On the other side of the battlefield, the stench of blood was so thick it practically condensed into a solid mass.
A World Eaters Berserker, consumed by madness, was swinging his chainaxe like a tireless pile driver, frantically hacking away at a massive adamantine tower shield before him.
Sparks flew in all directions, each impact accompanied by the agonizing screech of twisting metal.
Holding the shield was a player Ogryn. His hulking frame was forced into a half-kneeling position under the storm of the Berserker's attacks.
The left arm supporting the shield had already bent into an unnatural angle under the immense impact, yet he remained pinned to the spot, refusing to yield a single step.
Just as the World Eater raised his chainaxe high, preparing to deliver a final strike to break through the defense, a grey-yellow blur burst out from the flank alongside a savage roar.
It was Akash, Chapter Master of the Executioners.
He wielded a massive power axe in each hand, his movements swift and brutal. Instead of parrying or blocking as taught by the Codex Astartes, he chose the most direct path of slaughter.
"For Dorn!"
The first axe cleaved straight through the World Eater's wrist, sending the lethal chainaxe clattering to the deck; immediately following that, Akash used the momentum of his spin to sweep the second axe through the air in a ghastly arc, severing the traitor's neck with absolute precision.
Squelch!
A horned-helmeted head flew high into the air, blood spurting like a fountain and spraying across Akash's skull-totem-emblazoned power armor.
Akash didn't even glance at the headless corpse as it collapsed, turning instead to face the Ogryn who was struggling to stand. He noticed the player's swollen, purple left wrist—bearing clear signs of bone fractures—the price paid for tanking several heavy blows from an Astartes Berserker.
"Are you all right?" Akash's voice echoed through his vox-grille, carrying a trace of imperceptible concern.
The Ogryn player let out a simple-minded grin, answering loudly in his signature rumbling voice: "I'm fine, boss!
My bones are tough! Red tin cans like that one—I can take at least ten more axe hits!"
Akash nodded slightly, a flicker of approval gleaming in his eyes. Sons of Dorn had always appreciated unyielding endurance, and these Ogryns from the Legion of the Helldivers not only possessed sharp minds, but also had a fighting style where they would fight to the death without retreating, content to serve as living ramparts. It had earned them tremendous goodwill among the Executioners.
"Good job, big guy."
Just then, a highest-priority chime sounded within the comms channel inside Akash's helmet.
The sender ID indicated Huron, Chapter Master of the Astral Claws and one of the joint commanders for this operation.
Akash hooked his power axes back onto his waist and opened the line: "What happened, Cousin Huron? I just chopped off my tenth head over here."
"Akash, I need your help," Huron's voice sounded exceptionally calm against the noisy background chatter. He rapidly summarized the situation the Legion of the Helldivers was facing on the enemy ship, as well as their predicament—how they were trying to hold back the Iron Warriors' retreat, but lacked the raw killing power to do so effectively.
"Iron Warriors?"
At the mere mention of the name, the killing intent Akash had just quelled surged back into a boil. It was a hatred burned into the deepest recesses of his genetic code, an eternal curse shared between the Sons of Dorn and the Sons of Perturabo.
"Those hole-digging cowards are here too?" Infuriated, Akash instantly pressed further, "How long can the Helldivers hold out? Give me the coordinates! We'll break contact right now—even if we have to ride boarding torpedoes over there, we'll reinforce them! We cannot let those traitors escape!"
"There's no time. Even if you do that, you won't match their retreat speed," Huron said calmly. "The Helldivers came up with a plan. They guaranteed that as long as you can record a video—a video offensive enough to infuriate those Iron Warriors, make them lose their minds, and force them to stay put to slaughter everyone no matter the cost—then..."
Huron paused, repeating the words of their commander: "Then however long you need them to hold out, that's how long they will hold out! Even if they have to bite into the Iron Warriors' power armor with their teeth, they won't let go."
Akash froze for a second before bursting into a fit of laughter, rich with heroic relish.
"Good! Good! These mortals have spirit! A temperament right up my alley!"
Akash snatched a holographic recorder from a nearby servo-skull and aimed the lens straight at his own fierce, wild face, smeared in traitor blood, his eyes burning like red-hot embers.
"Tell them to patch the signal through! I'll record the video right now! I'll give them the purest 'Dornish greeting' guaranteed to make those damned Fourth Legion scum explode with rage, until they want to rip their own hearts out!"
Back on the battlefield where the Iron Warriors were deployed, the air was thick with the reek of fired bolter rounds and blood that had not yet cooled.
The Iron Warriors' retreat was operating like a precise piece of machinery—cold and efficient. Just as they were about to turn down a major T-junction and completely shake off the harassment of the Legion of the Helldivers, a loud shout amplified through a vox-speaker suddenly rang out.
"Hey! Iron Warriors over there! Even if you're running away, have the guts to check this out first!"
Grendel's bolter raised slightly. Without even pausing his steps, he said expressionlessly: "Ignore them. It's just a mortal stall tactic—"
The last word caught hard in his throat, unable to come out.
Because within that flickering holographic display, the image of a suit of power armor appeared. Even if the projection was slightly distorted, and even if the armor was painted grey-yellow instead of iconic mustard yellow, the sickening stench encoded into his very genes instantly ignited every drop of fury in his veins.
A Son of Dorn! Even if ten thousand years passed, even if they were reduced to ash, he would recognize Rogal Dorn's miserable spawn!
The once-synchronized footsteps of the retreat came to a eerie standstill in that exact moment.
In the hologram, Akash's blood-soaked, wild, and utterly contemptuous face was clearly visible. He even intentionally flicked the blood off his axe blade—the blood of a World Eater.
"According to Holy Terra Standard Time, it is currently eight in the morning. Good morning, dear brethren of the Fourth Legion."
Akash's voice crackled through the servo-skull's vox-speaker, dripping with the lazy contempt one reserves for a mangy cur that just pissed on your boot:
"So tell me, oh self-proclaimed 'Masters of Siegecraft,' Sons of Perturabo… how does it feel to be routed by a rabble of baseline mortals waving lasguns?
Did the trenches suddenly vanish? Or did your famously unbreakable iron wills rust through the moment someone shot back without a siege tower and ten years of prefabricated fortifications?"
The Chapter Master leaned on his power axe, the blade still wet with traitor blood, sneering down at the pict-recorder like it had personally offended him.
"Every generation really is more pathetic than the last. During the Siege of Terra, at least you had the spine to crawl forward and eat Imperial Fists bolter shells like the bitter, spiteful vermin you are.
Now? You break against a mortal defense line faster than a servitor's knee joints. One whiff of actual resistance and the glorious Iron Warriors turn tail, sprinting back to the Eye of Terror with their exhaust ports clenched.
Go on then.
Scuttle back to your scrap-heaps. Find a nice quiet crater, dig another pathetic hole, and play in the mud with your rusting daemon engines and broken calculators.
Real war — the kind fought with cold steel, courage, and hatred — was never meant for bitter little cowards who need ten-to-one odds and prefabricated bunkers just to feel tall.
If you're that desperate to survive, I'll be merciful… on Dorn's behalf. Drop to your knees, press your forehead into the dirt, and loudly swear loyalty to your Primarch 'Uncle Dorn.'
Do it nicely, with feeling, and I might let you limp away this once."
A dead silence fell over the entire corridor.
The silence lasted for less than a second.
The effect was good—far too good.
"DORN!!!"
A roar dripping with malice, fury, and pure murderous intent exploded from deep within Grendel's throat. That voice didn't belong to a rational Astartes commander at all; it sounded like an utterly enraged beast.
Reason? Tactics? Retreat?
At this moment, to hell with all of it!
Grendel's eyes turned bloodshot in an instant. The servo-muscles of his power armor let out an overburdened groan as he burst forward like an artillery shell, clearing dozens of meters in a flash.
"DIE! DIE! DIE!!"
The power fist on his hand carried enough terrifying force to shatter a battle tank, punching straight through the Helldiver holding the servo-skull—along with the skull still playing the mocking recording—pulverizing them into a shower of flying meat and scrap metal!
Yet that couldn't quench his rage in the slightest.
Grendel spun around, bellowing hysterically into the comms channel to every Iron Warrior who had been executing an orderly retreat:
"No retreat! Right here! Kill them all! Tear this ship apart! Drag that damned yellow dog out! I'm going to hang his head on my Terminator armor!!"
Every single Iron Warrior went red-eyed at that moment. The hatred rooted deep within their genes caused them to cast aside their efficient tactics entirely, turning them into a pack of rabid dogs blindly attacking every living thing around them.
"For the Lord of Iron! Slaughter Dorn's lapdogs!!"
Behind a distant barricade, the Regimental Executive Officer watched the scene unfold. He swallowed hard, his voice trembling over the comms: "...Commander, well, the good news is the crowd control worked. They're really not leaving."
"And the bad news?"
"The bad news is... they seem to have gone berserk! Their attack power has more than tripled—the boys can barely hold the line!"
"Hold it even if you can't! If you die, I'll take your place! I already made the boast!"
"Remember Dorn's motto Helldivers! Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!"
________________________________
"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!" - Primarch Dorn, probably