The tremors rippling across the Galaxy couldn't be hidden from anyone. Anyone with psychic potential could look up and see the crimson tendrils reaching toward the Great Rift.
The Dimensional Rifts that had been torn open were being stitched shut. The Nachmund Gauntlet was the first to heal. This safe route—the only one connecting the Imperium Nihilus to the rest of the Imperium after the Great Rift formed—closed in an instant, and the outposts facing each other across it collided head-on.
Cartia was a fine place. Its inhabitants witnessed the bizarre astronomical phenomenon firsthand, their naturally pale-purple eyes tinged crimson. They could only lower their heads to avoid being blinded by the powerful radiation.
Scenes like this unfolded across the Galaxy. Every world along the Great Rift was shaken. Glaciers on Fenris split apart, and Ullanor began to shift.
The chaotic gravitational forces caused by countless worlds changing orbit were torn apart. But Hogg thought it was all worth it. If the Great Rift wasn't closed, the Imperium would be like Old Man Yellow, who sold his ass to anyone who wanted a turn.
As the final minute arrived, Hogg had never felt so exhausted—not even during the ten thousand years Slaanesh had wrung him dry. At least back then, he could lick up a couple of drops to regain his strength.
What hurt Hogg even more was Blackwatch. Once they learned they could be resurrected after death, those bastards had all uploaded their consciousnesses into the Psychic Network. They really didn't spare a thought for what it would cost their old man to bring them back.
Whenever a blazing flare burst into life, a dying Blackwatch trooper's roar echoed through the Psychic Network:
"Father, I ain't no coward! Boom~"
After years of drinking Nuka-Cola, Blackwatch had become anything but