Chapter 52: Run, Fools
From the summit of the crater, Prophet Tyrese had an unobstructed view that stretched for dozens of kilometers. He saw the tides of war—Orks clashing with Eldar—and at the heart of it all, a monstrous figure moving through fire and ruin.
At first, Tyrese assumed the beast was some colossal Ork war construct, perhaps an abominable Squiggoth or some new heretical amalgam of flesh and scrap. But then the shadows aligned with what he'd glimpsed in his visions—an entity of fire and thunder.
Godzilla.
The fires weren't his doing. They were the result of Ork artillery, a frenzied barrage of shells and rockets raining down. Yet nothing seemed to matter. Explosions engulfed the reptilian behemoth in brilliant bursts, but Godzilla marched through them with slow, implacable force.
'My resistance stat is basically maxed out. What's this supposed to do—give me a back massage?' Godzilla mused in the silence of his own towering arrogance.
Even the largest Ork artillery emplacements—those few with calibers approaching macro-cannon status—barely left a mark on his armored hide. Anti-aircraft guns, misangled and useless in urban combat, had no chance of stopping his advance. Godzilla was unstoppable in close quarters.
But as he neared the crater, the Ork firepower surged dramatically.
A dozen towering constructs lumbered out from the scrap cities—Gargants, ancient war machines cobbled together from junk and insanity. These were WAAAGH!'s answer to Titans. Though crude, they carried firepower capable of leveling mountains and had been prepared to counter Eldar Phantom Titans.
Now, they had a new target.
Missiles streaked through the sky like angry wasps. Cannons embedded in Gargant skulls and torsos let loose a relentless salvo. The battlefield exploded in a cacophony of destruction. But where the Eldar might've perished, Godzilla remained standing.
It itched.
'Like being poked with a wet noodle. Is this the best you've got?'
Then he opened his jaws.
The telltale whine of energy built in his throat, the signature sound that had haunted civilizations across time and space. Atomic energy crackled and glowed within his mouth, bathing the battlefield in ominous blue light.
And then—release.
A beam of incandescent nuclear fire lanced across the warzone, vaporizing air and matter alike. One Gargant tried to activate its void shield, but Godzilla had faced those before.
Only battleship-grade shields could survive him.
This one shattered instantly, and the beam sliced the Gargant in half with surgical precision. The bisected monstrosity collapsed in two flaming chunks.
Godzilla didn't stop. His breath swept in an arc, carving a trench of annihilation through Ork positions. Gargants exploded. Squiggoths were cut to ribbons mid-charge. Entire battalions of Boyz disappeared in a flash of searing blue.
When the radioactive torrent faded, the battlefield was a smoking wasteland.
Tyrese watched it all, dumbstruck.
He had foreseen fire, he had seen storms—but nothing had prepared him for this.
"By Khaine… that's not a beast," he whispered. "That's a cataclysm."
On either side of the prophet, two Phantom Titans stood like elegant colossi, built of wraithbone and artistry. One wielded a Wraithsword capable of cleaving through armor like parchment. The other bore a Warp Distortion Cannon, which could erase ancient war machines from existence with a single shot.
Their combined firepower had held the line against the Ork hordes—barely.
But Tyrese now knew the truth. These Titans weren't the strongest things on the battlefield anymore. Not by far.
"If we don't fall back," muttered a nearby Exarch, "we all die here."
Ordinarily, Tyrese would've struck down such defeatist talk with psychic fury. Not today.
Today, he agreed.
Yet their mission wasn't complete. Thousands of soulstones still lay scattered across this cursed world, relics of fallen kin whose spirits had yet to be reclaimed. To leave them behind would be a spiritual death sentence.
He reached out with psychic energy, broadcasting urgency to his forces.
Then came a presence.
A shadow moved behind him without sound—unseen, undetected.
Tyrese turned and raised his weapon—only to lower it again as recognition dawned.
A Harlequin stood before him, clad in motley colors, her mask etched with a frozen, pale smile.
"Greetings, dear prophet of Craftworld Tyrande," she said, voice lilting like a performance. "Do forgive the theatrics."
Her presence made even a Farseer pause. She was a servant of Cegorach—the Laughing God. And while the gods of the Aeldari were many—Khaine, Asuryan, Isha—all Aeldari honored the few that remained.
"I am here with a warning," she said, cutting off his greeting. "Straight from my divine patron."
Tyrese nodded gravely. "What does he say?"
The Harlequin took a deep breath, then sang out in a high-pitched, almost mocking tone:
"Run, silly children. Run! You have no idea what you're dealing with. Run and don't look back!"
She chuckled softly. "He was quite emphatic."
It would've been humorous, if not for the truth buried in it.
Even now, Cegorach was watching Godzilla's psychic reflection tear through Slaanesh's own domain, laying waste to Daemonettes and warp horrors in the Palace of Pleasure. The beast wasn't bound by space or time—its rage bled into the Immaterium.
The destruction was so profound that nearby Chaos realms had taken notice.
"I accept his warning," Tyrese said. "But we haven't retrieved all the soulstones."
The Harlequin's grin widened behind her mask.
"Then know this—Godzilla is not your only problem."
At that moment, a psychic scream erupted in Tyrese's mind—a desperate transmission from Alanna, aboard the orbital fleet.
"Tyrese! Haven't you finished yet? The Tyranids are here… again!"
That one word—again—spoke volumes.
Tyrese paled.
Years ago, Tyrande Craftworld had barely survived an encounter with the Hive Fleets. The battle had ended only because, for reasons unknown, the swarm had suddenly turned inward—devouring itself.
Now they were back.
And this time, with Orks, Tyranids, and a creature like Godzilla loose on the surface...
There would be no surviving this trifecta.
Tyrese didn't hesitate.
He unleashed a psychic pulse that echoed across the planet.
"All forces—fall back to the nearest Webway Gate immediately! If you cannot return to the Craftworld, flee to any Webway city. Even Commorragh. We are abandoning this world!"
The order spread fast.
The two Phantom Titans shifted formation, now focused on covering retreat rather than assault. Automated turrets continued firing, but they were sacrifices—meant to buy time. The Eldar forces fell back in waves, slipping into the hidden passageways of the Webway.
Within minutes, the crater was empty.
The ground was left to the mad, the monstrous, and the unstoppable.
Godzilla watched from the flames, the only constant in a sea of carnage. All around him, Orks howled and charged, endless and fearless.
And somewhere in the skies above, the Hive Fleet approached.
The real war was just beginning.
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