The horde of Chaos rolled over the Loyalist forces like a steamroller. For every meter the traitors gained, the Loyalists paid the price. Something that almost never happens in a defense, where the defenders lose strength, yet here it was. They were losing, and losing badly. The traitors' advantage came from over a hundred Titans that completely annihilated their ranks. The soldiers couldn't cope with so many enemy Astartes; if they'd had their Ultramarines, it would have been different. But the reality was grim: 40,000 Astartes was a small number compared to two full traitor legions of Astartes. Entrenched, under constant artillery and orbital bombardment, their shelters melted and vaporized. Comrades they had been fighting alongside half a minute ago were dead the next moment, most often by a chest shot from the heretics. Their Leman Russ tanks put up strong resistance; a squad of such tanks could momentarily halt the enemy's advance. At that point, a Titan would appear from beyond the horizon, or the orbital bombardment would intensify.
When the Ultramarines' forces began to withdraw, the traitors had long since seen these movements, yet they still didn't understand why they were retreating to this specific front. To Angron's berserkers, it didn't matter; they continued to push forward, killing everything and everyone. They spared no one. Negative emotions were sustenance for the dark gods; they experienced euphoria. The Word Bearers were surprised by the Ultramarines' move. Nevertheless, they pressed on, not as quickly as their cousins, but advancing nonetheless. Ensuring that Chaos shrouded everything in its dark shadow, they sacrificed the dying soldiers. They couldn't waste such an opportunity; these were perfect sacrificial ingredients, after all.
The battle dragged on when reinforcements for the Ultramarines arrived on the horizon. Ten Titans marched, destroying everything in their path like a hammer. This bought the defenders some time to withdraw deeper into their positions.
Cassandra arrived at the rendezvous point 13 minutes ahead of schedule, having lost many comrades and supplies to enemy fire along the way. Looking up at the sky, he searched for the ship, seeing nothing. But they still had a few minutes, so he wasn't nervous yet. Despite being an Astartes, which greatly dulled his emotions, he felt the pressure. The sudden betrayal of his cousins, the planetary invasion, the slaughter of his people—it was a lot.
"Have the soldiers dig in on this hill. It will buy us some time. Avenius, how many forces do we have left?"
"Before we left the command center, our forces hovered around 500 million. Now, probably much less," Avenius reported, not fully aware of the current numbers himself.
"Find out as soon as possible!" he commanded, planning his defense there to the last man.
The ship he was waiting for had landed a few minutes earlier and was charging its generators. People on the bridge watched as those below dug in, and from every direction, millions more joined them. They began to get nervous. With each passing second, they grew less sure their ship could accommodate so many people. It was massive, but this exceeded all their expectations. Harlock sat on his throne, eyes closed.
"Lord Augustus, open the hatches. Lord Cornelius, have our assault forces begin securing the area," Harlock's voice suddenly commanded.
His sudden order jolted them from their fear and uncertainty. A heavy, terrifying sound of metal unsealing pierced the air like the wail of a thousand dying machines. The echo of opening ramps bounced off armor and corridor walls, cutting through the roar of explosions and the clang of combat—a sound so intense it hurt their ears. Beneath the belly of the Arcadia colossal, like the gates of hell opening, massive ramps, a hundred meters wide each, slid vertically downwards with mechanical precision, kicking up cascades of dust and debris. Cassandra, feverish, weapon raised to his chest, heard the sound and froze for a split second. The thought of an ambush, that the enemy had flanked them, dug into his mind with the force of an icy blade. He turned sharply, fingers gripping his bolter, ready to fire... and then he saw it. Not the enemy. Not death. Only a terrifyingly large, powerful shadow. The gigantic Arcadia hung in the air like a harbinger of vengeance. Ramps lowered, its silhouette black and monumental, and from its interior figures emerged... unknown, yet awe-inspiring.
Clad in heavy, metallic combat suits resembling armor from another epoch, they streamed from the ramps in the thousands. Their armor gleamed dark black, here and there scratched or bearing the marks of battles. Cold, green sensor eyes peered from visored helmets. On their backs were enormous two-handed energy axes, and at their waists, a pistol or rifle.
Cassandra's gaze focused on one individual; he descended alone. Enveloped in a shroud of strange black mist that no one understood but everyone felt—something like a fog that prevented him from fully seeing the man's face. He had seen him clearly during a Vox conversation, every smallest feature. Now, it was hard to say it was the same person. He knew it was him, in his heart, by instinct, but he couldn't say it aloud.
"The ship is waiting. My people, along with your squad, will hold position during the evacuation. Inside, my people will guide yours," Harlock spoke.
"Captain Harlock. I was beginning to worry," Cassandra said coolly, observing the man who was a head shorter than him, yet he felt this man could kill him before he even touched his bolter.
"The Arcadia cannot maintain its camouflage function while open; we can expect a hail of fire from the heretics," Harlock replied, staring at the horizon where the war raged.
"Will it withstand such fire?" Cassandra asked, making sure they weren't stepping into a mobile coffin.
"It will, unless you dawdle," Harlock retorted, making his meaning clear.
"Understood. Avenius, begin the evacuation."
The next second, the sky lit up with an artillery barrage; dozens of shells slammed into the Arcadia's protective field, causing a blinding flash and a powerful shockwave. Those standing outside the ship's shield were thrown like rag dolls, tumbling over one another. The air trembled, the ground shook... yet the Arcadia endured. Its armor bore not even the slightest trace of the hits that sought to reach it. Less disciplined soldiers, panic in their eyes, scrambled up the ramps, tripping over their own feet, dropping equipment, fighting not the enemy but their own fear. Beside them, veterans ran without haste.
For now, there was a relative calm, but everyone knew it was merely the calm before the storm. The enemy was closing in and, sooner or later, would reach the very hull of the Arcadia.
The pirates, with a delicate nervousness, joked amongst themselves, muttering half-words and laughing more to release tension than from genuine joy. Many had never before participated in a battle on such a scale, not to mention fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with Astartes or under the constant barrage of enemy fire that the ship's shield endured. Their armor creaked, weapons trembled in their hands, but none retreated an inch. They were part of the Arcadia.
The Astartes, focused to the last inch, weren't distracted by jokes or outbursts; their actions were methodical, almost ritualistic. From wrecks, armor plates, and abandoned equipment, they built makeshift cover by the hatches, knowing exactly where the threat might come from. Every one of their movements was an expression of experience and cold determination. Above their heads, explosions roared constantly; the enemy's artillery did not cease, hurling salvos at the Arcadia's protective field, trying to break through its impenetrable barrier.
Meanwhile, in the background, the evacuation continued. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, technicians, and support personnel poured into the Arcadia like a river. All those who, just an hour ago, had believed they wouldn't see battle, now confronted the brutality of war. Their faces were pale, eyes wide, but step by step, they entered the ship to safety.
Harlock stood motionless amidst the din, his dark cloak billowing behind him, his gaze fixed on a single point. He didn't react to the explosions, the radio static, or the reports—he simply watched. In the distance, through armored viewports and the light of burning wrecks, he saw a titanic silhouette rising above the battlefield. The enormous foot of a Warlord-class Titan was just descending with impact, attempting to crush two very well-known heretics: Lorgar and Angron.