Raynor felt a bit disoriented as he stepped inside the Song of Farewell. If Sarah hadn't explicitly assured him that nothing on this ship posed a life-threatening risk to them, he wouldn't have bothered boarding. The interior of the vessel was pure, unadulterated chaos.
Which way to look first?
In the passage to the left, several Pink Horrors were leaping about, spewing warp-fire in every direction. Dazzling flames licked the bulkheads, and their shrill, manic laughter mingled with the crackling of burning metal. Strangely, instead of dodging, several ragged crew members rushed forward, letting the flames consume their bodies while muttering incantations, their faces beaming with a bewitched, ecstatic joy. Needless to say, these people were beyond saving.
Nearby, three Drukhari Wyches—slender, pointed-eared warriors resembling dark elves—brandished long whips, chasing down a group of Chaos cultists. Each crack of a whip broke the sound barrier, sending blood splattering against the walls. Yet the cultists, upon being lashed, displayed satisfied smiles; some even turned their backs to the Wyches, inviting more. The Wyches simply chuckled. It seemed both parties were getting exactly what they wanted.
At the fork to the right, a squad of armsmen clad in high-tech carapace armor was engaged in a desperate melee with Genestealer hybrids. There was the muffled thud of power swords cleaving flesh, the piercing screech of claws scraping against metal plate, and a cacophony of human roars and mutant screams. A man who looked like a guard captain had his visor shattered, revealing half of a blood-stained face. His power sword swung in a wide arc, the disruptor field causing a mutant to explode into a gory heap of viscera.
Directly ahead in the main thoroughfare, a Blue Horror came tumbling through the air, screaming. It had been thrown with immense force, and a huge figure nearly three meters tall was chasing close behind. It was an Ogryn, his bare torso a mass of muscle stained with blue ichor and shimmering warp-fragments. His massive hands gripped a heavy metal pipe torn from the cabin wall, and he was using it to play a violent game of "whack-a-mole" with the cunning demon. Soon, the demon's laughter turned into a wail as its body popped like a water skin filled with paint, vanishing into a puff of blue smoke.
Not far from the Ogryn, another group of Genestealers was brawling with a few lone Kabalite warriors. Both sides were blinded by rage, devoid of any tactics, driven only by primal bloodlust.
Just as the fighting reached a fever pitch, an emergency bulkhead in the corner was kicked open. An Astra Militarum soldier rushed out, screaming, "For the Emperor!" Clutching a melta-charge, he dove straight into the heart of the alien skirmish.
Boom!
A blinding white light engulfed the area. The violent shockwave sent several nearby Hormagaunts flying, slamming them hard against the cabin walls. Raynor didn't even need to flinch; an invisible telekinetic barrier unfolded in front of him, easily deflecting the blast.
"Tsk," Raynor clicked his tongue. "It's a massive free-for-all! A true Warhammer feature!"
He nodded in satisfaction. Look at this scene: swords and magic, gods and believers, a diverse array of races and clashing religions. Who says Warhammer isn't Western Fantasy? This is the peak of the genre!
With Raynor and Sarah's arrival, more breaches opened at the rear of the ship. Tyranid organisms poured from their spore-sacs into the Song of Farewell like a flood. They had no clear formation, only the instinct to devour everything in their path.
However, Sarah soon issued a command through the hive consciousness: Prioritize the Genestealers and mutants.
The reason was simple: the two hive-minds recognized each other as ultimate rivals the instant they met. This was a clash between the ancient Hive Will and Sarah's new authority. There was no room for communication, only a fight to the death.
Raynor strolled leisurely toward the bridge as if taking a walk in his own backyard. After the birth of "Sarah Number Two," Raynor had commissioned a set of symbiotic armor for himself. He was currently encased in streamlined, purple chitinous plating. The organic tissues of the armor pulsed occasionally, shimmering with a faint violet glow.
The suit increased his height to about 2.5 meters, giving him an imposing presence. His head was shielded by a full helmet featuring six compound eyes that flashed with purple light. On the left side of his forehead, a thirty-centimeter, spiral-patterned horn extended forward with razor-sharp edges. The design was filled with a strange, alien "aesthetic."
The combat boost provided by this armor was secondary; its main function was camouflage. Raynor had no intention of operating in Imperial territory in his human form, even if he was now considered an outright "heretic." Deep down, he still believed he was on the side of humanity—just in his own way.
He was flanked by eight specialized Tyranid Warriors acting as his guard. They moved silently, protecting Raynor in their center; anything that dared to approach was mercilessly crushed.
Of course, some were bold—or foolish—enough to try. A Drukhari warrior, using his superb stealth skills, hung upside down from a ventilation duct like a gecko, waiting for Raynor to pass. The moment Raynor entered range, the assassin plummeted, his poisoned dagger aimed for the gap in Raynor's shoulder plating.
But the dagger stopped dead in mid-air, a full meter from Raynor's neck. It was as if it were held by an invisible giant hand. Raynor didn't even bother to look up.
Pffft. A wet, sickening sound echoed. The Drukhari warrior was suddenly compressed and twisted by unseen force before exploding into a spray of flesh and shards of armor.
On the other side, three Hellions sped around a corner on their skyboards, firing splinter pistols at Raynor. Dozens of toxic shards whistled through the air, but they all halted a meter away from Raynor, suspended in stasis.
With a single glance from Raynor, the shadow on his shoulder emitted a faint purple light. The suspended shards flew back toward their owners at twice their original speed. The three Hellions were instantly riddled with their own ammunition.
The Drukhari were not without means to counter psychic energy—their "Blackstone" technology was renowned for suppressing warp energy—but such equipment was rare. Ordinary Kabalites and Hellions weren't important enough to carry it. Therefore, in Sarah's eyes, they were no different from flies that flew a bit faster than usual.
Only a Tzeentchian Sorcerer, using his keen psychic senses, realized the truth. He sensed the chilling, abyssal, and terrifying will looming over Raynor's shoulders. Seeing this, the Sorcerer gathered his followers and fled without a moment's hesitation. They were not to be messed with—absolutely not.
Meanwhile, Sarah's swarm offensive was proving highly effective. For the first time, the Genestealers experienced what it felt like to be overwhelmed by a superior sea of insects. The Chaos followers and their demons felt as though they had stepped into a nightmare they couldn't escape.
The swarm had no souls; they were numerous and fearless. Killing them yielded no emotional "nourishment" for the warp; it only drained the demons' power. A sorcerer's fire might wipe out a hundred bugs, but a thousand more were already crawling over the heap.
The Drukhari were in a similar predicament. In terms of individual skill and gear, they crushed most individual Tyranid organisms. A single Drukhari warrior could toy with several Termagants at once. However, the swarm was simply too vast and utterly disregarded casualties. This style of attrition—trading damage for damage—was devastating for the fragile Eldar. Worse still, like the Chaos demons, the Drukhari found no "nourishment" in the pain of these insects.
It was a battle where winning yielded no reward, but losing meant becoming food.