"As you command." The artificial intelligence executed the order with unswerving loyalty.
The directive quickly reached the Rangdan fleet, sparking a monumental uproar.
The command to save themselves laid bare the sheer despair of the high command—it was the final, desperate act in a campaign already lost.
The consequences were immediate and catastrophic.
The teetering fleet collapsed in an instant, breaking formation and scattering frantically into the deep void.
The rout triggered widespread panic across all ranks; the command hierarchy abandoned all attempt at control, tacitly permitting the vessels to flee on their own.
To the high command, allowing ships to escape amidst the chaos was now the only rational course of action—a desperate attempt to preserve a spark for their species' survival.
On Planet VI, the ground forces collapsed in equal measure.
Rangdan warriors gazed up at the void in utter despair as their own fleet fled like cornered rats, leaving them behind as abandoned chattel.
Yet despite the fleet's rout, humanity's planetary offensive on Planet VI grew unexpectedly harder.
Solas, ever the master of tactical opportunity, seized upon the hopeless situation, igniting his troops' morale into a desperate, back-to-the-wall fighting spirit.
---
Meanwhile, deep within the World Engine, no obstacles remained before Blazkowicz.
The path ahead of the boarding party was completely clear, green lights flashing along the corridor as blast doors parted automatically to let them pass. After a ten-hour sprint through the passageways, they finally reached the base of the pyramidal sanctuary.
The elevator ascended continuously as the boarding party maintained a resolute silence.
The surrounding atmosphere gradually drifted away from the constant parameters of physical reality, growing twisted and distorted.
A black psychic mist spread, as the authority of a dark power systematically seeped into the material universe.
Light and shadow alike were swallowed by invisible forces; the world seemed veiled in a dark haze, suspended between a hazy unknown and a concrete reality.
Space bubbled like a boiling surface, its ripples warping physical laws into distorted funhouse mirrors.
Darkness whispered in hushed tones, sybaritic voices giggling as greedy eyes—suppressing their underlying fear—scraped over the tall forms of the intruders.
Yet through the deep gloom, a single light marched forward.
Blazkowicz led his Legion veterans onward with unhesitating strides. Wherever they passed, the mist parted like wind-blown snow, retreating back into its dark domains.
CLACK! CLACK!
Their armored footsteps rang out with iron resonance, crushing the clamor of specters like heavy hammers. This legion of fearless souls compelled evil to avert its gaze.
"Warp contamination detected—resembles Be'lakor's shadow realm," Tarasca lowered his voice, channeling a flame to his fingertips to illuminate the deep dark.
"It is different," Blazkowicz shook his head: "Be'lakor was born from shadow; he is the incarnation of gloom."
"Though powerful, he falls far short of a Chaos God's true authority."
He crushed the darkness beneath his boots, pointing toward its source: "The blackness here is extraordinary. It is no crude shadow, but the physical manifestation of a dark god's divine authority."
"A deity sits enthroned here, elevated above all things."
"No matter how exalted Be'lakor's status may be, he remains a demon—incapable of matching the status of a true god."
As Blazkowicz's words faded, the squad followed the grand staircase, arriving before the doors of the pyramidal palace.
No living beings met their eyes; the dark mist grew denser and more brazen.
As if possessing a mind of its own, it probed endlessly at the intruders' mental defenses, attempting to pierce the force suppressing it.
Muffled thunder rolled from the depths of the darkness like a beat of war drums; the black fog surged, as if thousands of ghostly armies hovered within.
RUMBLE—!
Above the World Engine, crimson lightning violently shattered the void as an immense power descended.
Across the entire battlefield, every participant—human and xenos alike—felt a surge of blood rush to their head, a ravenous, bloodthirsty fury rising in their hearts.
Mortal soldiers' eyes turned blood-red as the scent of gore consumed what little sanity they had left.
The Astartes felt a sudden shift, their breathing growing shallow and heavy as if the very air had turned to the copper tang of spilled blood.
Deep within the Warp, a black ocean converged rapidly, breaking away from its duel with the golden sun to coalesce into a squirming black sphere.
It sensed that in physical reality, a supreme threat was drawing near to its physical host.
Khorne's rage and slaughtering intent descended from the Realm of the Gods into the material universe, barging brutally onto the battlefield.
Sensing the anomaly, the Supreme Overlord hurled a sharp, echoing demand: "What have you done?!"
The golden sun offered no reply, though its attacks ceased.
---
At the top of the palace stairs, Blazkowicz sensed the gazing eye of the Blood God's will. He stood before the grand doors, looking up.
The stone gates were tall and narrow, carved with lifelike historical figures that drifted under the erosion of the dark mist—as if ready to burst their bonds and stride into the real world as living flesh.
Blazkowicz raised both hands and pressed them against the stone doors, dispersing the twisted phenomena and warp anomalies.
The thunder in the void grew deafening. Warp energy shattered the Disordered Array's interdiction, illuminating half the star system with thick smoke and blood-red magma.
With a heavy, grinding groan, Blazkowicz's mighty strength pushed open the final barrier.
WHOOSH—!
Black fog erupted from the hall, the darkness almost tangible as it flowed past the Legion veterans like viscous pitch.
Before them lay a physical darkness through which no sight could penetrate.
Blazkowicz tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon; the crimson-runed blade ignited with a hum, its light of judgment severing the endless gloom like a candle at dawn.
The turquoise hall was grand and cavernous, devoid of pillars or obstructions. The ceiling was painted with murals detailing the rise of the Rangdan, while the floor was engraved with their paths of conquest.
At the far end of the hall, Rangdan elite stood guard beside the dais, spears in hand to safeguard the throne.
Thirteen Overlord banners hung down; the obsidian throne was flanked on either side by six lesser thrones.
Now, most of the thrones symbolizing eternal authority sat vacant, occupied by only two Overlords.
Upon the central throne, the Supreme Overlord's eight-meter-tall brain floated with closed eyes, its true soul essence still locked in the Warp, yet to return to reality.
Beside it sat the Wise One upon a lesser throne, guarding the supreme ruler.
The darkness intensified. The Supreme Overlord's host shuddered violently as its radiating dark aura reversed, flowing back into its floating form.
In the Warp, the black ocean poured directly into physical reality, and the Emperor made no move to stop it.
RUMBLE—!
Thunderous war drums beat with a deeper resonance, shaking space itself and causing blood to boil within mortal veins.
Upon the central throne, the Supreme Overlord opened eyes like black obsidian, its gaze hardening into beams of dark light that settled a hundred paces before Blazkowicz.
"It is you," its voice resonated in a multi-layered harmony, echoing through the desolate hall.
Blazkowicz offered no response. Stepping forward with long strides, his war-boots strode across the dark floor, leading his Legion veterans into the grand hall.
In his right hand, the Crucible's light flared violently, its blade pulsing with unbounded malice. With a casual twist of his left hand, his Super Shotgun spun through his palm before locking into place.
Stepping out from behind the Primarch, the Doom Marines ignited their dimensional light-blades, pointing them straight at the Rangdan guards below the throne.
"The demigod who swore an oath to slay gods," the Supreme Overlord's tentacles writhing as it slithered down from the throne, the Wise One following closely in its shadow.
"I am no god," Blazkowicz advanced with steady, cold composure, breaking open the double-barreled shotgun as runic shells loaded automatically into the chambers.
"Sharper even than your will and blade is your tongue," the Supreme Overlord spat, bile dripping from its gruesome mouthparts: "If you possessed no divinity, you could not even challenge the gods."
The stone hall flickered between light and dark; before a single blow was struck, a clash of wills had already begun.
"That was never what I sought," Blazkowicz's nostrils flared slightly as he exhaled a breath of scorching heat, fury rising from the deepest depths of his soul: "The gods simply stand in my way."
CLACK! CLACK!
Space fractured beneath his feet. With every step he took, flames ignited along his path, forcing the darkness to shrink back.
"Heh... heh... heh... heh..."
A cruel, wild laughter detonated through the void, squeezing out from deep within a throat like the heavy breathing of a massive beast. Hearing it, one could almost picture the broad shoulders of its owner shuddering in wild laughter.
In the Realm of the Blood God, high atop the Brass Throne, Khorne grinned wide.
Raising a titanic hand that had remained unmoving for untold eons, he whipped up a monstrous wave of blood, smashing through the veil of reality.
The golden sun exploded with boundless radiance as the Emperor intercepted the Blood God's supreme power outside of material space.
Yet the Blood God's manifestation descended nonetheless.
Across the J-11 battlefield, every intelligent creature heard that wild, unbridled laughter echoing in their ears, their blood surging to a fever pitch.
Psykers curled onto the floor in agony, clutching their heads as tears of blood streamed from their eyes.
The Primarchs turned their gazes toward the World Engine; though they could not pierce its hazy glow, they all sensed a supreme horror descending.
"SLAYER!!!"
Khorne's roar echoed across the cosmos. The Blood God's eyes flew open, bursting with endless, bloodthirsty intent as his monstrous maw let out a battle howl.
"ASCENDANT ONE!!!"
He was the God of Warriors, the God of Strife—roaring to raise the curtain on a divine battle between two demigods.
"HAH!" Beneath the Skull Throne, Bloodthirsters spat sparks of fire, their bloodied hooves stomping the red earth in celebration:
"HAH!"
The void tore open above the World Engine as the Warp reflected into the material universe. Countless dark entities looked down, casting their gazes to witness this duel of gods.
Before Khorne's Skull Throne, war drums of bone rose into the air. Holding drumsticks carved from eight skulls in his vast hands, the Blood God personally struck the drums.
As the eight drumbeats fell, Bloodthirsters spewed flames in wild excitement, every breath bursting into sparks in the air. Spreading their wings, blood gushed from beneath their hooves as their weapons clashed to produce a rhythm of war.
In a frenzy of blood, the Bloodthirsters sang Khorne's duel chants in cadence with the god's divine drumbeats.