"Clean them up."
Atia tilted his head slightly, his voice as flat as if he were talking about something trivial.
With a gentle wave of the staff, the crystal at the tip of the staff burst forth with a faint blue light.
The nine Great Rift at the edge of the domain instantly became extremely bright.
The first to emerge from the rift were Thousand Sons Sorcerer clad in blue-gold Power Armour.
They were slightly thinner, and their helmets were similar in style to those of Atia, except that the number of eye patterns on their cloaks decreased, and their staffs were also simpler in design.
The nine people stood in nine different positions, forming a complete magical formation.
Following closely behind were ninety-nine Rubric Marines.
They stepped out of the rift with perfectly synchronized steps, the sounds of their Power Armour colliding echoing in unison, a dull thud like drumbeats striking the heart.
Unlike ordinary Chaos Space Marine, their armor gaps did not leak flesh or blood, nor did they show any signs of breathing, or even the most basic vital signs.
Within the slits of the helmet's eye sockets, only a ghostly blue flame of the soul burned silently.
The curse of the Rubric spell had already completely destroyed their bodies.
Their souls were forever imprisoned within their Power Armour, losing their senses and all that remained was the purest fighting instinct and absolute obedience to the wizard's commands.
They are living dead, war machines bound by witchcraft.
As long as the wizard who commands them is alive, even if their armor is completely shattered, their soul can be recalled, infused into new armor, and they can be thrown back into the battlefield.
To fight until death.
Behind the ranks of the Rubric Marines, nine even more imposing figures slowly stepped out.
The Scarab Occult Terminators.
The heavy Terminator Armour was covered with Canoptek Scarabs patterns, with broad shoulder armor and powerful sorcery weapons mounted on both arms.
They are the elite melee units of the Thousand Sons, and within each Terminator Armour lies the soul of a former veteran of the legion.
Compared to ordinary Rubric Marines, they are stronger, more durable, and more deadly.
Ninety-nine Rubric Marines, nine Scarab Occult Terminators, and nine wizards leading the team.
This force is enough to destroy an entire Imperial Guard.
But that's not all.
From the depths of the nine rifts came a series of sharp whistles and roars.
Necrontyr floated out, chattering and laughing strangely, their fingertips dancing with arcane flames.
The Flamer streaked across the sky, leaving a burning trail in its wake, distorting and deforming the air wherever it passed.
Screamers of Tzeentch roared out on his disc-shaped flying machine, his eerie laughter sending shivers down one's spine.
On the ground, countless Chaos Cultist poured out along the cracks.
They wore all sorts of colorful clothes, their faces painted with the runes of the Lord of Change, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism, and they held weapons ranging from Lasgun to rusty daggers.
They were all servants of the Thousand Sons, either from the Warp or enslaved by corrupted planets.
Demons and believers mingled together, like two tides of different colors, continuously surging out through the nine fissures.
Their numbers grew rapidly, quickly filling most of the Warp Domain, stretching as far as the eye could see.
This is Atia's Supreme Thrallband.
This was the entire force he brought this time, used to "clear out the clutter".
Outside the area, Commander William watched as enemy troops poured out of the rift, veins bulging on his forehead.
He had seen Orks tides and Plague Zombie of the Nurgle, but he had never seen such a dense and clearly layered army of Chaos.
The front row consisted of fearless cannon fodder believers and Chaos Spawn; the middle row was filled with relentless Rubric Marines; the back row was filled with unpredictable wizards; and above them hovered demon units.
This is a war.
A war that, if not handled carefully, could bury the entire Hive City.
"All units," Commander William took a deep breath, pressed the communication button, and spoke in a calm voice as if he were conducting a routine exercise.
"Fire at will once the target enters firing range."
"For the Emperor."
"For Brevis."
On the battlefield, all the soldiers gripped their weapons at the same time.
The cannon muzzle slowly rose, the explosive shell was chambered, and the sacred flame was ignited.
No one spoke, but everyone's eyes were saying the same thing.
Fight to the Death.
The edges of the Warp Domain are constantly writhing, gradually gnawing at the boundaries of the real world.
Nine fissures spewed out multicolored Chaos energy, splashing the pungent smell of sulfur and witchcraft onto the industrial districts of Midtown.
Commander William stared at the constantly moving figures deep within the territory until the first wave of enemy troops stepped out of the shadows of the rift, finally revealing the true nature of this Pauper Princes.
Leading the charge were not the ragged, fanatical followers of the Lower City, but a group of barbarian warriors clad in heavy animal hide armor, wielding runic battleaxes and two-handed hammers.
They averaged over two meters tall, with pale white exposed skin and muscles as muscular as rocks.
His face was covered with dense, Chaos tattoos, and pale blue sorcery flames flickered in his eye sockets.
" The Norsac People..." Bishop Jensen murmured the name, his heart sinking. He had seen records of this barbarian tribe in the Departmento Munitorum archives.
This was a very obscure piece of knowledge, but he still remembered it.
Planet Norsac is a savage world on the edge of the Segmentum Obscurus, where humans have evolved superhuman physique and ferocity in extreme environments.
Unlike most human planets that worship Emperor.
The Norsac People have worshipped the Chaos Gods for generations, and the fighting between tribes has never stopped.
Only the fiercest warriors of each tribe are qualified to be recruited by the passing Thousand Sons War Gang to become the wizards' personal attendants.
These people are not bewitched civilians; they are born Butcher, war machines raised in the power of Chaos.
Among them, a dozen or so warriors, draped in black feather cloaks and wearing bone helmets, exuded a terrifying aura, their axe blades wreathed in pale blue arcane flames.
That was the Nosak Champion, Tzeentch Chaos Warrior capable of facing off against the Space Marine.
Walking alongside them were rows of distorted, Chaos Spawn.
These mindless monsters, which should have been synonymous with chaos, were controlled by the Mark of the Servants and the wizards behind them.
They walked steadily at the forefront of the line, their massive bodies acting as moving shields of flesh and blood, perfectly concealing the Nosak warriors behind them.
Their bodies wriggled and deformed constantly, sometimes bulging out a thick layer of keratin, sometimes splitting off extra limbs, as they pressed closer with heavy steps.
Even more chilling was the eerie blue aura that enveloped the entire army.
That was a deflected realm woven by Tzeentch sorcery.
An invisible energy, like flowing water, enveloped every unit, causing long-range projectiles to deviate from their trajectories in strange ways.
"Full fire!" William swung his arm down sharply, and all the cannons on the position roared in unison.
High-explosive shells, trailing fiery exhaust, crashed into the charging ranks; Melta rays tore through the air; and purifying bombs rained down like a storm.
The expected carnage did not materialize; most of the shells deviated from their course upon contact with the eerie blue halo.
It will either fly past the body of the Chaos Spawn or detonate prematurely in mid-air.
A few shells that hit their mark struck the bloated body of the Chaos Spawn, exploding into clouds of blood mist and revealing the twisted bones and organs beneath.
Before the wound could spread, several Norsak wizards at the back of the group raised their bone staffs.
He chanted obscure incantations, and pale green healing beams of light fell one after another on the injured Chaos Spawn.
Those wounds that would have blasted an ordinary human to shreds were healing at a speed visible to the naked eye, with new granulation tissue rolling over to cover the wounds, and even severed limbs growing back.
"Damn it! They have Psyker too!" The artillerymen in the front row roared as they reloaded, but cold sweat was already beading on their foreheads.
Their firepower advantage has vanished.
The defending forces were already at a significant numerical disadvantage, relying entirely on heavy firepower and terrain to hold their ground. Now, their long-range firepower has been reduced by more than half.
The only tank that can be hit, the Chaos Spawn, can also be continuously healed. With this shift in power, the pressure on the position instantly multiplied several times over.