Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The hive's depths were a labyrinth of despair, its tunnels a festering wound of rusted steel and dripping corruption. War led the descent, Chaoseater a steady weight in his grip, its blade catching the flicker of dying lumen-strips. Death followed, Harvester's scythes slung across his back, his skeletal frame a silent shadow. Strife strode beside him, Mercy and Redemption holstered, his white armor streaked with sludge and blood, his grin undimmed. Fury brought up the rear, her whip coiled, her blades gleaming, her crimson hair a banner of rage against the gloom. The Warp's pulse thrummed through the walls—a deep, relentless heartbeat, calling them to its source.

Brother-Captain Aelius marched with them, his armor battered but his bolt pistol steady, his vox a low hum of resolve. Commander Theron led his eight remaining Ultramarines, their blue ceramite a stark contrast to the hive's decay, their bolters primed in disciplined ranks. His power fist crackled faintly, his storm bolter ready, his vox steady as he scanned the shadows. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor trailed behind, her coat tattered, her mask half-shattered, her power sword humming with barely contained fury. Her scarred jaw clenched, her eyes fixed on the Horsemen—a predator stalking prey.

The sump's slaughter lingered in War's mind—the daemon engine's ruin, the Council's fractured voice—"Balance… shatters…"—a jagged truth that bound them to this galaxy's chaos. The vision of their stone faces, cracked and bleeding, purple tendrils clawing their chamber, gnawed at him. The rift had been a thread; this was the weave—Chaos had torn the Council, dragged the Horsemen here, and the depths held the answer. Restore balance—the command burned, its meaning a blade they'd sharpen in blood.

The tunnel plunged deeper, its walls narrowing, slick with rot and etched with runes that pulsed faintly—eight-pointed stars, twisted glyphs, a language of corruption. The air thickened, heavy with the stench of decay and warp-taint, the Warp's pulse a drumbeat in War's skull. Strife whistled, spinning Mercy. "Smells like a party down here—big, nasty, my kinda gig."

Fury's whip twitched, her voice sharp. "Keep your guns ready, fool—something's waiting."

Death's mask tilted, his rasp dry. "It's close—the air's wrong. Like home, but broken."

War nodded, his senses screaming—the Warp's call was strongest here, a lure tied to the Council's ruin. "Stay sharp," he rumbled. "We're not alone."

The tunnel opened into a vast chamber—a cathedral of ruin, its ceiling lost in shadow, its floor a cracked expanse of black stone veined with purple light. Massive pillars rose, warped and studded with skulls, their surfaces writhing with runes that bled warpfire. At the chamber's heart loomed a throne—jagged, immense, forged of twisted iron and bone, its back a fractured slab pulsing with molten cracks. It echoed the Charred Council's seat, but corrupted—its edges shimmered with Warp energy, its presence a mockery of their origin.

Aelius halted, his vox tense. "What in the Emperor's name…"

Theron's lenses swept the chamber, his vox steady. "A stronghold—Chaos's grip is deep here."

Veyra's sword flared, her voice a snarl. "Their doing! This is their taint—proof of their heresy!"

War ignored her, stepping forward—Chaoseater raised, his gaze on the throne. The Warp's pulse surged, a voice slithering through the air—not the Council's molten tones, but a distorted echo, layered with malice. "Horsemen… welcome… to your cradle's ruin…" Shadows coalesced atop the throne—a figure, towering, its form a nightmare of flesh and steel. Its body was a mass of molten stone, cracked and bleeding purple warpfire, its face a shattered mask mimicking the Council's three visages—twisted into a single, leering grin. Chains dangled from its limbs, snapping with warp-taint, and in its grip burned a staff of blackened bone.

Death's scythes slid free, his rasp sharp. "A puppet—our masters' shadow, warped by Chaos."

Strife drew his pistols, his grin faltering. "What the hell—our bosses got a makeover?"

Fury's whip uncoiled, her snarl fierce. "It's a lie—whatever it is, it dies."

War's lip curled, his Chaos form simmering. "It's ours—our past, twisted. We end it."

The entity laughed—a molten, fractured sound—and gestured. The chamber erupted—Word Bearers stormed from the shadows, their crimson ceramite scarred, their bolters blazing. Mutants swarmed, their flesh warped with tentacles and claws, their shrieks piercing. Daemons flickered into being—hulking, horned things, their axes dripping warpfire. The throne's chains lashed outward, warp-taint crackling, as the entity roared, "Balance falls… Chaos rises… your purpose is mine!"

War charged, Chaoseater cleaving a Word Bearer's helm—blood sprayed, the traitor crumpling. 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 arm—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 chest, his vox steady—"Hold them!" Veyra struck alone, her sword cleaving a daemon's head—her vox snarled, "Die, filth!"—but a mutant's claw gashed her side, drawing blood.

The entity's chains lashed—War dodged, one scorching his armor, while Death severed another with Harvester. Strife took a hit, his chestplate denting—he laughed, firing back, rounds sparking off the throne. Fury's whip snapped a chain, staggering the entity—her blades slashed its leg, warpfire bleeding, but it retaliated, a blast of energy hurling her against a pillar.

War roared, his Chaos form flaring—his eyes blazed, his blade swung, cleaving a chain mid-strike. The entity shrieked, its staff flaring—warpfire blasted outward, forcing the Horsemen to scatter. Theron's squad lost one, a daemon's axe splitting his helm—Aelius saved another, his pistol pulping a mutant's skull. Veyra rose, her sword slashing a Word Bearer's throat—her vox spat, "This is their fault!"

The entity's voice boomed, "You serve… or shatter…"—its chains lashed again, one coiling War's arm—he roared, wrenching free, his blade slashing its arm. Death struck its flank, Strife fired into its mask, Fury leapt from the pillar, her blades piercing its shoulder—warpfire sprayed, the entity staggering, but the throne pulsed, feeding it power.

Aelius took a hit, a daemon's axe gashing his arm—he grunted, firing back. Veyra fought through pain, her sword slashing a mutant's spine—Theron's fist crushed a Word Bearer's helm, his storm bolter pulping another. The Horsemen pressed—War's fire, Death's precision, Strife's chaos, Fury's rage—a storm against the entity's might.

The throne cracked, its molten veins flaring—the entity shrieked, "Chaos… eternal…"—and unleashed a wave of warpfire. War shielded Death, the heat searing his back; Strife dove, dragging Fury clear; Theron braced, his squad scattering—two more fell, their ceramite melting. Aelius staggered, Veyra ducked—the chamber trembled, the Warp's pulse peaking.

War roared, his Chaos form blazing fully—Chaoseater crashed into the throne, splitting its base. Death's scythes struck, Strife's pistols fired, Fury's whip snapped—the entity's mask shattered, its form unraveling in a scream of molten ruin. The throne collapsed, its warpfire snuffing out—the entity dissolved, a puddle of ash and corruption, its voice fading, "The game… endures…"

Silence fell, the chamber a slaughterhouse—blood pooled, bodies littered the stone. War's Chaos form faded, his breath ragged—Death steadied him, Strife grinned through gore, Fury snarled, her blades dripping. Theron regrouped his five remaining Marines, Aelius panted, Veyra glared, her side bleeding.

A voice slithered—faint, molten, from the Warp. "Horsemen… we… falter… Chaos… consumes…" The Council's echo, weaker, a plea or a warning—it cut off, leaving War's mind ringing. He met his siblings' gazes—Death's mask steady, Strife's grin gone, Fury's eyes fierce.

"They're lost," War rumbled. "Taken—or breaking. This was their shadow."

Death's rasp was cold. "Chaos holds them—our purpose twists."

Strife holstered his pistols, his voice low. "So we're on our own—screw it, I'm still game."

Fury's whip coiled, her snarl sharp. "We hunt—or we're prey. No masters now."

Theron approached, his vox steady. "You broke it—again. What's next?"

War faced him, Chaoseater ready. "The Council's gone—Chaos has it. We find the source, end it."

Veyra's vox snarled, "Heresy's root! They're Chaos's now—kill them!"

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

Theron's fist crackled, his tone final. "They fight with us—prove your claim, Thalor, or silence it."

The chamber'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 abyss, the Council's ruin a wound they'd cauterize in blood.