"This is the end of the line, Fulgrim. Time to pay for your sins."
Guilliman let out a primal roar as he lunged forward, his eyes burning with a vengeful fury. He was hell-bent on settling scores that had been festering for ten thousand years—to avenge his father, Ferrus, and every soul that had fallen to Fulgrim's treachery.
Right then, a hellish firestorm ripped through the air. Explosions rocked the battlefield, followed by waves of searing plasma, blinding melta-beams, and the sickening stench of warp energy. A squad of Noise Marines had slipped onto the field undetected, and they were now laying down a blistering curtain of fire on Guilliman.
"Take cover!"
Daniel slammed the Scepter of Heavenly Punishment into the dirt, triggering a massive surge of psychic power. A golden aegis shimmered into existence around him and Guilliman, swatting away the incoming fire like it was nothing.
"Protect the Primarch!" a Noise Marine shrieked.
Fulgrim was flat on the ground, his body writhing in agony. His screams were bone-chilling as the Emperor's power tore into his immortal daemon flesh. At the same time, a rival, equally potent energy was pumping into him, trying to stitch him back together.
The sensation was white-hot and excruciating—the kind of pain that would break a normal man—yet, in his twisted mind, Fulgrim felt a flicker of perverse pleasure. Slaanesh's "blessing" was kicking into high gear, flooding his system with warp juice.
Noise Marines and Slaanesh daemons swarmed the area, forming a wall of meat and madness to drag their wounded Prince to safety.
"Fire for the Emperor!" the commander bellowed.
The players at Daniel's back didn't miss a beat. They opened up with everything they had, while the front-liners revved their chainswords and power axes, diving headlong into the fray. In a heartbeat, it was a total bloodbath. Bolters roared, molten slag sprayed everywhere, and the two sides crashed together in a frenzy.
"Fulgrim!" Guilliman snarled, charging toward his retreating brother. He carved a path through the howling daemons like a man possessed, his father's sword cleaving through anything in his way.
Fulgrim tried to scramble up, but the gaping wound in his gut and his severed hand were screaming. The more Slaanesh tried to heal him, the more it burned. His body had become a literal battlefield for two warring gods. His sanity was fraying; between the blinding pain and the sickening euphoria, he couldn't even process the chaos around him.
A Noise Marine let out a sonic shriek so loud the air itself rippled. Two players were instantly vaporized, turned into a red mist. Guilliman's kine-shield flared as it absorbed the shockwave, and a split second later, the Primarch cut the traitor clean in half.
The battle was turning into a meat grinder. Slaanesh daemons kept pouring out of the veil—succubi with razor-claws and fangs, and Seekers riding those bizarre, long-tongued mounts.
"Man, these things are... well, 'voluptuous' is one way to put it," Rigby said, his eyes wide as he manned his modified exoskeleton. He let loose a volley that turned a cluster of daemons into Swiss cheese. "No wonder they call 'em 'Lust Daemons.' They're really leaning into the bit."
"Total eye candy," Mordecai muttered. "I get why people fall for Slaanesh. I'm almost tempted myself."
"Don't get your hopes up," Warmaster shot back. "They're hermaphrodites, man. If a regular person tells you something's wrong with you, they're insulting you. If Slaanesh tells you something's wrong with you, he's just stating a fact."
"Hey, that just makes it more interesting," Mordecai joked. "When's the Guide gonna take us to Slaanesh's neighborhood so we can go three hundred rounds with these 'cows'?"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A few daemons charging them were blown to bits. The moment they died, the sexy illusions evaporated, leaving behind charred, multi-breasted monstrosities.
"Gross. They look great until they're dead," Rigby complained. "Slaanesh's illusions are basically the warp version of a beauty filter."
The players were cracking jokes, but they weren't showing an ounce of mercy. They could see the "Lust Daemons" for what they really were—freaks with too many appendages and rows of fangs. These guys were horny, sure, but they weren't THAT twisted.
Guilliman was bogged down. No matter how many he killed, the daemons just kept coming, pinning him down and keeping him away from Fulgrim. Daniel was in the thick of it too, but the tide was turning.
It wasn't just Slaanesh anymore—forces of Khorne and Tzeentch were crashing the party, and Daniel's squad was getting outnumbered fast. The only reason they weren't dead already was because the three daemon armies were busy killing each other as much as the Imperials.
"You have to leave. Now," a voice echoed in their heads.
"Who goes there?" Guilliman demanded.
"An ally. I am Hilandri, Shadowseer of the Masque of the Veiled Path. There is a shortcut through this Blackstone Fortress—a Webway gate that leads straight to Terra. I will guide you."
Guilliman glanced at Daniel.
"You have to go," Daniel sent back psychically. "We're burning daylight. Terra is the priority."
The Primarch nodded, casting one last hateful look at the retreating Fulgrim. He hated leaving a job half-finished, but he couldn't afford to be the hothead he was ten millennia ago. Getting home to his father was the only thing that mattered.
"Arale, pick two-thirds of the players to hold the line. The rest are with me," Daniel commanded.
The players' HUDs flashed with a new objective:
[MISSION: HOLD THE LINE / EVACUATION]. The reward was massive: 55,000 points and a boatload of honor.
"Aw man, I got stuck on sniper duty," Rigby groaned. "I wanted to see Terra!"
"Chill out," BaldCustodian said. "Once they reach Terra, we'll get a new map expansion for sure."
As the players repositioned to block the daemon tide, Guilliman asked, "What about the fleet?"
"Arale's on it," Daniel replied. "The Living Saints are guarding the Glory of Macragge. Besides, the enemy wants you, not the ships. Once you're gone, they'll turn on each other, giving the fleet a window to punch out."
They moved deeper into the fortress, the sounds of war fading behind them. Suddenly, a group of Eldar appeared like ghosts, accompanied by a few Space Marines in ancient, black power armor.
"Is that... Cypher?" the players whispered in their private channel.
"Look at the Lion Sword on his back and the dual pistols. That's him, alright."
"What's his deal? Is he a loyalist or an assassin?"
"Why not both? The Emperor's a god-in-waiting. Maybe Cypher thinks killing him is the only way to set him free. Dark Angels are weird like that."
Daniel cut through the chatter. He stepped toward the lead Dark Angel. "Lord Cypher, now isn't the time. Turn back. Terra has nothing for you today."
The Fallen Angel froze. He hadn't expected to be outed so easily. "We have to try," Cypher said, his voice like gravel. "Things can't get any worse."
"Actually, they can," Daniel countered. "Wait for your father to return before you make your move."
"My father? You know where he is?"
"That's a 'need to know' basis, and you don't need to know," Daniel said, throwing Cypher's own mystery back in his face. "When the time is right, the Lion will emerge from the forest. For now, vanish. Don't do something we'll all regret."
Cypher was silent for a long beat. "We'll meet again, Saint. There are Imperial loyalists held in the cells ahead by Huron Blackheart. Free them, and they'll bolster your numbers." With that, the Fallen melted back into the shadows.
Hilandri, the Shadowseer, looked at Daniel with newfound respect. Not many people could talk Cypher out of a plan.
As they moved, they liberated the prisoners—among them, Juba Khan of the White Scars. The man was a wreck, but his spirit was unbroken. "Just give me a gun," he grunted. "I've still got some fight in me."
Meanwhile, in the void, Arale was putting the Glory of Macragge to work. Her processing power turned the massive warship into a surgical instrument of death. She calculated a gap in the Chaos blockade and gunned it.
"We aren't going back for the Primarch?" Amalrich asked.
"He's in the Webway," Arale replied. "My job is to get you to Terra in one piece. We've got boarding parties to deal with. Lock and load!"
Back in the fortress, the "rearguard" players were having the time of their lives.
"For the Emperor!" they screamed, throwing themselves at the daemon horde to buy seconds.
Angron, the Red Angel, was back on the warpath. He'd finished his spat with Magnus and was now hunting Primarch blood.
"It's been a slice, boys!" one player yelled, activating his armor's self-destruct as he was swamped by Bloodletters.
One veteran player, armed with a chain-axe, found himself face-to-face with Angron himself. He knew he was outclassed, but he didn't care. "Me versus a Primarch? Best game ever!"
He charged. Angron swatted his first blow aside and crushed him to his knees with raw pressure. A second later, the daemon-blade swung, bisecting the player in a spray of gore. As the blood hit Angron's face, the World Eater paused.
For a split second, the "pure" blood of a descendant triggered a memory—the ghosts of his gladiator brothers whispering his name. But the Nails bit deep, the rage returned, and with a planet-shaking roar, Angron resumed the hunt.