Deep within The Rock, the bloody tug-of-war had reached a fever pitch.
Vashtorr let out a shriek of grinding metal in a broad corridor riddled with bullet scars and energy burns. "Warmaster! The signal from the key fragment is right ahead! What are you hesitating for?!"
Abaddon's crimson eye swept across the fiercely contested points marked on the tactical display.
The Dark Angels' tenacity had exceeded all expectations. Their upgraded Primaris warriors, aided by the fortress's complex terrain and formidable equipment, had forcibly dragged his elite forces into a grinder of flesh and blood.
The casualty figures kept climbing. Every step forward came at an immense cost.
"Shut up, Vashtorr! I warned you not to underestimate them!" Abaddon's voice rumbled like muffled thunder. "I know where the target is! But a blind charge will only feed our men into the meat grinder!"
He needed the key fragment, but he knew even better that preserving enough strength to seize and hold it was what mattered.
This was the old nest of the First Legion. They would never yield easily. If his forces were trapped in those narrow corridors, it would be a dead end.
He was waiting—for Vashtorr's "technology" to create greater chaos, for a fatal weakness to emerge in the Dark Angels' lines.
From his command throne, Lion El'Jonson watched the warriors resisting inch by inch on the surveillance feeds, his expression blank.
Luke stood beside him and could sense the suppressed fury beneath the Primarch's calm exterior.
He understood the Lion's strategy: trading space for time, trading blood for the chance to encircle and annihilate Chaos's main fleet.
Sacrifice... was a cold inevitability in this grand game of chess.
All he could do was silently reach out with the Force, sensing every fluctuation on the battlefield, ready to support