The Living Saint, entering the battlefield, soared into the smoke-shrouded sky like a brilliant meteor.
His sacred wings unfurled in the void, each feather burning with pure flames, as scorching holy fire churned and danced in the air, sweeping away the surrounding gloom.
Dazzling golden light erupted from him, so intense it was as if a new sun had suddenly descended upon the battlefield.
The holy radiance pierced through the pervasive blood mist, illuminating every inch of blood-soaked ground.
The Imperial Army soldiers involuntarily looked up, their eyes reflecting the sacred and awe-inspiring sight.
Countless golden particles, like burning embers, rained down from the sky, these points of holy power gently enveloping the Imperial Army's positions.
Wounded soldiers, previously on the verge of death, suddenly found that under the golden light, their intense pain was rapidly fading.
Some watched in astonishment as their mangled wounds healed at a visible rate, new skin emerging with a healthy pink hue.
At a temporary medical station, a soldier who had lost his right arm stared dumbfounded as golden light shimmered at the stump, and a new arm miraculously began to grow.
An even more shocking sight unfolded behind the temporary medical station on the battlefield.
Among the fallen covered by white sheets, several bodies suddenly sat upright.
They gasped violently, their chests heaving, their eyes filled with confusion and terror, as if just awakened from a terrible nightmare.
A company commander, whose heart had been pierced by shrapnel, dazedly touched his perfectly intact chest, while his adjutant knelt on the ground, weeping with joy.
The Living Saint's wings traced a sacred path across the sky; wherever he passed, the shadow of death was completely dispelled.
Deafening cheers erupted from the Imperial Army's positions, as soldiers wiped away their tears and re-gripped their weapons.
Bandages were torn off, and wounded soldiers grabbed their rifles and charged towards the trenches, the fire of battle rekindled in their eyes.
In the face of this sacred miracle, the morale of the entire army instantly reached its peak.
"For the Emperor! For the glory of the Ash Sons!"
A sky-shattering war cry echoed across the battlefield, as a squad of translucent Astartes suddenly materialized from the void.
Their Terminator armor blazed with searing psychic fire, ancient runes etched onto their venerable war-plate, standing immovably before the charging Ork horde.
Arcing energy fields pulsed on their Storm Shields, and the disintegration fields of their Power Swords hummed; they stood like a high wall forged of flame and steel, barring the way before the Imperial Army's lines.
The Ork charge crashed violently against this insurmountable defense.
The Storm Shields erupted with blinding energy flashes, crushing the oncoming greenskins into pulp, their splattered limbs and blood transforming into a putrid mist under the impact of the force fields.
Each swing of a Power Sword brought a hurricane of death, and wherever the blade passed, the Orks' thick bodies were easily severed like stalks of straw.
A Warboss roared and lunged with his Power Klaw, only to be cleaved in half by a backhand swing from an Ash Son's sword; the burning blade even ignited its corpse, turning it into a twisted char.
The greenskin tide was abruptly cut off, their previously unstoppable charge scattering in disarray before the iron wall of the Ash Sons.
The surviving Orks discovered in horror that their choppas and bullets could not penetrate the defenses of these translucent warriors, and every counterattack meant more greenskins turning to ash in the holy fire.
The Living Saint swooped down, transforming into a golden meteor tearing through the heavens, sacred flames trailing a dazzling light behind him.
His target was singular—the Daemon Prince Tzanazte.
A mere sweep of his burning wings across the battlefield caused the Khorne demons, fresh from the Warp gate, to instantly burst into flames like oil-soaked torches.
The demons' twisted bodies writhed frantically in the holy fire, but not even a single shriek escaped them before they vanished into nothingness in the blinding golden light, leaving not even a trace of ash.
Tzanazte and Muswag, the two Daemon Princes, both instinctively recoiled half a step, their demonic hooves scorching deep marks into the metal deck.
Their crimson pupils reflected the approaching golden figure, and their usually berserk battle-lust wavered for a moment—a retreat they had never experienced since becoming Daemon Princes.
The last time they felt fear was when they were still mortals, before their ascension to Daemon Princes.
The Living Saint's Holy Flame Halberd transformed into a golden lightning bolt, each strike leaving a lingering, scorching afterimage in the air.
Wherever the halberd's blade passed, even the air twisted and warped under the searing heat of the holy power.
The Daemon Princes were forced to constantly dodge with their uncanny movements, their heavy hooves stamping spiderweb-like cracks into the ground, yet they could never fully escape the pursuit of this purifying fire.
"Damn corpse-emperor's dog!" Muswag let out a deafening roar, his prized twin-bladed battle-axe, wreathed in blood and gore, cleaving down.
The Living Saint elegantly sidestepped, his halberd sweeping upwards, its tip clashing with the axe-blade, erupting in blinding sparks.
To their shock, the battle-axe, which had drunk countless souls, was scarred with a smoking crack, and the demonic runes on its body painfully writhed and fell off like scalded vipers.
Tzanazte seized the opportunity to strike from the flank, his massive claw, forged of black iron and bone, tore through the air, aiming straight for the Living Saint's back.
However, the Holy Flame Halberd seemed to possess a will of its own, parrying with a spin, and golden flames surged up the claw-blade.
The Daemon Prince let out a heart-rending shriek as his entire arm was instantly consumed by the holy fire; the meticulously carved blasphemous runes twisted and fell off like dying maggots, turning to ash in the flames.
The Living Saint's offensive grew even more ferocious, his luminous wings fully spread, every falling spark transforming into purifying fire that pursued the demons.
Holy flames, like living things, coiled and gnawed at Tzanazte's twisted, ruined body.
For every inch of foul, Warp-flesh that regenerated, the holy flames scorched an inch, turning the Daemon Prince's proud regenerative ability into an endless torture—new flesh buds were incinerated as soon as they appeared, and writhing blood vessels turned to smoke before they could form.
His exposed bones emitted a grating, cracking sound in the golden flames, and spiderweb-like fissures crawled across the black bone surface.
The Daemon Prince staggered backward, each heavy hoof-fall melting crimson depressions into the ground.
Boiling metal flowed between his footprints, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of scorched flesh mixed with molten iron.
His sole remaining left arm was completely carbonized, the charred bone fingers still twitching nervously, grasping, as if trying to cling to a last shred of life; his right leg, from the knee down, had long since vanished into ash, forcing the once-unrivaled Daemon Prince to humiliatingly kneel on one knee.
"No... this is impossible...!" Tzanazte squeezed a hoarse roar from his shattered throat, his remaining bone claw frantically raking the metal deck beneath him.
Each claw mark gushed viscous black blood, and the corrosive blood boiled and evaporated the moment it touched the air, leaving twisted demonic runes on the scorched marks.
But these dying marks were instantly consumed by the holy flames, just like the fate he was about to meet.
Just as he staggered back, Muswag's axe of destruction, wreathed in crimson blood-light, brutally cleaved down.
This blow contained millennia of accumulated hatred; before the axe-blade even struck, the furious wind pressure had already torn the ground.
The crisp sound of the axe-blade severing a spine even drowned out the battlefield's clamor, accompanied by the cracking of bone and a deafening energy explosion.
Tzanazte's grotesque head rolled to the ground, his fangs still spewing venomous curses, and his single eye blazing with unwilling, purplish-black evil light.
But the Living Saint merely calmly raised the lantern in his hand, and a pure golden flame enveloped the wicked head.
Amidst piercing shrieks, the head melted like a wax figure, finally turning into a wisp of smoke and dissipating within the holy flames.
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