The defense line of Pallas spaceport, a world under siege…
"Great Emperor and Sanguinius!"
"Tell me, in this dark universe, how much more must humanity suffer? How much blood must we shed… before true peace is achieved?"
Malakim Phoros, leader of the Lamenters, stood atop a crumbling high wall, clad in his battered Terminator armor. As he gazed over the scorched battlefield in the distance, his voice brimmed with sorrow.
Just moments ago, another wave of Xenos Tyranids had been repelled, leaving behind mounds of xenos corpses. Soldiers equipped with flamethrowers torched the remains, preventing the next Xenos wave from using the bodies as cover. Despite their victory, the Imperial defense lines were devastated, on the verge of collapse after unending assaults. The Astra Militarum and local forces, who had aided the defense, were reduced to less than a tenth of their original strength. Even the Lamenters themselves had taken grievous losses; every survivor bore wounds.
However, many civilians on this planet had still not evacuated. This was undeniably catastrophic news. Even fighting to the very end, they would be unable to save the people left behind or stop the Tyranids consuming the world.
Heavy footsteps drew Phoros from his thoughts. Sergeant Itō approached, saluted by pressing his clenched right fist to his chest.
"Commander."
Without turning, Phoros cut straight to the point. "Status report. Casualties?"
"All comrades in Zavian's squad confirmed KIA. Lieutenant Dagan is missing, though no one witnessed his death. The Star Guard, Homeland Defense Force, and 36,000 conscripted men and women—all those stationed outside the spaceport are assumed lost, communications severed."
"Given the current situation, stopping the next Tyranid Swarm assault is impossible."
"Understood. See to repairing the fortress as fast as possible," Phoros intoned grimly. "Whatever happens—we hold to the last man."
Without another word, Itō turned away.
Phoros looked up at the dark sky, even without the optic systems of his helmet. Thanks to his superhuman Astartes eyesight, he could make out details invisible to normal men. Flashes still flickered among the stars, as the Imperial Navy fought desperately to buy them evacuation time.
"Gene-Father, grant us your blessing, that the innocent may escape."
Phoros' expression was heavy with pity. This was not fear of imminent death—those who cry do not fear death. He did not weep for himself, but for those about to die, for his failure to save them.
Always the same. Every time, all he could do was watch helplessly.
…
"Comrades." Colonel Odson, commander of the Planetary Defense Force, approached with his two staff officers. Years of military service had left the veteran's face stained with dust and his eyes exhausted—yet there was uncommon calm in his bearing.
"Colonel." Phoros addressed him respectfully.
"There is no hope left to hold this ground," Odson replied levelly. "Leave. Take what remains of the Imperial Angels and depart this planet."
He paused, continuing, "Go where you are needed more. Your lives are far more precious than those of we, fated to die here."
"That's right—go." One of the staff, a gaunt aide, added, "We are all children of Pallas. It is our duty to lay down our lives for her."
"You are the Emperor's Angels—the Imperium needs you. In every way."
"We… will hold here until the end, to buy you every last moment to evacuate."
"No." Phoros shook his head firmly. "This place of woe—surely this is our battlefield. If this fight leads us to the Angel's embrace, we gladly accept that fate.
Colonel, start organizing the civilians' evacuation now. Get as many to safety as possible, before the port falls."
"Your lives are worth far more than ours," Odson insisted. "You shouldn't die here. There are worthier places."
"No. In the eyes of the Great Angel, rich or poor, human or Astartes, all are alike. We were born to kill, to protect you—and die to save the innocent. For those with sacred blood like ours, this is the most precious place."
Phoros locked eyes with Odson. "Colonel, carry out my order. I'm not discussing this. For every second wasted, more lives are lost."
Odson sighed, then departed with his staff to arrange evacuations.
Phoros watched them leave, then knelt quietly, resting his brow on his sword's hilt in prayer:
Oh noble Archangel, let your radiance protect the innocent, let us save as many souls as possible.
…
Conscripted workers frantically repaired the battered fortress for reuse. But when the endless insect swarms attacked again, these makeshift repairs didn't last long; destruction swiftly followed.
Cannons thundered nonstop, dense lasfire streaked like starlight. Many Tyranids fell, but even more swarmed through, breaking fire-blockades and rushing toward the spaceport.
"For those we love, we die with honor!" Phoros bellowed, fearless, blade singing through Xenos flesh.
The other Weepers rallied humanity's last defenders, ordering them to stand fast against the swarm, weapons blazing in desperate resistance. No matter how bravely or selflessly they fought, it changed nothing—the outcome had already been decided.
Wave after wave, the swarm's relentless onslaught finally shattered what remained of their defense.
Brutal melee erupted across the port. Some Imperial and local soldiers, seeing survival was impossible, wrapped bombs about their bodies, shouted the Emperor's name, and chose to die, taking the xenos with them.
Boom!
Phoros watched young soldiers run to their deaths, Emperor's slogans on their lips.
Witnessing these small but fearless sacrifices, the Leader of Lamentations fell deeper into despair.
Am I truly too weak to save anything? Are we doomed to just watch the innocent die, one by one?
"For the Emperor, for Sanguinius!" Phoros roared, resolve flaring as he fought to the bitter end. By will alone, the medical systems integrated into his armor pumped his failing body with high-dose combat stimulants—the last reserves.
The Leader of Lamentations burned his life's fragile ember to keep himself upright, cutting down as many as he could to buy precious seconds.
And yet, though anger still raged inside, he no longer lost himself to the old black fury.
Has even the Black Rage forsaken us now? The thought brought him only more sorrow.
….
The port's defense lines, battered by endless swarms, were like sandcastles dissolving before the tide. The Lamenters Astartes fought side by side with mortals, cutting down shocking numbers of Tyranids. Piles of xenos bodies formed walls of flesh, however temporarily. But the horde was endless: from over the horizon, more poured in, until it seemed this whole world was a single hive.
Every soul on the battlefield realized what it meant: fight to the last breath, but defeat was inevitable. Overwhelmed, their corpses and every life on this planet would be reduced to so much biomass for the Tyranids to consume.
"For the Emperor, for Sanguinius!" Phoros slashed furiously, cleaving a samurai-beetle in two from crown to tail.
All strength spent, new threats surged forth; a flash like lightning darted at his side, too quick to parry—sharp bony blades, encased in bio-forcefields, ripped through ceramite and plaststeel like parchment, skewering his body.
Suddenly, Phoros felt himself lifted off the ground by the Tyranid beast impaling him, dangling helplessly as his blood streamed downwards.
Yet the Leader of Lamenters managed a smile of relief. At last, to meet death.
But just then—
Whoosh!!
A streak of light from afar hurtled in, too fast even for an Astartes to track. With a crash, it struck the wounded Tyranid beast as if by an unseen giant's hammer, sending its body hurtling sideways into a shattered wall, ichor splattering everywhere. The other Tyranid monsters nearby were swiftly dispatched one after another.
A moment later, a sleek, stylish hoverbike entered Phoros's fading vision. A figure leaped down, strikingly casual amidst the carnage—a visitor like no other: Datch.
Having accepted Sanguinius's quest, Datch had used Rick's teleportation gun to open a portal, rushing to save the Lamenters and halt their extermination by the Tyranids. Upon arriving, Datch saw several Tyranid monsters surrounding the noble Angel. With no choice, Datch called forth the hoverbike, scattering the Tyranids.
Even wounded, Phoros rose unsteadily, staring in shock at this strange rescuer.
The figure was taller than any of them, clad in classic red-and-gold power armor of the Blood Angels, topped by a comically exaggerated harlequin helmet—broad grin fixed in place. This absurd style seemed utterly out of place amid the mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.
Ignoring Phoros' shock, Datch briskly waved a hand—the stylish hoverbike dissolved into points of light. From his game inventory, he selected and equipped a power claw and chainsword, then leaped into the fray, butchering the remaining Tyranid monsters.
Datch's combat style was brutal and efficient. The crackling claw tore through armor, draining life to replenish his own energy. With his skill "Killing Desire," he grew stronger with each kill. His Stomp tossed clustered foes aside.
Any gear or weapon damaged during the fight was repaired on the spot using golden hammer. Datch would pause to tap his hammer, ensuring weapons and armor remained in peak condition.
Soon, all Tyranids in this area were annihilated.
At this point, Commander Phoros remained in shock. Everything had happened so quickly, he couldn't comprehend it all.
"Who… are you?" Phoros asked instinctively, his voice weak but wary as Datch approached.
Datch gave no answer—instead, he gently tapped Phoros with the small golden hammer.
A warm golden ripple swept through his body. Phoros felt the excruciating pain in his chest vanish in an instant. Torn muscle, bone, viscera, even his battered Terminator armor—all restored to perfect condition in a heartbeat.
"This…" Phoros stared at his unblemished chestplate, then looked up, overwhelmed with shock and disbelief.
How had this stranger achieved such a thing?
Before he could demand an answer, Datch had already skipped away, turning his back. Datch plunged into the battle, fixing equipment, healing fallen and wounded alike—wounded soldiers revived in moments by a tap of the golden hammer. Damaged vehicles restored to factory condition, turrets, generators, and shield arrays mended and returned to operation.
This unexpected miracle gave a massive boost to the beleaguered defenders. None could explain it—but most attributed it to the direct blessing of the Emperor.
"Praise the Emperor!"
"He must be the Emperor incarnate!"
"… … …"
With Datch's intervention, the Imperial forces rested, regrouped, and soon counterattacked the Tyranid swarm breaking into the port. Sensing their setback, the Hive Mind ordered its horde to briefly withdraw, conserve strength, and adjust tactics for a deadlier next assault.
During the pause, Datch swiftly repaired every defense turret, shield generator, and power station he could find around the spaceport—restoring them all to full working order, ensuring the port was not overwhelmed due to infrastructure failures.
He then swapped out the golden hammer for a mithril pickaxe, digging at astonishing speed outside the defensive lines. Soil and gravel spun and stacked themselves by unseen hands, assembling blocks and storing them in his warehouse. Within a short time, a moat over ten meters deep and several meters wide encircled the main access road to the port, with the excavated earth piled into a low wall—a simple, one-meter barrier, but effective enough to slow the swarm and maximize defensive fire.
No sooner was this completed than alarms blared: another wave of the Tyranid assault was about to begin.
Like before, it was overwhelming—seemingly infinite swarms, now joined by vast, tyrannical monsters and bio-titans, aiming to smash through the spaceport in a single overwhelming surge and wipe out the last Imperial resistance on the planet.
Beholding the titanic monsters and the gigantic Tyranids constantly firing bioweapon salvos, Datch took out two summoning cards from his storage. One could summon Unit-01; the other, a new Giant of Light at random. After a moment's thought, he chose to summon Unit-01, saving the Giant of Light card for a crucial moment.
Last time, he'd used the Giant of Light to call upon Tiga—tricked by the light, but still able to turn the tide.
Tossing the summoning card in the air, Datch called loudly, "Come forth, Unit-01!"
No sooner had the words left his lips than blinding beams of light shot from the card, interweaving to outline a giant figure landing amidst the carnage.
It was a strange creature—humanoid, but more viscerally powerful than any construct of steel. Its body was dark purple, striped with fluorescent green, powerful of limb, muscular of frame, its spine prominent and defined.
Most disturbing was its head: beneath a great, forward-thrusting horn like a unicorn's, a mask covered its face, eyes narrow and cold, aglow with eerie light from behind armored seams.
An unfeeling fusion of beast and divinity, it gazed upon the entire battlefield.
In that moment, both the frenzied Tyranid horde and the surviving humans and Imperials fixed their attention on the new, monstrous arrival. Phoros, Odson, and the rest stared wide-eyed in shock.
What… is that thing?
Even the Hive Mind paused in alarm and doubt, many Tyranids loosing threatening screeches.
Datch's consciousness was one with Unit-01, as if controlling his own body. He sensed two presences within: one, the Second Angel—Lilith; the other, Yui, Unit-01's creator.
Unlike Yui's silence, Lilith struggled desperately, like a beast, to regain control, but Datch's will prevailed—her efforts suppressed.
"So this is what it feels like to pilot Unit-01?" Datch marveled at the terrible power flowing through the giant, and raised its mighty arms.
Recognizing this new threat, the Hive Mind redirected countless ranged bioforms to attack: corrosive acid, bone spike projectiles, burning bioplasma and more tore through the sky.
Catastrophic strikes that would have wiped out armored columns thundered down.
But in that instant—
Layer upon shimmering layer, a dazzling, honeycomb-patterned Absolute Barrier unfolded before Datch.
AT Field—Absolute Territory!
Brraam! Braam! Braam!
Deafening explosions shook the battlefield as attack after attack crashed in vain against the barrier.