Chapter 33: Fire and Fury
The Chaos Space Marines hadn't expected the Lizardmen to fight like this.
It was one thing to face beasts. Quite another to face beasts that fought like warriors.
In the world of Warhammer Fantasy, Lizardmen clashed with the Daemons of Khorne wielding obsidian clubs and solar spears. But these were Godzilla's Lizardmen—made for the grimdark future of the 41st Millennium. Primitive in gear, yes. But ferocious in spirit and savage in skill.
A World Eater cleaved one down the middle with a howling chainaxe—only to be skewered a heartbeat later by a barbed spear thrust through the eye lenses of his helmet. His death was instant.
1:1 casualties. That was the true horror. For the Heretic Astartes, every loss was irreplaceable.
The Lizardmen, despite fewer numbers, held the line. The tide of Chaos was checked, not by walls or tanks, but by raw muscle, instinct, and deathless determination.
Only the sheer weight of Khorne's Vampires—those hulking daemon-kin brutes—and the suppressive fire from Chaos Cultist hordes kept the World Eaters from being overrun entirely.
"By the Emperor…" one Imperial soldier whispered as he ducked behind a broken wall. "Are those xenos really holding the line with spears and clubs?"
"They fight like Orks," another murmured, spitting blood from a split lip. "But smarter. More precise."
Indeed, Orks could swarm a Khorne Daemon and win by numbers alone. These Lizardmen didn't have that luxury. So they made up for it in sheer quality. They didn't brawl—they hunted.
Godzilla hadn't yet entered the fray. He stood in the rear, watching.
Then came the thunder.
An artillery shell screamed through the smoke-choked sky and detonated within the Lizardmen's lines. The explosion was monstrous—like a localized nuclear detonation. The blast wave rippled across the battlefield, slamming into buildings and sending Imperial soldiers diving for cover.
When the fireball faded, its source was revealed: a tank, hulking and grotesque, rolled from the Chaos lines.
A Stormblade Super-heavy Tank.
Or… what used to be one.
Its sacred plasma blastgun had been ripped out and replaced with a corrupted monstrosity: a Skull Cannon of Khorne, fused into its hull like a tumor.
"No—Emperor preserve us!" cried a Tech-Priest, mechanical eyes flickering with corrupted data. "They desecrated a Stormblade! They… they replaced its holy weapon with that Daemon-spawned filth!"
The air around the tank shimmered with heat. And the faintest echo of a scream—not human, not daemonic—whispered across the vox-net.
The wail of a machine spirit in agony.
Machine spirits weren't just superstition. Not entirely. When a weapon misfired, or a reactor surged beyond its limits—sometimes, just sometimes—it was the spirit inside that made the difference. No one truly understood how the ancient technology worked.
And this one was weeping.
Chaos surged again. Dozens of Heretic Astartes charged, cultists at their heels. The sky was laced with tracer fire. Autocannons thundered. Mortar rounds crashed down like the fists of angry gods. Explosions lit Godzilla's armored hide, but the creature didn't move.
The World Eaters believed the best defense was offense.
And so, without hesitation, they charged the Lizardmen once more—artillery fire be damned.
This was war, they believed. The kind where the artillery shelled your own front lines just to keep the pressure on.
The sudden brutality caught the Lizardmen off guard. They had always excelled in close combat, but now they faced something different: an unrelenting meat grinder of bolter fire, blade, and orbital artillery.
Losses mounted.
But they adapted.
Flames burst from the ruined city behind them—rising in lines and arcs, launched by some unknown Lizardman contraption. The inferno swept into the Chaos positions, burning cultists alive and melting armor from Heretic Astartes.
One corrupted APC erupted as molten iron poured into its cabin, the crew screaming as they boiled in their seats. Even daemon engines recoiled, their hellforged chassis scorched and buckling.
Then the subtle attacks began.
Chaos gunners fell silently, one by one—slender, black barbs embedded in their skulls.
A Heretic Astartes snapped around and fired wildly into the air. A camouflaged figure—a Chameleon Rogue—fell dead. It wasn't armored enough to survive even the side-blast of a bolter.
But even as he turned, another spine struck him from behind. He slumped forward, dead.
Chaos had been stopped—again.
And then came the tremor.
Boom.
Godzilla entered the fight.
He didn't run. He didn't roar. He walked. Each step shattered ferrocrete, each footfall a death sentence to anything beneath it.
A Chimera troop carrier sat in his path—Imperial issue, long since corrupted by Chaos. He stepped on it.
The transport imploded.
Blood and metal sprayed from every seam as the Lizard King drove one clawed foot through its roof and crushed it flat.
"What… what is that thing?!" a World Eater shouted, eyes wide behind his gore-streaked visor.
"It's impossible!" another screamed. "It has to die!"
But deep down, they knew.
It wasn't going to.
If you want to fight me, Godzilla thought, watching them gather, you'd better bring a Titan.
True enough—the Stormblade was considered a Titan-killer. But so were Titans considered super-heavy slayers. In this universe, the roles of hunter and hunted could switch with terrifying speed.
This was that moment.
A World Eater screamed a battle cry, both chainaxes revving. He leapt at Godzilla's foot, hacking with all his might.
All he earned was a shower of sparks.
His axes couldn't pierce the creature's hide. Not even a scratch.
Godzilla shifted his foot slightly.
The Chaos Marine missed a beat—and died beneath it.
Still, they tried.
The Skull Cannon mounted on the Stormblade swiveled, locked on, and fired again.
Boom.
The round hit Godzilla square in the face.
A fireball erupted around his head, flames licking the sky. Chaos cultists whooped and screamed in triumph.
"He's down! He's dead!"
Except he wasn't.
Godzilla emerged from the flames, scales scorched but unbroken. Smoke curled from his armored brows. His eyes burned brighter than ever.
He reached out—slowly, almost lazily—and grabbed the Stormblade.
The tank was massive. It could crush squads of Space Marines under its treads.
But to Godzilla, it was small.
A toy.
He lifted it into the air.
The battlefield went silent.
This piece is decent, he mused. Big enough.
Then he threw it.
The Stormblade spun end over end like a cannonball.
It soared—flaming, screaming—through the smoke-choked sky and crashed into the Imperial lines behind him.
The mortal auxiliaries barely had time to run.
BOOM.
The impact was seismic. A blast wave flattened nearby structures, and flaming debris scattered across the street.
The message was clear—deliberate or not.
Godzilla fought everyone.
And now… it was his turn.
*******
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