Collection: GOLIATHS
THE GOLIATHS
Warfire Given Flesh
Among all the soldiers ever bred, engineered, or exalted across the stars of Tzion, there are none—none—that match the brute, sacred terror of the Goliaths.
Born in the seething forges of the Chaos Wars, deep within the heart of dying planets where light had long been extinguished, the Goliaths were not created to serve, nor to inspire.
They were created to conquer.
Each Goliath is a monument to war—a walking apocalypse, a god trapped inside a shell of engineered muscle, cybernetic bone, and unrelenting fury. Towering over the battlefield, each stands nearly three meters tall, his silhouette a living statue carved from obsidian and thunder.
Their bodies are a triumph of forbidden science and brutal necessity.
Bones replaced with alloyed titanium-ceramite hybrids.
Muscles grown with synthetic density enhancers.
Blood replaced by a dark crimson biogel that feeds their organs with twice the efficiency and none of the fragility of mortal circulation.
Hearts: double-chambered.
Lungs: quadruple-layered, able to breathe poison, smoke, or vacuum.
And their pineal glands—modified, black-encoded, reinforced with Omega subroutines—pulsate with rage.
Clad in cathedral-like power armour, massive, engraved with grim symbols of dominion and survival, each Goliath carries enough firepower to level cities—alone. Their gauntlets crackle with shockwave energy. Their shoulder-mounted weapons track targets at the speed of thought. And their boots shake the earth when they charge.
Their helms are sculpted like the faces of dead kings:
grim, visorless, hollow-eyed.
Their voices echo through external vox-amps with subharmonic frequencies designed to paralyse lesser beings with fear.
They feel no pain.
They require no sleep.
They do not retreat.
They do not doubt.
To see a Goliath charge into a battlefield is to watch a storm descend on foot.
Bullets ricochet off them like rain against steel.
Blades break on contact.
Even plasma barely scorches their sacred plate.
And when they fight, they do so not with chaos, but with the cold, unstoppable rhythm of calculated annihilation.
Legends tell of single Goliaths who stood against entire battalions of Trans-Humans and never fell. Of how one of them shattered a Kwasar gate with his bare fists. Of another who walked into an orbital reactor and stopped the core breach—by carrying the imploding heart of the machine on his shoulders and throwing it into space.
But they are not holy.
They are not pure.
They are war incarnate.
The Omega Warlords call them the Obsidian Titans.
The Alpha remnants call them the Cursed Giants.
But all across the stars, the name that survives…
is whispered in awe and fear:
Goliaths.
No banners.
No mercy.
No gods—only mission.
They are the nightmare the Sumaya could never control.
They are the iron wrath of Chaos, sculpted into flesh.
And wherever they march, the laws of heaven and hell alike shatter.
