Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The hive's abyssal depths were a festering mire, its tunnels a labyrinth of rusted steel and oozing rot. War led the march, Chaoseater gripped tight, its blade dulled by daemon ichor but sharp with purpose. Death followed, Harvester's scythes slung across his back, his skeletal frame a silent specter in the gloom. Strife strode beside him, Mercy and Redemption holstered, his white armor crusted with dried blood and ash, his grin a flicker of defiance against the decay. Fury brought up the rear, her whip coiled at her hip, her blades gleaming, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the tunnel's pallor, her eyes burning with unrelenting rage.

Brother-Captain Aelius limped alongside, his armor a ruin—cracked ceramite, blood-streaked—but his bolt pistol steady, his vox a low hum of grit. Commander Theron marched with his three remaining Ultramarines, their blue ceramite scarred and dulled, their bolters primed in tight formation. His power fist crackled faintly, his storm bolter slung across his chest, his vox a steady anchor amidst the tension. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor was gone—her betrayal a raw wound, her departure into the shadows a silent vow of vengeance. Her absence left a void, but the air still carried her venom, a lingering mistrust that shadowed their steps.

The Keeper's ruin clung to War's mind—the daemon's seductive laugh, Veyra's blade at his back, the Council's fractured echo—"Chaos… consumes…" The vision of their stone faces, cracked and bleeding, purple tendrils clawing their chamber, was a scar that deepened with each step. The rift, the throne, the Keeper—threads in a tapestry of corruption that had torn their masters and bound the Horsemen to this galaxy's chaos. Restore balance—the command was a fire in his gut, its meaning a blade they'd hone in the hive's depths.

The tunnel twisted lower, its walls slick with slime and pocked with pustules—bloated, weeping sores that pulsed with a sickly green glow. The air thickened, heavy with the stench of rot and disease, the Warp's pulse a slow, gurgling rhythm that churned War's stomach. Strife coughed, his grin fading. "Smells like a plague pit—something's festering down here."

Fury's whip twitched, her voice sharp. "Nurgle's stink—rotting and alive. Stay sharp."

Death's mask tilted, his rasp cold. "The Plague God's touch—slow, relentless. This isn't Slaanesh's game anymore."

War nodded, his senses screaming—the Warp's call was a miasma, thick and oppressive, tied to the Council's fall. "Close ranks," he rumbled. "We're walking into its jaws."

The tunnel widened into a cavernous sump—a swamp of bubbling sludge, its surface a sheen of green rot, dotted with rusted platforms and swaying gantries. Massive pipes loomed overhead, leaking pus-like ooze, their hum a dull groan of decay. The air shimmered with corruption—flies buzzed in thick clouds, their drone a maddening chorus. At the sump's heart loomed a mound of twisted flesh and metal—a grotesque altar, its surface writhing with maggots, crowned by a figure of bloated horror.

The Plague Lord stood massive—its flesh a mass of oozing sores, its armor rusted and fused with rot, its single eye glowing with malevolent glee. A great cleaver hung in its grip, dripping with plague, and a swarm of flies orbited its bulk. It chortled—a wet, gurgling sound—and its voice slithered through the muck. "Horsemen… fresh meat… Nurgle's gift awaits…"

Aelius tensed, his vox strained. "Emperor shield us…"

Theron's lenses narrowed, his vox steady. "Nurgle's spawn—a Plague Lord. Form defensive positions!"

War ignored them, Chaoseater rising—his Chaos form simmered, his gaze locked on the daemon. "Another god's pawn," he growled. "We break it—same as the rest."

Death's scythes slid free, his rasp sharp. "Rot's just meat—carve it clean."

Strife drew his pistols, his grin sharp. "Let's pop this pimple—messy but fun!"

Fury's whip uncoiled, her snarl fierce. "It'll choke on its own filth—I'll make sure."

The Plague Lord laughed, its cleaver swinging—the sump erupted. Plaguebearers shambled from the sludge—gaunt, one-eyed, their rusted blades dripping with pus. Mutants lurched forward, their flesh bloated with sores, their claws oozing venom. Flies swarmed thicker, a buzzing wall of pestilence, their bites drawing blood. The daemon's cleaver slashed, plague-winds gusting outward.

War roared, charging—Chaoseater cleaved a Plaguebearer's torso, rot spraying. Death danced, Harvester reaping—mutants fell, their bodies collapsing into sludge. Strife fired, Mercy and Redemption a storm—flies burst, Plaguebearers staggered, his laughter wild. Fury's whip cracked, coiling a mutant's throat—she yanked, her blades slashing its core.

Theron's Ultramarines fired, bolters barking—mutants crumpled, Plaguebearers shuddered. Aelius fought beside War, his sword slashing a mutant's chest—his vox roared, "Hold fast!" The flies bit deep, their venom burning—Aelius grunted, his arm swelling, but he pressed on.

The Plague Lord's cleaver swung—War dodged, the wind fouling his cloak with rot, while Death severed a gust with Harvester. Strife took a hit, his leg oozing—he laughed, firing back, rounds denting its hide. Fury's whip snapped its arm, staggering it—her blades slashed its thigh, pus spraying, but it retaliated, a plague-wind hurling her into the sludge.

Then a shout—Aelius spun, his vox sharp. "Ambush—behind!" From a side passage burst Veyra, her coat soaked in muck, her power sword blazing—she swung at Strife, her vox a scream. "Heretics die!" Strife dodged, Mercy firing—her arm bled, but she pressed, her blade clashing with Fury's.

War roared, "Veyra!"—he charged, Chaoseater parrying her sword, sparks flying. "You're dead!" he snarled, shoving her back. Theron barked, "Thalor, cease!"—his fist crushed a Plaguebearer, his storm bolter pulping another, but Veyra swung again—War blocked, his Chaos form flaring, and struck her chest, hurling her into the muck.

Death faced the Plague Lord, his scythes slashing—its cleaver met Harvester, rot spraying. Strife fired into its eye, Fury rose dripping, her blades piercing its back—the daemon chortled, its bulk unshaken. War turned from Veyra, charging—Chaoseater cleaved its leg, Death's scythes gashed its core, Strife's rounds blinded it, Fury's whip snapped its arm—it staggered, its laugh gurgling.

Theron's squad lost one, a mutant's claw splitting his helm—Aelius saved another, his pistol pulping a Plaguebearer's skull. Veyra rose, her vox raw—"Chaos's tools!"—and swung at Fury—Fury parried, her whip coiling Veyra's arm—she yanked, disarming her, and slashed her leg—Veyra fell, cursing.

The Plague Lord shrieked, "Nurgle… endures…"—its cleaver flared, plague-winds blasting—War shielded Death, the rot searing his chest; Strife dove, dragging Fury clear; Theron braced, one Marine collapsing in a heap of sores. War roared, his Chaos form blazing—Chaoseater crashed into its chest, Death's scythes severed its arms, Strife's pistols pulped its head, Fury's blades pierced its heart—it dissolved, a puddle of rot and flies, the altar crumbling.

Silence fell, the sump a charnel pit—sludge mixed with blood, bodies sank. War's Chaos form faded—Death steadied him, Strife grinned, Fury snarled. Theron regrouped his two Marines, Aelius panted, Veyra lay in the muck, clutching her leg, her sword lost.

A voice slithered—deep, pestilent, from the Warp. "Horsemen… decay… is eternal…" A vision flared—the Council's chamber, three stone faces shattered, purple tendrils binding them, a figure looming—cloaked, horned, its laugh a chorus of four gods. It snapped—War reeled, his siblings tensing.

Death's rasp was sharp. "The Council—caged by Chaos, all of it."

Strife's grin vanished. "Four voices—those bastards run the show?"

Fury's whip coiled, her snarl fierce. "They're ours—Council or not, we break them."

War steadied himself, the echo—restore—a jagged truth. "Chaos holds them—the gods united. We hunt the head."

Theron approached, his vox steady. "You broke it—again. Her…" He nodded at Veyra. "She's done."

War faced Veyra, Chaoseater ready. "You chose—live with it or die."

Veyra's eyes burned, her voice weak. "You're the end—I'll see it…" She crawled away, Theron's Marines letting her pass—his vox final. "She's out. We're with you."

Aelius nodded, his vox faint. "To the end, Horsemen."

War met his siblings' gazes—War's fire, Death's cold, Strife's chaos, Fury's rage—united, ready for the abyss, Chaos's heart a prize they'd claim or burn.