บท 108: Defying Expectations
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.
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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.
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