**Chapter 379: The Threshold of Malachor**
**Scene 1**
**Dagon's POV**
I stood on the bridge of the *Sovereign*, staring at the tactical display of Coruscant's orbit.
"Tarkin," I said quietly, "I am taking my fighter, the *Silencer*, to Malachor V. You are to take the *Sovereign* to Lantilles and contact Raith Sienar. When I am ready, I will send a signal with instructions."
Tarkin turned to me, his sharp features tightening. For a moment the younger, more impulsive version of the man I knew broke through.
"General, if you don't mind me asking — and forgive my temper — but are you out of your flipping mind?"
I allowed myself a small, tired smile. "Younger Tarkin was definitely different from the older one. I guess even at thirty-nine he still has some fire left."
Tarkin opened his mouth to argue further, but I was already moving toward the hangar.
"Don't wait up."
I jumped into the *Silencer* — my personal stealth corvette, sleek, black, and deadly. The cockpit sealed with a soft hiss. Engines flared to life, and I launched from the *Sovereign* without another word.
Malachor V waited.
**Scene 2**
The *Silencer* screamed out of hyperspace near Malachor V, but the planet's massive gravity well and twisted spatial distortions immediately seized control.
"Warning — gravitational shear exceeding safety margins," the ship's AI announced.
I fought the controls, but it was too late. The fighter tumbled violently, systems flickering as the Mass Shadow Generator's ancient technology warped reality itself. The *Silencer* slammed into the barren, cracked surface in a controlled crash.
I awoke moments later, groaning, half-buried in dust and wreckage.
The surface of Malachor V was a nightmare: a cracked and twisted wasteland covered with jagged cliffs and plagued by constant lightning storms. The skeletal remains of hundreds of blasted warships lay scattered across the landscape — some surprisingly intact despite the devastation.
*Interesting,* I thought as I climbed out of the wrecked fighter. *After this, I could use this place as a salvage point.*
I activated my armor's systems and checked my weapons. The crossguard red blade, the spinning white dual-blade, the standard blue saber, and the Nox holocron were all secure.
Now, I waited for the enemy.
**Scene 3**
The Space Marines — the Adeptus Astartes — are foremost amongst the defenders of Humanity, the greatest of the Emperor of Mankind's warriors. They are barely human at all, but superhuman, remade through genetic modification, psycho-conditioning, and the most rigorous training imaginable.
They are untouched by plague or natural disease and can suffer wounds that would kill a lesser being several times over, only to fight again. Clad in ancient power armor and wielding the most potent weapons known to man, they are terrifying foes, and their devotion to the Emperor and the Imperium of Man is unyielding. They are the God-Emperor's Angels of Death, and they know no fear.
Of all the thousand and more Space Marine Chapters, it is the blue-clad Ultramarines that, in the minds of countless billions, personify everything the Adeptus Astartes stands for. The Ultramarines and their many successor Chapters have stood at the forefront of the war against the Traitor, the alien, and the Daemon since the foundation of the Imperium.
So let's see…
They have power armor.
Massive swords made of some unknown metal — perhaps comparable to beskar.
Enormous rifles firing giant explosive rounds capable of slicing a man in half.
And their "god magic" — whatever warp-derived plot armor they possess.
I stood alone on the shattered plain of Malachor V, lightning cracking across the blood-red sky.
"Well," I muttered, igniting my crossguard lightsaber with a menacing cackle, "I am here. Let's see how powerful you are in the Force."
The wind howled across the broken landscape as I waited for the first Thunderhawk to descend.
The war between universes had begun.