Chapter 421: Our Race is Doomed!
"Contact Abaddon. Prepare to travel into the warp."
When Typhus returned to the Terminus Est and sat upon his throne, an unprecedented sense of security washed over him.
On the Terminus Est, tendrils wrapped in viruses and bacteria climbed up his Cataphractii armor, inserting themselves into the breaches in his abdomen and back. Like umbilical cords, they linked the life of the Nurgle Chosen to the battleship itself.
It was like a child returning to the womb.
Calculating in his heart which warbands had betrayed him and planning his revenge later, Typhus roared, his voice echoing across the bridge to the psyker responsible for maintaining the comms link.
"I cannot reach Abaddon," the psyker said.
The ship was trembling. Even though he was close enough to Typhus, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise.
"The Vengeful Spirit has already submerged into the warp. They didn't go to the Mandeville Point but used the wreckage of the Will of Iron to tear open a warp rift. As you know, the Geller Field itself greatly interferes with astropathic communication."
When it came to running away, no one was more authoritative than the Warmaster.
As one of the only two Legions that successfully escaped Guilliman's army of 250,000 without their Primarch back then, the Sons of Horus shared the title of "Escape Duo" with the World Eaters.
"Bastard—"
Typhus slammed his fist on the armrest of his throne.
"That's my ship!"
He spoke, intending to tear open a warp rift using the servants on the ship as sacrifices.
Winning the fleet battle was basically impossible.
The Webway was too much of a cheat. As a commander, you couldn't guess the enemy's attack direction at all. They directly strengthened the Imperial ships, which were already known for being heavy and durable, to an exaggerated degree—
BOOM~
A tremor splashed yellow-green droplets onto Typhus's cheek, which was fused with his helmet. He felt the massive structure of the warship shaking.
Lowering his head, through the brine pool in front of him, he saw a fleet led by a Dark Angels Retribution-class battleship approaching. Almost all weapons were firing at the Terminus Est.
If the ship moved away from its nominal position relative to Caliban, Typhus couldn't maintain the warp rift. Similarly, he couldn't control the ship to dodge the incoming Dark Angels. Azrael hoped this mistake would be fatal for his enemy.
Led by the Retribution-class battleship, lances and macro-cannons fired violently.
The Dark Angels warships swept away the cruisers and escorts that had approached the Terminus Est seeking a backbone. The battleship rushed into the range of Typhus's flagship, locking its weapon arrays directly onto the enemy.
This activated ancient beast wanted to fight back, but as a meteorite from the asteroid belt grazed it, the ship, which showed no sign of dodging, disappeared on the spot, and then was transferred out from another direction led by a petite silver ship.
Even the asteroid belt has one? How many gates did the Old Ones leave in the galaxy?
Typhus had never agreed with Tzeentch more than at this moment.
He wished he could assemble the three artifacts right now and punch through the Webway.
Damn it, why is my path to facilitating the three artifacts always so bumpy? Ten thousand years ago it was the Dark Angels, and ten thousand years later it's still the Dark Angels.
Typhus felt that every step he took was flawless, every step was to let the Grandfather go further in the Great Game, but someone would always follow closely after he took a step.
A strange sense of fate shrouded him.
"We need an emergency translation. Prepare the sacrifices."
"The souls of the sacrifices are not going to the warp," the psyker replied.
"They have been stolen."
"..."
As the bombardment intensified, void shields sprayed purple and blue energy, wrapping the Terminus Est. Torpedoes and missiles passed through the time-ravaged hull of the Chaos ship, tearing open the ancient armor.
With the blooming of the last beam of energy, the last void shield generator of the Terminus Est overloaded.
Azrael realized the weakness of this enemy ship.
Assault torpedoes launched psychic beacons in the magnetic field of the launch tubes. The sacred engines within used the warp itself to generate energy. Ancient creatures that had accompanied humanity before the birth of the Imperium were flapping and howling inside.
BOOM!
Assault torpedoes violently hit the exposed hull of the Terminus Est, rushing into the battleship's compartments. The rift that bloomed and compressed in an instant carved out a cavity capable of safely accommodating hundreds of people. Then the teleportation beacons brought hundreds of Space Marines.
The troops in the center of the team activated the Blackstone array. Ripples suppressing warp reactions spread out. Then the calculation system installed on the battleship at the request of the Primarchs quickly judged the area with the strongest warp reaction.
"Deathwing and Grey Knights, teleport!"
Azrael roared. At that moment, teleportation lights erupted simultaneously, pointing at Typhus's command bridge, projecting the eager anti-daemon units towards the warship in the void.
"We are the Knights of Humanity, the Guardians of Mankind. Do not think you can invade human territory without consequences."
"Our vengeance has arrived!"
Typhus looked in horror at these monsters suddenly appearing in front of him. A series of combo punches made this Nurgle Chosen unable to hold on. It was like a game of noobs pecking at each other suddenly replaced by a master player.
The performance of the Blightlord Terminators was shocking. They couldn't effectively suppress the Deathwing in close-quarters combat.
And the Grey Knights were cutting through them like melons and vegetables. Relying on a deeper connection with realspace and a connection to unknown warp areas, they had a higher priority in handling souls, even those watched by Nurgle.
Just as Chaos could forcibly take the souls of loyalists by desecrating them in the past.
The Deathwing tore open the defense line formed by the Blightlords with their tenacious will and martial arts. The Grey Knights, personally taught by the Formless Lord, pressed forward. The silvery light of Nemesis force weapons illuminated Typhus's rotten armor pale white.
Squelch!
With the sound of a pipe breaking and pressure releasing, the pipe connecting the Chaos Chosen and the warship disconnected, revealing the dense and ugly neural connection channels on the top and back of his armor.
Typhus's fat body struggled, waving his huge Manreaper scythe.
Shame shrouded him.
The Nurgle Chosen found it somewhat unacceptable. If being chased all over the ground by a Primarch before was excusable, then this was unacceptable now.
The Grey Knights focused on replicating everything taught by the Radiant Lord. Chains spilling psychic power intersected, spells formed the moment they were thought of, feeling the warp connection established between themselves and the domain where the Radiant Lord was, intending to make the traitor in front of them pay the price.
And Typhus was thinking, why was he helpless against these damn Grey Knights? Leaving the Primarch aside, being scared away wasn't shameful, it wasn't like he hadn't been scared ten thousand years ago, but on what basis the Grey Knights?
He couldn't even beat these lackeys of the False Emperor?
The teachings of the Radiant Lord finally allowed the Dawnbreakers to kill the defenders of this bridge amidst heart-rending screams. This extraordinary power was so terrifying that even the allies felt afraid after witnessing the fate of the daemons.
Bang!
Typhus's head was pressed to the ground.
"You are not the first, Typhus."
Kaldor Draigo held a book bound in adamantium in one hand, psychic power dyeing his eyes blazing white, and swung his weapon with the other.
Amidst the angry howl of the Plague God, a head rolled, and a name was crossed out.
"And you won't be the last."
The Terminus Est shattered.
An energy ring like a solar prominence erupted from the rear of the ship, but the surrounding ships didn't stop at all, seeming determined not to stop until it was torn into cosmic debris.
Nurgle ships could not be salvaged; what awaited them was complete destruction.
Those wandering fragments slammed into the void shields of the nearest ships, scraped the surface of warships a bit slower, detonating yellow sparks. Some ships that lost power moved slowly, then suddenly exploded into fireballs mixed with metal and air without warning.
"I don't like this scene."
Looking away from the scout ships responsible for providing battlefield information and leading the grand fleet in short-distance Webway jumps, Yvraine whispered.
One second ago, she was living hand-to-mouth in a common district of Commorragh, dealing with slaver raids while agonizing over her future path, preparing to find an abandoned house to make do. The next second, she was hijacked by a bunch of Eldar compatriots.
A Phoenix Lord, the Supreme Farseer of the Seer Council, Wraith constructs carrying ancient ancestors, and the ancient enemy of the Eldar entered Commorragh with expressions of 'what are these people crazy about', scattered Rangers in the chaos, and fished her out.
Those Autarchs and Aspect Warrior Exarchs were chanting inexplicable things like 'Finally found her', 'Chosen of Ynnead', 'True hope of the Aeldari'.
Along the way, she witnessed Ranger Lords bowing and scraping to psychic apes, saw unfettered Rangers serving mon-keigh commanders diligently, and watched these compatriots looking fanatically at the monsters created by the Dark King (Anathema).
"This is not elegant at all, devoid of the beauty of the art of war."
Realizing that her noble compatriots seemed to have become human lackeys, Yvraine looked at the magnificent battlefield and muttered.
"Come on, you're just jealous that a race that also suffered the Great Fall can bring out enough military power in a campaign, while the Eldar no longer have that capability."
Ramesses, still focusing on the warp, retorted reflexively without raising his head.
Hit the nail on the head.
Yvraine, who hadn't yet grown the sky-high ponytail—one of the top absurd hairstyles in the Warhammer universe—wanted to speak but stopped. Her neck shrank subconsciously when her gaze fell on the golden mask. Finally, she lowered her head, using her silver-white hair to cover her painful expression of not knowing how to refute.
Okay, she was jealous.
Also a race hit hard by a Great Fall, the Eldar plummeted like a stock market crash, while humanity rose again under the leadership of a god, even establishing an Imperium of Man far exceeding the Dark Age of Technology, becoming the largest galactic hegemon in history. As time went on, various muscle men in skins came to prop up the collapsing building.
Craftworlds always bragged that their fleets were enough to crush the combat power of several human sectors, but in the major crises of Craftworlds, the great fleets they spoke of almost never appeared.
In the final analysis, the Eldar population could no longer support a massive fleet. While protecting the Craftworld, they could only activate a small number of fleets for guerrilla warfare.
Not that guerrilla warfare is bad; guerrilla warfare itself is one of the excellent tactical choices for the few to defeat the many according to local conditions, but it's a bit ridiculous to compare it to a major battlefield.
Those Craftworld Eldar whose world-ships exploded might really be able to drive them out, but basically, they are disposable fleets...
Ship damage is not a problem; the problem is the personnel loss caused by damage is catastrophic for the Eldar.
"So the Eldar can never shoulder heavy responsibilities."
Trazyn tossed the exquisite short blade in his hand. The delicate wraithbone carvings and elegant ancient Eldar script on it symbolized that the owner of this dagger was not simple.
Who knows how Trazyn managed to visit the arenas of Commorragh in such a short time.
"In this universe, a race that cannot withstand massive casualties has no future itself."
Although he and the old Farseer were birds of a feather, he had to argue when it was time.
Ratlings still fight with Ogryns for importance in human society, although this has always been the Ratlings' unilateral opinion.
"Better than you who have become the past, stupid self-extinctors!"
Yvraine retorted immediately.
Unlike other Craftworld compatriots, this wanderer expressed emotions more fully, which might be why she chose to leave Biel-Tan.
"..."
Trazyn shrugged. Yvraine's AOE couldn't target him.
"You'd better wait until your Necron Civil War is over."
Ulthran on the side spoke up immediately.
The Necron side was the same old story. It was no secret that these four of the Imperium could reshape souls, but the fact that not many Tomb Worlds had come to knock on the door showed the problem.
Let's not talk about the Maynarkh Dynasty driven mad by the Flayer Virus.
The Sautekh Dynasty, with the strongest military force, also fell into chaos as members gradually awakened. Imotekh the Stormlord and other Necrons believed that in the current cesspool of a galaxy, their current form was the most superior, gaining the support of a large number of dynasties and openly opposing the Silent King who tried to lead the Necrons to leave the galaxy.
Currently, both sides were preparing for war, ready to see the real deal on the battlefield.
Among them, there were those who wanted to defect to humans but couldn't save face, those who wanted to kill both sides to revenge on society, those loyal to hostile overlords who wanted to sabotage in the dark, those taking advantage of the chaos to establish independence, etc...
A Necron version of the Horus Heresy.
The Silent King must regret destroying the Command Protocols that could forcibly control all Necrons.
"Ho, your Isha is still in Nurgle's hands. Do you really think resurrection is unlimited?"
"Otherwise? Become metal men like you?"
"Commorragh is still there. Can you represent all Eldar?"
"Commorragh? What xenos, never heard of them."
"Sigh—"
'Hopeless.'
Watching the two arguing again about which side was more suitable to be a dog, Yvraine, numb to the future of the Eldar, sighed.
She shifted her gaze to the pondering Phoenix Lord.
This young Phoenix Lord did not show the marks on the old Farseer's face, but he always displayed extraordinary composure and calmness, neither humble nor arrogant.
The accumulation of countless generations of personalities and wisdom in the armor created an indescribable sense of age on his body, instinctively winning the trust of his people.
Whenever she saw the silent and steady back of the Phoenix Lord amidst the commotion, Yvraine felt that there was still hope for the Eldar.
At least let the great Radiant Lord be the God of Death for the Eldar!
"What do you think of the title 'Emissary of the Corona'?"
Noticing Yvraine's gaze, the pondering Phoenix Lord looked up and asked the future Emissary of Ynnead.
"?"
"I think the title 'Solar Lord' is still too presumptuous."
"?"
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