Warhammer : Machinist and The Exile

Crimson haze drifted across the shattered plains of Luna. The warp rift boiled in the distance, a seeping wound of madness, vomiting shrieking daemons into the atmosphere. Debris, corpses, and the reek of scorched ceramite littered the battlefield. Above, Valkyrie gunships spiraled in evasive arcs while hellspawn twisted through the skies, snapping at their engines.

Roboute Guilliman moved forward.

His helm was clipped to his belt, his blade drawn, his ceramite boots cracking moonstone with every deliberate step. The Ultramarines Primarch ignored the flames and gunfire — his attention fixed upon the figure ahead.

Magnus the Red.

Wreathed in living fire, the cyclopean sorcerer stood atop a ridge. His staff shimmered with warpfire, and his single burning eye gleamed with ancient contempt.

The battlefield around them knew to part.

Magnus raised his staff in silent command.

His daemons and traitor Astartes slowed, then withdrew from the the lord of Ultramar's path. Guilliman's Honor Guard — battered but unbowed — moved to flank him, clearing a path through the blood-drenched rubble.

The Grey Knight Grand Master Voldrus advanced behind them.

Neither Primarch spoke.

Cultists, mad with fervor, hurled themselves toward Guilliman. The first was vaporized by a bolt round from a master-crafted bolt pistol. The second had his upper body removed by a backhand slash of a power sword.

The third tried to scream a curse — only to be split in half, clean from crown to groin.

Guilliman didn't blink. His expression was hard as the moonrock beneath his feet.

Around him, Ultramarines fired methodically, the sharp staccato of bolt rifles cracking in the chaos. "Burn them out," barked an Astartes sergeant. "Make the path clean for the Primarch."

Above, the sky roared.

"Thunderbolt squadron: firing strafe run. Missiles locked. Cleansing traitor armor," crackled the vox.

Jet trails tore the sky open as Thunderbolt and Lightning fighters screamed overhead, loosing Hellstrike missiles into heretic daemon engine. Explosions lined the far ridgeline, traitor tanks flipping skyward in molten chunks.

Then came the counterstrike.

With shrieks that curdled blood, Screamers of Tzeentch chased the Imperial aircraft. One Lightning pilot veered left, too slow the warp beast tore through its hulls like tissue. The fighter spiraled, a flaming comet crashing into the Lunar dust.

[Sky Talon Four is down! Multiple daemons in airspace] a pilot voxed frantically.

[We're losing air superiority — we need support!]

On the ground, Seiji's Shinobi operatives fought in tight kill-cells, leaping through debris-strewn trenches. Their monomolecular blades and rail carbines cut down horrors and Pink daemons in disciplined squads. Shinobi sealed breach points with burning talismans, the wards glowing only seconds before being snuffed by fresh incursions.

Seiji led from the front, his matte-black armor scored with deep wounds, his blade slick with warp ichor.

"Shadow Cells, hold sector theta. 7No ground surrendered," Seiji voxed grimly.

Nearby, Naon crouched over the last of the sealing corps. Only a dozen remained, their equipment cracked. A warp-borne wind screamed overhead, and two operatives were torn apart by talons mid-incantation.

Naon's teeth clenched as another detonation of warp fire swallowed a position to the east.

[Damn it — this isn't enough,] Naon spat over the channel. [We don't have the numbers to finish the mission anymore. The sequence will fails without enough power to feed it.]

Seiji's reply was cold steel. "Then we bleed buying time. shinobi do not run."

Naon rose, clutching her EFA. Her expression was carved from stone. "Understood."

And then… the stars shifted.

An impossible sound rippled through the void — like ancient drums striking across centuries. A fresh wave of light gleamed across the lunar horizon.

Dozens of new signals flared on auspex.

[This is Lord Admiral Carthen aboard the Revenant of Dawn. All ground forces — hold the line. Reinforcements from Terra have arrived.]

The Phalanx itself loomed in distant orbit, a golden monolith moving with divine finality. Escorts and warships of the Battlefleet Solar bled gunships across Luna's battered skies. Accompanying imperial fist cruiser launch drop pods.

Fire rained from above.

As the reinforcement landed. Golden figures emerges — Custodes.

Their spears blazing, landing with earth-cracking force.

Their guardian blades cut through horrors and cultists with contemptuous ease. Beside them, Sisters of Silence advanced in lockstep.

Their pariah gene generate Null fields — daemons howled and torn apart merely by proximity.

[Sister units breaching sector nine!]

[Custodian Guard engaging daemon engine on western front!]

Lucifer Black shock troops stormed through the central trench, their ancient void armor painted black and brass. Each volley from their weapon cracked with battlefield finality.

[Imperial Fist elements now deploying,] came a curt vox-signal.

[Building third line — Luna will not fall.]

The sound of massive wings suddenly sounded on the battle field.

it came from Kairos Fateweaver.

The twin-headed daemon lord moves in to strike. One head shrieked in ancient tongues, the other whispered damnation.

[That big daemon is moving!] vox channels screamed.

[Enemy greater daemon advancing on Custodes location!]

The daemon's staff crackled, unleashing kaleidoscopic sorceries that shredded entire platoons of guardsmen and dissolved fortifications in impossible fire.

"Form defensive wedge, Lucius Pattern!" bellowed a Custodes Tribune.

Golden warriors locked shields, spears leveled.

"Hold your ground, for the Throne!"

Fateweaver's magic splintered the lines. One Custodian turned to crystal and shattered under his own weight. A squad of Sisters of Silence advanced, Null fields flaring — and were incinerated by a blast of purple fire that moved like sentient fog.

In response, Thunderbolt fighters banked in.

"All squadrons, strafe that position! Concentrate fire on the daemon!"

Hellstrikes and autocannon rounds raked Fateweaver's form — it laughed as though death was a plaything.

"Our fire's not slowing it down! Emperor's blood — what is this thing?!"

Then, a ripple of color broke through the ruins.

The Harlequin Troupe Shadowbane moved in.

With impossible grace, masked figures danced through the chaos, each step a death sentence for daemons in their path. Their lead Solitaire leapt, trailing light.

"We buy you time, Mon-keigh," a lilting voice chimed over the Eldar channel.

The Harlequins threw themselves at Fateweaver.

They struck and struck again — blades of void-light rending sorcerous flesh. One Harlequin was seized mid-spin and turned inside out, another frozen into a statue of laughing glass. They did not falter.

"Fateweaver engaged by Xenos elements!" came an urgent vox.

A great explosion lit the sky — one Harlequin detonating a void grenade at one of the daemon's face. Fateweaver howled, staggering for the first time.

"Now! Fire everything!" came the order.

Imperial fists' heavy bolters and Custodes salvoes converged as the Harlequins made their suicidal charge.

The ground war surged anew — no longer retreat, but bitter, bloody resistance.

Among the chaos, Guilliman continued walking.

His Honor Guard cleared the way. Grey Knights formed a wedge behind them, bolters glowing with psychic energy.

The Primarch passed shattered aquila banners, broken Astartes helms, and corpses of the brave.

He paused only once — kneeling over a fallen Ultramarine whose armor still smoked from warpfire. Guilliman reached down, resting a bloodied gauntlet on the man's pauldron.

"I remember you," he murmured. "You stood with me. That is enough."

He rose and continue his march.

He stopped ten paces from Magnus. The two Primarchs now faced each other, the battlefield a graveyard of mortals behind them.

Magnus tilted his head.

"Brother," he said. His voice was thunder, grief, and contempt.

Guilliman raised his sword.

The Emperor's Champion, bloodied but unbowed, took his place beside his lord. Marius Amalrich could be seen rallying Black Templars to secure the flanks. Voldrus activated the runes on his warhammer.

And yet no one moved between the two demigods.

The stage is theirs.

The wind of warp and atmosphere parted around them, the clash of daemons and Astartes fading beneath the gravity of this singular moment.

Guilliman spoke only once.

"Magnus, It ends here."

A heartbeat passed. A breath.

Then Magnus flared his wings, warpfire building along the head of his staff.

The duel had begun.