M42
Blackstone Fortress — Extraction Corridor Theta-Seven
The fortress walls howled.
Warp-light bled from cracked stone as the ancient structure buckled beneath the tides of unreality. The air itself twisted and groaned, ancient sigils collapsing under the mounting pressure of the Immaterium. Every meter gained was paid in blood.
Battle Shinobi, Imperial survivors, Harlequins, and Roboute Guilliman himself fought side by side, an uneasy alliance forged in desperation.
Seiji led the charge, his Shinobi carving a path through the rotting corridors with blinding speed and precision. HUD runes scrolled grim data: dehydration, starvation, torture — Imperial survivors barely clinging to life.
The Harlequins danced between them, weaving through combat like maddened wraiths, fusion blades flickering in arcs of alien elegance. They wouldn't hold a line, but whatever bled through the main formation, they dispatched with cruel flourish.
"Path to extraction's open — break through this wave!" Seiji's command cut through the cacophony. "Hold formation. No one falls!"
The main force surged forward, leaving piles of broken cultists and shattered Traitor Astartes in their wake.
"They move like Imperial Assassins," observed Grand Master Aldrik Voldrus of the Grey Knights, watching the Shinobi strike and vanish with spectral precision.
"And those weapons," Guilliman muttered, noting the rail carbines. "That's technology far beyond sanctioned Imperial design. I intend to learn who armed them."
Nearby, some battle-hardened Astartes veterans clenched their jaws at the sight of rail weaponry wielded by humans. One Black Templar spat into the dust.
"Heretek filth," he growled.
No one corrected him.
Then reality ruptured.
Warp portals tore open along the walls, shrieking daemons vomiting forth. Bloodletters howled, blades raised high, while Tzeentchian horrors cackled amid sorcerous flame.
The Shinobi vanguard bore the brunt.
Energy shields flared. Blades carved through daemon flesh. Numbers pressed them hard. Only formation discipline, impossibly quick evasion, and lethal counterstrikes kept them alive.
"Incoming!" Bruno's railgun spat hyper-accelerated rounds, each slug punching through ceramite. When traitors clumped, rounds tore through multiple targets. His scope locked onto a Terminator — tusked helm, serrated blade.
He fired.
The slug cracked its chestplate, staggering it, but the ancient warrior rose, bellowing.
"First one to eat a slug and stay standing." Bruno lined up another.
The second shot took the helm clean off.
"New rule — aim for the head."
The corridor turned into a slaughterhouse.
Daemon packs lunged. Traitor Marines pressed forward. The air thickened with the stench of blood and ozone. Harlequins pirouetted through the fray, leaving trails of gore.
One Death Jester paused beside a Grey Knight, his mask grinning wide.
"Such somber dancers, mon-keigh," it chuckled, firing its shrieker cannon into a Bloodletter pack, turning daemons to shrieking mist.
The corridor walls twisted and pulsed as more warp tears formed. The structure itself was unraveling.
Then came the worst of it.
Two Chaos Terminators surged forward in perfect synch, ancient armor shrieking, storm bolters blazing. Their storm bolters cut a swath through the air. The Shinobi dodged, shields sparking. Two Genin of the 13th Company leapt to intercept.
A round slipped through, catching one in the helm. He dropped.
The other faltered.
A power fist came down like a thunderbolt.
Flesh and armor ruptured.
Casualty markers blinked on Seiji's HUD.
"Mark them. No retrieval. Move."
No time for grief. The remaining Shinobi fell back, railpistols hissing. Monofilament blades flashed. Daemonkin fell in heaps. Traitor Astartes collapsed with pinpoint shots to exposed seals and visors.
Even so, the horde pressed on.
Overwhelmed but unbroken, the advance elements linked up with the main force.
Guilliman reclaimed command.
"Guard left flank! Grey Knights — hold that breach! Templars, advance with me!"
His voice was thunder — gene-forged presence turning a desperate rout into organized fury. Lines reformed. Guardsmen fired volleys. Harlequins slaughtered. Shinobi struck with silent, lethal precision.
The daemons came on.
At a corridor bend, Seiji's HUD flared.
[Silent Veil AI: Jonin Seiji. Teleportation matrix degraded by warp-phase distortion. Signal lock impossible. Per Protocol Umbra-Three, ship repositioned to secure vector. Current extraction probability: 19% and falling.]
Seiji snapped a response.
"Extraction?"
[Manual only. Ship will breach lockpoint at Docking Node Sigma-Nine.]
Seiji opened comms.
"Primary teleport compromised. New plan — move to Sigma-Nine port."
"That's a day's march in this hell!" Nao cursed, fire and lightning arcing from her projectors.
"We move," Seiji barked.
He turned to Sylandri Veilwalker, who wove through daemon packs, blades humming.
"Your vessel?"
The Shadowseer's porcelain mask tilted.
"Ah, little blade — our Masque's craft left this dying stage long ago. We remain because the ending demands it."
Seiji gritted his teeth. No curse. No complaint.
"Lord Primarch — alternatives?"
Guilliman's frown deepened.
None.
"Permission to speak, Lord Primarch," Aldrik Voldrus's voice came, halberd slick with ichor.
Guilliman nodded.
"Speak."