Chapter 590: “War of Gods” (Patreon)

The battle at Koseran Port had reached a fever pitch.

The Iron Warriors’ defensive lines continuously buckled under the berserker charges of the World Eaters—only to be restabilized again and again through ruthless tactical coordination.

Amid the thunder of bolters and chainswords, their verbal exchanges were somehow even more jarring than the gunfire.

After all, the Iron Warriors of the main universe, though not as “unlucky” as their Warhammer 40K counterparts, were still often seen as “nobodies” compared to other legions.

The Ultramarines boasted sheer numbers; the Blood Angels were near-mythic saints; the Sons of the Emperor looked flawless to a fault—yet the Iron Warriors? Dull by comparison.

Renowned for siegecraft? So were others. Defenders of fortresses? The obnoxious Imperial Fists already had that claim staked.

Now, finally granted a “crusade” directive from the Emperor himself, they sought to vent their long-suppressed fury on aliens and heretics, to earn distinction through unity wars—but they hadn’t expected the World Eaters to be so damn mouthy.

Perpetually consumed by rage and slaughter, the World Eaters clashed with them on every front—combat, casualty, and insult. Tensions rose until their conflict bordered on personal vendetta.

On the eastern front, three surviving Helljumpers formed a triangular fire team, retreating through rubble and smoke.

Spike rounds from their Gauss rifles sparked off the heretical red power armor, leaving only scorched dents.

“Aim for the joints! Keep firing!” one of them shouted over comms.

“Hehehe… such amusing little things.”

The massive World Eater they were targeting chuckled darkly, his backpack spewing grimy exhaust.

Suddenly, the two-and-a-half-meter beast lunged with impossible speed—chainsword screaming a death-song.

VRRRR—KRANG—!!

The lead Helljumper barely raised his rifle to block—then was bisected at the waist. The heated teeth seared flesh so fast, blood didn’t even have time to spray.

The other two didn’t even finish reacting. One had his heart ripped out by a punch through the chest; the other was split diagonally from shoulder to hip.

“Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!”

The berserker raised the dripping heart skyward, ready to begin a profane sacrifice.

But then—

“The Covenant endures!”

A dozen veteran Sangheili warriors charged in from the flank.

Their gray armor gleamed in firelight, energy blades trailing lethal arcs.

They had just cleared nearby Flesh Hounds and Bloodletters, intending to support the Helljumpers—only to witness the last three slain.

Enraged, the veterans struck.

The World Eater didn’t dodge. Instead, he welcomed the fight. One Sangheili’s twin blades pierced his shoulder plate—

“HAHAHA! Now this is proper battle!”

Warp-blood mist seeped from his armor.

VRRRR—!!

He crushed the heart in his fist, chainsword clashing with three incoming energy swords in a blaze of sparks.

The Sangheili displayed breathtaking coordination—five pressing the attack, seven supporting—shifting like a killing machine.

Blades carved cerulean afterimages. Others wielded spears or electro-pikes, aiming precisely for armor seams and joints.

Despite his raw power, the berserker began to falter.

“DIE!”

With a roar, his veins lit crimson—speed surging. The chainsword struck with inhuman velocity, targeting one elite.

“For the Empire! For my lord!”

The elder Sangheili didn’t flinch—he charged. His sword clashed with the chainsword’s teeth, and he caught the spinning blade with his bare hand.

VRRRT—CHRRR!!

His flesh shredded instantly, but he’d created an opening.

“Now!”

A veteran drove a spear through the World Eater’s chest. Three others followed, launching suicidal attacks.

One grabbed the left leg—torn open moments later.

One locked the right arm—even as his organs ruptured from the strain.

The last pounced at the helm, trying to cleave the head off.

“Honor is my life!”

The elder veteran stabbed his energy sword into the chest plate seam. Others followed, plasma surging into every opening.

Internal detonations thundered—until the beast finally fell.

Four Sangheili had died. The rest were injured.

Survivors dropped to one knee, praying in the old Sangheili tongue to their “lord”—the Human Emperor, Suiyang.

Around them, battle still raged. But in that moment, warriors from across worlds united in sacrifice—for humanity, for the Empire.

The central plaza resembled molten steel—clashes of gray and crimson surged in brutal waves.

Fifty Iron Warriors held formation against an equal number of berserkers, locked in bloody deadlock.

“Maintain line! Left flank, encircle!”

Orders rang in encrypted comms. HUDs tracked friend and foe—five red blips had overextended.

Perfect opportunity.

A tactical fire team moved to trap them.

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

Plasma and heavy bolters tore through ruined buildings—blue plasma left sizzling trails in the air.

The death net enveloped the five World Eaters.

Bolt rounds tore armor; plasma vaporized flesh.

Even two “blessed” berserkers, with armor belching warp-smoke, fell under relentless fire.

After the second salvo, their bodies dropped—riddled with cratered wounds, like meat torn by titans.

Then—balance shattered.

“Blood for the Blood God!”

A crimson blur exploded into the Iron Warriors’ line like a cannonball.

This World Eater was wrapped in swirling blood mist, with a dozen screaming skulls embedded in his armor.

His chainsword—twice normal size—blazed with warp-fire.

First swing—THREE Iron Warriors bisected.

Their shields shattered, armor peeled like paper. Limbs flew; blood painted arcs in the air.

“Blessed Champion!” came the frantic call over comms.

This was no ordinary berserker.

Helljumper bullets missed or grazed. Five Sangheili rushed him—but their blades were shattered in one arc.

Lines buckled. Iron Warriors fell back.

Then—

“Arrogant filth!”

A silver-gray comet charged from the flank.

If the berserkers had champions, so did the Iron Warriors.

An Astartes Champion in Reaper-pattern Terminator armor thundered in, power hammer blazing gold.

CRASH—!!!

The hammer smashed the champion’s chainsword—snapping teeth, bending the shaft.

The hammer kept going, caving the berserker’s shoulder and torso.

But even crippled, the monster retaliated.

His mangled left arm grew, sprouting bone spikes that stabbed for the Astartes’ heart.

They pierced the shield and chestplate.

“You’ll be my offering next—”

But the Champion didn’t cry out.

He calmly released his hammer, grabbed the bone spike, and snapped it.

CRACK!

Then, with a thunderous headbutt, he staggered the berserker.

Before he could recover, a wrist-mounted bolter jammed under his jaw.

BOOM BOOM BOOM—!!!

His head burst like an overripe melon.

Skull trophies screamed—then disintegrated into ash.

As the battle neared climax, the skies above Fular split once again—brighter than ever.

More drop pods fell like a meteor storm—azure trails slicing the clouds.

Transport fleets dove through the cloudbank, armored vehicles deploying from belly mounts.

BOOM—!!

APCs smashed through barricades, treads grinding World Eater traps to slag.

Before hatches even opened, auxiliary troops, clones, and Terminators leapt from vehicles.

Behind them, the iron tide advanced—tanks in formation, turrets roaring.

But the true game-changer?

The Titan.

The hundred-meter-tall god-machine landed with quaking thunder. Chinese script glowed on its legs—sacred vows etched in ceramite.

Shoulder-mounted triple-barrel hardlight cannons rotated slowly, heat warping the air.

VRRRM—KRAKOOM—!!!

Beams five meters wide vaporized entire blocks of heretics.

Shockwaves leveled ruins. Even clouds tore open.

With four Mammoth-class mobile fortresses backing it up, and overwhelming firepower pouring in, the berserkers broke.

Some fled deeper into the city—abandoning comrades.

Meanwhile—

“New orders, Tactical Team: proceed to designated warehouse district. Repeat, warehouse district—possible civilian survivors.”

Qasim, freshly patched up by a medicae, stood tall. His leg had scabbed, muscle was regrowing, his armor sealed.

Even the new recruit with the wounded shoulder could fight again—albeit at 67% accuracy.

“Copy that.”

Qasim flexed his armor. The servos purred smoothly.

Turning to his squad:

“Regroup. Coordinate with Helljumpers and Sangheili. We’ve got five minutes to reach the objective.”

Twelve Helljumpers lined up. Five Sangheili checked their blades.

The mixed team advanced toward the warehouse district.

Unbeknownst to them, hidden in an alley just outside the district, Ansi Sekurt watched—stunned.

To her eyes, these were gods waging war.

ROARRRR—!!

But her awe left her exposed.

A Flesh Hound caught her scent—drawn by her fear—and now charged straight for her.