Ersen offered a brief sign of reassurance to Sagelhan, then signaled to Mordred nearby before striding out of the open cage. If the Emperor willed his soul to return to the Golden Throne this day, he would not hesitate for a heartbeat.
Among these loyalists, the Astartes might have been able to discern one another's origins through subtle physical traits or temperants. For Axion, however, such a task was an exercise in futility. Stripped of their power armor, these Astartes were devoid of all heraldry and identification.
Though Axion possessed vast Imperial archives and knew the markers of the Traitor Legions, these warriors fell far outside his standard paraters. Yet, it mattered little; that was not Axion's duty. Once these scarred warriors were returned to the Imperium, the Inquisition would summon the relevant Chapters to identify their own. Had it been otherwise, the two hidden among them, a Word Bearer and a Night Lord, would likely have been purged on the spot by the chanical units.
An Automated Sentry-Trooper stepped out from the ranks, intercepting Ersen and the crowd of near-naked giants following him. The machine paused, its glinting ocular lens flickering with data-processing light, before speaking.
"I am G000325, sub-commander of this chanical squad. Although my logic core cannot designate your specific origins, Imperial biological signatures confirm your status as Adeptus Astartes. Do not move erratically upon the battlefield, lest you invite unnecessary hazard."
Before Ersen could respond, the Sentry-Trooper's cold logic was interrupted. An Astartes with prominent, feral canines stepped forward, glaring at the machine.
"This is the heart of the Dark City, the lair of the Drukhari. Why do you call it a battlefield? Even if it were, the sons of Fenris never shrink from a challenge! I know not why your strange iron carcasses are slaughtering the xenos, but do not think we shall submit to the whims of tal abominations—"
BOOM!
A thunderous impact shivered the foundations of the arena's cell blocks, wrenching the Astartes' attention upward. The Sentry-Troopers nearby, as if possessing preternatural foresight, imdiately scattered.
The massive head of a Revenant Titan crashed through the prison wall like a gargantuan kinetic shell, smashing a gaping hole that revealed the madness outside to the captives. The crystalline structure of the Eldar Titan's cockpit was shattered. A dazed Steersman, his mind reeling from the psychic feedback of the machine's near-eternal bond, stumbled out of the wreckage.
The Sentry-Trooper standing before the Astartes reacted instantly. Beams of neutron energy lanced out, striking the Aeldari pilot as he crawled from the cockpit and reducing him to a pile of charred ash in a microsecond.
The violent transition of the last few seconds left the captives stunned. Any Astartes who had survived the arenas long enough to be rescued was a veteran of a thousand wars; they recognized the wreckage of an Aeldari Titan imdiately. The Space Wolf who had been shouting just monts ago now stood with his jaw slack, silent.
Ersen, however, noticed Mordred deftly vaulting over rubble to peer through the breach in the wall. The entirety of Commorragh was echoing with the roar of explosions and the rhythmic thunder of heavy ordnance. The din had been constant, but no one had expected the reality of the theater outside.
Three tal Titans of entirely unknown design were sprinting across the battlefield with predatory fluidity. Their arms swung in brutal arcs, tearing apart the elegant Aeldari walkers with terrifying ease. Massive cannons spat gouts of horrific fire, the pressure waves of their discharge rattling the very air. Greatswords of staggering proportions, shimring with a piercing golden radiance, cleaved through Eldar Titans that brandished bone-scythes and singing spears. So of the xenos war engines were simply shattered by the weight of a titanic chanical foot.
Mordred turned back quickly, pulling a nondescript, burly Astartes toward the gap. He pointed at the unknown tal Titans conducting the massacre and demanded to know if his cousin recognized these strange machines.
The answer was written in the horror and confusion on the other warrior's face. Even the Astartes recently captured and brought to the Dark City did not recognize this wargear. It was certainly not Imperial equipnt that had erged during Mordred's long disappearance within the Webway.
Titans were the ultimate arbiters of Imperial ground warfare; their presence signaled a conflict of apocalyptic proportions. Mordred had looked upon the God-Machines of the Collegia Titanica many tis, yet these machines bore no resemblance to anything in his mory.
As the disoriented Astartes stood amidst the ruins, a heavy transport craft, unlike any STC variant known to the Imperium, descended toward the breach. As the ramp lowered, a squad of automata erged, hauling massive crates large enough to house three Astartes each.
"To ensure the preservation of your fragile biological forms, we provide rudintary protection," the lead automata announced in a jarring, High Gothic vox-synthesis. "Follow protocol. Stand in rank. Form lines. The battlefield is in flux; you have little ti."
The Astartes remained wary of these chanical entities, but glancing at the severed head of the Eldar Titan, they chose temporary compliance. In the grim calculus of the galaxy, the enemy of one's enemy was often still a foe, but for now, survival was the only path toward continued service to the Emperor.
Once the ranks were ford, the automata dragged the crates before the warriors. Sub-loader arms hissed as they pried the massive containers open.
The contents left the Astartes speechless.
Inside each crate lay a massive suit of chanical components. From the familiar silhouette of the joints and plating, it was clear this was a form of power armor. However, the suits bore no Chapter markings, no liturgical scripts, and no colors. They were the raw, dull grey of bare tal. The design echoed the aesthetics of Imperial power armor but diverged in fundantal, unsettling ways.
Axion, having scanned countless patterns of Imperial plate, viewed standard power armor as little more than crude protective rags. He refused to waste materials on such "trash." These suits were forged using Federation technology. While their dinsions mirrored Imperial plate to accommodate the giants wearing them, they were functionally alien.
Given that the Astartes already possessed the black carapace and neural interface plugs, Axion had simply adapted the design. The material science of the Federation ensured that these standard-sized suits possessed defensive capabilities far exceeding even the venerable Mark I Tactical Dreadnought Armor.
"Step forward. Ascend the platform," the servitors commanded.
The Astartes exchanged glances before stepping onto the crate's extended base. In an instant, the machinery within the crate seed to co alive. A flurry of hydraulic arms snatched components from the interior, snapping them onto the Astartes' bodies with terrifying precision.
Compared to the hours of ritual, incense, and the slow, solemn labor of Chapter serfs and Tech-priests, this experience was jarringly efficient. There was no anointing with oils, no placating of machine spirits, and no chanting of holy litanies.
The donning of the armor was completed in seconds. Once the body plating was secured, a final chanical arm extended from each crate, roughly slamming a helt down over each warrior's head.
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