Chapter 37:
Joy. Pure joy.
For the first time since arriving in the grim darkness of the far future, Godzilla felt something like happiness.
So it's true—Orks really are the happiest race in the galaxy. WAAAGH!!
Godzilla threw back his head and unleashed a victorious roar that echoed across the shattered hive city. The cry shattered what remained of the Khorne Daemon Legion's morale. Even the Bloodletters, who normally thought of nothing but hacking enemies to pieces, instinctively knew: this thing can't be cut.
You couldn't win.
You couldn't even fight.
Though the Chaos Space Marines thirsted for blood and battle, no amount of bloodlust could make them see hope in this encounter. Their gene-forged instincts screamed a single truth: without a God-Machine, without a Titan, this wasn't war—it was suicide.
"Let me go! I want to fight him again!!"
"Calm down!"
Even the World Eaters had limits. A few berserkers, still driven by the Butcher's Nails, tried to break ranks—only to be tackled and carried away by their own brothers. They weren't afraid. They understood. They were not equipped to handle a threat of this scale.
You could fight a Lizardman. Maybe.
But Godzilla? You'd have better odds attacking the Emperor on Terra himself.
"Strap him into the shuttle. We're leaving. Now."
The Chaos Marines chose the only rational path: retreat. The Daemons of Khorne, still locked in combat with the Lizardmen, were beginning to falter. Their cohesion splintered. Some even turned on each other—chaos in its purest form.
"Where's our boss?" one snarled in the infernal tongue of Daemons.
"Dunno. Got launched somewhere and hasn't come back."
Without a leader, the Khorne Daemons were unraveling—morale giving way to infighting. It was pitiful. But it was also Khorne.
Elsewhere, from the shattered heights of a distant hab-block, a squad of Ultramarines observed the unfolding battle in silence.
Then one of them spoke.
"...I understand now."
"Understand what?"
"The Think Tank's orders… they must have been the Emperor's divine will. Even all the way from Terra, He's still watching over the Five Hundred Worlds."
Even for the Ultramarines—disciplined, rational—those words were steeped in superstition. But for once, no one argued. They felt it. The orders to avoid engaging the massive creature hadn't just been strategic. They were sacred.
Had they opened fire, it wouldn't be Godzilla that died.
It would have been them.
Even seasoned warriors like them couldn't help but feel something akin to joy. Relief. Awe.
Only their sergeant, Carrion, remained grimly focused.
"The traitors may have pulled back," he said, "but these xenos aren't going anywhere. Even if we believe the Think Tank's prophecy and leave the behemoth be… what about the others? They're fighting in our hive cities. What's the endgame here?"
As he spoke, another wave of Khorne Daemons began swarming up the tower toward them.
"Damn daemons!"
The Ultramarines raised their bolters, preparing for a last stand—but then, searing beams of green energy lanced out from nearby ruins, obliterating the charging daemons. Carrion ducked instinctively, dodging a shot that melted the floor just behind him.
"Get back to the line!" he barked. "It's the metal skeletons—Necrons!"
At the word Necron, even Ultramarines felt a flicker of dread.
The Necron menace rarely appeared in this sector—but when it did, entire planets burned. An Ultramarine company was a mere speed bump to these ancient horrors. And most of their dynasties hadn't even awakened yet.
Above, the dark clouds pulsed with a sickly green light. A crescent-shaped silhouette emerged—sleek, alien, menacing.
A Dirge-class Raider. One of the Necron fleet's smallest warships… yet still more massive than most Titans. Even an Emperor-class would be dwarfed by its shadow.
Trazyn the Infinite was not subtle.
And the moment Isis noticed, it was already too late. She hadn't sensed their arrival through the warp—Necrons had no psychic presence. Only when the gauss weapons began to fire did she understand what was happening.
On a nearby rooftop, the air shimmered. Geometric green light webbed into existence, and from it stepped a lone figure—skeletal, silent, deadly.
A Deathmark.
Forged from living metal, it held a long-barreled rifle designed not for suppression or wounding—but for one-shot kills.
Deathmarks were the Necron Empire's assassins and snipers, specialists in eliminating key targets from pocket dimensions and impossible angles. They could phase into any structure—walls, ships, fortresses—and slip away without a trace.
No one was safe.
And now, one had its sights on Isis.
From across the balcony, it raised its weapon. A single shot, aimed precisely at her skull.
Then she turned.
Their eyes met.
"What—?!"
The Deathmark flinched. It should have been undetectable. But this one had made a grave mistake. Among the Necron, only a few units retained self-awareness—and this one realized too late:
He had targeted the wrong enemy.
Isis had slain champions of all four Chaos Gods. She wasn't some mortal psyker—she was a walking calamity.
"Tch."
With a flick of her wrist, she yanked a chainsword from the rubble and hurled it like a javelin.
The Deathmark panicked. It shimmered and phased out just in time, vanishing into its pocket dimension.
Cowardly? Perhaps. But Deathmarks were fragile. Astartes could tear them apart in melee. Even the trench-dwelling warriors of Krieg could win a brawl with one. In close combat, they were meat.
"You ran fast," Isis muttered. "Too bad your fancy dimensions are out of my reach. Otherwise, I'd have dragged you back and pounded you into scrap."
Her psychic powers belonged to the immaterium—the warp. The Necrons, on the other hand, were creatures of cold matter and dimension-folding technology. Her powers couldn't breach their interdimensional hideouts.
But the real question burned at her now.
"What are the Necrons doing here? They weren't part of the plan…"
She paused, eyes narrowing.
"Wait… is it him? That eyeless freak is trying to interfere? Is he targeting me—or my god?"
*********
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