On the flank positions of the Tyrok Fields.
Receiving their orders, the Volscani armored company mobilized at full speed.
Twelve Leman Russ main battle tanks deployed into an echelon formation, their heavy treads mercilessly crushing the wreckage of bunkers along the way as they surged frantically toward the high-elevation coordinates.
The barrels of the battle cannons rose, mechanical locking mechanisms emitting harsh grinding noises as they locked dead onto the two coordinates approaching at inhuman speeds.
Infantry couldn’t stop Ogryns?
Then they would use an armored tide to grind them into meat paste!
The sergeant commanding this company had no intention of playing fair.
The moment two tall figures draped in tattered canvas crossed the engagement line, he decisively issued the order for a full salvo.
Orange-red flames erupted from the battle cannon muzzles.
High-explosive shells fired from the cannons dragged lethal trails as they slammed into the ground.
Tons of dirt were flung into the air, while high-temperature blast waves nearly baked the debris around the craters into ash.
Coaxial heavy bolters wove an inescapable net of death through the air.
Yet, right in the center of the interwoven fire and smoke, Horus didn’t pause for even a fraction of a second.
His footwork shifted to the absolute limit, leaving behind a series of terrifying blurred shadows.
Forcing his way through before the second round of artillery could calibrate, he collapsed the final hundred meters down to five!
Seeing this, the rebel driver of the lead Leman Russ tank felt his scalp go numb, instinctively jerking the levers to reverse.
But the Primarch closed in.
Relying purely on mortal flesh, Horus lowered his center of gravity, his thick hands plunging like iron clamps directly into the gaps of the reinforced blast armor on the tank’s chassis!
The muscles in his arms detonated with raw power, huge tendons flexing like interwoven steel cables.
This body, forged to conquer the galaxy, unleashed unimaginable force!
Under the shattered sanity of the watching rebels, the nearly seventy-ton main battle tank was ripped away from gravity itself.
Chassis facing the sky, it was torn straight from the flat ground by Horus and hoisted high above his head!
The gunner suspended in midair was struck senseless, unable to even utter a scream.
Arms pulled back, loading force, thrown!
This sixty-to-seventy-ton chunk of iron roared with a piercing rush of air, crashing down toward the armored formation behind him!
A deafening, muffled crash resounded.
Giants of metal collided, shattered armor plates flying in all directions.
The armor line that had seemed utterly impenetrable just moments ago was violently blasted open by the thrown tank.
The moment the breach opened, slaughter arrived on schedule.
Cullen followed close behind, plunging into the position.
The master-crafted power sword in the veteran knight’s hands drew lethal blue arcs; any rebel attempting to plug the gap was cleaved in two by the disruption field on the spot.
The veteran ignored the front entirely, concentrating on clearing out stragglers trying to launch ambushes from the flanks.
Behind the bomb crater.
Kaelen braced his captured sniper rifle, watching the surreal scene on the battlefield ahead, gasping in cold air.
Horus tearing through an armored line with sheer, logic-defying strength truly demonstrated what it meant to be a god of war.
“Primarchs are absolute force-of-nature monsters…” he muttered to himself.
Refocusing on the rebel command post.
General Cliff was pouring the vast majority of his energy into dealing with the Cadian 8th at the front.
That loyalist force, led by Ursakar E.
Creed, was launching a desperate counteroffensive.
The frontal line expected to hold for two hours began to crumble in less than thirty minutes.
Before he could pull together a deployment plan for his reserves, the artillery positions outside the tent suddenly fell completely silent without warning.
“What’s going on?
Why did the frontline artillery support stop?!” Cliff grabbed the vox-array and roared.
Only monotonous electromagnetic static remained on the channel.
The sound of gunfire and artillery outside had ceased.
The abnormal silence made everyone’s scalp tingle.
Cliff pulled back the entrance flap of the command tent.
With just one look, his breathing stopped.
The three outer defensive positions had been turned into a mixture of scrap metal and mangled meat.
The ground was littered with heavy weapon wrecks physically obliterated.
His most trusted bodyguard unit—those fully armed, elite veterans—now lay scattered across pools of blood like dead dogs.
Without exception, every single one had been killed in a single blow!
A hundred meters away, two towering figures stepped over the rebel corpses, striding forward.
For a mortal sprinting at top speed, a hundred meters would take at least a dozen seconds.
But for a Primarch, such a distance was a mere blink of an eye.
“Fire!” Cliff screamed at the top of his lungs.
The remaining dozen bodyguards raised their plasma guns and melta guns, pinning down their triggers.
Superheated plasma bolts warped the surrounding air, weaving beams into a net of death.
The target vanished into thin air.
A gale erupted out of nowhere.
Horus’s form burst past maximum speed, whipping up a sharp, howling airflow.
By the time the bodyguards’ vision recaptured the outline of their enemy, the reaper was already before them.
The sound of the power dagger cutting through carapace armor was thin and crisp.
Without even shifting his gaze, Horus casually swung his blade, severing limbs in mid-air.
With lightning-fast neural reaction speeds, slaughtering mortals required no conscious calculation—it was executed purely on instincts carved into his genes.
The last bodyguard had his sternum crushed by a side kick from Cullen, flying back over a dozen meters before slumping motionlessly to the ground.
Cliff stood frozen on the spot, his mind an absolute blank.
The canvas-draped giant stood before him, blocking out the sky.
The overwhelming pressure radiating from the Primarch stripped the high rebel commander of even the strength to draw the bolt pistol at his waist.
Horus reached out his left hand—broad, calloused, and massive—and clamped it tightly around Cliff’s skull, lifting the oath-breaking traitor completely off the ground.
Accompanied by the excruciating pain of his skull being compressed, Cliff’s legs kicked helplessly in midair.
“You…” A broken sound gasped from Cliff’s windpipe, born of the absolute despair of facing unknown terror.
He had believed he was dealing with two genetically mutated Ogryns.
To hell with Ogryns!
What kind of mutant possessed speed and strength like this?!
The Wolf God was in no rush to close his fingers.
He stared through his visor straight into those bloodshot eyes.
“If you can bring a message to Ezekyle Abaddon when you die,” Horus’s voice was calm and measured, “I want you to tell him this.” Cliff’s eyes bulged violently out of their sockets.
Absurd.
This mutant had just spoken the name of the Chaos Warmaster.
“Lupercal, Master of the Luna Wolves, awaits him here.” The words fell.
His fingers clamped shut.
Amidst sickening sounds of cracking bone, unmentionable fluids sprayed violently.
The head belonging to the rebel general was crushed into a wet splash of red and white pulp in the Primarch’s grip.
The headless corpse hit the ground with a wet splat, splashing blood and flesh everywhere.
With the supreme commander dead, the central hub of the command system ground to a total halt.
The frontline officers of the Volscani Cataphracts lost tactical commands from HQ simultaneously.
For an army reliant on tight coordination to fight, the severance of the chain of command was far more lethal than casualties.
Lacking unified coordination, the rebel lines broke into isolated pockets, failing to cover one another.
The one who seized this fatal tactical opportunity was Ursakar E.
Creed, who had long been prepared.
The cigar-chomping commander of the 8th Regiment displayed the sharp tactical instinct of a hunting hound.
Without hesitation, he committed his entire force without reservation.
The infantry of the Cadian 8th, alongside Leman Russ tanks, acted like a bone-cleaving butcher knife polished to perfection, driving precisely into the weakest junction of the rebel defense grid.
Bugles sounded.
Earth-shaking battle cries echoed across the plain.
Tens of thousands of Cadian 8th soldiers advanced shoulder to shoulder.
Treading through mud and foul blood, they flattened the rebel fortifications with bayonets and lasguns.
This was not merely a military counteroffensive, but a desperate fight to reclaim the honor of the Imperium.
Rebel armored vehicles were concentrated and destroyed; their infantry was partitioned and surrounded.
It became a one-sided annihilation with no prisoners taken.
The scales of battle tipped completely.