Chapter 10: BY THE EMPERORS WILL

The battle had raged for nearly two days, and the Blood Angels were nearing the brink of collapse. The constant fighting, the endless waves of Tyranids, and the relentless pressure of the Ork horde had taken their toll on even the most battle-hardened warriors.

Azkaellon, bleeding from multiple wounds, stood at the center of a dwindling defensive line, his golden armor battered, his movements slower. Around him, the remaining sane Blood Angels formed a ragged line, their bolters empty, their chainswords dull from overuse. They fought with fists, with blades torn from fallen Tyranids, anything they could grab. But the worst was yet to come.

In the distance, the signs of the Red Thirst were becoming more apparent. Several Blood Angels, once disciplined and controlled, had succumbed to their genetic curse. Their eyes were bloodshot, their bodies shaking with unrestrained rage. They attacked anything that moved, including their own brothers, slashing with their chainswords in a berserk frenzy, roaring and screaming incoherently.

Thaddeus, his arm hanging limp and broken, stumbled toward Dreadnought Kael, seeking refuge with the towering war machine. He could feel the pull of the Red Thirst gnawing at the edges of his mind, but he fought it back with every ounce of willpower. His vision was blurred, his body ached from endless combat, but he knew he had to hold on.

Dreadnought Kael, still firing relentlessly, noticed Thaddeus' approach. The old warrior's voice echoed from within the sarcophagus, resonating like a deep rumble through the battlefield. "Hold, Thaddeus." Despite Kael's assurance, the situation was grim.

Azkaellon, watching the battlefield in desperation, clenched his jaw. There were so few left who hadn't fallen to the bloodlust. The line was breaking. Tyranids pressed forward, Orks followed, and his brothers were losing control. He needed a plan, but the wounds and exhaustion dulled his once-sharp mind, "I need to fucking Think, FUCKING THINK, Azkaellon, I'm one of Sanguinius..." He thought with desperation. He only had moments before everything collapsed.

The battlefield had devolved into a maelstrom of chaos. Those Blood Angels who had fallen to the Red Thirst fought like feral beasts, their once-precise attacks replaced by wild, savage strikes. Eyes blazing red, they charged headlong into the enemy, slashing and hacking at Tyranids and Orks alike with no thought for tactics, strategy, or even survival. Their chainswords howled as they tore through flesh and bone, their movements so fast and aggressive that even the monstrous Tyranids struggled to keep up. The Orks, battle-crazed as they were, now found themselves contending with foes just as mad.

The sight was both terrifying and heartbreaking for the sane Blood Angels, who watched their brothers give in to the genetic curse that haunted their chapter. One Blood Angel, an old friend of a now-berserk warrior, charged forward, blocking a blow meant for an Ork, only to find himself facing the bloodlust-driven fury of his own brother.

"Brother, wake up!" he screamed, parrying a frenzied attack. The Red Thirst-driven Blood Angel growled, barely recognizing his own kin, striking with animalistic fury. The chainsword clashed against ceramite armor as the two brothers clashed, one fighting to save the other from his madness.

Stop! I don't want to do this!" the sane Blood Angel cried. He desperately tried to disarm his brother, using his bolter to knock away the wild swings.

"Brother..." He said as he was forced to kill the madman, his brother, they shed blood together, now dead by his hands, all the while defending against the never-ending tide of Tyranids.

All around the battlefield, this tragic scene repeated itself. Blood Angels, screaming in anguish, tried to reach their fallen brothers, calling their names, begging them to snap out of their berserk fury. But the Red Thirst was a curse that couldn't be reasoned with, a lot died by their brothers hand some with the Red Thirst, some without. The maddened warriors, lost in a blood-fueled rage, fought anything that came near—Tyranid, Ork, or even their own kin.

The sound of the battlefield was deafening—clashing chainswords, the monstrous screeches of Tyranids, the roaring bellows of Orks, and the blood-curdling howls of the Blood Angels lost to the Red Thirst. But amid all that chaos, the cries of brothers trying to save each other echoed the loudest. Every step was a struggle to not only survive but to keep from losing more of their own to the cursed rage that threatened to consume them all.

Dreadnought Kael, still holding the line, watched as his kin fought not only the enemies in front of them but the curse within them. His heavy bolters thundered, providing covering fire to those sane Blood Angels still trying to fight off the madness. But even Kael, an ancient warrior locked in his metal sarcophagus, knew there was little that could be done to save them once the Red Thirst had taken hold.

Thaddeus, bloodied and bruised with a broken arm, could hear the voices of his brothers, pleading with the fallen. His heart ached as he slashed through Tyranids, fighting with everything he had, trying to keep the tide of xenos from overwhelming them all. He clenched his teeth, pushing forward despite the pain.

SwarmLord, tyranids:

The Swarmlord had faced countless foes across innumerable battlefields, each species and force providing its own unique challenge. But these... these Blood Angels, they fought with a ferocity that rivaled even the most bloodthirsty of the Orks. As it watched the berserk warriors tear into both Tyranids and Orks alike even their own Kind, something stirred in its hive-mind consciousness—a sense of curiosity.

These red-armored food... their rage is unlike anything I have seen, the Swarmlord thought, its mind rapidly processing the information. It watched as Blood Angels, lost to the Red Thirst, fought with wild abandon, their movements no longer precise but filled with raw, primal fury. Their strength... their ferocity...

The Swarmlord paused its own assault for a brief moment, reaching out with its vast psychic abilities. It connected to the hive mind, its consciousness extending across the millions of Tyranids fighting and dying on Gorgona Secundus. Information flowed like a torrent—data from countless eyes and sensors, each documenting the fighting style.

Ferocity, more raw strength, easier to kill, less trickery than before.

It connected further, sending a pulse up to the Hive Ship that loomed in the cold void.

The ship responded, its vast intellect processing the gathered information. A link was established, and for a moment, the Swarmlord glimpsed the endless sea of bioforms, the endless genetic pool from which the Tyranids could evolve.

Genetic adaptation. It would learn. It would evolve. These Blood Angels' brutal ferocity could be harvested, studied, and replicated. A terrifying notion for any other race, but for the Tyranids, it was simply another step in their evolutionary path.

The Orks:

On the other side of the battlefield, the Orks, far from being concerned by the ferocity of the Blood Angels, were ecstatic. These red-armored warriors were unlike any humie they had fought before. They fought like real warriors, and the Orks respected that. They reveled in it.

"WAAGHH!! Look at 'em red boyz, they's fightin' like Orks!" bellowed one Nob, his massive choppa swinging wildly as he tore through a pack of Tyranid Gaunts. Orks all around him cheered, their bloodlust ignited by the sheer carnage unfolding on all sides. To the Orks, this was the pinnacle of what a fight should be—chaos, blood, and battle-hardened warriors clashing with no regard for tactics, only for the love of combat.

Orks charged with renewed vigor, seeing the Blood Angels as kindred spirits in their love for mayhem and slaughter. To them, this was no longer a battle for survival or territory—it was a challenge. The Orks now wanted to test themselves against these crazed warriors, to prove that no matter how brutal the Blood Angels were, the Orks were the kings of battle. So the majority started to ignore Tyranids and focused on the Blood Angels dominated by the Red Thirst.

Amidst this madness, Azkaellon fought with everything he had. His armor was scarred, his body bruised and battered from the relentless assault. His mind raced as he gave orders, shouting for his warriors to regroup, to form lines, to focus their attacks. But even as he shouted through the vox, he knew they were running out of time. His brothers were falling. They were losing themselves to the Red Thirst, and the battlefield was becoming impossible to control.

"Regroup! Regroup, damn it!" Azkaellon's voice echoed through the helmets of his warriors. "Let your brothers die with honor against the Tyranids and Orks, REGROUP NOW!"

But inside, Azkaellon felt a pang of dread. The Swarmlord was learning. He could feel its presence growing stronger, more focused. The Orks, too, were pushing forward, drawn to the ferocity of the Blood Angels. He needed a signal—something to turn the tide, something to give them an advantage.

He had to think of a plan—anything. Time was running out.

Azkaellon scanned the battlefield, his heart heavy with the weight of their dire situation. The once once proud formation was shattered, with many of their brothers dead and lost to the Red Thirst, dying deep within the enemies lines. The relentless was closing in, their screeches melding with the roars of the Orks, creating an unholy symphony of violence and bloodshed.The ground beneath him was slick with rain and blood, the sky darkened by storm clouds that mirrored the hopelessness of the scene.

In every direction, there was chaos—Blood Angels, Orks, and Tyranids locked in brutal combat, the line between friend and foe blurring as the Red Thirst consumed his brothers. He watched in horror as one of the fallen warriors, a brother lost to madness, was torn apart by a Carnifex, its brutal claws rending flesh and bone. Others were surrounded, cut down by the xenos scum they once fought with discipline and honor.

Azkaellon clenched his jaw, gripping the hilt of his power sword. Blood dripped from its edge, a symbol of the relentless struggle they had endured. He felt the rain begin to fall, soft at first, then harder, masking the tears he refused to shed. He had seen countless battles, led countless charges in the name of Sanguinius, but this... this felt different. This felt like the end.

Thaddeus, standing nearby, caught sight of his commander. He saw the exhaustion etched on Azkaellon's face, the despair hiding just beneath the surface. Without a word, Thaddeus removed his helmet, feeling the rain pour down on his face, cleansing him of the blood and grime of battle. His piercing green eyes met Azkaellon's, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. They had both fought harder than ever before, but the end seemed inevitable.

Azkaellon raised his power sword high, blood still dripping from its edge. His voice was steady, despite the grim situation, and he prepared to speak, to rally his remaining brothers for one final, glorious stand. They would die here, but they would die with honor. They would fight to the last breath, for the Emperor, for Sanguinius.

But then...

From the storm clouds above, they appeared—ships of the Imperial Navy, roaring through the skies of Gorgona Secundus. Their engines thundered, and the heavens seemed to split open as they descended. Azkaellon's heart, once heavy with the certainty of death, now stirred with a flicker of hope. The first to arrive were Thunderhawk gunships, their turrets blazing as they cut through the Tyranid swarms, shredding Orks and xenos alike with precise bursts of las-fire. Behind them, Valkyrie assault carriers soared in formation, dropping bombs on the chaotic battlefield below, creating craters in the midst of the xenos horde.

Azkaellon's gaze shifted upwards, and in the distance, looming like a colossal god of war, he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a Strike Cruiser—its name emblazoned on his auspex display: Indomytable Fury The ship was vast, an engine of destruction, its gun batteries spewing death from the stars. Even from so far away, the cruiser was unmistakable, its size dwarfing the smaller vessels that now filled the sky.

Gunships strafed the battlefield, their heavy bolters and lascannons burning through Ork mobs and Tyranid beasts. Chimeras and Leman Russ tanks emerged from newly landed transports, unleashing their fury on the xenos with relentless efficiency.

The weight of the battle had shifted. Hope surged through the surviving Blood Angels, their bolters flaring anew as they rallied behind their commander.

Azkaellon caught his breath as he saw the drop-pods descend in formation. They were not alone. The Black Templars had come.

The Templars emerged from their vessels with grim purpose. Their black power armor was adorned with purity seals and the sigils of their Chapter, the symbol of the Templar Cross stark against the dark plate. They were a force of unrelenting zeal, known for their hatred of psykers and their sheer, brutal combat prowess. No Librarians, no mind-warpers among their ranks—only steel, faith, and fire. And they were a lot in numbers.

Leading them was Chaplain Mortrel, an imposing figure even among the Black Templars. His skull-faced helmet glinted under the dull light of the storm, and the crozius arcanum he wielded was raised high, a symbol of his authority and unwavering faith. His black armor was festooned with relics of past crusades, and the skulls of traitors and xenos hung from his belt like trophies. His voice boomed through the vox-net, a hoarse growl like the death rattle of a god. His words were a call to arms, a hymn of wrath.

"Onward, sons of Dorn!" Chaplain Mortrel bellowed. "Burn the xenos! Purge their filth from the Emperor's realm!"

Behind the Templars came ranks upon ranks of Astra Militarum, the Imperial Guard pouring onto the battlefield like a flood. Hundreds of guardsmen, clad in their drab fatigues, charged forward. Their lasguns fired in disciplined volleys as they filled the spaces between the Astartes, supporting the effort to drive back the Orks and Tyranids. The mighty Leman Russ tanks advanced, their heavy battle cannons thundering, each shot leaving gaping holes in the enemy ranks.

Azkaellon, now standing with Thaddeus and the Dreadnought Sergeant Kael, watched as the battle seemed to shift. For the first time, he could see a path to survival. But even as hope blossomed, a dark worry settled in his chest. The Black Templars were ruthless in their zeal, and though their arrival was welcome, their methods were infamous. They would burn the battlefield clean, without hesitation, and they had little care for human lives or measured strategies. They would sacrifice thousands if it meant victory for the Emperor.

Azkaellon knew this, and so did Thaddeus. The young Blood Angel looked at his commander, his green eyes reflecting the flames of battle, and in them, Azkaellon saw both hope and fear. The Black Templars were allies, but their philosophy clashed with the Blood Angels' more measured approach to warfare. Where the Blood Angels fought with a balance of fury and precision, the Black Templars embraced war with unbridled zeal, often at the cost of those they fought to protect.

The dreadnought, Kael, rumbled beside them, his voice deep and laden with the weight of centuries. "The Templars will not hesitate, Azkaellon. They will sacrifice much to achieve their ends."

Azkaellon nodded, his mind racing. He had to find a way to work with them, to keep his brothers from being swept away in the Templars' bloodlust. The battle had shifted, but the war was far from over. He would need all his wits, all his cunning, to navigate what lay ahead.

As the Templars and the Guard advanced, the Chaplain's voice thundered once more, a hymn of battle and faith that echoed across the battlefield. And in the distance, aboard the Indomitable Fury, Captain Valtor watched the scene unfold, his mind calculating, his orders decisive. But even he felt a tremor of uncertainty in the face of what awaited them on the surface of Gorgona Secundus.

The balance had shifted, but at what cost?

And the Blood Angels, though heartened by their allies' arrival, knew that the true battle had only just begun.

The roar of engines was drowned out by the thunderous voice of Chaplain Mortrel, his words a sermon of wrath and conviction that echoed across the battlefield. Clad in pitch-black armor adorned with purity seals and skulls, Mortrel was an imposing figure, his crozius arcanum held high, a symbol of death and justice. His skull-faced helm glinted with cold resolve as he descended with his Black Templars. His voice carried through the vox like a storm, filling every warrior's heart with grim determination.

"By the Emperor's will, you will hold this ground! You will not falter! For every drop of blood spilled, you will spill tenfold of the xenos filth! The Emperor's light shines upon you! This is His battlefield, and we are His sword!" Mortrel's voice thundered as the Black Templars landed, their bolters blazing a trail of destruction through the swarm of Tyranids and Orks alike.

The Black Templars charged, their discipline unwavering, as they carved their way through the battlefield with chainblades and power swords. Mortrel strode forward with righteous fury, delivering swift judgment to any xenos that dared come within his reach, his crozius smashing skulls and cracking carapace alike. The Templars' battle cry filled the air, "NO PITY! NO REMORSE! NO FEAR!" Their black-armored forms surged through the chaos, relentless and unyielding.

The ground shook with the fury of the assault, and as Chaplain Mortrel approached Azkaellon, his tone shifted from wrath to acknowledgment. "Azkaellon, of the Blood Angels," Mortrel's voice, though still harsh, carried a hint of respect, "You and your brothers have fought with the Emperor's fury. I see it in the eyes of your warriors."

Thaddeus, despite his broken arm, nodded. His rage and resilience burned within him, even as the storm of battle raged around them. He knew the fight wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Meanwhile, the Black Templars were already deep into the fray. They fought without mercy, with bolters and blades carving paths through the xenos hordes. Their sheer brutality was unmatched, and unlike the Blood Angels, they cared little for the losses around them. To them, sacrifice was the Emperor's will, and they embraced it with fervor.

In the midst of this, the Orks, ever eager for a scrap, saw the Black Templars and their ferocious charge. They let out a resounding "WAAAGH!" and clashed with the new arrivals, seeing in them a worthy fight. The Orks reveled in the bloodshed, their excitement growing as they smashed into both Tyranids and Black Templars alike.

But the SwarmLord, watching from the shadows of the battlefield, was no longer pleased. The situation had changed. The Blood Angels had shown ferocity, but this—this was something else. The Swarmlord watched with keen eyes, calculating, even as its mind reached out to the Hive.

Through the tendrils of the Hive Mind, the Swarmlord began adapting, learning. The biomass of the fallen Orks, full of aggression and brute strength, had been harvested. And now, it was time. With a thought, the Tyranid hive began the rapid process of evolution. The Swarmlord screeched, a bone-rattling cry that sent waves through the battlefield, making even the fiercest of warriors pause for a moment.

Across the battlefield, Tyranid creatures began to change. Those closest to the fallen Orks began to mutate, their forms becoming larger, more brutish. Their bodies now resembled a grotesque fusion of Tyranid and Ork traits—thick, armored carapaces, powerful claws, and a brutal, mindless rage that echoed the Orks themselves. These new creatures, larger than a Carnifex, bore the savage strength of Orks but with the cunning and adaptability of the Hive Mind. Their eyes burned with the fury of war, and their mouths, filled with razor-sharp teeth, let out terrifying roars.

The new Tyranids stood taller, their muscles bulging with enhanced strength. They had thick, spiked exoskeletons that deflected even bolter fire. Their claws were like scythes, dripping with acidic venom, and their limbs moved with terrifying speed. These were no ordinary Tyranids. They were Ork Tyranid hybrids, monstrous in both form and function—living weapons of mass destruction.

Azkaellon stared in horror at these new beasts. The air grew thick with tension. "Emperor, what have they become?" he muttered under his breath, as even the battle-hardened Blood Angels and Black Templars took a moment to reassess the threat before them.

The Swarmlord, now filled with a renewed sense of dominance, screeched once more, signaling its new creations to charge. The ground trembled as the hybrid Tyranids surged forward, their roars deafening, their eyes gleaming with the lust for destruction.

And as they came, even the mighty Black Templars felt the weight of the impending storm. The Astra Militarum faces were white, pure white of FEAR.

The battle was far from over. It had only just begun.

Chaplain Mortrel slammed his crozius into the ground with a force that reverberated through the battlefield, his voice booming like thunder amidst the chaos. "XENOS SCUM, YOU DARE TO SCARE US?! WE ARE HIS WILL! WE ARE HIS WRATH!" His hoarse voice echoed, filled with an unyielding fury that shook even the hearts of the Black Templars. His skull-helm gleamed under the dimming light as he turned toward the nearest of the monstrous hybrid Tyranids.

Without hesitation, Mortrel charged, his body moving like a storm unleashed, filled with righteous vengeance. His crozius crackled with power, each step pounding against the ground, a declaration of his refusal to bend or break. The massive Tyranid-Ork hybrid snarled, towering over him, but the Chaplain showed no fear. He was a beacon of defiance, a warrior who would not be cowed.

"WE ARE HIS WILL!" Mortrel screamed, his crozius swinging down, aimed at the abomination's skull.

Meanwhile, the Astra Militarum stood in trembling silence, their hearts heavy with dread. They had never seen such monstrous creatures—things that fused the worst horrors of both Orks and Tyranids into one grotesque nightmare. Panic began to spread, whispers of retreat coursing through their ranks as some of the soldiers stepped back, eyes wide with terror.

"Hold your ground, you cowards!" barked the Commissar, the enforcer of discipline, standing tall amidst the frightened men. His bolt pistol was raised, pointing at the heads of any soldiers who dared think of fleeing. "The Chaplain has spoken! WE CANNOT LET THIS FILTH LIVE! To retreat now is to die at my hand. You fight, or you face the Emperor's judgment!"

The Commissar's words cut through the fear like a blade, snapping the Astra Militarum back into their grim reality. Terrified, but with no other choice, they raised their lasguns, their eyes drawn to the sight of the Chaplain charging ahead into the maw of the beast. Inspired by his unbreakable will, they followed.

Azkaellon stood beside the last of his Blood Angels, his jaw clenched tightly, eyes fixed on the towering hybrids before him. He had seen many battles, fought many horrors—but this was something darker. Something truly apocalyptic. His power sword gleamed, dripping with the blood of xenos, his armor scarred and damaged from days of unrelenting war.

"Last charge, brothers!" Azkaellon's voice roared through the vox, filled with both command and desperate hope. "FOR THE EMPEROR! FOR SANGUINIUS!"

The Blood Angels, weary, battered, and bloodied, answered with fierce cries. Even with broken bones and shattered spirits, they surged forward, determined to fight this last fight. Thaddeus, his arm broken and useless at his side, found his strength renewed. He had fought beside these brothers, seen them bleed and die—he would not let them fall alone. With a defiant grunt, Thaddeus pulled himself onto Dreadnought Kael, climbing atop the massive war machine, ready to deliver his own final strike.

Kael, his dreadnought armor still scorched and battered, rumbled forward, his guns blazing, his mechanical arm raising in preparation for the oncoming onslaught. Together, they formed a symbol of unbreakable resistance—a warrior bonded with a legend, charging into the maw of hell itself.

"For the Emperor!" Thaddeus shouted from atop Kael, his voice echoing across the battlefield as the Blood Angels made their final stand.

The battle was now truly joined, the last hope of survival resting on the shoulders of the few who refused to yield.