Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The spire's chamber was a graveyard of twisted metal and ash, the air thick with the tang of warp-taint and scorched ceramite. War stood amidst the wreckage, Chaoseater's blade resting against the floor, its edge crusted with the daemon engine's ichor. The scar of the rift hung silent above the shattered dais—a faint, blackened slit, its pulse extinguished but its shadow a persistent weight. Death loomed nearby, Harvester's scythes crossed over his chest, his skeletal frame still as death itself. Strife leaned against a toppled crate, spinning Redemption with a grin, his white armor a patchwork of blood and dents. Fury paced the chamber's edge, her whip coiled at her hip, her crimson hair catching the flicker of dying lumen-strips, her eyes blazing with restless fire.

Brother-Captain Aelius checked his bolt pistol, his armor a ruin—cracked and bloodied—but his stance unyielding. Commander Theron stood with his Ultramarines, ten strong, their blue ceramite gleaming in stark contrast to the spire's decay. His power fist crackled faintly, his storm bolter slung across his chest, his vox a steady rumble as he assessed the scene. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor lingered near the scar, her coat patched, her mask half-shattered, revealing a scarred jaw twisted with fury. Her power sword hummed, her gaze a blade aimed at the Horsemen.

The hive's hum pulsed through the walls—distant gunfire, screams, the clank of machinery—a symphony of war stirred by Strife's chaos and Chaos's resurgence. War felt it, a deeper tremor beneath the noise—the Warp's echo, alive in the hive's bowels, calling to the Horsemen. The Council's fractured whisper—restore balance—burned in his mind, its meaning sharpening with each clash. The rift's closure was a victory, but not an end—this galaxy's chaos ran deeper, and they were its blades.

"We're not done," War rumbled, his voice cutting through the silence. "The hive's rotten—Chaos festers below. We go deeper, find its heart, break it."

Death's mask tilted, his rasp dry. "Agreed. The spire was a limb—this cuts to the bone."

Strife holstered Redemption, his grin widening. "Hell yeah—more heads to crack. I'm in."

Fury's whip snapped once, her voice sharp. "It's a trap or a trophy—either way, I'm hunting. Let's move."

Theron stepped forward, his vox steady. "Your strength's proven, Horsemen—but the hive's a labyrinth. Chaos thrives in its depths—mutants, heretics, worse. We'll join you, secure it for the Emperor."

Aelius nodded, his vox strained but firm. "I'm with them, Commander. They've held the line—I'll see this through."

Veyra's sword flared, her voice a snarl. "Madness! You'd follow these abominations into the dark? They're Chaos's spawn—their path leads to ruin!"

Theron's lenses fixed on her, his tone cold. "Inquisitor, your zeal's noted—but they've slain more heretics than your retinue ever did. They're a weapon—we wield them, or we waste them."

Veyra's jaw clenched, her sword trembling. "A weapon that turns on us—mark my words, Commander. I'll not march with Warp-filth."

War faced her, Chaoseater rising an inch. "Stay then," he growled. "Your threats bore me—we've a war to fight."

Death's scythes gleamed, his rasp low. "She's a liability, brother. Cut her loose—or cut her down."

Strife laughed, drawing Mercy. "I vote for the second—quick draw, clean shot."

Fury's whip uncoiled, her smirk fierce. "Her tongue's sharp—let's take it."

Aelius intervened, his vox sharp. "Enough! Inquisitor, join us or hold the spire—your choice. We move now."

Veyra's eyes burned, but Theron's fist crackled, his vox final. "Decide, Thalor. The Emperor's will waits for no one."

She sheathed her sword with a hiss, her voice venomous. "I'll go—to watch them fall. Their blood's on you, Ultramarines." She stepped aside, her defiance a live wire.

War ignored her, turning to his siblings. "We lead—our terms, our fight."

Death nodded, Strife whooped, Fury smirked—the Horsemen moved as one, descending through the passage where the daemon engine had emerged. Theron's squad followed, Aelius at their side, Veyra trailing last, her presence a shadow of mistrust. The tunnel plunged downward, its walls slick with rot, its air heavy with corruption—a descent into the hive's black heart.

The path twisted, narrowing into a maze of rusted pipes and collapsed habs. The Warp's pulse grew—a low thrum, alive in the steel, stirring War's senses. Mutants scuttled in the shadows—gaunt, eyeless things, their claws clicking—Strife shot one, its head bursting, and grinned. "Target practice—love this place."

Fury's whip lashed another, snapping its spine. "Pests—where's the real fight?"

Death's scythes spun once, his rasp steady. "Patience, sister—it's close."

The tunnel opened into a cavernous sump—a lake of toxic sludge, its surface bubbling with warp-taint, spanned by rickety gantries. Massive pipes loomed overhead, dripping slime, their hum a dull roar. The air shimmered with corruption—runes glowed faintly on the walls, pulsing with the Warp's heartbeat. War halted, Chaoseater raised—his instincts screamed ambush.

It came fast—Word Bearers erupted from the sludge, their crimson ceramite gleaming wet, their bolters blazing. Mutants swarmed the gantries, shrieking, their claws snapping. Daemons flickered into being—clawed, feathered horrors, their forms unstable but lethal. A Chaos sorcerer emerged atop a pipe, his staff flaring, his voice a hiss of power. "Horsemen… your doom rises!"

War roared, charging—Chaoseater cleaved a Word Bearer's chest, blood spraying. Death danced, Harvester reaping—mutants fell, their bodies piling. Strife fired, Mercy and Redemption a storm—daemons burst, his laughter wild. Fury's whip cracked, coiling a daemon's throat—she yanked, her blades slashing its core.

Theron's Ultramarines formed a firing line, bolters barking—mutants crumpled, Word Bearers staggered. Aelius fought beside War, his sword slashing a cultist's throat, his vox steady—"Hold them!" Veyra struck alone, her sword cleaving a daemon's wing—her vox snarled, "Die, filth!"—but a mutant's claw gashed her arm, drawing blood.

The sorcerer gestured, warpfire lashing—War dodged, the heat searing his cloak, while Death deflected a bolt with Harvester. Strife took a hit, his pauldron smoking—he laughed, firing back, rounds denting the sorcerer's shield. Fury's whip snapped the staff, staggering him—her blades slashed, blood spraying, but he retaliated, a tendril hurling her into the sludge.

War roared, his Chaos form flaring—his eyes blazed, his blade swung, cleaving the sorcerer's arm. Death struck, a scythe severing his head—it rolled, the body collapsing, its warpfire snuffing out. The daemons shrieked, their forms flickering—Strife gunned two down, Fury rose dripping, her blades slashing another.

The tide broke—mutants fled, Word Bearers fell, daemons dissolved—but the sump trembled, a deeper roar rising. The sludge parted, revealing a daemon engine—larger, its hull a mass of warped metal and flesh, its cannons blazing warpfire. Theron roared, "Focus it!"—his storm bolter barked, rounds denting its hide. Aelius slashed its cables, Veyra's sword pierced its flank—the Horsemen struck as one: Chaoseater cleaved its cannon, Harvester gashed its core, Mercy and Redemption blinded it, Scorn snapped its leg—it collapsed, a wreck of ruin.

Silence fell, the sump a slaughterhouse—blood mixed with sludge, bodies floating. War's Chaos form faded, his breath ragged. Death steadied Fury, Strife grinned through gore, Theron's squad regrouped—two down, their ceramite cracked. Aelius panted, his vox faint—Veyra glared, her arm bleeding, her sword dripping.

Then a voice slithered—from the Warp, not the sump—molten, fractured, familiar yet wrong. "Horsemen…" The Charred Council's tones, distorted, echoed in their minds. "Balance… shatters… Chaos… binds…" A vision flared—three stone faces, wreathed in flame, cracked and bleeding, purple tendrils clawing their chamber. It snapped, leaving War reeling, his siblings tensing.

Death's rasp was sharp. "The Council—broken?"

Strife's grin faltered. "What the hell—our bosses cracked?"

Fury's whip coiled tight, her voice fierce. "Something's torn them—the Warp?"

War steadied himself, the echo—restore—a jagged truth. "They're here—or were. The rift wasn't chance—Chaos took them, us too."

Theron approached, his vox steady. "Your visions—what now?"

War met his gaze, Chaoseater ready. "The depths—the Council's tied to this. We find it, break it."

Veyra's vox snarled, "More heresy! They're Chaos's puppets—end them!"

Aelius snapped, "They're our edge, Inquisitor—stand down!"

Theron's fist crackled, his tone final. "They fight with us—prove otherwise, Thalor, or hold your peace."

The sump's shadows loomed, the hive's pulse a call to war. The Horsemen stood united—War's fire, Death's cold, Strife's chaos, Fury's rage—ready for the depths, the Council's ruin a beacon in the dark.