Swiftly, the Astartes began distributing the wargear according to their individual combat specialties.
Those excelling in close-quarters combat and swordsmanship encased themselves in Artificer power armor. Those who prided themselves on suppressive fire and marksmanship donned the Tartaros-pattern Terminator plate. Those whose physical vessels were severely maid—functionally reduced to limbless torsos—were carefully dragged by their forr battle-brothers and interred within the cold sarcophagi of the Dreadnoughts.
Once they were fully clad in their respective armors, Rowan stepped before the formation. Lowering the Ceremonial Sword of Solomon, he violently plunged the blade into the deck.
In an instant, a raging torrent of golden flas erupted, entirely engulfing every single Astartes present.
The intense, divine light and heat ticulously incinerated the corrupted physical bodies trapped within the armor, reducing their mutated flesh and bone to drifting ash. Released from their agonizingly desecrated vessels, their souls flawlessly bound themselves to the cold ceramite and adamantium of the power armor, fusing into singular, unified entities.
Indeed, Rowan's inspiration was drawn directly from the Rubric Marines of the Thousand Sons.
Since their physical bodies were riddled with the ravages of chaotic sorcery, they remained highly susceptible to re-corruption even after receiving the Emperor's purification. The most absolute solution was to strip away the flesh entirely, anchoring their souls to the unfeeling power armor to permanently eradicate this vulnerability.
Furthermore, under the continuous influence of his reality-bending dominion, every micro-fracture and battle scar upon their armor would be instantaneously repaired. They had effectively been forged into an immortal vanguard of the dead.
As a supplentary asure, Rowan deliberately siphoned a substantial margin of reality intensity from the Ceremonial Sword of Solomon, grafting a sliver of it onto every warrior within this newly forged Astartes company.
Although the distributed intensity was barely enough to elevate them to the threshold of Primary-grade reality architects, it functioned perfectly as an ontological tether. Any hostile soul harvested by their blades or bolters would be registered as Rowan's personal kill, smoothly devoured by his reality intensity to fuel his ascension.
"Done!"
This localized reality manipulation inflicted a palpable toll, prompting Rowan to exhale a long breath.
This was undeniably an exceptional augntation to the kill-team's overall combat efficacy.
Should they encounter an endlessly swarming horde, even if his elite retainers could eventually carve a path through, the stamina drain would be imnse. Possessing a dedicated line-infantry formation to absorb the brunt of the assault would alleviate that burden astronomically.
Rowan turned to his three retainers. "Now then, let us deliberate on our next objective. Moving forward, we must systematically reinforce Imperial warzones. Given the extre difficulty of acquiring 'Authority', I must prioritize fulfilling the soul quota by exterminating as many enemies of the Imperium as possible."
The three nodded in unanimous understanding.
Following a brief tactical exchange, the group quickly reached a consensus:
Since the strike cruiser was now strictly limited to intra-system transit, they would simply resu the objective that had been violently interrupted by the Chaos warband's ambush.
They would deploy to the sole Imperial world within this local system to reinforce the Astra Militarum and suppress the Greenskin Ork invasion.
Given the inherent nature of the Ork species, their sheer volu and ferocity would undoubtedly provide Rowan with a highly lucrative harvest of souls.
As for the potential tactical friction regarding friend-or-foe identification, or whether their sudden insertion into the warzone would trigger friendly fire...
Rowan silently swept his gaze across his retinue.
An Adeptus Custodes, an Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus, and a Living Saint.
They were absolutely not the ones who needed to prove their allegiance to the Imperium. It was the local forces who would need to prove their loyalty to them!
His resolve set, Rowan engaged his will.
The purified machine spirit of the strike cruiser let out a roar of exalted triumph. The massive plasma thrusters flared in perfect unison, spewing long trails of incandescent exhaust as the mighty vessel accelerated toward the sole Imperial world in the system.
...
The World of Valos.
Upon a vast, sprawling plain.
Deep within a dimly lit, heavily reinforced artillery bunker, several Astra Militarum troopers, clad in heavy flak coats and rebreather masks, huddled in silence. They grimly weathered the ceaseless tremors vibrating through the earth above.
It was the deafening thunder of incoming artillery violently impacting their defensive earthworks.
"[Armageddon Expletive]!"
A man who appeared to be the squad's sergeant cursed viciously. "I've been fighting in the dirt for years, Burke! I've clashed with Greenskins more tis than I can count, and this is the first ti I've ever seen them lay down a bombardnt like this!"
"Stow it, Burke. You should be counting your blessings," countered a one-eyed, heavily scarred veteran sitting nearby. He cradled his long-las tightly against his chest; he was the squad's designated marksman. "If the Old Hound hadn't ordered a tactical redeploynt, we wouldn't even have the luxury of hiding in this bunker. We'd have been blown to bloody ash by that Ork artillery by now."
"Yeah, yeah, fine..."
Burke grumbled impatiently. "But when in the Throne's na does it end? Those xenos bastards have heavier fire support than our own batteries! Can't a man vent a little?"
Just as the words left his mouth, the apocalyptic thunder of the artillery barrage abruptly ceased.
The Guardsn stiffened simultaneously. "The guns stopped!"
Burke tilted his head, straining his ears. A sharp, piercing whistle echoed down the trench line—the absolute signal to man the firing steps and prepare to repel a ground assault.
As for why they were relying on such archaic communication thods... it was because their vox-casters had been rendered functionally useless the mont they engaged this bizarre breed of Greenskins.
The vox channels were completely saturated with either deafening electronic static or the maddening, roaring laughter of the Orks, making it impossible to transmit coherent tactical data.
Emperor's lungs, it's a damned ghost story! Orks actively utilizing electronic warfare?!
"Move! Everyone on the line, now!"
Without a second of hesitation, the squad surged out of the bunker, rushing through the communication trenches to their assigned firing positions.
What awaited them over the parapet was a sight that would be permanently burned into their retinas: a terrifying tableau of chanized death slowly unfolding across the battlefield.
On the horizon, a massive armada of Ork Trukks and looted battle tanks thundered forward. They rolled across the blasted earth with a slow, suffocating, thodical pressure.
The layered defensive counterasures deployed by the Astra Militarum—anti-tank mines, dragon's teeth, razor wire—were effortlessly crushed beneath their heavy treads.
But what was infinitely more horrifying was the infantry.
A massive horde of Greenskins, clad in shocking approximations of standardized military uniforms, was advancing with a level of disciplined infantry-tank coordination that would make the Armageddon Steel Legion burn with envy. Using the armored vehicles as rolling cover, they leapfrogged forward, laying down perfectly synchronized, suppressive volleys that relentlessly battered the Imperial trench lines.
"Throne above... are these truly Greenskin Orks?"
Soone nearby murmured in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
"Open fire! Light them up!"
Burke roared, his Hellgun spitting blinding rays of superheated energy. This high-penetration weaponry, capable of lting through Astartes ceramite at extre ranges, was nonetheless woefully inadequate against heavy armor. He could only focus his fire to cut down the infantry attempting to bound between the tanks.
From the concealed pillboxes flanking the trench line, heavy anti-tank emplacents roared to life. Armor-piercing shells shrieked across the no-man's land, scoring direct, explosive hits on the enemy vehicles.
One Trukk ground to a flaming halt. Then another.
Yet, even while sustaining horrifying casualties, the Orks maintained their terrifying discipline. They seamlessly filled the gaps in their formation, completely ignoring their dead as they thodically ground their way toward the Imperial lines.
"For the Emperor!"
It was unclear who scread the litany first, but the battle cry instantly cascaded down the trench line. Bloodshot and fueled by sheer adrenaline, the Guardsn gripped their weapons tight, laying down a torrential hail of las-fire to et the impending slaughter.
However, an anomaly abruptly interrupted the grim reality.
The bright daylight illuminating the battlefield was suddenly eclipsed by sothing massive, casting a colossal, suffocating shadow that swallowed the entire warzone.
The desperate firefight organically died down as countless Guardsn instinctively tilted their heads upward in bewildernt.
Rapidly, a blinding light of pure hope ignited within their eyes.
"It's an Imperial voidship! We're saved!"
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