The attack obliterated more than 95% of the TUSKBORN Federation's main fleet. Durmoth, which had shown signs of resurgence, was now once again paralyzed.
And yet, a flicker of hope remained for the TUSKBORN Federation.
Two alien civilizations relatively close to the Imperium Caelestis—namely the Marshhold Sovereignty of the Nophanex species (hippo-like bipeds), and the Ironhorn Dominion of the Gorvanuul race (massive, armor-clad buffalo-like aliens)—formally declared war on the Imperium. Without delay, both empires launched large-scale invasions into human-controlled territory.
That flicker was quickly extinguished.
The main fleets of both alien empires were ambushed and annihilated with merciless efficiency by the Seventh Fleet under the command of Kylo Ren—a border patrol force originally tasked only with routine surveillance. Offering no opportunity for retreat or negotiation, Kylo wiped them out on the spot.
Soon after, the Sixth Fleet, led by Admiral Yularen and previously stationed deep within the Imperium's interior for rest and resupply, was deployed to join the fray. Alongside Kylo Ren, they executed a series of planetary purges, targeting high-value worlds. The campaign escalated swiftly into a complete encirclement of the homeworlds of both Marshhold and Ironhorn.
Kenthelion had no intention of wasting his time on two fourth-rate civilizations. To him, Durmoth had already received a grand theatrical display of ground warfare—its supreme commander executed before a live broadcast. That, he believed, should've been the end of it.
But reality had other plans.
Kenthelion wasn't the only one caught in the gears of rising conflict—the fires of war were beginning to spread across the outer rim.
Dozens of Glorypork soldiers, fleeing the collapse of their forces, hijacked a transport vessel under the leadership of General Glorypork Broggar. They fled into alien space, arriving in the region of a lesser-known civilization called Rattgorr. There, they declared war—not through official channels, but via a growing network of pirates and mercenaries they recruited en masse.
Meanwhile, most civilizations in the Mid-Rim chose to remain spectators. To them, this was merely a spectacle of interstellar squabbling, not a conflict worth intervening in.
Of course, not everyone saw it that way.
> "Humans! They are the lowest lifeforms in the universe. Their empire will vanish in the blink of an eye. They will drown in oceans of our blood!"
Such was the voice of the middle-class empire known as the Sunscale Empire. They had no desire to directly annihilate the Imperium Caelestis—but they also had no intention of letting humanity survive.
A proxy war? Of course. Why not?
The Sunscale Empire was ready to pour massive resources and weaponry into General Mirkon's hands as part of their plan to restore their faded glory in the mid-rings. But this was not for peace—they wanted to use General Mirkon's hands to destroy the Imperium Caelestis without soiling their own.
Now, the entire outer ring was thrown into chaos.
And the Tukad Federation was predicted to be the first ship to sink amid this brewing storm.
---
"For the Emperor! For the Desolate Brotherhood! We will atone for our sins!"
The cry echoed across the warship's deck.
Akrol, clad in the crimson Mk4 "Ultimate" armor, knelt in prayer. Behind him, the Space Marines of the Brotherhood of Desolation stood rigid in perfect formation—a single line of elite warriors trained for one purpose only: holy war.
"Prepare for aerial deployment."
From the hangar, a colossal knight mecha slowly advanced. Its name: Terror Blade—the icon of destruction and fear across countless battlefields. The personal war machine of the Brotherhood.
Under Akrol's command, a thousand Space Marines boarded the drop pods one by one in orderly fashion. Each pod held a squad of ten Marines, equipped with support systems like Storm Bolters and Deathwind Missiles to bombard the landing zones and provide initial cover for the troops.
Five Marines in Terminator Armor approached their exclusive drop zone.
Their Indomitable Pattern armor symbolized glory and death, with large curved pauldrons and helmets shaped like the ancient Terran dog that had long vanished. On their left shoulders, the Terminator Cross stood boldly—signs of their oath and total devotion.
"Your Majesty… let these aliens gaze up at the sky—for the last time. Let their bodies and souls be cleansed by wrath."
The Terror Blade mecha boarded the transport ship. Its engine roared, ready to descend with its brothers-in-arms.
"Begin the assault."
The moment the order was given, dozens of drop pods pierced the atmosphere. The sky seemed to rain down blazing red comets.
The Emperor's wrath fell from the heavens.
"The monsters are coming!!"
Panic echoed across the battlefield as Durmoth soldiers frantically turned their weapons skyward—toward dozens of drop pods plummeting from the heavens like meteor showers. They knew what was coming. They had seen it with their own eyes—how these two-meter-tall giants tore through tanks like paper, crushed infantry like unstoppable shadows of death. Cars were hurled like spears, and blood turned into mist with every step they took.
Not a single Space Marine had fallen. Not even a scratch. They pierced enemy lines like blades slicing through cloth, while the waves of regular infantry behind them were nothing more than rabbits tossed into the path of a warhammer and a storm of artillery fire.
Durmoth's standard anti-aircraft guns were nearly useless. Their bullets bounced harmlessly off the drop pods' armored shells, which continued their relentless descent—raining down like droplets on the streets of Tukad's capital city.
"Fire! Hurry, fire at them!"
Countless Durmoth troops rushed to surround the landing zones, but to the Space Marines, breaking through encirclements like this was just another day at the office. They weren't just elite troops—they were the storm incarnate.
Bang bang bang bang bang bang...
On the front lines, Space Marines clad in Indomitable Terminator Armor marched forward without hesitation. The Storm Bolters in their hands roared to life—double-barreled firepower shredding enemies with pinpoint accuracy.
The Storm Bolter, a signature Astartes weapon, fused two heavy bolters into one compact frame—delivering devastating firepower without sacrificing mobility. Engineered to eliminate heavy targets and annihilate infantry en masse, it was a favorite of Terminators and even used in Rhino vehicle defense systems.
Each shot detonated on impact, tearing through the sky and turning Durmoth soldiers into crimson mist. The invincible Terminators advanced like ancient war machines brought to life—unshaken by enemy fire or the screams of the dying.
"Quick! Use the explosives!"
A few Durmoth soldiers, hidden behind makeshift barricades, scrambled to activate the charges—one last desperate attempt to stop the tide of iron.
BOOM!
Too late. The power gauntlets worn by the Space Marines—forged from adamantium composite and energy-infused fibers—snatched them with lightning speed. With barely any effort, they crushed the fragile bodies into formless piles of flesh and bone.
Thump... thump... thump...
As the Marines reloaded their Storm Bolters, the underslung mini-grenade launchers kept firing—short-range explosive rounds thudding rhythmically like the mechanical heartbeat of destruction itself.
The streets were littered with corpses. Blood pooled and flowed freely from mangled, shattered bodies—scattered across the war-torn battlefield. Durmoth's fallen troops lay stacked like post-war refuse, while fires still raged in the corners of crumbling buildings.
The remaining Durmoth civilians ran and hid in terror, panic flooding their eyes as the Space Marines and human shock troopers seized control of the city streets. To them, this wasn't just defeat—it was the end of the world.
Boom! Boom!
The Penal Legion forces, operating under the banner of Legion Concordia, stormed through the streets with ruthless efficiency—cruelty woven into every breath they took. Armed with ancient revolvers—artifacts of a long-dead age that still spelled death—they executed surrendering Durmoth soldiers with single shots to the head. There was no mercy. To them, this was merely evening entertainment—something to break the boredom after long interstellar travel.
In a newly secured front-line command post, Pablo Escobar, field commander of the Penal Legion, exhaled a puff of smoke from a confiscated cigar as he reported via holo-comm.
"Lord Steven, we've coordinated with the angels and are advancing toward the city center."
On the other side of the holo-screen, Steven—Commander of the 18th Army of Legion Concordia—stared blankly. His tactical armor glowed faintly under the cold blue light of the command terminal. His voice was icy, laced with the weight of absolute authority.
"The Emperor has spoken. We need prisoners. The Inquisition and Mechanicus Division are short on test subjects. Take as many alive as possible."
"Understood, my lord."
Pablo nodded, then calmly pressed his cigar into the head of a Durmoth civilian sprawled beneath his chair—turning the man into a living ashtray... or a former one.
"Cut down on the smoking," Steven remarked casually, though his tone carried firm authority. "We have no idea what kind of alien tech might be implanted in their bodies."
"Understood," Pablo replied flatly.
Across the city, Durmoth's defense lines had collapsed. No unit remained that could hold the line for long. The last remnants of their forces were retreating in chaos, rallying at the residence of the High Commander—their final stronghold, a crumbling bastion of lost honor.
But against the Space Marines, it wasn't a battle.
It was a mass execution.
"For the Emperor!"
The battle cry echoed through the entire comm network.
"Decapitate their High Commander! Crush them until nothing remains!"