This is impossible!
Looking at that torrent of firepower surging and blooming like a river of death, every Chaos officer witnessing this scene felt their brain buzz as if scorched by high heat, falling into a state of total chaos.
Outside the observation windows of the bridge, the void was no longer dark.
The river of light ford by the Imperial attack spanned the horizon, tearing the eternal curtain of night into fragnts. Those rivers of light rushed, roared, and tumbled in the void. These Imperial weapons were now like awakened dragons, baring their sharpest fangs at the heretical traitors of humanity!
It cannot be resisted!
This thought was branded into the mind of every Chaos officer. The gap in quality and quantity between the two fleets was so vast it defied common sense—an unbridgeable chasm. Faced with this absolute crushing weight of numbers and quality, all tactics, experience, and so-called Chaos blessings beca aningless.
Even the Chaos cultists, deluded by dark gods and half-mad from worship, could clearly sense this desperate disparity.
Vengeful Spirit, Bridge.
"We must maneuver to evade imdiately!"
Erebus's voice exploded in the bridge with a sharp sense of urgency. He turned abruptly, his eyes—corrupted by Chaos into a strange purple—staring fixedly at the man beside him with no room for negotiation.
The man he stared at was Abaddon.
The Warmaster of Chaos stood on the command dais, dark power boiling within him. His chest heaved violently, each breath accompanied by a low growl. Clearly, he had not recovered from his previous setback. Or rather, he was unwilling to.
"Charge."
Abaddon squeezed these words from between his teeth.
"I said, the whole ship charges!"
His face was filled with impotent rage—a mixture of humiliation, anger, and resentnt.
Damn it, are you mad?
Erebus cursed silently. He was a veteran Astartes who had followed Lorgar from the Great Crusade through the Great Heresy, seeing the entire war through. He knew the dangers of fleet combat perfectly well. In this situation, charging mindlessly was pure suicide.
Never mind boarding actions or ramming tactics; they would likely be ground into cosmic dust before even touching the enemy's defensive periter. The point-defense fire of a Gloriana-class battleship was sufficient to intercept any boarding torpedo before it reached a dangerous distance.
Incidentally, it made no difference if the na of that boarding torpedo was the Vengeful Spirit.
"Don't stop , you damned traitor!"
Abaddon turned his head sharply, his eyes as fierce as a beast's. His gaze held an affronted fury, as if Erebus's warning was a challenge to his authority and an insult to his courage.
"Are you questioning my resolve?"
His voice grew louder, reaching a roar.
"I said bring the ship closer! All of that is fake—Imperial deception tactics! Charge through, and their sorcerous tricks will collapse on their own!"
Erebus was near a breaking point. He knew Abaddon should not be like this. During the Great Crusade, while not the top commander, Abaddon possessed the judgnt and calm expected of an elite Astartes officer. He knew when to attack, when to retreat, and when to preserve strength.
But now—
Ever since being struck by that sword, Chaos power had taken root and sprouted within him. It gave Abaddon greater strength but slowly consud his reason, making him volatile and prone to rage. That power was like a chronic poison, enhancing his physical form while eroding his ability to judge and maintain the calm of a commander.
Once, Erebus thought Abaddon would be his most perfect masterpiece. Now, he looked like an out-of-control madman.
Erebus gritted his teeth, a sharp glint in his eyes. Fortunately, he was prepared. He would never leave such an important operation without a contingency.
A faint, imperceptible light flashed in Abaddon's eyes. The light was extrely weak, hidden within his blood-red pupils and nearly impossible to detect. But its existence acted like a switch, causing Abaddon to halt abruptly.
He seed to sober up. He blinked vacantly, appearing confused as to why he had spoken those words. The impulse driven by fury receded like a tide, replaced by a chaotic and inexplicable hollow feeling.
In the next second, Abaddon imdiately changed his tone.
"Wait, no..."
His voice beca dry, as if every word was squeezed with difficulty from the depths of his throat.
"We must respond. First, we have to escape the enemy's range of fire!"
Everyone on the bridge breathed a sigh of relief. The Chaos crew mbers had almost suffocated—they had heard clearly that their Warmaster intended to lead the Vengeful Spirit on a charge into a network of fire from six thousand Gloriana-class battleships. What was the difference between that order and collective suicide?
With the correct command issued, the entire Chaos fleet reacted instantly. The massive warships began to turn, thick plasma trails pouring from their thruster nozzles, carving arc-like paths through the void.
The entire fleet began to turn in the void in a posture of passive evasion.
Abaddon, having regained his composure, also made the most correct decision at this mont.
What kind of joke was this?
His gaze passed through the observation window, looking at the six thousand Gloriana-class battleships spitting fire, and a sense of indescribable absurdity rose in his heart.
against six thousand Prides of Macragge? For real? Could I win? No, it's a guaranteed death!
Abaddon was never a fool, at least not when he was sober. He never forgot why he ca here. Since the fleet battle could not be won, the only thing to do now was to hurl all his power onto that planet nad Pythos.
The whispers of Chaos echoed in his ears, telling him the most correct course of action. Once on Pythos, Abaddon would imdiately use a Chaos ritual to influence the entire planet, sealing off large-scale orbital bombardnt to a certain extent.
Then, the Chaos Warmaster would move the battle from the void to the ground—into the jungles, mountains, and ruins of the planet's surface. There, the firepower advantage of the Gloriana-class battleships would be greatly weakened, while the individual prowess of the Chaos Space Marines would be maximized. Only then would there be a glimr of hope.
However, a plan was just a plan. Would things really go so smoothly?
In the vast void, the distance between the two sides had to be calculated in true astronomical units. Even if those shells traveled at the speed of light, it would take a significant amount of ti to cross that distance and strike the target.
By common logic, bombardnt at such a distance should lack any precision. Physical shells might be one thing, but energy weapons like lance batteries and laser macro-cannons would inevitably suffer from power decay after crossing such an imnse distance.
However, the current situation clearly defied common sense. For six thousand Gloriana-class battleships, was so-called "common sense" rely an inconvenient obstacle?
Those shells trailed plus of fire through the void. Their numbers were so great that from the direction of the Chaos fleet, it looked like a teor shower falling upward. Light rose from the Imperial side and surged toward them with unstoppable montum.
Soon, brilliant light blood in the void—the sight of void shields being struck. The shields of the Chaos warships struggled to hold under the bombardnt, their surfaces rippling with purple waves as if emitting a piercing wail.
Then, like soap bubbles, they burst.
Fragnts of void shields scattered, those purple energy remnants reflecting the light of the battlefield with a strange sense of beauty. Unfortunately, at this mont, no Chaos follower had the heart to appreciate such beauty.
Because in the mont the void shields broke, the macro-cannon shells arrived. Huge physical shells carrying unimaginable kinetic energy slamd into the Chaos warships that had lost their protection!
Armor was as fragile as paper before them. The shells tore through the hulls easily, piercing multiple decks before exiting the other side of the vessel. The victims swelled for an instant upon impact and were imdiately snapped in two!
The terrifying energy shockwaves still overturned them entirely. Hulls and wreckage tumbled in the void, their superstructures continuously stripping away during the roll like an onion being peeled.
In just the first round of bombardnt, the Chaos fleet—which had previously been so self-assured and considered itself invincible—was instantly heavily damaged.
Escort losses were beyond count. Those small ships were like canoes in a hurricane within the fire-grid, shattered by the giant waves.
At the cruiser level, twenty-seven ships were sunk on the spot and forty-three were heavily damaged. They slowly disintegrated in the void, their keels blasted apart and hull fragnts flying in all directions, forming dangerous debris fields.
Three battleships were sunk imdiately. The remaining battleships were all damaged.
The Vengeful Spirit, which had received the most attention, was actually the least hard. Its thick void shields left all enemies in despair. Under the protection of Chaos, it demonstrated a defensive capability that even a normal Gloriana-class battleship would find hard to match.
"Damn it, our forces have suffered heavy losses!"
Abaddon listened to the loss reports coming from various parts of the bridge, his expression extrely grim. His teeth were clenched; every casualty figure entering his ears felt like a perfect mockery of the Chaos Warmaster.
But he had to endure. He swallowed his rage.
"Ignore it. Continue toward the target!"
Abaddon's voice squeezed out from between his teeth, low and hoarse, carrying a suppressed fury pushed to the limit. Then, the Warmaster looked up, his gaze sweeping across everyone on the bridge, and he shouted at a volu near a roar:
"This isn't a retreat! We are attacking from another direction!"
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