Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The spire's chamber was a tomb of silence, its warped iron walls etched with the scars of battle. War stood amidst the rubble, Chaoseater planted in the cracked floor, its blade cooling from the daemon's blood. The rift's scar hung in the air—a faint, scorched slit, its pulse gone but its presence a lingering shadow. Death leaned against a shattered pillar, Harvester's scythes crossed over his chest, his mask gleaming in the dim light. Strife lounged on a crate, spinning Mercy in one hand, his white armor streaked with gore and ash. Fury paced near the dais, her whip coiled at her hip, her crimson hair a wild tangle, her eyes scanning the shadows with restless fury.

Brother-Captain Aelius slumped against the barricade, his bolt pistol holstered, his power sword resting across his knees. His armor was a ruin—cracked ceramite, scorched pauldrons, blood seeping from his leg—but his vox crackled with resolve as he monitored the incoming reinforcements. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor stood apart, her coat patched and singed, her mask half-shattered, revealing a scarred jaw clenched with rage. Her power sword hummed faintly, her gaze flicking between the Horsemen and the scar, a predator poised to strike.

The hive's roars filtered through the spire—boots on metal, vox-chatter, the clank of machinery. Aelius straightened, his lenses flickering. "They're here," he voxed, his tone steady despite the strain. "Third Company, Ultramarines—Commander Theron's lead. Guard units behind them. The hive's stirred—your brother's chaos, War."

Strife grinned, holstering Mercy. "Guilty as charged. Tore through a few levels—cultists, greenskins, some trigger-happy tin soldiers. Fun times."

Fury snorted, her whip snapping once. "You're a mess, Strife. Always diving headfirst into the fire."

Death's rasp cut through, dry as bone. "He's our mess. Keeps the heat off us—mostly."

War ignored the banter, his gaze on the scar. The rift's closure felt hollow—the daemon's death, the dais's ruin, yet that voice—"the game endures…"—gnawed at him. The Council's echo—restore balance—was sharper now, a call beyond this hive, binding the Horsemen to this galaxy's chaos. "It's not done," he rumbled. "Something's still out there."

Veyra's voice was venom. "Of course it's not done—you brought it here! Four abominations, Warp-spawned and proud. The hive bleeds because of you—I'll see you pay."

Aelius turned, his vox sharp. "Inquisitor, enough! They closed the rift—saved us. Your grudge blinds you."

Veyra's scarred jaw tightened, her sword rising an inch. "Blind? I see heretics—Chaos's tools, masquerading as allies. You're the fool, Captain."

Before War could retort, the spire's entrance groaned—a massive bulkhead sliding open, spilling light and noise. Ultramarines marched in—ten in all, their blue ceramite pristine compared to Aelius's ruin, their bolters raised in disciplined ranks. At their head strode Commander Theron, his armor adorned with gold trim, a storm bolter slung across his chest, a power fist crackling at his side. His helm was crested, his lenses glowing red, his vox a deep rumble. "Brother-Captain Aelius—report."

Aelius saluted, his stance rigid despite his wounds. "Commander, the Word Bearers' ritual is broken—rift sealed, daemon slain. Losses heavy—one Marine left, the Inquisitor's retinue gone. These…" He gestured to the Horsemen, hesitating, "…allies aided us."

Theron's lenses swept the chamber—rubble, blood, the scar—then settled on the Horsemen. "Allies," he echoed, his tone flat. "Unusual ones. Explain, Captain."

Veyra stepped forward, her voice cutting through. "They're no allies, Commander—they're Warp-spawned heretics! Four of them now—tied to the rift, its heralds. I demand their execution!"

Theron raised a fist, silencing her. "Inquisitor, your authority is noted—but I'll hear all sides." He faced War, his vox steady. "You—red one. Speak. Who are you, and why do you stand with my brother?"

War met his gaze, Chaoseater resting at his side. "I'm War, Horseman of the Apocalypse. These are my kin—Death, Strife, Fury. We're not your Emperor's—or Chaos's. The rift dragged us here, from our world to yours. We broke it—not for you, but for us."

Death's mask tilted, his rasp dry. "Your war's a speck in ours. We're here to mend—or burn—what's broken."

Strife grinned, leaning forward. "Yeah, and this place? Prime target practice. Chaos loves us—we give it hell right back."

Fury's whip twitched, her voice sharp. "We're no pets—yours or theirs. The rift's ours to settle."

Theron's lenses lingered, his silence heavy. "Horsemen," he mused. "Outsiders, yet you fight Chaos—an enigma." He turned to Aelius. "Brother, you vouch for them?"

Aelius nodded, his vox firm. "They've bled with me—saved me, the hive. Their strength is real, their aim true. I'd stake my honor on it."

Veyra's sword flared, her voice a snarl. "Honor? They're abominations—Warp-touched! The Captain's deluded—end them now, Commander, or the Imperium suffers!"

Theron's power fist crackled, his vox cold. "Inquisitor, your zeal is noted—but I judge by deeds, not words. They've held this ground. For now, they stand." He faced War again. "You're a risk—prove your worth, or the Inquisitor's blade finds you."

War's lip curled. "I prove nothing to you," he growled. "We'll fight—our way, our terms."

Strife laughed, spinning Redemption. "Oh, I like this guy—straight shooter. Let's roll, brothers!"

Fury smirked, her blades gleaming. "Their rules choke—let's cut loose."

Death's scythes gleamed, his rasp low. "They'll learn—or bleed. Either suits me."

The spire trembled—a faint rumble, deep and growing. Theron's squad snapped to alert, bolters sweeping the shadows. Aelius tensed, his vox crackling. "The hive's depths—something stirs."

Veyra's gaze shot to the Horsemen, her sword rising. "Their doing—Chaos answers them!"

War ignored her, his senses sharpening—the Warp's pulse, faint but alive, echoing from below. "Not the rift," he rumbled. "Something else—older, bigger."

Death nodded, his mask steady. "The hive's rotten—Chaos festers deep. This was a spark—the fire's beneath."

The rumble grew—a roar now, shaking the floor. From a lower passage burst a tide of horror—mutants, their flesh twisted with warp-taint, eyes glowing, claws snapping. Word Bearers followed, their crimson ceramite scarred, their chants a hymn to the Dark Gods. Daemons flickered among them—lesser things, claws and teeth, their forms unstable but deadly.

Theron barked, "Form ranks!"—his Ultramarines firing, bolt rounds tearing through mutants in sprays of gore. Aelius joined, his pistol barking, his sword slashing a cultist's chest. Veyra charged, her sword cleaving a daemon's head—her vox snarled, "Purge them!"

War roared, Chaoseater swinging—mutants fell, their blood thick and rancid. Death danced, Harvester reaping—a daemon's claw severed, a Word Bearer's torso split. Strife leapt into the fray, pistols blazing—heads burst, bodies crumpled, his laughter wild. Fury's whip cracked, coiling a mutant's throat—she yanked, snapping its neck, her blades slashing another mid-leap.

The chamber erupted—steel clashed with warp-taint, bolter fire met warpfire, blood painted the iron. War faced a Word Bearer, its crozius blazing—he parried, driving Chaoseater through its helm. Death saved Strife from a daemon's claw, Fury shielded Aelius from a mutant's lunge—Theron's fist crushed a cultist's skull, his storm bolter pulping another.

Veyra fought alone, her sword a whirlwind—her vox spat, "See? They draw Chaos like flies!"—but a daemon's claw grazed her, hurling her back. War pulled her up, his growl sharp. "Fight or die—your choice."

She glared but nodded, resuming her assault. The tide pressed—mutants swarmed, Word Bearers chanted, daemons flickered—but the Horsemen held, their power a storm. War's Chaos form flared, Death's precision cut, Strife's chaos rained, Fury's rage burned—the enemy faltered, their numbers thinning.

The roar deepened—a massive shape loomed from the passage, a daemon engine—half-machine, half-flesh, its metal limbs studded with skulls, its maw blazing with warpfire. Theron roared, "Focus fire!"—bolters barked, but its hide shrugged off rounds. War charged, Chaoseater clashing with its claw—the impact staggered him, pain flaring. Death struck its flank, Strife fired into its eyes, Fury's whip coiled its leg—they fought as one, relentless, unyielding.

Aelius joined, his sword slashing its cables—warpfire sprayed, searing his arm. Veyra hurled a krak grenade—it exploded, denting its hull. War roared, his Chaos form blazing—Chaoseater cleaved its maw, Death's scythes severed a leg, Strife's rounds blinded it, Fury's blades pierced its core—it shrieked, collapsing in a heap of warped metal and ash.

Silence fell, broken by the hive's distant hum. The Horsemen stood amidst the carnage, breathing hard—War's fire dimming, Death's mask steady, Strife grinning, Fury snarling. Theron lowered his fist, his vox rumbling. "You fight like legends. Aelius was right—you're with us, for now."

Veyra's sword trembled, her voice raw. "For now—until they turn. Chaos clings to them."

War faced his siblings, ignoring her. "The hive's alive with it," he rumbled. "This wasn't the heart—just a vein."

Death nodded, his rasp cold. "Deeper still—something waits. The Warp's game's broad."

Strife spun Mercy, grinning. "Bring it—I'm itching for round two."

Fury's whip coiled, her eyes fierce. "We hunt—or we're hunted. No chains here."

War felt the Council's echo—restore—a call to the galaxy's chaos, the Horsemen its blades. "We move together," he said. "No masters—ourselves."

Theron approached, his vox steady. "The hive's a warzone—Chaos rises, the Imperium holds. Join us, or carve your own path—but know where we stand."

War met his gaze, Chaoseater ready. "We'll see."

The spire echoed with the hive's pulse—war above, ruin below. The Horsemen stood united, their purpose a fire against the dark.

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