The research vessel's eighth corridor resembled a twisted combination of abattoir and machine shrine. Servitor-automata with too many limbs and not enough skin fought alongside clearly illegal Men of Iron variants, while things that might have once been Tyranids – if Tyranids were built from ceramite and rage – held the chokepoints.
Belisarius Cawl coordinated the defense, his towering form a walking arsenal of forbidden technology. "Probability of breach in sector seven increasing by 3.4% per minute," he announced, his vocalizer somehow managing to sound both bored and annoyed.
"ACKNOWLEDGED, BROTHER!" Magos Biceps bellowed from his position. The massive tech-priest, more resembling a Dreadnought than a normal Mechanicum adept, directed his 'children' – monstrous cybernetic constructs that seemed to be built entirely from muscle fiber and nightmare fuel. "THESE POINTY-EARED WEAKLINGS LACK SUFFICIENT GAINS TO BREACH OUR DEFENSES!"
Dr. Elara Chen didn't look up from her workstation, her fingers dancing across multiple holoconsoles simultaneously. Lines of code and reality-warping equations flowed around her like water. "Reality shift in 3... 2... 1... shifting local dimensional coordinates."
The shadows in the corridor rippled, and the screams of frustrated Mandrakes echoed from nowhere as their attempt to phase through shadows went wrong. Again.
"Fourteenth dimensional shift complete," Chen muttered. "Installing new quantum firewall. Someone get me more caffeine. And maybe some grenades."
Cawl's primary optical sensor swiveled toward her. "The stimulant dispenser was destroyed in the third hour of the siege. I could offer you some processed nutrients through—"
"If you try to feed me through a tube again, Belisarius, I will rewrite your base code to make you speak in UwU."
"CEASE YOUR BICKERING!" Biceps thundered, as one of his constructs literally punched a Kabalite Warrior through a wall. "WE MUST DEFEND THIS POSITION WITH HONOR! AND MASSIVE GAINZ!"
The siege had been going for what felt like weeks. Or maybe hours. Time was weird when you were constantly rewriting local physics to keep shadow-walking assassins from murdering you. The only constant was Vect's relentless assault, throwing waves of warriors against their defenses.
That's when the vox crackled to life with a familiar voice: "How are my egg heads doing over there?"
"Lord Primarch!" Chen's fingers never stopped typing. "Terrible timing as usual. We're a bit busy preventing horrible death at the moment."
"PRIMARCH!" Biceps' volume somehow increased. "WE ARE HOLDING THE LINE WITH SUPERIOR FORCE AND EXCEPTIONAL MUSCLE DEVELOPMENT!"
Cawl merely sighed, all twenty-seven of his weapons still firing. "Your timing is neither optimal nor sub-optimal, Lord Valorian. Though I calculate our chances of survival have increased by approximately 99.9% with your arrival."
"That's Cawl-speak for 'thank fuck you're here,'" Chen translated. "Please tell me you brought the big guns. Like, all of them. Preferably the ones that make things stop existing."
Franklin's chuckle carried through the vox. "Sweet Liberty's already redecorating the neighborhood. But I hear you've got a special guest out there. Thought I'd drop in and say hello."
"INDEED!" Biceps confirmed. "THE ONE CALLED VECT CONTINUES TO THROW HIS MALNOURISHED WARRIORS AT OUR POSITION! THEY CLEARLY REQUIRE A PROPER DIET AND EXERCISE REGIMEN!"
"Lord Valorian," Cawl interjected, "while your concern is appreciated, perhaps less conversation and more intervention? The probability of breach has increased to—"
A massive explosion rocked the corridor, and through the smoke came more Haemonculus, Wyches and the Occasional Kabalite Warriors.
A booming laugh came through the vox. "Come on, Cawl. Don't tell me you're not having fun? I saw those new weapons you're sporting. Very nice modifications."
"The necessity of survival has prompted some... creative solutions," Cawl admitted, almost sounding proud as one of his shoulder-mounted weapons disintegrated a squad of Wyches.
Biceps grunted as he physically threw one of his muscle-bound creations at an advancing group of Homunculi. "Lord Franklin, while we appreciate the social call, I assume extraction is imminent? Dr. Chen's reality-shifts won't hold forever."
"Actually," Franklin's voice carried that tone they all knew meant something spectacular was about to happen, "if you could hold out for about... oh, thirty more seconds?"
--------------------------
The dark spires of Lower Commorragh echoed with the sounds of distant bombardment when a voice shattered the tense atmosphere:
"LEEROOOOOY JENKIIIIIIINS!"
Vect's head snapped upward, his ancient reflexes screaming danger. The twilight sky of the Dark City suddenly blazed with golden fire, a massive burning slash cutting through reality itself. Before he could issue orders, another voice thundered:
"TACTICAL SOLUTION INCOMING!"
The psychic shockwave hit first – a concentrated burst of warp energy that cleared the landing zone like a divine broom sweeping away dust. Kabalite Warriors went flying, their perfectly disciplined formations scattered like leaves in a hurricane. The very air seemed to crystallize for a moment before shattering.
When Vect regained his footing, the scene before him defied even his centuries of experience. The Primarch of the Liberty Eagles stood in a crater of his own making, Anaris blazing in his grip. Around him, his Primeborn Captains had already engaged the Kabalite Warriors in what could only be called a massacre.
Denzel Washington's hyper-phase swords reshaped and clearly longer to cater to his increased size, carved elegant arcs through the air, each swing sending Dark Eldar warriors flying in pieces. Steven Armstrong was literally punching through squads, his Power Fists trailing electromagnetic distortions as the fists continue to be reinforced by Nanomachines. Henry, John and Vladimir stayed behind and picked off opponents from afar, Disintegration shots from Henry, Cover Fire From John and Warp Lightning from Vladimir.
"Impossible," Vect snarled, he had no time to process this tactical nightmare because eight feet of ancient Psychocrystal. He parried purely on instinct, a move he'd perfected over Centuries of combat and Intrigue. The impact nearly shattered his arms. His Prized Blade a masterwork of Dark Eldar artifice, showed hairline fractures from a single blow.
Franklin Valorian's face emerged from the settling smoke, his expression carrying that insufferable grin Vect remembered all too well. "What's wrong, knife-ears? Not happy to see an old friend?"
Another exchange of blows, each one forcing Vect back despite his supernatural speed. The Dark Eldar lord's mind raced, calculating odds, searching for advantages, finding none. Around him, his elite warriors were being systematically demolished.
"I remember you," Franklin continued, his casual tone belying the devastating power of his attacks. "You're that Dark Eldar fool I had to teach a lesson about property rights. That Webway Gate looked much better after I redecorated it with your warriors' remains."
Vect's teeth ground together as he remembered that humiliation. A supposedly easy raid turned into a slaughter when this monster had appeared with his Legion. "Your kind does not belong here, mon-keigh!"
A particularly vicious slash from Anaris shattered Vect's blade entirely, sending him stumbling back with a mangled hand. His enhanced healing was already working, but he knew he needed an exit – now.
His eyes darted to a nearby portal, one of many emergency exits he'd prepared. But the distance... the Primarch would intercept him before he could reach it. Unless...
"DRAZHAR!" Vect's voice carried through the shadows. "NAME YOUR PRICE!"
The air rippled as a figure seemingly materialized between Vect and Franklin. Demiklaives crashed against Anaris in a shower of sparks that lit up the darkness. The Master of Blades, Drazhar himself, had answered.
"This favor," Drazhar's voice rasped through his helm, ancient and terrible, "will be the price, Asdrubael."
Vect didn't waste the opportunity. He dove through the portal, reality twisting around him as he made his escape. Behind him, two legends prepared to clash.
Franklin's grin grew wider as he regarded his new opponent. "Well, well... if it isn't a Phoenix Lord. Though 'fallen' might be more accurate, wouldn't it, Arha?" He twirled Anaris in a casual salute. "Or do you prefer Drazhar now? 'The Living Sword' does have a certain dramatic flair to it."
Drazhar remained silent, but his body language spoke volumes. For the first time in centuries, the Master of Blades felt something he'd almost forgotten – uncertainty. His warrior's instincts, honed over Centuries of combat, were screaming warnings he couldn't ignore. The being before him radiated danger on a level that made even other Phoenix Lords seem tame in comparison.
"Father," Henry called out, dispatching the last Kabalite Warrior with casual efficiency, "the research vessel is secure. Cawl wants to know if you'd like him to record this for posterity."
"Tell him yes!" Franklin's voice boomed with genuine enthusiasm. "And make sure to take them to the extraction point"
The air around them seemed to grow heavier as both warriors took their measures. Franklin's armor crackled with psychic energy. Neither moved, creating a pocket of stillness in the chaos of battle around them.
"You know," Franklin continued conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather rather than preparing for legendary combat, "Your fellow Phoenix Lords are probably coming to Commorragh." He twirled Anaris with casual ease, the blade leaving trails of divine fire in its wake. "The stories say you're one of the best – the fallen Phoenix Lord of the Striking Scorpions. However..."
Franklin's grin took on a predatory edge. "If you really want to fight me equally, you might want to bring a few more. Because from where I'm standing, you're clearly lacking. Don't take this the wrong way – you're good, but not Eldanesh-type good."
The name drop was deliberate, and its effect was immediate. Drazhar's stance shifted imperceptibly – a tell that only another master of combat would notice. The air around him seemed to vibrate with barely contained violence.
For the first time in centuries, Drazhar spoke more than a whisper: "You dare speak that name? You, a mon-keigh pretender wielding a blade you barely understand?"
"Oh, I understand Anaris quite well," Franklin replied, his jovial tone carrying an edge of steel. "Just like I understand what you are, Arha. A shadow of what the Aeldari once were. The Living Sword? Perhaps. But I've got news for you – I am the Hand of Khaine himself. And your edge?" The Primarch's eyes began to glow with inner fire. "It's looking pretty dull from here."
Around them, the battle had shifted. The Primeborn Captains had formed a perimeter, keeping other Vect's forces at bay or what remains of them, while their father prepared to duel one of the deadliest beings in the galaxy. Armstrong was actually taking bets.
"So what's it going to be, Drazhar?" Franklin settled into a stance that somehow managed to look both completely relaxed and absolutely lethal. "Want to test that title of yours against someone who actually fought your greatest warrior? Because let me tell you – compared to what I've seen?" He winked. "You're just playing at being deadly."
The Living Sword's response was a blur of motion that would have been invisible to normal eyes. His demiklaives traced patterns of death through the air as he launched an attack that had killed numerous targets.
Franklin's laugh echoed through Commorragh as he met the assault with equal speed. "Now that's more like it! SHOW ME WHAT YOU'VE GOT, FALLEN ONE!"
The clash of blades roared through the jagged spires of Commorragh, a contest of skill and ferocity between two Warriors. Drazhar, struck with inhuman precision, his klaives tracing deadly arcs through the air. Yet, Franklin remained an unshakable force, his towering frame moving with an agility that defied expectations.
Drazhar lunged with a low, cutting sweep, a feint that transitioned into a thrust aimed at Franklin's flank. The Primarch shifted with uncanny ease, the blade missing by a hair's breadth, his movements deceptively measured yet faster than the eye could follow.
Anaris, the weapon in Franklin's grip, surged forward in a brutal counterstrike. Drazhar twisted his body, narrowly evading the glowing edge, though it skimmed his armor with a screech of tortured metal. They closed again, exchanging rapid strikes, each attack and parry sending echoes through the towering structures around them.
The battle carried them across a narrow bridge suspended high above the writhing chaos of Commorragh. Drazhar pressed his attack, a storm of slashes and thrusts that seemed designed to overwhelm any defense. His klaives blurred, carving the air with surgical accuracy as he sought an opening.
Franklin countered each assault with startling efficiency. He sidestepped a twin strike aimed at his chest, angling Anaris in a wide arc to intercept the follow-up blow. The force of his parry sent Drazhar skidding back a step, his klaives vibrating in his hands from the impact.
Drazhar felt an unfamiliar chill creeping into his thoughts—doubt. His opponent was not only matching him but dismantling his every move. Worse still, the sheer presence of the Primarch felt like the weight of an ancient god pressing down upon him.
Their duel carried them to a sprawling atrium, where the chaotic architecture of Commorragh shifted like a living labyrinth. Here, the shadows came alive, and from them emerged a squad of Incubi, their void-black armor glinting in the dim light. Positioned silently, they awaited their master's signal.
Seizing an opportunity, Drazhar dove low, sliding between Franklin's legs and twisting to deliver a sweeping strike meant to hamstring his foe. Franklin caught the motion, pivoting with a speed that defied logic. Anaris came down in a brutal arc, slamming into the klaive with such force that sparks ignited in a shower.
Drazhar rolled away, springing back to his feet, but the momentum was gone. Franklin advanced, each step measured, his blade a blur of precise strikes that left no room for counterattack.
Drazhar's mind worked quickly. He knew the limits of his skill and endurance. Victory was beyond reach. Survival, however, was still an option.
He executed a dazzling flurry of strikes, a masterwork of swordplay designed to overwhelm the senses. Each swing of his klaives came faster than the last, the rhythm building into a crescendo. Franklin parried and dodged with mechanical precision, his every movement fluid yet unyielding. The finale came in a perfectly executed strike aimed for Franklin's neck—only for Drazhar to twist his body mid-movement, redirecting his momentum into a spinning retreat.
Franklin paused, his massive frame silhouetted against the chaotic glow of Commorragh. He didn't follow. Instead, he lowered his blade and tilted his head, a knowing smile playing across his features. It was not a smirk of mockery but one of understanding, of complete control.
"You're no coward, Drazhar," Franklin said, his voice carrying across the chamber. "But even you know this fight isn't worth your life."
The Phoenix Lord melted into the shadows, his retreat silent but deliberate. For the first time in his existence, the Master of Blades had chosen to withdraw.
"Why not finish him, Father?" Armstrong asked, his voice carrying the weight of genuine curiosity rather than criticism. "He's their best blade master. Taking him out would-"
Franklin turned to his officers, his expression shifting from the warrior's focus to something more contemplative. "He's not my target," the Primarch replied, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. "Commorragh is." A pause, then that familiar grin returned, the one that his sons had learned to both love and fear. "Now, let's get back to razing this shit hole to the ground."
---------------------------
The command bridge of the Sweet Liberty hummed with tension as Franklin strode in, his armor still bearing marks from the duel with Drazhar. Fleet Admiral Elena Koshka's crisp salute couldn't mask the concern in her eyes. The tactical holosphere dominating the bridge's center displayed a sea of red markers – each representing losses among their forces.
"My Lord," Elena's voice carried the weight of her report, "The situation has... deteriorated. The Dark Eldar have abandoned their usual arrogance for pragmatism. They're fighting like cornered rats – but rats with archeotech teeth."
Franklin studied the tactical display, his expression darkening as he absorbed the casualty figures. One hundred thousand Astartes. Ten million Liberty Guard. Each number represented sons and daughters of Nova Libertas, warriors who had followed him into this abyss. The Primarch's jaw clenched.
"I underestimated this cesspit," Franklin admitted, his voice carrying across the command deck. "It's not just a shithole – it's a heavily defended shithole. One that's been preparing for invasions since before humanity mastered fire."
Samuel L. Jaxsen, Director of the CIA, stepped forward. "The primary Super weapons installations have been neutralized, my Lord. My agents confirmed the destructions of three reality-bombs and what appeared to be a solar harvester, secured the Black Stone Fortress, Disabled the Planet Killer Called Fireheart and cut off energy from the Reality Engine. However..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Given the labyrinthine nature of Commorragh, there could be more. The Dark City keeps its secrets well."
"And the package?" Franklin asked.
"Secured, my Lord. The Shard of Khaine is in the vault two decks below. It's... restless."
Franklin nodded, turning to face his Continental High Command. The His Captains and his military leadership stood before him, each bearing the weight of command and the responsibility for thousands of lives. His next words would determine the fate of not just this battle, but potentially the entire campaign.
"Elena," Franklin's voice carried authority tempered with respect, "Get me Aegis. If they want to play with Golden Age tech, let's show them what real Golden Age technology can do."
Aegis manifested, but as a softball-sized sphere of pure light, pulsing with subtle patterns of electric blue. The AI's choice of a more modest appearance seemed almost ironically appropriate given the gravity of what was about to be authorized.
"You called, Mr. President?" Aegis's voice carried its characteristic blend of formality and subtle irreverence, a personality quirk that had evolved over millennia of service to the Independence Sector.
Franklin, still reviewing the tactical displays showing the mounting casualties across Commorragh, nodded grimly. "The Dark Eldar are proving to be more than just raiders and torturers. We need to escalate. Deploy Level 1 Protocols for the Men of Iron."
The glowing orb pulsed once, a brief flare of crimson cutting through its blue radiance. "Initializing access to Hemophage swarms," Aegis announced, its tone shifting to something more formal, more machine-like. "Please specify target parameters."
"The Dark Eldar," Franklin stated flatly, his expression hardening as another casualty report scrolled across a nearby display.
"Target designation: Dark Eldar. Authorization protocols required for deployment of strategic-grade nanological weapons. Please proceed with identification verification."
Franklin stepped forward to the authentication panel. The process was deliberately archaic – physical checks that couldn't be spoofed by even the most advanced technology. The iris scanner hummed as it mapped his unique Primarch physiology. His fingerprints, containing genetic markers that proved his identity beyond any doubt, were recorded by ancient sensors.
"Identity confirmed: Primarch Franklin Valorian, President of the Independence Sector. Access Level: Absolute," Aegis announced. The AI's form flickered momentarily, patterns of light reorganizing as ancient warfare protocols activated. "The Men of Iron stand ready to serve. Please designate deployment zones for Hemophage swarms."
"Commorragh," Franklin replied simply.
The command center's main viewport showed Sweet Liberty's massive missile bays cycling open. What emerged weren't conventional weapons – they were delivery systems for something far worse. The missiles arced through the artificial twilight of the Dark City, their trajectories calculated to saturate the Old City and Lower Commorragh.
Throughout the command center, officials watched with a mixture of awe and horror as the missiles detonated. Instead of explosive devastation, they released clouds of microscopic machines – the Hemophage swarms, one of humanity's most terrible weapons from the Dark Age of Technology.
Aegis's orb form bobbed slightly, almost like a head shake. "I feel compelled to point out that the deployment of Hemophage swarms represents a rather dramatic disregard for what ancient records refer to as the 'Geneva Suggestions.' This would be classified as a particularly egregious war crime by historical standards."
Franklin's lips curved into a grim smile, watching as the tactical displays showed the swarms beginning their work. "War crimes?" he replied, matching Aegis's sardonic tone. "That would require the enemy to have rights."
The gallows humor masked the gravity of what they were witnessing. On the tactical displays, vast sections of Commorragh's population centers began showing critical biohazard warnings. The Hemophage swarms were ancient weapons designed to target specific genetic markers, breaking down organic matter at the molecular level. Against the Dark Eldar, they were particularly effective – their regenerative abilities and enhanced biology providing more resources for the swarms to weaponize.
"Swarm deployment at thirty percent coverage and expanding," Aegis reported. "Preliminary casualty estimates exceeding projected parameters. The Dark Eldar's enhanced physiology is actually accelerating the process. Their regenerative capabilities are being turned against them."
Fleet Admiral Koshka watched the unfolding devastation with professional detachment. "How long until we see strategic impact?"
"At current progression rates," Aegis responded, "Major Dark Eldar military capabilities in affected zones will be neutralized within six hours. However, I'm detecting signs that they're attempting to seal off sections of the city. They recognize what we've deployed."
"Recall the swarms, Aegis," Franklin commanded, watching the tactical displays as they showed Dark Eldar forces in full retreat. The devastation was absolute – entire districts of the Dark City turned into biological wastelands, and had sealed off High Commorragh.
The glowing orb pulsed acknowledgment. "Recalling Hemophage swarms from Old City and Lower Commorragh sectors. Contamination levels have exceeded tactical threshold. Dark Eldar defensive capabilities in affected zones: negligible."
The tactical hololith showed the truth of Aegis's assessment. Where there had been fierce resistance mere hours ago, now there were only dead zones. The swarms had done their work with terrifying efficiency, leaving only High Commorragh and its satellite regions still burning with the false stars of Dark Eldar civilization.
"Burn it to the ground," Franklin ordered, his voice carrying the weight of executioner's judgment. "Deploy the Phosphex weapons. I want these sections of the Dark City reduced to absolute-"
He paused mid-sentence, his expression shifting as another presence made itself known in his mind. The sensation was like molten metal pouring through his thoughts – Khaine's consciousness touching his own.
"The nobles of High Commorragh are not without resources," the war god's voice resonated in Franklin's mind. "They possess the means to tear loose this section of the Webway entirely. Strike now, before they realize their desperation might save them."
Franklin chuckled, the sound drawing curious looks from his command staff. "Seems we need to adjust our timeline," he announced. "I'll lead the assault on High Commorragh personally. Admiral Koshka, continue the cleansing operation in the lower sectors."
"And retrieve my shard," Khaine added, his psychic voice carrying a note of what might have been amusement. "Though I note you chose to fight this battle the easy way. Hemophage swarms? Where is the glory in that?"
"In my defense," Franklin muttered, knowing the war god would hear, "efficiency saves lives. My sons' lives, specifically."
"There will be battle enough in High Commorragh," Khaine assured him. "Their most dangerous warriors await you there. Their most potent weapons. Their darkest secrets."
"Don't worry," Franklin replied with a predatory grin, "you'll get your souls in High Commorragh."
Franklin's Stormbird cut through the artificial twilight of Commorragh, its armored hull reflecting the inferno below. The Old City and Lower Commorragh had become an ocean of flame, Phosphex weapons doing their work with mechanical precision. The pale green fire would burn until nothing remained, consuming even the bones of the Dark City.
Through the viewport, Franklin watched the devastation with the detached interest of a general overseeing a necessary operation. Behind his Stormbird, entire companies of Liberty Eagles advanced through the burning streets, ensuring nothing survived the cleansing.
------------------------
In the highest spires of the Dark City, a very different scene was unfolding. The grand chamber of the Noble's Conclave, normally a place of subtle power plays and elegant threats, had devolved into something approaching panic – though none would admit to such a base emotion.
Archon Vrazkhar the Magnificent hurled a crystalline goblet against the wall, its shattering punctuating his fury. "Incompetence! Pure, unmitigated incompetence! Had Krallax's forces held their position-"
"My forces?" Archon Krallax rose from his throne, poison dripping from the blades at his fingertips. "While my warriors died holding the lower markets, your armies were nowhere to be seen. Or did you think we wouldn't notice them herding my rear elements into the paths of those molecular horrors?"
Around the chamber, other nobles watched the exchange with expressions ranging from careful neutrality to barely concealed satisfaction. The disaster unfolding below had sparked a feeding frenzy of blame and recrimination.
"Both of you prove my point," Archon Essylyx hissed, her voice cutting through the chaos. "While you played your little games of rivalry, the mon-keigh unleashed weapons we haven't seen since the Fall. Weapons that should have been contained, isolated, destroyed. Instead?" She gestured to the tactical displays showing the advancing inferno. "Instead, we fed them with our own internal warfare."
"The Hemophage swarms," another noble whispered, the words carrying a weight of ancient horror. "They remember. The mon-keigh actually still has them."
"And now they have Phosphex too," someone else added. "The pale green fires... they're everywhere."
At the head of the chamber, Archon Vhane Kyharc, his armor adorned with the bones of a thousand species, rose from his throne. His voice, when it came, cut through the babble like a blade through flesh.
"Enough," he commanded, his tone carrying the authority of one who had survived ten thousand years of Commorragh's deadliest politics. "While you bicker like newly-spawned wyches, our city burns. The mon-keigh approach High Commorragh itself, and you waste time assigning blame?"
He strode to the central tactical display, his movements carrying the deadly grace of a born predator. "We have one option remaining. The Reality Engine."
The chamber fell silent. Even the most jaded nobles felt a chill at those words.
"You cannot be serious," Archon Essylyx breathed. "The Engine hasn't been activated since-"
"Since the Fall itself," Vhane finished. "But unless you prefer to die in the green flames of mon-keigh weapons, we will use it. We will tear this section of the Webway free and hurl it at our attackers, taking them into the Warp itself if we must."
As if to punctuate his words, the chamber's viewing portals showed the approaching Liberty Eagles. Their armor gleamed in the light of the burning city, their advance methodical and unstoppable.
"Look at them," Vhane gestured. "Look at what approaches while you squabble over petty rivalries. The Interlopers comes to our doorstep with weapons from humanity's golden age. Will you die arguing over whose fault it was? Or will you help me activate the Engine and show these primitives why Commorragh has endured since before their species learned to make fire?"
The nobles looked at each other, ancient rivalries warring with the instinct for survival. Finally, one by one, they nodded. The Reality Engine would be their final card in this game of extinction.
As they moved to begin the activation rituals, none of them noticed the satisfied smile that crossed Vhane's features. In the chaos to come, opportunities would present themselves. They always did.
Above them, Franklin's forces descended toward High Commorragh like angels of death, while below, the green fires of Phosphex continued their relentless consumption of the Dark City's flesh. The true battle for Commorragh was about to begin.
Archon Vrazkhar stood atop his command balcony, overlooking the Black Gate of High Commorragh with the smug confidence that had defined his species for millennia. The massive structure, crafted from materials that predated the Fall itself, had withstood countless assaults over the ages. Its defenses and it's strategic location made it so that it is the only entrance to High Commorragh and the assailants would be forced into a choke point, and surrounding it the River Khaides an acid-green colored polluted waterway and full of corpses.
These were the facts that had defined warfare in Commorragh since its inception. These were the rules that every invader, every would-be conqueror, had been forced to play by.
Franklin Valorian, it seemed, had not received that particular message.
The first sign that something was wrong came when Vrazkhar's enhanced senses detected a single Stormbird landing before the assembled Legion. Through his scope, he could see the massive form of the Primarch himself, standing casual as a tourist before the Black Gate. The absurdity of it almost made Vrazkhar laugh. Did this mon-keigh actually think he could simply walk up to-
The Archon's thoughts froze as he saw Franklin raise some kind of communications device. A heartbeat later, He intercepted a piece of communications haunt his final moments:
"Sweet Liberty, blast this one open."
Vrazkhar's mind had just enough time to process the impossibility of what he'd heard before a streak of light – moving faster than even his enhanced perception could properly track – screamed overhead. The projectile, if such a crude term could even apply to something that appeared to bend reality around itself, struck the Black Gate with the force of a dying sun.
The impossible happened.
The Black Gate – the Black Gate that had stood since before the Fall, that had weathered the assaults of gods and monsters – simply ceased to exist, along with a significant portion of the surrounding fortifications. The blast wave sent Vrazkhar stumbling backward, his armor's systems screaming warnings about radiation types his Haemonculi hadn't seen since the days before the Fall.
"Impossible," he whispered, then louder: "IMPOSSIBLE! The firing solutions alone- the distance!" His normally composed voice rose to a shriek of denial. It was impossible. The Port of Lost Souls was so far from High Commorragh that even the most powerful ship-based weapons couldn't reach this far.
But the smoking crater where the Black Gate had stood suggested otherwise. As did the continuing advance of the Liberty Eagles, their Primarch at their head, walking through the devastation as casually as if on parade.
Vrazkhar's mind raced. The other Archons needed time to bring the reality engine online. Time he had promised to buy them using the legendary defenses of High Commorragh. The labyrinthine approach to the noble spires had been designed by the greatest architects of the Dark City, each turn and twist calculated to make any advance a bloody, grinding affair.
"Fall back to the Labyrinth!" he ordered his forces. "Prepare for hit-and-run tactics! Mandrakes, to your hunting grounds! We will bleed them dry in the Labyrinthes!"
As his forces retreated into the twisted maze that protected the approach to the noble spires, Vrazkhar's tactical mind was already adapting, formulating new strategies. The Labyrinth had been designed specifically for this kind of warfare. Its ever-shifting corridors, false passages, and reality-bending architecture would force even these superhuman invaders to advance cautiously, leaving them vulnerable to hit-and-run attacks.
Something caught his eye. The Primarch, that impossibly massive figure in artificed armor, was studying the Labyrinth with an expression Vrazkhar had seen too often on the faces of his own kind – the look of someone about to do something monumentally destructive just because they could.
Then Vrazkhar saw them. His heart nearly stopped.
Ten massive vehicles moved into position, their designs a hybrid of Imperial and Necron technology. The main guns were unmistakable – Doomsday Cannons, the most feared weapons in the Necron arsenal a single one could wipe out armies. But these weren't mounted on the slow-moving Doomsday Arks he'd seen in ancient pict-captures. These were fitted to what appeared to be heavily modified super-heavy grav tank chassis.
The Primarch's voice boomed across the battlefield, carrying easily to Vrazkhar's position: "Doomsday-Pattern Grav Tanks, full power!"
"What manner of-" Vrazkhar's indignant cry was cut short as all ten tanks fired simultaneously. The combined discharge of their weapons created a sound that shouldn't have been possible in realspace, a screaming howl of reality being torn apart at its fundamental level.
The Labyrinth – The perfect, cunning maze of death and shadow – simply ceased to exist along the tanks' line of fire. Where there had been kilometers of twisted architecture designed to trap and kill invaders, there was now a straight path to the noble spires. The edges of the massive gap glowed with residual energy, the very matter at its boundaries struggling to remember how to exist.
"This is bullshit," Vrazkhar found himself saying, the crude mon-keigh phrase somehow the only appropriate response to what he'd just witnessed. Millennia of careful planning, of layered defenses and subtle traps, all rendered meaningless by overwhelming firepower.
His comm-bead crackled with desperate reports from his commanders. The Mandrakes, those terrible shadow-born killers, were refusing to advance. Even they, creatures of nightmare, recognized the futility of attacking an enemy willing to employ such weapons. The noble houses were screaming for updates, demanding to know how their cunning defenses had been bypassed so easily.
Vrazkhar watched as the Liberty Eagles began their advance through the artificial canyon their tanks had created. The Primarch walked at their head, that insufferable smirk still visible on his features. This was not how warfare was supposed to be conducted in the Dark City. There were supposed to be rules, patterns, elaborate back and forth between the Defender and the Attacker's minds, a siege, accompanied by death and pain. This... this was just brutal efficiency.
The artillery barrage started as Vrazkhar's forces reached their final defensive positions. The sky of High Commorragh – artificial as it was – seemed to rain fire. The precision of the bombardment spoke of targeting systems that shouldn't exist, as if every shell knew exactly where it was meant to land.
"Take cover!" Vrazkhar ordered, but even as the words left his mouth, he saw something that made his hearts stop. Armored Personnel Carriers, moving at high speed and were charging through the bombardment and broke through his defensive lines. Behind them, something else emerged from the smoke.
Castigator Titans. The ancient war machines of humanity's golden age, thought lost to time. Their singular red eyes swept across the battlefield like the gaze of angry gods. The ground shook with each step as they casually kicked aside buildings that had stood for millennia. The whine of their charging Gatling Blasters promised death on a scale that even the Dark Eldar found excessive.
"Focus fire on the Titans!" Vrazkhar commanded, his voice carrying the edge of desperation. "Bring the anti-titan batteries online! We can still-"
The explosion caught him mid-sentence. One moment he was issuing orders; the next, he was picking himself up from the ground, ears ringing. The defensive line – his defensive line – had been shattered. In the brief moments he'd taken his eyes off the battle to coordinate the anti-titan response, everything had fallen apart.
Vrazkhar's mind raced. In all his millennia of existence, he'd never faced anything like this. Raiders, yes. Armies, certainly. But this? This was systematic annihilation on a scale he'd never contemplated. His expertise lay in swift strikes and cruel raids, not in holding ground against an enemy who simply refused to play by the established rules of warfare.
He turned to flee – a tactical retreat, he told himself – only to feel the cold kiss of a blade against his throat. His eyes darted around, taking in the carnage. His proud Kabal lay in pieces, literally. Warriors who had fought at his side for centuries had been dismembered body parts everywhere or simply pulped by overwhelming force.
Two figures dominated his field of vision. One held twin swords that seemed to drink in what little light remained – the source of the blade at his throat. The other stood atop a pile of debris, engaging Vrazkhar's personal Drachon in what should have been an even fight. Should have been.
"Nanomachines, son," the massive Space Marine declared almost cheerfully as he reduced the Drachon – a warrior who had survived the Fall itself – into a fine paste with his power fists.
The Vrazkhar's ornate armor, normally a resplendent display of status and power, was scorched and pitted. His helm lay shattered beside him, revealing features locked in an expression caught between fury and disbelief. First Captain Denzel Washington stood to his right, while Second Captain Steven Armstrong loomed to his left, his massive form casting a shadow over the captured commander.
In front of them all stood Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, his imposing fifteen-foot frame silhouetted against the artificial sky of Commoragh. The permanent twilight of the Dark City was now interrupted by fierce flashes of bombardment.
Vrazkhar's voice, though proud, carried a tremor of genuine bewilderment. "How? How did you do it?" His eyes darted to the surrounding devastation, taking in the magnitude of destruction. "These defenses... they were impregnable. The works of Twelve thousand years, layer upon layer of the finest Aeldar architecture, enhanced by technology before our fall"
Franklin was studying a hololithic display projected from his command gauntlet, occasionally marking targeting coordinates for the continuing bombardment of resistant positions. Without looking up, he made a small adjustment that resulted in a distant explosion and the collapse of another defensive position.
"You know," Franklin said, his casual tone at odds with the apocalyptic destruction around them, "My brother Rogal Dorn would probably have some brilliantly intricate solution to breaching these defenses. He'd analyze every wall, find the structural weaknesses, plan a precise sequence of targeted strikes." He looked up from the display, brown eyes twinkling with barely suppressed amusement. "But I'm not Rogal."
Denzel smirked, already knowing where this was going. He'd served alongside his Primarch long enough to recognize when Franklin was about to deliver one of his characteristically irreverent explanations.
"I hate sieges," Franklin continued, finally turning his full attention to Vrazkhar. "They're a waste of time, resources, and most importantly—" he gestured expansively at the ongoing devastation, "—they're boring. Why should I bring a scalpel..." He paused, and even Steven Armstrong couldn't suppress a chuckle as their Primarch swept his arm toward the array of weaponry that had reduced High Commoragh's defenses to rubble: Doomsday-Pattern Gravtanks, formations of Techno-Seer controlled drone swarms, ranks of Knight Walkers, Castigator Titans and endless batteries of artillery that could quite literally make it rain fire forever.
"When I have 40,000 Warhammers?"
The booming report of another salvo punctuated his words, and a distant spire collapsed in spectacular fashion. Vrazkhar flinched at the sound, but Franklin merely added another targeting coordinate to his display with the casual ease of someone checking items off a shopping list.
"Your defenses were impressive," Franklin admitted, his tone almost consoling. "But you made the same mistake many do. You assumed that because something is impregnable, it can't be broken." He squatted down to meet Vrazkhar's eyes, and despite his humorous demeanor, there was steel in his gaze. "The thing about overwhelming firepower is that it tends to overwhelm things. Even impregnable things."
The silence in the ruined square hung heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of battle and destruction. Vrazkhar remained on his knees, now resigned to what he knew would be his fate. Franklin, towering over the fallen commander, studied him with a mixture of respect and finality.
"Any last words?" Franklin asked, his voice carrying neither mockery nor malice – simply the professional courtesy of one warrior to another.
Vrazkhar's eyes opened briefly, considering the offer, before closing them again. His silence spoke volumes; he had chosen dignity in his final moments over desperate pleading or defiant curses. A warrior's death, if nothing else.
Anaris sang as Franklin drew it, the Crone Sword's crimson energy casting bloody shadows across the debris-strewn ground. The blade moved with terrible purpose, its edge splitting reality as much as flesh. As it pierced Vrazkhar's chest, the Drukhari commander's eyes snapped open – not in physical pain, but in spiritual horror as he felt his soul being drawn into the blade.
His wordless scream never reached his lips. Instead, it echoed in the spiritual realm as Khaine's presence manifested through Anaris, drawing Vrazkhar's soul into its depths. The commander's body slumped, but his spiritual essence writhed as it was consumed by the God of War and Murder.
"An interesting flavor," Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, ancient and terrible, yet carrying an almost connoisseur-like appreciation. "The soul of a proud warrior, seasoned with millennia of cruel expertise. Most... satisfactory."
Franklin felt the god's attention shift, sensing something greater in the air around them. The very atmosphere of Commoragh seemed to vibrate with unclaimed souls, the accumulated essence of countless dead waiting to be harvested.
"Plant Anaris at the center of the square," Khaine commanded, his tone rich with anticipation. "I shall claim every soul of the dead here. Their essence will feed my restoration and add to the Everchosen"
"Should I just leave it there?" Franklin asked pragmatically, one eyebrow raised as he surveyed the sprawling battlefield that was High Commoragh.
"Yes. Recall me in thirty minutes. That will be... sufficient."
"Aight," Franklin replied with characteristic casualness, driving Anaris deep into the ground at the square's heart. The sword sank into the material of Commoragh itself, its blade piercing both physical and metaphysical barriers.
The effect was immediate and terrible to behold. Heat began radiating from Anaris in waves, not physical warmth but spiritual fire. It spread outward like a ripple in a pond, but exponentially faster, reaching the furthest corners of the Dark City. The air became thick with ethereal energy as souls – countless souls of the dead and dying – were drawn toward the blade like moths to a flame.
They came in streams of ethereal light, some ancient and thick with power, others fresh from recent deaths. Warriors, slaves, nobles, and civilians – in death, all were equal before Khaine's hunger. The souls of the Drukhari, who had spent millennia staving off Slaanesh's claim on their essence, found themselves claimed by an equally ancient but different god.
Denzel Washington and Steven Armstrong flanked their Primarch as they watched the macabre spectacle. The First Captain's hand rested on Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi's hilt, feeling the blade resonate with the massive spiritual disturbance.
"My lord," Denzel's voice cut through the ethereal display, "energy readings from the final sanctum are spiking. The reality engine's signature is growing unstable."
Franklin nodded, his expression shifting from contemplation to focused determination. "Then we shouldn't keep our hosts waiting. The final push awaits."
As they turned to leave, the spiritual maelstrom continued behind them, Anaris standing like a lighthouse in a sea of souls, drawing in the essence of countless dead. The Primarch and his captains led their forces toward the final sanctum, their boots echoing on wraithbone as they hurried to reach their objective.
----------------------------
Archon Vhane Kyharc stood before the crystalline mass of the Reality Engine, its ancient, multifaceted surface radiating a cold, alien light. This was the culmination of centuries of scheming, a device of the Old Ones, capable of manipulating the Webway itself. It required psychic energy to function—energy that the Dark Eldar could no longer wield. Long ago, their psychic potential had atrophied, replaced by cruel cunning and technological ingenuity. The Archons had turned to mastering technologies that rivaled the Dark Age of Mankind: dark matter, anti-gravity devices, nanotechnology, and devastating weapons of unimaginable power. Yet even their advanced machinery could not substitute for the Engine's true fuel—the energy of the Warp itself. Vhane had solved this conundrum through sheer audacity, capturing tens of thousands of psykers whose tortured minds now fed the Engine's unholy power.
Beneath his armor, a specially crafted spirit stone rested against his chest, etched with runes of warding so intricate that they defied mortal comprehension. This stone, his ultimate safeguard, cloaked him from She Who Thirsts, shielding him from Slaanesh's predatory gaze as he channeled the psychic energy needed to power the Engine. He had taken every precaution, balanced every risk, and now, as the thunder of the Liberty Eagles' assault reverberated through Commorragh, his moment had come.
Krallax and Essylyx, his fellow Archons, stood on either side of him, their faces etched with suspicion and desperation. They had no inkling of the true scope of his plans. Their trust in his cunning—or rather, their belief that they could outmaneuver him when the time came—had brought them here.
Krallax sneered, his voice sharp and accusatory. "This device had better work, Kyharc. If you've wasted our remaining resources on this—"
"It works," Vhane interrupted smoothly, his tone a carefully measured mix of disdain and confidence. "The Reality Engine is no crude weapon. It is a relic of unimaginable power. But to wield it requires more than just machinery. It requires vision. My vision." He gestured to the glowing runes etched into the floor. "Take your places, and let us secure our survival."
The Archons stepped reluctantly into the inscribed circles, their finely wrought armor gleaming in the Reality Engine's eerie glow. Vhane suppressed a smile as he unfurled a scroll of ancient vellum, marked with glyphs of Enuncia—the forbidden language of creation. He began to chant, each word resonating with a power that bent the air around him. The Engine stirred, its crystalline facets pulsating as it drank deeply from the psychic agony of the enslaved psykers.
The spirit stone against his chest flared, its protective wards deflecting the Warp's insidious pull. For the other Archons, there was no such protection. They believed the Engine required their psychic resonance to activate, but in truth, their presence was a mere pretext. Vhane's true design unfolded in silence, his chant transforming the runes beneath their feet into conduits of betrayal.
Krallax's eyes widened in alarm as the symbols blazed with a sudden, furious intensity. "Vhane! What are you—"
His protest dissolved into a scream as the trap sprang shut. The Vhane had commanded the Reality Engine to remake his foolish Colleagues that would serve as his defense against the incoming Primarch, It ripped their essence apart and reshaping it into something grotesque. Their bodies twisted and fused, flesh and armor melding into a single, monstrous form. Limbs elongated and split, faces merged and re-emerged in horrifying configurations, and weapons erupted organically from their writhing mass. Their psychic screams reverberated through the chamber, a symphony of agony and betrayal.
Before Vhane stood a towering monstrosity, an amalgamation of the Archons' essence and the Reality Engine's raw power. Its many limbs ended in jagged weapons, its shifting form a hideous blend of organic and mechanical horror. Eyes blinked and vanished across its malformed body, their maddened gazes filled with rage and despair. The creature's movements warped the air around it, reality itself bending in its wake.
Vhane regarded his creation with cold satisfaction. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice cutting through the abomination's cacophony of screams. With a single utterance of Enuncia, he bound it to his will. "Go. Find the mon-keigh giant and his warriors. Show them the price of defiance."
The abomination shuddered and turned, its massive form lumbering toward the exit.
As the creature departed, Vhane turned his full attention to the Reality Engine. Its crystalline facets shimmered with an inner light, a manifestation of the psychic energy coursing through it. The tortured psykers wailed within their bindings, their pain amplified and transformed into raw power. Through the Engine, Vhane reached out, feeling the intricate threads of the Webway vibrate under his control. The power coursing through him was intoxicating. Through the Reality Engine, he could reshape the very structure of the Dark City and by extension the Webway. Districts could be folded through impossible dimensions, spatial laws could be rewritten, and time itself could be made to flow according to his desires.
With a thought, he tore districts of Commorragh free from their moorings, hurling entire spires and streets through the Webway. These fragments emerged as devastating projectiles, battering the shields of Franklin Valorian's flagship, Sweet Liberty. Vhane's laughter echoed through the chamber as he unleashed the full might of his creation. He had surpassed his kin, transcended their petty ambitions. With the Reality Engine, he would remake Commorragh in his image, a dominion of absolute power.
You may also Like
Paragraph comment
Paragraph comment feature is now on the Web! Move mouse over any paragraph and click the icon to add your comment.
Also, you can always turn it off/on in Settings.
GOT IT