The Imperial flank was the first to buckle. A gap, forced open by the concentrated fire of a Black Legion slaughter-group, tore through the crescent defensive line. Abaddon, the Despoiler, was a creature of predatory instinct; he did not hesitate.
He signaled his heavy cruisers to surge into the breach, aiming to gut the Imperial Navy's escort screens and leave the capital ships defenseless.
Leading the charge was a blasphemous vessel—a Strike Cruiser of the Traitor Legions, its hull a weeping fusion of iron and corrupted flesh, the eight-pointed star of Chaos burning with unholy light upon its prow.
The Imperial Navy responded with the cold, practiced logic of the Collectiva Imperialis. First came the light torpedo spreads, meant to break the enemy's momentum, followed by the focused, searing lances of light. But the Chaos flagship seemed bathed in a dark providence; warp-shielding and unnatural luck turned the barrage aside.
Then, the macro-cannon arrays began to roar.
This was the wrath of the God-Emperor. On the Sword-class frigate Blacksword, tens of thousands of voidmen labored in the sweltering heat of the gun-decks. They hauled multi-ton shells into the breeches with chains and muscle, their lungs filled with the scent of ozone and incense as they prayed for the Emperor to guide their aim.
The return fire was devastating. Macro-shells, each capable of leveling a city block, slammed into the Blacksword's void shields. The ship buckled, the deck plates screaming as kinetic energy bled into the hull.
Lord Commissar Holst, the ship's primary disciplinary officer, stood on the command bridge, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering red of emergency lighting. The reports were dire.
"Port-side gun decks have been breached!" a rating screamed. "Boarding pods! The heretics are inside the ship!"
The Blacksword was being eaten from the inside. Warp-spawned monstrosities and Traitor Guard surged through the corridors, slaughtering the gun crews and jamming the loading mechanisms. The communication vox was a cacophony of dying screams and the wet, guttural roars of the invaders.
The ship was paralyzed. Its weapons were silenced, its void shields flickered and died, and its engines groaned under the strain of internal sabotage.
Holst gripped his power sword, his eyes fixed on the Chaos flagship looming in the viewing port. He knew the end had come. The Blacksword was no longer a ship of war; it was a tomb.
"Attention all decks," Holst's voice rang out, hoarse but unshakable. "This is the Lord Commissar. Our weapons are silent, but our duty remains. If we cannot fire the Emperor's shells, then we shall become the shell. All power to the main thrusters! Target the enemy's heart!"
"FOR THE EMPEROR!" the crew roared back through the vox.
The Blacksword was not alone in its madness. Across the right wing, dozens of crippled Imperial vessels—frigates, destroyers, and light cruisers—steered themselves into suicidal collision courses. They were the final line of defense, human fires stoked by defiance, turning their very hulls into weapons of last resort.
They slammed into the Chaos vanguard, iron grinding against corrupted ceramite in a series of blinding, catastrophic explosions. It was enough to stall the breakthrough, but it was a temporary reprieve. The Imperial line was shattered, cut into isolated pockets of resistance that the Black Legion was systematically hunting down.
To any observer, the battle was lost. Defeat was a mathematical certainty.
"Relay to all sectors," Calgar said from his command throne, his voice devoid of emotion. "Begin a fighting retreat toward the secondary coordinates. Have the Blackmanes and the Iron Hands detachments cover the Navy's withdrawal."
"They're running!" Abaddon laughed, his voice echoing through the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit. The Despoiler's face was twisted in a mask of dark joy. "Calgar, you coward! You cannot flee the inevitable!"
The Warmaster leaned forward, his Talon of Horus dripping with psychic residue. "All fleets! Press the attack! Do not let a single Imperial soul escape this system! I want Calgar's head mounted upon my prow!"
Abaddon wanted to turn Vigilus into a second Cadia—a pyre that would light the way for the Great Rift to swallow the galaxy whole. He threw every reserve into the pursuit, his fleet spreading thin as they raced to encircle the retreating Imperials.
Calgar sat perfectly still. He was the fisherman, and the bait had been taken.
He knew Abaddon's greed. He knew the Warmaster could not resist the "guaranteed win." By withdrawing his forces and allowing the line to break, Calgar had convinced the most dangerous strategist in the galaxy that the prey was cornered.
"A little closer," Calgar whispered, his eyes locked onto the sensor-ghost of the Vengeful Spirit. His armored fingers dug into the armrests of his throne, the only sign of the immense pressure he felt.
The lives of billions hung in the balance. He was the bait, and the hook was about to be set.
"Come to me, Abaddon," Calgar murmured, a cold, lethal smile finally touching his lips. "I am right where you want me."