Rusted battleaxes swung, sending flesh and blood flying in all directions.
The priests did not raise weapons to fight back desperately, but the light of faith—their most powerful weapon—proved as fragile as paper in the face of physical slaughter.
One priest after another fell into pools of blood, the golden spiritual light extinguishing one by one with its master's death. The compartment was thick with the pungent stench of blood mingled with toxic gas, and the pages of holy scriptures lay scattered across the floor, soaked through with blood.
Dozens of priests were swept clean in short order.
The moment the last priest fell, soldiers across the entire defensive line felt it.
That warm, reassuring presence that had enveloped their hearts had vanished.
The Emperor's light of faith had gone out.
In the next second, the terrifying Warp plague surged across the entire line like a bursting dam.
Stripped of the suppression provided by faith, the Rot-Rust Plague began to violently infect every mortal exposed to the air. The soldiers first felt an intense itch on their skin, followed by a fierce burning sensation, as yellow-green rust spots spread across their necks and the backs of their hands at a visible speed.
Some began to cough violently, spitting up blood-tinged foam that smelled of rust. Others collapsed directly onto the deck, their bodies twitching while something seemed to wriggle beneath their skin.
Morale collapsed instantly.
The defensive Naval forces—already lacking heavy firepower and vehicle support—grew even more powerless under the onslaught of the plague. The front ranks fell in swathes, while those in the rear began to fall back in panic, their formation devolving into complete chaos.
And right at this moment, the zombie horde and plague vehicles pressed forward. Fewer than four thousand remaining walking dead stepped over the corpses of the fallen to surge into the line, drowning the still-resisting soldiers one by one.
Yet at this point, the psychological shock brought by the zombie tide proved far more devastating than any physical attack.
The crackle of lasgun fire grew sparser, with agonized screams and the howls of the walking dead merging into a single chorus.
The first line of defense—the flawless line meticulously arranged by Dominic, upon which he had placed such high hopes—had been shattered head-on just like that.
Inside the command bridge, Dominic received the battle report.
Over the vox-communicator came the intermittent roars of the forward commanding officer, followed by a bloodcurdling scream, and then nothing but harsh static.
Dominic's face turned so dark it looked as though it might drip water.
The first line of defense was the one where he had made the most thorough preparations, concentrated the most troops, and deployed the most complete firepower network. He had initially thought that even if it couldn't stop the Plague Marines, it would at least hold for an hour to buy time for rearward deployments.
Instead, it was gone in less than half an hour.
And it had been shattered head-on.
Not by infiltration, nor by a sneak attack—the enemy had used the crudest, most direct method to gouge a hole straight through his flawless defensive line.
Worse still, subsequent lines of defense would only grow increasingly fragile.
The higher up the decks they went, the more complex the passages became, the fewer troops could be deployed, and the sparser the firepower positions would be. Conversely, the enemy's plague horde grew larger with every battle; every fallen soldier became a walking corpse, and every corrupted vehicle became a new war-engine of pestilence.
This was a snowballing effect—and the snowball was only going to roll larger and faster.
Conventional methods could no longer stop them.
Dominic closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
A decapitation strike was necessary.
Only by killing those Plague Marines—especially that leading Chaos veteran—and severing the core directing the plague's expansion, would there be any chance of holding the Gemstone.
Yet when it came to slaying enemy targets of Space Marine caliber, ordinary soldiers simply could not achieve it, and even the Ventrian Elites could barely manage to pin them down.
He had to go himself.
Dominic Ventria—a warrior cultivated by his family at immense expense, captain of the Gemstone—was himself a battle-hardened mortal champion. Furthermore, he was flanked by the Celestial Lion Guard, warriors even more formidable than the Ventrian Elites. Clad in Terminator-pattern power armor, every member of the Celestial Lion Guard was absolute in their loyalty to him and his house.
Only if he led his personal guard into battle himself, supplemented by the Sisters of Silence, would there be any chance of stopping the enemy.
"General."
Sub-Officer Cullen's voice sounded from the side, carrying a strain of suppressed anxiety.
Having followed Dominic for over a decade, he knew at a glance what the Rear Admiral was intending to do. That expression on Dominic's face, that look in his eyes... Without asking, it was clearly the look of someone who had resolved to enter the fray in person.
"You cannot go," Cullen's voice tightened slightly. "Have you forgotten what happened when Rygnar boarded the ship last time? He came within a hair's breadth of..."
He did not finish the sentence, but the picture was clear enough.
The last time that Ork warlord named Rygnar had boarded the Gemstone, he had fought his way all the way to the bridge, nearly taking Dominic's life. Cullen could still vividly recall the sheer peril of that moment.
He thought Dominic would dismiss his attempt to dissuade him as sharply as always. The Rear Admiral was a man of absolute authority; once his mind was set, no one could sway him.
Yet this time, Dominic did not immediately counter.
He merely stood there, gazing at his forces' shrinking zone of control on the holographic display, looking at that yellow-green corrosion area continuously expanding upward, remaining silent for a long time.
Only after a good while did he speak, his voice carrying a weariness and helplessness Cullen had never heard before.
"I know what you are worried about."
Dominic's voice was very soft, yet extraordinarily heavy.
"Cullen, how many years have you followed me?"
"Thirteen years, General."
"Thirteen years, huh," he sighed gently. "You should know what the Gemstone means to me."
Cullen fell silent.
Of course he knew.
The Gemstone was no ordinary cruiser. It was the flagship that the entire Dominic family had exhausted generations of effort, pulled countless strings, and spent unimaginable resources to secure for him. It was the foundation granted to him by his house, his capital for standing tall in the Imperial Navy, and the proof of his glory as the family heir.
The Castellan family was not considered a top-tier noble house; to produce a battleship for a young general as a foundation had taken a massive toll on their accumulated wealth. Everyone was watching, waiting to see if Dominic could command this ship across the sea of stars to forge his family's renown and elevate the name Ventria further.
"If the Gemstone sinks here," Dominic's voice remained calm, yet resolute. "If it is defiled by Chaos, only to ultimately be ordered incinerated by the Inquisition..."
"Then all those years of the family's blood and sweat, all my years of effort, and the sacrifices of those brothers who went through life and death with me—it all becomes a farce."
"My glory and the family's expectations will turn into nothing more than idle gossip over tea for others."
'Look at that kid from the Castellan family—couldn't even protect his own ship, and let it get corrupted by Chaos.'
He turned his head to look at Cullen, no recklessness in his eyes—only a heavy, unyielding resolve.
"I cannot stand by and watch it be defiled."
"Where the Gemstone stands, I stand."
Cullen opened his mouth, wanting to say something more, but in the end, he only let out a heavy sigh.
In this dark era, honor was indeed everything to a naval officer of noble descent.
The Gemstone had long ceased to be mere cold metal; it was his honor, his foundation, and his very life.
Attempting to dissuade him was pointless.
"I will go prepare the Personal Guard Battalion for you," Cullen lowered his head, his voice raspy. "I will personally inspect the Celestial Lion armor and your weaponry."
"Go then," Dominic nodded, his eyes returning to the holographic display. "Have the guard stand by at Assembly Point Two."
"Additionally, notify all rearward defense lines to stall for time at all costs. Even if they must use human lives to plug the gaps, they are to slow down their advance."
"Yes, sir."
Cullen turned and left the command bridge with hurried steps.
Dominic stood alone before the command console, his fingers gently tracing the engraved family crest on his chestplate. The cold metallic touch radiated from his fingertips as his gaze sharpened, bit by bit. The fleeting weariness and helplessness from a moment ago ebbed away like a receding tide, replaced by the stoic severity of a warrior about to march onto the battlefield.
Death Guard.
He silently recited the name in his mind.
Then let them come.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the defensive perimeter, the situation was unfolding precisely as Dominic had feared—the snowball of the plague army was rolling larger and larger.
After breaking through the first line of defense, Phelps barely paused in his stride. The zombie horde, sweeping up the corpses of the newly fallen defenders, continued its forward surge. Those soldiers who had just died were not even cold before they swayed to their feet under the influence of the plague, mindlessly joining the ranks of the offensive.
Defensive lines were breached one after another.
With every line pierced, the scale of the plague army expanded. The original eight thousand walking dead swelled dramatically to thirty thousand after swallowing the defenders of several successive lines. The number of corrupted plague vehicles also surged from dozens at the start to over a hundred, including several captured Sentinel walkers and tanks. Their firepower and armor were tiers above those of the light vehicles.
Worse still, as the concentration of Warp plague continuously escalated, higher-order mutated constructs began to emerge.
Plaguebearers—monstrous entities far larger and more bloated than ordinary walking dead—had bellies filled with corrosive pus and plague spores. Wherever they walked, they spread pestilence, and should they be detonated, they caused a wide-area plague explosion.
Spurred by Warp energy, Chaos Spawns mutated and fused into existence, wildly attacking every living thing. There were also smaller plague daemons, swarming like buzzing plague flies through ventilation shafts, leaving no survivors in their wake.
Phelps walked at the absolute vanguard of the host, the deck plating groaning softly beneath his weight. He did not even need to intervene personally; he only needed to lead his Plague Marines in gouging through the sturdiest nodes of each line, and the plague and zombie horde would handle the rest for him.
It was virtually effortless.
When he led his host to roll over the final outer line of defense and turned past a wide ring-corridor, a massive brass gate engraved with Mechanicus iconography and runes appeared not far ahead.
The Mechanicus Shrine.
The heart of the Gemstone.
Phelps halted his steps and raised his head, his murky gaze falling upon the gate. The Machine Spirit within the door sensed the approach of Chaos, emitting a low, angry hum as the entire structure trembled slightly, its holy crests flickering with a warning red light.
Finally, they had arrived.
So long as they breached this final line of defense before them, they would reach that thrilling... deepest core of the fleet.
At the thought, he could not help but let out a soft chuckle.
Unlike the previous temporary fortifications erected in haste, this defense line was remarkably proper.
Twelve Sentinel walkers were deployed in a wedge formation at the very front of the position, the cold muzzles of their twin-linked lascannons pointed straight at the corridor entrance. Over twenty Leman Russ tanks and Chimera armored vehicles were arrayed in staggered lines, their heavy bolters and grenade launchers stacked in layers of firepower to weave a dense, impenetrable kill-grid.
At the center of the position stood several red-robed Tech-Priests, the servo-arms in their hands glinting with cold metallic light as they continuously calibrated the position's fire-control arrays.
Only Ecclesiarchy priests were entirely absent.
There was no golden light of faith, nor were there high-pitched chants of holy hymns.
The entire line was constructed purely out of mechanical firepower, standing like an abandoned fortress of steel, emanating a sullen air of resignation.
"Have they given up?"
Behind Phelps, a Plague Marine spoke in a muffled tone, his voice accompanied by the gurgling sound of churning rot-fluid.
"It is only natural," Phelps replied, his voice raspy yet calm, as though stating a self-evident fact. "Mortal minds are fragile to begin with."
"Watching three defense lines collapse before their eyes and seeing their comrades fall in swathes only to turn into walking dead—mental breakdown and flawed command decisions are completely normal."
He had witnessed such scenes far too many times. From the Great Crusade to the Horus Heresy, and onward to the Chaos Black Crusades, those Imperial warriors who deemed themselves resolute would ultimately become slaves to fear when faced with the Grandfather's plague.
Without the backing of faith, a defense line built purely on stacked steel was nothing more than a slightly thicker piece of paper, easily pierced with a single thrust.
"Advance. Crush them."
Phelps pointed his warhammer forward, the command transmitting across the plague network to the entire army.
Thirty thousand plague zombies let out guttural growls, surging forward like a murky tide of decaying flesh. Over a hundred plague vehicles roared to life on the flanks, their rusted barrels elevating as dark green corrupted shells arced through the air with shrill screeches, slamming toward the Imperial positions.
In an instant, the entire corridor was filled with the deafening roar of artillery.
The firepower of the Imperial defenders erupted first.
The laser beams of the Sentinel walkers chained into a red grid of light, sweeping precisely across the charging zombie horde; every beam pierced through multiple rotting bodies, leaving behind scorched, hollow cavities. The main cannons of the tanks thundered in succession, high-explosive shells detonating within the corpse-tide to blast open pools of blood and flesh, sending shrapnel flying in all directions to tear surrounding walking dead to shreds.
The sheer volume of pure mechanical fire was far more stable and violent than that of a mixed force. The momentum of the plague zombies' charge was forcibly pinned down three hundred meters outside the position, falling in vast swathes like harvested grain.
The counterattack of the plague vehicles landed soon after.
Corrupted shells slammed into the armored vehicles, splashing vast sheets of dark green venom that hissed as it ate away at metal armor, sending up pungent white smoke.
Yet after the venom splashed into the position, the expected scene of rapid plague expansion failed to occur.
Soldiers struck by the venom merely collapsed in agony with festering wounds, yet their skin did not instantly turn black and swollen as before, nor did they sway back up as walking dead within dozens of seconds. The pestilence seemed choked by something, remaining purely on the level of physical corrosion without detonating on a spiritual level.
"Hmm?"
Phelps frowned slightly.
He could feel that the plague germs in the air seemed to have run into an invisible barrier, their activity suppressed to the absolute limit. The corrosion effect of the Rot-Rust Plague on machinery was also severely diminished; Sentinel walkers struck by several corrupted shells merely suffered superficial rust rather than rapid fleshly growth and total loss of control.
Something was wrong.
The moment the thought surfaced, he suppressed it.
Perhaps the Machine Spirits near the Mechanicus Shrine were potent and carried innate Warp resistance, or perhaps the enemy had sprayed cleansing agents in advance. At the end of the day, these were mere mortal tricks that could not last long.
Once they closed in, it would be a slaughter all the same.
He no longer dwelled on the stalemate of ranged exchanges. No matter how fierce the firepower of a mechanical force was, melee combat remained their weakness. So long as the Death Guard broke into the position and gouged through their firepower nodes, these cold iron hulks would eventually become fuel for the Grandfather.
"Warriors, charge with me."
Phelps growled low as twenty-two Plague Marines activated their jump-thrusters simultaneously, their heavy bodies leaping over the corpse-tide. Like twenty-two tanks, they crashed directly toward the central node of the Imperial defense line.
So long as they tore open this gap, the Mechanicus Shrine would be theirs for the taking.
Just as they broke out of the corpse-tide and were less than thirty meters from the position, the alloy ceiling overhead suddenly let out an ear-splitting tearing sound.
BOOM!!
Massive sheets of rusted metal plates collapsed, sending dust and sparks flying in all directions.
Seven tall figures clad in pristine white, master-crafted Terminator power armor, accompanied by seven Silent Sisters in golden armor and plain robes, leapt down from the maintenance mezzanine above, landing firmly between the Plague Marines and the Imperial line.
The surface of the white Terminator armor was as pristine as a mirror, its cuirass engraved with the heraldry of House Ventria. The twin-linked bolters in their primary hands were primed and ready, while the power claws in their off-hands glinted with cold blue force-fields.
The leader among them stood especially tall; as his helmet visor slowly retracted, it revealed Dominic's stern, sharp face—fiery red hair, icy blue eyes, and a gaze as sharp as a blade.
Beside him, the seven Sisters of Silence wore Vratine armor, their lower faces obscured by face-guards, exposing only the upper half of their faces. Unarmed, they merely stood there silently, yet a pale silver force-field invisible to normal eyes radiated around them. Like a surge of ice water, it doused all turbulent Warp energy in the air.
The Celestial Lion Terminator Squad and the Sisters of Silence.
The strongest individual combat units aboard the Gemstone were gathered here in full force.