Chapter 125
The out-of-control Godzilla derivative had been sighted in the southeastern corner of the Milky Way, far from Godzilla's current domain.
Isis passed through a webway gate with a small escort to investigate the situation. That was her duty as priestess—she walked ahead so that her god would not be forced to waste his time on trivial dangers.
The portal tore open, spitting them out onto a barren world.
The air stung with grit. Red dunes stretched in every direction, whipped into endless storms. Each gust lashed skin like flensing knives.
Isis's lips curled.
"I don't like sandstorms."
The planet wasn't uninhabitable—humans, orks, or even Tau could colonize it. But it was no land for lizardmen, who thrived in swamps and steaming jungles. The dryness gnawed at her scales.
It didn't take long before local life showed itself.
A pack of orks roared across the plains atop ramshackle bikes, black smoke trailing behind them. Their engines rattled like dying machines while the riders whooped and swung crude axes, pipes, and hammers.
The glyphs splattered across their armor told Isis all she needed.
"The Evil Sunz. Of course."
Among the six major clans of greenskins, these lunatics were notorious for their obsession with speed. Some orks loved building, some loved beasts, some loved sneaking. The Evil Sunz? They loved bolting engines onto anything, then crashing it into something bigger.
Isis's eyes narrowed. "Green skins again… and a derivative of my god besides. How inconvenient."
A figure shimmered into view beside her: Oxolius, the legendary chameleon skink. Still alive after countless battles, his body bent to the desert wind like a shadow come to life.
"Follow them," Isis ordered. "Track where they gather. If my god has kin here, it will not be small."
The chameleon priest gave a silent nod and vanished back into the storm.
Left with only her guards, Isis pressed onward. It wasn't difficult to find the ork stronghold. Their cities were sprawling junkheaps: towers of rusted scrap, half-collapsed walls, shanties leaning against each other like drunks in an alley. Yet somehow, impossibly, tens of thousands of orks thrived there, packed denser than a hive city's underbelly.
And everywhere—signs of devastation.
Walls crushed. Streets torn apart. Buildings sheared like cardboard. And across the wreckage, enormous footprints pressed into the dirt.
Lizard-like. Familiar.
Isis crouched and pressed her boot into the dust beside one print, gauging depth and size.
"Over a hundred meters tall. Heavier than my god's current form. Stronger too… This one is close to Godzilla's middle stage."
That was not a comforting thought. Mid-stage Godzillas—like Legend or Shin—were powerhouses, far beyond the fifty-meter "juvenile" breeds. They rivaled Titans, and that was before the rare apex forms like Planet Godzilla or Hell Godzilla even entered the picture.
"This will be his fight," Isis admitted softly. Even the mightiest lizardmen priests could never match such a creature. Her task was only to guide her god toward the prey.
And then she understood why the ork city looked half-destroyed.
Something dark moved across the horizon.
Her eyes widened as a colossal form emerged from the storm—Godzilla's unmistakable silhouette. But this one… this one flew.
Not leaping. Not gliding. Flying.
Like a slab of armored muscle hovering horizontally through the air. A sight so absurd it might have been born in some Ultraman studio across the galaxy.
Isis froze, then her tail lashed.
"…Heretic."
The word came out like venom.
Not when she had faced daemons. Not when she had endured the lies of humans or Eldar. Only now, at this blasphemous sight, did the word finally leave her lips with the full weight of a Warhammer priest.
"HERESY!" she roared. "Godzilla who can fly is heresy incarnate! He must be purged!"
Groudon, ever her shadow, raised his colossal blade in agreement.
Even true Godzilla, the original, had never openly flaunted flight. Planet Godzilla, the mighty electromagnetic titan, might have had the potential, but he had never used it. The second-generation Godzilla—the one time official canon admitted to flight—remained an eternal embarrassment, a black mark carved into history.
To fly was to abandon strength. To fly was to betray the image of Godzilla. Better death than that disgrace.
And yet, here it was.
The abomination descended into the ork city, dorsal spines sparking. Blue arcs crackled and swelled into a storm cloud that burst in every direction. Plasma lightning raked across streets, ripping mobs apart by the dozen. Orks screamed as half their city caught fire under the onslaught.
"Ahhh! Da big monster's back!"
"Krump 'im! Krump 'im before 'e wrecks da new shack!"
"Load da ancient scrap gun!"
"Shoot da boss's tower—no, da other boss's tower!"
Artillery belched from every angle, shells smashing into ork huts as often as into the beast. The city dissolved into chaos, orks howling in glee even as they were fried alive.
The impostor roared, lightning cascading from its fins.
An electromagnetic Godzilla. A false child of her god, wielding powers that rivaled nuclear fire.
Isis's claws clenched around her staff.
"…So that's what you are."
And in her chest, a cold certainty formed. This would not end without blood.
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