Chapter 272: The Desperate Front (Patreon)

The Hive Mind had made its decision.

It would allow the Iron Men to rampage unchecked through the Infernis System, and in doing so, it had withdrawn the greater part of its swarms to Baal Prime and its scarred moons, concentrating its fury where the reward would be greatest.

It was not mercy, nor hesitation, but cold and ancient strategy. The Hive Mind understood the rhythm of war as instinct, a symphony of hunger written across galaxies, an endless calculus of consumption and adaptation. The Iron Men were an obstacle only insofar as they delayed the greater harvest. Baal, drenched in the genetic legacy of Sanguinius and steeped in the psychic resonance of his sons, was far richer prey.

Now, the skies of Baal were gone, devoured beneath a living tide of chitin and wings.

Across the blood-red dunes, the Tyranids came. Warrior forms, clad in barbed carapace, thundered across the blasted surface. They plunged through storms of bolter fire, only to meet the Angels of Death blade to claw.

Even the lesser Gaunts, once fodder barely worth a bolter shell, had changed. A single explosive round could now obliterate a cluster of them, yet their talons had grown sharper, their movements faster, and their coordination more precise. Packs of them could surround and butcher a lone Terminator, rending through ceramite with inhuman precision.

Each kill, each fallen warrior, was absorbed into the collective memory of the swarm. Adaptation came not over generations, but over minutes. Every failure became a weapon sharpened for the next assault.

A campaign that had once been a grim endurance became an inferno of frenzy. It was as if the Hive Mind itself had decreed that this day, this hour, would decide the fate of Baal.

Even Lord Commander Dante, recuperating within the inner fortress-monastery, could feel the shift in the Tyranids’ assault. The veterans of the Sons of Sanguinius, Chapter Master Phoros of the Lamenters and Captain Karlaen of the Blood Angels First Company, were locked in the outer bastions, holding the breach with the fury of the faithful.

But none had time to convene. For even as they fought, a Bio-Titan approached the inner wall.

This one was unlike any they had faced before.

Its body was a grotesque cathedral of flesh, bristling with symbiotic weapons, toxin vents, and writhing tendrils. But where once those vents would have spewed corrosive gas, they now exhaled bio-electric storms, pulsing with energy that scorched the air.

The Bio-Titan’s steps split the ground like tectonic tremors. Every impact sent shuddering vibrations through the fortress foundations, rattling the bones of even the augmented. Its shadow rolled across the defenses like the fall of night. Inside its translucent flesh, organs pulsed with sickly blue light, a lattice of living conduits crackling with energy, as though the creature’s veins carried stormlight instead of blood.

An EMP-like field rolled outward from the Bio-Titan, crackling like a psychic thunderhead. Vehicles that neared it died instantly, their engines screaming before silence. The power systems of even Astartes armour faltered within its aura, cutting off communication, motion, and life alike.

This knowledge had been bought dearly, paid in the blood of hundreds of Space Marines.

“Weapons ineffective!” The vox crackled with the voice of the Lamenters’ First Company Captain, shouting across the walls as Phoros arrived at Defense Point Seventeen.

His men had just unleashed a barrage of krak missiles from their Terminator-mounted launchers, only to watch the projectiles spiral madly and crash into the chittering swarm below, obliterating tens of thousands of lesser Tyranids, but leaving the Bio-Titan untouched.

The detonation tore a crater through the swarm, but the void was filled within moments. The Hive Fleet’s movements were too fluid, too perfect, a living tide that absorbed loss without pause or emotion.

It didn’t matter how many lesser Tyranids died. The Hive Fleet simply filled the void with more.

“I see it,” Phoros growled. “Cease fire. Conserve your munitions. We’ll coordinate with Captain Karlaen and bring down that monstrosity together.”

“Aye, my lord.” The Captain saluted, turning to redeploy his squads.

Phoros didn't arrive at Defense Point Seventeen alone. Beside him moved the company’s lone Techmarine, servo-arms humming, his yellow armour scarred from previous battles. He was not fighting but studying, the arcane Talon relic weapons he had received, each one with a function both deadly and unpredictable.

Before departing, Phoros had ordered the Techmarine to call for an orbital strike using the ‘Dimensional Targeter’ to destroy the bio-titan, but the attempt had failed. Two Neurothropes hovered around the Bio-Titan, constantly shielding it with psychic barriers strong enough to deflect the bombardment of the Daughter of Tempests.

Still, the Talon arsenal held other wonders.

“Techmarine,” Phoros said, checking his bolter and chainsword, “ready every Talon device you can deploy with precision. And Emperor forbid, no more of that ‘gravitic grenade’ incident from last time.”

“Yes, my lord.” the Techmarine replied, scanning his data-slate and marking those weapons deemed combat-ready.

The flagship would then prepare to dispatch them.

Then, his hand paused over one entry: Dimensional Warhead.

He hesitated and did not mark it.

The Dimensional Warhead had been used ten days earlier, a weapon that tore open a rift in reality, dragging tens of thousands of Tyranids screaming into the void.

Phoros frowned. “Why omit it? That device was effective. Even if it consumes some of our own, the Lamenters’ armour carries teleport-shields. We’d survive the backlash.”

The Techmarine hesitated before replying. “Captain Karlaen requisitioned all remaining Dimensional Warheads, my lord. You authorized shared weapons and equipment without your permission between Chapters.”

Phoros grunted. “Very well. Carry on.”

Moments later, Karlaen arrived near the defense point, leading the Blood Angels First Company.

Their appearance immediately caught the attention of everyone at the defense point. They had shed their Terminator armour.

Clad only in tattered combat trousers, their bodies were pale marble marked with ritual scars and dried blood. Each carried a power sword and bolt pistol, and upon their backs, each Marine bore a single, one-meter Dimensional Warhead.

The sight was both awe-inspiring and horrifying, warriors stripped of all protection, adorned only by faith and fury. Their eyes gleamed with the madness of conviction, and the faint hum of the warheads they bore added an eerie undertone to the silence before the storm.

“This engagement is ours, Phoros,” Karlaen said as he strode past, voice calm. “The Lamenters are reassigned by Dante’s command. You will proceed to the strategium. Leave this abomination to us.”

Phoros nodded, then frowned. “Why have you cast aside your armour? And why carry those warheads yourselves?”

“You know why,” Karlaen answered simply. “Missiles can’t reach the beast. Armour dies near it. Out there, power armour becomes a coffin.”

And Phoros understood.

The Bio-Titan’s electric field crippled all targeting systems and power systems.

Without a power system, power armour would be a liability. While a Space Marine could still move slowly under their own power in the event of a power outage, the ability to propel a Terminator armour with their own strength was out of the question.

Only flesh and faith, could approach.

Karlaen’s plan was clear: his company would become the warhead’s delivery system. They would close the distance on foot, detonate the Dimensional charges by hand, and drag the monster screaming into the void.

A one-way suicide mission.

“Was this Dante’s command, or your own madness?” Phoros demanded. “The Lord Commander would never order such waste.”

“My own,” Karlaen said, without hesitation. “An entire Chapter perished testing that Bio-Titan. They all died, Phoros. The least we can do is die with purpose.”

Behind him, every Blood Angel of the First Company nodded, serene, resolute, fearless. They looked less like men and more like angels resigned to their martyrdom.

And in that moment, Phoros felt despair take root within the fortress. Every warrior knew death was certain. The only question that remained was how they would die.

As the Black Rage took hold of nearby brothers, they too were led forward, howling for redemption.

Karlaen clasped Phoros’ shoulder.

“We shall meet again, brother, beside our Father.”

Phoros bowed his head. “Then go, and we shall clear your path.”

Turning to his vox, he roared to his company:

“By Sanguinius, clear the way! Give them passage, whatever the cost!”

And so the sons of Baal prepared to die.