At that very instant.
BOOM—!!!
The three-meter-thick concrete ceiling overhead did not shatter like a normal building; instead, under the directed blast of a military-grade Multi-Melta Charge, it was instantaneously vaporized.
A torrential rain of molten crimson metal poured down, cooling into black slag before it even hit the ground.
Then came three heavy thuds, loud enough to burst mortal eardrums and stop a human heart.
THUMP!!! THUMP!!! THUMP!!!
The earth wailed. The entire underground bunker felt as if it had been struck by meteors. The violent tremors caused the surrounding derelict machinery to collapse in heaps.
Amidst the swirling dust and smoke, three massive figures clad in blue ceramite slowly straightened up from the impact craters.
They were steel giants, each standing over two and a half meters tall.
They wore deep blue Mk.VII "Aquila" Power Armor, its golden trim flickering with a holy yet cold radiance in the dim Underhive. On their massive pauldrons, the white "Ω" symbol stood out with striking clarity.
Ultramarines.
The Avenging Sons of the Emperor, the Glory of Macragge, and the most steadfast defenders of the Imperium of Man. They were living myths of war—walking tanks, the Angels of Death whom mortals dared not gaze upon directly.
"Clear the landing zone. Identify hostile targets."
The leading giant took a step forward. The nuclear fusion pack on his back emitted a low, heavy hum, and the servo-motors whined like the breath of a great beast with his every movement.
He leveled his Bolter, the muzzle still smoking with heat. The lenses of his helmet glowed with a faint, eerie red light, scanning the entire space at a frequency of thousands of times per second.
Sergeant Titus.
He was an Astartes veteran of over two hundred years, a man who had survived the claws of Tyranids and stood firm against the green tide of Orks. His will was as hard as Adamantium, and his faith as scorching as a star.
But now, within the high-tech tactical display of his helmet, the world had gone mad.
"Auspex readings... this is impossible."
For the first time, a crack appeared in Titus's voice.
He stared at the red warning boxes flickering frantically on his retinal display—a string of codes representing "Logic Error," "Sensor Overload," and "Divine Signature."
In his thermal vision, a person was hovering in the center of the ruins.
No—that was not a person.
That was a living sun, compressed into a human form.
The biological energy signature contained within that "mortal" body—despite the man appearing tattered and unarmored—actually exceeded the primary plasma reactor of an Emperor-class Titan!
That pure, boundless energy, saturated with the scents of both order and destruction, made Titus's Auspex machine-spirit shriek in terror.
"Sergeant... scanning high concentrations of Warp residue... and an Alpha-Plus-Level biological signature."
Over the comms channel behind him, the voice of another battle-brother carried a hint of undisguised shock—and trembling.
Titus slowly raised his head.
Through the dust that had yet to settle, he finally saw the figure suspended in mid-air.
The man wore no power armor, only tattered mortal clothing, with his bare arms exposed to the air. Yet the way he hovered there—arms folded across his chest, with a majesty that looked down upon all, a nobility that seemed innate—actually gave Titus an impulse to... kneel.
Thump. Thump.
Both of Titus's hearts beat violently in unison.
It was an instinct carved into the very DNA of an Astartes—the awe felt for a Gene-Father, for a demigod, for the God-Emperor. This physiological pressure was something he had never felt in his two hundred years of warfare.
"That face..."
Titus zoomed his ocular lenses.
Though the red cloth covered the lower half of his face, those eyes as blue as the sea, that broad brow, and the muscle lines as perfect as a marble sculpture...
A face of such perfection, looking as if it had stepped out of a classical oil painting, could never be born in a place like the Underhive, riddled with radiation and mutation.
Perfect.
Aside from that word, Titus could find no other adjective.
This man was so perfect he did not seem to be a product of natural evolution, but rather the supreme masterpiece of genetic alchemy. Standing there, he was the ultimate manifestation of the concept of "Humanity."
"Genetic resonance... my blood is boiling..." Titus felt his throat go dry. "Could it be... a lost scion? Or perhaps..."
One of those erased from Imperial history... the Second? Or the Eleventh?
Titus instinctively lowered his Bolter.
He didn't dare aim it.
Even if the man bore no Imperial markings, even if he appeared in this den of heretics, the pressure emanating from the depths of his soul told him: if you dare fire, it would be a profanation of holy blood—a betrayal of the Emperor.
The air solidified.
On one side, three fully armed Astartes, capable of slaughtering a city. On the other, a hovering man in grease-stained overalls and a tattered red rag.
"Identify yourself... Citizen."
Titus activated his helmet's external vox-caster. His voice, processed through the grille, became deep and metallic, but beneath the usual sternness lay a hidden sliver of awe and inquiry.
"The psychic signature on your person has crossed the Imperial red line. Explain your existence."
Clark did not answer immediately.
He remained with his arms folded, leaning slightly forward, looking down at the three steel giants. His red "cape" drifted slowly behind him, like an ancient and proud banner.
If he were the boy of eight years ago, seeing the legendary Angels might have filled him with terror.
But now, he was the Man of Steel.
"I am no psyker."
Clark's voice was calm, devoid of any aggression, yet it clearly penetrated the thick soundproofing of the power armor, echoing in the ears of every Space Marine with a compelling resonance.
"Furthermore."
Clark's gaze swept over the ceiling melted by the Melta charge and the scalding concrete fragments scattered on the floor that had nearly struck Old Jack. He frowned, his tone carrying a hint of reproach, like one looking at a naughty child.
"Haven't your heard of knocking? You broke my floor."
Titus froze.
The two battle-brothers behind him froze as well.
He had imagined the opponent might beg for mercy, resist, or even chant wicked incantations. But he never expected that this being of divine power's first reaction would be to scold them for damaging property.
This tone... this absolute arrogance... this bizarrely focused logic...
It was too similar.
Too similar to the legendary, eccentric, and proud Primarchs! Only a being flowing with the divine blood of the Emperor would be so composed when facing the Adeptus Astartes!
Just as Titus prepared to inquire further, a sudden change occurred.
Sizzle—!
In the spot where the underboss had been vaporized by Clark's heat vision, the ashes on the ground suddenly began to vibrate violently, as if something were struggling beneath.
The blood sacrifice array the thugs had used earlier—though the users were dead—the extreme terror and agony they felt before dying had somehow pleased an entity in the void.
This wasn't just a simple gang sacrifice.
It was the gaze of Khorne.
"FOR THE LORD OF BLOOD!!!"
A shrill roar, sounding like countless rusted blades scraping against bone, erupted from the void.
The spatial structure of the scrap yard warped instantly. A purple-black Warp rift, like a festering wound, tore open between Clark and the Space Marines.
The temperature plummeted to freezing, and the walls were instantly covered in blood-red frost.
[SOL: HIGH-ENERGY ALERT! REALITY VEIL BREACHED! ENTITY DAEMON INCURSION!]
A massive brass claw, wreathed in hellfire, lunged out from the rift, crushing the scrap yard's support columns.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"
As a stench of gore rushed forward, a Bloodletter of Khorne—standing over three meters tall, its muscles crimson and dripping with lava and blood—roared out of the Warp, brandishing a flaming Hellblade.
And behind it, the teeth-grinding sound of metal friction echoed—the massive metal limbs of a Soul Grinder, a war machine half-mechanical and half-flesh, were frantically crushing the boundaries of reality, trying to squeeze through.
Sergeant Titus reacted instantly, his combat instincts overriding his shock. He raised his Bolter and let out a roar:
"Hostiles! A Daemonic host of Khorne! For the Emperor, purge them!"
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
The muzzle flashes of the Bolters instantly illuminated the dim Underhive. The roar of explosions filled the air.
But this was only the beginning.
Hovering in the air, Clark looked at the daemon that had interrupted his "peaceful life" and dirtied his floor. He raised an eyebrow.
In that instant, the azure in his eyes faded.
Two spheres of golden fury were ignited once more.
"You beasts..."
Clark's voice was low, carrying a distinct hint of impatience.
"Are really quite noisy."