Core Sector Entrance, the Frontline.
The deafening roar of bolter fire shook the deck plates.
Fulgrim stood dead center in the corridor. The Laer Blade danced in his grip, its pinkish-purple glow leaving trails of light that reaped the lives of multiple Diasporex troopers with every swing.
But the xenos just kept coming. Like an endless swarm, they surged from cover, throwing their very bodies into the grinder to bog down the assault.
At the far end of the hallway stood a massive, completely locked-down blast door.
The defensive fortifications erected in front of it were locked down tight as a drum.
Hundreds of automated turrets lined the walls, spitting unyielding torrents of fire, while energy shield generators pulsed with a sickly yellow hue behind the barricades.
The rate of fire from the turrets was insane, weaving an airtight net of lethal energy beams.
This was The Diasporex's final stand.
Punch through this wall, and it was a straight shot to the bridge.
But right now, this meat grinder had the Emperor's Children dead in their tracks.
"Dammit!"
Kaesoron roared over the vox as elite legionaries of the First Company continually dropped under the withering barrage.
Ceramide plating could eat a stray plasma bolt or two, but it stood zero chance against this level of saturated suppressive fire.
Fulgrim's expression darkened, turning terrifyingly grim.
He white-knuckled the Laer Blade, the pinkish-purple energy pulsing violently across its surface.
The primal urge to dive blindly into the fire and butcher everything in sight threatened to shred his absolute self-control, but...
He was a Primarch.
The embodiment of perfection.
He wasn't going to die here.
Just then, a synchronized, earth-shaking rhythm of heavy footsteps echoed from behind him.
Fulgrim snapped his head around.
Silver-grey Gorgon Terminator armor. The Iron Hands legion badge emblazoned on the left pauldron, the Roman numeral 'I' etched onto the right.
Gabriel Santar.
Behind him marched over three hundred elite Iron Hands veterans, flanked by the unyielding, iron-hard scowl of Fourth Company Captain Karon Santos.
Fulgrim froze.
Kaesoron froze.
Lucius's bald head gleamed with the reflection of cannon fire, his eyes wide in utter shock.
Saul Tarvitz and Vespasian exchanged a glance, a spark of genuine relief flashing in their eyes.
Gabriel strode up to Fulgrim, slammed his right fist against his breastplate, and snapped a textbook Imperial Aquila salute.
"Lord Fulgrim."
His voice was as cold and hard as forged iron.
"My father sent me to assist you in storming the The Diasporex flagship."
Fulgrim stared at him, looking at the very man who had once dueled Lucius.
The figure who had been knocked back by the raw power erupting from the blade, his Terminator armor cracked and battered, yet still standing tall.
The warrior who, back in the Laeran Temple, had tried twice to stop him from taking up this very sword.
"Right on time."
Fulgrim nodded, a slight smirk curling his lips.
"We happen to be in desperate need of your heavy firepower."
He pointed toward the impregnable fortress wall at the end of the hall.
"Let us obliterate that defensive line together!"
Gabriel followed his gaze.
Automated turrets, energy shields, a devastatingly thick web of crossfire...
A cold, metallic gleam flashed in the depths of his eyes.
"Understood."
He turned back, squaring up with the silver-grey tide of over three hundred Astartes, and locked eyes with Karon Santos leading the formation.
"Captain Karon."
His bark shattered the silence over the Iron Hands vox-net:
"All heavy fire support elements, prep for combat."
"Melta cannons, plasma cannons, heavy bolters..."
"Mount up and lock 'em in!"
Over three hundred silver-grey figures snapped into motion simultaneously.
Their movements were perfectly synchronized, operating with the terrifying efficiency of a pure war machine.
Melta barrels began to hum and pre-heat, plasma reactor readouts spiked to the red line, and heavy bolter ammo feeds clacked into place with sharp, mechanical precision.
Karon Santos stepped up beside Gabriel, his stony face devoid of any emotion.
"First volley, crack their shields," he ordered.
His voice was dead calm, dripping with that cold, unfeeling edge unique to the Iron Hands.
"Second volley, wipe the turrets."
"Third volley..."
He paused, his gaze boring straight through the enemy fortifications to the massive blast doors sealing the core sector.
"Clear a straight path to the bridge for Lord Fulgrim."
Listening to the brutal efficiency of those words, the smirk on Fulgrim's face only grew deeper.
He tightened his grip on the Laer Blade, his eyes—now faintly glowing with a pinkish-purple light—fixed on the sealed blast doors at the end of the corridor.
Ferrus... he silently repeated the name in his mind. You really are my brother.
I swear, I will bring you along on this path to perfection.
Meanwhile, hidden in the shadows three hundred meters away.
[All According to Plan] peered through his scope, taking in the scene with a deep frown.
"Just as I thought..." he muttered over the Chaos faction comms. "Our involvement really did butterfly-effect the timeline."
"Gabriel was supposed to be chilling with the Iron Hands fleet right now, but here he is, boarding the Diasporex flagship."
Beside him, over three hundred Chaos players waited in dead silence, weapons locked and loaded.
[Konnichiwa Slaanesh-chan]'s voice crackled over the radio: "So, are the five hundred of us over here still waiting, or what?"
[Blue Pigeon Knows Nothing] chimed in immediately after: "The Loyalist tryhards haven't shown up yet. Hold the line."
[All According to Plan] nodded, his gaze tracking Gabriel's silver-grey armor through the crosshairs.
Interesting, he thought.
--
Farther away, in another sector completely cut off by the raging firefights. Hangar Bay H-7, on the opposite side of the ship.
Solomon Demeter stood before a heavy bulkhead door, the barrel of his bolter still smoking.
The Captain of the Emperor's Children Second Company was currently leading his own men in a completely separate meat grinder.
His power armor was splattered with glowing green xenos blood, his chiseled face carved from stone, entirely devoid of emotion.
He looked deep down the corridor toward the muffled sound of explosions.
That was the core combat zone. Where his gene-father was fighting.
But he didn't head that way. Because his orders were strictly to purge this sector of all stragglers. Nothing more, nothing less.
Solomon furrowed his brow slightly.
He couldn't shake the feeling that his father was acting... strange today.
But he pushed the thought aside as quickly as it came.
He turned around, looking at his battle-brothers who were busy securing the area.
"Keep moving," his voice was calm and unwavering. "We scrub this zone, then we rendezvous with the Primarch."
Over three hundred Emperor's Children moved out on command, a purple tide surging further down the corridor.