Even after witnessing a series of literal miracles, Fabius Bile harbored no desire for worship. His brilliant, cold mind was occupied solely by the challenge of explaining these phenomena through the lens of science.
After casting Alpharius and Omegon back into realspace, Lucius turned his gaze toward the "Spider," who still lingered within the Realm of Ruin.
"Well?"
"I shall still find a scientific explanation for all of this," Bile replied, staring up at the titanic, shifting shadow of the Great Horned Rat. As a mortal, he had witnessed the manifestation of a True God, an experience of unparalleled clinical value.
Unfortunately, the Great Horned Rat was not known for his magnanimity.
"Send the gene-seed you have harvested back," Lucius commanded, his voice booming over Bile, who appeared no larger than a speck of dust against the god's claw.
Bile arched an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "How unexpected. You are quite generous."
"Heh. The Great Horned Rat is most scrupulous with his bargains. For instance, I promised you would be allowed to send the gene-seed of ten thousand years ago back to your kin; therefore, the Great Horned Rat must fulfill that vow..." Lucius paused, his tone darkening. "Similarly, the Great Horned Rat invited you here, but never promised you would return alive. Thus, no vow is broken."
Faced with such a terrifying proclamation, Bile remained unfazed. He nodded curtly. "To die for such precious experimental data... it is a fitting end."
He was merely one of Fabius Bile's many clones, possessing the progenitor's full consciousness and memories. He did not fear death; he relished the rarity of the experience. Bile uploaded the harvested gene-seed data and his recent insights into a cogitator matrix and launched it into the void.
"I am indeed generous," Lucius said. "But do not fret. The genius within this flesh will not be squandered. For you, this may be a transformative experience."
With a sudden, violent motion, Lucius's claw descended. Fabius Bile and the nineteen primarch clones he had cultivated, mostly misshapen, screaming abominations, were swept up. These powerful vessels of primarch-tier genetic material were pulverized in a localized warp vortex, ground into a single, pulsating mass of biological slurry.
"Now, for a bit of rat."
Lucius kneaded the slurry like wet clay. Reaching into the shadows of the Realm of Ruin, he snatched up several pale, newly-born Verminlords from various clans. These Greater Daemons squealed in terror like blind pups in the god's grip before being plunged into the meat-mash. Their essences were instantly unmade, becoming part of the amalgam.
Kritislik watched this with an uncontrollable shudder. He felt a primal, sickening fear, as if he, by some dark design, should have been part of that meat. Sneek felt it too, though he masked his tremors behind a mask of cold indifference.
After a period of churning that transcended linear time, the mass began to take shape.
Countless rat-heads sprouted first. These hairless, pink horrors hissed and shrieked, snapping at one another in a frenzy of cannibalistic hunger. Because they shared a single, central nervous system, every bite caused the entire mass to squeal in collective agony.
"I never did care for nature documentaries," Lucius remarked. He tossed the squirming thing into a cage of black, filth-encrusted iron.
The cage was not of Skaven make; judging by its psychotropic filigree, it was an ancient Aeldari relic, likely stolen by some enterprising rat ages ago and left to rot in a gutter of the Realm of Ruin. Now, it served as a divine womb.
"When you emerge, you shall be the King of Vermin. Hmm... let me give you a name. Skreech Verminking," Lucius proclaimed. He cast the multi-headed horror into the deepest pit of his domain, leaving the heads to tear at each other until only one remained.
…
Realspace.
Holy Terra, The Throneworld.
It had been nearly three centuries since Holy Terra had last faced a large-scale invasion. Since Roboute Guilliman launched the Indomitus Crusade, the Throneworld had enjoyed a period of relative, albeit oppressive, stability.
This incursion was an anomaly. The ratmen had emerged from the sub-levels with terrifying suddenness across the entire planet, yet their individual combat prowess seemed lacking.
The Adeptus Custodes, the Imperial Fists, and the Ultramarines fought shoulder-to-shoulder, rapidly suppressing the vermin surging from the depths. Guilliman himself, wielding the Emperor's Sword, carved through the swarms. His Victrix Guard followed their gene-father, a blue tide smashing into the disordered rat-kin.
In a single charge, the Primarch and his Astartes shattered the Skaven lines. Green warp-lightning rounds hissed through the air, but the power armor of the Astartes held; the warp-bolts left nothing more than charred pits upon their ceramite plates.
"NO! NO-NO! We are no match-fit for the tin-cans!" a Skaven Warlord shrieked, his fur standing on end. He turned to flee, tail tucked between his legs.
His frantic retreat was spotted by Ultramarine Assault Intercessors. Three hundred Astartes ignited their jump packs, trailing pillars of fire as they slammed down directly in front of the Warlord.
The Warlord's guard, Stormvermin clad in scavenged power armor from the Terran foundries and wielding Warp-Glaives, closed ranks. They unleashed a volley of warp-lightning. Forty Heavy Intercessors raised their Storm Shields, the surface of the shields groaning and pitting under the emerald discharge. They held the line. Behind them, Ultramarine Scouts leveled plasma guns and unleashed a perfect volley.
Thump-hiss!
A row of Stormvermin heads vanished in blue bursts of superheated gas. Not even their reinforced helmets could withstand the sun-fire.
The Warlord broke for it, but his path was barred by three Astartes.
"GET AWAY-AWAY! TIN-THINGS!" Cornered, the Warlord lashed out with surprising ferocity.
He had risen to power by surviving the meat-grinder of a billion rats; his martial skill was formidable. His twin Warp-blades hummed with lethality. An Astartes raised a chainsword to parry, only for the warp-infused blade to shear through the adamantium teeth. The Warlord rolled through the dirt, dodging a power sword and bolt fire, and drove his blade upward, severing the "tin-can" nearly in two at the waist.
"Xenos! You shall pay in blood!" Witnessing their battle-brother's fall, the remaining two Astartes fell upon him with coordinated fury. Yet, bolstered by the unnatural strength of his warp-powered armor, the Skaven Warlord was faster. He slapped aside their blades and, with a lightning-fast riposte, pierced one heart and opened the throat of the other.
He had cut down three of the Emperor's finest in a blur of fur and steel. But before he could savor his escape, fifty sniper rounds from the surrounding rooftops turned him into a sieve.
With their leader dead, the Skaven lost all stomach for the fight. They scattered into the dark, scurrying back into the labyrinthine depths of the Hive. Within the urban sprawl of the Throneworld, a total purge would be a logistical nightmare.
Guilliman, however, remained unmoved by the tactical victory. His superhuman mind was already calculating, searching for the heart of this xenos infestation. He would find their nest, and he would excise it forever.
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