Orbital Drop

Nykona began to miss the teleportation aboard Lox's ship.

It was like opening a door across space. All one had to do was step over the threshold, and the shift in spatial coordinates was completed with ease.

But teleportation aboard Macragge's Honour was incomparably brutal. He could feel every cell in his body being ravaged by violent energy, as though an electric net hung over their heads and they had to struggle desperately to tear open a hole in it before the teleportation could be completed.

He gripped his bolter tightly as the dizziness in his mind gradually faded.

Before the battle had even begun, the teleportation had killed several of his battle-brothers. Nykona saw two Ultramarines fused into the wall, their armored arms exposed outside the structure while the rest of their bodies were buried deep within it.

In an instant, the molecules of their bodies had merged with those of the building. If they were cut apart, one would find that the flesh beneath their armor had long become a mixture of plasteel and meat.

The fusion at a molecular level brought death in an instant. No matter how formidable their superhuman organs were, they were useless under such circumstances.

Compared with the battle-brother who had embraced death in an instant, the other Ultramarine was in an even more miserable state. Half his body was trapped inside the deck, with only his chest and abdomen exposed. Even an Astartes's superhuman will could scarcely endure the agonizing pain.

The primarch granted him a merciful end in an instant. He said nothing.

Death was a merciful release.

The kill team that had teleported onto the Orbital Platform assembled according to the original plan. The Astartes had branded the platform's layout into their minds and carried out Guilliman's plan at superhuman speed.

There was no complicated tactic to this operation. Everyone simply had to assault the dock's main control room, and one thing was certain: the enemy had already discovered them.

With teleportation fluctuations on the scale of several hundred men, even if the Word Bearers had posted a blind sentry, he would have noticed.

The Astartes moved swiftly across the deck, passing through pressure doors and corridors formed by all manner of pipes and cables. They had to seize every second. The enemy could arrive at any moment.

Nykona's heart trembled. With ghostlike footwork, he evaded an incoming bolt. The Word Bearers had opened fire!

The missed bolts struck the platform's metal structure, blasting small craters into it. Thunderous detonations echoed through the platform's gallery-like corridors.

The Mourning Raven returned fire at once. His two precise shots punched through the helmets of the Word Bearers above. The headless enemies immediately lurched and plunged from the upper platform.

There were many Word Bearers. They continuously filled the places of their fallen comrades, resisting the Ultramarines' boarding force with bolter fire.

The Astartes's accuracy made bolters exceptionally terrifying weapons. Headless corpses littered the battlefield on both sides. Only by destroying the head could one ensure that these dangerous weapons of the Emperor had completely lost their ability to fight.

Nykona melted into the shadows, slipping behind the enemy. He sprayed bolter fire into the Word Bearers' backs, then vanished silently once more.

The Iron Father led the remaining Iron Hands in supporting their comrades with the fiercest firepower. Half of the Iron Hands who had survived Isstvan V had already fallen in the bitter fighting on Calth.

"Word Bearer bastards, bring Lorgar out!"

The Iron Hands were wildly exhilarated. Bolter casings poured from their guns like molten iron, while the blinding radiance of plasma surged without pause. There was no need for prayers or blessings; the Machine Spirits of their weapons were nearly driving themselves to destruction with their output.

The plasma weapons were searing hot and could suffer fatal self-detonation at any moment, but the Iron Hands merely laughed loudly and allowed their weapons to overcharge.

Ever since they had left that battlefield, they had dreamed of dragging more Word Bearers down into hell with them. Now, upon this Orbital Platform, that dream had come true.

Nykona did not stop his battle-brothers' near-suicidal charge. The death of their gene-father was an incomparably grievous wound. He knew that many Iron Hands had long since resolved to die; death was the best way for them to reunite with their primarch.

Yet the fastest charge among them all was still a cobalt-blue figure. Guilliman roared as he pronounced the Word Bearers' death.

He moved faster than lightning. Among the massed Astartes, the primarch was like an ordinary man moving through a world slowed twentyfold. His Lightning Claw mercilessly tore apart Word Bearer after Word Bearer. Their ceramite-alloy power armor was nothing in his eyes, and warriors and armor alike became flying fragments.

This was a primarch, the Emperor's proudest creation. Even across the entire Imperium of Humanity, only the other seventeen primarchs could compare to a warrior as great as him.

The primarch's horrifying slaughter quickly drew the fire of most of the Word Bearers. They immediately realized this was a perfect opportunity, an opportunity to completely annihilate the XIII Legion.

They abandoned their firefight with their cousins and concentrated all their firepower on Guilliman.

Bolts rained down. Nothing should have been able to remain standing here.

Yet Guilliman continued advancing stubbornly through the storm of bolts. His modified master-crafted power armor demonstrated its worth; even powerful heavy bolts could only scrape away a layer of primer and shave off a thin scattering of metal fragments.

Moreover, his iron halo had already deflected the paths of many bolts, greatly reducing their power.

The primarch raised one hand before his helmet. His targeting system marked several priority targets in red, and Guilliman pulled the trigger. The Hand of Dominion destroyed the enemies along with their cover.

No matter how desperately they focused their fire on the gene-father of the XIII Legion, he continued to close in with unstoppable force.

Guilliman was close. He was getting closer!

Faced with the Ultramarines primarch's towering fury, even the Word Bearers' creed and faith wavered at that moment.

They felt their courage and faith draining away like icebergs melting in spring. An instinctive terror came over them.

They faced a primarch, a primarch consumed by fury and vengeance.

The foremost Word Bearer broke. He threw aside his bolter and rushed at the primarch with his chainsword raised. A Lightning Claw too fast for the naked eye swept through him, and Guilliman cut both him and his weapon into fragments.

The Ultramarines watched the might of their gene-father with fervor. They followed close behind as Hill and Ventanus shouted, "Follow him! Follow the primarch!"

Guilliman was like a tiger charging into a flock of sheep. Wherever he went, shattered power armor and corpses remained behind. Astartes corpses pumped out torrents of blood, gathering beneath his feet. The primarch trampled through a river of blood and bone, his Lightning Claw raised above his head.

His eyes were crimson. Guilliman had killed dozens of Word Bearers. He shattered his enemies with Lightning Claw, bolter, and power fist. At that moment, he seemed like an invincible god of slaughter, delivering the punishment of betrayal upon the Word Bearers.

"Kill! Kill!"

A haze came over his ears. It felt as though something was watching him, applauding the slaughter he had wrought with his own hands.

His heart pounded madly. Guilliman felt his reason slowly receding, leaving behind only the bloody urge to tear every enemy apart.

The primarch raised his head and stared deeply at the galaxy's war-torn scene, as though he had sensed something.

Hill organized the battle-brothers into close combat against the Word Bearers. His exquisite swordsmanship, combined with the electromagnetic longsword he had taken from Guilliman's collection, cut down several Word Bearers. Their blood was utterly unlike that of the Ultramarines.

Darkened, rotten, and sickeningly viscous.

Hill and Gage guarded the primarch, refusing to let their gene-father, his emotions overcome, leave the range of his protectors.

At last, after the loss of more than a dozen Ultramarines, the assault force entered the dock's main control room. The enemy commander was right before them.