Warhammer 40,000: Echoes of Divinity

«The Lord Commander's counteroffensive has been ongoing for over half a month.»

«In these past weeks, our advance has been unyielding—the tide of war has turned decisively in our favor. Yet now, the Heretics have begun to fortify their defensive positions.»

As the 87th Regiment secured control of a newly subdued hive sub-city, Duncan sat inside his battle-scarred Leman Russ tank, the engine's roar melding with the distant echoes of bolter fire. He scribbled meticulous notes into his field journal, each stroke a testament to the sudden shift in the tempo of the conflict—a war measured not only in blood and fire, but in the shifting tides of faith and duty.

For more than two weeks, the enemy had been in complete disarray.

Their reactions had been as varied as the heresy that fueled them—some forces crumbled and fled like vermin, others succumbed to blind, panicked terror, while a few fanatical zealots hurled themselves forward as living bombs, their crude explosives a final act of defiance.

Then—without warning—their behavior changed.

It was subtle at first.

Though the cultists still lacked the disciplined coordination of a seasoned foe, their localized battlefield tactics had grown markedly more refined.

They were learning.

Unfortunately for them, it wasn't nearly enough to threaten the Imperial ground forces.

Consider this hive sub-city, for instance—

The autonomous artillery batteries had saturated the area with hellfire long before the PDF ever arrived.

Combat drones swept through the ruins, identifying and neutralizing survivors.

By the time Duncan's regiment moved in, their task had been simple—advance and execute whatever remained.

It was not a battle.

It was a purge.

Duncan snapped his journal shut with a measured solemnity.

The battered leather cover bore a single name:

"Albert."

A familiar, weighty sorrow settled in his chest.

For the first time since Qin Mo's visit, Duncan felt a twinge of guilt.

When the Lord Commander had personally inquired about the needs of his troops, Duncan had remained silent about Albert's final, dying wish.

But deep down, he knew he had made the right choice.

The war in the underhive was far from over.

Priorities had to be set in iron and blood.

Still, he murmured a quiet oath under his breath:

"But I know we're going to win—everyone believes it and after we do, I'll personally see your wish fulfilled."

With care born of duty and remembrance, he secured the journal within a reinforced reliquary—a standard-issue personal vault for Imperial soldiers, fashioned from adamantine-laced ceramite. This sacred container was designed not only to survive the carnage of war but to preserve the final words of a loyal servant of the Emperor.

A sudden pounding on the tank's hull tore him from his thoughts.

"Commander, you need to see this!"

....

Duncan climbed from the turret with deliberate haste, meeting the wide-eyed company officer below.

"You have to see this."

The officer held up a shattered fragment of a Praetorian power armor—a gouged, bloodstained chest plate.

Duncan accepted the battered chest plate and connected a data-line into its damaged interface port.

Immediately, a combat recording flickered to life in his helmet's HUD.

....

[Playback: Combat Footage]

"Looks like this was some gang's bunker. Stay sharp."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"So your Bloodcrest gang had bunkers like this too?"

The footage, captured in first-person perspective, depicted a squad of PDF infantry moving through a dimly lit, dank underground shelter.

One soldier—a striking figure with a red mohawk—stood apart from the rest.

"Why the hell aren't you wearing a helmet?"

"Because I want the Lord Commander to recognize my face when he looks across the battlefield."

"..."

The banter continued as they swept the bunker, clearing one darkened room after another.

Then—they reached the farthest chamber.

As their helmet lamps flickered on, the darkness peeled away, revealing hundreds of grotesquely mutated figures, huddled together at the far end of the bunker.

They were pressed against a massive, sealed door—as if they were trying to break inside.

The light exposed them.

The mutants turned.

Panic reigned.

The squad broke into a full sprint, retreating toward the bunker exit.

The helmet's perspective spun wildly—

Then, abruptly cut to static.

Duncan clenched his jaw. The soldier had been decapitated mid-flight.

"What are your orders, sir?" The officer asked expectantly.

....

"Report this immediately. The Lord Commander's Thunderborns will handle it."

The officer stiffened at the order.

"With all due respect, sir—this is an opportunity for glory. Why not deploy two companies and a pair of Leman Russ? We could flush them out and wipe them ourselves."

Duncan shook his head.

"I desire glory too, but tell me—do you have any idea how many mutants lie in wait down there? Do you comprehend what might be concealed behind that sealed Plasteel door? We cannot afford to let this spiral out of control."

His tone hardened.

"Tonight, every soldier will transcribe the power armor operations manual ten times. And the section on bio-scanners? You'll memorize it."

Without another word, Duncan climbed back into his tank, leaving no room for argument.

....

Two Minutes Later

The Gang bunker exits were sealed.

Imperial infantry and tanks locked the area down.

A transport gunship hovered overhead, anti-grav engines thrumming in the night air.

To the rank-and-file soldiers, the Lord Commander's Thunderborns were the very embodiment of the Emperor's wrath—unyielding and ever-present in the darkest hour.

When called upon, they arrived without fail.

Tonight, the one who had descended was none other than Grot.

The moment the soldiers beheld his imposing figure disembarking, tension rippled through the ranks like a whispered prayer.

....

Grot's armor was spattered with fresh blood, his gravitic hammer slung casually over his shoulder, its surface still slick with the gore of recent combat.

He had clearly just left a battlefield—and whatever he had fought, he had crushed with his favorite method—brutal, close-quarters devastation.

But then they saw his face—and relaxed.

Unlike Grey, who was perpetually grim and unreadable, Grot was easygoing, almost approachable.

He exchanged light-hearted banter with soldiers, laughed at their quips, and offered hearty encouragement even amidst the carnage of battle.

Tonight, though, his expression bore a trace of amused incredulity.

"Seriously, brothers?" Grot bellowed, hefting his grav-hammer with a casual swagger as his eyes swept over the assembled troops. "All of you—with tanks and a full company at your back—couldn't handle a bunch of mutants?"

The company officer saluted sharply. "It's not merely the mutants, sir. There's something strange—"

"They're all huddled around a single room."

Grot's brow furrowed in genuine interest.

"Oh? That's interesting."

At first, he had assumed this was just another routine purge.

Now?

This was something else entirely.

"Fine. Let's go together," Grot declared, adjusting his grip on the hammer. "That way, you'll still get some credit for the kill."

The officer's grin broadened, Grot was a man of honor.

If it had been Grey, he would have just walked in alone and left them with nothing.

Grot ensured that his presence was shared among his brothers.

....

Grot strode into the ruins, scanning the entrance to the underground complex.

"By the way—I'm running my gravitic shield," he remarked casually, his tone laced with the confidence of a veteran. "So stand back unless you fancy being pulverized."

The soldiers behind him immediately stepped back.

Activating his bio-scanner, a detailed HUD map unfurled before his eyes—

[231 non-human signatures.]

They were densely packed, forming a tight blockade around the sealed chamber.

Yet, curiously, the scanner detected no signature within that sealed room.

Either its occupant was not biological in nature—

Or something was hiding it.

Grot's frown deepened.

"What in the Emperor's name is this?"

He turned back to the soldiers with a steely resolve.

"If anything appears amiss—run. I have a grav-shield to protect me, but you do not."

The officer nodded, the weight of the unknown settling over them as they prepared to face whatever horror lay beyond the sealed door.