Ark of Omen
The Imperium Nihilus.
The endless darkness, like the gaping Great Maw of some ancient beast, devoured any living creature that dared to intrude.
But at this moment, the darkness was torn apart.
A massive warship was rampaging through this desolate void.
That is the Lion's current flagship—the mothership it obtained from the Vermilion Angel.
Its hull was painted in the dark green characteristic of the Dark Angels, but that green was almost indistinguishable in the darkness of the Imperium Nihilus.
Only the occasional glimpse of light from the portholes passing by the ship's hull would briefly reveal the colors that symbolized the First Legion.
Behind it, fifty escort ships followed closely like a pack of wolves.
Every warship was filled with warriors of the Dark Angels.
Deathwing.
Ravenwing.
And then there are the veterans who have awakened from their millennia-long slumber and returned to the lion's banner.
They are searching for the enemy.
They are looking for a battlefield.
They are searching for anything that dares to stand in the lion's way—the scum.
Lion Al Johnsen stood on the bridge, golden flames burning in his eyes.
Ten thousand years of slumber did not diminish his fighting spirit.
The millennia-long wait did not diminish his brilliance.
He is a lion.
He was number one.
He is the Emperor's Children.
He is--
"Primarch!"
The observer's voice suddenly rang out, trembling slightly:
"Large target detected ahead!"
Lion's gaze shifted slightly.
"What goal?"
"No Imperium identification signal... no known race identification signal... its size... good heavens, it's still growing!"
The observer's voice trembled completely:
"It's the Ark of Omen!"
Inside the bridge, a deathly silence fell instantly.
Ark of Omen.
It was not a natural creation, nor a warship of any known race.
That was a nightmare forged by the Dark Mechanicum, the masterpiece of the Dark Mechanicum Vashtorr, a mobile hell that walks through the void.
Its core principle is absorption.
It devoured all the wreckage of warships.
It devours all the ruins of civilization.
It devours any prey that dares to approach.
With each warship it devours, its size increases by one unit.
Its armament increases by one level for each fortress it conquers.
With each world it devours, its soul—if that thing even has a soul—becomes more twisted, more insane, and more akin to the essence of Vashtorr, the Chaos Machine God.
No one knows how many Ark of Omen Vashtorr built.
No one knows how many worlds they have devoured.
All people know is that any fleet that encounters the Ark of Ark of Omen has only one fate—
It was swallowed up.
Digested.
To become part of its enormous body.
And now, that mobile hell is right in front of them.
Its size is indescribable.
If the invincible Truth represents the pinnacle of human engineering, then this Ark of Omen is the curse of the Chaos Gods.
It obscured half the starry sky, its surface covered with countless mechanical tentacles, each one slowly writhing in the void like the arms of a deep-sea monster, searching for its next prey.
And those tentacles are now slowly turning—aiming at the lion's fleet.
It was hungry.
It found food.
The observer's voice had completely changed:
"It has spotted us! Its tentacles are approaching... It's trying to lock onto our course... The Primarch! It's going to devour us!"
Inside the bridge, all eyes were on Lion.
There was fear, despair, and a hint of— in those eyes.
expect.
Because he is a lion.
Because he is the Gene-Father.
Because he can always--
"Prepare to board."
Lion's voice was as calm as if he were talking about dinner.
Everyone was stunned.
"Primarch?!"
Deathwing practically jumped up from his position:
"This is too dangerous! We don't have enough space combat equipment! We don't have a proper boarding plan! We don't have—"
Lion turned his head and glanced at him.
Just one glance.
The words of the Deathwing Commander stuck in his throat, and he could no longer speak.
In that glance, there was no anger, no blame, only one meaning:
Are you questioning me?
"That Craftworld wants to devour us."
Lion's voice remained calm, yet it echoed throughout the bridge:
"Then let it swallow it."
He stood up, his imposing figure appearing like a sculpture in the dim light streaming through the porthole.
"I will let it know that some things—"
He paused:
"I can't swallow it."
He strode towards the hangar.
Behind him, fifty Deathwing and Ravenwing warriors followed without hesitation.
They are Dark Angels.
They followed the lion.
No matter what lies ahead.
Whatever that means.
regardless--
That was death.
Inside the hangar, Lion had already donned his Terminator Armour.
The ancient armor was etched with countless marks of battle; every scratch was a victory, and every dent a bloodbath.
He drew the Sword of Loyalty.
He raised the Emperor's Shield.
He gazed at the Ark of Omen slowly approaching, at the mechanical tentacles that were about to touch the ship's hull, at the moving hell that had devoured countless lives.
"Open the door."
The hangar's airlock slowly opened.
The power of the void surged in, attempting to pull everything into that eternal cold.
But Lion remained completely still.
He stood there on the edge of the airlock, at the boundary between the void and the human world, before the impending boarding battle that would tear souls apart.
Behind him, fifty soldiers remained equally motionless.
They awaited his orders.
We await his arrival.
What awaits him--
"Primarch!"
A hoarse scream came through the communication channel:
"You can't just rush in like that! You are our father! You are our leader! If anything happens to you—"
He didn't finish speaking.
Because everyone saw it.
I saw that light.
That golden, dawn-like light shone from the edge of the Milky Way.
The light was moving at an astonishing speed; one second it was at the edge of the field of vision, and the next it was already approaching the battlefield.
It was a warship—a warship painted in blood red and gold, its prow adorned with an angel about to take flight; it was the image of Sanguinius, the symbol of the Blood Angels, it was—
That is hope.
The warship teleported at incredible speed to the front of the Ark of Omen, forcefully blocking the Lion Fleet between the mobile hell.
Its hull was still trembling slightly—the aftershocks of the hyperspace jump, the price of forcibly intervening in the battlefield, and the gasps of a warrior charging into battle.
But what truly made everyone hold their breath was the figure atop the warship.
That was a soldier.
He wore red and gold Power Armour, which still gleamed with a burning light in the darkness of the Imperium Nihilus.
He wore a golden mask, carved with the face of Sanguinius —a sorrowful, gentle, angelic face.
He held a Power Sword in his hand.
The sword burned with golden flames in the void.
That flame was not Psionic Energy, nor any supernatural power, but the resolve of a warrior, the rage of a descendant of angels.
He just stood there.
Standing atop the warship.
Standing in the void.
Standing before that Ark of Omen had swallowed countless lives.
Like a sculpture.
Like a monument.
Like a --
Light.
He slowly raised the sword in his hand.
The movements were slow and firm, as if performing some kind of sacred ritual.
Behind him, the ship's hatch opened simultaneously.
Countless red figures poured out of the hatch, hovering in the void, behind him, and in the endless darkness.
Tens of thousands of Blood Angels.
They floated in the void, their posture exactly like their leader's—arms slightly outstretched, legs together, like an angelic legion descending to earth from mythology.
And their leader, the man wearing the golden mask, finally spoke.
His voice exploded across the communication channel, in the hearts of every Dark Angels, and in the eternal darkness of the Imperium Nihilus.
"For the Blood of Sanguinius!"
He brandished his sword.
forward.
Those ten thousand red figures moved simultaneously.
They rushed toward the Ark of Omen.
Rushing towards that mobile hell that devours lives.
They charged toward the battlefield that awaited them, a battlefield where victory or death remained uncertain.
Inside the bridge, Captain Deathwing stared blankly at everything—at the golden figure, at the red torrent, at that—
His lips trembled slightly, but he couldn't say anything.
The observer had completely forgotten his duties, staring blankly out the porthole at the scene that seemed like a myth.
Only Lion remained standing at the edge of the hangar, before the airlock, at the starting point of the boarding action that was about to begin.
His gaze fell on the golden figure.
In that gaze, there was surprise, admiration, and something else—
The mutual recognition between brothers.
"The offspring of Sanguinius".
He spoke softly, a voice only he could hear:
"Good timing."