Chapter 39: Battle!

Tyberos nodded in silence, accepting Ramses' arrangements.

The Carcharodons dispersed with practiced discipline, silently pairing off with the ancient warriors who were as taciturn as themselves.

Nearby, Kahurangi carefully noted Ramses' words. He observed that this psyker master was obsessed with the number thirteen in all his actions, while making every effort to avoid the numbers six, seven, eight, and nine. He pondered briefly, deciding it would be necessary to suggest to Lord Tyberos later that the Carcharodon companies be reorganized into thirteen units, each consisting of one hundred and thirty Astartes.

"Akia, and Shar."

Tyberos swept his gaze across the room, locking onto the two least gregarious among them. "You two are not to go."

"Huh?"

Akia, who had been flexing his gauntlets in anticipation, froze, staring at the Chapter Master with astonishment. It was a classic form of Astartes-style bullying: leaving you behind when there was a fight to be had.

"My Lord!" Akia grew anxious, crossing the formation with incredible speed to stand before Tyberos.

"Two veterans from the First Company will take your place," Tyberos replied bluntly. "You have not yet learned to conceal your nature."

"..."

Akia felt a wave of chagrin. He had always taken pride in overcoming his instincts and refusing to let his lineage consume his self, never imagining that this very bloodline would now bar him from the battlefield.

"Let them follow me; I intend to make quite a scene regardless," Karna said gently. He had never been fond of wearing his helmet, and his pale, handsome face remained exposed to the artificial lights. To Akia, that countenance appeared nothing short of angelic. "Just remember: do not walk in front of me."

Akia and Shar nodded vigorously. Order of formation meant nothing to them; as long as there were xenos to slaughter, they were satisfied. The two First Company veterans who had just been relieved stepped back, visibly disappointed.

"Are you ready?" Arthur asked, facing the corridor submerged in shadows, as he activated the power field of his blade.

The Drukhari were clever; they had cut the power and sabotaged parts of the corridors to create a battlefield tailored to their preferences, all while avoiding pushing the Tech-Priest into a blind rage. They maintained a delicate threshold: the Archmagos merely wanted these pests removed, and the xenos preferred to achieve their goals without unnecessary bloodshed. This mutual compromise provided the travelers with ample time to prepare.

"Ready." Shaking the droplets of water from his hair, Romulus, feeling somewhat annoyed by the moisture, chose to don his helmet.

Ramses gestured theatrically toward the coffin, channeling the unique psychic suppression of a Slaaneshi daemon. "Do not gaze upon me."

In the psychic spectrum, a pink mist—unsettling even to behold—seeped from the cracks of the iron coffin. It was held in check by psychic pressure, contained within the patterns on the lid, where it brewed with lethal volatility. The corridor grew cold.

Immediately, holographic projections compiled by Romulus were precisely transmitted to every Carcharodon’s receiver, each showing a unique path for their specific sub-team.

"Karna, assault the core area to tear open the defensive gap and create an opening. Tyberos and Arthur, proceed at high speed along the routes I have provided; once you encounter the xenos Archon, disperse and neutralize their escort forces immediately. Each team, follow your designated paths. The veterans will use lasers to indicate enemy positions. Each team..."

Every warrior watched the data before them, listening to the voice in their ears. The time spent studying the Codex had not been in vain; tactical knowledge flashed through their minds, distilled into the brief, professional terminology transmitted to the ears of the Carcharodons who needed it. Such meticulous mission planning was both novel and strangely reassuring. In the past, the Carcharodons' command style had never been so disciplined. Usually, it was: target, location, slaughter—with the process left entirely to individual experience.

This was the first time Romulus had commanded in a real battle, but he felt little tension. He had his "wall-hacks," his simulations were complete, his domain skills debuffed the enemy's stats, and he had a detailed operational plan with real-time battlefield monitoring. Theoretically, as long as the three most powerful strike teams—led by Karna—tore three breaches as envisioned, allowing the subsequent teams to create local numerical superiority, they could annihilate the majority of the enemy's combat strength before they could even react.

The rest would be a simple matter of crushing the weak. As long as they didn't have catastrophic luck, Astartes could easily hammer these "Black Spines" in a lopsided engagement. Romulus trusted himself, he trusted his comrades, and he trusted the strength the Carcharodons had forged in seas of corpses and blood. All he had to do was point these killing machines toward their prey, arrange every detail of the battlefield, and imbue everyone with this unshakable confidence.

Because the warriors believed they were ancient heroes of war, they were, in this moment, exactly that.

"This is my first time commanding a battle of this nature. Allow me to witness your craft, let us learn from you, and I ask that you entrust your lives to my hands, without reservation."

Romulus's voice rang in the ear of every Carcharodon, as the shadows of the Warp veiled their souls from observation. There was no sound in the comms. He felt a profound calm.

The silence of the Carcharodons was like the ticking of a clock atop a high-explosive charge—the calm before the storm about to break from the gloomy sky. Within the closed chest of every warrior, those sharp fangs were grinding against one another.

This was the best possible answer. Romulus knew what these warriors wanted to hear, and he knew what he needed to bring them.

"Then let us move forward. I shall bring you victory, and the opportunity to offer yet another triumph to the Emperor."

Since he had chosen to take up this mantle, he would bear its weight. His voice was sonorous and powerful. "Show me if the Carcharodons are still as fierce in battle as their Terran ancestors."

A single sentence was enough to drive the morale of the team to its zenith. The blessed skull flickered, and the vital facilities at the stern of the craft were obscured by the steel structures collapsing from the other end of the vessel.

"For the blood of the holy Sanguinius!"

With a heroic roar, the dark angel took the lead, vanishing into the darkness with a speed that even an Angel of the Emperor would struggle to track, signaling the start of the assault. A formless, deep-pink psychic shockwave expanded, passing through the equally invisible Carcharodons.

*Hum—*

Chainswords whirred. Tyberos charged, shadows wrapping around him, rendering the sprint of his hulking frame utterly silent.

Over a hundred warriors breached the shadows in unison, guided by their routes, their eyes—overlaid with deep, endless darkness—flaring with a terrifying, deathly pallor.

He would let them slaughter the enemy in the swiftest, bloodiest manner possible to reclaim victory. And this time, they were not merely fighting for survival, nor simply to eradicate their foes.

They were proving to the ancient one, who had been absent from this galaxy for ten thousand years, that they possessed the capability to defend humanity from the endless evils that surrounded it.