At that moment, the sky over the entire battlefield of Ullanor was "set alight."
No—the filthy firmament, eternally shrouded in smoke, dust, and green psychic miasma, was like a grimy, colossal mirror, polished fiercely by an invisible, mighty hand with pure, blazing, flowing "light," then utterly torn apart and reshaped!
Golden "flames" appeared from nowhere. They did not leap and rise like ordinary fire, but poured down from an unobservable higher dimension like rivers of liquid light possessed of life and will, or billions of thunderbolts of judgment stripped of their fury, leaving only majesty.
They surged madly through the polluted clouds, colliding and converging, instantly forming a slowly rotating golden tornado that joined heaven and earth!
This tornado did not draw everything into itself. It purified and illuminated.
Wherever it passed, the green psychic clouds melted like ice and snow, the filthy dust was swept clean, and even the ever-present smoke of war seemed forcibly purified by its radiance.
Light—sacred light so pure that it was impossible to look directly at, yet impossible to look away from—spilled across the ravaged earth.
This radiance offered no gentle comfort. It carried an unquestionable, overwhelming presence, like an invisible tide that instantly drowned every corner of the battlefield, every inch of ground, every living thing still breathing or roaring.
The gloom of defeat, the exhaustion of months of bitter fighting, the despair of being trapped deep within an encirclement, the frenzied oppression of the Orks' suffocating "WAAAGH!!!" Force field...
Beneath that all-encompassing golden radiance, they were brutally pierced and dispersed like thin mist exposed to the midday sun!
Even as they were dispersed, that terrifying power was instantly suppressed by the golden light.
On the ground, whether it was Horus and Fulgrim, trapped at the heart of the battle and preparing to