"The abominations are attacking! Everyone find cover and initiate plague weapon containment procedures!"

Wade Ward forced himself to break free from the grip of despair and shouted with a nearly broken voice.

The plague weapons wielded by the abominable warriors were nightmarishly terrifying.

Plague bombs erupted in succession across the frontlines. Expanding clouds of yellow gas filled the skies, descending in thick curtains that engulfed the trenches.

The poisonous fog was so dense it defied natural explanation. Agonized screams echoed from within the mists.

Wade instinctively tightened the seals on his protective suit. Then, suddenly recalling something, he hastily pulled out special repair tape and began wrapping the torn edges — round and round, sealing every possible breach.

He bound himself within the rancid stench of old sweat and cheap filtration systems.

The plague mist crept forward relentlessly, harvesting lives as it flowed.

"We're facing the most horrific plague since the start of this war!"

Wade watched in horror as a soldier's mask slipped off — within seconds, the man was infected, his body swelling and paling like a drowned corpse.

That was just the beginning. The plague defiled the dead, raising the corpses once more.

Crack!

His laspistol blew apart the head of the reanimated corpse, preventing its further desecration.

But it was futile.

The icy plague mist kept drifting in, smothering trenches and silencing gunfire. Even the mechanical turrets were corroded into silence.

Nearby, a one-armed sergeant shouted in panic, firing blindly:

"Commander, we can't hold! There's no way we can stop them — we're all going to die!"

"We've lost the line! We need to retreat!"

"To hell with the heretics!"

Wade knew the front was lost — even High Command had gone dark — but no retreat orders had been issued.

And really, where could they retreat to?

If they ran, who would protect the tens of millions still in Harbor City?

He didn't shoot the panicked sergeant either. Better to let them die in battle. At least they'd take a few more shots first.

The major had already steeled himself for death.

Fortunately, a burst of wind blew through, temporarily clearing part of the plague mist — granting the 97th Coss Regiment a brief window to breathe.

"The Emperor has blessed us!"

Wade roared with renewed hope, leading a counterattack. Lasbolts and artillery rained down on the abominations.

But against the Death Guard, it was like scratching an itch.

They marched on, chanting mournful dirges, wading through the laser storms. Even when struck, they merely lost chunks of already-decayed flesh and writhing tentacles.

And most of the shots just pinged off their armor, causing no real harm.

"Weak mortal warriors," sneered a Death Guard marine, "Abandon that cold, unfeeling corpse-Emperor. Join the endless death and rebirth. Father Nurgle will grant you his generosity."

They fired as they advanced.

Their rusted, decaying bolters were still deadly — explosive rounds tearing apart human bodies and punching holes in reinforced barricades.

More lives were snuffed out.

Wade managed to score a hit on one of them — burning a hole through the grotesque skull. But it didn't kill him.

The abomination turned and smiled savagely.

A burst of bolt rounds followed, ripping through the trench. Soldiers exploded into red mist.

Wade survived by a hair — he saw the one-armed sergeant's torso collapse beside him, still twitching.

That had been his last officer.

The enemy push intensified. From within the fog emerged plague-forged monstrosities — biomechanical abominations clad in rotting armor and foul shells, their glowing green eyes like malevolent lanterns.

Daemon Engines.

They raised brass cannons and spewed corrosive toxins that could melt steel.

Some belched venomous flames or vomited rotting flies.

The 97th Coss Regiment suffered catastrophic losses. Resistance crumbled with every second. Dozens, hundreds were dying every minute.

The frontline collapsed at horrifying speed.

"O Emperor, your faithful beg your mercy..."

Wade was thrown by a nearby explosion. He lay helpless, whispering a desperate prayer:

"Please… send Your holy angels to smite these monsters!"

He knew only the Emperor's Angels could truly face the Death Guard.

The major had once witnessed their descent in battle — mighty warriors falling from the heavens, unstoppable and divine.

And suddenly, his blurred vision caught a flicker of flame.

Burning fireballs descending from the sky.

The memory surged back.

It was just like before — the arrival of the Emperor's Angels. The Ultramarines — defenders of Ultramar — were coming.

They were saved.

"Praise the Emperor!"

Wade, ignoring his injuries, climbed to his feet and shouted over the vox:

"A holy being has sent us His angels! We have hope for salvation!

"All forces, hold the line!"

At once, the 97th found new strength. They miraculously held against the next assault.

Some soldiers even strapped explosives to themselves to blow apart the heretics.

Such is the power of morale.

So long as hope remains, the Imperial Guard can unleash extraordinary strength.

Some elite, high-morale mortal regiments have even slain Astartes under extreme circumstances.

Above the battlefield.

The fiery streaks grew more distinct — drop pods, one after another, screaming toward the ground.

But strangely...

Though they were similarly sized, the pods all looked different — some lavish, others savage, adorned with menacing symbols and grim iconography.

Some even blasted violent music during descent. Customized drop pods?

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Pods slammed down, shaking the earth.

One Daemon Engine was crushed by a pod — a lucky hit that saved many lives.

Wade fixed his eyes on the pod that had destroyed the machine, eager to witness the arrival of the holy warriors.

FWOOSH!

Flames erupted from the pod's vents, and from the center rose a towering, fearsome figure.

"Ange—"

Wade nearly collapsed in awe. The figure was so divine, so mighty — monstrous armor, burning wings, jagged horns...

"No, that's not an Emperor's Angel!"

He froze, the words choking in his throat.

What stood before him wasn't any known Angel of the Emperor — it was some kind of abominable warrior, radiating heretical energy far worse than the Death Guard.

ROAR!

"Let the flames of terror devour all!"

The warrior — a Terror Legion marine known as Brokenhorn — raised a burning power axe and bellowed.

It was a signal. The rest of the Terror Legion joined in the roar.

The Terror Legion… had arrived!

Wade's legs went weak.

New enemies had landed on the battlefield!

And they were close. Far too close for the humans to react.

They wanted to fight back, but sheer terror paralyzed them. Any move might provoke these monsters.

But then, to their astonishment — the Terror Marines charged not at them, but at the Death Guard.

Like unleashed beasts.

They were fiercer, better armed — and within moments, they tore through the Death Guard's ranks.

Then came a wild slaughter, each marine desperate not to let another steal their kills.

Those blood splatters earned them points!

"What's going on?! Why are the monsters fighting each other?"

Wade was completely lost.

But he still ordered the men not to fire at the Terror Marines — no sense provoking them, especially since they hadn't attacked humans yet.

Soon, the Imperial forces regrouped to support the Terror Marines and assist against the Death Guard.

Just then, Wade ducked instinctively as something hurtled past.

BOOM!

Brokenhorn was hit by a heavy shell and thrown into the trench.

He picked himself up, just as a trembling human major — Wade — raised his flimsy laspistol in defense.

Suddenly, a turret behind them exploded, collapsing toward them in a heap of scrap.

"You alive, mortal?"

Brokenhorn's towering form shielded the human from the falling wreckage. He looked genuinely worried.

That would've been a problem.

Seeing Wade was unharmed, he sighed in relief.

"Good. Now get the hell outta here — don't mess up my kill streak!"

With that, Brokenhorn spread his flaming wings and soared back into the fray, promptly decapitating a Death Guard sorcerer.

The force of his wingbeat knocked Wade flat, wrinkling his protective suit with searing heat.

The major lay stunned.

"An abomination… saved me?"

He slowly rose, scanning the battlefield — and indeed, the Terror Marines weren't attacking humans.

They even went out of their way to protect them in danger.

As if they feared letting humans die in their presence.

A rare thing — for even the Emperor's Angels rarely concerned themselves with mortal casualties.

They cared more about victory than survival.

In fact, this wasn't happening only here.

Across the warzones, it was the same.

One war correspondent even noted:

These servants of the Dark Prince seem to care more about human lives than the Emperor's own Angels…

Some Chapters of the Emperor's Angels, due to genetic defects, occasionally engage in indiscriminate slaughter or show blatant disregard for mortal lives in combat.

In stark contrast, such incidents almost never occurred within the Terror Legion. Wherever they fought, human casualties dropped dramatically.

That a band of Heretic Astartes from Chaos would protect humans better than the Emperor's own angels—was an unspeakable irony.

One particular war scribe, who documented this anomaly in great detail, was swiftly subjected to Inquisitorial investigation and judgment.

Yet the truth was undeniable.

It was all orchestrated by Eden's darker persona.

To prevent the Terror Marines from wantonly butchering civilians, Eden deliberately engineered their behavior.

But he didn't do it through direct orders—such absurd commands would only incite rebellion among the Chaos Marines and cause greater trouble.

Instead, he relied on incentives and faith.

At first, the Terror Marines did slaughter mortals.

But they quickly discovered that killing humans not only deducted Blood Points but also reduced the blessings they received from Diablo the Destroyer.

To these glory-obsessed warriors, losing Blood Points and divine favor was tantamount to the sky falling.

And no explanation was ever given.

Diablo never responded to prayers, never clarified the mechanics. He was simply a cold, efficient dispenser of blessings and rewards. Fair to all. Mercilessly so.

Thus, the Terror Marines were forced to guess the cause.

Eventually, they came up with a theory: the great Diablo favored violent, sinful souls and despised the pure, weak ones of humanity.

Hence, when a weak human died nearby, it would trigger Diablo's displeasure—resulting in fewer blessings.

With this self-made theology, the Terror Marines began policing their own behavior.

Anything to avoid losing their Blood Points and favor.

They began selecting powerful, sinful Chaos enemies and daemons as their preferred prey.

Because cutting down such targets was the most profitable. Killing weak humans? A total loss.

Some even grieved when mortals died around them.

Not out of compassion—but because it meant a heavy Blood Point loss and a reduction in favor, which they'd have to grind back by killing even more foes.

And so, without a single direct command, Eden created a ruthless yet human-protecting Terror Legion.

Their combat prowess was off the charts. Once their enemies fell, they would withdraw without harming any mortals.

At times, they'd even go out of their way to rescue endangered humans—just to prevent those "pure souls" from dying in their proximity.

Setting aside ideology and allegiance, they were in many ways model Astartes. Incredibly loyal.

At the Hekka Harbor front…

The Legion's Dreadnoughts and Centurions stood in the trenches, shielding humans from incoming artillery. They incinerated the plague mist with cleansing fire.

Doing everything in their power to minimize human casualties.

"By the Emperor… are these truly heretic warriors?"

Major Wade stood dazed.

He watched these monstrous warriors take blow after blow for the mortals, with no hesitation—suffering injury just to protect them.

Every time a human died nearby, the Terror Marines would let out mournful howls and charge at the perpetrators in fury.

Such guardianship…

Wade admitted: he could never do the same.

"No…"

One furious Terror Marine roared and chased down a Death Guard warrior who had wiped out an entire outpost of mortals. The deaths around him had caused such a Blood Point loss he was on the verge of bankruptcy.

He rampaged through all resistance—Daemon Engines included.

The Death Guard marine fled in terror, screaming, but it was hopeless.

He was ultimately hacked to ash.

The Death Guard, long aware of the Terror Legion's reputation, now personally experienced their ferocity and cruelty. Their morale plummeted.

Entire platoons crumbled.

Afterward, the Terror Marines didn't even look at the humans in the trenches—they regrouped and swiftly departed for the next battlefield.

Afraid of being late.

"Praise Diablo!"

Brokenhorn was nearly trembling with excitement, eager to slay more.

The planet Vyst was swarming with Nurgle's forces—ripe for harvesting.

A literal flaming paradise.

After this campaign, he would gain superior wargear, more favor, and greater blessings.

If possible, he hoped to remain on this battlefield forever.

Once the Terror Marines were gone, the 97th Coss Regiment finally erupted in victorious cheers.

"Hekka Harbor is secure!"

Wade finally allowed himself to relax, collapsing atop a sandbag with a faint smile.

After recovering a bit of stamina, he climbed the watchtower and used his electroscanner to survey the other warzones.

It dawned on the Major that his homeworld had become a massive battlefield—threatened with annihilation every moment.

Through his scanner, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat.

Tyranids.

Every Imperial officer recognized the dread these xenos brought. Their arrival on a planet meant total extinction.

Spore pods rained down on distant fields, and the swarm emerged.

But strangely—the yellow-spore-covered Tyranids ignored humans, instead charging toward the Nurgle Daemons en masse.

Devouring them completely.

Wade was thoroughly lost. One strange occurrence after another defied all logic.

Neither his training nor his faith could explain this.

"The Emperor protects…"

He whispered, then repeated it with more conviction.

Surely it was the Emperor's divine will that kept the monsters and heretics from harming mankind.

His scanner picked up another horrifying being.

A daemon hovering in midair—grotesque horns, a flaming form inscribed with glowing runes of arcane power.

Suddenly, the daemon turned, as if noticing him.

Despite being over ten kilometers away, its gaze pierced straight through the scanner.

Wade locked eyes with the infernal being—and collapsed instantly, overwhelmed by the sheer malevolence.

He passed out.

…

Outside Hekka Harbor.

"Who dares spy on me?"

Eden's demonic form floated above the wasteland, swarmed by Tyranid Gargoyles and raining spore pods.

He glanced toward the direction of the gaze—then dismissed it.

His focus returned to the recent psychic message: a war report.

Mortarion the Plaguefather had committed all his forces to the defense of Vyst, attempting to hold this critical planet.

Roboute Guilliman, the Lord Commander of the Imperium, had already landed and engaged the enemy.

Eden frowned slightly. "That guy better not screw up."

After all, Guilliman didn't exactly have the best win record. Especially in battles that should be easy.

Eden thought a moment, then gave orders under his "Savior" persona—deploying the Thunderwardens and Children of Mankind to assist.

As the Dark Prince, however, he continued commanding his Chaos and xeno forces—and personally searched for the location of the Plague Factory.

So far, his recon forces had scanned the entire planet without results.

Clearly, the factory was well hidden—standard methods wouldn't work.

Thankfully, he had other options—namely, the Tyranids.

Through the gestalt psychic network, Eden contacted Hive Commander No. 8, issuing commands to the swarm.

Though his current Daemon body couldn't control them directly, his Tyranid clone—Wingblade—could command the entire hive.

Soon, under No. 8's direction, the fleet released Lictor assassins across every city and jungle on Vyst.

Into the oceans, they deployed aquatic scouts.

In the skies, the Gargoyles took over.

These creatures would quickly adapt to the local environment, hunting for traces of corrupted machines.

"My swarm is endless…"

Eden descended into a ruined zone, smiling coldly.

Behind him surged an ocean of Tyranids, flooding toward the battlefield, devouring every Nurgle Daemon and Daemon Engine in sight.

He could feel their joy—these little monsters loved the taste.

Unknowingly, this so-called "Savior" had amassed terrifying power—enough to truly shape the fate of the galaxy.

BOOM—

The ground shattered.

A massive, pitch-black Mutant Burrower Serpent, hundreds of meters long, erupted from the earth. Its armored scales gleamed with a strange light.

On closer look—its body was covered in Blackstone plating.

Not only externally—its stomach was lined with Blackstone as well.

And all of it was enhanced by Dark Blessings.

It was a specially-bred Tyranid unit, devoted to Diablo the Destroyer—able to resist and even suppress Warp energies.

The Burrower charged into the Nurgle Daemon lines, devouring entire platoons.

Then it dove back underground.

Its mission: search the deep bedrock for hidden structures.

"If you're hiding that deep… then I'll tear apart the entire planet until I find you."

Eden's crimson eyes gleamed with menace.

Of course, the Tyranids weren't searching blindly.

They prioritized heavily-defended zones.

Once the swarm locked onto a corrupted aura, the psykers would use their arcane devices to triangulate the Plague Factory's exact location.

Multi-species coordination always paid off.

Suddenly, Eden flared his demonic wings—and vanished.

A moment later, a Nurgle Greater Daemon let out a dying scream…

(End of Chapter)

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