Chapter 198: Doom – “Daemon? Take him alive!”

The High Council of Terra had convened in continuous session for an entire month.

But the galaxy's enemies would not pause in reverence.

Unaware of Horus's return, Abaddon the Despoiler prepared once again to strike.

For days on end, the Departmento Munitorum had been flooded with distress signals—each more dire than the last.

Upon receiving the grim reports, Dukel made a single decision: he released the Doom Slayers.

To the descendants of the Second Legion, this was a rare reprieve. So long as it tore them from the suffocating rhythm of the manufactoria and assembly lines, even the slaughter of daemons was a vacation.

"Your Majesty, show mercy to your people. Aid us once more. I ask not for myself, but for the world of Ducas. I fear not death—only that my failure will bring catastrophe to the Imperium. Watch over me, O Master of Mankind."

Every time Vice Admiral Murti prayed to the God-Emperor, he felt a surge of power dispelling the Warp's corruption. He took it as a divine sign—His Majesty had not forsaken them. And so, he continued his prayers with reverence, pleading for deliverance.

His astropaths sent distress signals without pause, reaching out into the stars like drowning men throwing messages in bottles into a black sea.

But Terra's reforms had yet to touch Ducas, a backwater world so cloaked in Warp storms and despair that even the light of the Astronomican seemed dim.

The Warp grew more violent with each passing week. Murti could feel it in his bones. He knew reinforcements were unlikely—but he dared not abandon hope.

Years ago, Ducas had still received transmissions from the wider Imperium. Murti had rejoiced with his people when he learned that the Primarchs had begun to return, and that the Imperium was claiming victories anew. Hope had burned brightly in his heart.

But that flame had long since dimmed.

Now, Warp storms howled constantly. The world was cut off from the Imperium. Every attempt at passage cost lives. Vox transmissions failed. Astropathic screams faded into silence.

Ducas was alone.

Chaos crept closer, unseen but felt. Murti—battle-hardened Vice Admiral though he was—could not help but despair. Their foes had the Eye of Terror behind them. They had unending resources, warp-spawned horrors, and bloodthirsty warbands.

The Imperium's defenders had only faith, courage, and dwindling ammunition.

Abaddon's intent was unmistakable: if Ducas fell, the Eye of Terror would expand. The cost to the Imperium would be catastrophic.

"Lieutenant General, the western third front has collapsed! The Lamenters report 30% casualties. The 732nd Cadian has been rendered combat-ineffective. Only one fortress remains—barely holding."

The voice on the vox belonged to a young woman—barely out of girlhood by the sound of her. In the Imperium's endless wars, there was no distinction of gender. All were warriors. Many died before adulthood.

Some, like her, lived just long enough to send one final warning.

"Any auspex detection of Imperial reinforcement fleets?" Murti asked, rubbing his tired eyes.

"No, sir. Nothing. Space remains silent."

Murti chuckled bitterly. "That's not good news."

But the girl didn't share in his grim humor. Her voice grew solemn. "Sir… there's worse. Dark Mechanicus fleets are still arriving. Our orbital defenses are crumbling. We've lost air supremacy. Multiple fortresses have been bombarded from orbit."

She hesitated. "Six hive-cities have surrendered to Chaos. The living districts are corrupted. Cultists are driving hordes of Plague Zombies into our defensive lines."

Murti's jaw clenched. "Is there any good news at all?"

The girl shook her head. Her eyes, dull and bloodshot, betrayed a soul already on the edge.

"Hope must not die," Murti muttered, placing a hand on her shoulder. He straightened and barked his next orders:

"Deploy the Catachan Jungle Fighters to reinforce the last fortress. Request immediate support from the Confessors Chapter. Mobilize the last three Leman Russ Executioners—tell them to hold the line. Whatever the cost."

The herald jotted down every word into her data-slate and saluted.

"For the Emperor."

"For the Emperor!" came the roar of vox-amplified voices as the counter-offensive began.

The Catachan Regiment—feral, muscle-bound, veterans of a thousand death worlds—charged into the inferno.

Originating from the death world of Catachan, their savagery and survival instincts were unmatched among the Astra Militarum. Each soldier looked like he could wrestle a Grox bare-handed—and win. Even the smallest of them could shoulder a heavy bolter without flinching.

They had been among the survivors evacuated from Cadia.

Now they returned to war.

Beside them thundered three Leman Russ Executioners, Imperial tanks named in honor of Primarch Leman Russ. These steel behemoths were war incarnate—mobile fortresses armed with plasma weaponry and heavy bolters.

But even with these reinforcements, the battlefield remained dire.

The forces of Chaos had deployed Daemon Engines—blasphemous fusion of metal, warp-stuff, and daemonflesh. Against such monstrosities, even Catachan's best and the might of the Leman Russ could not guarantee victory.

What the defenders truly yearned for were Adeptus Astartes—power-armored angels of death who could turn the tide of war by their mere presence.

"May the Emperor watch over His people," whispered a Ministorum Priest, lifting his bolt pistol and firing into the corrupted tide.

Then came the sound—a low roar, deeper and more guttural than any tank or engine. It rolled across the battlefield like a promise of damnation.

From the breach in the artillery lines, colossal Daemon Engines charged forward—behemoths the likes of which no Imperial had ever seen.

And the battle for Ducas entered its final hour.

These abominable machines—twisted fusions of daemon and steel—were the very nightmares of every loyal Imperial soldier.

Encased in corrupted ceramite and living metal, each daemon engine housed a raging, bloodthirsty entity from the warp, barely restrained within its howling prison of iron. They were driven by unspeakable pacts, compelled to slaughter without rest or reason.

And now, under the banners of the Warmaster Abaddon, they tore through the defenders of Ducas like a scythe through chaff.

Even with the arrival of the seasoned Catachan Jungle Fighters, the bastion fell.

No amount of courage or feral strength could stem the tide. The defenders fought with fury and defiance, but courage alone could not halt the relentless advance of the Archenemy.

With orbital dominance ceded to Chaos, the skies themselves betrayed the Imperium. Orbital bombardments from corrupted warships rained devastation onto key defensive positions. The traitor Astartes surged forward, exploiting every breach with brutal precision.

Daemon engines prowled through shattered fortifications, slaughtering any who remained. The screams of the dying were muffled only by the chainswords of Chaos Space Marines as they hacked through mortal flesh. Resistance collapsed into despair.

From the command center, Vice Admiral Moti watched the skies above blaze with war's unholy light.

He knelt before the symbol of the Emperor and whispered his final prayer.

"Your Majesty... this will be the last time I ask for your light. Forgive my failure. I could not hold the line."

There was no more time for lamentation. With solemn resolve, Moti took up his bolt pistol and strode from the command center, flanked by his remaining guards. He gathered the remnants of the loyalist forces in Ducas into a final stronghold.

He knew the truth.

This war was already lost.

But it was not about victory anymore.

It was about honour.

About denying the enemy his prize and repaying the Imperium with blood and defiance.

The surviving soldiers—barely more than a few scattered regiments and shattered squads—set to work. They laid traps throughout the last fortress. They gathered their final caches of munitions. The Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, with solemn rites, anointed the last remaining heavy weapon emplacements, whispering binharic prayers to coax their machine spirits into fury.

No reinforcements were coming.

Still, the warriors of the Emperor would not die quietly.

The final rations were distributed—cans of processed meat and stale protein bricks, usually left uneaten. Tonight, they were a feast. Around rusted ammo crates and broken tables, soldiers ate with comrades for what they knew would be the last time. Jokes were shared. Prayers whispered. Faces memorized.

Below the ruins of the once-proud cities, thermal explosives were primed. They would not let the enemy take this world without cost.

They would give the traitors blood for every inch of ground.

No rousing speeches were given. None were needed. In the grim silence before the storm, a single phrase passed from mouth to mouth, whispered with conviction:

"For the Emperor."

That was enough.

Weapons were checked. Lasguns held tight. Bolt pistols primed. And then the silence was broken by the distant, rumbling roar of the apocalypse.

At the horizon, like a tide of nightmares, the Chaos horde advanced.

Treads churned blood-soaked soil. Engines roared with daemonic fury. Towering war machines—grotesque parodies of Imperial armour—crushed the last remnants of civilization beneath their bulk. The air turned foul with corruption.

A screaming wave of cultists surged ahead of the daemon engines, eyes wild with warp-madness, their bodies writhing with mutations. They clamored for the favour of their dark patrons, rushing toward the final fortress like vermin to carrion.

Their cries of devotion were met with fire.

"For the Emperor!"

The defenders opened fire.

From within the fortress and from hidden ruins beyond its walls, las-beams, autocannons, and bolters thundered in unison. Thermite charges detonated in rapid succession, bathing the charging heretics in fire.

From the shadows, what remained of the Lamenters burst forth—bloodied, relentless. Their once-golden armour was scorched and scarred, their heraldry nearly erased. Yet their fury burned undimmed.

Descendants of Sanguinius, they had received no respite since arriving on this cursed world. Though genetically superior, they were not unbreakable. Their bodies were fraying. Their souls, exhausted.

And yet they fought.

Blade met blade. Chainswords shrieked. Blood splashed on ancient ceramite. The Lamenters knew they were dying—but they had not forgotten how to make every death count.

Even so, it was not enough.

No valor could overcome the sheer weight of numbers, the terrible momentum of Chaos. Slowly but surely, the defenders were pushed back. Their lines fractured.

Across the ravaged world, the Legions of the Damned raised altars to their foul gods. Warpfire burned on desecrated stone. The Magos sent their last desperate data-bursts to Terra—but there was no response.

Vice Admiral Moti stood at the shattered battlements, watching the heretics defile his world.

He knew the truth now, beyond doubt.

This was no simple invasion.

Ducas would be used as a ritual node. A foothold. A corruption vector. A further widening of the Eye of Terror.

And no one was coming to stop it.

The Imperium of Man was on the verge of another great devastation. Across the surface of Ducas and in the void above it, countless loyal servants of the Emperor were dying.

The situation appeared irreversible.

Even in high orbit, amidst the cold silence of space, the Imperial Navy was faltering.

The Dark Legion's fleet—tainted by Chaos—pushed forward with overwhelming force, annihilating what remained of the loyalist battlegroups. The bulk of the Imperial armada had already collapsed, but a few surviving Moon-class cruisers continued to resist, striking with agility and grit, delaying the inevitable.

The defenders were battered, cornered, bleeding stars.

And then—an anomaly.

A burst of alert-code cut through the battlefield vox, blinking across augur arrays:

[Virtual realm jump complete. Rescue mission coordinates reached. Route recorded.]

[ALERT: Hostile contacts detected.]

Without warning, a massive fleet emerged at the heart of the battle.

No ripples of the warp. No Gellar-field discharges. No subspace resonance.

They were simply there—a colossal battlegroup, materializing like a ghost from ancient myth. At its center, a vast, obsidian-hulled warship loomed, flanked by countless destroyers and frigates bristling with weaponry.

The Chaos fleet reeled in confusion.

And before the corrupted ships could react, the newcomers struck.

Macro-cannon fire and focused lance strikes lit up the void. The beams of coherent light burned through traitor hulls, sending screams of dying machine spirits through the vox. One by one, the Chaos vessels bloomed into silent fireballs—torn apart in disciplined, pinpoint salvos.

[Truth of the Circle—Charging complete.]

At the prow of the flagship stood Doom, a figure wreathed in solemn authority. Streams of high-level data poured into his mind from the virtual substrate—a separate informational realm grafted to reality, informing him that the ultimate weapon was ready to fire.

"Execute."

His voice was calm. Certain.

In the void, a golden corona erupted—so vast it could be seen from planetary orbit. It was not light, but conceptual fire, a manifestation of mathematical annihilation, shaped by the will of a god-forged engine.

A solar wind of blinding golden flame swept across the battlefield.

The Chaos ships activated their void shields, but it was in vain. The destructive energy, woven with abstract algorithmic entropy, tore through their defenses. Within seconds, those touched by the wind were incinerated, reduced to drifting shards of metal and warp-stained slag.

Some traitor captains attempted to flee, veering their ships away at full burn.

Too late.

The Truth of the Circle—an artificial weapon crafted in the hidden strata of the virtual dimension—had only released a single pulse. And with that, seventy percent of the Chaos fleet in the Ducas Subsector was obliterated.

A purge, carried out not with emotion, but inevitability.

Even Doom—master of this terrible power—watched in awe.

"This… is the power of my father."

He turned, boots clanging on the deck of the battleship, and cast his gaze over the formation behind him. Row after row of armored titans stood at the ready.

Massive warriors in ceramite and plasteel. Death incarnate.

The Doom Slayers.

And beside them, another line—rigid, silent, faces hidden behind rebreathers.

The Death Korps of Krieg.

Together, they formed the core of the Second Legion—a fleet built for annihilation.

No slogans were needed. No sermons. No cries of glory.

"Brothers," Doom said, his voice cold as the void, "this world has been defiled. Demons walk its soil. Capture them alive. The Forges require their souls."

That was all.

Because within this legion, there were only two types of warriors.

Those who slaughter without mercy.

And those who die without fear.

And now, both had been unleashed.