The twin-linked lasguns flanking each mortar turret unleashed their fury in unison, sixteen beams of searing light weaving a deadly lattice in Nimrod's mind, each thread a trajectory of destruction. Yet, he moved as a dancer upon a spider's web, his colossal form threading the needle of annihilation.
With a subtle tilt of his torso, he evaded multiple beams grazing his frame.
A sudden sprint carried him beyond the reach of a barrage's blanket fire.
"Open fire! Throne-damned, give it everything!"
The commander of the spire's guard, resplendent in crimson regalia, bellowed with fervor, his voice a bulwark against the terror gnawing at his soul. Only by shouting could he banish the dread that a god had descended to judge his sins.
Within the fortified defenses, ten thousand firearms of myriad makes aligned their sights upon the giant's silhouette.
Nimrod drew a deep breath, inhaling a miasma of gunsmoke and air into his augmented lungs.
In an instant, his pulmonary system executed hundreds of expansions and contractions, spiraling the inhaled air into a vortex of acceleration, compression, and refinement, transmuting it into pure ultrasonic waves.
These waves, channeled through the superhuman organs of a Primarch—vocal cords, throat, and beyond—erupted from his mouth not diminished but amplified, their potency enhanced.
"ROAR!"
The howl's ferocity eclipsed even the thunder of the second mortar salvo, a sonic tempest unleashed.
In the defensive works, the front-rank guards clutched their heads in agony as an inhuman wail resounded in their minds, collapsing unconscious.
Rear ranks staggered, blood streaming from noses and ears, their bodies swaying under the assault.
Even within the metal bastions, lasgun crews reeled, vision swimming with golden stars, ears bleeding, haunted by a piercing tinnitus.
Nimrod vaulted forward, his body swaying slightly to stabilize against the shockwaves of explosions.
Neither smoke nor cacophony dulled his senses. He detected another convoy approaching at speed.
Without pause, he broke into a frenzied sprint, hurtling toward the nearest defensive turret.
Twenty meters out, he launched himself airborne, legs drawn together, and delivered a devastating kick to the junction of mortar and fortification.
Howard, roused from dizziness by the life-support systems of his artificer power armor, regained his vision just in time to witness this staggering spectacle.
A shiver coursed through him. Were Nimrod's fist to strike him, even the vaunted armor—heralded by Mechanicus sages as a gift of the Omnissiah—would crumple under such force.
He realized the era of Boleslav's dominion was waning. By aligning with Nimrod, he would become a pillar of a new kingdom, reaping vast rewards in the reshuffling of power, a Finder patriarch lauded through the ages.
Electrified, he switched to the command vox-channel, issuing orders to the Finder family's armed retinue.
"Move out! Adhere to the battle plan, lock onto your designated targets."
"At the fire order, unleash your weapons upon the Boleslav scum!"
The crimson-robed commander roared, executing five deserters with his laspistol to stem the tide of faltering morale.
As the defensive line teetered, he spotted the Finder family's new patriarch arriving with reinforcements.
"Lord Earl, your timely aid is a boon. King Boleslav will surely commend your valor in this crisis."
Howard surveyed his troops, noting their seamless integration into the defensive line per the plan. The unsuspecting guards welcomed their arrival.
Raising his left arm, he fired a heavy felling gun, simultaneously broadcasting over the vox, "Attack!"
Gunfire erupted, las-beams flashing in a deadly chorus.
Nimrod, wielding a turret barrel to smash two twin-linked lasguns, registered the sudden shift.
In an instant, he pinpointed Howard's position, recognizing his erstwhile employer.
A hypothesis formed, and he strode toward Howard, the barrel swinging casually, reducing defensive emplacements to rubble, their metal plates crushing guards into pulp.
Howard, facing Nimrod, felt a mountain's weight of oppression, dwarfing the footage he'd seen. He understood the guards' collapsing morale, their frantic flight in his peripheral vision.
Dropping to one knee, he invoked Vostonia's oath of fealty with solemn precision.
"I, Howard Finder, swear by my honor and bloodline."
With Vostonia's Muscovite traditions, he had intended to pledge loyalty to King Boleslav at the Night Kaiban banquet.
Yet now, unsworn and untainted by broken vows, he offered his allegiance to the true sovereign.
"To Lord Nimrod, the new king of Tetzvok, I pledge my unwavering loyalty and obedience."
"I shall fight for your glory and act by your will!"
Nimrod halted before Howard, his voice resonating with regal authority.
"I accept your fealty."
The Finder family's guards swelled the ranks, bolstering the gang's morale.
Not only they, but the Upper Hive's nobles, perceiving a god's advent, foresaw inevitable victory.
Nimrod led the charge into the spire, shattering the gates, storming through the vestibule, and meeting staunch resistance.
He noted the mortals before him, their eyes brimming with fear, yet none fled.
He knew the spire housed not only the royal dynasty but their hereditary vassal houses, their loyalty surpassing that of feudal nobles.
[To shatter rules with violence and forge a new order demands blood!]
The thought sparked a surge of spiritual vitality within him.
With a predator's gait, he ascended the marble staircase, leaving a crimson trail in his wake.
Alarms rent the air, reverberating through the spire.
For the first time in millennia, Boleslav faced an external assault.
Nobles, leading their private retinues, flooded the passages to repel the invaders.
Nimrod climbed relentlessly, his pace dictating the assault's tempo.
Compared to the earlier defensive arrays, resistance here was markedly weaker.
At the spire's apex, the Armored Baron frantically fitted King Boleslav with his ancient armor.
Decades had passed since the king last donned it, and cramming his corpulent frame into the suit proved arduous.
The Minister of Diplomacy, trembling, reported to the king.
"Sage Kaminsky responds: he is mustering the Cult Militia, expected to arrive in three hours and twenty-five minutes. You must hold the spire."
"Damn it, tell him I can't hold for an hour!"
King Boleslav, watching the vox-screen as the Defense Minister was crushed by the giant, roared in terror and rage.
A colossus ascended the spiraling marble stairs with terrifying speed, each blink heralding another level's fall.
The dynasty's elite crumpled before him, corpses tumbling in heaps.
Abruptly, the giant paused before a figure in opulent robes.
Boleslav scoured his memory, identifying the man as Estupinian, notable only for his role as the Fifth Arbites Justice.
Greedy yet compliant, Estupinian offered gifts monthly, on holidays, and with every gain, deftly concealing matters that might irk the Tech-Priests.
As Boleslav recalled this dutiful lackey, he saw Nimrod seize Estupinian, a rumbling voice resounding.
"I owe you thanks. Without you, I would not have reached this spire so swiftly."
As Estupinian's neck snapped, Boleslav felt no pity, only seething contempt for his folly.
"Curse him, that fool! Such a man should be courted, not opposed."
"Had we won him, all Vostonia would be mine."
"Damn it, why provoke him!"