Chapter 57: Planet of Thorns
This wasn't a metaphor. The Tyranids were quite literally fighting trees.
As the Great Devourer's tendrils reached the surface of Planet Godzilla, its bio-pods rained down like living meteors, shattering the skies in their descent. But the first wave didn't end in the expected churn of biomass consumption. Instead, the Tyranids found themselves impaled.
Towering, gnarled trees—each as thick as a Hive Tyrant's torso and as hard as ceramite—punched straight through drop pods as they landed, skewering them like meat on a spit. These weren't ordinary trees. Even the nightmare growths of Slaanesh's pleasure-gardens would struggle to match their density and vicious resistance.
But the Hive Mind did not know retreat. Not yet.
Knife-bugs—the fast-striking Lictor-class organisms bred to scout and shred—screeched from their ruptured drop pods, racing toward the foliage. Their directive was simple: eliminate all biological resistance and ferry the remains to the digestion pools.
They didn't get far.
Ten seconds into the woods, their carapaces were flayed open. Razor-sharp leaves sliced them down to the muscle. Acidic ichor splattered the soil in steaming droplets, yet the bark seemed to drink it in, glowing brighter in response. Their natural weaponry couldn't even dent the tree trunks.
Larger Tyranid units fared no better. Warrior-bugs emerged with limbs stripped bare. Their chitinous armor, built to withstand bolter fire and Astartes chainswords, was shredded by nothing more than tangled branches. Their once-sleek forms were reduced to ragged monstrosities that looked as though they'd waded through a thousand years of warfare.
The Swarm Tyrant, a creature of supreme aggression and intelligence, roared in frustration and hacked at a tree with a bladed limb strong enough to cleave through a Dreadnought.
The tree didn't budge.
Instead, the Tyrant's talon cracked—splintered by the impossible density of the trunk. The look in its predator eyes said everything: What in the hells of the Warp is this planet?
The answer was simple: the forest was made of Godzilla's cells. Imagine Biollante reborn, a forest grown from kaiju-grade genetic material. These trees were dormant Godzilla clones—passive for now, but no less dangerous than their progenitor.
And the flora was just the beginning.
From within the woods, the true defenders emerged: Lizardmen. Primitive in design but lethal in purpose, they charged with obsidian axes, flint-tipped spears, and crude-looking flamethrowers powered by bioplasma. Though they seemed like savages from a pre-Imperial age, their discipline and raw power devastated the Tyranids' ranks. The swarm couldn't secure a single safe zone for airborne reinforcement.
It was worse at sea.
The Hive Mind attempted an amphibious assault, deploying Leviathan-class marine organisms to establish a foothold. They barely hit the water before being torn to ribbons by aquatic war-beasts. It was a massacre.
Desperate, the swarm deployed a siege-class monstrosity—larger than even Godzilla. It thundered through the ocean, surrounded by a horde of escort organisms.
Then the ocean yawned.
A mouth the size of a battleship rose from the abyss and clamped down. The sea-tyrant screamed as it was dragged into the black. The creature in the deep bore some resemblance to Godzilla—but this beast was larger by orders of magnitude. Its jaws alone could bite clean through a cruiser.
Even a frigate wouldn't be safe.
High above, within the orbiting Tyranid bioships, the Norn Queen stirred uneasily. She was torn between two conflicting instincts: the pull of the blinding psychic beacon radiating from the planet—bait to any swarm—and the hard, logical conclusion that they were hemorrhaging biomass at a rate that even a full Hive Fleet couldn't justify.
"Leave this planet," said the Norn Queen's tactical mind.
"Consume the beacon," cried the will of the Great Devourer.
Stalemate.
Normally, the swarm would cut its losses and divert toward easier prey. That's how they function—cautious unless absolutely dominant. Even at Baal, their suicidal push was directed by the Swarm Will itself, a rare override of standard protocol.
Here? This wasn't worth it. But the beacon was too powerful.
And then the real madness began: Titan-class organisms began to fall from orbit.
Godzilla's burning eyes locked on the descending drop-pods. His home—his planet—was being violated.
"The bugs are attacking my homeland? Bastards."
[They can't escape now.]
The system was right. They'd flown straight into a trap of their own making. The Hive would only consider retreat after losing half its planetary forces—and that point was fast approaching.
But they weren't the only ones drawn in.
Elsewhere, in the void near Planet Godzilla, a rip in the Warp split open like a jagged wound. Out of it sailed a mighty warship—ancient, armored in forgotten glory. Ten kilometers long, encrusted with relics of the past, and bearing the proud insignia of the Ultramarines.
The vox crackled with static before the voice of the ship's Navigator rang out.
"Captain Wade, praise the Emperor—we've emerged from that cursed warp storm. The Astronomican is shining once again."
The captain, a towering man more akin to an Astartes than a mortal, didn't relax. He remained planted in his command throne.
"Adjutant. Confirm our coordinates. Star chart verification now."
A moment passed. Then:
"Sir, we're still in the Eastern Fringe. The Ultima Segmentum."
Wade exhaled slowly. Still in the same damn starfield, but at least now they knew where they were. The ship had been lost for decades—time in the Warp was never linear.
"Send word to Captain Heidel. Let him know we've made it—"
"No need," came a voice from the chamber doors.
From the shadows emerged warriors in ancient armor—Ultramarines, but not of the 41st Millennium. Their ceramite suits were painted in the early colors of the Great Crusade. Not MK VII, but MK II Crusade-era plate—relics of a time before even the Heresy.
Two members of the Ultramarines' Honor Guard entered, their faces obscured by golden eagle-masks, their pauldrons adorned with the sigils of Guilliman. Their armor was bloodied—enemy blood and their own.
At their front marched a behemoth in Terminator armor, radiating fury and loyalty in equal measure.
He spoke with righteous rage.
"When I return to Macragge, I will report the Word Bearers' betrayal to the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds. Their treachery shall not go unpunished! We strike back—in fire and vengeance!"
They were time-lost warriors of the 30K era—Imperial forces who had been ambushed during the Heresy and stranded in the Warp. To them, only twenty years had passed. They'd spent fifteen of those fighting traitors aboard their own ship.
That's the beauty—and terror—of the Immaterium. Time collapses. Empires die and are reborn while you wander in circles. This wasn't just a lost Imperial battleship. It was a relic of history, pulled into the present day.
And the galaxy was worse than they remembered.
And somewhere below them, on a planet teeming with monsters made of light and rage, the war was just beginning.
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