Chapter 45: Firestorm Baptism
The Ork battleship opened fire—and immediately paid the price for its own recklessness.
The moment the ramshackle supercannon discharged its payload, the weapon's own exhaust detonated in a chain reaction, blowing dozens of excited greenskins off the deck. And yet, against all odds and Ork engineering, the shell was successfully launched.
A scorched-black torpedo streaked across the void and entered the atmosphere of Godzilla's planet. Superheated by friction, the massive projectile blazed like a meteor as it hurtled downward—straight toward the King of Monsters himself.
'Throne, that's a Cyclonic Torpedo!'
Godzilla's expression shifted for the first time in this war—eyes widening, mouth twitching with something almost like disbelief. He had seen devastation. He was devastation. But even he recognized the iconic silhouette of an Imperial Cyclonic Torpedo: a doomsday weapon engineered to enact Exterminatus from orbit.
In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, the Exterminatus is more than a tactic—it is a sentence of absolute annihilation. To see such a weapon flying at him was no small thing.
Godzilla lowered himself, claws raking deep furrows into the planetary crust. His tail slammed behind him, anchoring him in place. Blue light began to gather in his throat—slowly, steadily, ominously. The atomic breath built like a supernova held at bay, aimed skyward at the death racing toward him.
Above, the Orks continued their gleeful descent.
Dozens of rickety drop-shuttles, held together by faith, duct tape, and WAAAGH! energy, plunged into the atmosphere after the torpedo. Some disintegrated immediately, consumed by heat and drag. Others barely held together—burping fire, shedding metal plates, and jettisoning random cargo. Scrap-metal "airdrop pods" tumbled through the sky, ejecting screaming Orks in all directions. It was chaos. It was art.
Godzilla ignored the incoming greenskins.
He had eyes only for the Cyclonic Torpedo.
Then, with a thunderous roar, he unleashed his breath weapon.
A blinding pillar of atomic energy shot upward, lancing into the descending warhead. There was no contest. The beam struck the torpedo and a moment later—
BOOM.
A blinding, apocalyptic explosion erupted in the sky. The blast was so enormous it could be seen from space—a white-hot sun blooming in the upper atmosphere, engulfing everything in its wake. The shockwave spread across the world, flattening forests, shattering mountains, and charring the very surface of the land.
Godzilla was swallowed whole by the firestorm.
Plants, animals, Lizardmen—everything across a continent-sized swath was consumed by the blast. The atmosphere itself boiled, whipped into a churning storm that mimicked the chaos of the early formation of Earth's atmosphere.
Even the Lizardmen, sturdy and radiation-hardened as they were, were tossed like ragdolls by the blast. But they were not the ones hit hardest.
The true victims were the Orks.
Every single Ork in the atmosphere at the time of the explosion was vaporized. There was no dramatic death, no last WAAAGH—just instant, total incineration. Their drop ships became comets trailing flame. Their crude "pods" shattered. Their vehicles rained down like meteorites, reduced to smoldering wreckage.
But it wasn't over.
More Ork reinforcements, unaware of what had just happened, continued their descent. Some even tried to brake—only to realize that their ships didn't have brakes.
They plummeted straight into the burning skies.
Typical Orks.
Far above, Eldar scout ships had been observing the Orks' descent with a mix of horror and bafflement. The moment the explosion bloomed, they pulled back, unwilling to risk their precious lives. Every Eldar soul was irreplaceable. With the fall of their empire and the birth of Slaanesh, the Eldar had become painfully cautious about reproduction—unlike their hedonistic cousins in Commorragh. The Dark Eldar had ways to preserve their numbers. The Craftworld Eldar did not.
Their scouts were about to make a tactical withdrawal when something unexpected happened.
A beam of blue light—bright and lethal—pierced through the dissipating firestorm and stabbed into the heavens.
It slammed into the largest Ork battleship still in orbit.
The behemoth of rust and scrap-metal took the hit directly. Perhaps its shields weren't active. Perhaps it had none at all. Either way, the beam drilled clean through its hull. Explosions rippled outward, and the vessel began to break apart.
Then the beam began to sweep.
It scythed across space like a blade of godlight, catching several small frigates in its path. The unfortunate ships were sliced in half without resistance. An Eldar cruiser, only partially in the beam's path, flared as its energy shield absorbed the brunt of the blow. Ripples cascaded across the protective barrier, but it held—barely.
After a full minute of destruction, the beam finally faded.
The Eldar stared, mouths agape.
"That blast should've sterilized the entire planet," one of the scouts muttered.
It hadn't.
The surface of the planet shimmered with glowing embers, but from that inferno, Godzilla emerged—standing tall, smoke curling around his frame. Behind him, the jungle stirred. Lush vegetation glowed faintly with absorbed radiation. The Lizardmen were already stirring to their feet. Their scales shimmered with energy.
And then there was the flora.
Instead of being destroyed, the planet's plant life had thrived in the radioactive burst. Photosynthetic foliage now radiated an eerie blue glow, pulsing with life. The entire ecosystem had devoured the nuclear fire and turned it into fuel.
'Nuclear flame. Lucky me.'
Godzilla inhaled, his form absorbing the lingering radiation like a sponge. This wasn't destruction—it was a feast.
Cyclonic torpedoes came in many flavors. This one, armed with a nuclear fire warhead, was the least dangerous for the King of Monsters. Godzilla's biology thrived on radiation. Normally, he fed off solar energy. This... was a buffet.
Even the Lizardmen were changing.
Glowing red patterns—like streaks of molten metal—began to appear on their backs. This transformation, known among them as the Red Lotus Bloom, was a rare phenomenon that signaled enhanced strength and status. Typically, it only affected smaller individuals, but after this event, entire regiments had begun to "bloom."
Godzilla exhaled deeply, the firestorm finally fading into ember and ash.
Above, the battlefield had quieted.
The Eldar watched in horrified awe as Godzilla's world began to regenerate—no, evolve—in real time. What should have been a lifeless, smoldering ruin now shone with bioluminescent light, as if the entire biosphere had absorbed the apocalypse and grown stronger from it.
And atop the highest spire of the temple, Isis stood.
Naked, soot-covered, and annoyed.
"I liked that robe," she muttered, brushing ash from her shoulders. With a flick of psychic energy, she conjured a makeshift outfit—barely functional, but sufficient.
Then she turned to the battlefield.
"Now it's our turn."
She struck her staff against the ground. The entire world rumbled.
The planet itself began to move.
Godzilla's world shifted its orbit, propelling itself like a titanic vessel toward the naval battlefield where the Orks and Eldar had been slugging it out. It was like watching a moon turn into a battering ram.
Eldar scouts screamed across the vox.
"Get out of the way!!"
Prophet Alana's voice, boosted by psychic resonance, echoed through every Eldar vessel: "RUN!"
In that moment, panic seized both fleets.
Orks scrambled to reposition.
Eldar vessels went full reverse.
Because if anyone got caught in the path of a moving planet…
They wouldn't be having a bad day.
They'd be debris.
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