Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The hive's depths were a tomb of steel and shadow, its tunnels narrowing into a suffocating maze. War marched with Aelius and Veyra's forces, Chaoseater a steady weight across his shoulder. The air was a cloying mix of rust and decay, the walls trembling with the hive's distant heartbeat—machinery groaning miles above. The Ultramarines moved with silent precision, their bolters sweeping every corner, while Veyra's retinue trailed behind—the flamer-wielder's weapon hissing, the scribe's dataslate glowing faintly. The Warp's pulse thrummed stronger here, a low vibration that set War's teeth on edge, resonating with the rift that had torn him from Earth.

The manufactorum's slaughter had only been a prelude. Veyra's voice cut through the silence, her tone cold as ceramite. "The Word Bearers' true strength lies below—a fortress carved from the hive's bones. They've turned the weak into chattel, the strong into zealots. We'll find no mercy there, nor give it."

Aelius's helm tilted, his vox steady. "The Emperor's light will purge them. We press on." His squad echoed their oaths, a murmur of faith that grated on War's patience. He cared nothing for their god or Veyra's crusade—only the Warp's shadow mattered, the thread tying his fate to this chaos. Death's scythe, Strife's guns—they haunted him, visions of his siblings drawn to this galaxy's madness. The Council's command—restore balance—was a splinter in his mind, its meaning obscured by blood and steel.

The tunnel widened into a chasm, its floor dropping into darkness. A bridge of rusted girders spanned it, leading to a massive gate—iron forged into a leering skull, its eyes glowing with crimson lumens. Rune-etched barricades flanked it, manned by cultists in spiked armor, their chants a low drone. Beyond loomed a fortress of blackened metal, its towers jagged and crowned with warpfire braziers. The Word Bearers had claimed this place, their presence a stain on the hive's underbelly.

Veyra raised a fist, halting the convoy. "Their stronghold," she said, her bolt pistol gleaming. "Heavily guarded. We strike hard—break their line, breach the gate." She glanced at War, her mask hiding all but her piercing eyes. "Your blade's thirst will serve, Horseman. Don't disappoint me."

War's lip curled. "I fight for myself, not your approval." He hefted Chaoseater, its edge catching the crimson light. Aelius signaled his squad, bolters priming with a chorus of clicks. "For Guilliman," he voxed, his power sword flaring to life. The flamer-wielder grinned, igniting his weapon, while the scribe muttered prayers over his dataslate.

The assault began with thunder. Aelius's Ultramarines opened fire, bolt rounds punching through cultists in sprays of gore. Veyra's flamer roared, a wall of fire engulfing the barricades, turning zealots to screaming torches. War charged, his crimson cloak a banner of death, Chaoseater cleaving through the first defender—a cultist with a chain-axe, its teeth whining until War's blade silenced it with a wet crunch. The bridge trembled under his boots as he carved a path, bodies falling like chaff.

The gate loomed, its defenders rallying—Word Bearers now, their crimson ceramite scarred and rune-etched. They fought with a ferocity beyond the cultists, their bolters spitting warp-tainted rounds that sparked against War's armor. One swung a power maul, its head crackling; War parried, the impact jarring his bones, then drove Chaoseater through the traitor's chest. Dark blood sprayed, and the Marine laughed—a guttural hymn—before collapsing.

Aelius joined him, his squad cutting a swathe through the line. "Push forward!" he roared, his sword bisecting a Word Bearer mid-charge. Veyra's retinue followed, her pistol barking as she felled a cultist leader, her flamer turning a bunker into an inferno. The bridge became a slaughterhouse—bolter fire, warpfire, and Chaoseater's relentless arc painting the steel red. The gate groaned as an Ultramarine planted a melta charge, its hiss promising ruin.

The explosion shook the chasm, iron shattering inward. War stormed through the breach, Aelius at his side, into a courtyard of twisted metal and pulsing runes. Word Bearers awaited—elites in terminator armor, their bulk dwarfing even War, their weapons a mix of chainfists and combi-bolters. A champion stepped forward, his helm a skull crowned with horns, a plasma pistol glowing in his grip. "The outsider," he rasped, his voice warped by vox. "Tzeentch's prize. Your soul will burn."

War roared, charging as the champion fired. Plasma seared his pauldron, melting ceramite, but he closed the gap, Chaoseater clashing with a chainfist in a shower of sparks. The Terminator's strength was immense, its servo-arms grinding against his blade, but War's fury prevailed—he ducked a swing, driving his sword into the traitor's gut. Ceramite split, and the champion staggered, only to laugh as warpfire bled from the wound. "The Changer… remakes…" it gurgled, collapsing.

The courtyard erupted—Ultramarines clashing with Terminators, Veyra's retinue burning through cultist reinforcements. A chainfist crushed a Marine's helm, blood spraying, while Aelius parried a power claw, his sword flickering with strain. War fought like a tempest, Chaoseater felling foes with brutal precision, but the Word Bearers' resilience unnerved him—each laughed through death, their faith a madness he couldn't fathom.

A scream pierced the chaos—Veyra's flamer-wielder, caught by a combi-bolter's burst, his chest pulped. She didn't flinch, her pistol blasting the shooter's helm apart. "Hold the line!" she barked, her scribe cowering behind her. The stronghold's heart loomed—a spire of black iron, its peak glowing with warp energy. The ritual was near, its pulse a drumbeat in War's skull.

Then it hit—a vision, sharp and unbidden. The courtyard blurred, replaced by a battlefield under a fractured sky. Fury stood amidst the carnage, her whip cracking, her blades a blur—his sister, fierce and wild, cutting through faceless foes. "War…" her voice snarled, sharp as her steel. "The rift binds us… chaos reigns…" She turned, her eyes blazing, and the vision snapped, leaving War gasping, the spire swimming back into focus.

Aelius steadied him, his vox urgent. "Again?"

War nodded, his breath ragged. "Fury. The last of us." Death, Strife, now Fury—the Horsemen were converging, drawn by the Warp's will. The rift's purpose crystallized, a shadow he couldn't yet grasp.

Veyra's voice cut through. "Focus, Horseman! The spire—there!" She pointed, her pistol steady despite the blood streaking her coat. The Word Bearers rallied around it, their numbers thinning but their fervor unbroken. Aelius rallied his squad—three left, their armor scarred—while Veyra's scribe chanted, his dataslate sparking with overload.

War charged the spire, Chaoseater hungry. A Terminator blocked him, its chainfist roaring—he ducked, slashing its legs, then drove his blade through its helm as it fell. Another fired a bolter, rounds grazing his side; he roared, hurling Chaoseater like a spear, impaling the traitor through the chest. The spire's base loomed, its runes pulsing, the air thick with warp-taint.

Aelius reached him, panting, his sword dripping. "The ritual's close," he voxed. "We end it here."

Veyra joined them, her gaze flicking to War. "Your visions—Chaos speaks through you. Prove they're wrong." Her tone was a challenge, her faith a blade at his throat.

War retrieved Chaoseater, its edge slick with gore. "I prove nothing to you," he growled. "This ends because I will it." He felt the Warp's gaze—Fury's snarl, Death's rasp, Strife's laugh—binding them to this crucible. The spire was a beacon, its ritual a key. He'd break it, for his siblings, for the Council, for himself.

The fortress trembled, warpfire flaring from its peak. The Word Bearers' chants rose, a hymn of doom. War stepped forward, Aelius and Veyra at his flanks, their forces battered but resolute. The iron veil parted, revealing the cult's dark heart. Whatever lay within, he'd face it—unbroken, unbowed, a Horseman forged anew.