The tomb hall had become a boiling furnace of flesh and blood.
After paying a terrible price in the initial indiscriminate, frenzied melee, the surviving powerhouses finally began seeking temporary support through combat instinct and racial nature.
Within the vortex of chaos, several small factions filled with vigilance and hostility had vaguely formed.
The surviving human forces naturally moved toward that dazzling patch of gold—three Adeptus Custodes stood back-to-back, like golden reefs standing firm amid a storm.
Their Guardian Spears precisely pierced the lunging Tyranids, while the roaring bursts of their bolters continuously carved out a small, fleeting vacuum amid the swarm.
Creed, Castellan of Cadia, the surviving Blood Angels warrior, and two other Space Marines from different eras and different Chapters all instinctively moved closer to the Adeptus Custodes.
There was no verbal exchange between them, only brief collisions of gazes and the tacit understanding forged on the battlefield.
Creed panted heavily. His chainsword was coated in shattered Tyranid chitin and green blood. He gave a slight nod toward the Adeptus Custodes, signaling coordinated defense.
One of the Adeptus Custodes responded with an almost imperceptible nod, though no expression could be seen beneath his golden mask. Their attention remained focused on the endless sea of Tyranids.
They did not fully trust one another, much less become one unified force. Yet in this desperate situation, human instinct drew them toward their own kind, forming a loose defensive circle that offered limited flank cover. Several meters of subtle distance remained between them—a measure of support, and of wariness.
The survivors of the other races were not so "fortunate."
After roaring as he smashed several Hormagaunts apart, the ancient Ork was finally pierced through the chest by the massive bone blade of a Tyrant. He fell unwillingly, his final cry of "WAAAGH!"