Boom! Boom! Boom!

The deafening roar of explosive bolt rounds echoed through the vast underground fortress.

Zzzzt!

A roaring chainsaw axe effortlessly shattered the energy shield of a high-ranking Jiralhanae warrior, carving through its thick flesh with brutal efficiency.

"Tsk tsk, filthy xeno trash." A low, metallic voice muttered disdainfully.

Among those engaged in brutal combat, the Astartes warriors and the Jiralhanae of the Covenant were surprisingly well-matched in their sheer ferocity and physical prowess.

The human Imperial auxiliaries and conscripts, as well as the Covenant’s Unggoy and Kig-Yar, were mere fodder before these titans.

They sprinted across the battlefield, desperately firing their weapons—but it was all in vain.

The towering, armor-clad World Eaters showed no intention of stopping.

Their small-caliber shots were ignored, while the 0.75-inch standard bolt rounds from the Astartes tore their targets apart—if not dismembering them entirely, then reducing them to bloodied heaps of flesh.

Only the Jiralhanae’s massive, cannon-like firearms seemed to carry enough force to make an impact.

"Roar! Die, you cursed vermin!"

A Brute Captain Major, clad in yellow-green energy armor with a distinct "V"-shaped crest, grinned as he squeezed the trigger of his fuel rod cannon.

A heavy salvo of explosive projectiles slammed into an advancing World Eater, momentarily overloading his energy shields and sending him staggering backward.

Fuel rod cannons, shoulder-fired weapons in the Covenant arsenal, launched volatile, high-explosive fuel rods similar to vehicle-mounted plasma artillery. However, their projectiles suffered from notable ballistic drop.

Much like the Brutes’ heavy grenade launchers, scatterguns, and needler rifles, these weapons were favored by Jiralhanae warriors who scorned the Sangheili’s plasma-based arsenal.

Perhaps due to their rivalry with the Sangheili, the Brutes always preferred brute-force projectile weapons over the elegant energy weapons favored by the "Elites."

The bigger the boom, the better.

The Brute Captain discarded his depleted fuel rod cannon, hoisting his gravity hammer high. Weighing over half a ton, he charged forward, face twisted into a bloodthirsty grin.

Boom!

A thunderous impact shook the ground. The hammer strike left a deep crater in the metallic flooring, splintering it into cracks that spread outward. Jagged shards of metal shot out like deadly shrapnel.

He roared in triumph.

"That was a solid hit!"

But when the smoke cleared, his triumphant expression faltered.

Standing before him was a World Eater—his chestplate scorched but otherwise unharmed—gripping the head of the gravity hammer with one hand.

The Brute’s eyes widened in disbelief. He had been matched in raw strength.

"ROAR!"

Blinded by rage, his primal instincts took over. Rationality abandoned him as he focused solely on one goal—to kill this human.

"DIE!" he bellowed, gripping the hammer’s handle with both hands, every muscle in his massive frame tensing for a titanic struggle.

Nearby, Imperial auxiliaries and conscripts could hear the audible straining of his muscles and bones as he poured every ounce of his strength into the fight.

"Grrraaah! I’ll crush you!"

Yet, despite his roaring bravado, the Brute Captain’s hammer refused to budge an inch.

His strength failed him; he could neither push forward nor pull back. A prime example of boldness without results—his furious display amounted to nothing.

"He’s mine. Don’t interfere."

Thud. Thud.

His fellow World Eaters nodded in silent agreement. They spoke no words—only answered with their weapons.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The boltgun’s deafening reports tore through the cavernous corridors. A squad of World Eaters advanced in formation, unleashing precise volleys that separated the enraged Jiralhanae Captain from the rest of his forces.

"Don’t waste time. Finish him and keep moving." The sergeant, pistol in hand, passed by the struggling Brute without so much as a glance.

Click!

"Understood."

The Astartes warrior gripping the gravity hammer’s head adjusted his stance, twisting his wrist. The powered armor’s servos whined as he effortlessly reversed the force of the Brute’s grip.

The Jiralhanae roared, planting his feet for another charge, massive legs tensing with raw power.

The World Eater moved first.

He yanked the hammer off-course, disrupting the Brute’s balance, and then delivered a crushing punch to its snarling face.

Splurt!

The force sent the Brute Captain hurtling backward like a missile, embedding him deep into the corridor wall. Blood and viscera splattered, sliding down the metal surface like grotesque artwork.

"Overloaded their energy shields? Hmph. These apes’ weapons do pose some threat...."

He crouched, grabbing a fallen bolter from the floor while running. With practiced ease, he retrieved a thumb-sized energy cell from his waist and locked it into his shoulder armor’s power conduit.

Bzzzzt!

A ripple of blue-white energy shimmered across his armor—a clear sign that his overcharged shields had fully regenerated.

The Sacred Selene Empire’s Astartes power armor was constantly evolving. Each new conquest brought technological integration, refining and improving their already formidable wargear. While the outer appearance remained largely unchanged, its internal systems had undergone countless iterations.

From the earliest designs of reinforced adamantium plating to the addition of electronic muscle fiber bundles, active nanoweave undersuits, shield modules, composite armor plating, and void field generators—the progression was undeniable.

Currently, a fully initiated Astartes warrior possessed multiple layers of protection, including a post-Honkai-enhanced superhuman physique, a nanoweave undersuit of Tyrant active cells, multiple layers of electronic muscle fibers, power armor plating with integrated shielding, and a modular void field generator granted with rank and commendation.

Each promotion, battle honor, and service milestone granted further refinements—elite wargear, enhanced void shields, and more.

Meanwhile, on the surface – Covenant Fortress Bastion.

BOOOOM!

With an ear-splitting roar, a massive lance of plasma energy erupted from the maw of a monstrous war engine.

KABOOM!

The energy shields flickered and collapsed. The Covenant’s towering Scarab assault platform—shaped like a colossal scorpion—was instantly obliterated, hurled into the air along with a massive chunk of the battlefield.

It detonated in a spectacular eruption, its flaming wreckage raining down like falling stars.

Like a volcanic eruption of molten fury, the explosion unleashed a chaotic inferno, a blossoming rose of fire and destruction.

Thud. Thud.

In the distance, towering mechanical behemoths—moving mountains of steel and fire—marched in an unbreakable formation across the horizon. There were at least a dozen of them, but one stood out above all the rest, the largest and most imposing of them all—the Supreme Titan.

A product of the Empire’s mass-produced Supreme-Class Titans, it represented the pinnacle of destruction in land warfare, the most extreme force of devastation currently deployable on a large scale. It was also one of the most exquisite creations of the Empire’s masterful Forge Worlds.

Boom!

A wave of destruction and searing flashes swept across the war-torn battlefield like an unrelenting tide. Under the Titan’s relentless bombardment, the very earth twisted and convulsed, mountains were flattened in an instant, and plumes of dirt and fire engulfed the sky, blotting out the heavens.

Their power shook the core of all who witnessed them.

"A Supreme Titan—such a magnificent creation." From atop a distant hill, a group of figures watched in awe.

"It’s acceptable, I suppose."

Standing on crystallized ground, formed from the searing heat of plasma bombardments, Angron cast an indifferent glance toward the distant Covenant fortress being torn apart under the Titan’s overwhelming firepower.

The stronghold, a bastion into which the Covenant had poured immense resources and effort, was visibly crumbling before his eyes.

"I heard Logar is also petitioning for a piece of the action?" Angron mused, his voice tinged with boredom as he turned his gaze back to his companion.

"As far as I know, yes, Lord Commander." A bureaucrat, his robe far more elaborate than a mere military uniform, bowed with impeccable decorum.

"That zealot? What’s he doing here? With Koz and me, we have all the force we need. Does he plan to convert these xenos?"

Noting the old official’s calm, smiling expression as he stroked his goatee, Angron’s eye twitched. "Don’t tell me... he actually intends to do that?"

"Indeed. Lord Logar stated in the Imperial War Council that he seeks no share of the spoils—no forges, no resources, no recruitment worlds, no tax allocations. All he desires is permission to construct grand temples and shrines across this universe."

The official’s tone remained steady, matter-of-fact.

"That tracks with his personality." Angron sighed, immediately understanding Logar’s intent.

Of course. The man wants nothing but faith. A true zealot.

In terms of devotion and loyalty, Logar and his 17th Legion, the Imperial Heralds, were perhaps the most unwaveringly faithful force in the entire Empire. If the Divine Empress herself were to command them to die, Angron had no doubt Logar would be the first to take his own life—and most of his legion would follow without hesitation.

To be honest, if the Empress ordered Angron to take his own life, he might at least ask why. Logar, however, would simply obey.

"Forget him. That’s for Her Majesty and Grand General Budo to decide. I’ll just cast my vote accordingly... Oh, right." Something crossed Angron’s mind, and he turned to the official with sudden curiosity.

"That misinformation campaign you bureaucrats cooked up—how’s it going?"

"Proceeding as planned. By dissecting these xenos’ minds, we’ve uncovered significant internal strife within this so-called Covenant alliance."

"Their two most powerful military species despise each other, their lower castes are riddled with factional disputes, and their ruling caste—the ostrich-faced ones—are all scheming against one another. A few subtle maneuvers will be enough to splinter them, turn them against one another. We’ll pull one faction to our side while pitting the others against each other, then sacrifice the most despised faction to pacify the rest."

"After that, turning some of them into our loyal hounds won’t be difficult at all."

The Imperial Ministry of Internal Affairs official spoke casually. "Lord, while overwhelming military force can certainly bring them to their knees, it is always wise to leave a thorn among them—carrot and stick, as they say. A little finesse never hurts."

"Tsk tsk, when it comes to scheming and playing dirty, you bureaucrats always take the prize."

Angron was as blunt as ever. Of course, he meant no harm by it.

"Haha, I wouldn’t dare claim such credit. The Covenant’s ruling class lacks the military strength to suppress their internal strife, so they resort to petty tricks. They all plot to eliminate their so-called allies and seize sole power. The tension has always been there—even without our intervention, it would eventually erupt."

"All we did was uncover the fractures and give them a little push."

The elder official watched the battlefield for a moment before turning to Angron with curiosity. "Lord Commander, will you not join the fray?"

Without looking away from the distant battle, Angron shook his head. "Not yet."

"I’ve already razed two of their worlds. I’ve earned my share of glory—it’s time for the younger ones to claim their own blood and fire."

The auxiliary forces needed battle honors to elevate their families’ status, to secure better futures for their loved ones. The auxiliary army needed distinctions to ensure upward mobility. And for the ordinary Astartes warriors, they required more glory to solidify their standing.

As for the necessary sacrifices in war? Angron would not interfere. War does not exist without death.

...

United Earth Government (U.E.G.), Outer Colonies – Between Harvest and Reach, Interstellar Route

Astartes Reconnaissance Fleet, Light-Specialized Lunar-Class Cruiser.

"Nathaniel Graves, sir. Where are we headed?"

Walking through the long corridor, Spartan-117—the Master Chief—spoke.

"No need for formalities, just call me Nathaniel."

After their conversation in the mess hall, the Night Lords officer and the Spartans had become somewhat acquainted.

Nathaniel Graves, a Night Lords officer, replied, "The interrogation room. We’re approaching Reach, and I have something interesting to show you. I hear the Covenant calls you ’Demon.’ I’m curious to see how they react when they see you."

"Those alien scum are a gift for Dr. Halsey. I hope she appreciates them."

At that, Nathaniel allowed himself a faint smile. After his interactions with Dr. Halsey—the mastermind behind the Spartan program—he had come to understand that she was far from a conventional moralist.

She and the Empire would likely get along quite well.

As they neared the interrogation room, the atmosphere grew increasingly frigid.

Hiss!

The doors slid open, releasing a chilling mist into the corridor. The agonized screams of the living and the stench of rotting flesh filled the air, a palpable terror creeping along the cold metal walls.

"After you."

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