"You must kill the Supreme Overlord, if only for the victory of humanity!"
It was difficult to fathom that after laying out the terrifying truth, the Creator would demand that Blazkowicz execute the Supreme Overlord—claiming it was the only way to save the Rangdan species from total annihilation. Having delivered its ultimatum, it did not wait for a response, unilaterally dissolving its psychic barrier.
Blazkowicz stared at the hovering, dark-green mass, a sudden wave of weary contemplation washing over him. Regardless of species, culture, or language, there was never a shortage of those willing to sacrifice everything for their own kind.
From a human perspective, the Creator was an existential threat, the architect of war machines designed for the subjugation of mankind. Yet, it had been the first to perceive the extinction-level crisis lurking beneath the Rangdan's outward prosperity. Prioritizing the survival of its race, it had made the most brutal, yet necessary, choice.
Studying the organ closely, Blazkowicz suspected the Creator had perhaps made these preparations long ago. He turned his gaze toward the viewport; the neutron star pulsed with a brilliance that stood in stark contrast to the encroaching darkness. The World Engine's power could be repurposed for the human front, or it could be utilized to defy the laws of physics—and perhaps challenge a demigod of the Warp.
The Creator had noticed him a long time ago. Cunning.
Blazkowicz labeled the entity in his mind, then raised a hand to signal the Dark Angels to initiate containment. "Provide it with the most secure holding facility. No upper limit on security protocols."
The Librarians materialized new psychic chains. As the escort team moved, the number of Dark Angels grew, strictly following the Primarch's orders to transfer the Rangdan leader to the brig with the highest level of formality.
"May your blades drink deep of your enemies' blood."
Amidst the rasp of chains and the rhythmic thud of armored boots, the Creator, dragged by the psychics, offered a final, hollow blessing.
Lion El'Jonson walked to Blazkowicz's side. He saw his brother deep in thought and initiated a sequence of complex hand signals. This silent language had its roots in the wars against the daemons on the Anvil of Antares. Back then, the Lion had witnessed Valdor, Captain-General of the Legio Custodes, whispering to the Sisters of Silence in a secret sign language, seemingly intent on concealing information from the Primarchs.
In his fury, the Lion had studied the Night Watch's hand-signs and developed his own—a system so intricate that it required specific finger joint angles and precise pressure points. Without direct instruction from a Primarch, it was impossible for an Astartes or Custodian to master.
Currently, he was promoting this secret language among his brothers.
"Supreme Rangdan leader. A demigod of the Warp," Blazkowicz signaled back, condensing the critical intelligence into brief, sharp movements, his eyes heavy with gravity.
"Assemble!" the Lion's low roar reverberated throughout the command hall, and the Dark Angels dropped to one knee. From their genetic bond, they sensed the profound weight within their gene-father's heart.
"Order the Extermination Fleet to abandon all secondary objectives and converge on the Blackstone Fortress at maximum velocity. Our primary mission is concluded."
The Lion's roar rolled like thunder, a mountain of pressure forcing any potential questioning into silence. "Legion, assemble! We retreat to the boundaries of human space!"
"By your command!" the young lions growled, rising from the floor to execute their father's orders. Under the Lion's majesty, the Dark Angels operated with terrifying efficiency.
"Decisiveness is mandatory now," the Lion turned, his stern features softening slightly for his brother. "Retreat is the optimal strategy."
"Indeed," Blazkowicz agreed. "We must act with haste. We must extract ourselves from Rangdan space and rendezvous with the Emperor, bearing this intelligence."
He looked around the perimeter before signaling to the Lion: "A Warp-demigod manifesting in the material realm—only the Emperor can withstand It."
There was one point Blazkowicz left unsaid: the Supreme Overlord was no ordinary demigod. It held the mantle of the "Formless Distortion," its ritual seat situated in the extreme West of the Warp. By elevating the Rangdan, It sought to use their crusade to spread Its corruption and ascend. Once It achieved godhood, the power of Chaos would grow exponentially. Whether to curb the influence of the Warp or to ensure the continuation of the human race, the Imperium had to destroy the Rangdan.
"He will succeed," the Lion signaled back, pressing his thumb against his knuckle to emphasize his absolute faith in the Emperor. "Beyond Father, no one can impede a demigod's dominion over the cosmos."
Blazkowicz nodded, his fingers weaving a pattern of apprehension: "I hope so..."
A new god ascending! This would not only test the Imperium's response but require constant vigilance against the Warp. Whether the Formless Distortion could successfully ascend depended heavily on the attitude of the Chaos Gods, particularly the Hell-Storm, Tzeentch. The Changer of Ways had orchestrated the Great Game, and the other powers participated within it. Whether they would tolerate—or rather, "permit"—a new god to step onto the board, one possessing sufficient merit to stand alongside them, remained to be seen.
Was the Formless Distortion part of Tzeentch's grand plan? With the reveal of the Supreme Overlord's true nature, the hidden truths of the Warp only grew more labyrinthine. Was the war between humanity and the Rangdan merely another thread pulled by the Architect of Fate? After all, Tzeentch was also the incarnation of wisdom, tainted by a portion of the "malicious craft" authority.
"My Lords!"
A hurried report interrupted Blazkowicz's train of thought. A communications officer ran toward them, holding a projection device.
"What is it?" the Lion asked, his face darkening with displeasure. It was obvious that Blazkowicz was deep in calculation, and the soldier's loud intrusion had broken the thread of his brother's focus.
"Er..." The soldier faltered, visibly shaken by the Lion's visible ire.
Blazkowicz raised a hand to shield the soldier, nodding gently. "You are pardoned. Report accurately."
By the Primarchs! The soldier sighed in relief, sliding to a knee—the ceramite of his greaves sparking against the Blackstone floor. "Sensor arrays have transmitted a message."
The Lion glared at his son, snatched the device, and growled, "Report to the armory for one hundred lashes!"
The soldier acknowledged the order and hurried away, visibly relieved to escape the Lion's presence. The Lion activated the device, and a visual feed projected into the air. Blazkowicz and the Lion's expressions twisted instantly into a mix of shock, gloom, and deep anxiety. The Blackstone sensors confirmed that at the other end of the star-sea, the signal of another Blackstone Fortress had vanished from the array forever.
"Russ!" Blazkowicz whispered. The lost sequence belonged to the fortress he had lent to the Wolf King.
Snap!
The Lion crushed the projector in his grip; the debris slid from his palm as his breathing quickened.
"Recall the fleet, now!" The Lion's roar was deafening. He glared across the hall, pointing toward the exit. "I am going to the front lines!"
The Legionnaires stood paralyzed by their gene-father's fury. Blazkowicz placed a left hand on his brother's arm, raising his right to signal the Dark Angels to resume their duties.
"Brother," Blazkowicz spoke, far calmer than the Lion. "I understand your anxiety, but anger will not resolve the crisis."
The Lion realized he had lost his composure. He exhaled slowly, regaining his majestic, eldest-brother bearing.
"I..." he looked away, staring into the shadows. "I worry for the front."
"Losing two Blackstone Fortresses will indeed have a severe impact."
Blazkowicz nodded, pretending not to notice the Lion's slightly reddened ears. The eldest son who had returned from Caliban harbored a deep capacity for care toward his brothers, though it was buried under a mask of severity and rarely revealed.
"Let's go." He pulled the Lion's arm, and they walked toward the command dais. "While the fleet assembles, we shall use the time to simulate the battle theater."
The Lion regained his dignity, flicked the debris from his palm, and walked toward the holographic sand table.
Meanwhile, under a different sky.
Aboard the Blood Angels' Blackstone Fortress, Russ's rugged features were locked in a rigid mask, standing alongside Sanguinius as they watched the World Engine collapse into the neutron star. In the dark frontier, countless shipwrecks, caught in the gravitational pull, drifted slowly toward the point of annihilation.
"This is the victory of the prophecy," Sanguinius said, his gentle voice tinged with sorrow and resignation. Both Legions had arrived together, launching a desperate, cost-no-object assault on the World Engine, only to win at a horrific price. The Blackstone Fortress had smashed the shields, and six thousand Space Marines had performed a boarding action to destroy the gravity inhibitors. The survivors had been torn apart by the neutron star's gravity in an instant, destined to sleep forever in the dark void.
"It's over!" Russ squeezed a low growl from his throat, pointing at the falling Blackstone wreckage. "How am I to answer to my brother?"
"The Legion paid a brutal price for this war, and I have lost the fortress my brother lent me..."
Sanguinius's wings twitched; he did not know how to console Russ. The Space Wolves had wiped out the defensive platforms, but the fleet had been decimated, and they had even sacrificed the Blackstone Fortress for the sake of victory.
The Great Angel said, "This cost was our only chance at victory."
"Brother," Russ turned to the side, slapped his own thigh, and looked at Sanguinius with grim curiosity. "In your prophecies... did you see me getting my legs broken by Blazkowicz?"