What Do You Take Me For, Your Grandpa?

The Lamenters and the Adeptus Custodes felt a surge of despair as they watched the psychic assault fill the sky.

For ordinary soldiers fighting Psykers, this was what it meant to be caught at range, with no way to close in.

Light of every color filled the sky.

Psychic missiles swept through the clouds in swarms like venomous snakes. Alongside them came all manner of nameless things that were plainly made to kill, pouring from the Chaos positions.

The air ionized with a piercing shriek.

Where the shockwaves swept across the ground, metal glowed red and softened. Cultist runes covering the earth began to smoke and ignite under the psychic pressure.

The sky above the entire battlefield became a vision of the apocalypse.

Phoros's voice exploded over the comms. "Everyone, take cover—!"

The Lamenters' Chapter Master, usually as quiet as a melancholy poet, roared, "Psychic barrage—!!! Everyone find cover, now!!! Get down where you are!!!"

Still shouting, he rushed to the nearest Lamenter, seized him by the back of his neck armor, and shoved him behind the leg of a Warhound Titan. "Cover!!"

Phoros barked the order but did not follow him. Instead, he turned to scan the battlefield for anyone still standing there in a daze.

They did not have Lord Lin En's immunity to psychic attacks.

For them, a sight like this meant death.

None of the Lamenters stood frozen.

They were hardened men who had survived cursed luck and impossible missions alike. Most had already moved before Phoros shouted, scrambling behind the inactive Titans and tanks to weather the attack.

Those psychic attacks moved faster than shells.

Barely two seconds had passed since Magnus ordered the volley, and the lights that had filled the distant horizon were already directly above the battlefield.

They poured down from on