Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The hive's underbelly was a labyrinth of decay, its tunnels a web of rusted steel and dripping filth. War strode beside Brother-Captain Aelius, Chaoseater resting on his shoulder, its edge still flecked with the daemon's ash. The Ultramarines followed in a tight wedge, their bolters sweeping the shadows, their vox a low hum of clipped reports. Aelius limped slightly, his wound bandaged but seeping, yet his resolve held firm. The air was thick with corruption—a sour tang that coated War's tongue, sharper than Hell's sulfur, alive with the Warp's insidious pulse.

The daemon's death lingered in War's mind, its laughter a splinter in his thoughts. He'd faced abominations before, but this Tzeentch-spawned thing was different—its power a thread to the rift that had dragged him here. The Charred Council's fractured command—restore balance—echoed faintly, a purpose he couldn't yet grasp. This universe's chaos dwarfed Earth's apocalypse, its wars a tapestry of madness he was only beginning to unravel. Aelius's words rang true: worse awaited. War welcomed it. Answers lay in blood.

A faint hum broke his reverie—the whine of engines, distant but closing. Aelius raised a fist, halting the squad. "Vehicles," he voxed. "Not orkish. Imperial." His lenses scanned the tunnel ahead, where it widened into a cavernous junction strewn with refuse and broken habs. Lights flickered, casting jagged pools of illumination, and the hum grew into a roar. From a side passage emerged a trio of armored transports—sleek, black, emblazoned with a stylized "I" crowned by a skull. They ground to a halt, disgorging figures in dark cloaks and gleaming carapace armor, lasguns snapping to aim.

At their head stood a woman, her presence a blade in the gloom. She wore a long coat of black leather, its hem scorched, her face half-hidden by a rebreather mask. A power sword hung at her hip, its hilt adorned with purity seals, and a bolt pistol gleamed in her gloved hand. Her eyes—cold, piercing—locked on War, narrowing as if peeling back his soul. Behind her, a motley retinue fanned out: a hulking figure in patchwork armor clutching a heavy flamer, a robed scribe clutching a dataslate, and a wiry psyker, his head shaved and trembling with restrained power.

"Inquisitor Veyra Thalor," Aelius said, stepping forward, his tone clipped but respectful. "Ultramarines, Second Company. We've purged a Chaos ritual below—Word Bearers and a daemon of Tzeentch."

The woman—Veyra—tilted her head, her gaze never leaving War. "So I've heard, Captain Aelius," she replied, her voice sharp as a lasbolt. "Vox chatter speaks of your… ally. An outsider, clad in crimson, wielding power no mortal should." She stepped closer, her boots clicking against the metal. "Explain him."

Aelius hesitated, a rare crack in his composure. "He calls himself War. He slew the daemon, saved my life. He's no servant of Chaos—his blade proves it."

Veyra's lips curled beneath her mask, a sneer or a smirk. "A noble endorsement, Ultramarine. But I trust no blade over the Emperor's judgment." She raised her pistol, not aiming but poised, and addressed War directly. "Speak, stranger. What are you? Mutant? Heretic? Something worse?"

War met her stare, unflinching. "I am War, Horseman of the Apocalypse," he rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "I serve no god, no Emperor. I was torn from my world by your Warp, and I'll carve my way back—or through—whatever stands in my path."

A murmur rippled through her retinue. The psyker flinched, his eyes darting, while the flamer-wielder growled, "Sounds like heresy to me." Veyra silenced them with a gesture, her gaze sharpening. "Horseman," she mused. "A title steeped in blasphemy. And this power you wield—Chaos clings to you, yet you claim no master. A paradox. Or a lie."

"He speaks truth," Aelius interjected, his sword hand twitching. "I've fought beside him—orks, traitors, daemons. His strength is ours against the enemy."

Veyra's eyes flicked to Aelius, then back to War. "Your faith is admirable, Captain, but naive. The Warp twists all it touches. I've seen saints fall to its whispers—why not this… thing?" She stepped closer, her pistol rising slightly. "Prove your purity, Horseman. Submit to my authority, or I'll burn you where you stand."

War's grip tightened on Chaoseater, its tip scraping the floor. "I kneel to no one," he said, his voice cold steel. "Threaten me again, and you'll taste my blade."

The air snapped taut. The Ultramarines shifted, caught between loyalty and instinct, while Veyra's retinue raised their weapons. The psyker muttered, his hands trembling, and the flamer's nozzle flared with a pilot light's hiss. Aelius stepped between them, his vox sharp. "Stand down, Inquisitor. He's no foe—not yet. We've a common enemy below."

Veyra's mask hid her expression, but her eyes burned. "Your trust blinds you, Aelius. But I'll indulge it—for now." She lowered her pistol, though her stance remained coiled. "The Word Bearers' taint spreads. My sources report a greater ritual deeper in the hive. If this 'War' is as you say, let him prove it in blood. He walks with us—or he dies."

War stared her down, his silence a challenge. He cared nothing for her Emperor or her threats, but the ritual piqued his interest. The Warp's shadow, the daemon's words, the Council's vision—all pointed deeper. "I'll go," he said finally. "Not for you. For me."

Veyra nodded, a predator's satisfaction in her gaze. "So be it. But know this, Horseman: my eye is on you. One misstep, and the Emperor's mercy ends."

Aelius exhaled, a tension easing from his frame. "Then we move as one," he voxed, rallying his squad. "Inquisitor, lead on."

The convoy rolled out, War and the Ultramarines falling in beside Veyra's transports. The tunnels widened, then plunged deeper, the air growing colder, the walls slick with condensation and rot. War felt the Warp's pulse strengthen, a heartbeat in the dark. The Inquisitor's suspicion was a thorn, but he ignored it—her kind were fanatics, like Heaven's host, blind to anything beyond their creed. Aelius's trust, however grudging, was enough for now.

The journey stretched, the convoy's lights slicing through the gloom. War's mind drifted, the Council's echo stirring again—restore—until a sharper vision seized him. The tunnel blurred, and he saw a figure: skeletal, clad in black, a scythe gleaming in its grip. Death, his brother, stood atop a mound of corpses—Space Marines, orks, things with too many limbs—his mask a pale slash against a crimson sky. "War…" his voice rasped, faint and distant. "The rift widens…" The image shattered, leaving War staring at the tunnel wall, his breath ragged.

Aelius noticed, his helm tilting. "What is it?"

War shook his head, steadying himself. "A shadow. Nothing more." He kept Death's name to himself—too soon, too uncertain. But the vision burned: his brother, here, drawn by the same force. The rift's purpose deepened, a thread pulling the Horsemen together.

The convoy halted at a massive bulkhead, its surface scarred with claw marks and lasburns. Veyra dismounted, her retinue forming up. "Beyond lies the lower hives," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. "A nest of heresy. The Word Bearers gather strength—cultists, mutants, worse. We purge it, or it consumes us."

Aelius drew his sword, its blade humming. "For the Emperor," he intoned, his squad echoing the oath. War remained silent, his gaze fixed on the bulkhead. The Warp's pulse quickened, a lure he couldn't ignore. Veyra's threat hung over him, but it was the ritual—the Chaos within—that called. He'd face it, break it, and find his path.

The bulkhead groaned open, revealing a abyss of flickering lights and distant screams. Veyra led, her retinue at her heels, Aelius and his Marines behind. War followed, Chaoseater ready, the Inquisitor's gaze a weight on his back. The hive's depths swallowed them, promising blood and revelation. Whatever awaited, he'd meet it as he always had—unbroken, unbowed, a Horseman in a galaxy of chaos.