If There Are Any
If a full 100,000 of those terrifying creatures were to descend upon this place—then it wouldn't just be a planet covered in insect hives.
Instead, they are covered by something else.
The tentacles desperately tried to convince themselves that it was just an illusion, just an overreaction, just... just...
The next second.
The group of blue figures had already rushed in front of them.
At this moment, the tentacles' senses captured every detail of those figures with unparalleled clarity.
The blue carapace—no, armor, which humans call armor.
The blood-red helmet—no, that's paintwork, some kind of marking.
And the sounds they made.
Those sounds cannot travel in a vacuum, but the tentacles can sense the vibrations of those sound waves through Psionic Energy.
Those were the syllables of a human language, their battle cry before going to war, their oath to a certain existence—"For the glory of the Emperor!"
Then they started tearing it.
With their fists, with their weapons, with their teeth, with everything they had—they began to tear apart the swarm of insects.
A Termagant was torn in two alive.
A Hormagaunt was punched through the chest cavity.
A Tyranid Warrior had its neck snapped.
A Hive Tyrant was... surrounded by a group of blue figures, and then disappeared into that blue storm.
Through the tentacles' Psionic Energy, the signals of countless Tyranids creatures were being extinguished one by one.
Those signals weren't killed, they were—torn apart.
Torn to shreds.
It was torn apart to the point that even the Hive Mind could not be retrieved.
Holy shit.
For some reason, this interjection, which is extremely common in human memory, popped into the tentacles' mind.
It didn't know why it thought of that word, but at that moment, it perfectly captured its state.
What the hell is this?!
Are there still 100,000 of these terrifying things?!
The tentacles' Psionic Energy swept frantically across the void, trying to find even the slightest hope, trying to find even the least terrifying blue figure, trying to find even the slightest weakness that could be easily exploited.
But it cannot be found.
Each one was so terrifying.
Each one was exactly the same as the previous two thousand.
Each one was frantically tearing apart the swarm of insects.
How did this universe manage to support such a group of creatures?!
The tentacles' thoughts began to become confused.
It learned from the memories of countless devoured humans that this being called "Space Marines" was the ultimate military force of the Imperium of Man.
The strongest of them is called the "Primarch," a demigod created by the Emperor himself.
The progeny of the Primarch are called "Chapter," and each Chapter of approximately one thousand people.
One thousand people.
Not ten thousand people.
It's not just 100,000 people.
What's going on with these 100,000 in front of us?!
Won't they go to war?
Won't they kill each other?
Won't they tear each other to pieces?
If these things started fighting each other, they should have destroyed the universe long ago!
The tentacles' thoughts grew increasingly chaotic and desperate.
It saw a colossal creature—the flagship of the fleet, a behemoth specifically designed to destroy planetary defenses—being besieged by a group of blue figures.
The group of blue figures, like ants crawling on an elephant, used their weapons, their fists, and everything they had to tear the behemoth apart bit by bit.
It saw its most elite swarm guard, those elite individuals who had survived countless evolutions, being chased by a group of blue figures.
Chase after them!
The swarm of insects was being chased!
This is an absurd scene that the Hive Mind has never encountered in its millennia of history!
It saw—it saw the group of blue figures; they had noticed it.
Countless eyes, countless blood-red eyes burning with fighting spirit, were all staring at it.
Look toward the heart of this fleet.
Look at it—the tentacle of this fleet, the "brain" of this Leviathan squadron.
In that instant, the Psionic Energy thoughts of the tentacle surged with an emotion it had never experienced before.
That emotion, in human language, is called despair.
It is a Leviathan.
It is the greatest creation of the Hive Mind.
It is the largest, strongest, and most successful Hive Fleet to date to invade the Milky Way.
It can devour stars.
It can cover the entire world.
It can be an enemy of the entire Milky Way.
But at this moment, facing a hundred thousand terrifying blue upright apes, facing the overwhelming chants of "For the Emperor's Glory"—it only wanted to ask one question: How exactly did this universe raise such a group of creatures to such a size?
And those 100,000 blue figures were already rushing towards it.
Extend both arms horizontally in front of your body.
He was shouting something.
Its eyes burned with a light that instilled fear deep within its very genes.
The tentacle's last thought, before it was torn apart, before it was completely erased, before all its information was permanently deleted by the Hive Mind —if there is a next time... I will definitely walk around this group of blue ones.
But there won't be a next time.
A blue wave engulfed it.
In the distance, the Macragge's Honour silently floated in the void.
On the bridge, a blue figure stood with his hands behind his back, watching the swarm of insects being slaughtered by 100,000 Ultramarines, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"One hundred thousand."
Titus muttered to himself, "That's going to be a real headache for those insects."
He turned around, looking at the second batch of soldiers waiting behind him, at the Ultramarines whose eyes also burned with fighting spirit, and at the ten thousand-strong team about to be thrown into the battlefield.
Tell them--
His voice rang out on the communication channel. "Long live the Emperor!"
A unified response came from the communication channel, the sound like the superposition of ten thousand battle cries, like the simultaneous beating of ten thousand hearts, like the thunderous fury of ten thousand blue figures.
"For the Emperor!"
"For the Primarch!"
"For Macragge!"
In the void, the insect swarm is being torn apart.
And this is just the beginning.
There was no sound in the void.
But the silence was more deafening than any sound.
One hundred thousand blue figures are flying in the void.
Their posture was like that of angels in mythology—arms outstretched in front of them, legs together, bodies slightly leaning forward, traversing the dark vacuum at incredible speed.
That pose appears repeatedly in human religious paintings; it is the standard posture of angels descending to earth, a perfect combination of divinity and power.
But at this moment, these "angels" bring death.
A pure, absolute, merciless death.
Titus was at the forefront.
His senses remained clear even in the vacuum—a transcendence bestowed by the Primarch, a power granted by Guilliman himself, a perception a warrior gained after becoming something greater.
He could "see" everything around him, "hear" the battle cries of every brother on the communication channel, and "sense" the trembling souls of the swarm creatures in fear—if they had souls at all.