With a bolter shot echoing through the hallway, the Plague Marine's head exploded, killing it instantly.
"Where's the coward!?" another Plague Marine snarled, firing his bolter wildly into the darkness.
A second shot cracked from the shadows.
The bolt struck him in the face. It did not kill him—but it tore half his head apart in a violent spray of blood and rotten flesh.
"AAAHHH!" he screamed, staggering as he fired blindly down the corridor. "Come out! Come out and face my wrath!"
"Enough!" another Plague Marine barked, peering into the darkness, trying to locate the hidden shooter. "Control yourself, if you do not wish to return to the pot."
"How can I not!?" the wounded warrior roared, turning toward him violently. "I have lost my entire squad because of this coward… because this coward cannot understand the mercy of the Great Father!"
But before he could continue—
A sudden barrage of bolt rounds tore out of the darkness.
Explosive shells slammed into the Plague Marines. One was knocked off his feet as his chestplate detonated in a shower of corroded ceramite. Another staggered as bolts hammered into his shoulder and abdomen.
Then the shooters stepped forward.
A lone figure emerged from the shadows.
His armor resembled an old Mk IV pattern, but it was smaller—lacking the full bulk of true Astartes plate, and missing the heavy backpack power unit. It marked him clearly for what he was.
A Neophyte.
"The patrol is eliminated," he said calmly into his vox. "Five traitors and approximately twenty plague zombies."
As he spoke, one of the wounded Plague Marines forced himself upright. The corrupted giant stared at the figure with a mixture of rage and disbelief.
"You are no Astartes," the Plague Marine growled. "You are only a Neophyte."
The young warrior raised his head slowly.
In each hand was a grenade.
"Yes," he replied in the same emotionless tone. "And now both of you will burn."
He pulled the pins with a sharp metallic ding.
Then he threw them.
The grenades detonated a heartbeat later.
Silver fire erupted across the corridor.
Phospex flames clung to everything they touched—armor, flesh, even the corrupted fluids leaking from the Plague Marines' wounds. The fire spread hungrily, crawling over the bodies like living mercury.
The two traitors screamed as the alchemical flame devoured them, burning through ceramite and diseased flesh alike.
Within seconds the corridor was an inferno of pale, crawling fire.
The Neophyte watched until the screams stopped.
Then he keyed his vox again.
"I have expended four phospex grenades," he reported calmly. "All plague-corrupted bodies have been purged."
"Good," a voice replied through the channel. "Continue your patrol. Ensure the sector is clear of any remaining traitors."
"Your will," the Neophyte said.
Without another word, he disappeared back into the darkness.
===
Far above the fighting, inside the tactical chamber aboard the Victory-class Battleship serving as the flagship of the Battlefleet Camelarion vanguard, two Astartes stood before a massive hololithic projector.
Multiple tactical windows floated in the air, each displaying feeds from helmet lenses and internal sensors—Neophyte patrols, Voidsmen defensive lines, and Sororitas kill teams battling through the ship's corridors.
"It seems the faith placed in the boy was not wasted," one of the Astartes said.
"Killing five traitor marines alone is a feat few Neophytes should accomplish."
"Supreme Grand Master himself visited the training complex after we submitted our report on him," the other replied.
"Indeed."
The first Astartes watched the tactical feed as the Neophyte's icon disappeared into another corridor.
"If he survives this battle, I suspect he will soon join our ranks."
"Perhaps," the second said. "Though I suspect he will first serve within the reconnaissance cadres rather than any full battle company."
"My lords," a naval officer suddenly spoke from behind them, urgency in his voice. "The auspex has detected a teleport strike directly into the engine chamber."
Both Astartes immediately turned back to the hololithic display. With a gesture, one of them enlarged the feed for the engine chamber.
The image resolved.
True to the officer's report, five Blightlords had materialized inside the chamber. The towering plague Terminators advanced relentlessly through the machinery halls, their massive frames shrugging off lasfire as the Voidsmen desperately tried to hold the defensive line.
One Voidsman was swatted aside by a rusted power axe. Another vanished in a burst of gore as a combi-bolter fired point-blank.
The first Astartes turned his head toward the second, about to speak—
But the other was already moving.
"I know," the second Astartes said simply.
Without another word, he activated his vox.
"Squad, we are advancing toward the engine chamber," he said as he strode out of the tactical chamber. "Regroup at Junction-87."
"Affirmative," several voices replied over the channel.
The Astartes marched down the corridor with heavy, deliberate steps, servo-motors in his armor humming softly. Around him, naval officers and crew quickly stepped aside, pressing themselves against the bulkheads to clear his path.
On the vox, status reports began coming in one after another.
"Brother Cassian approaching Junction-87."
"Brother Talor two corridors away."
"Heavy weapons team en route."
"Understood," the Astartes replied calmly. "Make haste. The traitors are already inside the engine chamber."
Behind him, inside the tactical chamber, the first Astartes continued watching the hololithic display.
On the enlarged feed, the five Blightlords were carving their way through the defenders. Voidsmen fell one after another as the corrupted Terminators advanced steadily toward the massive plasma drive cores.
"Engine Chamber defense collapsing," a naval officer reported nervously.
Then, on the feed, the once ten-squad-strong Voidsmen force had been reduced to only two battered squads. Bodies lay scattered across the deck plating, weapons still clutched in lifeless hands.
Seeing the situation—and understanding the importance of their mission—two Voidsmen suddenly broke from the line.
They charged straight toward the traitors.
"Wait—what are they doing?" one officer whispered.
The two men ran through a storm of bolter fire, weaving past fallen comrades and shattered machinery. One of the Blightlords raised his combi-bolter and fired.
The first Voidsman was torn apart mid-stride.
The second kept running.
Seconds before the Blightlord's power axe could fall—
An explosion ripped through the chamber.
A massive fireball engulfed the nearest plague Terminator, blasting armor fragments and diseased flesh across the deck. The shockwave threw two other Blightlords off balance, forcing them to stagger backward.
"Detonation detected!" the auspex officer shouted. "melta bomb."
On the hololithic display, the surviving Voidsmen used the momentary chaos to fall back toward the final defensive barricade surrounding the plasma drives.
The Astartes watching the feed narrowed his eyes.
"Brave men," he said quietly.
But the explosion had not destroyed the enemy.
Through the thick smoke and drifting debris, the remaining four Blightlords continued forward. Their armor was scorched and pitted, but they showed no hesitation, no concern for the fate of their fallen brother.
They simply stepped over the burning remains.
Bolter fire erupted again. One of the Blightlords raised his combi-bolter and fired into the retreating defenders, the explosive rounds tearing through the barricade and the Voidsmen behind it.
Another lifted a rusted manreaper scythe and swung once.
The barricade collapsed.
On the hololith, the two remaining squads were now pressed against the final bulkhead protecting the plasma drives.
Suddenly, one of the Blightlords was struck by a blast of superheated energy. A plasma bolt slammed into his left shoulder, detonating in a flash of white-blue light.
The limb vanished in an instant.
Molten ceramite and corrupted flesh sprayed across the chamber as the massive arm was torn completely away.
The Blightlord staggered, letting out a distorted roar.
All four traitors turned toward the source of the shot.
Through the smoke and flickering firelight, a new force stepped into the engine chamber.
Ten Astartes.
They advanced in disciplined formation. Eight bolters thundered continuously, explosive rounds slamming into the Blightlords and hammering their diseased armor. Each impact burst against corroded ceramite, chipping away fragments and forcing the traitors to slow their advance.
Behind the firing line, two Astartes carrying plasma guns raised their weapons.
The coils whined as the weapons charged, glowing brighter with each passing second.
One of the Blightlords lifted his combi-bolter and fired back, the explosive rounds detonating against the loyalists' armor. One bolt struck an Astartes squarely in the chest, the ceramite shatter and he drop down to the floor as the plague upon the bolt round immediatly begin to killing him.
"Fire," the Sergeant, the Astartes who had left the tactical chamber said without caring his men that just fall down to the floor.
Two blinding lances of plasma erupted across the chamber.
The first shot struck the already-wounded Blightlord, the blast punching straight through his torso and detonating out his back in a spray of molten armor and corrupted flesh. The massive traitor collapsed heavily onto the deck.
The second shot struck another square in the chest, the superheated blast burning through layers of diseased ceramite and forcing the plague Terminator to stumble backward.
Still, the remaining traitors did not retreat.
One of the Blightlords began to charge forward with the other two, raising his massive manreaper scythe.
"More corpses to feed the garden," the corrupted traitor growled.
The Dark Knights did not step back.
Eight of them continued advancing while firing controlled bursts from their bolters. Behind them, the two plasma gunners fired again, the glowing coils discharging another pair of searing blasts toward the charging Terminators.
At the same time, the Dark Knights began drawing their melee weapons.
The Sergeant pulled a power axe from his belt, the weapon crackling to life with a low electric hum. The other battle-brothers drew chainswords, their teeth roaring as the motors engaged.
They kept firing as they prepared for the inevitable clash.
The Dark Knights knew well that close combat with the warriors of the Death Guard—or any traitor Astartes devoted to Nurgle—was rarely advantageous. Their corrupted bodies could endure wounds that would cripple normal warriors, and their diseased resilience made them terrifying opponents in prolonged melee.
So the squad continued pouring fire into them, attempting to weaken the traitors before the distance closed.
Bolter shells detonated across the Blightlords' armor. One round punched into a cracked shoulder plate and exploded, tearing away a chunk of diseased ceramite. Another blast struck a helmet, forcing the giant to stagger but not fall.
Still they came.
Heavy boots slammed against the deck as the corrupted Terminators charged through the storm of fire.
The distance between them was shrinking rapidly.
In seconds, the engine chamber would become a battlefield of roaring chainswords and rusted scythes.
A Blightlord swung his massive manreaper scythe in a wide arc. The rusted blade cut through the air with terrifying force. One Dark Knight tried to parry with his chainsword, but the impact was overwhelming.
The scythe tore through the weapon and into the Marine's chest.
He was hurled backward, armor split open as he crashed heavily onto the deck.
At the same moment, another Blightlord smashed forward with a plague-encrusted power fist. The blow struck a Dark Knight square in the torso. The loyalist's armor buckled inward as he was driven into the bulkhead with crushing force.
His body slid lifelessly to the floor.
"Hold the line!" the Sergeant roared.
His power axe crackled as he swung it into the knee joint of the nearest Blightlord. The energized blade bit deep, shearing through corroded ceramite and rupturing the swollen flesh beneath.
The traitor staggered.
Chainswords howled as the other Dark Knights pressed the attack. One Marine leapt forward, driving his revving blade into the exposed joint of the wounded Blightlord's armor.
The weapon chewed through metal and bone.
With a heavy crash, the first Blightlord finally collapsed.
But the remaining two were still unstoppable.
One of them brought his scythe down in a brutal overhead strike. The blade smashed into another Dark Knight's shoulder, carving straight through the armor and burying itself deep into his chest.
The Marine fell instantly.
The last Blightlord barreled forward like a living tank, shrugging off chainsword strikes as he drove his power fist into another Dark Knight. The impact shattered the loyalist's breastplate and crushed him to the ground.
Four Dark Knights now lay dead across the engine chamber floor.
But the traitors were not untouched.
The two plasma gunners had stepped back during the melee, waiting for a clear shot.
"Clear!" one of the brothers shouted.
Both plasma guns fired at once.
Twin blasts of incandescent energy struck the remaining Blightlords at point-blank range. One was hit square in the chest, the blast burning through his armor and detonating inside his corrupted torso.
The giant exploded apart in a storm of molten ceramite and diseased flesh.
The last Blightlord staggered as the second plasma bolt struck his side, burning a massive hole through his armor.
Before he could recover—
The Sergeant charged.
With a roar, he swung his power axe in a two-handed strike.
The energized blade cut through the weakened armor at the traitor's neck.
The head of the Blightlord separated from its body and crashed heavily onto the deck.
For a moment, the chamber fell silent.
Five Dark Knights remained standing.
Around them lay four fallen brothers—and the smoking corpses of the Blightlords.
The Sergeant slowly lowered his axe.
"Engine chamber secured," he said into the vox, his voice steady despite the carnage.
"And send an Apothecary down here," he added, glancing at the battle-brother slumped on the floor, one hand pressed against the cracked plate of his chest armor. Smoke still curled from the impact mark where the bolt had struck.
"One of my men is wounded," the Sergeant continued. "Possible internal damage. The Apothecary will need to retrieve the Gene-seed as well."