"What a perfectly loyal combination. Now we'll see how they perform in real combat…"
Eden watched the Legion of the Damned Genestealers he had created, thoroughly satisfied.
There had been a small mishap during the creation process—he couldn't use human souls—but he still completed the build using Genestealer souls instead.
After all, aside from Genestealer Patriarchs, most Genestealers were originally transformed from humans. They were humans whose minds and wills had been seized by the Tyranids, yet they still retained lingering remnants of a soul.
That made them usable as "material," letting him take a roundabout route to shape damned warriors—and, better yet, they were easier to control.
These warp-lifeforms cobbled together from Genestealer souls had almost no drawbacks beyond being a bit dimmer and a bit more expensive to sustain.
The damned Genestealers howled "WAA-WAA!" as they charged, their assault savage and unrelenting.
Their heavy bodies made the metal deck quake, their unstoppable momentum crushing down on the cathedral line.
"Throne above!"
"What heresy!"
"They should be burned to ash by holy flame!"
On the other side of the line, the Rift Lords and the Frateris Crusade were having an absolutely miserable experience watching that charge come in.
Their formation even wobbled into disorder for a moment. They simply didn't know how to treat an army that was this wrong—this alien, this heretical, this impossible.
Their worldview had been shattered, and they hadn't even processed it yet—
Imagine this. Just imagine.
A pack of four-meter-tall Genestealers in golden Aquila heavy armor, decorated with sacred skulls, carrying bolters, chainswords, and even Eldar weapons, screaming like Orks as they barrel toward you.
What do you do?
And what if their vox-grilles were blasting Imperial hymns while they shouted, at the top of their lungs, "Loyalty!"?
That was exactly what the Rift Lords and the crusaders were facing—at point-blank range.
From appearance to full charge, it took only a few seconds.
Any normal Imperial human seeing something this alien and heretical would have their brainstem short out on the spot.
Especially when some of those Genestealers flapped their wings like Living Saints or holy angels, took to the air, and erupted in literal holy light.
"If you didn't know any better… you'd think we were the heretics."
That thought flashed, uninvited, through the minds of the Rift Lords in the front rank as they stared at the thick, four-armed golden "corn-cobs" hovering overhead.
"Lock shields!"
At last, the company captain's order snapped through the vox. The front line slammed storm shields into the deck plating, bracing them with their bodies.
They raised wall after wall of shields.
KRAK—
Behind those walls, more Rift Lords hefted heavy bolters. The guns chattered like war-drums, ammunition belts rattling as they fed into the receivers.
"Today. Here. Not one step back!"
A captain stepped onto the shieldwall, power sword blazing as he raised it high and bellowed his oath.
The battle-brothers answered with a low, furious roar.
"Not one step back!"
No matter what, the Rift Lords had to protect the cathedral, to keep these xenos from defiling the God-Emperor's holy ground.
Otherwise their sins would only deepen.
"The Rift Lords are good at defense… Can my damned Genestealers really break that?"
Eden watched the battlefield. When he saw the cathedral's response, some of his confidence drained away.
His Legion of the Damned was a bootleg patchwork, not like the Emperor's—picked from countless mighty warrior souls, refined and selected again and again.
If the damned Genestealers lost their first battle, the losses would be horrific. It would mean the entire authority-system he'd built had veered off course.
And if that happened, trying again would cost him an absurd price.
"Please don't be useless. At least punch through those few—"
Eden was mid-thought when a thunderous impact yanked his attention away.
In his vision, the Rift Lords captain responsible for the defense got hurled into the air, smashed into a distant statue, and sent it crashing down.
Eden's lips split into a grin.
Solid.
On the cathedral square line, the battle-brothers bracing the shieldwall immediately buckled under crushing pressure.
The damned Genestealers' superheavy mass turned their charge into something like an industrial battering ram. They slammed forward like runaway freight, not even pretending to care whether they'd be hurt.
As warp-life, physical damage meant far less to them, and pain meant nothing at all.
After only a handful of impacts, they flipped the Rift Lords' shieldwall.
Then the damned Genestealers didn't pause for a second. They pushed through the firestorm and drove straight toward the cathedral.
Their target was the Archbishop.
Slaughtering the Rift Lords—a penitent chapter—had little meaning. Eden didn't want to do that.
For the Rift Lords, those alien heretic Genestealers were pure nightmare.
Their strength couldn't stop that collision. A single sweep of four thick arms could knock Astartes off their feet and send them flying.
"Die, xenos!"
A Rift Lord braced his bolter and went full-auto at what was clearly a leader unit—an alien Genestealer nearly five meters tall.
He fired until the magazine ran dry.
He still couldn't pierce the blasphemous heavy armor that bore an Aquila on its chest.
Even krak grenades only left superficial scratches.
The battle-brother pulled his last melta bomb, ready to throw himself in for a final sacrifice.
But the Genestealer's long tail was impossibly precise. It whipped the melta bomb right out of his hand.
Then a huge maw packed with fangs lunged close, and a thunderclap roar detonated point-blank.
The battle-brother almost blacked out from the sonic burst. Worse, saliva sprayed from that maw, splattering across his armor. His legs went soft and he dropped to one knee.
"Loyalty!"
The damned Genestealer leader snorted, ignored the kneeling Rift Lord, and strode past him, tail swaying.
When the battle-brother finally regained his senses, shame flooded him so hard it made him shake. He had feared the xenos. He had stained the will of his chapter.
"Make a cairn of bone. Make a fire of souls!"
He drew a monomolecular blade, trying to rise and fight again—only for the stench of blood to slam into him.
Flayed Ones.
Those vile Necron xenos had waited for this moment. While the Genestealers charged, they struck from the shadows, ambushing the Rift Lords.
The battle-brother had no room left to dodge.
He could only watch as blood-red talons stabbed straight toward his skull.
SCHLK—
The talons stopped in midair.
So did their owner.
The living-metal creature had already been skewered through by a Genestealer bio-spike.
The follow-up hit tore the Flayed One clean in half, and the two pieces clanged to the deck.
The Genestealer leader hooked half the Flayed One's body with his tail, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed twice—then spat it out.
Too hard.
His tiny eyes were full of disgust, like he was saying it tasted terrible.
Then the damned Genestealer leader whipped aside the Flayed Ones in his path and led his pack onward, accelerating as they charged for the cathedral.
They fully breached a defensive line nearly a kilometer wide.
"Damn… the damned Genestealers are even stronger than I expected. The heavy hitters are almost Custodes-tier, and the leader unit is comparable to the Emperor's damned warriors."
Eden tallied the results, exhilarated.
He had succeeded. He had created his own warp-army.
Even if it wasn't as strong overall as the Emperor's Legion of the Damned, it didn't matter.
The Chaos Gods favored pure mass. The Emperor favored a razor-edged elite: every damned warrior was elite among elites.
Bare minimum, they were veterans of ten thousand battles.
Eden's Savior Legion of the Damned sat somewhere between the two extremes, balancing quantity and quality.
One high-tier elite leading a larger number of "standard" damned Genestealers.
That compressed the faith-consumption cost, and made the force flexible across more battlefield scenarios.
"Stop them! Stop them!"
A Rift Lords captain roared, trying to organize a new line—trying to pull brothers out of the encirclement and buy them time.
But the moment he got the line moving, the chapter master's order came through.
The Archbishop had issued a retreat command.
All Rift Lords who could return were to fall back into the cathedral and protect the priests.
Those alien heretic Genestealers were too cunning. Without anyone noticing, they had already penetrated into the cathedral's most critical combat zone.
"My lord, our brothers are still outside under xenos threat. Give me a little more time—"
The captain's voice was tight with helpless fury as he pleaded.
He knew the cathedral's defenses could hold long enough for him to cover the withdrawal of the brothers still out on the square.
But the Archbishop was panicking. The Genestealers hadn't even reached the cathedral's defensive perimeter, and already he was willing to abandon the warriors outside.
That would only make the next defensive phase harder.
Ansemor's mood was terrible, exhaustion carved deep into his voice.
"Captain, I understand how you feel."
"But the Archbishop has decided to carry out indiscriminate bombardment on the area occupied by the Genestealers."
"If you don't return, the losses will be even greater."
The chapter master knew the Archbishop had lost his nerve, and he knew the plan was idiotic—but he had no way to stop it.
The cathedral's control rested in that man's hands. In truth, if Ansemor hadn't argued for even this delay, the bombardment would already have begun.
"That sacrifice can't be avoided." Ansemor's tone turned hard, grief buried under steel. "This is an order. You can't let the chapter bleed any more."
"As you command, my lord."
The captain went numb.
He accepted the order and stopped speaking, carrying it out in dead silence.
They fell back toward the cathedral, leaving more brothers outside—inside the zone that was about to be wiped clean.
They couldn't even warn them.
If they did, the Genestealers would learn the bombardment was coming too, and the situation would spiral even worse.
On the cathedral's lavish dais—
"Our warriors are withdrawing. They'll retreat into the cathedral and form a defensive line."
Ansemor turned to face the Archbishop—Freckbo, the Great Preacher—his entire body radiating resistance and fury.
But he could do nothing.
He could only obey.
Any disobedience could be labeled betrayal of the Imperium and the Emperor's faith.
A penitent chapter like the Rift Lords could not bear another stain of rebellion.
Sometimes, this was simply the reality for the Emperor's angels—the Space Marines.
Their status was that low.
They could be treated as disposable.
And they could only accept it.
Freckbo stared at the distant battlefield, not caring in the slightest about the chapter master's anger.
He knew Ansemor couldn't defy faith, and couldn't defy his will.
The Archbishop fixed his gaze on the golden-armored xenos. He still didn't know what they were—
But their power made him fear them.
And he knew their target was likely him.
No matter the cost, they could not be allowed to get close to the cathedral.
Freckbo smiled faintly and gave his command.
"Prepare the bombardment. Destroy those lowly xenos. Let them die in the Emperor's judging flame."
"And our loyal warriors… shall return to the Throne."
Freckbo knew that waiting longer would save more warriors.
He simply didn't want to.
He wanted the damned Genestealers dead as soon as possible so he could free his hands and go slaughter the human heretics of Fanes.
Ansemor heard the order and fought to suppress the tremor in his body and the rage in his chest.
He could hear gears grinding.
Weapons mounted within the cathedral were powering up.
They would kill Rift Lords battle-brothers—along with the Genestealer xenos.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM—
Defensive weapon arrays extending from the cathedral unleashed dense heavy fire into the square.
On the square—
The damned Genestealers, the Flayed Ones, and the human forces all froze as the incoming barrage screamed down.
Under that lethal pressure, living things instinctively reached for any chance to survive.
The Rift Lords felt despair.
They couldn't understand why the Imperium was firing on them—without warning, without notice.
It was humiliation.
The Imperium, the Third Diocese, was questioning their courage and loyalty.
If the Imperium required them to hold the xenos inside the bombardment zone—if it required them to die—they would have done it.
But now they would die without honor, erased by supersonic fire.
"Hah…"
"The Ecclesiarchy vermin are even more cowardly—and more decisive—than I thought. They didn't even hesitate. Straight to a firestorm cleanse."
Eden watched the burning square, frowning hard.
He worried about the Rift Lords.
And he wasn't worried about the damned Genestealers at all—these kinds of physical attacks struggled to kill them.
That was the Legion of the Damned's strength, and it was why the Emperor could always support the Imperium on the most lethal battlefields.
Otherwise, no army in existence could afford the attrition.
The cathedral bombardment was savage, unconcerned, indiscriminate.
Even if it damaged the flagship's own structure, they didn't care.
This command ship was merely one piece of the Great Preacher's "property."
The wealth of the Ecclesiarchy was obvious.
They were not much poorer than the Mechanicus, even with its forge worlds.
Those high-powered weapons should have been enough to kill Space Marines, Flayed Ones, and those bizarre Genestealer xenos inside the blast zone.
But it still wasn't enough.
Row after row of Penitent Engines and Mortifiers surged up from beneath the cathedral, forming an even stronger defensive line—
to stop any surviving xenos from reaching the cathedral.
These frenzied constructs were, in raw combat power, hardly inferior to the Rift Lords themselves.
Freckbo, a high-ranking Imperial figure, always kept the strongest and most controllable violence close at hand—locked around his own life.
No matter what, he would not deploy those guards outward.
Even if it meant every Space Marine and crusader outside died to the last.
"Crude. Savage. Sinful."
"In the end, none of it can stand against pure holiness…"
The Archbishop watched his newly formed defenses and regained his holy, noble posture.
He looked down on the square with contempt.
The lowly xenos could no longer threaten him.
"How is that possible…"
But when Freckbo finally saw the square clearly, his face drained white, and his composure shattered.
Those bizarre Genestealers were still alive.
The bombardment couldn't destroy them at all.
Even more incomprehensible—
Those bizarre Genestealers had actively shielded the barrage, letting more Imperial warriors survive.
Ansemor and the Rift Lords who had been drowning in grief stared at the scene, and joy rose involuntarily in their chests.
Their brothers had lived.
"For the Emperor!"
Suddenly, the damned Genestealers roared in surging fervor, exploding with even more holy light and even more battlefield power.
They accelerated, launching their final charge toward the cathedral.
???
Ansemor and the Rift Lords stared at the charging four-armed golden "corn-cobs," their emotions turning even more tangled and confused.
Somehow… those bizarre Genestealers looked even more loyal than the Imperials.
The world was becoming harder and harder to understand.
Maybe this was the Lord of Fate's deception?
"Stop those lowly xenos at any cost!"
Freckbo's face twisted with terror. After shouting the order, he turned and hurried deeper into the cathedral.
He intended to withdraw from the flagship, then destroy the ship entirely, then lead his fleet back to the Third Diocese capital.
This heretical star system was no longer safe.
It threatened his precious life—and nothing was more precious than the life of an Archbishop.
"God-Emperor above…"
For some reason, when Freckbo reached the area before the Emperor's statue, he stopped.
Rarely did he look up at the stone idol like this.
His expression turned devout, even reverent.
He felt a holy power descending—power that belonged to the Emperor.
Hundreds of years ago, when he had been a lowly priest, he had witnessed that holiness with his own eyes.
Back then, young Freckbo had nearly died while guiding the Emperor's holy warriors—black armor, wreathed in flame.
It was that experience, that touch of the Emperor's favor, that gave him opportunity within the Third Diocese—
until he finally became the bishop who ruled the diocese.
"By the God-Emperor alone do we endure; beneath His shelter do all souls abide!"
Freckbo prayed with a beaming smile.
The God-Emperor had favored him again.
What fortune.
He dropped to his knees in an exaggerated pose, begging for the God-Emperor's protection—his backside practically sticking up toward the ceiling.
So devout.
So pitiably humble.
He desperately wanted to see the black armor and burning flame of the Emperor's holy host again.
Then—
Holy light blazed.
The Emperor's Legion of the Damned arrived, still bearing an advantage no enemy could match.
Burning in silent flame, they marched toward the dais.
"I'm a preacher born to lead."
"Even that great being is assisting my will!"
Freckbo was so excited he could barely breathe. He rose and followed behind the Legion of the Damned, forgetting his plan to flee.
He couldn't run under that being's gaze—bare naked in his cowardice.
More importantly, he wanted to witness the holy host slaughter those lowly xenos with his own eyes.
No enemy could withstand those warriors.
But the instant Freckbo stepped back onto the dais, a violent barrage erupted.
"No—why?!"
He saw it, and his legs went weak.
The holy host had opened fire on his Penitent Engines and Mortifiers.
Why would that being attack the Imperium?!
(End of Chapter)
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