The Lord of Bizarre Mysteries' surviving head spun frantically.
It was calculating—calculating the probability of escape, calculating the possibility of a counterattack, calculating every conceivable variable.
But every single calculation pointed to the exact same word: DEATH.
"Knowledge..." it said with its final voice. "Will not perish... I will... return..."
Then, its remaining three arms raised simultaneously.
The scepter, the dagger, and the quill—the three artifacts detonated all at once.
It was performing a sacrifice.
Sacrificing every last drop of its remaining power to forcibly tear open a rift leading to the deepest depths of the Warp.
But Ferrus had predicted this.
"All artillery units," Ferrus didn't even look at the daemon. He issued a calm order over the vox-channel. "Coordinates: Warp rift generation point. Saturation bombardment."
The fleet in the sky responded.
The ship-borne lance batteries fired.
Three hundred high-energy lance beams lanced down from the sky, focusing perfectly on the nascent Warp rift.
The fabric of space was forcibly stabilized.
The rift was welded shut before it could even fully open.
The Lord of Bizarre Mysteries unleashed a shriek of utter despair.
Ferrus gripped Forgebreaker and swung again.
The hammer head swept through the daemon's remaining body. The disruption field completely eradicated its anchor to the material universe, banishing it back to the Warp.
Once the hammer passed, all that remained at the bottom of the crater was a deep indentation and the rapidly dissipating stench of the Warp in the air.
Two daemons.
Two daemons that had engaged the hundreds of thousands of troops of the four major factions in a grueling twenty-eight-day war, demanding a catastrophic price and still surviving.
In the third minute after the descent of the Iron Hands Primarch, they were completely purged.
The battlefield fell into absolute silence.
Ferrus Manus stood in place, resting Forgebreaker at his side as his grey eyes swept across the field.
He saw the awe, the terror, the ecstasy, and the sheer breakdown on the faces of the surviving soldiers.
He saw the surviving Knight Mechs, and he saw the positions of the Mechanicus.
Finally, he looked toward Kans Atens.
"Commander of this sector," the Primarch's voice remained as cold as ice. "Report the situation."
Kans jolted violently. He practically scrambled over, dropping to one knee before Ferrus.
"M-My Lord... I am Kans Atens, representative of the Atens Knight House, and temporary commander of... the joint forces of the four factions."
He babbled incoherently. "We... we resisted for twenty-eight days... we lost... so many..."
"Data." Ferrus cut him off. "I want data, not your feelings."
Kans choked on his words.
It was Scoria Kane who stepped forward in time, his mechanical eye projecting a holographic battle report:
"Operational cycle: twenty-eight days.
Forces engaged: Planetary Defense Force, 450,000. Local Guard Forces, 300,000. Knight Mechs, 51. Psykers, 300. Various auxiliary units.
Casualties: PDF losses, approx. 400,000. Local Guard Forces losses, approx. 180,000. Knight Mechs destroyed, 31. Psykers, 100% KIA.
Results: Approx. 12,000 lesser daemon entities killed. Two near-Greater Daemon entities severely wounded, their energy levels reduced by 87.3%."
Ferrus quietly observed the data.
"Acceptable efficiency."
Just two words.
"Now." Ferrus turned around, looking deep into the industrial zone at the rift that was still bleeding Warp energy.
"Purge the remaining lesser heretics and establish purification positions." He commanded, his voice spreading across the battlefield and transmitting to the fleet channels, "The Iron Hands Legion will garrison this location until the purification is entirely complete."
"As for you!" He looked at Kans, at Busir, at all the survivors. "Assist in the cleanup operations. Await further judgment."
Ferrus didn't specify what that judgment would be.
But everyone understood.
Aurelian IV—this planet practically controlled by the four major factions for the past eighty years—was, from this day forth, truly returning to the rule of the Imperium.
And the fate of local warlords like them...
Kans lowered his head, cold sweat soaking the inner lining of his Power Armor.
Ferrus did not look at them again.
–
Up on the high ground of the warehouse district, the players watched the retreating back of the Primarch, and the channel exploded once more.
[Tax Bro]: "That's it?! Two swings? Just two freaking swings?!"
[Did White Scars Speed Today?]: "What did you expect? You think a Primarch is like you, needing three hundred rounds of bitter combat just to kill a daemon?"
[God-Tier Mechanic]: "Efficiency. That is efficiency. The combat philosophy of the Iron Hands. Achieving maximum results with minimal motion."
[Have You Been Loyal Today?]: "So... shouldn't we start thinking about how to strike up a conversation with the Primarch?"
[God-Tier Mechanic]: "No need to rush. Didn't the Iron Hands Primarch just say it? They're garrisoning this planet for a while."
He looked at Paul.
Paul nodded, issuing an order in the regional channel:
"Everyone, fall back."
The setting sun over the Redblaze Wasteland stretched the shadows of the convoy long across the earth. Fifty transport trucks drove slowly into the perimeter cordon of the Crimson Dawn base.
On the walls, the searchlights of the watchtowers had already flicked on ahead of time. Beams of light cut through the dusk, sweeping in alternating patterns across the path of the convoy.
Cogboy stood beside the nine-meter-tall alloy gates, the data cables of his mechanical arm jacked into the access control system. This was a security apparatus he had upgraded just three days ago. Now, the status of every single sensor along the entire wall fed back into his visual interface in real-time.
"Bio-signature scan complete. Player ID verification approved." Cogboy's mechanical voice sounded in the control channel: "Open the gates."
Amidst the grinding roar of interlocking gears, the twenty-ton alloy gates slowly swung inward.
Behind the gates, over three thousand players and local residents had already packed both sides of the central thoroughfare. Cheers washed over them like a tidal wave.
"Tax Bro! White Scars! You're back!"
"Holy shit, I heard you guys saw the Primarch?!"
"What do the Iron Hands look like? Are they just covered in iron lumps like in the game?"
Tax Bro was the first to hop out of the truck, his two-meter-tall frame standing out starkly amidst the crowd.
He grinned from ear to ear, stomping his left leg—which he had just patched up in the truck with a medkit—against the ground: "Damn it, you guys didn't see it! That Ferrus Manus guy, two swings! Just two freaking swings!"
He waved his arms wildly to demonstrate: "The first swing, he snapped that red hound-head daemon's axe right in half. The second swing, he just blasted a hole straight through that thing's chest! Three seconds! From entering the stage to clocking out, three seconds!"
"Bullshit!" [Night At Old Yellow's Pit] jeered from the crowd: "There you go again, Tax Bro. Last time you said you could punch a Leman Russ tank into scrap!"
"This time it's real! Paul can testify!"
Tax Bro spun around, pointing at the third truck.
Paul was just stepping out of the vehicle. His three-meter Astartes physique stood out like a crane among a flock of chickens, even among the players.
He hadn't removed his Power Armor. The dark grey surface of the armor was still coated in the dust of the industrial zone, dotted with a few dried splotches of blue blood left behind by a Horror that had tried to ambush him.
"Tax Bro isn't lying." Paul's voice echoed through his Power Armor's vox-speakers, carrying a resonant boom: "The Iron Hands Primarch, Ferrus Manus, ended the battle in three minutes. Five thousand Astartes purged the entire industrial zone in twenty-eight minutes."
He paused, flipping his faceplate up to reveal a face made even more resolute by his genetic augmentations: "Our previous estimates of Astartes combat prowess... were far too conservative."
The crowd went silent for a second.
And then an even more massive wave of noise erupted.
"Five thousand Space Marines?! Holy shit, if this was a game, that lineup would be the ultimate end-of-expansion raid!"
--
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