301.M36
Rapturous Rex
Inside the chamber, a large hololith projected a glowing, rotating display of the twenty Ork-infested systems. Tactical overlays flickered with constantly updating data, Orks concentrations, confirmed Warboss sightings, ship movements and Crusade force deployments across each embattled world.
"The Angels of Wrath have reported that they've reconquered the O-8 system." A naval officer stated as the hololith zoomed in on the designated sector. "The 7th, 34th, and 68th regiments sustained minor losses and are expected to be combat-ready within a week."
"Fire Hawks report they're engaged on the final world within the 87-90 system." Another officer added as the display shifted. "A large concentration of Nobz has significantly slowed their advance, but the Grand Master assures us the world will fall within next thirty-two hours."
Then the image panned to the eastern quadrant of the campaign map. A new data feed lit up, highlighting a red-hot warzone.
"One of the Warbosses has been confirmed on the eastern front." Vice Admiral Malacai said, his image materializing beside the hololith. "My fleet has destroyed their void presence and established a full blockade of the world that he's on."
Malacai, Vice Admiral of Battlefleet Bakka and supreme commander of Battlefleet Pranagar, was also the highest-ranking representative of the Gareox Prerogative. This mean his Battlefleet contain all the Despoiler Class Battleship that design by them.
Currently, there are three Despoiler that serve within Battlefleet. Merciless Death, Damnation's Fury and Fortress of Agony, the first batch of the 15 Despoiler Class Battleship that have been plan.
"Excellent," Atharion said, nodding. His eyes burned with focused intensity. "This is the perfect opportunity to eliminate one of their leaders. I will personally lead a strike group to remove him."
He turned to those gathered. "Until my return, operational command will temporarily pass to Grand Master Valentus. Maintain momentum across all fronts, this Crusade will not stop for anything."
Just as Atharion want to end the meeting, one naval officer suddenly enter the chamber, clutching a datapad as he run to Atharion side.
"My lord." The officer said as he handed the datapad to Atharion. "Report from Lord Heinrich, 13th regiment have reported a Orks with unusual body size appears on KOP-09."
Atharion took the device and scanned it quickly. As the officer had said, the report included pict-feeds and battlefield vox transcripts. The creature in question towered not just over the Boyz, it dwarfed even the Nobz. Its hulking mass was wrapped in thick armor plating that looked scavenged from tanks and looted dreadnoughts. Jagged glyphs and totems were welded into its bulk, and its arms ended in massive, brutal weaponry.
Further details showed that the Ork had entered the battle flanked by a significant number of Meganobz, forming what appeared to be a personal honor guard.
As the datapad was passed from hand to hand, the atmosphere in the chamber shifted. Many of the mortal officers frowned deeply, their expressions darkening with concern as they absorbed the implications. A possible new Warboss appearing on a battlefield where none of the Astarte elements around it.
Among the Astartes, however, there was no such reaction. Their expressions remained still and neutral. For them, it's just another target to remove for the Imperium, and a honor to add on their personal record.
But, luckily Atharion have actually prepare for this type of situation. Not for the new Warboss, but for the possibility Orks on certain front might be larger or more dangerous than what the reports indicate.
"Don't worry." Atharion said with a calm tone. "I have prepared something for this type of occasion."
===============================
KOP-09 – Frontline Trenches
"What's the word from the Captain?!" An officer bellowed over the deafening roar of explosions and heavy gunfire.
The vox-operator, pressed low against the trench wall, shouted back through gritted teeth. "Order from Regiment Command! Hold the line! Reinforcements are en route!"
Just then, three Guardsmen sprinted past the vox-unit, their boots pounding through the mud, lasguns clutched tight and bayonets fixed. One of them was bleeding from a gash across his shoulder, but none of them slowed down.
A Basilisk shell screamed overhead and detonated in the distance, sending a plume of smoke and shattered Ork bodies into the sky. The fighting had reached a fever pitch.
From the trench line, Lieutenant Vortan of the 79th Platoon stood upright for a moment to get a view through his magnoculars. His face was grim.
"They're sending in the Mega Nobz again," he muttered. "And... Emperor help us, that's not just a Nob."
Downrange, amidst the green tide, a towering brute was wading through the battlefield. It dwarfed even the Mega Nobz around it, clad in layers of crude but heavy armor, roaring orders in a guttural tongue and swinging a massive klaw that crushed men and metal alike.
"That has to be the big Ork they were talking about..." Vortan whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.
As if in reply, the trench vox flared to life with a burst of static and panic.
"This is Point-67! We can't hold the Orks back!" The sound of lasgun fire and explosions roared in the background. "We need reinforcements! We nee—ARGH!"
The message ended in a scream, followed by a sickening, wet crunch, a sound like tearing flesh and rending armor. Then silence.
A cold shiver passed through the command trench.
Vortan's jaw clenched. "That position was only a klick away."
He turned to the vox-operator. "Get me Command. Now."
But before the operator could respond, the ground began to quake, this time not from explosions, but from something else. Something heavy.
From the smoke-choked ridge to the east, a massive shape emerged, wreathed in light and dust. A crimson Knight suit stepped into view, its heraldic carapace gleaming beneath a coat of ash and gunpowder. Ion shields shimmered against falling debris. Its reaper chainsword roared to life.
Then came the voice.
"This is Sir Gavran of the Crimson Oath. The line will not break. Hold fast."
Behind him, two more Knights emerged from the gloom, advancing like gods of war. Together, they marched toward the chaos.
===============================
"The Guards line are breaking fast, we must kill the Orks before they fully overrun the Guardsmen." Gavran said into the vox-channel while operating his Knight Castellan, Crimson Oath.
The Crimson Oath is armed with powerful weapons that able to level a city with ease. It bolster a Plasma Decimator and Volcano Lancer on each arm. Its carapace is armed with one Shieldbreaker Missiles and two Siegebreaker Cannons as well as two twin-Melta Guns.
"Hmph. This is not what I imagine when I accept your idea, brother." A young and playful voice come through the vox.
Gavran know where the voice come from. Galric, the youngest of them three, the pilot of Crimson Blood, a Knight Gallant. It's equipped with both melee weapons, a Reaper Chainsword and a Thunderstrike Gauntlet. The Knight also equipped with a back-mounted Ironstorm Missile Pod.
"You're the one who kept complaining when we weren't being sent into battle and left guarding our holdfast." Gavran replied dryly, triggering the Plasma Decimator. A burst of superheated energy vaporized a knot of Orks that had broken through a defensive line.
"Tell me, are we not now in battle?"
"Fine," Galric answered, his tone exaggeratedly bored. "I'll take the left flank, then."
Crimson Blood turned, its reactor flaring as it advanced toward the left side of the battlefield. The ground trembled beneath its titanic strides.
"Don't get reckless, Galric," Gavran warned. "This isn't a duel in the sparring halls."
"You wound me, brother," Galric replied with a laugh. "I would never be reckless... unless it's fun."
A new voice crackled into the shared vox channel, gravelly, steady, and far colder.
"Stop bickering. Focus."
Gavrix, second brother of the trio, most calm and calculative of them. He pilot the Crimson Vow, a Knight Paladin. It's equip with the rapid-fire Battle Cannon and a Reaper Chainsword with a back-mounted Stormspear Rocket Pod.
"The Ork described in the report is advancing toward the second defensive line." Gavrix continued. "If we don't intercept it now, the line will break. Morale among the Guardsmen is already deteriorating."
"Then we kill it now," Gavran replied firmly, his voice cold and resolute as the Crimson Oath's Volcano Lancer began to charge, its power coils glowing with lethal energy. "I'll fire first. If that doesn't bring the beast down—though I doubt it will—Gavrix, you move in and finish it."
"Understood, brother," Gavrix answered without hesitation.
As Crimson Oath and Crimson Vow slowed to prepare their coordinated strike against the towering Ork brute, Crimson Blood was already in motion.
With a thunderous roar of servos and the grinding howl of tearing steel, the Knight Gallant crashed into the sea of green flesh like a crimson storm. Galric, ever eager and unrestrained, drove his Reaper Chainsword through the first wave of Orks with wild precision, cleaving bodies in half and sending limbs flying in all directions. Each swing of the massive blade carved a path of devastation, the Knight's armor soaked in gore.
"Come on, you stinking Xenos!" Galric shouted through the external vox, his voice broadcasted across the battlefield. "Face me if you dare!"
The Crimson Blood's Thunderstrike Gauntlet snapped out, seizing a Mega Nob in its iron grip. With a twist and a crunch, the Ork was pulped into a broken wreck of armor and meat, hurled into the mob behind him
Around the rampaging Knight, the battered ranks of Imperial Guardsmen rallied. Inspired by the arrival of the Freeblade, they surged forward, bayonets fixed, lasguns blazing. Trenches once overrun were clawed back foot by foot as renewed vigor surged through the human lines.
Behind them, Crimson Oath's Volcano Lancer hit full charge.
"Target locked." Gavran announced flatly.
A moment later, the weapon fired.
A beam of searing energy streaked across the field, striking the massive Ork at the center of the chaos, the one reported in the Guardsmen's panicked transmissions. The impact was cataclysmic. A miniature sun bloomed upon the battlefield, engulfing lesser Orks and sending a shockwave rippling through the enemy horde.
Smoke and fire billowed from the blast site.
As the smoke cleared, nothing remained in the blast zone. No body. No wreckage. Only scorched earth and molten slag. The Ork's flesh, bone, and crude armor had been utterly erased, vaporized by the Volcano Lancer's fury.
"Target eliminated," Gavrix confirmed over the vox, his tone as calm as ever. "Proceeding with cleanup operations."
Crimson Blood emerged from the melee, its armor stained with Ork ichor. "Hah! You stole my kill," Galric laughed. "I was just getting to him!"
"You were getting swarmed," Gavran replied bluntly, repositioning the Crimson Oath to target another knot of Orks. "Next time, move faster."
Galric snorted. "Next time, leave something for me to crush."
The Knights began to advance in unison, red giants pushing deeper into the Ork ranks. Their massive footfalls thundered across the plains, each step bringing death and fire. Behind them, the Guardsmen surged forward once more, emboldened by the titanic warriors fighting in their midst.
With the intervention of the three Freeblade Knights, Crimson Oath, Crimson Vow, and Crimson Blood, the tide decisively turned.
The battle for KOP-09, once predicted to drag on for four grueling months, concluded one month ahead of schedule. The Ork, now leaderless and broken, was systematically purged from every stronghold and tunnel.
In the aftermath, scorched battlefields bore the marks of the Knights' passage, molten craters, shattered war machines, and the charred remains of Ork fortresses reduced to slag. Across the command vox-net, praise echoed for the Knight pilots and the Guard regiments who had held fast.
At the heart of it all, the three crimson giants stood amid the wreckage, their weapons cooling, their banners tattered but proud.
===============================
The hum of the transport vessel's engines formed a low backdrop in the Knight hold, a chamber once belonging to their noble house, now repurposed for their journey as Freeblades.
Inside the dimly lit chamber, the three brothers sat unhelmeted around a central table, still clad in their undersuits. A rare moment of quiet.
"Well," Gavran asked, leaning back slightly, arms crossed, his voice carrying that same cold steadiness. "how do you feel, Galric?"
Galric tilted his head, brow furrowing thoughtfully before flashing a crooked grin. "Like I just danced through a storm of iron and fire." He gave a short laugh. "And loved every second of it."
"You always did enjoy the spectacle more than the purpose." Gavrix said calmly, sipping from a ration flask as he leaned forward, gaze steady. "But you performed well."
"Hmph. High praise, coming from you." Galric smirked. "But admit it, Crimson Blood made a prettier mess than your Vow did."
"You were reckless again." Gavrix replied flatly. "You nearly let that second Nob flank the Guardsmen line before I cut it down."
Galric waved it off. "Details. We won. Besides, wasn't that what we were born to do?"
"No," Gavran interjected quietly. "We weren't born to fight like this. We chose it. We left the old ways behind when we decided to come here. We chose to stand alone... together."
The chamber fell quiet for a moment, the weight of those words lingering in the recycled air.
Then Galric spoke again, softer this time. "Yeah. And I'd choose it again. Every time."
For a moment, the war was forgotten. The battlefield, the screaming, the thunder of Titans, it all faded.
The three brothers looked at one another... and smiled.
"Well, I still can't believe that both of them approved your idea," Galric said, his voice carrying that ever-present curiosity. He turned to Gavran with a tilt of his head. "How did you manage to convince them, brother?"
"Indeed," Gavrix added, folding his arms, his gaze thoughtful. "Not to mention, few among our ancestors ever took the path of the Freeblade. Many in the House consider it a mark of disgrace... an abandonment of our oaths."
Gavran was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he spoke, quietly at first, as if choosing his words with care.
"I didn't ask them to approve. I told them what I would do."
Galric blinked. "You told the Princeps and father?"
"I told them, and the council that it was necessary." Gavran continued, voice steady. "The House was growing stagnant. Bound by old rivalries, caught in endless ceremony. We were more concerned with our image than the wars being fought across the stars."
He looked between his brothers.
"So I gave them a truth they couldn't ignore: The Imperium needed blades, not banners. Knights who chose to stand where others fell. Not for honor. Not for legacy. But for duty."
Gavrix nodded slowly, absorbing the words. "...And they listened."
"Not all," Gavran admitted. "Some called me traitor. Said I was walking away from my bloodline."
"And you walked anyway." Galric said with a grin.
"I walked because I knew you'd follow," Gavran said, meeting their eyes in turn. "Both of you."
"Hmph." Galric snorted. "So, did father approved the assignment of this vessel to us? I don't believe that our beloved uncle will help us in this endeavor." Galric said "beloved" with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
Gavran gave a short, humorless chuckle.
"No," he said, "Uncle was very vocal in his disapproval. Called us 'idealistic exiles playing at war.' Said we'd bring shame to the House name the moment we left orbit."
"He's always been a narrow-minded fossil," Galric muttered, folding his arms. "He'd rather polish the old relics in the Hall of Triumph than actually use them."
Gavrix, ever the calm mediator, simply raised an eyebrow. "And father?"
Gavran's expression softened just slightly.
"Father didn't say much. He just looked at me for a long time after the council meeting… then handed me the activation sigils for this ship." He glanced around the chamber, as if acknowledging the vessel surrounding them. "Didn't offer praise. Didn't offer condemnation. Just said: 'Do not return in failure.'"
Galric let out a low whistle. "That sounds like approval… in his own cryptic way."
"More like a challenge," Gavran said. "But I accepted it. We all did."
There was a beat of silence between them again, a moment where memories of home, of marble halls and the cold judgment of their kin, hung briefly in the air.
"Then let them watch," Gavrix said finally, eyes steady. "Let them see that we do not need gilded halls or ancestral chains to uphold what it means to be a Knight."
Galric raised his flask, smirking. "To Freeblades then, blades without banners."
Gavran met the gesture, lifting his own. "To duty."
Gavrix followed suit. "And to each other."
Their flasks clinked together, the soft ring of metal echoing through the chamber like a quiet vow.
And behind them, is a heraldry of a Knight House. It's in red and white, with a black half-skull centred within a half-cog. To this symbol's immediate left was another in the form of an arrow bisecting a circle and pointing upwards, and a sword pointing upward that divides the crest of the House from the demi-cog symbol.
A heraldry for one of the most powerful and prestigious House in Imperium,
House Taranis