I watched as Angron, in the full throes of his fury and wrath, held the Titan's foot aloft, saving Lorgar's life. Incomprehensible strength, but without reason. The embodiment of rage and pride.
"What's happening?" asked Legate Cassandra, approaching me, tearing himself away for a moment from the endless reports of broken lines.
"I'm watching the sources of betrayal being crushed like insects," I said coldly, then looked away, knowing they would survive and reach here, wounded but they would arrive.
The Legate tried to peer into the distance, but he saw nothing save smoke from burning and charred bodies, and flashes of explosions. Three gigantic Warlord-class Titans slowly entered through the Arcadia's ramps. Their metal feet made the deck tremble, each step a thunderclap from another world. Guided by pirates with light-signals and vox-casters, they carefully ascended the ramps into the ship's interior. Behind them flowed a human mass; tens of millions of people boarded. Most were directed to the hospital wings. The Imperium's medics, without a word of complaint, immediately joined the effort. They worked alongside the pirate field medics, paramedics, and even surgical automatons, performing hundreds of operations. Amputations, stitching torn bellies, stabilizing severed legs, and simple bandaging—all amidst screams, blood, and prayers. There were no beds; they couldn't afford the luxury of space. Those in "near-stable" condition were laid on the floors, on layers of clothes, blankets, armor, and sometimes even bare steel.
On the bridge, the pirates operating the panels and holographs kept watch over the ship's shields. Suddenly, one of the tactical displays flared. On the horizon, precisely where the Ultramarines' command center had been moments before, a deafening flash appeared. The systems temporarily went haywire. A moment later, everyone clearly saw it: a massive atomic mushroom cloud rising above the hills. The entire command was wiped from the planet's surface.
An hour passed, the bombs in the command center having exploded. Cassandra merely furrowed his brow, returning to the map and issuing orders. He had to delay the enemy onslaught as much as possible, to ensure as many soldiers as possible could board the ship.
I stood beside him, silent. I had no experience in waging war on land, but leading a fleet was different. I remembered that the original Harlock was an admiral of Earth's orbital fleet, defending the holy Earth from those who sought to breach it. I suddenly felt something was wrong—a premonition, no, a warning. I looked around, searching for danger. A Vox hologram suddenly appeared from Cassandra's hololith, a connection from the Arcadia's bridge.
"Legate, is our captain there next to you?" asked Grumpy, "August."
"I am. What's wrong?" I asked, approaching the table.
"A group of Priests of Mars is trying to force their way onto the bridge and into the engine room."
I looked at the Legate. I informed him that there were places no one was allowed to enter, and the engine room and bridge were among them, yet now his people were trying to get in.
"Legate," I said, looking at him.
"I'll take responsibility for this. Avenius, deal with it!" he growled, as if he didn't have enough problems.
Avenius nodded and, with a few Astartes, rushed into the ship to handle the unruly Priests of Mars.
Minutes turned into hours, and the cries of mindless beasts drew closer; even the orbital bombardment salvos no longer disturbed most. Now everyone focused on the fact that battle would soon rage here. The Astartes waited in their positions for the traitors to appear, their hands itching to slaughter them. Though they didn't belong to the Imperium once they accepted the pirate banner, the animosity remained.
"Legate, how's the evacuation progressing?" I asked, approaching him, my hand resting on my gravity saber.
"Sixty percent have boarded the ship," he replied, looking back to see thousands of people pushing their way up the ramps.
I closed my eyes for a long moment. "They're coming," I said, seeing the shapes of Titans appearing on the horizon.
I pulled a protective mask over my mouth and nose. With a soft hiss, it sealed out the contaminated air. I reached for my saber. When I cut through the air with it, a low whistle sliced the silence like a knife through skin. Nearby soldiers recoiled half a step as the sound whistled in their ears. The pirates, seeing me prepare for battle, howled war cries that echoed among the steel walls and wrecks. At the same time, the last Leman Russ tanks, partially hidden behind the remains of transports, unleashed a salvo. Their muzzles belched fire as powerful shells flew straight into Angron's charging Berserkers. Explosions tore through the air, and dozens, hundreds of deformed Astartes in red armor lost their upper bodies in blasts that ripped them apart like children's toys. Blood hung in the air like a mist, showering the ground and walls like rain. With agonizing shrieks, those who had just moments ago sown terror now fell. And above it all, like a clap of thunder, the Ultramarines' fire erupted. Their bolters fired continuously, precisely, volley after volley, unleashed like machine guns. Every round found its target in a traitor's body, tearing through muscle, ceramite, and bone.
Harlock's pirates, seeing the approaching traitors, did not wait for orders. With savage fervor and shouts, they burst from behind the makeshift barricades. "TO THE BAYONETS!" could be heard here and there, roared from the pirates' throats. Energy axes, rough and heavy, furiously cut through the warped ceramite of Chaos armor. The electrified edges tore not only armor but also the bodies and mutated souls of the heretics, rending them with shrieks and flashes of energy. Each blow was brutal, chaotic, and highly effective.
The Astartes held their positions behind cover. Their fingers never stopped pressing triggers; bolters thundered incessantly, emptying magazines with surgical precision. Volleys tore through the mass of traitors, ripping enemies apart before they reached the defensive line. The pirate allies performed exceptionally well. Their axes were made of materials whose origin no one knew, but one thing was certain: they were hard and hellishly sharp. The corrupted Astartes parried blows with fury, but the pirates' blades did not break. They struck with such force that they broke arms, crushed knees, and shattered helmets.
Their style, wild, untamed, full of brutality, more closely resembled the methods of Chaos itself. And yet, they fought on the side of the Imperium. For the Astartes, this might have been unsettling, but they did not complain. In battle, effectiveness was all that mattered. And Harlock's pirates were lethally effective.
The traitors, though recently dominant on the battlefield, were now beginning to suffer losses. Their numerical superiority and brutality were not enough. Ten thousand of Harlock's pirates, barely fifteen thousand Astartes, and several million Imperial Guardsmen were still too few to stem the endless hordes of Chaos. And yet... something held them back. Something stirred unease within them. It was no longer just about weapons or discipline; it was something unnatural. The Arcadia's pirates, these wild warriors clad in heavy armor with green eyes, fought like possessed. They hacked, stabbed, ripped, murdered with a fury and effectiveness previously attributed only to the corruption of Chaos itself. And then everyone noticed it. They fell as if dead. Their bodies lay limp, impaled, torn apart, headless, heartless, limbless. And then... black mist enveloped them. Thick, as if alive, seeping from their armor, from the Arcadia itself, as if the ship refused to yield its warriors to death. The wounds vanished. Eyes again gleamed with a green light. The pirates rose. Without a word, without a groan. They returned to the fight. Their armor remained scarred, cracked, tattered, but what was beneath it functioned again. And went to kill. Even the heretics hesitated.
The dark powers of the Immaterium watched. Their gaze pierced through time, matter, and the falsehoods of the material world. They looked at souls, for they were the true objective of the war. The green mark belonged to Nurgle, the decaying father who embraced death and decay with open arms. The red rage and blood were the property of Khorne, the god of massacre. The blue change and deception were the domain of Tzeentch, the eternal schemer. The purple delight and pain in one surrounded those touched by Slaanesh. Even the gold and white, so pure and bright, indicated those who were yet unstained—ordinary humans whose souls had not yet been stolen. But then they saw it. Black. Not black as void, but black as presence. Thick. Heavy. Cold. Alien. A mist that enveloped the souls of the Arcadia's pirates like armor. Chaos could not touch them. It could not tempt them, could not promise them anything, for they already belonged to something else. Or to no one.
They were untouchable. Unease gripped the gods themselves. Not because they couldn't harm them, but because they did not understand their existence. And then they looked at one of them. A warrior? A pirate? No, it was something more. His soul had no human shape; it was immense, so vast that it overshadowed not only his body but also a part of the battlefield. A monumental, black mass glowing like a shadow. And worse, it was connected. By black threads, invisible to the mortal eye, it was bound to every other pirate warrior's soul. One soul. One spirit. Many bodies. A god? A relic? A wraith from beyond Time? Chaos had no answers.