Everything started to spiral out of control a month ago.
First, there was the magnetic vortex, which caused a destruction zone of at least 12,000 kilometers in the southern part of this world, followed by a global shutdown of the power and water supply systems, killing tens of thousands of residents.
Initially, we thought this was merely a natural disaster and cultists taking advantage of the situation, but the actual situation was far worse than we anticipated.
In the next seven days, three more accidents occurred consecutively; inexplicable great storms had swept across the entire world, destroying all power grids and communication facilities, and the distribution of food and water was also affected, leading to widespread riots among the people.
And then there were the earthquakes, the strongest ones! Dawn Star's largest Nest World has been completely swallowed by fissures in the ground, and three more cities successively disappeared in tsunamis hundreds of meters high, and... the Mechanicus's sages have deduced that the atmosphere has suffered severe erosion, and lethal radiation is about to sweep across the entire world.
In the past month, we have lost three-quarters of our population, and social order has completely collapsed; the situation is now irreversible.
Given these circumstances, I, Konrad-Valga, Imperial Governor of Dawn Star, entrusted by the will of the Emperor, officially declare the abandonment of this world.
We have issued evacuation orders on the last communication platform; everyone on this world is flocking to the planetary capital, Kalena, where the infrastructure is strong and spacious enough to accommodate all of them, but we lack a fleet! An evacuation fleet!
Therefore, I am sending out a distress signal here: anyone, any of the Emperor's Children, any Expedition Fleet not far from us, I implore you, temporarily divert your course and save Dawn Star, who are also the Emperor's Children!
“And we are here for that.”
For an average Thousand Sons Astartes Warrior, Hathor-Mat considered himself to have shown enough respect to these pathetic mortals, explaining things as simply as possible.
After Dawn Star's Imperial Governor sent that desperate plea through the Astropath, he and this pathetic world almost immediately received the Emperor's mercy:
The Fifteenth Thousand Sons Astartes Legion's Expedition Fleet responded seventeen Terra standard hours after the message was sent: they happened to be passing through the edge of this Star Zone, and the Legion's Gene-Seed Primarch, Magnus from Prospero—in most cases, was also willing to help mortals.
Thanks to the successive guidance of countless Psykers Masters, the 28th Expedition Fleet, almost in the blink of an eye, carried the entire Thousand Sons Legion to Dawn Star's near-orbit, and the situation here was worse than the Gene-Seed Primarch had imagined: even the Imperial Governor himself, who had sent the distress signal, had already lost contact in the chaotic crowds, and the Thousand Sons Legion could only deal with the various troubles on this world alone.
If it had been the Dark Angels or Shadow Wolves Legion, who had more troops and generals, the situation might have been better, but the Thousand Sons Legion was just as its name implied: after the tragedy known as the Flesh Change, only about a thousand Astartes Warriors survived, and a mere dozen terra standard years were not enough for this Legion to become strong again.
Thinking of this, Hathor-Mat could not help but sigh in his heart; if it weren't for the severe shortage of manpower, a rising star of the Bright Feather School like him would not be doing trivial chores like evacuating villages.
“Listen, mortal, I'll say it again, for the last time.”
Magnus's sons tried to remain calm; he narrowed his eyes, observing the old man in front of him: ragged, trembling like a sieve, the only valuable item on his entire body was a cane carved with a slender snake. Hathor could see fear and absolute resistance flickering deep in his pupils, which was a normal reaction for a mortal facing the Emperor's Angel, and also phlegm, uncontrollable black phlegm dripping from the corner of his mouth...
Hathor did not look closely.
“You look back now, look at this mountain, the place where your generations have lived; it's not as calm as it looks. It's a dead volcano, and now, the geomagnetic fusion of your world has reactivated it, turning it back into an active volcano, a real, volcano!”
“You know what that means, don't you, mortal.”
“Now look around you; there are over five hundred people here: farmers, blacksmiths, women and children, and over twenty houses, barren terraced fields, and the only connection this place has to the outside world is a railway, which is clearly broken.”
The Thousand Sons' arm, accompanying his fingertips, pointed to the scrap buried among the hillsides: the so-called railway was already dilapidated; it curved below the village like a rotten snake.
And above this decaying thing, the sky already showed some ominous signs; any person with normal vision could see the gas lingering around the mountaintop gradually turning into a morbid yellow, with layers of floating volcanic ash behind them, and even lightning and storm mixed within.
This dilapidated place would be completely destroyed within at most ten Terra standard hours, yet he was still playing boring language games with these fools here.
Impatience constantly invaded Hathor's mind.
But he could not act; they were only five people, unable to take all the idiots away, and as an Astartes Warrior, certain unspeakable principles prevented him from attacking these unarmed Emperor's Children.
“Do you see those gases? That volcanic ash, thunder, and storm, they will kill you, kill all of you; your homes will explode, leaving not a single speck of residue.”
“And now, by the mercy of my Lord Magnus, you can board the stormbird and come with us to a safe zone, such as Kalena or somewhere else, to leave this world.”
“The ones who should really leave are you!”
In front of Hathor, the trembling old man slowly raised his fist, clenching it in mid-air, as an answer to the Astartes.
“Now, you... cough cough... should leave. We will stay here, guarding our homeland and fields!”
He coughed continuously, his emaciated body repeatedly spitting out dark brown thick phlegm, in such quantities that it even made one wonder if he was spitting out his internal organs as well.
“You will all die!”
Hathor could barely restrain his anger.
“If this continues, you will all die here, and I and my men are ordered to evacuate you... Don't make me say the same thing again, those storms, they will kill you!”
“No, quite the opposite.”
“The storm is a gift, a gift we have all waited a lifetime for; it will lead us to meet the great Storm Lord sitan, and we will serve by his side, enjoying eternal peace and happiness.”
This utterly foolish statement made Magnus's sons widen his eyes involuntarily, and when he saw the same persistence appear in the eyes of all the mortals, his anger doubled, turning into the most absurd laughter.
He laughed uncontrollably.
“Storm Lord? Serve by his side? You believe in a vulgar god? Giving your life for a circus joke?”
“You are not allowed to insult our faith!”
The mortals, all the mortals, fell into hysterical rage the moment his words landed; their faces contorted, using the most vicious curses to greet this blasphemer.
But Magnus's sons did not care; he turned around and walked towards the stormbird and his comrades.
“How is the situation?”
Someone asked him.
“They don't want to leave, let's go.”
Hathor waved his hand; after laughing, his mood was still bad because of this deep-seated foolishness.
“Is it that sitan god again?”
The other Thousand Sons Astartes Warriors were not surprised, but they quickly raised new questions.
“Then what about our mission? They will definitely die here.”
“Then let them die!”
Hathor's sharp reprimand caused a momentary silence in his squad, until his subordinate gestured for him to look at the horizon: another stormbird was wobbling, preparing to land.
“Ah...”
The Thousand Sons' mood began to improve, especially when he saw the silver-haired, blue-eyed Ms. Morgan step down from the stormbird. Hathor simply sat down with his squad, waiting for the mission to be completed.
Indeed, things like this should be left to Ms. Morgan; she never disappoints.
Hathor thought so.
Regarding Ms. Morgan's reputation, Hathor had heard of it long before coming to Dawn Star.
It is said that she came from the south of the Great Vortex, which is further northwest than the Ultramarines' home, the Five Hundred Worlds. After an Expedition Fleet composed of Rogue Traders discovered her homeland, she joined the Imperial army as the offspring of a local prince.
Some rumors said that her background was not actually true, but those rumors, accompanied by this mortal's excellent performance, were naturally regarded as gossip filled with jealousy.
This Ms. Morgan quickly proved herself to be a gifted Psykers Master and a capable pragmatist; she stood out from countless mortals in less than a terra standard year, becoming an officer selected by the Thousand Sons Legion, which was severely short of manpower.
Hathor had always been uninterested in mortal affairs; he considered himself a higher form of life, but after working with this Ms. Morgan for over fifty days, he had to admit that sometimes she could indeed make one look forward to things.
And while he was thinking, the conversation in the village had taken on a new turn: the silver-haired female officer, with just a few words, made these foolish cultists obey; they rushed to pack their belongings and then followed this Ms. Morgan's footsteps.
As they lowered their heads and lined up to walk towards the stormbird, the Thousand Sons still could not help but whisper to Ms. Morgan.
“How did you convince these idiots?”
“By using some of the most foolish methods.”
She spoke vaguely, but Hathor did not choose to ask more: he didn't know why, but when facing this face that rarely smiled, he always felt a certain fear.
He believed it was an illusion.
Magnus's sons maintained his arrogance and vigilance; he watched coldly as his subordinates exchanged pleasantries with this mortal, and those guys on the other stormbird almost already followed her lead—this was after only fifty-plus days, truly shaming the Legion's reputation.
Just as this rising star of the Bright Feather School felt indignant, his communication device began to ring.
“How's your situation, Hathor?”
It was Ahriman's voice from the Black Raven School.
“It's done... with the help of our Ms. Morgan.”
After a moment of thought, Hathor did not claim the credit.
“I thought so, after all, it's Morgan.”
Ahriman first expressed a calm sentiment, and then his tone became slightly urgent.
“Then you all quickly return to Kalena; manpower is urgently needed here now. We need to comprehensively revise the entire world's evacuation plan. The two Gene-Seed Primarchs now need the help of all forces, whether it's you or Ms. Morgan.”
“...Two?”
Hathor caught some information.
“Yes, two.”
Ahriman first confirmed this point, and then continued to speak in a nonchalant tone. Hathor could hear his surroundings filled with hoarse commands and the noisy flow of people.
“Perturabo is here, and his Iron Warriors.”