(Thanks to the generous supporter "God above, Slaanesh below, me in the middle" for the Superfan gift. Something came up today; I'll make up for it with an extra update tomorrow.)
Centered around the Pride of the Emperor, hundreds of traitor warships began aiming their guns at Olympia's surface.
Their enormous lance batteries glimmered gold in the vacuum, like hundreds of cold eyes gazing down at the planet about to suffer utter annihilation.
Fulgrim had decided to torment these warriors of iron.
He had not chosen to begin the bombardment with virus bombs—that would have been too merciful.
He wanted to savor this Butchery in a crueler, slower way.
First, he would bombard the surface with successive lance strikes, driving the Iron Warriors into their fortresses like rats, letting them believe they had found safe shelter, letting them tremble in the darkness and think they could escape disaster.
Then, when they were most relaxed, when their guard was at its lowest, he would unleash the virus bombs and wipe them, along with those fortresses, from the face of this world.
He would let Perturabo taste hope, then crush that hope completely.
The orbital lances tore through Olympia's clouds. Those searing beams of energy pierced the thick cloud cover like golden spears in the hands of gods, ripping the sky in two.
Every Legion warrior on Olympia's surface witnessed the moment death descended from the heavens.
It was a sight both magnificent and terrifying, as though the sky itself were burning, as though the whole world were coming to an end.
Boom!
The first orbital lance struck Olympia's surface.
In that instant, the earth shook violently. Countless ruined fortresses shattered, sending stone and metal fragments flying in every direction like a torrential downpour.
The surface melted. Soil and rock turned to