The blue and gold Mk X power armor, emblazoned with the iconic U-shaped symbol on both pauldrons, left no doubt—the newcomers were Ultramarines, the most renowned Astartes Chapter in the Imperium of Man, perhaps in the entire Warhammer universe.
The moment the six warriors landed, they unleashed a storm of death. Bolters roared, Chainswords screamed, and Tyranids fell in droves. The master-forged Bolters, products of the Imperium's mightiest forges, were far deadlier than the lasguns of the Astra Militarum. A single mass-reactive shell tore through chitin and flesh alike, turning Hormagaunts and Termagants into bloody fragments. Those few creatures that closed the gap met their end in mid-leap, bisected by spinning chains.
Bone spines and Fleshborer beetles spat from Tyranid weapons were either avoided with impossible agility or deflected harmlessly against ceramite plate. These were Astartes, superhuman warriors forged through twenty-two genetic augmentations, equipped with the finest arms in the galaxy. Two hearts, three lungs, and a dozen engineered organs made them living engines of war.
Marcus could only watch in awe. The Super-Soldier Serum had elevated him to human perfection, but even at peak mortal capability he was far from the level of a Space Marine. An Astartes fresh from surgery could lift a ton and sprint at 80 kilometers per hour. Marcus's strength capped at about half that, and his speed was no better. In raw resilience, there was no contest—an Astartes could take on ten of him without breaking a sweat.
In the trench, Marcus drove his bayonet into a Hormagaunt's neck, gore splattering over him. Around him, the Astra Militarum defenders had been slaughtered—only Marcus and the soldier he had saved earlier remained alive. That soldier dropped to one knee, performing the Aquila salute. Marcus did the same, though he stayed standing. The Ultramarines spared them only a brief glance before charging into the swarm, smashing aside all in their path.
Their advance rallied the Imperial forces. Hundreds of Cadian troops surged from the rear lines, lasguns blazing. The last few Leman Russ tanks of the Cadian Eighth rumbled forward, battle cannons and heavy bolters tearing swaths through the Tyranid horde. The presence of the Emperor's Angels of Death reignited the defenders' courage.
But the Tyranids responded in kind. Roaring Tyranid Warriors pushed forward, their symbiotic weapons slashing and firing. These were the backbone of the swarm, dangerous even to Astartes. Marcus recalled that in Titus's earlier mission, a Space Wolf named Olfa had fallen to a Tyranid Warrior's bone blade proof enough of their lethality.
One of Marcus's objectives was to kill such a creature. For that, he needed better firepower. His eyes fell on the plasma pistol of a fallen Astra Militarum sergeant. Seizing it, Marcus made a snap decision—he vaulted from the trench and fell in behind the charging Ultramarines.
He kept close but never ahead, firing precise plasma bolts into the heads of Gun Worms and finishing off Hormagaunts that slipped past the Astartes' guard. The serum's enhancements made his aim unerring, and every strike counted.
Oddly, he found himself exhilarated, balancing between life and death. The Ultramarines noticed his presence. One, a warrior with a mechanical right arm, cleaved a leaping Tyranid in two before calling out, "Soldier, you should return to your post."
Marcus recognized him as Kairon of Titus's squad. "Sir, it is my honor to fight alongside you and purge these foul xenos, even if it means my soul's return to the Golden Throne!"
Kairon seemed satisfied and turned back to the slaughter. Marcus grinned inwardly his plan was working. He had two reasons for joining this deadly charge: first, to complete his objective of killing a Tyranid Warrior; and second, to draw the attention of Titus's squad. Only by earning their notice could he assist them in the greater mission reactivating the massive plasma cannon on Kadaku's surface.