Warhammer 40k: Ours Journey

Chapter 41: Victory

THUMP!

An impact from behind shoved a Shark forward as several splintershards flew past, embedding themselves deep in the steel bulkhead. The ancient warrior who had pushed the Shark out of the way returned fire. Beams of light lanced through the darkness. The Carcharodons reacted, catching a glimpse of a xenos body flashing in the shadows, hearing the sound of splinters piercing ceramite. The killing intent in their minds reached its peak.

With thundering steps that made the air crackle, three Sharks charged, leaving pale contrails in their wake.

Kill!

One delivered a straight kick, forcing the enemy to block. Another grabbed the xenos's limbs, restricting its movement. Then, the last one leapt high and brought his axe down, splitting its skull.

"!!!"

After tearing the insidious marksman to pieces, the Sharks turned back, their hearts filled with a mixture of grief and frustration.

Hundreds of meters away, the ancient warrior quickly raised a hand, signaling he was fine. The Sharks finally relaxed and, following a new tactical hand-signal, rushed towards their next prey.

The squad had formed a relatively tight formation. Besides the two Sharks leading the assault, one would always remain by the ancient warrior's side. They had to be more vigilant, more careful. They could not make such a mistake again.

With cold killing intent, the Sharks swiftly cleared the enemies hiding in every alcove. Unlike their usual berserk style of combat, the Carcharodons' squads moved in silence, melting back into the inky blackness after tearing their prey apart.

On the attack, the Carcharodons possessed an elusive speed. The shadow of their bloodline clung to them, their best camouflage. Only when they struck, cut, and pulverized any who dared to oppose them did they bare their fangs. They were like the apex predators of Old Earth's oceans; their prey would only glimpse the gaping, bloody maw from beneath the deep blue in its final moments.

"Slow your pace. Proceed to the next node in three seconds." Romulus's voice echoed in their ears, allowing the focused Sharks to spare a glance at the veteran who was still watching the shadows. Their superior eyesight allowed them to see the entry wound on his Corvus-pattern helmet. Only a little blood had spattered out; he had clearly turned his head in time to avoid a fatal blow.

To be able to spot these creatures in their own territory, to point out their targets, and even predict their attack trajectories—such experience... the Sharks, who prided themselves on their silence and lethality, couldn't help but marvel at the ancient warriors' skill and precision.

"Incredible impact," Romulus murmured.

The repeater projected video feeds from the various squads. Aided by his psychic sight, Romulus carefully orchestrated the pace of each team, finding every opportunity on the battlefield and seizing it. He was moving from a state of relative inexperience to one of effortless control. He was getting into the groove.

Watching the soul-projections of his enemies, which moved like puppets on his fingertips, get surrounded and annihilated, watching their gathered forces be violently shattered by the peerless individual might of Karna and his vanguard, then picked apart by the endless swarm of Sharks... these enemies were like toys in the palm of his hand. The most unbeatable tactic in commanding a battlefield was to command the enemy. And at this moment, Romulus had been granted this unique advantage.

"Now I know why Horus always liked to use the Pale Nomads for the first wave of an attack," Romulus said. If he couldn't command the War-hounds himself, he would do the same. Even though sending troops in for the first charge in a major battle showed a callous disregard for their lives... the sheer beauty of the numbers—"The efficiency is just too high."

"I have to agree," said Ramesses, who was maintaining the psychic field and giving his comrades a god's-eye view to aid their micromanagement. Only a commander could truly appreciate the lethality of the Carcharodons. Their charges, combined with their shadow-affinity, were terrifying. They could be right in front of you before you even had time to react. And their method of killing... it wasn't as apparent against the fearless Drukhari, but on a conventional battlefield against a less disciplined enemy, their morale would have broken instantly.

"I think I'd rank the Raven Guard's individual combat prowess just below the Thousand Sons."

"And where do you put the Dark Angels?" Romulus asked, his eyes glued to the battlefield feeds, his mind processing the viewpoints from all the Imperial Fists.

"If we're talking about peak combat power, why not include the Imperial Fists?" Ramesses shot back irritably as he increased the psychic pressure on a few of the stronger enemies, his attention still on the Warp. "Then Sigismund just ends the conversation right there."

The atmosphere between the two was quite relaxed, because the battle was proceeding exactly as planned. The feeling of having everything under control was incredibly comforting. They even had the spare capacity to focus on micromanaging individual actions, taking on the risk of injury in place of the Sharks. After all, their drone-marines were expendable. The Sharks were living, breathing people. Even if they were now being watched by the Emperor, they couldn't be allowed to die carelessly. Romulus's control had a limit, as did the number of drones. But if they died, they could be instantly replaced. It would take the Sharks at least a century to train a veteran of that caliber. He knew which was more valuable.

"It's time to end this," Romulus said. His gaze fell upon the target in the corridor with the most powerful soul-signature. The planned routes for Karna and the other two killers overlaid the video feed. There, at the very center of this web of death, was the Archon of this raiding fleet.

The Archon's retinue had been worn down in repeated assaults. His desperate attempts to rally his forces were futile. After having Arthur repeatedly check for hidden traps, Romulus had discovered that the Archon hadn't even had time to arm the explosives he'd set for a last-ditch effort. It was unclear why he hadn't set them up with remote detonators; this had denied Ramesses a good opportunity to unleash the soul-blast he had been preparing.

"Cease advance. Main assault groups, enter the inner circle in waves. Outer circle forces, rendezvous at the marked nodes and provide covering fire on the main corridors—"

Absorbing the information from each squad, quickly reviewing it on his custom-programmed interface, Romulus issued his orders. He tightened the noose of death. The hundred-plus combatants on the field began to change their formation with unprecedented coordination, following the meticulous commands from their comms.

This battle would naturally conclude in a pre-ordained fashion.

Victory—

He's here!

The ground trembled slightly, then began to shake violently, as if a train were hurtling towards them down the corridor.

It was him. This time, it was the black-armored Angel.

The Archon's forward guards had barely reacted, their weapons not even raised, before they were cut down like stalks of grain, foul-smelling blood spraying everywhere.

Ah, and the crimson butcher, and the silent knight.

A beautiful vista of dying life unfolded before him. The Archon swore he would remember these magnificent figures. If he had the chance, he would send these warriors to the bloody arenas of Lelith Hesperax, to let all of Commorragh witness their deaths.

At the same time, he stopped in his tracks, as if he had given up the struggle. He listened to the relentless stomp of iron boots on the deck and smiled at the approaching Angel.

The moment the Archon's triumphant smile appeared, the metal floor in front of Karna suddenly buckled upwards.

BOOM—

A Talos Pain Engine nearly four meters tall burst out, swinging its limbs. Who knew how such a behemoth had managed to navigate the narrow drainage channels. Its complex, whirling limbs shredded the metal, sending fragments flying like shrapnel, striking the surrounding walls and throwing sparks.

But Karna raised his hand without a hint of panic.

Thrust, lift, cleave!

With a display of stunning martial skill, the Talos was sent flying like a batted ball. Before it could even land, the Sslyth mercenaries that had emerged with it had been reduced to a puddle of gore.

Staring straight ahead, at the Archon who was now raising his weapon, the black-armored Angel didn't even think of dodging. He thrust his spear upwards, piercing the Talos in mid-air.

SQUELCH, SQUELCH!

A series of muffled impacts rang out as the Archon's disintegrator weapon blasted the Talos's back, tearing off large chunks of flesh. Even Karna was forced to withdraw his spear, part of its blade eaten away, before flinging the Pain Engine aside.

CRASH!

The massive body flew through the air, obscuring the Archon's vision. Then the towering Angel lunged forward, his power lance slamming down.

CLANG!

A long gash was torn in the deck.

As if by teleportation, the Archon, the intended target, appeared behind Karna and began to sprint away.

Another trump card. An Archon who commanded a raiding fleet in Commorragh always had a few tricks up his sleeve. This was not the first time he had escaped. His personal guard, his understanding of the environment, the high technology at his disposal—these were the assets that had allowed him to break through encirclements time and time again.

But the Archon would not simply flee. Before his death, he would use his own methods to leave these apes a painful lesson.

'A mindless pursuit,' the Archon thought with a sneer, breaking off the overloaded teleportation device and feeling the searing pain of burned flesh. He used his superhuman speed to pull away from the Astartes.

The roars behind him were fading. The remaining members of his retinue had faithfully fulfilled their duty, luring the crimson Angel away.

During the encirclement, he, an expert in the art of assassination, had already spotted the one and only flaw in this deadly net.

The Angel's recklessness.

The Archon didn't know how he was being tracked. The terror from the Thirsting Lady forced him to ignore certain thoughts he shouldn't entertain. If his opponent had been a champion of Slaanesh, he wasn't sure he would have even had the courage to resist.

Of course, the force besieging him was undoubtedly exceptional, efficient, and powerful. Even in the competitive arenas of Commorragh, they would be considered an elite hunting party.

But the Angel's mindless pursuit of slaughter exposed the hunting party's greatest weakness.

The initiative to choose the battlefield was now in his hands.

Listening to the cold, steady wind in the corridor, the Archon was certain the Angel was far away again. Others might be wary of traps, but this berserk and powerful Angel had, time and time again, stumbled right into them. Clearly, this warrior lacked the ability to discern traps. And even if the environment had changed, he clearly remembered where the dark matter bombs were placed. He just needed to disguise his intent with a panicked flight. The forces encircling him would eventually step into the web he wove, and offer up their own lives as a sacrifice for his.

A perfect plan.

A cruel smile touched the Archon's lips.

A bunch of fools wasting their talent. Only I am the master of intrigue.

The only unfortunate thing was that he had to race against time and couldn't bid these charming warriors a more leisurely farewell.

Sigh, perhaps I should have trusted my subordinates a little more. Then I wouldn't have to be rushing to arm the bombs myself.

"Just... just have to get to that place."

Ignoring the warning Klaxons from a nearby cogitator, the Archon sliced an opening with his Agoniser and used his powerful body to smash through a closed blast door.

Then, the Archon froze.

"..."

The silent knight stood quietly in the center of the corridor. He had rested his shield on the ground and was carrying his black sword on his shoulder, facing him in a relaxed, almost provocative posture.

The Archon did not act rashly. He himself had used this same method to trick hot-headed fools into attacking him many times. The corpse at the knight's feet, with a single wound, was the best proof of that.

'Think, Ashton, think. There's a door on the left with a corridor. I can go that way, though it's a bit of a detour.'

Clutching a plasma grenade, a series of plans flashed through the Archon's mind. But before he could act, the door on the left was torn open by massive claws.

WHOOSH—

A crimson mist spread out. Tyberos, far taller than a normal Space Marine, revealed himself. Through the gaps in his massive frame, the Archon could only see a floor covered in minced meat and a corridor filled with a thick, sanguine aura that was still dissipating.

'Looks like I have to go back. That Angel is still tied up with the Sslyth. He's definitely been left behind. I must trust my judgment.'

The Archon turned around.

Behind him, the Angel, stained crimson with blood, was walking slowly forward. The late-arriving War-hounds swung their axes, gnawing on the still-twitching remains of the enemy, finishing the cleanup.

VMMM!

A psychic blast from afar tore through the Archon's helmet defenses.

CLANG!

In the instant he was stunned, the black sword left an afterimage in the air, severing the arm that held the grenade.

A massive Shark charged forward, weathering the blow from the Archon's blade, closing the distance and crushing the Archon's limbs with the most brutal force.

The Angel approached. The fury in his eyes had faded. He looked at the conceited xenos, a mocking smile on his handsome face.

Three pairs of eyes stared silently at the Archon, at this Drukhari who had lost everything.

How dare you be so pleased with your own wishful thinking?

You were in the net the whole time.