Chapter 274: Don’t Dig Up What You Don’t Understand (Patreon)

The outer bastion walls of the Arx Angelicum trembled under the roar of the Tyranid swarm.

From atop the inner ramparts, the warriors of the Blood Angels’ First Company, preparing for what was meant to be a suicidal assault alongside Captain Karlaen, suddenly halted. Their target, a bio-titan of Hive Fleet Leviathan, had just been engaged by something... else.

Had Qin Mo been present, he would have recognized the entity immediately: Nyadra'zatha, the Burning One, one of the Shardborn, fragments of the Star-Gods bound in flesh and flame. Known as among the most cruel C'tan that took glee in burning all things.

Moments earlier, the Burning One had descended from orbit like a meteor of living fire, striking into the Tyranid swarm’s heart. The impact birthed a conflagration that swept outward toward the fortress walls. In a blink, the creature leapt again, crossing hundreds of meters to stand between the Bio-Titan and the inner defenses.

The entity stood barely five meters tall, a humanoid silhouette of molten radiance, diminutive compared to its monstrous foe, yet the power that emanated from it was nothing short of apocalyptic.

It raised both hands, and the air itself screamed as white fire poured forth. The Bio-Titan shrieked, its chitinous armor melting and sloughing away like wax beneath the fury of a newborn sun. When the flames finally ceased, the creature was reduced to a blackened husk, a mountain of smoldering ash.

Though the fortress walls were spared direct annihilation, the ambient temperature spiked to lethal extremes. The transhuman physiology of the Astartes endured it with stoic resolve, but the mortal auxilia, the serfs, and the Cadian remnants among them felt their skin blister and crackle under the oppressive heat.

〈“I am the Flame that Consumed the Old Gods!”〉

The Burning One’s voice rolled across the battlefield like a solar flare, a sound that was neither human nor xenos. None could identify the language, yet all somehow understood the meaning.

Around it, a storm of fire coalesced, a solar tempest that raged outward in a spiral of living flame, reminiscent of Baal’s own ash-choked sandstorms, but magnified beyond comprehension.

“Brace for thermal impact!” came the orders along the wall.

Astartes took cover behind ferrocrete battlements; the mortals sheltered behind the ceramite giants.

The firestorm spread too quickly, leaving them no time to escape. They could only hope their armor would withstand the flames.

But the inferno never touched the wall. It halted as though striking an unseen barrier, redirecting outward to scour the swarm instead. Flames stretched across the sands for a hundred kilometers, reducing the oncoming tide of chitin and flesh to molten slag.

When the firestorm died, the Tyranids nearest the fortress were gone, nothing but vitrified glass beneath the stars. Yet far on the horizon, another wave was already advancing, vast and relentless, a living sea of alien hunger.

Veterans of the Cryptus Campaign murmured among themselves, the creature before them looked like the being that had once fought at their side, yet its aura was utterly different. While it looked similar, its presence before them was far greater, far angrier.

Then the Burning One turned toward the fortress.

Twin eyes, like burning furnaces, locked upon the walls of Arx Angelicum. Even the gene-forged hearts of the Angels faltered for a moment. Fear. True, alien fear, gnawed at their mind. Some mortals fled after only a heartbeat; others broke entirely, their sanity unraveling under the psychic weight of the being’s mere gaze. A few began laughing, horrid, mechanical laughter, until blood streamed from their ears and their minds burned out like overcharged circuits.

The entity began to approach the inner wall.

Bolters rose in unison, though all knew they would be useless.

Then, without warning, the dimensional warheads mounted on the backs of the Blood Angels floated upward, drawn by unseen force. One detached, streaking skyward before detonating mid-air, tearing open a gaping rift of shimmering darkness that began to pull the charred remains of the battlefield into itself.

〈“This dimension… yes, this is the Forge’s work,”〉 murmured the Burning One, its molten eyes narrowing. 〈“Take me to the Creator.”〉

The Marines exchanged uneasy glances, none could understand its words, yet all sensed their weight.

〈“Are you the Forgemaster’s livestock? His slaves? Or His chosen?”〉 it asked again.

“I am a warrior of the Emperor of Mankind,” one Sergeant answered through his vox, unflinching. “Not slave. Not beast.”

〈“Makes no difference,”〉 the Burning One replied, its voice rumbling like magma through stone. The levitating warheads quivered as though caught between rage and restraint before slowly descending back into place, guided by invisible force. 〈“Where did you get these? These weapons that can open the Forger’s Dimension? Who gave them to you?”〉

No one answered. Those weapons, the Dimensional Warheads,  had been a gift from the Lamenters, who in turn had received them from the enigmatic faction known only as Talon.

But none dared speak the name. None knew whether the entity before them was friend or foe.

To reveal that connection now might doom them all.

The Burning One was a fiery and impatient C’tan, and a few unanswered questions had already worn down its restraint.

The air shimmered as the temperature rose rapidly; the bastion’s surface began to glow a dull red.

〈“Do not test me,”〉 it growled, the sound rattling the teeth of every living being within earshot. 〈“I don’t care whose slaves you are. Bring me to the Forgemaster. NOW.”〉

The defenders held their ground. Bolters clicked in unison, yet before the battle could erupt, the Marines slowly lowered their weapons. Their commander had arrived.

Commander Dante, Lord of the Blood Angels, golden armor scorched and pitted from the heat, his death mask reflecting the inferno like a mirror of the sun, strode forth to meet the uninvited guest.

“You do not remember them?” Dante asked, gesturing toward his warriors. “They fought beside you in the Cryptus system.”

〈“Cryptus? Never heard of it. I came from two thousand light-years away!”〉 the Burning One snapped, voice crackling like molten metal poured through stone.

Dante’s eyes narrowed. This was not the same entity they had once encountered. Perhaps another shard of the same godlike essence, a fragment of some terrible being beyond comprehension.

“So be it,” Dante said calmly. “Why have you come?”

〈“The Forger’s Dimension flared, its light reached me across the void. I came to find it.”〉 The Burning One’s tone was absolute. 〈“Do not lie to me, child of flesh. I know you are its servants, its slaves. If you feign ignorance, you will burn for it.”〉

Dante frowned. “Forger’s Dimension. Forgemaster. Servant…” None of it made sense.

The Burning One’s patience was running out, and its flame-clad body began to advance again. With each meter, the temperature rose by degrees, the air shimmering like liquid metal. The ceramite of the bastion began to melt, rivulets of slag running down the walls like tears.

“What are you talking about?” Dante demanded.

The Burning One paused. Something, instinct, perhaps, made it reconsider. It reached out with senses beyond mortal comprehension and read their life-signs.

None were lying. None understood. They genuinely knew nothing of what it sought.

〈“Where did these weapons come from?”〉 it asked again, pointing toward the dimensional warheads.

Dante remained silent. But Chapter Master Phoros of the Lamenters stepped forward, his once-yellow armor dulled to bronze under the heat, his posture defiant even as molten slag pooled at his feet.

“They are relics,” Phoros said. “Recovered from an ancient ruin long ago.”

〈“Lies,”〉 the Burning One hissed, its flames flaring higher. 〈“The matter composing them is less than two years old.”〉

Phoros was taken aback. The creature could discern material age with no device. Still, he adapted swiftly.

“Our own scans confirmed that. We… do not understand how they appear so new.”

The Burning One considered this, recalling fragments of cosmic memory. Only one explanation made sense: the Forgemaster, Architect Beyond Stars, had crafted them. That he designed these creations not to age so that they were eternally perfect.

〈“Very well,”〉 the Burning One said at last, stepping back. The ground beneath it cracked open, magma veins spreading like the branches of some hellish tree. 〈“If you can survive the fire that melts all things, then heed my warning—”〉

It spread its arms, and the air ignited once more.

〈“Do not dig up what you do not understand.”〉