Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The lower hives were a festering wound, a sprawl of twisted metal and despair beneath the hive city's crushing weight. War followed Inquisitor Veyra and Brother-Captain Aelius through the bulkhead, Chaoseater a constant presence at his side. The air was a soup of damp rot and burnt promethium, the walls slick with grime and scrawled with frantic prayers—some to the Emperor, others to darker powers. Dim lumen-strips flickered overhead, casting the tunnel in a sickly yellow glow that danced across the Ultramarines' blue ceramite and Veyra's black coat. Her retinue trailed close—the psyker muttering, the flamer-wielder's weapon hissing, the scribe tapping at his dataslate with nervous fingers.

Screams echoed from the depths, sharp and fleeting, swallowed by the hum of machinery and the distant clatter of conflict. Veyra's stride was relentless, her bolt pistol drawn, her mask amplifying her clipped commands. "The Word Bearers have rooted here," she said, her voice a blade through the gloom. "Cultists multiply like vermin, feeding on the weak. We burn them out—root and stem."

Aelius nodded, his power sword humming faintly. "The Emperor's will be done," he voxed, his squad fanning out to cover the tunnel's branching paths. War said nothing, his gaze fixed ahead. The Inquisitor's zeal mirrored Heaven's, her ruthlessness a cold echo of Hell's lords. He cared little for her cause, but the Warp's pulse thrummed stronger here—a lure tied to his arrival, to the Council's fractured voice. He'd carve through this cult, not for her Emperor, but for the truth.

The tunnel opened into a vast chamber—a derelict manufactorum, its skeletal cranes and conveyor belts rusted into silence. Shanties of scrap metal and fabric sprawled across the floor, a makeshift village lit by flickering braziers. Figures moved within—hundreds, perhaps thousands—gaunt humans in tattered robes, their eyes wild with fervor or fear. At the chamber's heart stood a dais of scavenged steel, crowned by a Word Bearer in crimson armor, his helm a leering skull adorned with horns. He raised a crozius arcanum, its head blazing with warpfire, and his voice boomed, amplified by voxcasters: "The Dark Gods rise! Cast off the Corpse-Emperor's chains—embrace the truth of Chaos!"

The crowd roared, a wave of chants—"Blood for the Skull Throne! Change for the Weaver!"—their voices fracturing into a cacophony of devotion. War's lip curled. He'd seen worship like this in Hell, but this was messier, more desperate. Veyra's hand tightened on her pistol, her voice icy. "Heresy in full bloom. We end it now."

Aelius signaled his squad, bolters snapping to aim. "Cleanse and purge," he ordered, his tone unyielding. Veyra's retinue moved—her flamer-wielder igniting his weapon, the psyker's eyes glowing with strain. War stepped forward, Chaoseater gleaming in the firelight, but Veyra's glare stopped him. "Prove your worth, Horseman," she hissed. "Or prove your doom."

The Word Bearer spotted them, his crozius flaring as he bellowed, "Intruders! Slay them for the Gods!" The cultists surged, a tide of ragged flesh and crude weapons—knives, chains, scavenged lasguns. Aelius's Ultramarines opened fire, bolt rounds ripping through the front ranks in bursts of blood and bone. Veyra's flamer roared, a gout of promethium incinerating a dozen in a shrieking inferno. War charged, Chaoseater carving a path through the mob—heads rolled, limbs scattered, the blade a whirlwind of death.

The cultists were frenzied but frail, their zeal no match for his strength. A man with a chain-whip lashed at him; War caught the links, yanking the attacker into Chaoseater's edge. Another fired a lasgun, the beam scorching his pauldron—he crushed the shooter's chest with a single blow. The Word Bearer descended from the dais, his crozius swinging, warpfire trailing in its wake. "Outsider!" he roared, his voice a guttural hymn. "Your soul will feed the Changer!"

War met him mid-stride, Chaoseater clashing with the crozius in a shower of sparks. The impact jarred his arms, the traitor's strength bolstered by warp-taint. They traded blows—War's raw power against the Word Bearer's sorcery—each strike shaking the air. Aelius fought nearby, his squad cutting through cultists, their bolters a steady thunder. Veyra's voice pierced the chaos, barking orders as her retinue burned and blasted, the psyker hurling bolts of psychic energy that burst cultists into twitching husks.

The Word Bearer laughed, a wet rasp, and swung low—War parried, but a tendril of warpfire lashed his side, searing through armor. Pain flared, and he staggered, the chamber tilting. The traitor pressed, his crozius aiming for War's helm—until Aelius intervened, his power sword slashing the Word Bearer's arm. The traitor snarled, turning, and War seized the moment—Chaoseater drove through ceramite and flesh, impaling the heretic from behind. The crozius fell, its fire fading, and the Word Bearer crumpled, gurgling, "The Gods… see…"

The cultists wavered, their chants faltering as their leader died. Veyra's flamer swept the dais, turning survivors to ash, while the Ultramarines mopped up stragglers. War steadied himself, the pain subsiding, his gaze on the fallen traitor. The Warp's pulse thrummed beneath the chamber, deeper still, a heartbeat of corruption. He felt it—closer now, tied to the rift, to the Council's will.

A cry snapped his attention—Veyra's psyker doubled over, clutching his skull. "Voices!" he wailed, blood trickling from his nose. "The Warp screams!" Before Veyra could react, a vision seized War—sharper, more vivid than before. The manufactorum vanished, replaced by a wasteland under a crimson sky. Death stood atop a pile of corpses, his scythe dripping, his skeletal mask gleaming. "War…" his rasp cut through the wind. "The rift calls us… balance bleeds…" A shadow loomed behind him—clad in black, twin pistols blazing—Strife, his brother, laughing amid the carnage. The vision shattered, leaving War reeling, the chamber swimming back into focus.

Aelius was at his side, steadying him. "Another shadow?" he asked, his vox low.

War nodded, his voice rough. "My kin. They're coming." He kept Strife's name silent—too much to explain, too raw—but the vision burned. Death, now Strife—the Horsemen drawn to this galaxy, piece by piece.

Veyra approached, her pistol trained on the psyker, who trembled on his knees. "What did you see, Kael?" she demanded. The man whimpered, "Eyes… endless… a tide of death…" She shot him, a single bolt through the skull, his body slumping in a spray of gore. War tensed, but Aelius's hand on his arm held him back.

"Sanctioned," Veyra said coldly, holstering her weapon. "His mind was breaking—taint or weakness, it's the same." She turned to War, her gaze piercing. "You faltered too, Horseman. Visions? Voices? The Warp's mark grows."

"He's no heretic," Aelius snapped, his tone hard. "He slew their leader—saved us."

Veyra's mask hid her sneer, but it was there. "For now, Captain. But I'll watch him closer." She gestured to the dais, where her scribe examined the runes. "This was a foothold, not the heart. The true ritual lies deeper—stronger, darker. We press on."

War stared at the psyker's corpse, then at Veyra. Her ruthlessness chilled him—not for its cruelty, but its blindness. She saw enemies in shadows, even allies. He understood survival, sacrifice, but this was dogma twisted into a blade. "I'll go," he said, meeting her gaze. "Not for your mercy. For my purpose."

Aelius nodded, his squad regrouping. "We're with you, Horseman. The Emperor guides us."

Veyra's eyes lingered on War, a predator sizing prey. "So be it. But one slip, and you're mine."

The chamber was a graveyard now—cultists burned, the Word Bearer's body cooling. The Warp's pulse beckoned from below, a siren call War couldn't ignore. Death's scythe, Strife's guns—they haunted him, pieces of a puzzle this universe was forging. He hefted Chaoseater, its weight a vow. The cult's heart awaited, and with it, the rift's truth. He'd face it, break it, and drag his brothers from its jaws if he must.

The convoy moved deeper, the hive's shadows swallowing them whole. War felt Veyra's gaze, Aelius's trust, and the Warp's hunger. He welcomed it all. He was War, and this was his crucible.