Golden light erupted from the shredded flesh as the Primeval's massive frame suddenly snapped back like a bent bow, convulsing a few times before going completely limp.
The shot from the super shotgun had blazed upward from below, shattering its spine.
"Blasphemer!" The Primeval's sharp screech was laden with bitter fury as it squirmed to raise its head, its tone turning darker and more malicious than ever before: "I curse you to know no peace!"
"You squandered the favor of the Gods! Their bias will backfire upon you, turning into an eternal cage of damnation!"
"One day! ONE DAY—"
It continued to shriek, releasing a manic laugh through its agony, as if descending into total madness.
"Not today!" Blazkowicz cut off the venomous curse with brutal efficiency, grabbing the exposed spine and slinging the alien over his shoulder. "Your story ends here."
Pressed against Blazkowicz, the Primeval felt its very soul freezing. The chilling cold, paired with the shame and fury of captivity, knocked it unconscious.
Blazkowicz cast a glance toward the fleeing Rangdan and Worm-men, realizing pursuit was no longer practical.
The captured Kraff Primeval possessed a value that far outstripped any incremental gains from chasing the rest.
Forget it.
He sighed inwardly at the fluid, volatile reality of the battlefield. Bending his knees, he leaped with immense force, shattering the psychic barrier as he vanished into the downpour, leaving the bewildered Kraff cultists behind.
With their leader captured, the threat posed by the surrounding greenskins dropped sharply, even as they watched on with eager, hostile eyes.
Executing several massive leaps, Blazkowicz landed on the central avenue of the fortress. The captive on his shoulder was barely clinging to life.
The Primeval's flank had been ripped wide open, its organs spilling out, its spine broken, and half its body completely devoid of structural support.
That it was still alive at all was a testament to its biology; inside its shattered chest, a ruined heart beat with stubborn defiance, squeezing out thick streams of black blood with every pulse.
The vitality of a transcendent body operated far beyond conventional understanding.
"Take it below," Blazkowicz instructed as he handed the creature off to several Legionaries. "Heal it. Then extract every piece of knowledge it possesses."
The Doom Marines nodded in silence. Drawing blank-metal null pins from a container, they hammered them one by one into the Primeval's spine, sealing its terrifying psychic strength.
Only after applying a full suite of fail-safes did the Legionaries lock the prisoner inside a stasis containment cell.
A entity of this caliber was more dangerous than a Primarch; even Doom Marines refused to take the slightest chance.
Watching the containment unit be wheeled away, Blazkowicz shook the lingering gore from his shield and turned back toward the open adamantium gates.
The war was far from over.
He strode out to the bridgehead, where the elite forces had constructed a complete defensive line manned by mortal soldiers standing at full readiness.
Overcharged las-fire erupted periodically along the perimeter, while automated combat servitors cleared out the stray Ork Boyz managing to clamber over the rampart of corpses.
Behind the mound, automated bulldozers worked back and forth, shoving thousands of greenskin bodies into the Hungry Water below to keep the rampart from stacking too high.
At the highest crest of the wall, Legionaries continued their relentless cull, tirelessly repelling the greenskin tide.
Halfway up the mound of bodies, a temporary command post had been hastily assembled out of salvaged steel plating and crushed Ork torsos.
Blazkowicz trekked up the slick, gory steps onto the platform and greeted the fully armored Astelan: "Archduke."
"Assemble the guard. We are taking the offensive to suppress the spawn rate and quality of their Bosses."
"Understood," Astelan replied, casting a glance at his internal HUD as his eyebrows twitched imperceptibly.
Intel showed that the first wave of spores had already hatched, granting the Orks a steady stream of fresh reinforcements.
With major forces still atmospheric-dropping from orbit, the local Ork population on the planet below had already hit twenty billion. Predictive data models issued constant warnings: within a week, that number would reach fifty billion.
Whether twenty billion or fifty billion, the reality was clear—the Doom Marines could no longer suppress the explosive population growth through attrition alone, though the Legion could guarantee the fortress itself would not fall.
When three to five hundred Legionaries faced an enemy outnumbering them by a ratio of hundreds of millions to one, the numbers ceased to hold any practical meaning.
The priority now was hunting down Ork Bosses and elites to cap the evolution of higher-tier threats.
Astelan nodded, switching to the vox-channel: "Primarch Honor Guard, assemble."
"Move out." Blazkowicz strapped his Buzzsaw Shield to his back, his left hand igniting with C'tan fire while his right held the super shotgun.
Climbing the stairs of corpses to the top of the rampart, he looked out across the valley. The Adamantium Sinkhole was packed tight with Orks.
Blazkowicz's breath caught for a second—for the first time, the sheer weight of numbers felt suffocating.
Every direction was a vast, undulating ocean of green that stretched past the horizon. That surging tide was enough to break the mind of even the most battle-hardened veteran.
"Honor Guard assembled," the warriors reported as they took up positions behind their Primarch.
Without a word, Blazkowicz leaped down from the hundred-meter-tall rampart of bodies, the Honor Guard dropping right behind him.
"The Big 'Uns are comin' out!"
The shouts from the Ork Boyz carried equal parts excitement, fear, and raw anticipation.
They feared the sheer power of Blazkowicz and his Slayers, yet they were energized by the endless fighting and craved the glory of bringing down the human Big 'un.
"Charge with me!" Blazkowicz growled, leveling the super shotgun at an oncoming Ork scrap-trukk before pulling the trigger.
A roar of golden thunder erupted, lightning leaping across the ranks to vaporize the Ork Boyz in an instant, carving out a hundred-meter vacuum zone through their ranks.
Blazkowicz glanced down at the shotgun, momentarily surprised by its absolute devastation.
Looking closely at the scorched gap, he realized what had happened.
The shells, infused with the Emperor's lightning, had directly disrupted the greenskins' Waaagh! Field, triggering a chain-reaction warp annihilation that amplified the weapon's killing potential exponentially.
A slight smile touched the corner of Blazkowicz's lips as he muttered under his breath: "Are there enough shells for this?"
When the Emperor had handed him the super shotgun, He had assured him the ammo supply would never run short.
Now, looking at the sheer scale of the horde, Blazkowicz felt a trace of doubt.
He didn't know what method the Emperor had used to produce these psy-shells, but every single one was personally enchanted with His divine blessing.
Gazing at the sea of Orks that instantly refilled the vacuum zone, Blazkowicz thought the Emperor might have spoken a bit too confidently.
"Keep pace with me!" Blazkowicz barked, launching a counter-charge directly into the green tide.
He fired a searing beam from his left palm, the multi-million-degree C'tan fire sweeping back and forth to vaporize everything in its path.
His right hand maintained a seamless rhythm of firing and reloading, blasting crater after crater into the greenskin ranks, each blast reducing over a thousand Orks to ash.
Determined to maximize his damage output, he activated the Reaper Shoulder Cannon mounted on his left Archon pauldron with a thought, sending soul-seeking beams auto-targeting and harvesting greenskin souls.
A single man was outputting the firepower of an entire artillery corps.
"For the Glory of the Legion!"
The Legionaries roared their battle cry as two Blazkowicz Knights charged out to anchor the flanks, their power lances sweeping in wide arcs like twin meat grinders.
The heavy compound shoulder cannons mounted on their armor locked onto targets automatically, blowing scrap vehicles to pieces.
The missile pods on their backs opened, periodically launching micro-nukes into the green tide that wiped out tens of thousands of Orks per strike.
"Stay tight on the Primarch! Maintain charge formation!"
Ten Terminators stepped forward, their dual reinforced shoulder cannons laying down an unbroken curtain of destructive energy.
The wargear and power armor of the Doom Marines had been engineered specifically for prolonged, high-intensity engagements.
Foregoing conventional ballistic weaponry, their gear drew power from multiple cold fusion cores, supported by advanced cooling systems to keep the energy weapons operating safely.
This new generation of power armor eliminated overheating concerns entirely, providing massive, sustained firepower with exceptional longevity.
This unit of infinite firepower drove straight into the greenskin tide without pausing or dodging, crushing Ork bones beneath their boots.
Moving at relentless speeds, the elite warriors proved far too fast for the Orks to wrap around or contain.
Coordinated by interlocking suit-AIs, the shoulder cannons maintained an uninterrupted perimeter of fire, preventing any Ork from getting within a hundred meters of the formation.
The Legionaries fired their dimensional rays with calculated precision, casually tracking incoming projectiles and deflecting them with their lances.
Centering their formation on the Primarch, the Honor Guard eliminated enemies by the thousands every second with absolute control, their footwork never breaking stride.
They moved along the edge of the sinkhole like a massive millstone, crushing everything beneath them circle after circle.
Periodically, they shifted their advance along randomized vectors to prevent the Orks from anticipating their movements.
Faced with the relentless charge of the human Big 'Uns, the Boyz began to weep, their despair outstripping even that of the Gretchin.
Ork Bosses and challengers threw themselves into the meat grinder only to be crushed instantly.
After losing several Bosses in rapid succession, the greenskins were forced to relocate their command centers repeatedly to avoid being overrun by the Primarch's sudden strikes.
Meanwhile, the God-Chosen of Gork and Mork—Big Tooth Gugu—was quietly gathering his forces, preparing a massive trap to surround and crush the arrogant human Big 'un once and for all.
Stars clustered in brilliant arrays as a tear in the Warp ripped open the boundary of the star system. A colossal leviathan squirm Countess-like through the veil separating reality from illusion, descending into the physical universe.
The oversized vessel rivaled an asteroid in sheer volume, divided into six distinct quadrants. Its dark-gold hull shimmered with a subdued, majestic luster under the starlight.
The Phalanx had arrived.
The Imperial Fists icon crowning its Gothic spires stood heavy and resolute, proclaiming humanity's unyielding strength to the cosmos.
Leading his Legion, Rogal Dorn had raced all the way from Terra, finally making orbital entry at the Chaos Nebula.
Seated upon the command bridge of the Phalanx, he stared at the holographic system projection returned by the auspex array. His golden eyebrows knitted tight, his stern countenance turning unprecedentedly somber.
His brother's distress signal had been no false alarm.
This unnamed system had drawn together an unprecedented coalition of xenos forces. Red vessel blips clustered so densely on the tactical display that they resembled a swarming ant colony.
The system overview presented by the holographic projection unsettled even the Primarch, leaving his Legion officers visibly awestruck.
Beneath the immense astrometric display, the senior officers found themselves holding their breath.
Members of the Templar Brethren exchanged uneasy glances. Sigismund, First Captain and Master of the Templars, stood at the vanguard of the formation. His grip tightened around the hilt of his broadsword, his facial features drawn taut.
Archamus, the Primarch's personal huscarl, gazed out the viewport. Ten thousand voidship engine trails crisscrossed the dark expanse—a sight far more terrifying than any tactical display could convey.
The remaining officers looked to one another in solemn silence, afraid that breathing too heavily might disturb the monstrous nest slumbering within the system.
Indeed, as the holographic display revealed, the third planet of the system had been rendered a literal beehive.
Thousands of scrap-ships orbited it, forming a seal so airtight that even the electromagnetic pulses of the auspex struggled to penetrate, obscuring whatever horror was unfolding on the surface below.
On other worlds and key orbital choke points, the Iron Warriors had already deployed ground forces, using their fleet's mobility to tangle with the surrounding scrap-hulks.
Further out into the void, several distinct configurations of xenos warships were engaged in a chaotic, free-for-all melee.
All told, the total warship count within this unnamed system exceeded eight thousand vessels.
Though the bulk consisted of seemingly unstable Ork scrap-vessels, their sheer volume imparted an overwhelming, sky-blotting sense of dread.
Only now did the senior command of the Imperial Fists grasp why reinforcement had been so urgently requested.
The King of Warriors and the King of Iron—two Primarchs and their respective Legions—were simply incapable of containing a xenos tide of this magnitude alone.
To have held them at bay this long was already a feat beyond imagination.
Beep... Beep...
A alert flared on the holographic display as a priority communication request and intelligence stream arrived simultaneously.
"Rogal Dorn," Perturabo's voice cut through, as cold and grounded as wrought iron—fitting for the Lord of Iron. "You finally made it."
The Legionaries could detect a subtle note of relief beneath their Primarch's brotherly tone, mixed with a trace of urgent anxiety.
Knowing better than to interrupt a exchange between Primarchs, the officers quietly shifted their focus, reading through the synchronized intelligence package provided by their sister Legion.
"Perturabo," Dorn acknowledged with a nod. His furrowed brow remained tight, a deep vertical crease etched between his eyes.
In his memory, his iron-willed brother was unyielding, rigid, cold, and entirely dispassionate—rarely if ever exhibiting unnecessary emotion.
That unexpected trace of sentiment caused Dorn's heart to sink, casting an imperceptible shadow of concern across his stoic features.
"I won't waste time on pleasantries," Perturabo said plainly, manipulating the Phalanx's holographic star map via data-burst. "I need your Legion to strike the Orks' orbital transit nodes."
Responding to his input, tactical icons representing the Imperial Fists snapped into place across the map.
These markers were razor-sharp, driving like steel daggers into the system's most critical strategic choke points.
"And here," Perturabo continued without pause, zooming in on the fleet-encircled Third Planet. "The Imperial Fists need to make a landfall on this war-world."
"Blazkowicz and his Doom Marines Legion are holding down the main Ork army down there. I have been completely out of contact with him for a full Terran week."
"My Legion is currently securing other xenos-occupied worlds throughout the system; I cannot spare the forces to go down there and support our brother."
Perturabo delivered the summary in a single breath, his voice taut like a steel cable drawn to its limit. His lead-gray eyes remained locked on Dorn, awaiting the response of his blood brother.
He did not push; he simply waited for Dorn to process the data.
Dorn offered no immediate objection. He nodded to his brother's projection, then turned his attention to the raw intelligence provided by the Iron Warriors.
The intel was meticulous, detailing every aspect of the current situation alongside personal notes, tactical inferences, situational forecasts, and troop deployment numbers.
It was no longer mere intelligence—it was a comprehensive manual for the ongoing war.
Reviewing the data, Dorn offered a silent nod of approval.
Brutal as Perturabo's methods might be, his execution was unfailingly thorough and precise. He had anticipated nearly every contingency and constructed the corresponding tactical response.
As the ancient Terran proverb went: Even the cleverest housemaid cannot cook a meal without rice.
No matter how farsighted or ingenious a commander might be, without troops at his disposal, he could only watch helplessly as the tide turned against him.
Dorn took ten seconds to process the exact conditions within the system and digest the master plan Perturabo had formulated.
"Your strategy is sound."
Dorn was not one for grand, flowery praise. He simply nodded to state his position, validating the campaign plan his brother had built out of raw numbers and cold logic. "The Imperial Fists will execute the deployment."
As a reinforcement element, the Imperial Fists naturally fell under the operational directives established by the vanguard force.
Perturabo's strategy was devoid of flaws, mathematically sound, logically sound, and possessed an exceptionally high probability of success.
Finding no shortcomings, Dorn was fully prepared to cooperate.
He and his Legion had answered the distress call to reinforce, not to usurp command.
Changing generals mid-battle was a cardinal sin in war; for a latecomer to act independently without a superior plan was an act of gross strategic irresponsibility.
Though Dorn held no personal fondness for Perturabo, he maintained a sharp sense of priority when faced with grand strategy.
Furthermore—
Refusing to cooperate now would only invite far greater complications down the line, given that the Luna Wolves were scheduled to arrive shortly.
Horus Lupercal—the First Found, a man of sweeping ambition and unmatched charisma.
He possessed boundless drive and immense prestige; if the Imperial Fists balked at the tactical command structure now, would Horus deign to lower himself and play along smoothly?
Dorn weighed numerous strategic outcomes in a matter of seconds before ultimately deciding to align fully with Perturabo.
The Imperial Fists needed to establish a clear stance—standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Blazkowicz and Perturabo to keep the Warmaster's ambition checked and contained.
"I have no further objections."
Dorn's earnest commitment allowed Perturabo to exhale a quiet breath, his unseen fists slowly unclenching within the projection feed.
With the backing of the Imperial Fists, the Luna Wolves would be forced to integrate into the existing framework as well.
With multiple Legions moving in lockstep under his command, Perturabo was confident his detailed orchestration would crush the Orks, proving the brilliance of the Lord of Iron to his brothers once and for all.
"There is only one remaining issue," Dorn said, reaching out to rotate the star map and pointing directly at the Third Planet. "How do the Imperial Fists make landfall?"
"The world's upper orbit is choked with Ork and xenos warships, sealed so tight that not a drop of water could slip through."