A dead silence descended upon the factory once more, with only Queek's heavy, ragged breathing echoing throughout the cavernous workshop.
He stood in the center of the mangled debris, the crimson light surrounding his body flickering erratically. The bloodlust in his eyes churned endlessly, and the final, lingering shred of his clarity was rapidly slipping away.
At the temporary command post outside the factory, Bishop Jansen's hand, which was gripping a set of rosary beads, suddenly clenched tight.
Without warning, a hairline crack split across the silver rose pendant in his palm—a relic bound directly to Sister Agnes's life force. A wisp of gray deathly energy seeped from the fracture, stinging the Bishop's skin.
"Agnes..." Bishop Jansen's voice sank, carrying a trace of deep grief.
He didn't need to ask to know that Squad Eight had met its end.
"Tenth Reserve Squad, breach Camp 8 immediately! Your objective is to destroy the core altar—at all costs!"
Making a decisive call, he spun around and barked orders to the reserves standing by behind him. This reserve squad, composed of one hundred and fifty elite Battle Sisters and veteran Iron Guards, was originally a trump card kept to handle sudden emergencies. Now, he had no choice but to play it early.
But it was already too late.
Just as Squad Ten rushed to the entrance of the factory, before they could even search for any signs of Squad Eight, a column of ghostly blue light erupted from the dome of Camp 8, piercing straight into the sky.
The beam punched through the factory roof and the thick layers of concrete, thrusting into the heavy night sky and desecrating the firmament of Brevis. The air surrounding the column began to warp, and visible ripples of Warp energy rippled outward, causing the streetlights even in the distance to flicker erratically.
Bishop Jansen's face paled considerably.
"Something's not right," Colonel William stood beside him, the veins on his hand gripping his boltgun bulging as he spoke with a forced composure. "The sacred number of the Great Enemy of Change is nine. Nine altars are required to construct a complete ritual array. We have already destroyed eight of them; with only the last one succeeding, it shouldn't be able to exert its full power, right?"
Bishop Jansen nodded in silence, his fingers furiously running through his rosary beads.
He was thinking the exact same thing in his heart.
Powerful rituals had always been highly demanding—demanding specific numbers, alignments, and sacrificial counts without exception. With eight of them broken, the great array should not have been able to amount to much. At most, it would trigger a localized Warp disturbance or summon a minor rift. Even if several waves of daemons poured out, they could still suppress it if they gritted their teeth.
"Let us hope so," he murmured softly, as if reassuring William, but more so to reassure himself.
However, this shred of wishful thinking did not last.
The first anomaly occurred at Camp 3, the factory furthest away from Camp 8.
The ground of the factory sector—which had long since been purified and should have been completely dead—suddenly began to tremble slightly. Immediately following that, Camp 5, Camp 2, and Camp 4 followed suit.
In the remaining seven factories, along with the other eight sectors where the altars had already been demolished, ghostly blue sorcerous runes simultaneously flared to life on the ground.
"What is going on?! Weren't the altars destroyed?!" William shouted in sheer shock.
Bishop Jansen's heart plummeted. A terrifying realization flashed into his mind, turning his entire body ice-cold.
No.
Could it be that this wasn't a "series" circuit, but a "parallel" one?!
The cunning Great Enemy had calculated from the very beginning that the nine altars might not all take effect simultaneously. Or rather, she never expected all nine altars to succeed.
What she wanted was for just a single altar to hold out until its completion, which would then trigger every single node!
The nine altars were not nine keys that all had to be gathered to unlock a seal; they were nine independent switches. Pressing any single one of them would activate the entire machine.
"She... successfully deceived us all," Bishop Jansen muttered to himself, his face stark white. "Destroying eight altars was completely useless. As long as one succeeded, it was enough."
Before his words even faded, Warp rifts tore open simultaneously within the core sectors of all nine factories.
These were not minor tears, but massive chasms several meters in diameter, resembling nine gaping maws generating a terrifying vacuum.
Everything that could still move within the factories—warped corpses, surviving mutants, and the remains of cultists who hadn't evacuated in time—including formless souls, was seized by an invisible force and pulled headlong into the rifts.
The corpses of the Chaos cultists who had just been slain by the purification squads, the charred remains of the aberrants, and even the bodies of the fallen Imperial soldiers were all sucked into the rifts. Souls and flesh were ground together, transforming into the purest Warp nourishment, pouring directly into the subterranean ritual network.
At the same time, the earth beneath the nine factories began to heave violently, as if some colossal creature were squirming underground. Thick, blood-vessel-like organic tissue burst forth from the rock layers, their dark-red outer walls throbbing as they spread outward like plant roots.
These vascular structures varied in thickness; the thickest rivaled macro-cannon barrels, while the thinnest were the size of a human arm. Piercing through concrete and boring through underground pipe networks, they carried the siphoned nutrients and converged toward the central zone enclosed by the nine factories.
The nine main root systems met underground at the central point, intertwining, fusing, and swelling frantically.
The ground surged and rolled like waves, throwing dirt and gravel in all directions. Within a few short minutes, a massive fleshy tumor nearly a hundred meters in diameter burst from the soil, growing until it stood ten stories high before finally stopping.
The tumor was a dull purple, its surface covered in bulging veins and pustules, contracting and expanding with a steady pulse like a beating giant heart. Viscous fluids dripped down its surface and onto the ground, releasing a foul, rancid stench.
"Fire! All units, open fire!" Colonel William roared his commands.
The Iron Guard heavy artillery emplacements, which had long been in position, erupted into a collective roar.
High-explosive shells, incendiary rounds, and purifying munitions pelted the massive tumor like rain. The explosions merged into a solid wall of fire, and the towering plumes of smoke nearly blotted out the night sky.
The Ecclesiarchy priests chanted their purifying prayers in unison, coating the rounds fired within the sector with a layer of golden light. Upon impact, they ignited patches of holy golden flame across the tumor's skin.
But it was useless.
The shockwaves of the detonations could only blow apart the outer flesh of the tumor; in the very next second, newly sprouted flesh buds would surge forth wildly, repairing the wounds at a speed ten times faster than the destruction. The areas scorched by the golden flames sizzled and emitted black smoke, but instead of shrinking, the tumor swelled even faster as if stimulated by the heat.
Conventional firepower could not stop it at all.
Bishop Jansen closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, only absolute resolve remained.
He raised his hand and connected to the encrypted communication channel of the Governor's Mansion, his voice steady yet carrying a trace of urgency:
"Madame Isude, the ritual at Conscription Camp 8 has spiraled out of control. A colossal flesh aberrant has formed, and conventional firepower and purification methods are ineffective."
"We require orbital strike support!"
On the other end of the line, Isude did not hesitate: "Approved."
"I have already contacted the Brevis Expeditionary Fleet. Brigadier General Griffith's warship has adjusted its orbital parameters."
"The lance arrays require time to charge. They will strike the target coordinates in thirty seconds."
The main Nurgle fleet in the space battle had already collapsed, and the remaining vessels were being hunted down. The orbital firepower could finally be spared to support the surface.
Thirty seconds was short, yet it felt as long as an entire century.
Everyone stared up at the night sky, waiting for that ray of judgment capable of purifying all things.
Just seconds before the lance strike was scheduled to impact, a sudden mutation erupted.
From the directions of the rifts at the nine factories, nine multicolored, translucent ribbons of energy rose simultaneously. Like glowing rivers, these ribbons converged toward the massive tumor in the center.
Bishop Jansen saw it clearly: within those ribbons churned countless fragments of light. Every single speck of glimmer was a swallowed soul. There were souls of civilians, of soldiers, of Chaos cultists, and the lingering remnants of aberrants.
Tens of thousands of souls were refined, compressed, and transformed into the most pristine Warp energy, poured entirely into the core of the tumor.
This was the true purpose of the ritual. Every single life within the nine factories had been a sacrificial offering from the very beginning. Whether they resisted or submitted, lived or died, they were all merely nourishment prepared for this tumor.
Siphoning the souls, the tumor instantly bloated, nearly doubling in volume. The blood vessels on its surface flared with an eerie, chaotic light, and the screams of thousands of souls echoed in agony, creating a warped and terrifying energetic fluctuation.
Right then, the golden orbital lance pierced the night sky. Carrying a world-ending force, it struck directly atop the tumor with pinpoint accuracy.
Everyone held their breath.
But the expected earth-shattering detonation did not happen.
The outermost membrane of the tumor suddenly peeled back like a budding flower. Layers of fleshy petals unfurled outward, revealing the bottomless core in the center. An invisible wave of energy radiated from the heart of the flower, forming an unseen barrier that halted the lance strike—an attack capable of melting through entire mountain ranges—dead in its tracks.
Time seemed to stand still.
The brilliant blue, high-energy beam hovered above the flower of flesh, dissolving inch by inch like snow meeting a raging furnace. The vast energy was siphoned and neutralized by the fleshy flower, with not even a single shred of shockwave spilling outward.
In just a few seconds, the orbital lance capable of destroying an Imperial Titan disappeared without a trace, as if it had never existed.
Immediately following, an even stronger energy wave swept out from the flesh flower.
Centering on the tumor, a zone spanning several kilometers was dragged into a bizarre domain. The surrounding factories and chimneys vanished, replaced by a vast, shifting backdrop of stars. The pitch-black firmament was dotted with twisted constellations, and nine massive vortex rifts were distributed evenly along the boundaries of the domain, resembling nine eyes staring directly into reality.
The conventional artillery, the holy flames, and all other incoming attacks struck the edge of the domain only to vanish like stones thrown into a deep sea, unable to stir even a single ripple. This Warp domain acted like an independent pocket-dimension, completely severing all connection between the inside and the outside.
Bishop Jansen took a step back, his hand holding his staff trembling slightly.
He knew that things had completely spun out of control.
Amidst the collective shock of the forces, the core rift deep within the colossal flesh flower slowly expanded.
A towering figure strode out from the rift.
He was clad in power armor shimmering with a ghostly blue luster, the plating carved with twisted runes of the Changer of Ways. The armor was primarily blue, accented with gold. The beetle-like horns atop his helmet pierced the void, and an ethereal aura of sorcery hovered around his frame.
At the sides of his power pack were decorative extensions resembling staves, and the gaze beneath his helmet was hollow and vacant—or rather, no trace of a gaze could be felt at all.
Bishop Jansen stared dead at the figure, his throat tightening. His extensive knowledge of Imperial history allowed him to recognize the entity almost instantly:
"A Thousand Sons."
It was a derogatory name, an Imperial slur used to refer to the traitorous Thousand Sons Legion that served the Great Enemy of Change.
Yet, no Imperial commander ever wished to face these traitors directly.
The surrounding Iron Guard soldiers and Battle Sisters clearly had not yet registered the weight of this name. But as the most senior member of the clergy in the Mid-City Diocese, Jansen knew exactly what this faction represented.
This was the XV Legion that had betrayed the Emperor during the Horus Heresy, the sorcerer legion under Magnus the Red, and one of the most dangerous entries in the Heresy Archives of the Departmento Munitorum.
But that was where their knowledge ended.
The Imperium's understanding of this traitor legion was pitifully scarce. Since their betrayal, the Thousand Sons had remained hidden deep within the Warp, rarely appearing on conventional frontlines. They behaved more like conspirators behind a curtain, weaving destinies and manipulating reality to topple entire worlds with devious sorcery and deep-set schemes, never deigning to charge forward with chainaxes like the warbands of Khorne.
Regarding their internal structure, the forbidden spells they wielded, or the sources of their power and weaknesses, most archives contained nothing more than a few fragmented, vague sentences. Even an old bishop like Jansen, who dealt with the Great Enemy of Chaos year-round, possessed very little actionable information.
However, he knew that the core of this legion was their sorcerers.
Countless brutal engagements had proven the exact same thing: the combat capability of any Thousand Sons unit relied entirely on the Chaos Sorcerer commanding them. If the lead sorcerer could be slain, the warriors under their command would suffer a catastrophic drop in combat efficiency, or even grind to a complete halt.
As for the deeper secrets—such as the rumored Rubric spell that had completely stripped the physical flesh from the legion, or the nine distinct cults they had splintered into based on Tzeentch's nine unique aspects—the Imperial high command knew nothing, and Jansen had never laid eyes on any related dossiers.
"All units, attention," Bishop Jansen's voice crackled through the tactical vox-comms of every soldier, simultaneously transmitting to Isude's receiver at the Governor's Mansion.
"The enemy is a Chaos Space Marine of the Thousand Sons, belonging to the traitorous XV Legion. Their core combat units are Chaos Sorcerers."
"Primary tactical objective of the highest priority: Eliminate the enemy sorcerer units."
"Once the sorcerers fall, the enemy's overall combat capability will suffer a steep drop."
His voice was steady and resolute, showing no trace of panic, but only the palm pressed tightly against his staff knew that he was already drenched in cold sweat.
The Thousand Sons had personally entered the fray.
This was no ordinary Chaos cultist rebellion. The sorcerer legion, which had historically pulled the strings from behind the veil, had now cast aside its disguise to step directly into realspace. This meant that Brevis's value far exceeded any of their estimations.
The severity of the situation had breached the boundaries of a localized uprising, escalating to a level that could shake the survival of the entire system.
"Colonel William," Jansen turned his head, looking toward the grim-faced Iron Guard commander beside him.
"Order all perimeter garrison units to contract inward immediately. Construct three defensive lines relying on the streets."
"Notify all parishes in the Mid-City. Place all clergy on high alert. Deploy every holy relic and sacred oil we have. Mobilize every available combat asset."
He paused, casting his gaze back toward the area swallowed by the Warp domain, his tone quiet but absolute:
"I will lead the Battle Priests and Sisters to hold the absolute front line."
"We will make our stand here, buying as much time as we can."
"We must secure enough time for the Governor's Mansion, the Noble Council, and the entirety of Brevis to establish a system-wide defense."
Colonel William shuddered, snapping his head around to look at the Bishop.
Hold here?
The enemy was the Thousand Sons, backed by a Warp domain capable of neutralizing an orbital lance strike, and an endless army of Chaos. Staying on the front line was no different from a suicide mission.
Yet, looking at the graying hair at Bishop Jansen's temples and the unyielding determination in his eyes, the urge to protest died in his throat.
He knew that the Mid-City was the industrial heart of Brevis, housing tens of millions of souls. If this breach was torn open and the Chaos forces spilled into the streets, the entire Mid-City would turn into a slaughterhouse within hours.
If they retreated a single step, hundreds of millions of innocent civilians behind them would pay the price.
"Understood," Colonel William took a deep breath, striking his fist against his breastplate, his voice hoarse but echoing with conviction.
"The Sixth Iron Guard Regiment will stand its ground."
"We live or die with this position!"
As the order was relayed, not a single tremor of panic rippled through the defensive lines. The Iron Guard soldiers setting up the heavy artillery did not stop their movements, and the Battle Sisters checking their boltguns silently loaded the last purifying rounds into their magazines.
The voices of the priests chanting their prayers grew even louder.
No one asked "Will we survive?", nor did anyone complain about the brutality of the orders.
They were the Emperor's warriors, the shield of Brevis.
Behind them lay their homes, and there was nowhere left to run.