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At the foot of the combat barge's ramp—
Marakin finished locking down his Redeemer-pattern Mk II Terminator helm, every part of his wargear shimmering with masterwork quality.
With slow, heavy steps, he strode out.
"Unlucky bastard—get down!"
Before his boots had fully touched the deck, a crimson blur came barreling toward him with a roar.
It was Tyberos.
The warrior who bore the name "Red Path" was infamous for his brutality and savagery. His ancient lightning claws crackled with crimson arcs like a blood-hungry beast.
Few could endure his direct charge.
In a heartbeat, Marakin felt that vicious presence.
Though the two were evenly matched in strength, every past duel had ended in his own defeat.
He had waited for this moment for so long.
Countless nights he'd jolted awake, replaying each loss, analyzing every move.
And ever since receiving this sacred wargear, he had been theorizing the perfect counter.
And now—Tyberos himself had walked right into it.
A true blessing.
Now it was the barbarian's turn to kiss dirt.
"You're here at last?"
Marakin smiled calmly, completely unfazed.
As if he had rehearsed this scenario hundreds of times.
He raised the Spear of Victory. His armor's refractor field hummed to life, absorbing the incoming attack.
CLANG CLANG CLANG—
Marakin blocked every swipe of Tyberos' claws before slamming his fist forward.
BOOM!
The servo-driven piston in his power fist thundered, slamming into Tyberos' chestplate and sending him flying.
But he wasn't finished.
Marakin immediately pulled out his grav-gun and fired a salvo.
Tyberos tumbled across the ground, only managing to anchor himself with his claws after several painful rolls.
But before he could even lift his head—
Another grav-blast pinned him flat to the ground.
It had taken just one exchange.
The sheer difference in equipment power had flattened the Carcharodons' Chapter Master.
The cheers from his warriors died in the air, their smiles frozen in shock.
Their mighty Chapter Master had been flattened in a single clash.
And the worst part? Marakin hadn't even moved.
"Barbarian. Before me… you're nothing."
Marakin strode toward him, step by thunderous step, that bright grin widening with every pace.
Finally… he had brought the beast low. It felt damn good.
"Damn you, Marakin!"
Tyberos burned with shame.
To be humiliated so publicly…
Struggling beneath the gravitational crush, he spit blood and raised his head—eyes gleaming with rage.
But when he finally saw Marakin's gear…
That bloodlust turned into… envy.
His view filled with—
Master-crafted gear, from helm to boots, gilded in adamantium and blessed by the Machine God.
Six pieces of master-grade wargear—armor included.
"You… think you're better than me just 'cause you've got nicer gear?"
Tyberos' voice cracked, bitterness seeping through like acid.
"Praise the Savior. Yes. Better gear does make me better."
Marakin lit up his spear's disruption field, humming as it sliced through the air. "You want another round?"
HUMMM—
"Boys! Smash those unlucky clowns!"
Tyberos roared, charging up again. His claws—"Hunger" and "Thirst"—crackled with defiance.
He comforted himself internally:
So what if they have fancy gear? My claws are priceless relics—irreplaceable artifacts of the Chapter!
"GET 'EM!"
The Carcharodons howled and charged for the barge, thirsting for some satisfying brawling with their long-time rivals.
However—
Heavy, pounding footfalls shattered their momentum.
Everyone stopped, frozen in place.
THUD. THUD. THUD—
The ground trembled.
One by one, Centurions stomped down from the Lamenters' ship, forming up behind Marakin.
Each of their massive frames radiated deadly power.
Then—
Rows upon rows of Terminators marched out in lockstep, surrounding their Chapter Master in gleaming formation.
The Carcharodons could only gape, staring up at the five-meter-tall Centurions and the ocean of Tactical Dreadnought Armor.
They stood there, paralyzed.
How the hell were they supposed to fight this?
"F-Fifteen Centurions? Full-Strength Terminator Detachment?!"
Tyberos choked on his own spit, his face twisting in despair.
"Marakin, brother… when did you guys get so loaded?!"
Sure, they brawled a lot.
But it wasn't like they were mortal enemies—they'd even teamed up a few times.
Both Chapters were historically dirt-poor… barely scraping by together.
Now even the Lamenters had hit it big. What the hell were the Carcharodons supposed to do?
His muscles twitched in agony.
Seeing his once-destitute "brother" rolling out Centurions hurt more than death itself.
HUMMM—
Marakin's honor guard ignited their lightning claws—gear that Tyberos knew intimately.
"No…"
Tyberos stared at the weapons.
The exact same model as his beloved relic claws—"Hunger" and "Thirst."
The sacred treasures he polished daily…
Were just standard issue for Lamenters' honor guard.
His soul cracked. He felt tiny. Powerless.
Damn it all…
How had everyone gotten rich except him?!
"Pardon me…"
Marakin's voice was calm.
"If we're not fighting, could you kindly step aside? We need to return and recover."
After all, the Carcharodons were here to support the Blood Angels' homeworld.
And the Lamenters had already reclaimed their pride.
No need to push this further—and risk becoming another "bad example" for the Savior to roast.
More importantly—
They had no desire to disappoint the great being who had saved them from their curse.
Since receiving the Savior's gifts, the Lamenters' tragic fate had reversed course.
No longer did the Warp whisper misfortune in their ears.
Tyberos sighed deeply and motioned for his men to clear a path.
They had no choice.
They couldn't win this.
And if a brawl broke out, their ancient armor would probably get wrecked.
He might actually cry.
"Brother Marakin!"
Tyberos jogged up with a desperate smile.
"Where'd you get all this amazing gear?"
He was desperate.
If there was even a chance to get stuff like that, he'd call Marakin father if he had to.
With better gear, his boys wouldn't die like dogs in the next war.
Marakin didn't look particularly friendly, but he still answered:
"It was a gift. From the great Savior. Unfortunately… you arrived too late. It's already over."
And with that—
He turned and led his warriors toward the main hall without looking back.
"What do you mean 'too late'?! Brother, at least explain—!"
Tyberos tried to squeeze in for more details but was blocked by the honor guard.
"Damn it! No one tells me anything—I hate this cryptic crap!"
He fumed, fists clenched.
This was the most humiliating day he'd had in years.
Worse than being swallowed alive by a Tyranid bio-ship.
If an alien showed up right now, he'd butcher it into paste out of sheer rage.
"Chapter Master…"
The Chief Librarian approached solemnly.
"I asked around. The gear… it was the Savior's gift. The Primarch of Hope. And it was free."
He explained that days ago, the Savior had distributed a full set of gear to every Chapter.
Armor. Weapons. Vehicles. Everything.
Every Marine got something.
The cruel truth?
The Carcharodons had arrived too late. The goods were long gone.
"You… you mean, if we'd just gotten here a little earlier…"
Tyberos' lips quivered.
"…we could've been just like them?"
"Yes…"
The Librarian's voice was hollow. Regret clung to every word.
Then he snapped to alert:
"Chapter Master, are you okay?!"
"What did we miss, in the Emperor's name?"
Everything went dark for Tyberos.
His heart plunged into an abyss.
To miss such a divine gift…
"I'm such an idiot…"
He wanted to slap himself—and spend a full Terran year in repentance at the Emperor's shrine.
If only he hadn't insisted on slowing down the ship to avoid damage…
Maybe they would've arrived in time.
"Please stay strong, Chapter Master,"
The Librarian said with concern.
If the Chapter Master broke, the weight of leadership would fall to him.
And that would be a nightmare.
The other Carcharodons were just as quiet.
They had missed a one-in-a-billion chance.
All they had to do was show up on time.
But they hadn't.
And now—
They had to watch everyone else live in luxury.
Who could endure that?
Then—
They heard reverent voices not far away.
Someone was addressing the Savior himself.
"The Savior?!"
Tyberos' eyes snapped open. He shouted:
"Boys! With me—we're going to see the Savior!"
He led the Carcharodons at a run toward the port hall.
...
Port Hall
The grand hall gleamed with light—vast, majestic.
Statuary of Saint Gilead adorned the soaring ceilings, alongside banners of battle honor, a tribute to the Blood Angels' legacy.
But now…
Something new had been added.
At the center stood a nearly eight-meter tall golden icon of the sun, flanked by the Savior's sacred effigy.
Massive banners lined the walls—each representing a different glorious deed of the Savior.
They swayed gently in the circulating air…
Inside the hall—
Countless Space Marines moved to and fro. Many of them had just returned from training, their bodies still weary and stained with exertion.
Among them were also numerous administrators, engineers, tech-priests, and logistical staff rushing through the port—preparing for the war to come.
Eden stepped into the hall under the guard of his Thunder Wardens, having just completed inspection of the defensive installations across Baal.
Everywhere he passed—
Men bowed in reverence to the Savior.
He returned their gestures with a gentle smile and a small nod.
In recent days—
Eden had used a mix of financial incentives, public scoldings, and rigorous performance metrics to gradually establish undeniable authority over the Space Marines.
By now, his command held such sway that a single word from him could redirect entire Chapters with no resistance. His future commands would run far more smoothly.
Due to their gene-seed nature, Space Marines varied wildly in temperament—some with severe emotional defects. Many could not even be called emotionally stable humans.
Each Chapter was a semi-independent armed faction with great military strength and the freedom to act on their own initiative.
If they refused to obey you?
There wasn't much you could do.
Using force against them would only cause catastrophic losses.
At best, you could declare them disloyal and banish them to the edge of the galaxy or even into the Eye of Terror—for penance, exile, or to perish in damnation.
But that, too, meant wasted strength—and worse, it risked feeding Chaos with more powerful tools.
All in all—
To bring these willful warriors to heel was never easy.
Fortunately, Eden had done it.
And the results were remarkable.
"Lord Savior!"
Suddenly—
A commotion broke out ahead. A group of Space Marines was approaching quickly and excitedly.
"Tch—who are these guys?"
Eden frowned as he looked them over. Their armor was mismatched, messy, barely even painted properly.
They looked like refugees from a disaster zone.
Other than the eternally unfortunate Lamenters, few Chapters had this sort of style.
But then he saw the white shark emblazoned on their tattered banner—
Ah.
It made sense.
It was the Carcharodons—the infamous "so broke they have to loot their own belts" Chapter.
These guys had it rough.
"Let them through."
Eden raised his hand, signaling the Thunder Wardens to stand down.
Tyberos came jogging up—almost sliding to his knees as he dropped down and knelt deeply, head bowed.
"Oh Great Scion of the Emperor, Primarch of Hope, Devourer of Chaos, Bearer of Thirteenfold Blessings, our Lord Savior—I, Tyberos, along with our loyal Chapter, the Carcharodons, present ourselves with fiery zeal and unwavering faith, ready to serve!"
Years of haggling with stingy forge lords had sharpened his silver tongue to a deadly edge.
Loyalty—absolute loyalty—was the only answer.
This Chapter Master had made up his mind:
Cling to this golden benefactor for dear life. He was done with poverty.
The chance to swear fealty to a powerful and wealthy Primarch? That was a blessing.
He feared only one thing: that this noble being might reject them for their… troubled history.
Behind him—
Hundreds of Carcharodons dropped to one knee as one, offering their loyalty to the Savior.
Tyberos lowered his head even further:
"Our blades are the extension of your will; our battle cries the echo of your glory!
Please allow us to offer our strength—our very lives—for your noble cause and eternal honor!"
He nearly cried out "father" on the spot.
The entire hall fell into stunned silence.
Veteran Astartes who knew of Tyberos gawked:
That guy? The infamous Red Path? The brutal engine of slaughter who left only corpses in his wake?
Some of the more upright Marines were appalled—his loyalty sounded a little too obsequious.
But regardless—
He had sworn his oath.
And an oath sworn to a Primarch… could not be undone.
Eden didn't mind the tone. All he needed was loyalty.
And these guys?
They were tough as hell, especially their Chapter Master.
He gently lifted the nervous Tyberos up and smiled warmly:
"You've done well."
That simple, heartfelt praise brought real emotion to Tyberos' eyes. He blinked rapidly, tears threatening to escape.
"Savior… we've suffered so much…"
Centuries ago—
The Carcharodons were dispatched to the outer void to hunt down threats before they could grow.
They endured countless horrors.
But the truth?
They had been forgotten by the Imperium.
Cast aside by history.
When they finally returned—
No one welcomed them. They were treated like mercenaries, thrown into the worst battles without backup.
No supplies. Constant scrutiny. Endless Inquisitorial audits.
"You will be treated fairly from now on," Eden said as they walked together. Tyberos hurried to his side.
"And I believe your efforts in the void have great value."
And he meant it.
The strange xeno-tech fragments the Carcharodons had recovered were highly valuable to humanity's scientific progress.
As soon as Eden showed interest—
Tyberos immediately promised to offer all their tech relics to the Savior.
After centuries of void exploration, their vaults were packed with bizarre, often heretical artifacts.
Eden was pleased.
He would likely supply them with more resources and vessels in the future—perhaps even assign Mechanicus personnel to join their voyages.
Together, they could recover more lost technology and expand his domain's knowledge base.
They walked together to a secluded section of the facility.
After hesitating for a while—
Tyberos finally mustered the courage to ask, as politely as he could, if the Carcharodons might receive some equipment support for the coming battles.
However—
Eden told him that the main stockpiles had already been distributed.
That news crushed Tyberos.
But then—
"Well, it's not like we're completely out of gear…"
Eden stopped before a massive black vault door and raised a hand to open it.
A blinding gold light flooded out.
This was the reserve armory of the Angels of War.
Inside—rows upon rows of pristine, top-of-the-line equipment. Power armor, Centurion suits, everything.
Enough to kit out the Carcharodons several times over.
Tyberos stared, legs weak.
"S-Savior… is this… for us?"
"Yes. Take whatever you need."
Eden clapped him on the shoulder and nodded toward the quartermaster.
Tyberos stumbled inside like a man in a dream.
Moments later—suppressed sobs echoed from within.
Centuries of pain. Want. Sacrifice.
Finally, it was over.
No more deaths caused by shoddy gear. No more suicidal missions just to scrounge up scraps.
Eden paused, listening to the broken weeping.
And turned to leave.
He knew—
Those were the sounds of loyalty.
—
Baal, Temporary Sanctuary of the Savior
Eden sat, reviewing files from the central strategy chamber, examining updated troop reports.
The Leviathan hive fleet had reached the outer sectors—
And likely already split into multiple tendril fleets, ready to attack from all directions.
Compared to the last wave that struck the Hades system—
This was on a completely different scale.
The swarms unleashed by these hive ships could drown the entire Baal system ten times over.
Ten thousand Astartes alone would not be enough.
But Eden didn't want a bloody victory.
He wanted to crush the Tyranids.
Otherwise, like every other war against the Tyranids, it would end with a meaningless victory bought with mountains of corpses.
So—
He needed more vehicles. More mortal troops to hold the lines.
Aside from the Storm Group's armored divisions, Titan legions, and Imperial Knights—
The Imperium had also committed massive Astra Militarum reinforcements.
Billions of Guardsmen, coming in waves aboard countless transports.
Eden sighed.
Hopefully, they would arrive soon enough to be properly coordinated.
Otherwise, they'd end up tossed into battle with nothing but a flashlight in hand—as cannon fodder.
—
Outer Baal Void Region
A dead Guardsman drifted silently in space.
His old, withered body twisted in a vacuum scream.
SLAP—
A grotesque tentacle lashed out and dragged the corpse back into darkness.
The shadow of death spread outward—
Leviathan.
A monstrous behemoth cloaked in twisted carapace and writhing tendrils, its bulk rivaled moons.
Like some nightmarish aquatic predator birthed in a black hole.
Its void shields flickered as it absorbed impacts.
An unlucky transport vessel had been caught—
Its hull crumpled. Flames burst from within, devouring the remaining atmosphere as thousands of screaming humans were flung into space.
The vessel shattered.
Tyranid bio-ships descended in frenzy, feasting on the biomass.
Just another Imperial fleet wiped out before even reaching the battlefield.
Business as usual in the war against the Hive.
Leviathan moved on, seeking fresh worlds to consume.
But when it reached the next planet—
It paused.
Confusion flickered in the Hive Mind.
The planet—
Was barren.
A dead ball of dust.
As if someone had already stolen all the biomass.
Leviathan shrieked in silent rage.
Still—
It detected some remnants.
So it deployed spores to harvest what little remained.
But moments later—
A hidden machine structure on the surface erupted.
Vast green smoke flooded the atmosphere.
Leviathan roared again—this time, in disgust.
Something foul, some putrid stench, had tainted its precious biomass!
(End of Chapter)
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