The command deck of the 'Macragge's Honour' fell dead silent as everyone stood frozen, staring at the enemy warships being dragged helplessly into the micro-black hole.
Not a soul uttered a word until the declaration resonated across the vox-array. As its echo faded, a grand fleet of fluid, golden and silver warships surged out from the shimmering displacement field toward the Thousand Sons, pouring into the void with terrifying grace.
Even the largest of these vessels measured barely a kilometer in length—smaller than an Imperial frigate or destroyer—yet the moment they opened fire, humanity gained a chillingly clear demonstration of true destruction.
Alexei watched as three Void Ray cruisers aligned their fire upon a traitor capital ship. In under sixty seconds, the enemy's void shields overloaded and collapsed, followed instantly by the entire hull being torn to pieces by raw, concentrated energy.
Everyone present stood awestruck by those catastrophic light beams. Alexei, however, was unsurprised. The prismatic core nestled at the heart of a Void Ray channeled a literally inexhaustible reservoir of power.
These cores were so abundant that the Protoss deployed them as standard weaponry to unleash terrifying torrents of energy upon their foes—energy so vast that failing to discharge it in time could rupture the ship itself.
Engineered as the primary line-of-battle unit of the Protoss fleet, a handful of Void Rays possessed enough firepower to glass a planet's surface. Furthermore, the forces engaging the traitor armada extended far beyond Void Rays: Carriers, Scouts, Arbiters, and even long-range Tempest dreadnoughts joined the fray.
Magnus's fleet was being systematically dismantled at an unbelievable speed. Guilliman observed the slaughter in silence, his mind racing. Realizing that the golden fleet harbored no hostility toward the Imperials, he immediately ordered the crusade fleet to push toward a breakout corridor in the opposite direction.
Aboard 'The Revenge of Tizca', Magnus flew into a impotent rage. He roared fanatically, ordering his surviving ships to counterattack and intercept Guilliman's fleet. Yet the sheer combat capability of the Protoss armada surpassed his wildest calculations.
Whenever traitor macro-cannons and lances were fired toward the golden warships, the salvos seemed to enter a temporal distortion, slowing to a crawl until not a single round could connect.
Compounded by the loss of nearly two-thirds of his armada to the Mothership's vortex at the onset, the Thousand Sons were plunged into total disarray.
'The Revenge of Tizca''s void shields flickered violently under a relentless barrage of high-energy, charged plasma orbs launched from unseen positions; the traitor fleet could not trace the origin of the bombardment.
A single strike from these terrifying energy masses was potent enough to outright collapse a warship's shields. Fortunately, the plasma orbs traveled at a slow velocity, allowing vigilant captains time to maneuver out of their path.
However, 'The Revenge of Tizca' was simply too colossal. Its massive size yielded sub-light travel speeds that were abysmal at best, leaving it floating like a giant target to be relentlessly battered.
Had it not been equipped with gargantuan void shield generators and fueled by vast tides of Warp energy, its fate would have mirrored the shattered hulks drifting around it.
Seeing the 'Macragge's Honour' maneuvering toward the edge of the engagement zone, Magnus realized Guilliman's intent and recklessly ordered his remaining ships to block the escape.
Withstanding the focused fire of the golden fleet through sheer bulk, 'The Revenge of Tizca' plowed directly toward the crusade fleet. Magnus's ultimate directive was to drive the crusade fleet into the Maelstrom.
If he could not hurl the entire fleet into the abyss, taking the flagship alone would suffice. Gathering his cabal of Chaos Sorcerers and a massive host of Rubric Marines, the Crimson King stepped onto the teleportation platform.
"If I cannot destroy your fleet, then I shall cast you into the abyss with my own hands, brother!" The Crimson King's furious gaze locked onto the slowly approaching 'Macragge's Honour'.
---
Guilliman stood erect upon the command platform of the bridge, leaning on his flaming blade as he issued a rapid sequence of tactical commands. The crusade fleet executed tight formations to force a passage through the remaining Thousand Sons blockaders.
Suddenly, he spotted the giant structure steering directly toward them on a collision course. Calculating the trajectories, the Primarch knew that close-quarters boarding action had become unavoidable.
"All hands, prepare for enemy boarding actions!" Guilliman commanded coldly. He knew his fallen brother was coming for him personally, and he was the only one aboard capable of matching him.
Watching the Primarch turn to leave, Alexei let out a quiet sigh from his shadowy corner of the deck. He knew all too well what lay ahead for Guilliman. Deprived of the Sisters of Silence, facing a daemon prince elevated by immense psyker potential, the Primarch was bound for defeat.
Alexei's eyes flickered. 'A Daemon Primarch, is it? Let me see what kind of martial power the absolute pinnacle of this universe truly possesses...'
Teleporting between voidcraft usually demanded precise coordinates to prevent troops from materializing inside bulkheads. Yet facing the Thousand Sons—steeped in raw Warp power near the Maelstrom—everyone knew Magnus could manifest wherever he pleased.
The interior of the 'Macragge's Honour' erupted into action as the Astartes assumed maximum combat readiness. Along the grand spine corridor of the warship, defenders rushed to reinforce their assigned choke points.
Suddenly, a bolt of crimson lightning tore through realspace. Amid the flickering sorcerous glow, a colossal, terrifying figure bearing massive blue-feathered wings stepped into reality: Magnus the Red had arrived in person.
Suffocating psychic pressure crushed down upon every soul present. At his back stood nearly a hundred Chaos Sorcerers alongside legions of Rubric Marines. After a brief, dread-filled silence, a sweeping arc of psychic lightning tore through the corridor to open the slaughter.
Imperial defenders screamed as they were pulverized by raw psychic force. Magnus advanced toward the bridge like an unstoppable engine of destruction, rendering every defensive line laughable; before his Warp-born power, everything was torn apart like insects.
Behind him, the cabal of sorcerers chanted profane incantations, opening massive Warp rifts along the corridor. Hordes of daemons poured out, howling as they swarmed the surviving Imperial warriors, while the towering form of Kairos Fateweaver materialized once more in the material realm.
Mortal morale buckled and Astartes fell in rapid succession. The defense had devolved into total catastrophe—until a single, towering figure stepped into the corridor. Magnus checked his stride, surveying his counterpart with a critical gaze. "Long time no see, brother."
Guilliman glared at the warped, fallen horror before him, the longsword in his grip blazing with the fire in his heart. "You are no brother of mine."
Before his voice faded, Guilliman launched himself at Magnus like a artillery shell, moving faster than the eye could follow.
Yet Magnus and Kairos merely burst into mocking laughter. A wave of crushing psychic force swept through the corridor, snapping Guilliman's momentum and pinning him mid-stride.
Not only the demigod, but every mortal aboard the vessel felt the crushing weight of that psychic pressure. It felt as though a mountain had been dropped onto their shoulders, forcing them down to the deck.
At the center of the psychic storm, the force exerted on Guilliman was multiplied ten-thousandfold. His knees slammed onto the deck, forcing him to plant his flaming blade deep into the adamantium floor to keep from collapsing entirely.
Magnus roared with delight, "Still the same, my brother—so arrogant, believing you can resolve everything alone. I have always despised you!"
Guilliman glared up through bloodshot eyes, the Armor of Fate creaking under the extreme pressure.
Stepping forward from behind the Crimson King, Kairos raised his twin heads. The left head sneered, "A pathetic tool." The right head crowed, "Abandon your laughable struggle, or face the total annihilation of your very souls..."
"Is that so? I wouldn't be so sure."