When the first Randan battleship finally tore through the veil of Mandeville Point, Morgan's will echoed throughout the Tacus System.
Her soul and mind transformed into a ravenous demonic dragon in the endless void, grasping the cosmos in her hands in an instant with the power granted by her talent and plunder.
Her breath became the gentle breeze caressing every world, her eyes like scattered meteors observing every corner. She whispered softly, and her words in a fleeting moment twisted into an invisible rain of arrows, piercing through the mists raised by the Randan tide, enveloping the entire system, the vast Imperial fleet, and countless warships and steel engines under her protection and dominion.
When she slightly relaxed, allowing her thoughts to burst forth like flickering sparks, from the brightest center illuminated by the sun to the darkest corners with scarcely a ray of light, every Astropath and Comms Officer on every battleship felt a momentary suppression and tremor, as if a rabbit with drooping ears was hiding in the grass, shivering at the heavy breathing of a passing tiger.
Every Astropath and Comms Officer at every critical position found it quite strange. They either stroked their third eye or skeptically tapped their communication devices: for just after that faint, ethereal chuckle, the chaotic elements in the void were swept clean.
Communication between battleships became unprecedentedly clear and swift. Every command, every word, even every syllable, could easily traverse the distance between worlds and the void, appearing clearly in the ears and minds of the receivers.
While the Psykers belonging to the Eighteenth Legion and the Mortal Fleet were still greatly astonished by this, the warriors from the Dark Angels Legion were already accustomed to it.
Under their timely reminders and admonitions, the entire Imperial Grand Fleet once again operated at full capacity. This time, their rhythm had a visible improvement, and the unprecedented communication environment plunged all public communication platforms into a flurry of activity.
"What is this?"
Ultimately, some Sons of Vulkan couldn't suppress their curiosity and asked a nearby Dark Angel. The Son of Jonson merely brushed dust from his armor, tilting his head.
"Ah, that should be Lady Morgana, also known as the [Soul Drinker]."
"There's no need to be surprised by this. Nothing she does will surprise us. To fight alongside her is a fortunate and memorable thing; she always brings victory."
"...Oh, right. If you encounter her in the upcoming battle and she asks you to do something, try your best to comply. If you absolutely cannot leave your combat post, contact the First Legion, and we will execute it."
The Dark Angel named Zahariel rubbed his neck, answering his dark-skinned ally, and the Son of Vulkan remained silent for a moment before finally giving in to the question in his heart.
"You seem to respect her greatly?"
"Of course."
"All Dark Angels respect her power and achievements. Some see her as a powerful secret weapon, some as an alternative Legion high official, and still others... regard her commands as being on the level of a Primarch."
"...That might be a bit exaggerated."
"It is somewhat exaggerated, but we have at least ten Terra Standard Years and no fewer than a hundred battles worth of accumulated experience, and that experience tells us that obeying her orders in battle is not a bad thing."
"Maintain your respect for Lady Morgana, my battle-brother."
"She is stronger, smarter, and more reliable than you think."
"More loyal."
——————
Even the two closest planets in the Cosmos are separated by distances far exceeding mortal perception.
While the guardians on Tacus V continued their conversations in an increasingly tense atmosphere, war had already erupted at the northern edge of this barren system, in the darkest corners untouched by the sun.
Separated by tens of millions of miles, Morgan's third eye within her soul allowed her to clearly see the war at the system's edge from within the First Legion's Unbending Truth. Her will hung high above every battleship, like a god in the clouds watching nations on the ground slaughter each other in its name.
The formerly calm Mandeville Point now trembled in a silent roar, struggling in shifting distortions. These Warp jump points, which should have been carefully opened away from the gravitational interference of stars or other celestial bodies,
now resembled a giant sail bathed in a rain of fire, continuously melting into grotesque gaps. Consecutive breaches and fissures incessantly erupted at the system's edge. The veil between the Warp and real space was constantly weakening due to this Crazy act, and distortions and illusions manifested across vast swathes of the starry sky.
And accompanying these frantic sights were dozens, even hundreds, of the Randan Empire's Vanguard Ships. Their deformed hulls were, without exception, enveloped in a strange, deep-green energy shield. These never-before-seen alien technologies protected the xenos vessels,
allowing them to bypass the necessary stabilization time for transitioning from the Warp to real space, instead plunging directly towards the Empire's first line of defense.
But these xenos technologies were not without flaws or cost. Morgan personally witnessed no fewer than twenty xenos vessels shatter their deep-green shields like foam crushed by spikes the moment they breached the veil between the Warp and real space. The already frenzied Warp tides instantly retaliated against these unfortunates, tearing their sturdy hulls to shreds.
However, in the face of the endless stream of Randan fleets, such losses were almost negligible. The black xenos vessels surged forth like a swarm of hungry locusts. Countless ships appeared in Morgan's sight every moment, emerging, roaring, and crashing, turning their stationary, struggling allies into scattered iron debris in the dark void.
The Empire's first line of defense, over a hundred battleships, engaged this seemingly insurmountable foe without hesitation. Frigates and Drones were endless, like flocks of migrating birds. Almost every second, burning steel exploded silently in the voiceless cosmos.
The warships' artillery fire was grander and more magnificent than even the most dazzling opera of the Aeldari Empire. Steel behemoths were torn apart in this silent rain of fire, then ripped to shreds by the endlessly advancing allied fleet behind them.
Every moment, colossal beasts perished; every moment, slaughter resounded. The breaths of countless mortals ceased in the roars of mutual fire, and the cries of lances and macro-cannons were like the world-ending arrows shot by a thunder god, splitting armor, tearing throats, suffocating tens of millions of loyal or blasphemous lives in a tide of blood.
Even more, as more and more battleships from the First Legion joined the fierce battle, the light crashing through the void silently changed color: the familiar crimson and bright white rays slowly diminished, replaced by a glow pouring from the Dark Angels' battleships that even the most experienced Imperial Navy captains had never witnessed.
Pure black darkness, fleeting missiles, distorted waves, entangled energies, and even sharp arrows that emitted an inexplicable chill, like dried blood.
All sorts of bizarre methods emerged from the Dark Angels' battleships. Each of them was more lethal than macro-cannons and lances. Even the most majestic Randan battleship, if it dared to pause for a moment in battle, would be pulverized in the torrential rain of angelic blood.
Anyone would be deeply impressed by this scene: the Imperial battleships, reduced to mere dozens, were like valiant, greedy, and cruel shrikes, flapping their fragile wings, facing an opponent like a two-winged demonic dragon in the sky. Under its lightning-fast offensive, even this nightmare of countless races and civilizations was battered and bruised in a short engagement.
But all of this was merely the Randan vanguard. As the Dark Angels' battleships roared and tore apart a hundred xenos vessels, at least five hundred more terrifying, blasphemous, and maddening opponents surged forward. They vied for the outnumbered Imperial battleships, savagely tearing at their hulls and lives with barbaric roars.
Morgan extended her hand. In the few brief seconds of her observation and thought, hundreds of thousands of roaring pure-white souls already roamed the edge of the system. Each of them was a burning Heroic Spirit, feared, troubled, and shunned by the greedy Lady Spider.
Her gaze momentarily withdrew from the endless bloodbath. She waved, once again letting her will cover the entire system, once again extracting the emotions named [courage] and [resolve] from the hearts of the frontline warriors in her mind. She looked at these indomitable fighting spirits, capable of igniting a towering conflagration in the Warp, and with a slight parting of her lips, unleashed countless arrows, aimed at the greedy gazes that coveted these powers and souls.
Those scoundrels who had just poked their heads out of the Warp's shadows, maliciously eyeing these noble emotions, could only mutter venomous words in secret, having felt this insurmountable power, and then vanished without a trace.
The front lines were locked in a desperate struggle, continuously devouring every reinforcing force from both sides, like two greedy behemoths wantonly plundering the mountains and forests while using their sharp fangs and claws to make the other bleed.
And as everything in real space burned, Morgan's gaze never faltered. Her keen senses immediately detected something amiss the moment the war erupted: in many parts of the system, especially those closest to the central sun, the veil of the Warp was being endlessly weakened, as if something was about to break free from within.
The Primarch instantly thought of countless possibilities and filtered out the one from which the Randan were most likely to benefit.
They were even more insane than she had imagined.
"Jonson!"
"D-28!"
When Morgan's soul roared into the Primarch's ear, uttering one of the countless plans and possible scenarios they had devised, the Lion of Caliban unhesitatingly grabbed his communicator. His voice, accompanied by Morgan's soul-call, resonated in the ears of countless Dark Angels captains.
At the Primarch's roar, the Dark Angels' battleships located at the center of the system all activated their engines, elevating all combat preparations to the highest level.
And just as even the slowest battleships had barely finished their preparations, a silent xenos mechanical scream suddenly exploded in the Sea of Souls. All Astropaths and Comms Officers painfully clutched their ears.
Even Morgan couldn't curb this power immediately, for it stemmed from the most insane act in the Warp: countless small fissures emerged from the system's center. The veil of the Warp had, at this moment, reached a precarious state; even the existence of all stars and planets began to distort.
And from within those fissures, the pre-prepared Randan battleships surged forth. They rushed out impatiently, a large portion of them destroyed in the very first instant by the Imperial battleships' firepower, others torn apart by the Warp's tides, swallowed by the planets' gravity, or drawn into the restless power of the stars, becoming piles of burning scrap metal.
But after incurring countless casualties, even more Randan battleships continued to emerge from these fissures. The xenos' blasphemous technology displayed its might in this instant, instantly riddling the meticulously arranged Dark Angels' defensive lines with holes.
Jonson's deep growl and terrifying grinding sound slowly rose.
The next moment, the Unbending Truth's engines began to roar.
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