Revenge!

"Retreat!"

The Ravenwing Commander's voice came through the communication channel.

"All units, retreat to the second line of defense!"

The Jetbike turned around and sped deeper into the area.

The Black Legion was in pursuit behind them.

Before them stood the shield wall of the Deathwing Terminators.

Nameless Gate, Deathwing Terminators were already lined up.

That was the most elite force of the Dark Angels, the ultimate military force that only the Primarch could command.

Their bone-white armor gleamed coldly in the dim light, their Storm Shield were raised, their Power Sword were drawn, and their eyes burned with a resolute flame.

Lazarus stood at the very front.

He was the commander of the Deathwing, Azrael's most trusted warrior, and a hero who had rendered countless meritorious services to the Chapter.

At this moment, he gripped the Power Sword in his hand, gazing at the approaching Chaos torrent, with only one thought in his mind—to hold on.

At all costs.

"They've arrived."

The soldier beside him said softly.

Lazarus did not answer.

He simply gripped the sword in his hand tighter.

Then— the Chaos torrent crashed into the shield wall.

At that moment, the whole world trembled.

Steel clashing against steel, flesh tearing apart flesh, blood mingling with blood.

Countless Chainsword tore at the shield wall, countless Bolter roared in front of the shield wall, and countless crazed eyes burned before the shield wall.

But the shield wall did not move.

The Deathwing warriors stood like rocks, unmoved by wave after wave of the Chaos torrent.

Because behind them lies the Nameless Gate.

Because behind them lies a secret that the Dark Angels have guarded for millennia.

Because behind them lies everything they must protect.

Lazarus swung his sword again, and the head of a Chaos Warrior flew high into the air.

But the next second, three attacks landed on him simultaneously.

Another crack appeared on his shield.

Another wound appeared on his armor.

His body—still standing.

He continued to wield his sword.

Still fighting.

Meanwhile, on another part of the battlefield, Ezekiel was battling against the Psionic Energy of Chaos.

That wasn't an ordinary Psionic Energy attack.

That was the suppression from Vashtorr's own body—the will of that Dark Mechanicum was like a mountain, pressing down on his soul, trying to crush his consciousness, tear his spirit apart, and drive him completely insane.

But he did not fall.

He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, and was surrounded by golden Psionic Energy light.

That light was his defense, his weapon, everything he had.

Countless images flashed through his mind.

The Rock is burning.

The soldier is falling.

The Nameless Gate is being breached.

But he didn't move.

Because he knew that if his Psionic Energy defenses collapsed, the Rock would lose its last protection.

Those Chaos Sorcerer will march straight in, those demons will be summoned and descend, those—he dared not think any further.

"Hold on."

Azrael's voice echoed in his mind.

You are our eyes.

Without you, we are blind.

Ezekiel's lips curled up slightly.

It was a bitter smile.

It's also a source of pride.

"I will."

He said to himself.

Then, the Psionic Energy barrier stabilized again.

Even though the pressure was enough to tear his soul apart, even though the pain was enough to drive him mad, even though—he held on.

Because he cannot fall.

Because he is the Chief Librarian.

Because he is Dark Angels.

When that figure appeared on the battlefield, everyone felt its oppressive aura.

That was the oppressive aura of the Dark Mechanicum.

That was the oppressive force of the Primarch Chaos.

That's -- Vashtorr.

He stood there on the chaotic battlefield, amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood, surrounded by countless Dark Angels.

His mechanical body glowed with a dark red light in the crimson glow, his eyes burned with the flames of the Warp, and a cold smile played on his lips.

"Azrael."

His voice exploded on the communication channel, and in the hearts of every Dark Angels.

"Come out and see me."

Azrael did not hesitate.

He strode out of the bridge, through the battle-ravaged corridors, through the battlefield strewn with corpses, and through the layers of defenses—to stand before Vashtorr.

Walk to a distance close enough to obliterate him.

Walk up to the enemy.

Behind him, Deathwing Terminators wanted to follow, but he waved it away.

"Hold the gate."

He said the voice was as calm as if it were talking about the weather.

"This is my battle."

He walked up to Vashtorr, standing at a distance close enough to obliterate him, and looked directly into those eyes burning with Warp flames.

What do you want?

His voice was calm, without a trace of fear.

Vashtorr looked at him, a hint of admiration in his eyes.

"A core fragment of Caliban."

He said the sound was like metal rubbing together.

"Hand it over, and I might let your warriors die a quicker death."

Azrael smiled.

That smile contained sarcasm, disdain, and a kind of pride unique to Dark Angels.

"Come and get it yourself."

He said.

Then, he raised the sword in his hand—the ancient weapon known as the "Sword of Secrets," the sacred relic passed down for ten thousand years, the sword that had once slain countless enemies in the hands of the Lion King.

A flash of anger crossed Vashtorr's eyes.

"Act recklessly."

He said.

Then, he moved.

At that moment, the entire battlefield trembled.

Vashtorr's personal guards—those terrifying beings known as the "Black-armored Legion"—are launching a fierce attack on the Nameless Gate.

Their armor was as black as ink, their weapons burned with Chaos flames, and their eyes held no emotion, only the desire to kill.

They are warriors created by Vashtorr himself, a perfect fusion of machinery and demons, a nightmare that any enemy would tremble before.

But what awaited them was the shield wall of the Deathwing.

Lazarus still stood at the forefront, his Power Sword stained with blood, his Storm Shield cracked, and his body covered in wounds.

But he remained standing, still wielding his sword, still fighting.

"Block the door!"

His voice was hoarse, yet still resolute.

We cannot let any part of the past be forgotten!

Behind him, Deathwing Terminators fell one after another.

But more people came up to fill the vacant positions.

The shield wall was attacked time and time again, and it teetered on the brink of collapse time and time again, but time and time again it regained its footing.

Because behind them lies a secret guarded by Dark Angels for millennia.

Because behind them lies the place where the Lion King sleeps.

Because behind them lies everything.

Lazarus swung his sword again, and the head of a Black-armored Legion flew high into the air.

But the next second, three attacks landed on him simultaneously.

His shield shattered.

His armor was torn.

His body collapsed.

But even as he fell, his hand was still gripping the sword.

His eyes remained open, gazing towards the Nameless Gate.

In those eyes, there was resentment, regret, and a glimmer of hope.

Because the door is still there.

Because the person behind the door is still there.

Amidst the chaos, another figure silently descended.

Be'lakor.

The first Daemon Prince, an outcast of the Chaos Gods, forever yearning to regain their favor.

He appeared out of thin air in the center of the battlefield, between Vashtorr and Azrael, in the eye of the storm of the three-way battle.

His figure was enormous and twisted, surrounded by Chaos four-colored light, and his eyes burned with ambition and hatred.

"Vashtorr."

His voice was deep, like an echo from the abyss.

Do you think I don't know your plans?

Vashtorr's pupils suddenly contracted.

"Be'lakor-- "

Before he could finish speaking, Be'lakor had already made his move.

A torrent of Chaos energy surged straight towards Vashtorr.