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Chapter 180: Greetings, Sanguinius's Finest Son
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 10:41:56 +0000 UTCChapter 180: Greetings, Sanguinius's Finest Son
"There is not much time."
Aurele, the Exodite Ranger, closed her eyes, her long lashes trembling in the dust-filled air. She could feel the lament of the World Spirit rising from the cracked earth beneath her feet. Its sorrow was like a fine needle piercing her nerves, kindling a cold fury in her eyes.
In the distance, the figures of the Astartes were phantoms in the smoke, like blood-stained monuments. A tsunami of Tyranids against a handful of warriors. Even the strongest dike must break before such a tide, yet these warriors fought with a courage and strength she had never witnessed. Their bright yellow armour formed a continuous, unyielding wall, not allowing a single creature of the swarm to pass.
The sight made Aurele put aside some of her deep-seated prejudices.
"Chapter Master Phoros, we must withdraw," she said, having risked crossing the ravenous swarm to reach his side, her lithe form moving like a gale across the battlefield. Just moments before, a single shot from her long-rifle had pierced the compound eye of a Lictor, giving the giant warrior the opening he needed to cleave the creature's skull with his power sword.
Now, the Chapter Master's armour was covered in dents, and his breathing was the ragged sound of a broken bellows.
"My ancestors cannot hold out much longer," Aurele urged. Compared to their Craftworld kin who still sailed the stars, the Exodites were technologically primitive, their military strength a fraction of what it once was. They had to rely on the Astartes fleet for cover to break the Tyranid blockade, to get the last of the refugees to their shuttles and through the Webway gates on other worlds, seeking the protection of their cousins. As for why they didn't use the Webway gate on Estelia—it had long ago crumbled into ruin from the ravages of time.
"But there are still so many people," Phoros rasped, drenched in gore.
The Lamenters had expended their last bolter rounds. They could only rely on the strength of the ancient Aeldari ruins, fighting the Tyranids in close-quarters combat at every chokepoint and gate. From the depths of the ruins' tunnels came the grating shriek of chitin on stone. With every impact, the great bronze gates shuddered, shaking loose a fine dust of ages.
"They are my people," Phoros stated, his voice a low growl.
The Lamenters also saw the xenos as enemies. But for now, their goals were aligned. If not for these Aeldari activating the ruins' defence systems, the millions of surviving humans would have had no shelter, no chance to even attempt a holding action against the swarm.
"My Lord, my sorrow and my pain are no less than yours," Aurele explained, her voice tight. "Our ancestors are being tormented. I can hear the screams of the World Spirit as it is dragged into the domain of She Who Thirsts, to suffer for all eternity. They are about to break."
"If the World Spirit is fully corrupted, the minions of the Youngest God will have an open gateway. When they tear aside the veil of reality, we will all die with this planet."
Aurele admired these warriors who gave their lives for their people. They were like the elders of her own clan, who had merged their souls with the World Spirit to resist Slaanesh, buying time for their young descendants to live. But they could delay no longer. The call for aid to the Craftworlds had gone unanswered. They had to save this last ember of their people.
They didn't want to leave alone, but the transports needed the cover of the Lamenters' fleet to ascend.
CRACK!
An Eviscerator decapitated a Tyranid Warrior. A squad of human auxiliaries with flamers moved in to incinerate the corpse.
Phoros did not look at the chattering xenos. He silently turned his head, looking back at the people currently safe behind the World Spirit's psychic shield.
There were not enough transports. Even with the support from the Ultramarines, it was not enough.
But there are still people behind us.
His blade flashed. A chitin-armoured limb flew in a high arc. The horrific wound drew no scream from its owner; the soulless creature simply continued its mechanical advance, seeking only to kill the enemy before it.
SHLICK!
Phoros's broadsword plunged into its chest. Green ichor splattered his armour, seeping through the cracked joints. With an upward wrench of his blade, he tore the enemy open.
"How much longer?" he gasped. Even for an Astartes, the pressure was exhausting.
"By your human calendar, eight hours," Aurele replied. She knew he was asking about the World Spirit.
"Go. The fleet will provide cover for you. We will treat you no differently." The blood-soaked warrior remained at his post, the bodies piled at his feet threatening to bury him.
Aurele, given permission, turned to leave. After a few steps, she looked back.
"And you?"
"We will remain and fight," Phoros replied. "Even if it means a glorious death."
For a moment, Aurele did not know what to say. She raised her shuriken weapon, firing precisely into the oncoming swarm. When her last ammunition clip was spent, she offered a single, quiet word of encouragement, and then departed without another glance.
"...Good luck."
Her voice was as fine as sea-spray against a rising tide, swallowed in an instant by the shrieking advance of the swarm.
Phoros looked at the endless tide of xenos, every muscle in his body trembling.
"For those we cherish!" he roared, a man without fear, swinging his sword.
The yellow wall roared a valiant response!
But their strength was fading. No matter how incredible their courage, Phoros had to admit his battle-brothers were at their absolute limit. In this hopeless war, some had already succumbed to the Black Rage. The Lamenters did not know the origin of this curse; they simply saw it as an ill omen.
"We die in glory!"
"HORUS!"
"Brother, get back in formation!"
Some warriors bellowed in a mad rage, breaking from the line, their scarred bodies surging with an unprecedented strength. But it was only a final, fleeting flare of life. Moments later, these berserk warriors were swallowed by the tide of the swarm, and were heard from no more.
"..."
Phoros clenched his fist in agony and simply continued to swing his blade.
More and more enemies. More and more of the Emperor's Angels falling. And behind them, the transports, slowly but surely, continuing the evacuation.
Then they saw them: a few stray Tyranid organisms had slipped through and reached the landing platform.
For many, the realization finally dawned: there was no hope of escape.
A commotion rippled through the crowd. But it was not a riot born of despair. It was a transfer of another kind—a transfer to a self-inflicted death.
"Get back!"
A cry of alarm came from the reserve troops on the platform. Phoros, in the thick of the fight, flinched and turned his head. Through his blood-smeared vision, he saw a figure emerge. A civilian, gaunt and skeletal. He had once been a respectable landowner, for life on a garden world was good. Now, this man raised in a greenhouse stood like an iron nail before the swarm, his brown eyes locked on the xenos.
In the past, this timid man had been terrified by stories of the creatures in the forest. Now, there was no fear in his eyes. Only the fire of vengeance.
"Halt! Go back!" Phoros, who faced the endless swarm and his own death without fear, sounded hysterical as he yelled at a citizen of the Imperium.
But it was too late.
The young man glanced at Phoros from a distance. A moment before the Tyrant Guard's cannon-fire tore him apart, the explosives strapped to his body activated.
BOOM!
An intensely bright energy blast radiated outwards, vaporizing flesh, tearing a gaping hole in the advancing swarm.
It was a suicidal charge, born of utter desperation.
Phoros only staggered slightly, his eyes fixed on the gap in the enemy lines. The young man had died in the instant of the explosion, but Phoros felt as if he had been smiling.
Then he saw them: a group of civilians, assisted by the Astra Militarum, strapping on demo-charges and beginning to charge, one after another, into the oncoming horde.
"What are you doing?! Colonel, tell me what you are doing!" Phoros roared, his thoughts racing.
BOOM! BOOM!
More shockwaves rolled through the ruins. The molten surfaces of the Aeldari architecture and the swarm were blasted apart together. His vision flickered with images of flying shrapnel, twisted metal, and human remains. The Tyranid tide, in this narrow passage, was halted by the suicidal attacks. The Imperial Guard even used the opportunity to advance, linking their line with the Astartes'.
The transports, which should have been destroyed by the swarm's artillery, were able to lift off. The Tyranids had not anticipated this sudden counter-charge, and the firebase of Biovores and Tyrant Guard was shattered.
In this universe, powerful emotion could truly turn the tide!
"My Lord! Go! You must go," the Colonel shouted. "This was not forced upon us! This was our choice."
"We would rather die as free men than become fodder for the xenos! We will not be a burden to the Emperor's Angels!"
"Go now! Go!"
His tattered greatcoat whipped in the wind as he stood atop his command Chimera, yelling to Phoros.
"Then unleash the Emperor's wrath, and grant us a merciful death!"
A continuous barrage of artillery erupted as the Imperial Guard launched a counter-charge on the heels of the suicide wave. The command vehicle crunched over a charred body and rolled past Phoros, leaving his mind reeling. All he could see was the Colonel's back, and the smile that remained on his face.
"You are not a burden!" Phoros bellowed.
"Yes! It was you who taught me that we are not a burden!" a mortal said, walking past him.
Phoros met his gaze. There was only satisfaction in the man's eyes—the satisfaction of a life whose value had been affirmed.
"Go, my Lord. You should not die here. There are still many others who await you."
Having spoken, he continued forward. They were insignificant mortals, able only to follow the Guard's commands and fill the gaps in the firing line. Set the timer, then run. It was that simple. His turn was coming.
"Chapter Master, what are your orders?" The voice of Chaplain Andrel, hoarse and strained, came over the comms, punctuated by the suppressed groans of the wounded and the screech of tortured metal from a failing gate.
"Andrel, you will take the gravely wounded and the last of our people and evacuate immediately," Phoros ordered, his eyes on the advancing wall of human flesh.
"And you, my Lord?"
"I am staying. First and Second Companies will remain with me." He took a heavy step forward, moving to join the mortals, his power boots crushing chitinous fragments with a sickening crunch.
"I am staying!" the Chaplain's voice rose, sharp with protest.
"I am staying," Phoros repeated stubbornly.
"You are the Chapter Master!" Andrel all but snarled.
"Precisely because I am the Chapter Master," Phoros replied calmly, the flames of the explosions reflected in the lenses of his helmet. "I will not leave. I will hold this line. Get the ships airborne. We can still save more people!"
He reached the very front of the line. A demigod, chosen from the best of the best of humanity, forged through hardship and trial. He belonged at the forefront, defending mankind's most precious treasure.
Life.
Phoros raised his sword.
Gene-father, let me save just one more! he prayed silently, the power sword flaring once more with an arc of blue energy.
THOOM—
Phoros slammed his left foot down, and the entire Aeldari ruin shook as if struck by an earthquake. He looked up in confusion, staring at the sky, at the roar that was erupting from the dark void.
Time seemed to freeze.
Just as everyone's despair had turned to grim resolve—
The sky suddenly grew bright.
The pitch-black night was pierced by light, a crimson radiance that illuminated countless faces. Their minds went blank. They saw the silhouette of a colossal warship appear in the heavens, and a searing light that tore through the darkness.
Aurele, who was preparing to evacuate with the refugees, stared dumbly at the sky. In the past, she had hated these lesser beings who had invaded her home, but the elders had never allowed her to engage them. She hadn't understood then why the wise elders would avoid a conflict with these creatures. Their bodies were weak, their technology far behind that of their Craftworld kin. And when she discovered these humans had not come to destroy her home, she had listened to her elders, curbed her temper, and lived deep in the forests, out of sight and out of mind.
Now, she understood.
BOOM—
The sky caught fire.
Above the Tyranid swarm, a literal sea of flame appeared. The sky that had been terrifyingly dark just moments before was now too bright to look at. Phoros closed his eyes, then forced them open again. Just as a living thing yearns for the sun, a thousand, a million times its brilliance could not make him look away. Some instinct deep in his soul refused to let him miss this. His eyes, red-rimmed from long suffering, stung, but he stared unblinking.
The sky was burning!
An ocean of fire churned above their heads. Countless flames rolled and billowed, igniting the swarm, banishing the last vestiges of darkness. It was a sight of indescribable grandeur, so brilliant it was impossible to behold. No words could capture it; the most dazzling celebratory fireworks were but fireflies before it.
The survivors stared, awestruck. The charging swarm of Tyranids began to twitch and convulse on the ground, their central nervous system seemingly overloaded.
Phoros kept his eyes on the heavens.
A figure of gold and red, accompanied by countless crimson knights, descended from the sky.
Like an avenging angel.
Dozens of Stormbirds, escorting a thousand Valkyries, plunged into the atmosphere, dropping an unending rain of explosives, wiping away the endless sea of Tyranids like an eraser across a slate. The Stormbirds landed on the cleansed earth, and from them emerged Solar Auxilia in void-sealed armour, driving super-heavy vehicles and establishing firebases, beginning a new wave of suppression against the distant swarm.
Within the Aeldari ruins, squads of Astartes and large contingents of Battle-Sisters moved swiftly, clearing the last pockets of resistance. Comms units found secure locations and began to set up command tents.
The darkness would be burned away. The light would return to the world. The stunned survivors suddenly realized that the howling wind, caused by the atmospheric pressure change from the Tyranids' biomass digestion, had ceased.
When the dawn comes, the storm ends.
After a few seconds of this magnificent spectacle, the world fell silent. The sea of fire was rapidly extinguishing. The overwhelming Tyranid air-swarm had vanished without a trace. In an instant, the frontline where Phoros stood had become the rearguard.
THUD—
The golden-red figure landed before Phoros, the jump pack on his back cycling down, radiating a heat that distorted the air.
"Greetings!" the figure's voice rang out.
Phoros looked at him, and felt the immense pressure on his soul simply evaporate, as if a ship lost at sea had finally found its harbour.
The figure extended a hand.
"Sanguinius's finest son."
