BANG!
The sound tore across the battlefield like the wrath of a dying star.
A blinding light followed, devouring the horizon in white fire.
with it came a great increase in heat —it was searing and unbearable
a tidal wave that consumed the sky itself.
It was brief,
But its devastation was absolute.
When the silence returned, Atrius slowly lowered his gauntleted arm from his face. The air still trembled with residual energy. His eyes, veiled by the lenses of his helm, surveyed the ruin before him.
The skies were clear now.
The parademons lay strewn across the scorched plains — heaps of twisted bodies piled into mountains of charred flesh and molten armor. The once-ashen clouds parted like curtains of surrender, allowing golden sunlight to pierce through the veil of smoke and ash.
In the far distance, Atrius caught a glimpse of something moving — it was fast and burnt across the sky as it streaked away on the horizon.
A shadow made of flame, streaking across the heavens like a comet.
His expression darkened behind the helm.
Each passing moment of this war revealed more of the power that ruled this world. These were not warp-spawned miracles, nor sorcery borrowed from fickle gods. These beings were their own source of might — pure, self-contained and unshackled by the parasitic bargain of the Immaterium.
If their strength was not given, then it could never be taken.
An adversary of such nature would pose an impossible challenge should the Imperium ever turn its gaze upon this realm.
But such considerations were of little concern to him.
These were merely the detached musings of an observer — a witness displaced from his time and mission. His purpose here was not conquest.
Still, something about this world unsettled him.
There were humans here — or at least, creatures who looked like them.
Were they remnants of mankind's long-forgotten expansion?
Or something else entirely?
He pondered this as his gaze fell upon a mortal man at his side — a warrior, bleeding heavily, yet refusing to abandon his post beside him.
All around, the battlefield was littered with broken men and shattered beasts. There were no nations here, no banners, no species distinctions — only the will to resist the invasion that scorched their land.
Atrius watched as the wounded man struggled to his knees. The soldier dropped his large shield, driving his spear into the earth for support. He was trembling, blood leaking through the seams of his dented armor. Yet his gaze never wavered from Atrius.
Within the helm, Atrius raised a brow.
Then, as if moved by instinct or reverence, the other survivors followed the man's example — one by one, they knelt before him, heads bowed in the blood-soaked dust. Even the inhuman among them bent low, their strange shapes prostrating in solemn silence.
It was unavoidable.
From the eyes of mortals, he was something divine. To them, this was what a god looked like.
For these weary soldiers, to fight beside him was an honor worth dying for.
"My lord…"
The warrior's voice broke through the silence, ragged and faint.
Atrius inclined his head slightly.
"Rise," he said, his tone low yet commanding — the weight of ages resonating through the vox-grill of his helm.
It was not the first time he had been worshiped. On Terra, the palace attendants had knelt the same way — heads bowed, trembling in reverence as they uttered their sacred titles.
At his word, they rose.
They stood upon blood-stained earth, gathering their wounded and broken. They looked to him for direction, for purpose — and it made Atrius uneasy.
This was not his war.
He was no savior of this realm.
He only sought a vessel — a way to leave this world and return to the path ordained by the Throne.
Still… they might serve a purpose.
"Search for survivors," he commanded at last, his voice echoing softly across the field. "Tend to the injured. The dead will have their silence soon enough."
The mortals obeyed without hesitation, scattering into the wreckage to pull their wounded from beneath the carcasses of the fallen.
Atrius reached for the clasps of his helm.
With a faint hiss of decompression, he removed it — the war-plate's machine spirit crackled weakly, still disrupted by the residual surge of energy from the blast.
'Electromagnetic interference,' he noted.
When the mortals saw his face, they froze.
The dusky skin, almost as reflective as a sun set. The stark contrast of his crimson eyes — cold, unreadable, and ancient.
Their silence deepened. Whatever doubts they had, were now gone.
Clattering footsteps approached.
A figure emerged — armored, tall, and unlike any human he had ever seen.
"Great lord," it said, voice trembling with earnestness. "The Amazon cavalry has strayed westward. Shall we pursue?"
Atrius turned to face the speaker.
Half man, half beast — its torso human, but from the waist down, the powerful form of a horse. The tail swayed with nervous energy beneath its plated hauberk.
A hybrid of two creature.
"Curious…" Atrius murmured. "What are you?"
The being blinked, startled by the question.
"I—I am a Centaur, my lord."
Atrius regarded him calmly, without judgment. To the Imperium, such abominations would be met with fire and purity seals. But Atrius had long outgrown the dogma of the corrupted empire.
"Centaur," he repeated, tasting the name like an ancient word rediscovered. "Tell me — are you born as such, or made?"
The centaur hesitated. "We… we are born this way."
"Interesting," Atrius said softly.
His gaze drifted across the field again — over humans, and other forms of life gathering the wounded. They differed in shape and hue, yet seemed familiar to themselves.
'Native species,' he noted quietly.
He gestured toward a fallen parademon nearby. "Do you know what these creatures are?"
The centaur's eyes darkened. "No, my lord. The oracles spoke only that they were the spawn of the one behind this war."
'First encounter, then,' Atrius pondered. That explained much.
These abominations were no mere beasts — they were constructs of deliberate design, living weapons forged for war. They resembled the Tyranids in purpose if not in form: endless numbers, relentless ferocity, and no concept of mercy.
If such a species were ever to cross paths with the Imperium, entire hive worlds would fall before a single crusade could muster.
Atrius's gaze wandered once more to the wreckage around him.
Something in the air unsettled him — a scent he could not name. It clung to the survivors, seeped from their pores, filled the silence with its invisible presence.
thud!! thud!! thud!!
He walked among them, his heavy steps sinking into the blood-muddied earth. He saw their faces — broken, hollow, trembling — the faces of men who had glimpsed death and lived.
And then he understood.
The stench was not smoke or blood.
It was fear.