Fully armed and towering like gods among mortals, the Emperor's Angels strode purposefully down the corridors of the warship. Behind them, the ranks of the Astra Militarum and Battle Sisters advanced in tight formation.
Arthur, wielding a storm shield forged as a sacred relic, absorbed incoming fire with unflinching resolve. Through the gaps behind him, bolts and las-blasts flew out with surgical efficiency, tearing into the heretics surging forward.
The traitors were shredded by a storm of firepower—limbs torn apart, flesh blasted into pulp, their bodies flung like rags by invisible forces.
Squelch—
His sword, concealed behind his unyielding shield, flashed forward without pause, severing the heads of any mutant filth that dared press against his defense. Iron boots followed, grinding abominable bodies into paste without hesitation.
With each step Arthur took, the floor—already choked with gore—oozed thick, foul-smelling fluids from clogged ventilation grates.
Behind him, Romulus maintained suppressive fire. At each junction they passed, he planted a bright yellow glowstick on the wall—quiet markers of their path.
After advancing only a few corridors, the sounds of support from the rear began to thin… and then disappeared entirely. Arthur and Romulus had no choice but to halt at a secured junction.
It wasn't that they didn't want to keep pushing forward.
It was because of the Astra Militarum behind them.
Crushing a still-twitching cultist underfoot, Arthur took cover beneath a section of shattered ceiling and scorched the next wave of heretics with his flamer. Romulus secured the other flank.
Holding the node gave them the advantage: with minimal firepower, they could suppress the enemy in a confined space.
The guardsmen had heavy responsibilities—not only did they follow in the wake of the Adeptus Astartes' assault, they also had to build defense points along the way, and intercept foes trying to flank through other corridors. With communication delays compounding the issue, even Colonel Kovik's expert command couldn't prevent the inevitable slowdown.
And under normal circumstances, a guardsman sprinting at full tilt still couldn't match the pace of an Astartes charging through heavy weapons fire.
As a result, the Astra Militarum always—inevitably—fell behind during lightning strikes.
Seconds later, just as Arthur was swapping out his power pack, a bolt round zipped past his shoulder. Armored boots clanged behind him—the Battle Sisters had arrived.
Another handful of seconds passed, and then Colonel Kovik himself appeared, blood-splattered and breathless, leading his elite company at last.
"Milords!"
He wiped the blood from his chainsword, face flushed with shame.
Retaking the Geller field generator relied on the Astartes spearhead. Yet now, they—the Astra Militarum—had become the operation's weak link.
The Astartes were simply too fast. Like living hurricanes.
"For every five nodes we secure, we'll pause and wait," Arthur said calmly. He understood why the guard fell behind.
This wasn't a matter of effort. Every one of them was pushing their bodies to the limit—squeezing every last drop of worth from their mortal forms before offering them up to the Emperor. But the physiological gap was a canyon no willpower could bridge.
"No need to wait, sir!" Kovik quickly interjected, doing his best to keep pace with the Angels who had slowed for his sake. He raised his voice. "Please, go on ahead! We'll hold our own, even if heretics block the path."
A veteran of a dozen worlds, Colonel Kovik felt… uneasy at the Astartes' kindness. It was unnatural. Their humility stirred a shameful sense of inadequacy—what had he done to deserve the care and patience of Angels?
This mission was meant to support a Deathwatch kill-team gone dark near the Geller field generator. Without securing that generator, none of the fallback positions they'd established would matter.
And if they failed to eliminate the Chaos Space Marines before the Geller field was breached, then no matter how perfect their fortifications or how minimal their losses, the entire campaign would end in catastrophe.
He'd been prepared for heavy casualties from the start. But instead—here were the Astartes deliberately drawing enemy fire, clearing node after node, even leaving glowing markers to light the way… and now, even pausing to wait for them.
So far, not one member of their mobile force had fallen.
Kovik's face flushed with burning shame.
He felt like a child being protected in the cradle, not a soldier of the Emperor.
"You're saying we should stop worrying about your safety, and push forward regardless?" Romulus asked, seeking confirmation.
In peacetime, the value of life was sacred. And now, as Space Marines, that ideal weighed even heavier on them.
Both Arthur and Romulus had spent decades immersed in the culture of the Adeptus Astartes, where it was only natural that their duty included protecting the common man.
"Yes," Kovik answered firmly. "The safety of the Geller field is paramount."
He understood clearly that no mortal man could match the Angels, nor the Battle Sisters clad in servo-powered armor. And he knew how to prioritize.
"You're sure?" Arthur turned slightly.
Astartes were mighty, yes—but not omnipotent. If they surged ahead, it meant the Astra Militarum would be left to face the monsters alone.
"We will bleed," Kovik said, "but we will not let the glory of victory slip through our fingers."
With the Astartes breaking through, that was enough. They were the spearhead, destined to lead the Sisters into the heart of the battle.
Even the storm's aftermath had bought them precious time.
And that was all they needed.
They would hold the gains, reinforce the line, ensure the Angels could advance without hesitation.
They were only men—but they were still the pillars of the Imperium.
And the Emperor's Angels did not need to slow their march for mere copper coins like them.
Such is the terrifying strength of faith—it can make a man disregard his own life.
Arthur paused in silence. It was the first time he'd experienced the jarring clash of values between two worlds. He locked eyes with Romulus.
"Well?" he asked.
"Trust the professionals," Romulus replied.
If their hesitation only made things harder, then the best course was to respect the judgment of those living this war—to complete the mission swiftly and return with reinforcements.
After all, everyone knew just how much of a nightmare the Warhammer universe was. As traversers, they had no intention of letting their good intentions make things worse.
Together, they nodded.
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