The roar of engines and howls surged like a tidal wave.
Yet Titus stood like an immovable reef before them all, not retreating a single step.
The legendary Iron Halo field at his back intercepted most of the shattering crystal rounds and venomous darts. Additional layered force fields activated, even refracting las-beams.
Thanks to the generosity of his Gene-Father, this warrior bore at least three pieces of legendary force-field wargear, alongside a number of one-use defensive devices.
He was a top-tier, gold-plated champion—yet his own strength was just as formidable.
"Damn it, what's with this Mon-keigh?!"
The Dark Eldar vanguard squad on their jetbikes gaped in disbelief.
The weapons on their Reaver jetbikes couldn't pierce this human's defense. His armor was tougher than most heavy vehicles.
But that didn't stop them—no matter how strong his armor, no field could withstand a close-range power weapon.
Their Reaver bikes screeched past, gravity talons snapping out to rip his armor and flesh apart.
But their hopes were dashed.
Titus was like a rampaging beast, shrugging off the assault.
A single punch shattered a vehicle and its rider in one blow; the flying wreckage smashed into another Reaver, triggering a chain of explosions.
Booms resounded in rapid succession.
The Dark Eldar Incubi leapt to join the fray.
They moved like deadly dancers, grotesque power weapons—agonisers, demi-klaives, and other twisted blades—slashing at impossible angles toward weak points.
But Titus proved even faster, his combat knife and power sword weaving an impenetrable wall.
Every strike tore away a limb—or a life.
"Mon-keigh, you underestimate us…"
Five Incubi exchanged glances, then flipped back in perfect unison, regrouping before lunging again.
Their power weapons struck simultaneously, leaving no room to dodge.
Titus did not falter.
He gripped his power sword in both hands and unleashed one precise cross-cut.
The Primarch-forged relic Glory was impossibly sharp.
The strike sheared through all five oncoming weapons—and five heads flew free in the same heartbeat.
Their bodies hit the ground with heavy thuds, blood spraying across his armor.
Such slaughter broke the vanguard's morale.
The remaining Reavers gunned their engines, pulling back.
They had realized—they could not defeat this warrior. Even at full force, they could not bring him down.
The squad withdrew, choosing instead to regroup with the main force.
But soon more horrors surged forward: clawed Talos, razor-fanged Khymerae, and packs of Warp Hounds, flanked by Dark Eldar warriors and their writhing engines of flesh.
They crashed upon Titus like a tidal wave.
"Can he… really hold against all of that?"
Maris, fighting beside Eden within a force-field barricade, kept firing into smaller enemy units.
But her gaze kept straying toward the embattled human bodyguard. Just watching his struggle left her breathless. If he fell, none could stand in the way of the hunters' onslaught.
"For now, he'll hold."
Eden hurled a grav-wave device, stalling one surge of attackers.
The Kabal of the Black Heart had made a mistake—thinking they could overwhelm Titus with sheer numbers.
But to a champion even favored by Khorne, the more enemies, the stronger he became. This was a warrior who had swum through Ork hordes and Daemonic tides!
By fighting this way, perhaps that old bastard Khorne was secretly "charging him up" in the Warp—feeding him with more strength.
Hopefully, Titus would fight all the harder.
Or perhaps, let the lust for slaughter consume him entirely.
But Eden didn't worry about corruption. Titus's will was unyielding. The likely outcome was simple—take the Warp's "free gifts" without giving anything back.
And indeed, in the raging tide Titus only grew fiercer, carving a road of gore.
He even used the piled bodies of foes as cover, blocking toxin rounds and disintegration beams.
A colossal Cronos Parasite Engine roared, its hulking body hosting a mutilated Beastmaster fused into its flesh.
It drained hanging human slaves with a soul-probe, then injected itself with more narcotics and adrenaline.
"Mon-keigh, the deaths of my pets mean nothing!"
The grotesque engine howled, iron hooks and chains whipping outward, blood-filled syringes and liquefiers primed to fire. "I am invulnerable—the power of souls surrounds me!"
One barbed hook ripped away half of Titus's faceplate.
He glared at the abomination, rage seething in his eyes.
"Xenos—DIE!"
He severed its whipping tendrils, leapt onto the monstrosity's back, and hammered it with brutal fists.
The engine rampaged, trampling Khymerae and Warp Hounds alike.
"No! Get off me!"
The fused Beastmaster's head screamed in agony as chains and liquefier sprays lashed out, maiming Dark Eldar nearby—some skewered on hooks, others dissolved into bubbling sludge.
"For the Gene-Father!"
Titus snarled, teeth gritted.
He seized the warped head in both hands, squeezing until— crunch—it burst like rotten fruit.
The abomination collapsed, its flesh bulk tumbling lifelessly.
But Titus fought on, blood spraying with every strike.
Still, the Dark Eldar were no mindless Orks or frenzied Daemons.
Reinforcements brought heavier weapons, pulling back to hammer him from range with Ravagers and other vehicles.
"Damn… we can't hold much longer."
Eden grimaced, injecting stimms and soul-serums into his decaying body. His shoulder wound still festered, but he fought to keep the shield-wall intact.
He knew it—the scales of battle were tipping.
Titus was being boxed in, and his own line with Maris faltered.
"Is this… the end?"
Eden sighed. Perhaps he would order Titus to retreat—this clone body was finished anyway. Maybe he would need to start over, rethink everything in Commorragh.
But that would be a disastrous loss.
Then the worst struck.
Titus was pinned by several Engines, while a Ravager's dark-lance array charged its disintegration beam—enough to vaporize a Baneblade.
At the brink of destruction—
A commotion rippled through the Dark Eldar. Even the Ravager's guns swung aside.
From their midst came panicked cries in Eldar tongue:
"Damn it—the Ghost Warrior is here!"
"Stop him! Kill that ghost!"
On the Ravager, the Archon of the hunt bellowed in terror.
It was a whispered nightmare across Commorragh—entire Kabals wiped out by the Ghost Warrior. None could resist.
Now, they would face him.
Eden looked where all eyes turned.
Engines thundered—an armored giant loomed, cloak snapping crimson behind him, beard bristling beneath his helm.
He rode a Voidbike that gleamed like a dragon of the steppe.
The fifth Primarch of the White Scars, the Great Khan of Chogoris—Jaghatai Khan—had arrived!
Eden had seen his statue in the Plaza of Heroes, a head shorter than himself—but the living Khan was far taller, a humanoid Dreadnought astride his ancient bike Moonfang.
Unstoppable.
Eden's heart surged: "Emperor preserve us. Our salvation has come."
The Dark Eldar shrieked in horror.
The Khan thundered through the Webway, Moonfang crushing foes to paste, heads flying at every pass.
Even disintegration beams fizzled harmlessly against his aura.
This Primarch's psychic might rivaled Mortarion's.
After the Heresy, many Imperial warriors had embraced psychic powers to fight Daemons and xenos alike.
Only Guilliman, stubborn as ever, resisted—though even he wielded the Emperor's Sword, a psychic relic in its own right.
"Destroy him!"
The Archon screamed orders as Ravagers leveled their guns.
But the Khan drew forth a massive bolter.
In his hands it looked like a toy pistol—yet one shot obliterated the Ravager about to fire its dark-matter cannon.
It was an ancient weapon from the Dark Age of Technology, capable of unleashing atomic shells, plasma bursts, and electromagnetic bolts.
Nothing could halt his charge.
Even the abominable engines fell like straw.
The Khan was a horse-lord of the void, a cavalryman of the stars, plunging straight for the command barge.
He soared high—then in a single blazing stroke, his relic blade White Tiger Dao sheared the gun-deck apart.
He moved too fast to follow, carving through prow to stern.
And when he re-mounted Moonfang, he held the Archon's severed head aloft—its face frozen in terror, not yet realizing it was dead.
This was the Khan's way of war: relentless high-speed assaults, annihilating the foe before they could react.
In minutes, the Dark Eldar hunting party collapsed.
Panic-stricken, they abandoned the mission. Scattered warriors fled in all directions.
But few could escape death.
Moonfang was too fast, the White Tiger Dao too sharp.
Heads rolled like autumn leaves.
No flourish, no wasted motion—only speed, power, and inevitability.
Eden breathed out, awestruck:
"Khan… truly among the mightiest of Primarchs. A walking engine of slaughter. Who knows how many xenos he's cut down in these Webway depths…"
No matter what, the Primarchs' combat power ranked at the very forefront of both the galaxy and the Warp.
They were forces no ordinary army could hope to withstand.
If they unleashed their true essence, they descended like gods.
Of course—he himself was the exception, a "watered-down" Primarch. Though specialized against daemons of the Warp, in realspace his raw strength was… less than stellar.
His influence across the galaxy depended more on power and faction than personal might.
The Khan, however—his ferocity was undeniable. Surely, he would cut down every alien in this Webway tangle.
None could escape.
Eden was about to feel relieved when a chilling realization struck.
Wait. Aren't I also an alien right now?
That meant the Khan would see him as a target as well.
And sure enough—the Khan spurred Moonfang, streaking like a white comet, cloak streaming crimson as he bore down on them.
"Oh no… the Khan's coming to lop off my head!"
Eden froze.
He was far too conspicuous: tall, imposing, radiating authority—he looked exactly like some Dark Eldar overlord.
Of course the Primarch wouldn't spare him.
His eyes darted to Titus, who had silently returned to his side.
His expression all but begged:
"Son, hold him off. Save your father!"
His Gene-Son, clad in relics of the Primarchs and legendary wargear, should be able to delay the Khan for a while. There was room to maneuver here.
Titus noticed the look. For the first time, his steadfast expression cracked.
His thoughts all but blurted: "Me? You want me to fight a Primarch?!"
Every Astartes revered the Primarchs—like sons to fathers.
Even when Titus had visited the statues of Sanguinius and the other loyalist Primarchs at the Plaza of Heroes on Terra, he couldn't help but bow in reverence.
Including the statue of the White Scars' Gene-Father, the Khan himself.
And now… he was to fight that very same Primarch?
Titus hesitated.
But his Gene-Father's order was absolute.
He drew a deep breath and stepped forward, resolute, standing between Eden and the charging Khan.
His heart pounded, blood burned, some inner fire urging him on.
"Honor is destiny. I do not fear battle…"
He gripped Glory, the power sword forged in the age of Primarchs.
Eyes fixed on the oncoming Khan astride Moonfang, he refused to waver.
Fight—till death.
The Khan seemed to sense the traitor's iron will. He swung Moonfang into a skid, dismounting in a plume of sparks.
He would not risk his prized steed in battle.
Primarch and Astartes both drew bolt weapons, sprinting toward one another as they fired.
Explosive rounds lit the air, but none found flesh—fields and reflexes denied every shot.
Both warriors understood. Almost as one, they holstered their guns.
"Traitor, you're strong," the Khan said, voice low and edged. He drew the White Tiger Dao, its field blazing. "Tell me—why betray the Imperium?"
Titus gave no reply. He only watched, every sense honed.
The pressure was overwhelming—greater than anything he had ever known. But he could not falter, nor could he reveal his secrets.
The next instant—white and blue sparks clashed.
Steel sang as their blades met, power fields screeching, arcs of lightning bursting between them.
Then they broke apart.
Titus panted, armor scorched. A chunk of his pauldron lay sliced away, sparking machinery exposed.
The Primarch's speed was staggering—so close to taking his head.
He roared, closing in again with savage intensity.
Parrying the White Tiger Dao, Titus pressed forward, hammering a gauntleted fist at the Primarch's helm.
The Khan's expression flickered, as if some realization dawned.
He caught the punch, slammed his brow forward in a brutal headbutt.
Skull ringing, Titus staggered—but snarled back and drove his own head forward.
The Primarch stood unmoved. A savage kick hurled him away.
The Khan rubbed his reddened brow, eyes narrowing on the bloodied warrior dragging himself upright, spitting scarlet foam.
"You… are Guilliman's son?"
His psychic senses whispered the truth.
Yet something didn't add up.
This warrior bore no taint of Chaos. He carried Guilliman's old weapons—hidden with their original markings.
"What is this? He shows no sign of corruption…"
The Khan, a lord of the steppes and wise ruler in his own right, pondered the riddle.
But he pressed harder, storming with strikes, his voice thunderous:
"Tell me, why do you fight beside xenos? What of your father, Roboute Guilliman?!"
To him, the butcher of aliens and champion of the Imperial Truth, this betrayal was intolerable.
But Titus answered only with silence, parrying, countering, refusing to speak.
He scored just one shallow line across the Primarch's armor. His own warplate, by contrast, was battered, bleeding through several wounds.
Such was the gulf between Astartes and Primarch.
If he went all out, perhaps he could wound the Khan—but only at the cost of his own life.
Thankfully, his Gene-Father's order was not to win—but only to delay.
Zhhhm!
The Khan flicked the power sword from Titus's hands, seizing Glory midair.
In the same motion, he pressed the White Tiger Dao to the warrior's throat.
"Perhaps… I should end you."
Impatience flared in the Primarch's gaze.
But then—he paused, as if some message reached him.
He stared deeply at Titus, at Eden, at Maris.
And lowered his blade.
Sliding both weapons back into place, the Khan turned, remounted Moonfang, and thundered away into the Webway.
Titus let out a long breath.
He had done it. He had obeyed his Gene-Father's command.
But his shoulders slumped—he had lost Glory, the relic his Gene-Father had bestowed.
"Titus, you have done more than enough," Eden stepped forward, lifting him up. His voice softened. "That was a Primarch. To have stood against him at all is an unmatched honor."
He clapped his son's shoulder, then whispered with a hint of psychic secrecy:
"If the Khan doesn't return your sword, don't worry. I'll take you to the Regent's vaults and let you pick another."
"???"
Titus almost broke his composure again.
Eden frowned toward the Khan's retreat.
Yes, it had been risky—but necessary.
He knew the Khan wasn't reckless, so he dared let Titus intervene. Enough to keep this clone's identity intact.
For while Titus fought, Eden had reached out—contacting the Emperor.
The Master of Mankind Himself had projected into the Khan's mind, halting his wrath.
The Emperor had long hungered for Commorragh, perhaps even more eagerly than Eden himself.
If He could, He would have crawled off the Golden Throne to claim it.
Of course, He wouldn't let His loyal sons ruin Eden's plans.
But that reprieve was temporary.
The Khan had his own will. Eden would have to persuade him, bring him into the plan, or risk everything collapsing.
Every Primarch wielded immense might, and commanded armies beyond reckoning.
And Eden needed this one.
For in the final battle, none would be better suited to hunt down the Supreme Overlord Vect than the Khan.
Already, Eden's "true body"—the Savior Primarch clone—had entered the Webway alongside the White Scars. Soon, he would meet the Khan face-to-face.
Then… negotiations would begin.
Eden, Titus, and Maris pressed deeper into the Webway, heading for a hidden base.
But as they passed a narrow stretch, misfortune struck again.
Another hunting force appeared—strength on par with the last.
They belonged to a vassal Kabal of the Black Heart.
"Quickly! The Asurmen's Heir fled that way!"
The squad thundered past through the cramped passage, pursuit vehicles rumbling.
"My lord, they… they ignored us?"
Maris gaped as the Dark Eldar swept by without sparing them a glance.
"Oh, I paid for that," Eden smiled faintly, watching them go. "Enough souls to buy every one of their lives."
He had simply overpaid too much.
Whoosh—
One warrior, piloting a flesh-engine, accidentally swung a tendril too close to Eden's path.
He recoiled instantly, pale, and bowed low.
"Lord Asurmen's Heir, forgive my offense!"
(End of Chapter)
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