"That is absolutely out of the question!"
Negotiations completely broke down. Yuki hesitated for a mere microsecond, and the spell prepped within Magnus's grip instantly detonated. Yuki's physical trajectory was violently reversed, his hyper-dense carapace reverting into useless organic matter.
Concurrently, Plague made her move.
She continuously wept, faint streaks of crimson tear tracks carving down her features, yet her combat style remained fundamentally distinct from both Yuno and War.
A violent, pitch-black squall instantly swept across the entirety of the theater. The hyper-microscopic bio-particulates churning within the tempest immediately enveloped Yuki's frame, systematically reconstructing the structural tissues compromised by Magnus's chronal disruption.
To any other sentient existence on the grid, this absolute shroud of dark mist blanketing the battlefield was an instant, lethal neurotoxin.
Magnus continued to cycle through his immense psychic arsenal, yet Plague had already completely dissolved her physical silhouette into the absolute dark.
"Guh... this black fog is actively preying upon my psychic manifestations? Is this the genetic sequence of the Enslavers?"
The moment his physical framework stabilized, Yuki launched himself back into the vanguard.
"Desist from losing your focus, Magnus!"
The exact microsecond the words left his lips, Yuki's frontal assault was cleanly intercepted by Magnus. The sheer kinetic shockwave instantly forced Yuki to recall a fundamental reality.
Even though Magnus was universally renowned for his apex telepathic talent, he remained a Primarch—and structurally the largest, most physically imposing Primarch among his brothers.
Even if he completely withheld his psychic casting and restricted his output to swinging his massive blade-staff, exceptionally few assets across the entire Warhammer setting possessed the parameters to best him in raw physical combat.
"Dammit, he's actively weathering the absolute brunt of Plague's viral corruption, yet the guy behaves as though his baseline performance isn't throttled in the slightest!"
As Yuki cursed internally, Plague's timid, trembling voice resonated within his consciousness once more.
"Lord Yuki, simply locking down his positioning is a sufficient strategic outcome."
"I can perceive the math, but did you genuinely expect me to achieve a permanent liquidation under these conditions?"
Vast deposits of surrounding biomass violently fused onto Yuki's frame. His physical vessel underwent a frantic, monstrous expansion, his raw physical strength and spatial volume multiplying at an exponential rate.
"Come then!"
Vivid blood seeped from Magnus's lips, his psychic reserves being ruthlessly devoured by Plague's toxic mist. Yet the residual echelons of telepathic energy remaining beneath his dominion were still successfully weaving a massive sorcerous matrix.
Boom!
The resulting kinetic displacement violently hurled the surrounding Rubric Marines and Tyranid bio-forms clean off the grid, forcing both primary combatants back several hundred meters.
Evaluating the absolute distance of the displacement, Yuki had still failed to secure a definitive advantage.
"So this is the baseline of a Primarch? Truly terrifying."
As Yuki marveled at the output, Plague softly validated his assessment: "Indeed. In the final accounting, their specifications were engineered to explicitly counter our species."
"Judging from your performance, you lack the parameter to systematically dissolve the opposition. Look at him—Magnus stands within the dead center of your toxic array completely unbothered."
"Completely unbothered? Lord Yuki, that is a mathematical impossibility. At this precise microsecond, he is relying exclusively on raw warp drawing to forcibly anchor his physical vessel. So long as we preserve this lockdown for a handful of subsequent hours, our ultimate victory remains an absolute inevitability."
"Preserve a lockdown for that duration? A few hours might represent a trivial metric across the broader campaign theater, but to two apex combat units, it represents an eternity."
"With all due respect, Lord Yuki, at your current specification, you are merely categorized as a high-tier combat asset. There remains a distinct structural delta before you can officially claim a placement among the absolute apex tier."
Yuki was completely left without a rebuttal.
The massive, intricate sorcery Magnus had been surreptitiously weaving finally completed its casting cycle. A blinding crescendo of sapphire light detonated across the coordinate, causing Yuki's visual receptors to flare with intense pain.
The exact microsecond his vision stabilized, Magnus had vanished completely from the field.
"The guy actually executed a strategic retreat."
The black mist systematically dissolved, and Plague's silhouette re-materialized within Yuki's immediate view.
"Executing an extraction route carries absolutely no structural dishonor. Um... frankly speaking, Lord Yuki, don't you routinely utilize the exact same methodology?"
"I would strongly advise you to hold your tongue right now."
Yuki vented his frustration to his companion.
"Exterminate them!"
The vast configurations of the Imperial Crusade fleet unleashed an indiscriminate, devastating assault against every non-Imperial signature anchoring the grid. The Thousand Sons, the elements of the Emperor's Children who had failed to secure timely extraction, the Necron legions, and the Tyranid Swarm were all systematically pinned beneath the overwhelming weight of the newly arrived armada.
Bjorn finally intersected with the leadership echelon of the relief force. As Saint Hopper absorbed the comprehensive diagnostic data regarding the current state of the theater, Bjorn concurrently recognized that his vanguard had inadvertently stumbled straight into the true orchestrators operating behind the scenes.
The ancient Dreadnought let out a booming, boisterous laugh: "Hahahahaha! So that is the underlying math! My deployment was remarkably fortuitous after all!"
Hopper held this ancient, revered warrior—who had walked the stars since the golden era of the Great Crusade—in absolute veneration. She marveled, "To think your legendary existence truly endures. I harbored the assumption that your record was a mere foundational myth, engineered exclusively to project the absolute majesty of the God-Emperor."
"Every variable is entirely real, child. My own existence, the unyielding majesty of the Holy Emperor... these are absolute, historical verities. In those ancient days, I was merely one of the infinite Astartes marching directly behind the Emperor's shadow, prosecuting the Great Crusade beneath His divine guidance."
"To prosecute a theater alongside a warrior of your legacy remains an absolute honor for every soul present."
Once the standard protocols of venerating Bjorn's legacy concluded, Hopper and the surviving Space Wolves charted a trajectory toward the deeper, more critical combat zones, closely flanked by specialized Astartes tactical units.
The luminous wings anchoring Hopper's silhouette had completely dissolved. She calculated that the manifestation had merely been a transient manifestation of the Emperor's divine grace; when the tactical reality required their presence once more, the Emperor's will would naturally command them to sprout anew.
Bjorn abruptly halted his stride. Hopper instantly registered the shift in the local threat matrix as a phalanx of the Emperor's Children materialized directly across their path. These fallen Astartes—their power armor mutated with grotesque, organic appendages—were actively engineering depraved, incomprehensible acts to stimulate their sensory receptors, failing to even direct their gaze toward the approaching Imperial line.
Yet positioned at the dead center of their degenerate gathering stood an immense, towering silhouette. A half-human, half-serpentine entity possessing massive wings and a devastatingly predatory, malicious smile, idly receiving the worship of his remaining gene-sons.
"By the Throne..."
Bjorn's voice resonated with a profound, aching sorrow.
"To think his perfect essence has been corrupted into this repulsive form. Chaos... what manner of degradation have you inflicted? The perfect purple Phoenix... reduced to a specimen of this nature."
"His identity is—"
"He was once an exceptionally noble soul. The remaining historical data is something your echelon has absolutely no necessity to acquire."
"Are those Leman's pups I smell?"
Fulgrim smoothly redirected his focus, his gaze locking onto Hopper's command group.
"I register a remarkable volume of familiar genetic signatures. Indeed... engaging with your kind remains infinitely more gratifying than trading blows with famished biomorphs and mindless mechanical husks. Beholding your phalanx is akin to looking upon my ancient companions from those bygone years. Ah... is that a successor chapter of the Iron Hands I spy? I find myself harboring a distinct desire to consume your gene-seed."
Hopper felt a sudden jolt of alarm. Were there scions of the Iron Hands embedded within her immediate vanguard?
She swept her gaze across her ranks for a fraction of a second, her vision locking onto a detachment of massive, heavily augmented giants whose physical structures were almost entirely encased in master-crafted cybernetics.
So they weren't tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus after all. Hopper had previously been deeply perplexed as to why this specific unit had declined to pursue the Necron machinery with the same fanatical, manic obsession displayed by the rest of the Cult Mechanicus.
Yet before she could finalize her analysis, Bjorn's command directive thundered across the vox-network: "All baseline human assets, break contact and execute a fallback maneuver! Where are the Librarians?! Establish a defensive perimeter at the front!"
But Fulgrim had already launched his advance.
With a single, effortless kinetic impact, Bjorn was sent hurtling through the air.
His master-crafted mechanical manipulator was violently snapped in two, and multiple heavy armor plates protecting the chassis of the Dreadnought were deeply scored and ruptured.
Yet evaluating Fulgrim's tactical momentum, the exchange amounted to nothing more than a casual brushing aside of an obstacle blocking his path.
"Little girl, you are a Sister of Battle, correct? I find myself quite interested in cultivating a personal, fallen Sister to adorn my collection."
The Emperor's Champion of the Black Templars executed the fastest reaction on the grid, driving his Black Sword in a devastating, linear arc toward Fulgrim's core.
Fulgrim initially disdained to adjust his positioning, yet the brilliant, golden radiance coruscating along the edge of the blade forced him to execute a rapid leap backward.
"This is—"
"I perceive the math clearly now," the Emperor's Champion intoned, his gaze locked onto the daemon primarch. "This remains the absolute manifestation of the God-Emperor's guidance. My physical thread is fated to terminate within these coordinates, but your foul essence shall be thoroughly banished alongside my death."
"I have not encountered a joke of this magnificent caliber in an age."