The skies of Belia IV burned with flame and fury. Blinding lances of light streaked through the atmosphere, tearing across a world already choked in smoke and wrath. Above, the clouds swirled—dense, thunderous, and black—boiling with warp-taint and weeping oily rain as if mourning the damned.
Warp breaches howled open. Twisting gashes of unreal energy bled across the heavens, casting blasphemous fire over the planet. The stormfront above spiraled inward into a vast, roaring vortex—rending the sky into jagged, concentric fractures. With every pulse of warp-light from its center, the outlines of nightmares became clearer.
And then they came—daemons beyond counting—shrilling, snarling, warping into being. They howled as they charged into the grinder of war, an endless tide born of the Immaterium.
Red meteors streaked downward—drop-pods, escape capsules, and charred corpses alike—all dragged into the gravity well of a dying world. Each impact blossomed into a thunderous explosion, hurling debris, blood, and gore into the sky. Shockwaves rippled across cratered plains, illuminating the gloom with brief flashes of annihilation.
Silhouetted in these flashes were things—abominations—twisted by the Ruinous Powers. Their forms defied logic, bodies shaped by hatred and the whims of the Warp. A beast, larger than a tank, bellowed with rage and hunger, its fanged maw slavering as it tore through loyal defenders.
A dense swarm of daemonflies darkened the skies, buzzing like a plague of locusts. The daemonic horde poured toward the last great bastion on this world: a city built atop shattered Eldar ruins, fortified into a cathedral of war.
There, the Astra Militarum and Astartes of the Imperium stood their ground. The corpses of the long-dead xenos became bulwarks, their arrogant architecture repurposed as sanctified redoubts against Chaos.
"For the Emperor!" A battle cry broke through the maelstrom.
The voice belonged to Asmodai, armored in scorched ceramite, standing resolute among the dead and dying. A blade worn down to a ragged edge and a ruined grenade launcher his only weapons, he held the line. Around him, the trenches crawled with mortal soldiers—men and women of the Imperium's countless worlds, each armed with only grit and a lasgun.
Though the Imperium now fielded more than a million Astartes, they remained scarce—an elite cast beyond the reach of most mortals. These men had never seen a Space Marine before today.
Outnumbered and besieged, Asmodai nonetheless fought like a wrathful specter. He was a Primaris now—reforged by the Emperor's will and the gene-science of Belisarius Cawl—possessing might that dwarfed the corrupted warriors of the Plague Legions.
With a swing of his chainsword, he decapitated a bloated traitor. The fallen warrior's body, swollen with Nurgle's gifts, collapsed in a cascade of rot. Asmodai moved on, his armor drenched in ichor and foul blood.
He stood atop a mountain of corpses, leading the Imperium's faithful against a tide of despair.
More daemons surged forth. One leapt toward him, claws raised high—but he seized it mid-air, bellowed with fury, and ripped it in half with his bare hands. The battlefield offered no respite, only more slaughter.
All around him, guardsmen died screaming. Asmodai's voice—once a thunderous litany—was now ragged and hoarse, worn down by hours of unbroken combat in the miasma of plague and sorcery.
And with every death, guilt gnawed at his soul.
The fault was his.
He had urged pursuit of the daemonic host, breaking from the ordained battle-path. Even Efilar, the commander of the task force, had agreed only under his persuasion. It was Asmodai's impetuous wrath that led them into this hell.
"Did you foresee this, Father?" Asmodai asked silently, addressing the Lion, his Primarch. "Is this why you cast me aside?"
The Emperor and the Primarchs had gifted him with divine power—but not wisdom. Blinded by rage against traitors, he had placed even the Warmaster at risk of ambush. His fury had eclipsed reason, and the cost was borne by the faithful.
Now, even the Saints bled for his folly.
If this world fell… if the reinforcements were lost… the ember of hope kindled by the Imperium's resurgence would be snuffed out.
And he had lit the match.
No penance could suffice. Not even death, repeated ten thousand times, could atone for the error he had committed.
So he fought.
He embraced unending battle as his only redemption, drowning guilt beneath an ocean of corpses. Each swing of his blade was a prayer. Each kill, a whispered plea:
"For the Emperor. For the Warmaster."
But his body paid the price.
A rusted blade scraped across his pauldron, biting into the weakened armor. Warnings flared across his helmet's interface—energy transfer errors, failing servos. His movements grew heavy, burdensome. Exhaustion, long delayed, clawed at his limbs.
Another daemon pounced—its limbs covered in diseased tumors, claws curved and dripping with bile. It raked at his helm, trying to tear away his mask.
Asmodai responded with silent fury, seizing the creature and ripping it apart at the seams. Bone cracked. Tendons snapped. Gore rained down as he hurled the corpse aside.
No respite. No salvation.
More enemies came. The sound of battle—a deafening, endless cacophony—assaulted the senses. But then… at last… the daemonic tide began to recede.
It was no victory.
They hadn't been defeated—they had finished their work. The slaughter had been a distraction. Asmodai's fury gave way to grim clarity.
He was the bait.
The true prey was yet to arrive: the reinforcements… and the Imperium's high command.
A bitter snarl formed beneath his helm.
"Hold your ground," he ordered the mortals beside him, voice raw but firm. "Stay vigilant."
The battle was not over.
And neither was his atonement.
Though Asmodai bore the mantle of an Interrogator-Chaplain of the Dark Angels, he was no stranger to command. He had led countless grim campaigns, and now, amid the carnage of Belia IV, he coordinated mortal soldiers with the same unflinching precision.
He restructured the defensive lines and ordered the gravely wounded evacuated to the rear.
At his command, the mortal troopers, worn to the bone, collapsed like punctured drums. Their exhaustion had reached the breaking point—mere flesh and bone not made to endure the trials of prolonged conflict. Cramps racked their limbs, their muscles no longer obeying them.
Asmodai, too, sat down briefly. Even enhanced as he was, his transhuman muscles spasmed under the strain. The fatigue clung to him like sludge—his limbs heavy, his body screaming for rest.
"Praise..."
"Father..."
A corrupted Astartes, half his body gone, crawled through the mire. Thick, putrid ichor oozed from ruptured organs, mixing with corrupted mud. Though his body was ruined, the heretic's spirit remained blasphemously animated. Despite the agony, he still attempted to invoke the name of his plague god.
Twisted by Nurgle's blessing, the traitor's vitality surpassed reason. He should have been dead—but the unnatural gifts of the Warp clung to him like mold to rot.
Asmodai stared down at him without pity, while the life-support systems of his power armor hissed softly, injecting pain suppressants into his bloodstream. The soothing agents dulled the ache in his muscles, but not in his soul.
"Seven curses! Seven bless—"
The traitor's last words were cut short as Asmodai's power sword flashed and sheared through the heretic's neck. The corrupted corpse still twitched, possessed by false life.
One by one, mortal soldiers gathered beside him.
"Commissar," Asmodai greeted calmly.
"Sir," replied the officer, saluting the towering Space Marine.
They had fought side by side for weeks, nameless to one another, yet bonded in shared bloodshed.
The Commissar hesitated, clearly burdened. He wrestled with his thoughts until finally, he voiced them.
"Sir... will the Warmaster come for us?"
His voice was low, hesitant.
"I heard from some officers that this deployment wasn't authorized. That... we came here on a personal command."
The words hit hard. Asmodai said nothing at first. Guilt coiled in his chest again.
He spoke slowly, "I don't know. Tell me, are you afraid to die, soldier?"
"No." The Commissar shook his head. "I just fear dying for nothing."
His voice cracked—not from fear, but anguish.
"I fear the Warmaster will see my death as misguided. That my sacrifice will be forgotten... unworthy of the Throne. I want to die with dignity. Like those honored warriors who fell with purpose."
His pain was honest, his faith shaken—not in the Emperor, but in the worth of their struggle.
Had he known the deployment was unauthorized, he might have resisted the order. But now, the trap was set. They were stranded on a doomed world, and death seemed a certainty.
The fear wasn't death—it was futility.
Asmodai placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
"This is not your burden to bear."
He said with solemn weight,
"Follow the will of the Emperor and the Warmaster. Each time you fire upon the enemies of mankind, every drop of your blood spilled in His name—
It is not wasted. It is absolution."
The Commissar's shoulders eased under the Chaplain's words.
But before rest could settle in, warning klaxons screamed through the gloom once more. Warped silhouettes began to form in the darkness.
Another wave was coming.
The Commissar nodded and returned to his post without a word.
Asmodai remained still for a moment, watching him leave.
"It is I who should not be forgiven..."
The thought lingered, a quiet confession to no one.
He gripped his weapon tighter, rage and remorse boiling in his core. He could not seek the Warmaster's pardon. Not yet.
Within the bastion-temples of Belia IV's capital,
Supreme Commander Efilar stood in counsel with a Harlequin emissary of the Aeldari.
Her will never faltered.
She placed no blame on Asmodai. Her mind remained fixed only on defeating the daemonic incursion.
Though xenos, the Eldar's timely arrival had brought much-needed supplies to the beleaguered Imperial forces—enough to stave off collapse. But they had not expected to be trapped.
Now, they too were prey.
Retreating into the Webway was impossible. The daemons would follow—and defile it again. They had no choice but to fight and hold until the Warmaster arrived.
Despite all efforts, the defense of Belia IV crumbled. Each trench fell one by one, the lines tightening inward toward the temple's core.
The loyalists now held their ground with back against the sanctum, using every advantage the ancient city could offer. Endless tides of daemons, cultists, and traitor humans assaulted the walls without pause.
Horus—the Arch-Traitor—pushed his corrupted legions with relentless fury.
Amid this madness, Asmodai received a new mission: lead the Ecclesiarchy's clergy to safety behind the innermost defenses.
Then the worst news came.
A Daemon Primarch had arrived.
Lorgar Aurelian. The Great Word. The Bearer of Corruption.
He strode into the flames of Belia IV with sanctimonious malevolence.
A corrupted demi-god now walked among mortals.
Lorgar's mere presence shattered Imperial lines. His sorcery tore through the ranks like wildfire through parchment. Even the Primaris Astartes—enhanced as they were—fell like dolls before his psionic might.
No blade could pierce him.
No prayer could banish him.
One noble Primaris made a stand, daring to challenge the corrupted Primarch.
It was brave.
But futile.
Even the strongest creations of the Emperor, reforged through the Rubicon Primaris, were nothing before Lorgar's vile ascendance.
With a casual sweep of his massive staff, the Great Speaker struck the Primaris warrior to the ground.
Then came the psychic assault—needles of malevolent energy stabbing through the mind, searing into the brain like a thousand hot irons. The pain was beyond physical, a soul-deep agony that tore at nerves and reason alike.
Even a Primaris Space Marine could not suppress the scream that followed.
"Submit, warrior," the daemon-primarch spat, his voice oozing with contempt. "No matter whose blood you carry, you are nothing before me."
Sweat poured down the warrior's face. His superhuman endurance was pushed to the edge. The agony twisted through his flesh, but the deeper torment came from within—as if his very soul were drowning in corruption.
Lorgar, the Great Speaker of Chaos, did not merely assault the body. His sorcery infected the soul, corroding will and memory like rust on steel.
Yet even in the grip of ruinous power, the warrior's heart held firm. In that moment, the common ideals of Mankind—the Emperor's dream, the light of unity, the hope of the Imperium—rose in his mind like a wall of adamantium.
From this purpose came strength.
"Submit?" the Primaris gasped through clenched teeth, blood running from his nose. "Compared to the Emperor's chosen… you're the one who is nothing."
Lorgar froze for a breath, as if stunned. Then he threw back his head and laughed—a sound devoid of joy, rich with scorn and cruelty.
"Then die, fool."
More vile energies coalesced in the daemon primarch's hands, writhing tendrils of warp-flame and hate. With a gesture, he intensified the torment.
Screams echoed across the battlefield as the warrior's body convulsed. His genetically enhanced flesh tore open under the strain. Bones cracked. Organs ruptured. His armor warped from the inside out.
Imperial Guardsmen and battle-brothers nearby watched in helpless horror, held back by a tide of daemons that jeered and hissed. They could not reach him.
They could only bear witness as another noble soul prepared to return to the Emperor's throne.
Despair was thick in the air.
Then—like a divine spear cast from the heavens—came a sound that pierced the gloom.
A hymn.
Soft at first, like a whisper through a cathedral's stained glass. Then rising, radiant and full of purpose. A sacred melody, too pure for the battlefield, and yet it burned through the corruption like sunrise through mist.
It was a song of courage, of sacrifice, of hope—the kind sung not by mortals, but by saints.
Every head turned upward.
From the sky descended a blaze of red fire, as if a sun had been born anew. Wings of flame unfurled, and from their midst stepped a figure clad in gleaming war-plate. A sword in one hand, a spear in the other. Her form radiated with divine wrath.
Efilar.
The Living Saint.
The Warmaster's voice made flesh. The Emperor's light given wings.
Her descent turned despair into awe. Her presence burned like holy fire.
At the sight of her, the daemons shrieked, their forms blistering in the sacred light. Warp-born monstrosities recoiled like shadows before the dawn.
Efilar raised her spear.
And with a cry that echoed like the tolling of sacred bells, she hurled it into the ground.
The battlefield exploded in red flame.
The shockwave incinerated the front lines of the enemy. Daemons turned to ash mid-scream. Heretic war machines melted. The unholy was scoured clean by the fire of the Emperor's will.
A new hope ignited across the broken ranks of the Imperium.
The Saint had come.
And with her, vengeance.
...
TN:
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