On the other side of Pandora, a massive ground fortress towered above the tropical canopy—Emperor's Glory. The structure resembled a walking bastion, bristling with heavy artillery and protected by shimmering plasma-shield domes.
Amidst ranks of jet-black troops bearing the sigil of the Inquisition, Inquisitor Czevak walked with calm authority. The unconscious Neteyam was carried by two Acolytes deep into the underground facility, toward the interrogation chambers.
As they moved, Czevak issued his next orders with clipped precision.
> Inquisitor Czevak:
"Prepare the hunting team. We need more Na'vi. The next target is the sea tribe. I want their coordinates before nightfall."
---
Meanwhile, in the private sanctum of Emperor Kenthelion, more than two hours had passed since the interrogation began. And the reports received were far from satisfactory.
With a cold expression, Kenthelion pressed a command rune embedded into the armrest of his throne.
> Kenthelion:
"Summon the Interrogator-Chaplain. Now."
Moments later, the heavy metal doors hissed open with a mechanical growl.
A towering figure entered—hooded, cloaked in deep black-green robes. His armor was the iconic Power Armour of the Dark Angels, gleaming in dark emerald hues. On his shoulder, the unmistakable emblem of the Winged Sword stood boldly. Hanging from his belt were worn scripture tomes, bound in leather and adorned with clinking chains of prayer.
Behind him followed two Adepta Sororitas, robed in ceremonial white and red, heads bowed in solemn deference. Even they knew who now stood before them—and who they were answering to.
The trio halted and saluted the Emperor with flawless precision.
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"My Lord Emperor, your command?"
> Kenthelion:
"Your Inquisitor is too slow. A blue-skinned xeno is under interrogation and the results are... inadequate. I want you to take over. Accelerate the process. I want the truth—now."
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"As you will it, my Emperor. We shall see it done."
Without another word, the three figures turned and left the room, their footsteps steady and deliberate. The clang of armored boots echoed through the adamantium-granite corridor as they made their way toward the interrogation facility.
---
Interrogation Chamber
The air in the chamber was thick and acrid—a suffocating blend of blood, iron, and burning incense meant to ward off "xenos corruption." Dim yellow lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows across the cold metallic walls.
Neteyam, bruised and bloodied, was forced to kneel before a golden effigy of the Emperor. Shackles bound his hands and feet. On either side of him stood two black-robed Interrogators, each gripping an electro-flail pulsing with deadly energy.
> Inquisitor:
"Repent before the Emperor, xeno."
Neteyam raised his battered face, blue blood streaking his features. His eyes burned with untamed fury. Though his body was weakened, the spirit of the Na'vi within him had not broken.
> Neteyam:
"Bastards! Filthy humans! Just kill me! I won't—"
CRACK!
The flail snapped across his back, a searing arc of pain that split open already wounded flesh. Blood sprayed from the gash, and he bit down hard to stifle a scream—but his gaze never wavered from the Interrogator.
> Inquisitor:
"Where is your base? Where are your people hiding?"
The lead Interrogator stepped forward. Half his face had been replaced with cold bionic plating, a glowing red optic embedded in his skull. He raised his flail again, ready to strike.
> Neteyam: (panting)
"You... must be dreaming..."
Suddenly, the interrogation room shook with a deep metallic tremor. Heavy footsteps reverberated through the floor, an ominous rhythm that made everyone in the chamber fall silent.
Through the thick veil of incense smoke, a towering, hooded figure emerged. His black-green robes trailed behind him, blending seamlessly into the dark emerald sheen of his power armor. On his shoulder gleamed the winged sword of the Dark Angels—a symbol of judgment and retribution. From his belt hung a tattered holy tome and chains of consecrated steel, whispering silent threats to all who dared look upon him.
Behind him followed two Adepta Sororitas, their heads bowed in solemn reverence. Even they knew—this was no ordinary visitation.
The Inquisitor, who had been leading the interrogation until now, immediately dropped to one knee.
> Inquisitor:
"Hail and respect, Interrogator-Chaplain."
> Interrogator-Chaplain (his voice deep and ancient, as though spoken through a relic of old)
"The Emperor is not satisfied with your progress. Truth does not rise from shallow wounds."
He stepped forward, approaching the collapsed and gasping Neteyam. He carried no flail, no tormentor's tools—his very presence was pain incarnate, a pressure that pierced straight into the soul.
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"Rise, wretched creature. Face the Truth, and let your soul be seared by His Light."
Slowly, Neteyam lifted his head. For the first time, fear began to replace the fury in his eyes.
> Neteyam:
"Are you... are you a death angel?"
> Interrogator-Chaplain (cold whisper, devoid of mercy)
"I am the prayer... answered from Hell."
The other Interrogators, the ones who had flogged and beaten him moments earlier, began to crawl out of the room in silence. Now, only two remained: the Na'vi and the Emperor's black-robed tormentor.
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"Xeno... next, you shall repent for your lineage. Only then might you be deemed worthy to reveal your stronghold."
He raised his chaplain's crozius—an ornate staff adorned with sacred iconography—and gently pressed it against Neteyam's forehead.
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"In the name of the Emperor…"
The words had barely left his mouth when the staff slammed down on Neteyam's skull with staggering force. Bone cracked. His vision trembled and dimmed to near-blackness.
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"Was such tenderness... too mild?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious.
> Neteyam:
"Humans... you..."
Boom!
Another blow landed, harder than the last. Blue blood streamed down his cheek, dripping to the floor in slow, steady beats—like an hourglass bleeding despair.
> Interrogator-Chaplain:
"As I expected... far too bright for a creature like you."
And once again, he raised the staff.
Blood soaked Neteyam's blue cheek, falling onto the iron floor—one drop at a time.
Interrogator-Chaplain
(calm, emotionless)
> "Now comes the main event, alien."
The cold floor grew slick—not with fresh blood, but with the old, clotted remnants of wounds that had never been allowed to heal.
With slow, deliberate movements, the Chaplain unfastened a small relic from the leather strap on his waist. Inside lay a fragment of bone, etched with High Gothic script—a sacred relic from a martyr who had perished in the long war against heresy and darkness.
He dipped the bone into a burning antiseptic fluid. At once, steam hissed upward, filling the chamber with the stench of seared flesh.
Interrogator-Chaplain
(still flat, like reciting a daily litany)
> "In our world, pain is a prayer. And you… will pray harder."
With a hand as steady as a priest before an altar, he pressed the searing relic against Neteyam's chest—right over the bruised and swollen sternum.
The first scream never came. Neteyam only clenched his jaw, so tight it trembled. But the second scream… echoed violently through the small chamber, raw and laced with torment. Outside, the two Adepta Sororitas turned their heads for a moment—then quietly began to pray.
His skin blistered. Veins bulged. Muscles twitched violently, as if they were trying to escape the confines of his own body.
But the Chaplain wasn't finished.
Still pressing the burning relic into flesh, he began to chant verses from the Libellum Judicii.
> "By the blood of martyrs, by the iron of justice, by the wrath of the Light... let the sin that denies confession be cast into ruin."
His left hand rose. In it was a small hammer—dense, heavy, engraved with ancient exorcism prayers. Without hesitation, he brought it down.
Crack.
Neteyam's fingers—broken one by one.
Not shattered, but slowly, methodically fractured. Strip by strip, the limits of pain were breached, defiled, obliterated.
Interrogator-Chaplain
> "Where is the Na'vi tribe hiding? Speak… and this pain will become a memory. Refuse… and you will confess through your flesh."
The torture dragged on—technique after technique, method after method. Until finally, Neteyam's defenses cracked. Tears, laced with blood, streamed down his face.
Neteyam
> "I... I'll talk. Please… stop. I'll tell you where they are..."
Interrogator-Chaplain
(thin smile)
> "At last, the blue creature speaks."
At that moment, the Chaplain's hand moved slowly across Neteyam's chest—peeling the skin with horrifying precision, like a surgeon dissecting fresh prey. There was no rush, no mercy. The soft scraping of metal against wet flesh was almost silent, yet unspeakably cruel. Beneath him, a caged flame glowed from under the grating, radiating heat that scorched through muscle and into bone.
On the Chaplain's hand, the Pain Glove pulsed faintly—an artifact of the Dark Age of Technology, a legacy of the merciless Imperium. It was no ordinary torture tool, but a psycho-electric engine of agony, designed to manipulate nerves until the victim felt every nightmare mankind had ever conceived.
Simulated total suffering surged through Neteyam's nervous system. No visible wounds marked his skin, yet his brain registered pain as if he were being shredded by predators, incinerated by plasma fire, and impaled by a thousand adamantium needles—all at once, every second.
Neteyam's body writhed violently, convulsing nonstop. But there was nowhere to run. No place to hide. Only pain. Pure, naked, relentless pain.
His chest began to blister, the skin peeling back to reveal red, inflamed flesh scorched by the rising heat. Even the brush of open air made the surface pulse and twitch, as if the burn itself had become alive.
Adamantium chains coiled around his wrists, ankles, and neck held him in place—unyielding, no matter how violently his body tried to escape the torment.
Amid muffled screams, drops of sacred liquid were applied one by one onto the open wounds. A small vial labeled Tears of the Emperor was uncorked with reverence.
The first drop landed on the deep incision across the chest—and instantly evaporated, hissing like hot metal plunged into water.
The pain… it went beyond the physical.
It was a torment that clawed from the soul itself, as if an unseen hand reached into his heart, dredging up guilt, sin, and every bitter memory buried within—and dragged it all to the surface with the wrath of a furious Paladin.
Neteyam clenched his jaw, forcing back the sound. His teeth bit into his lower lip until it split—fresh blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. But his eyes—those once burning with the fierce resolve of the Na'vi—now flickered dim, directionless... fading.
The Chaplain said nothing. He simply pressed a button beside the torture slab.
The Neural Flayer activated.
An invisible pulse surged from the machine directly into Neteyam's central nervous system. No blade touched him. No new wound opened. But his brain screamed as though he were being torn apart from within. Psionic shockwaves shattered thoughts and fractured consciousness, breaching the line between flesh and soul.
His heartbeat spiked. Eyes widened. His entire body convulsed violently. No more screams—only ragged breaths, gasping, like a creature driven to the edge of biological suffering.
And then... a broken whisper escaped Neteyam's trembling lips:
"They... they're in the cave... atop the main peak of Hallelujah Mountain..."
Silence fell across the chamber. The Interrogator-Chaplain stared forward, then recorded the intel directly into the hovering servo-skull that flanked him.
"Very good… blue-skinned alien," he murmured, voice soft—almost prayer-like—yet devoid of any mercy.
He rose, turned his back, and gave a final command without looking over his shoulder. His voice was deep and solemn, like a funeral bell tolling.
"You know your orders. Deploy the full arsenal of Excruciators... let them finish the rest."
The two Adepta Sororitas, who had stood in reverent silence all this time, saluted without a word. Moving forward toward the interrogation slab, they carried with them the sacred instruments of the Inquisition—a grim blend of precision mechanical probes, micro-electrical current injectors, and neural manipulation devices known only through the darkest doctrines of the Imperium's investigative arm.
Moments later, the Interrogator-Chaplain transmitted a report through the military's secure command channel:
"We have acquired the enemy's coordinates—a cave atop the main peak of Hallelujah Mountain. Proceeding to next phase of assault, in the name of the Imperium and the Emperor."
And within that chamber, prayers of absolution had long since turned into a symphony of screams.
---
Once the enemy's location was confirmed, three Thunderhawks belonging to the World Eaters Legion launched immediately from the ground base Emperor's Glory, their plasma engines roaring as they split the skies. Their target: Hallelujah Mountain, a natural fortress that now served as the last stronghold of the remaining Na'vi tribes.
Each Thunderhawk was a masterpiece of long-range assault and transport design—capable of delivering multiple tactical squads of Space Marines deep into combat zones with brutal efficiency, speed, and near-impervious armor. Some variants could even carry heavy armored vehicles like the Land Raider, making them the backbone of blitz assaults and siege operations alike.
The three Thunderhawks, each emblazoned with the gaping maw insignia of the World Eaters, cut through the skies like vengeful gods. Inside, over fifty fully armed Space Marines stood ready, their weapons primed, their hearts already pounding with the rhythm of battle. But aboard one of them was something far more terrifying than even a company of Astartes—a Leviathan Dreadnought, a weapon of annihilation from a time long buried by war and blood.
The Leviathan Dreadnought was no mere mecha; it was the embodiment of ancient wrath, a war machine from the twilight of the 30th millennium, deployed only in the most desperate, apocalyptic scenarios. Unlike standard-pattern Dreadnoughts powered by conventional systems, the Leviathan hailed from the Dark Age of Technology—wrought with forbidden technologies so arcane and unstable that even the Adeptus Mechanicus deemed them semi-heresy.
Its frame was clad in adamantium plating capable of withstanding concentrated artillery fire. Brutal and versatile in design, it came stock with twin frag grenade launchers and twin heavy flamers. But its weapon loadout was modular, allowing for horrifying variants—deflagration cannons, siege claws infused with melta power, tunneling drills, or even twin storm cannons. Mounted atop its armored shell, a barrage of missiles and vector-gravity launchers completed its cataclysmic arsenal.
But no weapon came without a price—and the cost of piloting a Leviathan was devastating.
Not only was the Leviathan monstrously expensive—its creation alone rivaled the cost of an entire Knight-class war engine—but its toll on the mind and soul was infamous. The internal neural control systems subjected its pilot to overwhelming psychic and emotional stress. Many Space Marines lost their sanity within mere hours of entering the sarcophagus interface.
Whispers told of each Leviathan harboring nightmares from the Dark Age—buried deep within the layers of corrupted machine thought, speaking in fragmented echoes of madness to those bold or insane enough to ride them.
For those who dared to enter, there were only two possible fates: total obliteration… or a shred of sanity that survived the trial by fire and blood.
And on that day, one such Leviathan—entombed for millennia in war-torn dreams and mental screams—had awakened.
Marching toward the battlefield, its wrath unquenched since ten thousand years ago.
Khârn stood tall within the open bay of the Thunderhawk, his blood-stained crimson armor catching the sunlight like a grim omen. His eyes blazed with unhinged fury and the holy fire of war. When he spoke, his voice thundered—an echo of chaos that stirred the very cores of the Space Marines who heard it.
Khârn:
"Prepare for assault! Prepare for war!"
Behind him, dozens of World Eaters stood at the ready. Each bore a Selfa-V jump pack—a specialized variant designed for extreme velocity and brutal mobility. The cylindrical thrusters hissed with bursts of cryogenic coolant, while promethium tanks on their backs growled like beasts straining to be unleashed.
These jump packs weren't just tools of movement—they were weapons in their own right. They hurled their users across the battlefield like living missiles, smashing into enemy lines with bone-crushing force. To the World Eaters, who thrived in the chaos of melee combat, these were wings—wings of angels made for slaughter.
Elsewhere, high above the jungle canopy of Pandora, the Na'vi sentinels stationed around the sacred mountain region had already sensed the approach of something alien… something wrong.
They watched as the Thunderhawks tore through the sky, casting massive shadows over the forests and cliffs.
Na'vi Sentinel (panicked):
"Enemies are attacking!!"
Shouts of warning rang out, but it was already too late.
The Thunderhawk bay doors opened wide.
A thunderous roar filled the heavens as Khârn and his squad of World Eaters launched from the sky—jump packs igniting like volcanic fury. They slammed into the earth and stone below with cataclysmic force, tearing through the terrain and smashing into the sacred caverns where the Na'vi had taken refuge.
BOOM!
The first explosion rocked the cave. Dust and shards of stone burst into the air. A Na'vi warrior, bow in hand, didn't even have time to draw his string before Khârn raised his bolt pistol and fired a massive-caliber round straight into his chest. The body was thrown backward, slamming against the cave wall.
Without hesitation, Khârn swung Gorechild—his roaring chainaxe. The weapon's spinning teeth tore through the next blue-skinned body with unspeakable ferocity.
Khârn (roaring amidst the chaos):
"Kill all xenos!! For the Emperor!!!"
His battle cry was met with deafening cheers from the other Space Marines who had already landed, sweeping through the cave and eliminating all resistance. Body after body of the Na'vi fell. The warriors of Pandora fought back with arrows and spears, but their weapons bounced harmlessly off the Astartes' power armor and energy shields.
Na'vi Warrior (desperately):
"We need heavy weapons!"
But they knew—they had none.
Their traditional arms—bows, arrows, and spears—were useless against the reinforced armor of the Imperium. In the confined quarters of the cave, the World Eaters became even more savage. This was the perfect battlefield for them: close-quarters, bloody, and drenched in chaos.
Another Na'vi shouted:
"Retreat! Fall back into the forest!"
But the exit was already blocked. The Space Marines' helmet sensors had locked onto the body heat signatures of the Na'vi hiding behind the cave walls. They were hunted down one by one, like animals caught in a trap.
Meanwhile, Khârn remained the eye of the storm—unstoppable, merciless. Each step he took shook the ground. Every swing of his axe unleashed a rain of blood.
Khârn (shouting):
"Honor in blood! Victory in chaos!"
Many of the Na'vi panicked, fleeing through the narrow tunnels of the cave, desperately hoping to escape the brutal massacre. They tried to exploit the one physical weakness of the Space Marines—their massive size and inflexible armor—by slipping through tight crevices their enemies cou