A figure draped in black hovered in midair, looking down upon the planetary surface below.
The Tyranids were engaged in a ferocious battle with the Blood Angels and mortal garrison forces who were stubbornly holding out on this moon.
Scattered Imperial fleet elements were still mounting suicidal runs against the Tyranid bio-ships without a shred of fear. Yet despite their efforts, the tactical tide of the battlefield was inexorably tilting toward the Tyranid swarms.
Beyond the ongoing engagement, however, one specific anomaly caught the black-robed figure off guard.
She turned her gaze toward the nearby worlds of Baal and Baal Secundus.
Upon Baal Secundus, Famine—an entity that had gestated alongside her—was locked in a brutal clash with Angron. Even if Famine possessed no absolute mechanism to permanently liquidate that Daemon Primarch, it could easily pin down the enemy until the Tyranid macro-swarm secured total victory.
What was transpiring on the surface of Baal itself?
Why had the psychic signature of the Great Devastator suddenly erupted with such intense fury and turbulence? Over these long eons, they had cultivated numerous human-like emotions through their bond of love, but much of it had functioned like a mere roleplay.
Within the vast, infinite volume of the Tyranid hive, no small number of bio-entities harbored a physiological distaste for such expressions.
Yet the reaction the Great Devastator had just manifested was deeply abnormal.
Death-Yuno's brow furrowed. Suddenly, a colossal roar echoed across almost the entire surface of the planet.
She cast her optics downward. Great torrents of warp-fire erupted from the earth as a massive Khornate daemonic cohort breached realspace, led by none other than the exalted Bloodthirster, Ka'Bandha.
"Tch."
Death-Yuno immediately cast aside her analytical musings. This was no time to ponder the abstract nature of her existence or the philosophical truth of the swarm.
The sole imperative that mattered now was securing total victory in this war!
Taking a deep breath, she shed her black cloak, exposing a chassis reinforced with exposed skeletal structures—resembling a piece of hyper-precise machinery.
As Death-Yuno hurled herself directly toward Ka'Bandha, the battle across Baal Primus descended into absolute, unmitigated white heat.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Hope stared at the combat reports relayed from the front lines, her mind reeling in absolute shock.
"What is the deal with those xenos? Was the homeworld of the Blood Angels built atop the slumbering grounds of these vile entities? If not, why in the Emperor's name have they materialized out of nowhere to fight off the Tyranids?"
Hope's fury almost eclipsed the majestic aura of the Imperial hero who had stood for a millennium.
Confronted with the furious voice crackling through the vox, Dante knew he could not, under any circumstances, admit that he had entered into a de facto temporary alliance with the Silent King.
"It is likely an internal conflict between the Tyranids and the Necrons," Dante offered flatly. "As you know, xenos will readily turn on one another. Even those immortal, mechanical abominations harbor no love for the Tyranid swarms."
Hope refused to accept such an explanation.
"Do not mock my intelligence! Have we truly grown so pathetic and weak that we require a mechanical monster to save us? Are our own forces so depleted that we can no longer defend our own soil?"
"I take no pleasure in stating this truth, Living Saint, but that is the reality of our situation. We cannot defeat the Tyranids by conventional means. I would never utter these words to anyone else, but you are different."
Dante's voice carried a heavy, solemn weight. "You are the rare soul who can maintain absolute combat effectiveness even when victory seems utterly impossible. But not everyone possesses that fortitude. Even the Astartes find themselves overwhelmed when facing a threat vector of this scale."
"Hear me, Living Saint: a conventional victory is no longer within our grasp. We can only measure our success by how many of the enemy we drag into the abyss with us. In truth, we are already dead men. Beyond cutting down as many Tyranids as humanly possible, there is nothing else left for us to calculate."
Hope's grip tightened on the edge of the metallic strategium table. A sharp crack echoed through the chamber as her bare hands sheared clean through the heavy iron frame.
"Dante, I respect you, and you hold supreme command over this theater. But the Emperor Himself has decreed that my life ends here, and I will never allow my martyrdom to be tainted by such a compromise."
She severed the vox connection in a flash of anger.
Turning to her honor guard, who stood fully prepared to die alongside her, Hope commanded flatly, "Follow the Emperor's Angels and fall back to the Arx Angelicum. Prepare for the final stand."
"Wait, My Lady!" an Adepta Sororitas interjected. "You just implied you intend to return to the Golden Throne... Are you planning to face the end alone and abandon us?"
Hope fell silent for a moment.
Was she truly a saint? As the years bled together, her certainty regarding that question had steadily eroded.
Everyone declared that she was a Living Saint, a vessel for the divine will of the God-Emperor, yet she felt less like one with each passing day.
Even now... if Baal survived and the survivor's record attributed it to the Emperor's divine will, would that not imply these xenos abominations were also instruments of His design? That was fundamentally impossible. The God-Emperor was omniscient and omnipotent—why would He subject humanity to such a twisted galaxy?
Was this a test?
If so, why shouldn't she be bold enough to test the God-Emperor in return?
"Forgive me, but my resolve is absolute. I must verify my faith. You are still young; you can reach the Arx Angelicum, take up heavier weapons, and purge more of these hateful xenos."
Hope felt the internal tremor within her soul. Ah, God-Emperor, is this doubt also part of Your grand design?
"I will march into the fray with you!"
"This is the Emperor's decree!" Hope declared softly.
With those words, no one could raise an objection. Who could presume to translate the Emperor's divine will better than a Living Saint?
She took up her power sword and bolter.
Clad in standard Battle Sister armor, just as she had been in the beginning.
"Canoness!"
"Living Saint!"
She leapt from the outer ramparts of the keep, landing with absolute stability upon the earth below.
Facing the infinite, surging waves of the Tyranid swarms, Hope offered only two quiet words: "Come then!"
God-Emperor, am I truly your child?
Was I ever chosen?
Why... why have you subjected me to this path?
Did I truly die on that day long ago? Am I merely an empty shell carrying Your divine will?
Ah, God-Emperor... I praise You.
I love You—
Tyranids, the Imperium of Man, Chaos, and the Necrons—so many massive factions converging simultaneously within this singular, tiny system. Observing the carnage from afar, an Aeldari Farseer let out a soft sigh. "This has truly devolved into complete chaos."
"Chaos is the natural order of things," a Harlequin replied smoothly.
"The more chaotic the theater, the louder the Laughing God laughs; the more chaotic the world, the more exquisite the performance."
"Should we not intervene in some capacity?"
"And what precisely could we achieve?" the Harlequin countered.
A few hundred meters away, a dozen Harlequins and a larger contingent of Farseers were desperately fighting off an encroaching wave of Tyranids.
"We would require at least two Craftworlds committing their full strength to even marginally influence a war of this scale—and we would have to prepare to write off at least one of them entirely. Do you truly believe the Craftworld Aeldari can endure a loss of that magnitude today?"
The Farseers fell silent.
"Come now, don't go quiet on me. Tell us what your foresight reveals! Speak it aloud so we and the Laughing God might share in the humor."
"We see nothing at all."
"..."
"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"