Waste Reclamation Yard No. 17.
Or rather, this place no longer belonged to the material universe.
The laws of physics groaned in agony as Adamantium walls warped like melting wax. With the tearing of the Warp rift, the dim, filthy air of the Underhive was instantaneously replaced by a sickening stench of sulfur, the metallic tang of copper, and the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.
Purple-black lightning streaked through the void, each flicker leaving blasphemous afterimages on the retina.
"ROAR—!!!"
Accompanied by a roar loud enough to shatter a mortal soul, the titan from Khorne's Daemonic realm finally squeezed itself entirely into the material world.
It was not merely a common daemon.
It was a Soul Grinder.
A most loathsome fusion of machine and flesh. Its lower half was a massive, rusted six-legged walking tank, its pistons dripping blood and its gears choked with countless skulls. Its upper half was a grotesquely muscular Greater Daemon of Khorne, brandishing a hydraulic pincer capable of snapping a Leman Russ tank in two and a runic greatsword wreathed in black hellfire.
It was too large.
In this cramped underground cavity, it was like a rampaging elephant forced into a matchbox. With every movement, the surrounding walls buckled and collapsed, sending a deluge of rocks crashing toward the floor.
"Ah..."
Old Jack's eyes rolled back, foam bubbling at his mouth. The moment a mortal gazed directly upon a Warp daemon, the defensive lines of human sanity collapsed completely.
A massive slab of concrete was about to crush Old Jack's head.
[SOL: WARNING. Survival probability for this sector has dropped to 0%. RECOMMENDATION: Immediate evacuation. Disregard the encumbrances.]
SOL's voice was cold and logical.
But within that single millisecond, Clark made his choice.
"Be quiet, SOL."
Whoosh!
A white sonic boom cloud erupted in the air.
Clark's figure vanished and reappeared in an instant. He didn't charge directly at the daemon; instead, at a speed the human eye couldn't track, he streaked through the ruins like a red phantom.
With one hand, he scooped up the unconscious Old Jack, then grabbed two unlucky surviving workers in the same motion.
[SOL: This defies tactical logic!]
"This is humanity," Clark whispered.
His body smashed through a side ventilation duct, and he gently pushed Old Jack and the others into a relatively safe deep-level tunnel.
"Stay here. Don't move."
The entire process took only 0.5 seconds.
When he turned back around, the last trace of warmth in his eyes had vanished, replaced by the cold hardness of steel.
By now, only three individuals—no, three Astartes—remained standing in the center of the battlefield.
"For Macragge! Concentrate fire! Attack the core of its abdomen!"
Sergeant Titus roared, his voice clear even over the sound of explosions. Though facing a monster of this magnitude, the Ultramarines would never retreat.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Three Bolters roared in unison. These holy rounds, filled with high explosives capable of turning a normal person into pulp, struck the brass armor of the Soul Grinder with the Emperor's fury.
However, to their despair, aside from a flurry of sparks and the shredding of a few patches of rotting skin-flesh, the attacks caused almost no physical damage.
The Soul Grinder's armor was forged from Warp-tempered brass and cursed steel; mortal weapons were nothing more than an itch to it.
"Weak! So weak! Surrender your skulls!"
The Soul Grinder let out a deafening, cacophonous laugh, sounding like metal grinding against glass. Its massive mechanical limbs swept forward with terrifying wind pressure.
THWACK!
One Ultramarine couldn't dodge in time. Despite his tactical evasive maneuvers, under the impact of dozens of tons of kinetic energy, the giant in his half-ton power armor was sent flying like a kicked soda can.
"Ugh!"
The warrior smashed deep into the ruins, his ceramite breastplate severely dented, black smoke billowing from his servo-motors as his life-sign alarms shrieked.
"Brother!" Titus's eyes threatened to burst with rage.
The situation collapsed in an instant.
In such a cramped space, the tactical mobility that the Space Marines prided themselves on was impossible to execute. They were like lions trapped in a cage, facing a rampaging Tyrannosaurus Rex.
The Soul Grinder ignored the fallen warrior. Its eyes, burning with the flames of hatred, looked past Titus and locked onto Clark, who was once again hovering in mid-air.
Daemonic instinct told it that the tiny creature draped in the red rag contained a vast reservoir of energy that made its mouth water.
"You! Your skull! It will surely please the Blood God!"
The Soul Grinder roared. Its hydraulic claw—the size of a car, dripping with acidic engine oil—lunged toward Clark in the air with the momentum of a collapsing mountain!
The wind pressure arrived first.
The terrifying gust even blew away several tons of scrap iron from the floor. Titus watched the scene, his heart turning cold.
At this distance and speed, no living thing could dodge. That strike was enough to crush a Dreadnought into a metal pancake.
"Get out of the way!!!" Titus shouted instinctively.
However.
In the eyes of the hovering figure, this so-called "unavoidable" attack was as slow as a balloon in a slow-motion film.
Clark's arms remained folded across his chest; he hadn't even changed his posture.
His hair drifted slightly in the gale.
In those deep azure eyes, the reflection of the growing, hideous claw showed no fear—only a hint of... disgust.
[SOL: Hostile target physical attack detected. Estimated kinetic energy: 3,500 tons. Threat level: Low. RECOMMENDATION: Evade anyway.]
"No," Clark said softly.
"I'm going to make it be quiet."
THUD.
This sound was not an explosion, but the sound of something extremely heavy and extremely hard coming to an instantaneous halt.
Titus's eyes went wide. Through his oculars, he witnessed a scene that caused both of his hearts to stop.
The terrifying daemonic claw had stopped.
It stopped less than ten centimeters in front of the man.
And the thing that had stopped it was a single hand.
At some point, Clark's right hand had reached out, fingers spread, pressing seemingly weightlessly against that gargantuan metal pincer.
The visual contrast was overwhelming—on one side was a jagged, multi-meter-wide mechanical claw dripping with lava and oil; on the other was a single, fair-skinned human hand.
It was like an ant stopping a speeding freight train.
But the "train" had stopped, and the "ant" had not budged an inch.
Even the red cape behind Clark had not gained a single wrinkle from the impact.