen completely; defenders were forced back behind the second line of defense, barely holding on by leaning on the thick walls of the industrial sector.
Yet strangely, the Chaos army holding absolute dominance had not pursued their advantage, halting their expanding pace in unison instead.
They were neither in a hurry to press into the core of the Upper City nor spreading toward the Lower City slums, consolidating their ground steadily within the occupied zone.
Thousand Sons Sorcerers waved their staves, laying down psychic arrays at key street intersections.
Cultists relied on heavy factory machinery, using thick alloy steel plates and engineering vehicles to erect temporary fortifications.
There were even packs of mutated creatures digging trenches and laying traps along the edges of the blocks.
They were deliberately blockading the boundaries.
All main avenues, side alleys, and underground conduits leading into the interior of the occupied zone were thoroughly jammed with rubble and cultists.
Whenever the defenders' recon craft or servo-skulls approached the edges of the domain, they were shot down by abrupt attacks.
Currently, no one could see clearly what was brewing in the core zone of the Warp domain, only seeing Chaos troops continually surging out from the depths to reinforce front-line defensive positions.
"They're building fortifications?" Raynor's pupils contracted slightly as a surge of cold air shot through his heart.
This was far too abnormal.
Chaos forces were renowned for erratic movement and wild raids, especially followers of Khorne.
They would never act like this—honestly hunkering down inside occupied territory to build bunkers and dig trenches.
This was not a stance an invader ought to possess; rather, it seemed... like preparing for a long-term garrison to withstand an impending large-scale assault.
Withstand whom? The Tithe Fleet? The Vanguard?
Or... his Swarm hidden on the two dead worlds?
Once this thought surfaced, it spread wildly through his heart like weeds.
Raynor felt a chill down his spine, cold sweat instantly soaking his undergarment.
The Swarms on Dead World-A and Dead World-B were his deepest hidden trump cards.
Billions of Swarm units crouched on two unheeded, dead planets, capable of arriving at Brevis anytime via the Hive Fleet's gravity jump.
He believed he had executed this flawlessly—even close confidants like Geth and Butcher knew no details, with Sarah managing the entire process single-handedly.
Yet what if Tzeentch's followers had already spied it out?
The Thousand Sons Legion—chosen of Tzeentch—were adept at spying on the strands of fate, capturing clues from countless timelines.
They might not see specific coordinates or hear exact conversations.
Yet from the tides of fate, they could sense that terrifying apex predator aura lurking in the dark, capable of devouring the entire star system.
Their choice to descend upon Midtown was no random decision.
Midtown was the most concentrated industrial zone on Brevis, possessing the richest strategic resources, the most complete industrial facilities, and countless mechanical equipment and munitions.
Occupying this place meant they, requiring no rations, could swiftly rely on the Hive City's complex terrain and sturdy structures to forge an impenetrable stronghold.
From the start, they had no intention of taking all of Brevis in a single breath.
Their goal was to first occupy Midtown's golden ground, establish a firm foothold, and wait for the Swarm to descend.
Usurping the nest.
They intended to leverage Brevis's Hive City fortifications to withstand the Tyranid Swarm he might summon.
"A master stroke," Raynor gritted his teeth, a trace of icy rage in his voice.
No wonder they were in no hurry to kill him or expand their gains.
Trapping him served only to stall for time so he wouldn't perceive their true goal right away.
Once they converted Midtown into an ironclad fortress, even if he threw caution to the wind and mobilized the Swarm, cracking it open would cost a staggering price.
He would suffer a massive loss then.
"I won't let them succeed," Raynor made an immediate decision.
"Sarah, transmit my orders through Isolde immediately."
"Go ahead."
"First, mobilize the Vanguard main force in the Upper City, join forces with the Ecclesiarchy's Adepta Sororitas and private armies of loyalist nobles to form the Northern Coalition, launching a general offensive from Midtown's upper entrance."
"Ignore my side. The underground of Castle San Gallus is easy to defend and hard to attack; these Chaos cultists can't breach it anytime soon."
"I am not their objective anyway; there's no need to waste heavy troops on me."
"Second, notify the Vanguard baseline garrison units in the Lower City to combine with all bottom-tier armed forces that can be mobilized."
"The Scavenger Alliance, gang retinues, factory guards—form the Southern Coalition to launch an attack from Midtown's lower entrance."
"Tell them: win this battle, and every participant receives a month of rations; families of those killed in action will be provided for by the Governor's Mansion."
"Third, draw a small squad of Vanguard elites to partner with elite Sororitas units as a rescue team—pin down the enemy on the perimeter without forcing a breakthrough."
"Preserve main force strength; prioritize destroying Chaos strongholds in Midtown."
Raynor's orders were clear and decisive, lacking any hesitation.
He knew clearly that the core priority was not his own escape.
It was breaking their Warp domain and driving Chaos off Brevis before the Thousand Sons turned Midtown into a fortress.
As for himself, Castle San Gallus's underground passages were intricate, complemented by newly built defenses.
So long as key nodes were held, even twice as many Chaos cultists wouldn't break in easily.
Enduring a few more hours remained well within his tolerance limit.
"Understood; orders synchronized to Isolde," Sarah's voice sounded quickly.
"Upper City forces have begun assembling; priests stand ready, and nobles, aware of the risks of this Chaos invasion, made no excuses to shirk responsibility."
"The response in the Lower City is even more passionate. Facing planetary survival, they stated they would join the fight voluntarily even without rations."
Raynor nodded; this was within his expectations.
Though humans were selfish creatures, they never lacked virtues like courage and unity when facing the greater good of survival.
"One more thing," Raynor's tone turned heavy.
"Contact the Swarm on Dead World-A and have Tooth-Tooth prepare for battle—all combat units enter Grade-1 alert."
"If Imperial forces can't hold, or if the Thousand Sons truly establish a firm foothold..." A glint of resolve flashed across his eyes.
"Even at the cost of exposing the Tyranids and Orks, I will never let Brevis fall into Chaos hands."
This was his bottom line.
Imperial tithes could be negotiated, noble conflicts mediated, but Chaos was non-negotiable.
Once Chaos took root on Brevis and the Warp domain fully enveloped the planet, everything would end.
Growth aside, even biomass would be corrupted beyond the Swarm's use.
"Understood!" Sarah's voice grew solemn as well.
"I have messaged the dead world.
Tooth-Tooth, receiving your word, mentioned it stands ready to lead the boys over anytime to launch a massive Waaagh! against Chaos."
Raynor nodded, casting his gaze back toward the underground battlefield.
Under Isolde's precise dispatching, the war machine of Brevis began operating at high efficiency with unprecedented velocity.
Beneath the magnificent architecture of the Upper City, columns of Vanguard soldiers assembled in disciplined, orderly strides.
Clad in uniform slate-blue power armor, their lasguns reflected a cold sheen.
The Genestealer officers leading the vanguard possessed razor-sharp gazes and swift movements, completing the formation in a brief ten minutes.
Beside them, the Ecclesiarchy's Adepta Sororitas wore pure white power armor, wielding heavy flamers and chainswords.
Loudly chanting Imperial hymns, their fanatical faith caused a faint golden aura to shimmer around them.
The private retinues of the nobility, by contrast, appeared distinctly uneven.
Certain nobles brought well-equipped house guards sporting customized power armor and weapons.
Others merely scraped together a few hundred household servants bearing outdated lasguns, dragging their feet at the rear of the column.
Yet willing or not, confronted by the Vanguard's intimidation and the Chaos threat, no one dared truly desert the line.
Like an iron tide, the Northern Coalition flooded down the Hive City expressways, surging grandly toward Midtown's upper entrance.
Down in the dark, damp Lower City, the scene proved far more chaotic and vast.
Countless ragtag civilians poured out from the slums.
They held all manner of weaponry in their hands: salvaged, obsolete lasguns, steel pipe machetes sharpened to a edge, or even simple heavy alloy plates held tight.
The bosses of the Scavenger Alliance walked at the very front with their respective subordinates following close behind.
Gang members chewed on cigarettes, cursing loudly as they squeezed through the crowds.
Even the elderly and children who usually scraped by in dark corners dragged ammo crates along at the rear of the procession.
A month's worth of rations represented their sole hope of survival.
Following the interconnected pipes and alleyways of the Lower City, they surged toward Midtown's lower entrance like an overflowing tide.
Their numbers exceeded the Northern Coalition by over tenfold; their gear was pitifully crude, yet their fearless, reckless momentum yielded nothing to regular troops.
Meanwhile, high in orbit above Brevis:
The Gemstone of the Tithe Fleet adjusted its hull attitude, its broadside macrocannon arrays rotating slowly to lock onto Midtown's Chaos-occupied zone.
Dominic stood on the bridge, a stern expression framing his red-haired features.
He had never imagined that so soon after arriving on Brevis, he would first encounter a green-skinned warlord of unfathomable depth, only to face the descent of the Thousand Sons Legion now.
"Calibrate firing parameters. Avoid normal Midtown districts and prioritize striking Chaos fortifications," Dominic ordered in a deep voice.
"First salvo, prepare... Fire!"
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Fifty-two macrocannons aboard the Gemstone roared first, leading the Tithe Fleet to bombard the target.
High-explosive shells weighing several tons dragged long trails of flame, tearing through the atmosphere to crash into Chaos positions across Midtown.
Tremendous explosions detonated continuously along Midtown's perimeter, soaring flames painting half the sky crimson.
Sturdy factory walls shattered like paper under the macrocannon strike, and temporarily erected fortifications were leveled instantly.
Chaos cultists sheltering behind had no time to scream before being blown into mist and blood.
Orbital fire support officially raised the curtain on the final decisive battle.
"Charge! For the Emperor!"
The advance force of the Northern Coalition launched its charge first.
Vanguard soldiers advanced in skirmish lines, their volleying lasguns forming a dense firenet that suppressed front-line Chaos cultists from raising their heads.
The Battle Sisters acted like white blades, tearing open enemy lines as high-speed chainswords severed every pouncing mutation.
Yet soon enough, they encountered true opponents.
Several black-robed Sekhet Sorcerers stepped out from behind the works.
Psychic gleams flashed in their eyes; with a gentle wave of their staves, several psychic bolts whistled forth to slam into the Imperial lines.
Caught off guard, several Vanguard soldiers were struck, their bodies instantly warping into pool of foul sludge amid agonized screams.
"Sorcerers! Chaos Sorcerers!"
Amid the soldiers' panicked shouts, the Sekhet Sorcerers began their incantations.
Purple psychic fire rose in their palms, transforming into a rain of fire descending from the heavens to blanket vast attack zones.
Soul-scorching agony caused soldiers to let out harrowing screams as their formation fell into sudden disorder.
"Hold the line! Heavy bolter teams, suppress! Assault squads, flank!"
Vanguard officers roared loudly, swiftly adjusting tactics.
Heavy bolters roared continuously, raining dense fire onto the Sekhet Sorcerers, only to be deflected by chaos spawns and fortifications before them.
The Southern battlefield proved equally horrific.
The civilian forces of the Lower City surged forward like a tide, only to crash bloody against Chaos positions.
Cultists manned converted heavy machine guns, spraying wildly into the rushing crowd.
Civilians in the front fell in whole swathes, blood running down street slopes to form crimson rivulets.
Yet no one fell back.
Those behind stepped over the corpses of those before them, rushing forward with frantic momentum.
They knew returning meant starving to death; pushing forward held a sliver of life.
Across the chaotic battlefield, scavengers relied on their familiarity with Hive alleyways to launch continuous flank attacks through ventilation ducts and abandoned conduits, using homemade explosives to destroy enemy strongpoints.
Gang members moved in small groups, firing and relocating in a street-smart manner, engaging Chaos cultists in brutal urban combat.
Every street, factory, and pipe segment in Midtown transformed into a killing floor.
Under the command of Thousand Sons Sorcerers, the Thrallband defended methodically using Midtown's heavy industrial structures and hastily built works.
Interlocking psychic attacks and heavy firepower repelled Imperial charges repeatedly.
They stood like an iron nail driven deep into Midtown's soil—unmoved no matter how fierce the Imperial bombardment proved.
Meanwhile, the Warp domain expanded slowly, its Chaos energy growing ever more concentrated.
Midtown's frontline was shrinking inward at a pace visible to the naked eye.
The Northern Vanguard elites used heavy bolters and melta guns to tear apart the outer defense lines of the Chaos cultists.
The flame units of the Ecclesiarchy's Adepta Sororitas carved out burning trenches through the twisted streets and alleys.
Hymns and the roaring of chainswords wove together, driving the Thrallband entrenched in the industrial zone step by step toward the core of the Warp domain.
In just two short hours, the Imperial coalition advanced three full kilometers, destroying over a hundred temporary Chaos fortifications along the way and slaying uncounted cultists and daemons.
Though equipped with crude gear, the Southern Lower City coalition relied on their familiarity with the Hive's alleyways, launching continuous flanking ambushes from sewers and ventilation ducts to force their way through three supply warehouses occupied by Chaos.
Scavengers and gang members charged over the corpses of their enemies, their roars mixing with crude curses, forging a reckless and fearless momentum.
Everyone felt that victory was merely a matter of time.
Yet deep within the innermost layer of the Warp domain, beneath a Chaos spire newly cast from flesh and metal:
Atia stood with his hands behind his back, his blue sorcery robes fluttering in the warped air currents.
Looking at the collapsing frontlines, his face held no trace of panic; instead, it wore an expression of indifferent certainty that everything remained under control.
"It is time," he spoke in a low voice, shifting his gaze toward several Tech-Priests at his side.
Those priests had long removed the iconic red robes of the Adeptus Mechanicus, donning deep blue ceremonial robes embroidered with gold trim and stamped with eerie runes representing change.
Twisted fleshy growths sprouted from their exposed bionics and ports, blue light flashing madness within their optical lenses.
They were no longer servants of the Omnissiah, but faithful thralls of Tzeentch.
The head priest bowed deeply, a fanatical, raspy voice emerging from his vocal synthesizer:
"Lord Atia, the item has been brought."
As the words fell, four servitors mutated by flesh stumbled forward.
The lower halves of their bodies had fused with metallic tracks, while their upper torsos sprouted writhing tentacles, jointly hauling a metallic container half the height of a man.
The surface of the container bore the ancient crest of House San Gallus, blue psychic mist seeping from its seams—evidently sealed using top-tier containment measures.
"That foolish Knight Regent actually believed we would play house with her over some family revival game," the leading Chaos priest let out a grating laugh, his bionic hand tapping gently against the container.
"The entire House San Gallus, starting from that old fool Karadogon, has been nothing more than a piece on Our Lord's chessboard."
"Taking advantage of her struggle with Raynor on the third underground level, our men easily retrieved Our Master's fragment from the deepest vault in the castle."
Atia nodded slightly, extending his hand.
The seals on the container unraveled under the power of sorcery, and the heavy lid rose slowly.
A metallic sphere roughly one meter in diameter floated up from inside the box, suspending itself in midair.
The sphere was not a single solid piece; rather, it was composed of countless metallic components of varying sizes, ancient microchips, and broken structural fragments.
A strange force maintained balance among the fragments, their surface carved with dense ancient characters.
These characters shifted and flowed continuously like water, at times assembling into complex mechanical blueprints, at times breaking down into unfamiliar formulas.
It was an Standard Template Construct (STC) construct.
More precisely, a "spell fragment" lost here by Tzeentch.
Atia stepped forward, his fingertips gently touching the surface of the sphere.
In an instant, an abrupt mutation occurred.
The slowly flowing human characters accelerated sharply, like sand swept up by a gale, rearranging themselves frantically.
Ancient mechanical inscriptions crumbled one after another, replaced by twisted, eerie Tzeentchian runes.
A pale blue light erupted from the gaps between the fragments, growing brighter and increasingly piercing.
An indescribable profane whisper emanated from the sphere of light—not any spoken tongue, yet capable of penetrating directly into the depths of the human soul to awaken the deepest desires and madness.
The surrounding light began to distort and bend, as if space itself was warping under this power.
The temperature near the spire dropped abruptly, and a layer of eerie ice crystals shimmering with iridescent hues formed over the ground.
"Praise the Architect of Fate!"
"Our Lord's power is omnipotent!"
The surrounding Chaos cultists, Thousand Sons warriors, and Sorcerers prostrated themselves in unison, their foreheads pressed tightly against the cold ground, their faces filled with ultimate fanatical devotion.
They bowed repeatedly, issuing hoarse roars from their throats, their souls trembling and exulting under this profane power.
Bathed in the blue light, Atia slowly opened his arms, chanting obscure, ancient Tzeentchian incantations.
The floating STC sphere rose slowly, passing over the kneeling crowds, passing over the spire's multi-tiered corridors, and finally coming to rest firmly atop the spire's apex.
BOOM!
An indescribable, massive beam of light shot skyward from the sphere, piercing straight through the cloud layer of the Warp domain and surging directly toward Brevis's atmosphere.
High in the sky, the beam burst open, expanding like a giant paper umbrella, spreading out in all directions with Midtown as its epicenter.
A translucent, profane barrier gleaming with iridescent light formed across Brevis's atmosphere.
It shielded the entire planet securely below, Tzeentchian runes swirling continuously across its surface, radiating an eerie energy that chilled the soul.
The Warp domain, which had been expanding slowly, stabilized instantly beneath the barrier's coverage, and the Warp concentration within the domain multiplied exponentially.
...
High in orbit above Brevis, inside the bridge of the Gemstone:
Dominic stared at the real-time feed returning from the battlefield below, his brows knitting slightly.
The smooth advance of the ground forces should have been good news, yet the Warp domain was far too quiet—quiet to an abnormal degree.
Just as he was about to order the Vanguard to slow their push and reconnoiter before moving further, he saw a blinding blue light suddenly ignite over Midtown.
Immediately following, a massive film of light spread across the planet's surface.
"What is that thing?" the guard captain shouted.
Dominic's face darkened instantly:
"All ships pay attention: calibrate main batteries to the Midtown zone. Blast open that energy barrier for me!"
The order transmitted at extreme speed.
Seconds later, the broadside macrocannon arrays of the Gemstone roared first.
High-explosive shells weighing hundreds of tons dragged long trails of fire, bearing kinetic energy capable of penetrating cruiser armor as they slammed violently into that iridescent barrier.
Following close behind were three Skyfire-pattern massive lances, their azure beams dropping straight down like swords of the gods.
Yet the scene that unfolded next plunged the entire bridge into dead silence.
The macrocannon shells—powerful enough to tear giant ships apart—struck the barrier, raising only ripples without leaving even a trace of a crack.
The terrifying lances pierced into the barrier, yet vanished without a trace like stones dropped into a deep ocean, while the runes upon the barrier brightened a fraction instead.
Not only was it not destroyed, but it seemed... to be absorbing the attack's energy.
"Impossible!" the radar officer shouted, losing his composure.
"Energy readings are still rising! It appears to be absorbing the lance's energy!"
Before the words finished, a massive energy vortex bulged violently on the surface of the barrier.
A flash of blue light ignited at the center of the vortex, and a hyper-concentrated psychic lance shot back in reverse, striking the forward shield of a Lunar-class cruiser in the fleet array with pinpoint accuracy.
BOOM!
A blinding white light detonated.
The void shield energy bar of that Lunar-class cruiser plunged at a terrifying rate, cleared completely by a single hit.
The ship's hull shuddered violently as a large swath of outer armor was peeled off by the shockwave, alarms blaring frantically inside its bridge.
"Report! The Indomitable Warrior has lost all void shields! Armor damaged by seven percent!"
"Energy readings abnormal! The enemy's shield is recovering rapidly!"
Silence reigned on the bridge.
Everyone stared at the profane, rune-swirling barrier on the screen, their faces filled with disbelief.
Able to withstand a battleship-level lance volley, absorb energy, and strike back in reverse... What kind of monstrous entity was this?
Dominic looked at that shield without uttering a word.
Having campaigned for years, he had seen Chaos psychic shields and Necron quantum shields, yet he had never encountered a defensive system so eerie and absurd.
"STC..." He uttered three letters in a low voice, his pupils contracting slightly.
"Could it be... that fragment?"
Only a spell fragment belonging to the Great Enemy of Change could possess abilities that so utterly defied standard battlefield logic.
Dominic took a deep breath, suppressing the surging waves in his heart.
"Order all warships to cease fire. Do not feed it energy."
"Contact Brevis immediately. Have them do everything in their power to gather all information on this thing."
"I want to know its energy cap, its operational principles, and... its weaknesses."
His voice remained steady, yet his tight posture betrayed the severity of his mood.
The situation had inverted once again.
Underground third level of Castle San Gallus, beside the Gate of Scourge:
Luna waved her sorcery staff, showering blue sorcerous bolts toward Raynor's position.
Yet the moment the profane barrier rose, the staff in her hand trembled violently, sending her sorcerous bolts off course to detonate against the adjacent rock wall.
She raised her head abruptly, gazing up past the rock strata, her face beneath the mask turning deathly pale in an instant.
This aura...
As the core researcher in charge of House San Gallus's study of the STC fragment, she was all too familiar with this energy fluctuation.
It was that STC aggregate guarded by the family for generations—the item she viewed as the key to their revival!
How could it appear in Midtown?
A ludicrous yet undeniably real thought surged into her mind: the Mechanicus had betrayed her.
Those Tech-Priests who claimed to support her family's revival and assist her research, combined with the technical priests she had taken painstaking efforts to win over with lavish promises...
Perhaps they had never taken her seriously from the start. They had taken the STC and turned around to offer it to those Thousand Sons traitors!
Luna's body swayed uncontrollably, a chill surging from the soles of her feet straight to her skull.
Could it be... that the Architect of Fate had truly abandoned her?
Was she truly just an expendable pawn?
The moment this thought surfaced, she extinguished it ruthlessly.
No.
Impossible.
The one who originally issued the divine oracle was the Architect of Fate; the one who bestowed sorcerous power upon her was the Architect of Fate; and the one who guided her step-by-step to this day was also the Architect of Fate.
She was the chosen one.
What was Atia? Nothing more than an old relic who joined Chaos earlier than her.
Those Mechanicus traitors merely wanted to claim credit ahead of her, seeking to steal the glory that belonged to her!
Yes, it had to be so.
Luna's eyes regained their mad, paranoid gleam.
She knew very well what the Architect of Fate desired most.
It was Raynor.
It was Raynor Corvaner, who harbored secrets on his person and possessed a thread of fate so blurred even destiny could not read it.
So long as she captured Raynor and offered him to the Architect of Fate, she would be the greatest contributor.
No STC, no Atia could match her merit.
When that time came, the Architect of Fate would naturally punish these thieves who stole her achievements and bestow glory upon her once more.
"Raynor!"
Luna shrieked, the gem atop her sorcery staff bursting with unprecedented, blinding light.
"You cannot escape! You are mine! You can only be mine!"
No longer caring about the Gate of Scourge's energy depletion or holding back to save her life, waves of sorcerous tides far exceeding previous power levels swept toward Raynor's direction.
Eerie blue flames, reality-twisting force fields, and soul-corroding whispers pressed down like an overwhelming avalanche, their offensive several times fiercer than before.
She needed to settle this quickly, capture Raynor, and head to Midtown to reclaim everything that belonged to her.
...
On the Midtown battlefield, the situation likewise took a sudden turn for the worse.
The moment the profane barrier rose, the Chaos forces that had been retreating step-by-step halted instantly.
The Thousand Sons warriors of the Thrallband turned around, the psychic eyes on their helmets igniting with sinister blue light.
Sorcerers raised their staves, chanting incantations as Warp energy grew increasingly rampant under the barrier's empowerment.
Daemons let out excited roars, their bodies expanding a full size larger.
Without the threat of orbital bombardment, they no longer needed to huddle behind fortifications on the passive defense.
"Counterattack."
At the apex of the spire, Atia's voice transmitted through sorcery into the consciousness of every Chaos unit.
"Prioritize striking the Southern Lower City coalition."
The mortal troops with the greatest numbers, lowest quality, and weakest will were the finest nourishment.
With the order issued, the Chaos army surged forth from behind their defense lines like a floodgate opening.
The Southern Lower City coalition bore the brunt of the strike.
Rushing at the very front were several thousand Horrors of Tzeentch, transforming into rainbow-colored phantoms of staggering speed as they slammed laughing into the civilian lines.
Wherever claws and fangs passed, flesh flew and screams echoed continuously.
Civilians wielding machetes, steel pipes, and scrap lasguns could not hold back these Warp daemons at all.
Those in the front fell in whole swathes, while those behind panicked and fell back, causing an immediate gap in the already loose formation.
"Hold the line! Everyone hold the line!"
The boss of the Scavenger Alliance raised a lasgun and roared, yet his voice was swiftly swallowed by chaotic cries and explosions.
Chaos Sorcerers stood in the distance, continuously unleashing psychic bolts and fire spells that detonated into clouds of blood mist within the dense crowd upon every impact.
Sekhet Chaos Warriors cooperated with daemons to push forward step-by-step like a precise meat grinder, harvesting mortal lives.
Blood soaked the soil of the industrial district, and corpses piled up like mountains.
The soul of every fallen mortal was drawn and extracted by the profane barrier, turning into nourishment to feed the Warp domain.
The STC sphere atop the spire shone with ever-increasing brilliance, and the barrier's coverage expanded outward at a slow yet resolute pace.
Deep within the domain, more Tzeentchian daemons of varied forms stepped out from the twisted void to join the counteroffensive.
Though well-equipped and well-trained, the Vanguard of the Northern Coalition—having lost orbital fire support while facing an ever-growing horde of daemons—could barely stabilize their line, completely unable to split forces to support the south.
Everyone understood that if this profane barrier was not removed, Brevis would be in dire peril.
The tragic battle of attrition dragged on for three full days.
The soil of Midtown had long been soaked with blood, the alloy streets of the industrial zone pitted with craters, and bodies lay buried beneath every inch of rubble.
The Southern Lower City coalition had been shattered time and again.
Casualties among the scavengers, gang members, and civilian militias surpassed seven figures, their mangled corpses piled into low walls along the streets.
Blackish-red blood flowed down the slopes, gathering into foul, reeking puddles in the lowlands.
The Chaos horde was like an endless tide, surging forward in fresh waves as soon as the previous ones were repelled.
Wherever those beguiling daemons passed, soldiers either lapsed into madness to slaughter one another or suffered hideous mutations that turned them into mindless horrors of flesh and blood.
Standing behind their positions, the Thousand Sons Sorcerers waved their staves to send rain of psychic fire crashing from the heavens, transforming entire blocks into purgatories.
The civilians of the Lower City had fought to the point of absolute exhaustion, running entirely out of ammunition and rations.
The defensive line spanning tens of kilometers shrank repeatedly, retreating all the way from the initial lower entrance of Midtown to the giant armored blast doors separating the Lower City from Midtown.
Had it not been for the heavy alloy armor of those gates providing a precarious stand, the southern front would have collapsed entirely long ago.
The situation on the northern front was equally grim.
The elites of the Vanguard, alongside the Ecclesiarchy's Adepta Sororitas, launched seven large-scale charges. Each attempt tore open the outer lines of Chaos and pushed forward several hundred meters.
Yet whenever the frontline achieved the slightest breakthrough, it immediately suffered a far fiercer counterattack.
More and more daemons stepped out from the Warp domain, operating in seamless coordination with the Thousand Sons warriors of the Thrallband.
The frontline warriors and the rear-line Sorcerers complemented each other flawlessly, blunting the Vanguard's offensives time and again.
The Warp domain continued its slow yet resolute expansion.
Enfolded beneath the profane barrier, the power of Chaos grew ever stronger, the figures of daemons solidified, and the sorcery of the Sorcerers grew increasingly rampant.
High above in orbit, inside the bridge of the Gemstone, the atmosphere was just as oppressive.
Across the massive holographic display, the energy curve of the profane barrier spiked continuously, red warning lights flashing silently in the corners.
Dominic stood before the command console, a face marked by deep exhaustion beneath his red hair. He had barely closed his eyes for three days, having tried every conceivable method.
Macrocannon volleys, focused lance fire, saturated torpedo strikes—yet every attack that landed on the barrier was either casually deflected or absorbed and turned back against them.
"My Lord, the data from the third round of volleys is in," Vice Captain Carron stepped forward, his voice dry and raspy.
"Just like the previous two times, after the barrier absorbed the energy, the power of the counterstriking psychic lance rose by another seven percent."
"If we keep firing, I fear we will be the ones who break first."
Dominic said nothing, his eyes fixed on the peaks and troughs of the energy curve displayed on the screen.
Over those three days, he had ordered the fleet to conduct seventeen attacks of varying intensities—ranging from single-cannon probing shots to full-fleet volleys—with every dataset meticulously recorded by the Tech-Priests.
Simultaneously down on Brevis, Reina maintained non-stop psychic reconnaissance of the barrier through the swarm's shadows.
The two sets of data corroborated each other, ultimately pointing to a single astonishing conclusion.
"The energy peak occurs at the precise moment of the vortex counterstrike, after which it drops rapidly."
A Tech-Priest tapped a metallic finger against the trough on the display, his synthesized voice dry and mechanical.
"In that brief instant when the vortex completely dissipates and re-integrates into the barrier, the energy reading drops to its lowest value—a mere seventeen percent of its normal state."
"Seventeen percent?" Dominic's brows twitched. "Meaning that at this exact moment, the barrier is at its weakest?"
"Theoretically, yes." The priest paused, his optical lenses flickering.
"However, it still retains its barrier properties."
"Even if conventional shells or energy beams manage to force their way through, their trajectories would be deflected by spatial distortion, or they might simply be swallowed into the Warp, rendering the attempt useless."
A brief silence fell over the bridge.
To have located a weakness yet remain unable to exploit it was a frustration far worse than finding no weakness at all.
Just then, the Navigator standing silently in the corner of the bridge with his eyes closed suddenly opened them.
He was an elder clad in deep blue robes, his third eye slightly closed on his forehead, a faint aura of the Warp swirling around his body.
He walked slowly to the command console, his voice low and ethereal: "My Lord, if physical shells cannot pass through, what about a ship?"
"A ship?" Vice Captain Carron frowned. "What do you mean?"
"At the absolute trough of the vortex, that area is essentially a cluster of dissipating Warp energy turbulence, not much different from a small-scale Warp storm."
The Navigator's gaze rested on the trough on the screen, his speech deliberate and clear:
"If a warship with its Geller field engaged plunges into the vortex at the moment of lowest energy, it might not be impossible to pass through."
These words struck like lightning, shattering the gloom inside the bridge.
The Tech-Priest immediately lowered his head to perform calculations, his fingers tapping rapidly across the console.
After conducting a brief ritual to pray to the Omnissiah, streams of data flashed past at high speed.
Minutes later, he raised his head, his optical lenses burning with extraordinary brightness:
"Theoretically feasible! The success rate is... approximately forty-seven percent."
"Only about thirty percent higher than the risk of standard Warp transit."
Forty-seven percent.
A half chance of success, balanced against a half chance of being torn apart by spatial distortion inside the vortex or lost forever within the Warp.
"No! That is far too risky!" Vice Captain Carron immediately voiced his opposition, turning to Dominic with an urgent tone.
"My Lord! You are a Tithe Collector for the Departmento Munitorum, not the garrison general of Brevis!"
"Over the past half month, you have done more than enough for them—you have fulfilled your duty to the utmost! There is no need for you to risk your life for a remote planet!"
"Indeed, My Lord!" several officers nearby chimed in.
"We have done everything we can. If worse comes to worst, pulling back to the system's edge to await reinforcements is also a valid option."
"If anything happens to you, how are we to account for it to the family?"
The objections were sincere.
In their eyes, Dominic had come merely to collect tithes; stopping his fleet to assist against Chaos was already an enormous courtesy.
There was no need to gamble his life on a success rate under fifty percent.
Dominic did not answer immediately.
With his back to the crew, he gazed out the viewscreen at the blue-gray planet below, shrouded beneath the profane barrier.
The Imperial Aquila badge on his sleeve reflected the bridge lights, cold and striking.
Carron was right—he was a Tithe Collector, not the Planetary Governor.
Duty-wise, he could easily turn the fleet around and leave, dumping the mess of Brevis onto Sector Command.
Even if this planet fell completely, it had little to do with him.
Yet he could not bring himself to do it.
Over the past three days, he had watched the crudely equipped civilians on the ground charge at daemons with machetes and scrap weapons.
The soldiers of the Vanguard fell batch after batch, yet the defensive lines behind them never ceded an inch, while the Battle Sisters sang holy hymns, dragging daemons to hell even as fire consumed their bodies.
He recalled that young governor of Brevis, Raynor Corvaner.
A governor of a remote world, yet one who always managed to pull unexpected trump cards out of desperate situations.
He still had many questions left unasked.
The truth behind the Frost Dragon, the origins of the icefield swarm, and that strange aura that was both holy and frigid...
He wanted to ask Raynor Corvaner in person who he truly was.
"Pass down my order."
Dominic finally spoke, his voice not loud, yet carrying an undeniable firmness.
"Prepare a Sword-class frigate. Select the most experienced crew and psykers to attempt the transit."
"My Lord!" Carron tried to persuade him once more.
"Say no more." Dominic waved his hand, his red hair swaying under the lights.
"I am a Rear Admiral of the Imperial Navy. As long as I remain in this sector, fighting Chaos is my duty."
"Besides, we are merely sending a single frigate to probe the path first; I am not so foolish as to throw my own life into peril."
He turned to the Navigator: "Pinpoint the energy readings of the vortex. Give me a three-minute warning before the absolute trough occurs."
"Understood, My Lord."
...
The attempt officially began half an hour later.
The selected Sword-class frigate, the First Blood, swiftly detached from the fleet formation.
Like a cautious solitary wolf, it approached the profane barrier at high speed.
When unprovoked, the barrier remained in a relatively placid state, refraining from initiating active counterattacks.
The First Blood arrived smoothly at a position less than a hundred kilometers from the barrier, lying in quiet ambush as it waited for the optimal moment.
On the bridge, the captain gripped the handrail tightly, his palms soaked in cold sweat.
The crew attended to their respective posts, not daring to breathe loudly.
The psyker responsible for driving the Geller field sat in a specialized chair with his eyes shut tight, fine beads of sweat seeping from his forehead, his entire psychic potential linked directly into the field's core.
"Energy readings dropping... thirty percent, twenty-two percent..."
The Navigator's voice transmitted over the encrypted channel, steady yet strained.
"Ten seconds to absolute trough... five seconds... three, two, one."
"Now!"
"Full speed ahead!" the captain bellowed his command.
The engines roared violently as the First Blood accelerated abruptly, driving straight toward the dissipating center of the vortex like a silver arrow.
What met them was an energy turbulence far more ferocious than anticipated.
Multicolored Warp energy twisted wildly around the hull, uncounted psychic lightnings striking the Geller field and detonating into blinding rings of light.
The hull shuddered violently, akin to a skiff tossed upon a stormy sea, at risk of being torn apart at any moment.
Alarms blared piercingly as the Geller field's energy bar plunged at a rate visible to the naked eye.
"Field depletion at forty percent!"
"Psyker overload!"
"Spatial erosion detected on port armor!"
Bad news arrived one after another, yet the captain gritted his teeth and stared fixedly at the twisted mist of light ahead:
"Hold steady! Keep pushing forward!"
At the center of the vortex, uncounted distorted phantoms glided along the field—Warp daemons dragged in by the energy turbulence.
They howled and clawed at the Geller field, unleashing ear-splitting shrieks.
The psyker maintaining the field trembled all over, blood seeping from his nostrils and ears, the veins under his skin bulging like blue earthworms.
His psychic energy was draining rapidly, his soul feeling as though it were being roasted over a fire.
Yet he did not let go.
The lives of thousands of soldiers aboard, along with the hopes of billions of civilians down on the ground, rested entirely upon the field he maintained.
"Almost there, almost there..." the captain muttered to himself, staring ahead.
Just as smoke rose from the psyker's body and his consciousness verged on collapse, the distorted mist of light before them scattered abruptly.
Blinding radiance no longer filled their vision; the violent vibrations quieted instantly, and the ear-splitting alarms fell silent alongside them.
The First Blood had successfully crossed through the profane barrier.