In the grimdark galaxy of the 41st millennium and beyond, Nostramo was a name spoken only in whispers—a world shattered by its own cruel history, and the treachery of the Lords of Night. Its surface once bathed in darkness and cruelty, Nostramo was reduced to ash and silence after the Night Haunter's final judgment. For centuries, it remained a tomb-world—its orbiting fragments casting long shadows across the void like the frozen screams of its former populace.

In the twilight of the 39th Millennium, the Imperium, beset on all sides by war and rebellion, re-evaluated its territories. Nostramo, rich in rare ores and buried tech from the Dark Age of Technology, was quietly reclassified. The first colonists were criminals—cast-off scum from a thousand hiveworlds and failed defense force regiments, thrown onto the dead planet to toil or die. The penal colonies grew. Walls rose. Manufactorums began to churn again, fed by the tortured muscles of the condemned. Over the following centuries, as warp storms swallowed segments of Segmentum Obscurus and neighboring sectors fell into silence, Nostramo became an unlikely sanctuary. Human refugees, outcasts, mutant-clades, and sanctioned xenos enclaves began to find their way to the half-lit world. Though the Administratum protested, the Imperium’s reach was stretched thin, and enforcement was selective at best.

Nostramo became a place where names were forgotten, identities shed, and survival was the only law.

Xenos merchants—Tarellian caravans, reptilian hybrid clans, even rogue Tau scientists—found purchase in the old city-husks. They brought technology, ideas, and industry. By M43, mining guilds operated under multi-species councils, with scavenged STC fragments driving manufactorum rebirth.

After almost a millennium of uneasy peace and industrial prosperity, Nostramo trembled once again. It began slowly—localized quakes in the deep mines beneath the Vantine Spire. At first dismissed as tectonic instability, the quakes soon became more frequent, more targeted, and disturbingly rhythmic.

Some whisper the tremors are the death-throes of Nostramo’s tormented machine-spirit, still screaming from the Night Haunter’s wrath.

Others believe something ancient stirs—something buried beneath the blackstone vaults, awakened by centuries of drilling and xenos tech.

Still others suggest a darker possibility: the Lords of Night never left, not entirely. And deep within the crust, fragments of their legacy—biological, psychic, or worse—wait to be unearthed.

What remained of a planetary administration could not ignore it for long. A specialized team of archaeologists, led by Magos Xantheus was dispatched to the mines. Their mission was clear: find the source of the tremors, investigate any anomalies, and report their findings back to the highest orders of the imperium 

The Arrival of Xantheus

The archaeologists and their guards arrived at the mine's entrance, a vast yawning pit that seemed to swallow the light of their lanterns. Overhead, the flickering light of the dying star that bathed Nostramo in eternal twilight barely reached the surface of the planet. The star’s light was sickly, corrupted—just like the world itself.

"Magos Xantheus" one of the archeologist said, his voice crackling over the comms, "this place... it feels wrong."

Tech-Magos Xantheus, an ancient figure clad in the arcane armor of the Mechanicum, nodded in agreement. "Only when we obtain all of the relics, can we begin to heal the dark past…"

They descended into the darkness, the tunnel walls slick with the filth of centuries of industrial refuse. The further they descended, the colder it became. The deeper they dug, the more the darkness seemed to press in on them.

"Keep your eyes open," Xantheus instructed as they moved deeper into the mine. "We are not just here for the source of the tremors. We are here to find the truth of Nostramo’s past."

The Buried Truth

It took them days to reach the deepest part of the mine. There, hidden beneath layers of rock and rusted infrastructure, they discovered a vast, ancient structure, one that had been long forgotten. Its architecture was alien, twisted and unholy—desecrated in ways only those who had fallen to Chaos could understand.

"I knew it," whispered Xantheus. "This is no mere structure... it’s a temple."

The walls of the temple were adorned with symbols, runes that twisted and shifted when the light hit them at odd angles. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and a feeling of oppressive dread filled the space. But it wasn’t the decay that set their hearts racing; it was the power that pulsed from the heart of the structure. It was faint but unmistakable—a dark energy, as though something had lain dormant for millennia, waiting.

They moved cautiously through the halls, their weapons raised and their sensors scanning for any sign of danger. But even their advanced technology was useless against the Warp’s touch. The deeper they ventured, the more distorted the reality around them became. Shadows seemed to move on their own. Voices, distant but unmistakable, whispered from the walls. A flicker in the corner of Xantheus' vision—a flash of something standing just beyond the flickering light—made her pause.

But it was when they entered the heart of the temple that they realized what they had unearthed.

The central chamber was vast, its ceiling supported by towering spires of black stone, etched with runes of Chaos. In the center stood a portal, though it had long since crumbled into ruin. Yet even in its decay, Xantheus could feel its power. It was a relic of a time when the Lords of Night had used this place to commune with the dark powers of the Warp. This was no mere shrine to Chaos—it was a focal point, a place of great power, a place where they once made their dark pacts.

Xantheus kneeled before the portal, her hands trembling despite her years of service to the imperium. She reached out, her fingers brushing the surface of the stone. The ground trembled beneath them, and the lights flickered erratically. In an instant, the chamber was plunged into darkness, the oppressive air thick with the taste of the Warp. The ground beneath their feet cracked open, revealing a massive stone altar. Upon it lay a dark orb, pulsiing with magical energy.   This was the source of the signal—the source of the power that had drawn them here.

A voice echoed in Xantheus' mind, harsh and bitter, as if it had been waiting to speak for eons.

"You have awakened me, Magos."

On the barren, cracked surface of Nostramo’s wasteland, the air stank of both oil and death. A ship, built from scavenged parts and welded together by the most crude of Ork hands, cut through the blackened atmosphere, descending onto the surface like a rogue comet. The Klawhammer—a battered warship, was an emblem of the chaos that was to come. It's hull was pocked with battle scars, and its cargo bay was filled with grinning, gibbering Orks ready to tear apart anything that stood in their way.

Among them was the warboss, Bogsnot the Klawhammer. Towering and imposing with his mechanical, clawed hand—an appendage forged from the remains of a long-dead titan—Bogsnot was no stranger to violence. His eyes gleamed with madness and cunning, his crooked teeth bared in an ever-present snarl. He stood atop the metal deck, looking out over the barren expanse of the wasteland. His Orks were ready to loot, scavenge, and smash anything that moved. But this planet—Nostramo—was a strange one.

“I ain't trustin' this place,” Bogsnot muttered, eying the horizon. “Somethin’s wrong about it.”

His second-in-command, Grungefist, was less concerned with the metaphysical mysteries of the planet. He was more focused on the physical: namely, the stash of weapons rumored to be buried in a nearby ruin.

“We’re gonna smash ‘em all, boss! The loot’s ours fer the takin'!” Grungefist yelled, his voice high-pitched with excitement as he pumped his slugga in the air.

But Bogsnot didn’t share his enthusiasm. Something had been nagging at him ever since they’d dropped from the sky, like the feeling of eyes watching from every corner. The deep, pulsating vibrations that had coursed through the ground beneath the Ork’s feet hadn’t escaped his notice either.

From the depths of the land, something more sinister was awakening.

It began as a low, guttural screech that echoed over the ruined horizon. The sound was alien, unnatural, and filled the Orks with a mixture of confusion and excitement. Some of the younger, more reckless Orks fired their guns at the sky, hoping to hit whatever was making the noise. But Bogsnot could feel the presence in the air, something larger than the simple survival game of scavenging.

“Get ready, lads,” Bogsnot growled, his mechanical hand tightening around his enormous choppa. “We ain’t alone!”

A brood of Alien hive beasts burst from the earth like some great, predatory flood. Zuul, the Swarmlord, led them—an apex predator among the Hive Mind’s terrible creations. Its dark chitinous form loomed, towering over the other hive beasts that swarmed out from cracks in the earth. Zuul was a vision of pure destruction, its claws dripping with venom, and its gaze focused only on the Orks who had dared tread into its domain.

Behind it, Grexl the Broodlord stalked, its spindly form darting in and out of shadow, lurking just beyond the reach of the Orks’ sight, yet ever-present. It hissed and clicked its mandibles, its senses keen for the scent of blood, particularly the green-skinned warriors.

Bogsnot’s eyes narrowed as he watched the swarm approach. Despite the fact they had been caught off-guard, he was quick to respond. A roar of Ork laughter and battle cries filled the air as the warboss swung his massive clawed hand forward.

“I hates BUGZ!!! It’s Krumpin’ time!!!!”

Gunfire and howls filled the air as Ork weapons opened up, blazing streams of fire in every direction. The Hive Aliens were upon them in seconds, the air thick with the sickening chittering of the swarm. For a brief moment, the Orks struggled to coordinate, caught by surprise at the sheer ferocity of the attack. But then, the warboss’s battle fury infected them all. In no time, the Orks were charging headlong into the fray, choppa and shoota in hand, the battle becoming a savage frenzy.

Zuul’s massive talons slashed through Ork after Ork, his movements fluid and deadly. But the Alien Hive leader soon realized that the Orks were not as easily cowed as others. They came at it with an almost unnatural aggression, clashing in a tide of brass and flesh.

The battle raged on with vicious intensity, and slowly, the Orks began to overpower the Alien Hive force. As Bogsnot’s massive claw swung, it caught Zuul in the side, ripping through its armor and causing a spray of chitin and ichor to explode from its body. The Swarmlord screamed, its mind-altering psychic scream wailing across the battlefield. But even that was not enough to stop the tidal wave of Ork violence.

With one final blow, Zuul was felled, its massive body crumpling to the ground as Bogsnot stood over it, grinning from ear to ear. The Orks cheered, but their victory was short-lived.

A great shadow passed over them. The ground shook again, far more violently than before, and a massive Tyrannocyte emerged from the depths of the ground. The flying bio-vessel hummed with dark energy as it hovered toward the Orks, its form brimming with horrific creatures. Its dark, fleshy hull was scarred with the marks of the Hive Mind.

Before it could land, Bogsnot roared, his shoota booming into the air, and the Orks opened fire. Bullets and plasma streaked through the air, and with a final, violent explosion, the Tyrannocyte ruptured, splattering the field with Tyranid gore.

Yet, as the last of the creature’s blood rained down upon them, the Orks noticed something strange. The aliens hadn’t just been attacking. They were defending something.

Bogsnot's eyes narrowed, scanning the wreckage. “Oi, lads. Somethin' ain't right here... This ain’t about us. It’s about whatever they were tryin’ to keep safe.”

With a savage laugh, Bogsnot turned and called into the Klawhammer's comms system.

“Oi! We needs more boys down here! Big thing’s comin’—an’ I’m gonna find out what these bugs were protectin'! These badlands belong to us, and it's gonna stay that way!”

The sound of the warboss’s command blared through the comms, the Ork ship engines roaring as it prepared to send reinforcements. The battle was only just beginning.

The corridors of the Hive were bathed in the cold glow of bioluminescent fungus that lined the walls, casting eerie shadows over the alien hive warriors as they marched. The air was thick with the smell of chitin, pheromones, and death. Broodlord Grexel and Swarmlord Zuul approached the central chamber forlorn, bruised and humbled as their long, predatory limbs moved in silence. Both were stained with the blood of Orks, their defeat by the green-skinned creatures a bitter one, marred by the fact that they had not completed their mission.

As they entered the vast, cathedral-like chamber where Galaxion awaited, the Hive Tyrant's massive form loomed above them. His carapace was a fusion of chitin and dark biomechanical armor, his towering presence enough to fill the entire room with an overwhelming sense of authority. His eyes, glowing a sickly yellow, regarded them with an intensity that made even the mightiest of the alien warriors shrink. Galaxion, the living embodiment of the Hive Mind’s will, was more than just a commander—he was a manifestation of the aliens swarm’s hunger and wrath.

Grexel and Zuul stopped before him, their heads bowed in submission, their once-proud forms now humbled. Galaxion did not speak immediately. Instead, the sound of his breath, a low, guttural growl, reverberated throughout the chamber, echoing off the walls. It was as though the very atmosphere quivered in fear.

“You failed,” Galaxion’s voice rumbled, a deep, resonating growl that sent chills down the spines of even the most stalwart Tyranids. "You were sent to eradicate the Ork infestation, to crush them underfoot, to silence their warbands. And yet... this is the result?"

The words hit like a lash, sharp and unforgiving. Zuul, still wounded from the battle, shifted uncomfortably but did not speak. Grexel, however, found his voice.

“Lord Galaxion, the Orks—” Grexel began, but was immediately interrupted by a furious screech from the enraged Hive Tyrant.

“Silence!” Galaxion’s roar shook the chamber, sending the shadows of the Hive trembling. “I sent you to eliminate the threat, not to return with excuses and failure! You think I care for your skirmishes, for your blunders in battle? You are fools! You have wasted my time and the Hive’s resources! Do you know what you have done?  What if they discover the cults? Or worse…the HIVE!?”

Grexel’s chitinous body trembled, and Zuul hissed quietly, feeling the sting of their master's anger. Their previous victories now felt hollow, insignificant. But even as the wrath of Galaxion threatened to crush them, another voice broke the tension—calm, measured, yet undeniably powerful.

"Perhaps... I can offer a better path forward," a voice echoed from the shadows, smooth and calculated.

Both Grexel and Zuul turned, their mandibles clicking in surprise. Standing in the far corner of the chamber, floating effortlessly above the ground, was Euronymous Prime. The alien Neurothrope, an abomination of psychic power and mechanical-like precision, gliding silently into view. His form was strange—an enormous, floating brain encased in a chitinous exoskeleton, tendrils of psychic energy constantly flickering from his head. His voice was soft, yet it carried a weight that could command entire swarms.

"Lord Galaxion," Euronymous Prime said with a bow of his red carapace armoured head, his tone as placid as the stillest of waters. "You underestimate the Orks. They are not to be taken by force alone. They are, as always, distracted by ... shiny things, by easy pickings."

Galaxion turned his gaze toward the Neurothrope, his eyes narrowing, but the anger in his stance began to ebb slightly, replaced by a quiet curiosity.

"And you suggest ….what?" Galaxion’s voice was laced with disdain, but there was a subtle openness to the query.

Euronymous Prime’s psychic tendrils flickered as he projected his thoughts directly into Galaxion’s mind. "There is a place beneath the surface of this world, deep within the mines. A hidden structure—an ancient temple, one lost to time, and buried beneath the weight of Nostramo’s dark past. The Orks are easily drawn to such places, to treasures that gleam, and the promise of power that calls to their basest instincts. Let them discover it. Let them believe it is a place of untold wealth, a holy shrine to the gods they foolishly worship."

The Neurothrope’s voice continued in Galaxion’s mind, unburdened by the need for spoken words. “But they will never leave. Once they are in that temple, they will be trapped by the very power that they seek to claim. The force hidden there is more than they could ever handle—a power that has lain dormant for millennia, waiting to consume those foolish enough to disturb it. The Orks will fall, and in their disappearance, their numbers will dwindle, leaving the Hive to feast on the remnants."

Grexel and Zuul stood silently, sensing the shifting tides in the chamber. They had expected the Hive Tyrant’s wrath to break them, to reduce them to nothing. But now, with the Neurothrope’s words, the possibility of a cunning plan unfolding filled the air with a new tension.

Galaxion fell silent for some time, considering Euronymous Prime’s suggestion. The Hive Tyrant’s mind was as vast and cold as the endless void itself, and those who dared challenge his will rarely left the conversation alive. But Euronymous Prime’s plan was clever, and it appealed to something within Galaxion—a desire for perfection, for the unrelenting consumption of the galaxy. The silence in the chamber deepened, broken only by the distant hum of the Hive’s boil and thrum. Galaxion’s eyes, glowing brighter than ever, locked onto Euronymous Prime. He could feel the weight of the decision pressing on him—every choice made in this war would echo across the stars, shaping the fate of the swarm.

Finally, Galaxion spoke, his voice dripping with venom but tempered by calculation.

“Very well,” Galaxion finally rumbled, his voice low but filled with authority. “You have convinced me, Euronymous Prime. Prepare the swarm. We will draw the Orks to the temple. Once they are there, we will crush them without mercy. Let Nostramo be their grave.”

As the Hive Tyrant’s orders resonated throughout the Hive, a new sense of purpose filled the chamber. Galaxion turned back to Grexel and Zuul, his eyes narrowing once again.

“Go at once. Lead the swarm. Show the Orks that they are but prey. Do not fail me again, and this time… take the tunnels.”

Grexel and Zuul nodded with sinister smiles, their mandibles clicking nervously as they departed, their minds already focused on the mission ahead. The Hive Mind’s will would not be denied.  As Euronymous Prime’s psychic energy reached out to ether to find the location of Bogsnot’s warband, the swarm prepared their assault. The plan was complete.  The trap would be set.  All that was left was execution.

Galaxion specialized in execution. 

The vast expanse of Nostramo and its moons stretched beneath the stars as Commissar Ibram Gaunt gazed out the viewport of his command vessel, Emperor's Wrath. He had received the message from the defense force lieutenant on the surface and knew the risks the Tanith 1st Regiment would face. Xantheus, a key tech-magos, had vanished, and worse, corruption seemed to have infected the Imperial forces themselves. Mutilations, defections, strange symbols—signs that this world was teetering on the brink of something far darker than the usual Imperial hardship.

Commissar Gaunt knew darkness; a veteran warrior of Tanith, forged in the fires of countless wars against the xenos and the heretic. With the unyielding courage of a true servant of the Emperor, Gaunt had led his regiment through countless campaigns, from the treacherous jungles of Phantine to the hellish battlefields of Cadia. Fearless in the face of death, he was a tactical genius who inspired unwavering loyalty in his soldiers.

"Six hours, Captain”, Gaunt said to the officer beside him, a hardened veteran of the Emperor's Wrath. "Get us ready for drop. The moment we make landfall, I want all of my men geared up, and ready to move."

"Understood, Commissar," the captain replied, giving a sharp salute.

Gaunt turned back to the viewport, his thoughts a swirl of questions and suspicions. The mention of stolen equipment, the kidnapping of civilians, and the grotesque carvings found on the bodies—everything about the situation screamed of a Genestealer cult. Such cults had a knack for infiltrating even the most loyal of Imperial forces.

"An infiltration by the xenos…," Gaunt muttered to himself, his gaze narrowing. He rubbed a hand across his short-cropped beard, considering his next move.

He had to be careful. This mission, at face value, seemed like a standard rescue operation—a Magos of the Mechanicum lost in the depths of Nostramo’s mines. However, the implications were far greater. If the rumors about the Genestealer cult were true, then Gaunt knew that this operation could spiral into something far more dangerous, not only for his regiment but for the entire planet.

As he stood there contemplating, the vox-caster crackled, pulling him out of his thoughts. The voice of Lieutenant Aric, the defense force officer on Nostramo, crackled through the static, urgent and somewhat frantic.

"Commissar Gaunt, report coming in. We’ve had more disturbances from the Imperial Guard units stationed here. They’ve been... changing. It's like they’ve become something else. The men who’ve turned are starting to organize. They’re using the old catacombs beneath the city as hiding places. Worse yet, we’ve found evidence of... worship. There are symbols carved into walls—symbols that match the ones we’ve been seeing on the mutilated civilians."

Gaunt’s mind immediately latched onto that last part—the "symbols of worship." In all his years serving the Emperor, he had encountered the taint of Chaos on countless battlefields, but this felt different. It wasn’t the usual signs of warp corruption. No, this was something else—something worse. It had the unmistakable marks of a Genestealer infestation.

"Commissar," said one of the officers, interrupting his thoughts. "Our initial scan of the dropsite indicates enemies descending around the perimeter. Their formations appear….strange.  The planetary defense force is setting up defensive positions!"

Gaunt considered the report for a moment, then nodded sharply. "We’ll land in the southern district—close to the old Mechanicum stronghold. Make sure our forces are spread out and ready to secure a defensive line as soon as we touch down. No surprises. No mistakes. This is going to be a fight, and we fight for the Emperor’s will. Stay sharp and stay together. We secure Nostramo, we find Xantheus, and we end this corruption before it spreads."

"Aye, Commissar! The Emperor protects!"

The transmission ended, and Gaunt stood at the front of the command deck, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the planet approach. He could feel the weight of what was coming—the sense that something long buried was waking, something that threatened not only the lives of his men but the fate of the entire planet. His gut twisted with an instinct that had saved him countless times before—this wasn’t going to be a simple rescue. Gaunt turned towards his men in deep contemplation, his eyes hardening as he looked over the assembled officers in the command room. His Tanith were always prepared for the worst, but even they had their limits. 

Little did he know how much Nostramo would test them.

The storm of battle had passed, but the air on the surface of Nostramo was thick with the acrid scent of burning fuel and the stench of death. Smoke swirled around the battlefield, the ground was littered with the twisted remains of the enemy as the Tanith 1st Regiment consolidated.

Commissar Gaunt stood amidst the carnage, his gaze scanning the horizon, seeking any sign of movement. His mind was sharp, his eyes focused, but something gnawed at the back of his thoughts. This wasn't just a routine engagement. There was something darker here—something that had been festering beneath the surface of Nostramo for far too long.

"Perimeter secured, sir," Sergeant Gavriel, a grizzled veteran of the Tanith 1st, approached Commissar Gaunt. Her uniform was smeared with dirt and blood, and her face was set in the grim determination that marked all of the Tanith regiment. "Minimal casualties. Our tanks cut through them like a hot knife through butter. The cultists were no match for our discipline, sir."

Gaunt nodded, his eyes scanning the battlefield once more. The report was reassuring, but it didn’t quell the unease in his gut. This victory felt… incomplete. The enemy had been crushed, yes, but what was left behind? What had they truly fought against?

His thoughts were interrupted when Gavriel gestured to a body lying face down in the dirt. "That one, sir. He’s different."

Gaunt’s gaze shifted, and he walked towards the fallen soldier. The cultist’s body was covered in grotesque tattoos and bodily mutilations—twisting, serpentine designs and marks that seemed to shift in the smoke-filled air. These were not the markings of a Genestealer cult, he realized. They were something darker. Something older. Gaunt crouched beside the corpse, examining the intricate symbols that adorned the soldier’s flesh.

An eight-pointed star—a sigil unmistakably associated with the Chaos gods.

He stood abruptly, his expression hardening. This was no Genestealer infestation. This was Chaos. And it had taken root again on Nostramo.

"Sergeant, I need a comm-link to 'The Raven'—Corvus Cruz, of the Grey Knights," Gaunt said, his voice low but firm.

Gavriel gave a sharp nod and immediately began activating the vox-link. Moments later, the harsh crackle of static gave way to the voice of the one man Gaunt trusted to handle such threats.

"Commissar Gaunt," the voice of Corvus Cruz crackled over the comm, deep and steady, though tinged with a quiet urgency. "You’ve found something?"

"I have," Gaunt replied, his voice cold and measured. "A cult of Chaos, Cruz. It’s not a Genestealer infestation. These cultists bear the marks of the Dark Gods—Chaos symbols, specifically the eight-pointed star. I’m going to need your assistance."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Gaunt could almost hear Cruz’s mind working, piecing together the information. Finally, Cruz spoke.

"That confirms something I’ve suspected for some time," Cruz said, his voice hardening. "The Night Lords never truly left Nostramo. They left parts of it untouched, areas deep beneath the surface, hidden from the Imperium’s eye. Temples to the Dark Gods—sealed away, waiting for a time when they could awaken. This cult… they may be the first stirrings of that awakening."

Gaunt’s jaw tightened. The Night Lords were one of the most terrifying legions.  If they had returned to Nostramo, it would be a disaster—one that could tear the entire sector apart.

"I’ll meet you at the fuel outpost outside Nostramo Quintus," Gaunt said, his mind already working through the tactical possibilities. "We’ll need to act fast. We can’t afford to wait for them to gather strength."

"I’ll be there in 36 hours," Cruz replied without hesitation. "But know this, Commissar Gaunt: if the Night Lords are truly stirring again, there’s no time to waste, but I’ll need you to keep your eyes open. If you find any more signs of Chaos, anything that might point to a larger network, I need you to report it immediately."

"Understood." Gaunt said, his voice unwavering. "We’ll find them, Cruz. I’ll see you at the fuel outpost."

The vox-link cut off, and Gaunt stood alone in the smoldering wasteland. His eyes lingered on the body of the cultist for a moment longer, his mind processing the information. He turned away from the corpse and signaled for his men to begin securing the area. The battle was over for now, but Gaunt knew that the darkness of Nostramo had only just begun to reveal itself. The cultists were only the beginning. The true threat lay beneath the surface, buried in the shadows of the planet, waiting for the right moment to rise once more.

And with theKnights of Grey Battle Brothers on their way,  Gaunt knew that time was running out. The Emperor's light would shine on Nostramo again—or it would be consumed by the forces of Chaos.

He just hoped it wouldn't be too late.

The air was thick with the oily stench of scorched metal and the burn of diesel as Bogsnot, Warboss of the Bad Moonz, stood atop the highest fuel tank of the outpost, surveying the chaos below. His massive figure, framed by the blazing infernos of the fuel fires, cast a grotesque shadow over the carnage. His voice boomed across the battlefield, laced with a guttural growl of satisfaction.

“Oi! Fuel up, ya gitz! We need all da guzzoline we can get!” Bogsnot’s guttural command echoed across the now-devastated fuel depot as his boys looted, plundered, and ransacked whatever remained. There were no words of restraint here—just the mindless chaos of Ork greed and the primal instinct to destroy and consume.

Bogsnot's eyes flicked towards his pride and joy: a gleaming, battered Dakkajet, engines roaring with idle power. The massive aircraft was a testament to Ork ingenuity and raw violence, its hull patched with mismatched plates, crude symbols of Ork tribal pride painted over the metal. A grin stretched across his broad face.

"Dat's right! Dat's mah jet, and she's ready for some real krumpin'!" His voice was full of pride, and his massive hand slapped against the side of the jet. The engines revved with eager anticipation, the air thick with the promise of battle.

As Bogsnot’s boys scavenged the depot, tearing apart every last scrap of fuel and munition, Bogsnot’s eyes turned skyward. His grin faltered for a brief moment as he saw a thunderhawk gunship—a massive, grim shape against the darkening sky—cut through the smoke like an iron fist. It was coming in hot, landing on the outpost with deadly precision, the hum of its engines sending a shiver down Bogsnot’s spine.

With a grunt, Bogsnot snapped his attention to his gang. “Get in da trukks, ya gitz! Take all da guzzoline we can carry! Get dat Dakkajet fired up, we got some bizness to settle!”

The roar of engines filled the air as Ork trucks rumbled into motion, carrying crates of fuel and stolen goods. Bogsnot’s Dakkajet slowly rose off the ground, engines howling as it tore into the sky, heading straight for the Thunderhawk as it opened its bay doors.

Inside the open space of the Thunderhawk, Corvus Cruz—Knights of Grey Commander—was already scanning the battlefield while a few of his Grey Knights deployed. His piercing gaze locked on the Dakkajet as it soared toward them. A battle-hardened warrior, Cruz was no stranger to Ork tactics, and he knew full well what was coming. He barely had time to signal his Librarian when the Dakkajet opened fire.

The barrage of bullets struck the Grey Knight Librarian before he could react, tearing through his armor and turning him into a smoldering pile of ash and a mist of blood. A grim silence fell over Cruz as he watched the explosion of Ork firepower, his fists tightening in fury.

"Throne of Terra!," Cruz hissed, his voice cold with rage. "I want that jet out of the sky. NOW!"

He turned towards the Thunderhawk’s commander. “Open fire. We’ll show these Orks what it means to face the Emperor’s wrath.”

The Thunderhawk responded immediately. Its turrets unleashed a vicious barrage of lasers and explosive firepower, sending a storm of energy towards the Dakkajet. Corvax and his men jumped from the bay doors onto a nearby tower and opened fire at the Jet as well as the Dakkajet hurtled towards a cloud of bullets and laser fire. “Bring it DOWN!!!” commanded Cruz.  Unable to sustain more damage, the Ork craft veered violently, dodging and weaving through the air, but it wasn’t enough. The barrage struck true, and the jet exploded in a shower of metal and flame, plummeting to the ground in a twisted ball of fire.

“Gah!!!!!!!!!!” Bogsnot screamed in rage as he watched his beloved jet go up in smoke. He turned to his boys, eyes flashing with fury. “Git ready! We ain't done yet, lads! I want 'em to taste da fury of da Mooonz!”

Grabbing the wheel of his truck, Bogsnot drove it straight up the side of a fuel tank, climbing to higher ground for a better vantage point. The truck’s rumbling engines shook the ground as Bogsnot and his gang opened fire, bullets and shells flying toward the Grey Knight squad on the tower. The air was filled with the sound of relentless Ork dakka.

The Grey Knights returned fire, bolter rounds and plasma shots splintering against the Ork truck. One of Cruz's warriors took a hit, falling to the ground in a heap, but the Orks were soon met with a counterattack that shook them to their core. Cruz’s squad pushed forward, undeterred by the gunfire, and focused their fire on Bogsnot’s truck. A single well-placed shot blasted the truck into the air, sending it into a fiery explosion.

Bogsnot and his boys were thrown from the wreckage, disoriented and dazed as they tumbled across the ground. Bogsnot struggled to regain his bearings, his mind screaming for vengeance. These Grey Knights were tougher than he thought.

Seizing on the initiative, Corvus and his Knights jumped from the tower with their power swords swelling with energy, and crackling with lightning.  Ork heads were severed from their bodies, and limbs were sent sailing into the air, the soil stained with ork blood and air filled with the glory and majesty of Grey Knights.  

“Blimey... these gitz are tougher than they look!” Bogsnot growled through gritted teeth, struggling to rise to his feet. The rage built within him, fueling him like a furnace. He gripped his massive power klaw, eyes narrowing at Corvus Cruz and his warriors, who were advancing with deadly precision.

With a roar, Bogsnot lunged forward, tearing into the last few Grey Knights guarding the fuel tanks with his klaw. His Orks swarmed over the fallen warriors like a tidal wave, smashing and slashing, overwhelming them with sheer numbers and brute force.

But the battle was not over.

Corvus Cruz, bloodied but unbowed, stood alone. His helmet gleamed under the dimming sky, a symbol of unwavering resolve. As Bogsnot advanced, he taunted the Grey Knight Captain.

“Oi! Give it up Grey boy! It’s all over! Da guzzoline’s mine, and you’re gonna be our little prisoner!” Bogsnot sneered, swinging his power klaw threateningly.

But Cruz was not so easily cowed. He spat, his voice dripping with venom. "I will never surrender to a parasite like you, Xenos FILTH!”

With a snarl, Bogsnot surged forward, slashing at Cruz with his mighty klaw. The strike landed, tearing through the armor of Cruz's side, but the Grey Knight Captain was quick to retaliate. With a flurry of blows, he struck Bogsnot in the face and torso, sending the Ork warboss stumbling backward.

Bloodied and dazed, Bogsnot grinned through the pain. He quickly realized he was no match for the Grey Knight in combat and pulled out his rocket launcher, firing a missile directly at Cruz's feet. The explosion sent Cruz hurtling through the air, his form slamming against the ground with an audible thud.

But Cruz, battered and bruised, was not finished yet.

"Throne..." Cruz muttered, struggling to stand. He activated his comms. “Thunderhawk. Get me out of here. Now!”

Above, the Thunderhawk swung back around, unleashing a torrent of fire on the Orks below forcing them to take cover. The ship’s bay doors opened, and the remaining Grey Knights began to jump inside. But just as one of the Knights was about to reach the ship, a net shot out from below, ensnaring him and yanking him back to the ground.

Corvus Cruz’s eyes widened in disbelief. "They’ve got Tacitus!"

The pilot’s voice crackled through the comms, urgency clear. "We can’t stay, Captain. We’re taking too much fire. We need to leave NOW."

With a final, furious glance at Bogsnot, Corvus leapt into the Thunderhawk. The ship soared skyward, its engines roaring as it ascended into the darkening skies. Bogsnot watched as the craft retreated, a wicked grin creeping across his face.

As the dust settled, he looked down at the captured Grey Knight, Tacitus, his body bound and helpless.

"Now," Bogsnot chuckled, "what exactly are Grey Knights doin' here on Nostramo, eh? We’ll find out soon enough…"

The Warboss’ evil grin grew wider, and he licked his lips. There was a new game unfolding, and Bogsnot aimed to win it.  

The low hum of the dropship’s engines reverberated through the cramped medical bay. Inside, the flickering lights cast strange shadows on the battered faces of the Grey Knights. Corvus Cruz sat on a bench, his ceramite armor removed at the shoulder, revealing the jagged, deep wound that marred his side. A servitor—its mechanical arms whirring as it stitched the wound—worked with an efficiency that was unnerving. Cruz grimaced with every pull of the needle, but he said nothing, his mind elsewhere.

Across from him, the door hissed open, and Commissar Gaunt entered, his black uniform a sharp contrast to the worn and grimy atmosphere of the ship’s interior. His eyes were sharp, focused, as always, though the weariness of battle weighed heavily on him.

"Commander Cruz," Gaunt said in his low, griseled voice. "What happened at the fuel depot?"

Cruz’s voice was strained, each word dripping with the weight of frustration and lingering anger. "This Bogsnot," he began, his gaze cold as he looked at the Commissar, "he was no ordinary greenskin. He’s cunning, smart in ways I didn’t expect. He knows how to hit hard, and he knows how to hit fast." He paused, his thoughts darkening as the memory of the battle played out in his mind.

Gaunt’s brow furrowed, but he remained silent, waiting for Cruz to continue.

"We were securing the depot. Thought it was a simple raid, maybe a few Orks trying to get in and get out. But Bogsnot had other plans. He came at us in waves, overwhelming us with sheer brutality. The damn Ork took one of my men—Tacitus. He’s being held captive, Gaunt. Bogsnot's using him to get information, and from what I can gather, he’s no fool. We can’t let him find out about Xantheus."

Gaunt’s hand gripped the edge of a table, the thought of his men being used as pawns burning his insides. "Why does he need your soldier?" he asked, his voice hard.

Cruz’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened as he looked at his side, the pain momentarily forgotten in the flood of his thoughts. "There’s more to this, Commissar. Bogsnot… he wears a talon around his neck. An alien talon. Fresh. Spattered in blood. Orks don’t usually wear trophies like that, especially not from a Tyranid. And on top of that, the bastard’s boys have scars. Fresh ones. Looks like they've had a run-in with the Hive." Cruz shifted, his expression grim. "This is no mere raid for plunder. The Orks, they’ve encountered Alien Hives. They’ve seen them up close and RECENTLY."

A silence fell between them. Gaunt’s heart sank as the implications of Cruz’s words sunk in. Alien Hives, those nightmares from the dark void—could be here. On Nostramo. He thought of the chaos temple, the Mechanicum beacon, and the strange events surrounding the planet.

"Are you suggesting the Alien Hives are on Nostramo?" Gaunt asked, his voice laced with horror.

Cruz nodded, his face pale beneath the grime of battle. "That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. And if the Orks have found them, it means they’re more dangerous than we thought. They're not just here for fuel, or for a fight. They’re looking for something. The same thing we are. Maybe they're after the same power that lies buried beneath the surface of this planet."

Gaunt took a slow breath, steadying himself. He looked at Cruz, his resolve unwavering. "You’re asking me to rescue Tacitus, then. You need him for your mission, for this Mechanicum data."

Cruz’s eyes were urgent, and despite the pain of his wounds, he did not flinch. "Yes. Tacitus is crucial. The beacon left by Xantheus... it leads us toward something far darker. We need to see it through, Commissar. I need to take my Grey Knights to it, there is no time to waste.  Whatever this planet hides, we can’t let the Orks or the Alien Hives find it first."

Gaunt met his gaze for a moment, silent but calculating. Finally, he spoke.

"Consider it done. We’ll rescue Tacitus and ensure that whatever is lurking on Nostramo stays buried."

Cruz nodded, relief flickering briefly across his features before it was replaced with the iron determination of a Grey Knight. He stood up carefully, wincing at the sharp pain that flared from his wound, but his posture remained straight, his demeanor resolute.

"Thank you, old friend.  May the Emperor protect you…"

Gaunt nodded, turning toward the door as he did. "Stay alive, Cruz. We need you."

---------------------------------------

The mountain air at the ork encampment, just outside of the fuel depot was thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Inside his tent, Bogsnot the Warboss grunted in discomfort as he cleaned his wounds. His massive, green hands worked clumsily at the torn skin of his side, the fleshy gashes oozing greenish-yellow ichor. His prized Dakkajet had been brought down in flames, but the battle had been a success. Now, it was time for a new form of “entertainment.”

Grotfist, his boy, walked into the tent, covered in blood and with an air of frustration about him. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand before speaking, his voice strained. "Boss… I beat da Grey Knight for hours. But he ain't sayin' nothin'. Stubborn git, he is."

Bogsnot let out a sharp, guttural laugh. "He ain't gonna break easy, boy. But we got ways of makin' 'em talk. I’ll handle dis."

The Warboss stood, towering over Grotfist. "Go get me the meat. I’ll take it from here."

As Grotfist scurried off, Bogsnot walked into the small, makeshift holding pen where Tacitus was bound with thick, cruel barbed wire. The Grey Knight’s eyes locked onto his as Bogsnot approached, his mouth half-covered by a gnawing turkey leg, which he chewed on with savage delight.

“Oi, Grey boy” Bogsnot called out, grinning. “You hungry? I got a nice leg ‘ere. Want it?”

Tacitus glared at him but said nothing. Bogsnot licked his lips and dropped the leg closer to the prisoner. His smile widened as he leaned in.

"Maybe we can make a deal, eh? You tell me what da Grey Knights are doin' ‘ere on Nostramo, and I might just let you live. Maybe. Is it dem cultists? You chasin' demons? Or maybe you’re after dem bugs too?” His tone was mocking, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Tacitus hesitated, the mention of the “bugs” sparking something deep inside.  He heard orks talk about Alien Hives this way before. Bogsnot had slipped.  Tacitus realized he had a chance and leaned forward, his voice steady but curious. "How do you know about the Alien Hives?" he pretented.

Bogsnot’s eyes widened. "I knew it! You’re after dem bugs, too, ain’t ya? Look, I got me some boomers. BIG bombs, da works! We can go smash dem bugs together, yeah? You tell me where dey is, and I’ll make sure you live to see it."

Tacitus felt a flicker of surprise. An Ork with big bombs? Was he talking about orbital bombs?  Orks didn’t usually possess that type of weapon. He couldn’t afford to let Bogsnot think he knew less than he did.

“I might know where they are,” Tacitus said, his voice calm. "There’s a Genestealer Cult base outside of Nostramo Quintus. The Grey Knights were heading there to get more information on the Hive location."

Bogsnot let out a laugh, clearly pleased by the information. "I knew it! Da Grey Knights, all sneaky-like, chasin’ dem bugs. You better be right about this Grey boy, or I might just start removin’ a few fingers. Or toes.” His grin returned, bloodthirsty and hungry.

With a shove, Bogsnot kicked the leg of meat toward Tacitus, a final act of mockery. "I’ll leave ya to it, Grey Knight. But remember, I’m watchin' ya.”

As the door slammed shut behind him, Tacitus sat in the darkness, the meat untouched. He knew that whatever lay ahead, it wasn’t just Orks he’d be fighting. The Alien Hives were here on Nostramo, and their appetite was insatiable.

The roar of the Thunderhawk's engines reverberated through the hull like the pounding of a war drum, urging Commissar Gaunt to focus on the task at hand. He sat silently, leaning against the cold, reinforced walls of the gunship, his eyes scanning the faces of his troops. The Tanith First and Only had seen their share of horrors, but today, the prospect of facing an Ork warband in the middle of the ruins of a Mechanicum factory was a different kind of challenge.

Beside him, a squad of Raptors—Battle Brother specialists in stealth and precision killing—prepared for the imminent landing. Their armor was dark, their movements even darker, as if they had become shadows themselves. Gaunt admired their discipline, but today, there was no place for shadow and stealth. Today was all about fire and blood.

"Commissar," Sergeant Heron, his first in command, leaned over. The man’s face was a mix of quiet authority and unspoken concern. “We’re coming up on the target. The Ork position is ahead. I’ve got the Grey Knight’s location on the scanner.”

Gaunt’s eyes narrowed. The Grey Knight. A prisoner, bound in barbed wire and chained to a fuel tanker. He was an asset that could not fall into the hands of the Orks, but the situation had become increasingly complex.

Heron continued, “He’s surrounded by a group of grots, looks like they’re carting him to the warboss. Bogsnot’s position is marked, too. We’ll have to move fast.”

“Understood,” Gaunt replied, voice steady. “Get us as close as you can to the northwest. That’ll put us behind the factory ruins. We need cover to strike.”

The Thunderhawk groaned as the pilot acknowledged the command, banking hard to the left. Through the viewport, Gaunt could already see the jagged outlines of the ruined Mechanicum factory—a sprawling labyrinth of rusted steel and shattered concrete, once a bastion of industry in service of the Emperor of Mankind, now a playground for the Orks.

The land was already pocked with craters, signs of previous skirmishes. Far below, he could just make out the figures of the Ork warband—hulking, crude, and loud. Their crude vehicles littered the area: Trukks, battle-wagons, and makeshift machines of war. The Orks were looting whatever they could, tearing apart the factory for anything that might serve their purpose.

Then, he saw it. The grey form of the captured Grey Knight, bound tightly to the tanker. Grots scuttled around, their high-pitched chittering rising in the air as they dragged the prisoner toward the rear of a nearby Ork Trukk, where the warboss, Bogsnot, could be seen sitting like a grotesque king upon his crude throne, grinning as though he’d just won a prize.

Gaunt’s heart sank. Not while I’m here, Xenos.
“Prepare yourselves,” Gaunt ordered, standing up with grim determination. He turned to the Raptors, their dark armor blending into the shadows of the hull. “The Emperor’s light will shine on this battlefield, and we will make sure it does not fade.”

With a screech of metal, the Thunderhawk dipped low over the ruins, its landing gear slamming against the cracked ground. The craft settled with a jolt, and the doors exploded open. Gaunt’s orders rang out like a hammer strike as his men rushed into action.

"Form up! Take positions!" he barked.

The Tanith First spread out, moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. The Raptors melted into the landscape like ghosts, their sniper rifles at the ready, their eyes already tracking the movements of the Ork warband below.

Bogsnot, however, was blissfully unaware of the impending storm. The warboss sat on his throne in the back of the Trukk, a cigar hanging from his mouth, watching his grots carry the bound Grey Knight to him. His laughter rang through the air, harsh and mocking.

"Bring da Grey boy to me, ladz!" Bogsnot shouted.

As the grots scrambled to obey, a high-pitched roar filled the air. Gaunt looked up in time to see an Ork Dakka Jet screaming down toward them, its guns already opening fire. The Raptors were still in the process of taking cover when the first burst of fire splintered the air. Three of them fell, torn apart in the blink of an eye, their once-pristine armor turned to shredded wreckage.

Gaunt’s jaw tightened. No time for hesitation.
“Concentrate fire on that jet!” Gaunt commanded, his voice a razor’s edge. “It doesn’t leave this sky.”

The Tanith First and Raptors opened up with precision, lasguns and sniper rifles flashing as they targeted the jet’s engines. With a series of deafening cracks, one of the engines erupted in a violent explosion, sending a shockwave through the air. One of the jet's wings buckled, nearly tearing free from the fuselage.

The Ork pilot, unphased by the damage, reached out with a greasy, gloved hand and slapped some duct tape onto the broken wing. The raucous laughter of the pilot echoed across the battlefield. “Dat should do da trick!” he cackled.

On the ground, Bogsnot roared with laughter as the Dakkajet whirled back around, firing another barrage of bullets. The Raptors who had survived scrambled to evade, but the deadly projectiles found their mark. Another volley tore through their ranks, leaving only one or two still in action. The jet veered off, leaving nothing but carnage in its wake.

Gaunt gritted his teeth. We’re losing too many too quickly.

The remaining Raptors, now beneath the jet, took aim with their pistols, drawing a bead on the Ork pilot. With a single shot, the pilot’s skull was split in two, and the Dakka Jet spiraled wildly, crashing into the side of a nearby building in a fiery explosion.

Bogsnot’s grimace shifted to horror watching another of his prized Dakkajets spiral to ruin.
Now, the entire battle seemed to have shifted against him. His Waaagh! had been slowed by the Imperial Guard, and the presence of the Grey Knight had only complicated things further. Frustration boiled inside him like an engine gone too hot. He threw the binoculars to the side with a grunt, where they shattered against the rock-strewn ground, and with a snarl, he slapped the steering wheel of the Ork Trukk, making it squeal in protest.

"Dat’s it! We’z goin’ straight at 'em!" he roared to the assembled grots.

Grungefist, his hulking, one-eyed first-in-command, nodded eagerly. The rest of the Ork mob scrambled to obey, tossing the bound Grey Knight into the back of the trukk with a great deal of roughness, though Bogsnot had no time to care for the Grey Knight's condition.

"Move it, ya gits!" Bogsnot barked, slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The Trukk lurched forward, roaring across the battlefield, its wheels kicking up dust and debris, headed away from the Imperial Guard’s approaching line.

As they sped through the chaos, Bogsnot grinned with savage delight. He loved the thrill of battle—especially when it looked like the fight might turn in his favor.

But as they reached the edge of a nearby building, everything went to hell.

A missile shrieked through the air, slamming into the ground beside him with a deafening explosion. The blast rocked the trukk, throwing Bogsnot and his Nobz to the dirt. The deafening roar of the explosion filled his ears, and when the dust cleared, the Ork Warboss found himself sprawled on the ground, his head ringing, his body battered and bruised.

Most of his Nobz had been torn apart, picked to pieces by sniper fire, their bodies disfigured and broken, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Bogsnot lay there, stunned, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. He struggled to regain his bearings, but his fury soon eclipsed the pain.

"Arghh! Grungepiss!" he shouted, his voice filled with rage, "Don’t just stand there, kill somefin’!"

Grungefist snapped to action immediately. His mob of Orks, eager for carnage, leapt from behind cover, charging toward the advancing Tanith First Imperial Guard troops. Bolters barked in the distance, but the Orks were faster, feral and unstoppable. The Guard troops didn't stand a chance as the Orks tore into them with their brutal cleavers and axes, cutting through the human soldiers like paper.

Bogsnot, still on the ground, watched with a twisted grin on his face, laughing as he wiped blood from his forehead.

"HA! That's it, boys! Kill ‘em all!" he roared. Then, with a manic laugh, he shouted over the carnage, "Come on, kids, what else ya got?"

A roar echoed across the battlefield, followed by the sound of heavy engines. The ground trembled as a blue and red Rhino tank appeared, charging toward the Orks, its heavy bolters roaring. The door of the Rhino slammed open, and five heavily armored Crimson Fists Battle Brothers leapt out, opening fire with their bolters.

Orks and Battle Brothers collided in a brutal, bloody melee. Bolts exploded into Ork bodies, sending some of the greenskins flying in bursts of gore, but the Orks were too many, too brutal. They rushed forward, weapons flashing, and tore into the Battle Brothers, their raw strength and ferocity overwhelming the heavily armored soldiers.

The Battle Brothers fought back valiantly, but they were no match for the overwhelming numbers of Orks in melee. The Orks hacked and slashed, and one by one, the Crimson Fists fell. Finally, the last of them turned and fled, bolters blazing as they retreated.

But Bogsnot’s mood soured quickly when the unmistakable sound of more engines reached his ears. Looking up, he saw the Crimson Fists Rhino tank roaring back toward the battlefield, and it was bringing more backup. Bolter fire filled the air and Grungefist and his boyz ran in fear, taking cover wherever they could find it.
"Guess I’ll have to do this meself!" Bogsnot snarled, a wild gleam in his eye. He scrambled back to the wrecked trukk and climbed into the driver’s seat, the still-bound Grey Knight flopping around in the back as the vehicle lurched to life.

The trukk roared forward again, and this time Bogsnot meant to finish it. The tank’s bolter fire raked across the trukk, and explosions rocked the vehicle’s side. The trukk sped quickly forward only to be met by a charging Rhino tank, slamming into its side, sending plates flying and a wheel rolling off of the vehicle. The trukk lurched and broke free, leaving the tank in the dust trying to escape.

But the Crimson Fist would not give up so easily, giving chase with bolters and lasguns blaring at high speed. More plates were torn off and a second wheel exploded, leaving the trukk nothing more than a clunking, rolling mass of metal barely holding together.
Desperate to escape, Bogsnot turned around, stood up in the driver's seat and took out his combi-weapon, launching two missiles at the Rhino. They soared through the air, and with a mighty BOOM, the tank erupted into a ball of flame, killing three of the Crimson Fists Battle Brothers on board.

The remaining Battle Brother was a sight to behold—his armor scorched, his bolter in hand, but still standing tall. Bogsnot grinned wildly, and with a satisfied chuckle, fired a grappling hook.

The cable shot out and wrapped around the Battle Brother’s leg. Before the last of the Crimson Fists could react, Bogsnot yanked on the trigger, and the Battle Brother was dragged along the ground, scraping and tumbling behind the trukk as Bogsnot laughed as he sped away.

The trukk roared, bouncing and scraping across the battlefield, with Bogsnot at the wheel, the last Crimson Fist clinging to the ground behind him. His cackling could be heard across the chaos as he escaped the flames of war, the sounds of combat slowly fading as the Ork Warboss sped into the horizon.

Far behind, Commissar Gaunt, still stunned by the audacity of Bogsnot’s escape, observed the wreckage with grim determination. He walked through the dust, his boots crunching over debris, until he found something he saw thrown from the ork trukk, a metal slate left behind with writings on it, signed “Tacitus.” Was this…from the Grey Knight? With the slightest frown, Gaunt picked it up, reading the crude, scratched message that gave away the plans of Bogsnot's next moves.

He immediately keyed his comms.
"Commander Cruz, I’ve got some good news and really bad news," Gaunt said, his voice tight with urgency.
"Enough with the games, Commissar," Commander Cruz responded. "What happened? Did you rescue Tacitus!?"
Gaunt paused for a moment before speaking.
"We failed." Gaunt admitted. "And…they’ve taken another Crimson Fist Battle Brother prisoner. But…" Gaunt’s voice grew more intense, "we’ve got the location of Bogsnot’s next move."
A silence followed before Cruz’s voice crackled through the comms, low and dangerous.
"Then we’ll be ready. And this time, Bogsnot won't escape."

The loading dock was alive with the clatter of stolen arms and the rhythmic, thudding march of indoctrinated and psychically-enslaved workers. Shipping containers, each marked with false registry tags of the Nostramo Human Defense Force, were being stuffed full of lasrifles, flak armor, ration packs, and vox equipment—everything the cult would need for their next phase.

Primus Davidian stood atop a rust-stained balcony, the polluted wind tousling his hood and flicking the crimson robes that swayed like banners of a false prophet. His clawed hand rested lightly on the railing as he surveyed the operation below. Pale, gaunt-faced hybrids bustled under the red glow of industrial lights, packing crates with a precision only devotion—and genetic tampering—could buy.

He chuckled, low and gurgling.

“They’re so proud, the humans of Nostramo. So sure of their vigilance. And yet, every eighth soldier in their ranks bears the Star of the Holy Spiral beneath their flak. Idiots.”

A nearby Neophyte twitched, offering a hurried salute with one hand while hauling a crate with the other. Davidian sneered approvingly.

“Double-check that ammo crate, Acolyte. The Emperor’s gifts do not jam in the field.”

His voice boomed through the vox-caster built into his armor, sharp and commanding. The loading bay doubled its pace, nervous to impress him—or afraid not to.

Suddenly, the steady din of work was undercut by a deep, rising rumble.

Davidian’s head snapped toward the noise. The ground shuddered ever so slightly, vibrating with crude momentum. A thin grin split his face as he stepped forward, peering down the industrial corridor that stretched between heaps of broken habs and slagged manufactorums.

Two Ork trukks burst from the smoke-choked maw of a burned-out hab block, their crude engines roaring and belching oily flame. Ramshackle armor plates clanged, and jagged metal teeth gleamed in the dim light. 

“Two?” Davidian scoffed, voice laced with venomous glee. “Two?! They must be desperate—or dumber than I thought.”

He drew his bone-handled blades, twin curved monstrosities forged by mag-clades deep beneath the hive. The air shimmered faintly around them, laced with stolen xenotech and cultic blessings.

“Let them come,” he growled, stepping down the stairs with a hunter’s gait. “Let them bleed. They’ll learn—just like the last ones—that the swarm is always hungry.”

His hybrids roared in unison, forming a makeshift phalanx around the containers. The air thickened with tension and the faint stink of bio-modification, as the two Ork trukks barreled forward, unaware that they were not charging a human defense line… but the edge of a living, chittering nightmare.

Davidian's grin widened as he stepped into position.

“Let’s educate the greenskins.”

The sky above Nostramo Quintus was a bruised sheet of ashen grey, casting the abandoned shipping yard in perpetual twilight. Twisted metal towers loomed like the skeletons of forgotten gods, and rusted cranes jutted into the air like broken fingers. The industrial sector had been silent for centuries—ever since the Night Lords razed it during the Long Bombardment. But now, a flicker of life stirred among the dust and decay.

From the crumbling balcony of an old cargo control tower, Prime Davidian, the Genestealer Cult leader watched through a pair of battered magnoculars, the lenses smudged with grime and dried blood. Below him, his neophytes scrambled like insects, hurriedly packing stolen Human Defense Force weaponry into shipping containers. Lasguns. Flak armor. Vox units. All vital for the growing rebellion hidden in the veins of the hive.

Then, the thunder came.

Two crude ork trukks tore down the cracked ferrocrete road leading into the yard, belching smoke and howling like beasts. Davidian's compound eyes narrowed behind the magnoculars.

"How?" he muttered, disturbed. How did they find us? He recalled the rumors—only weeks ago, his master Galaxion's Tyranids had clashed with a warband of greenskins in the ash dunes to the north. Could these be the same ones?

He lowered the magnoculars. "Prepare for battle!" he bellowed, his voice rasping over the vox-amplifier embedded in his throat. The cultists around him reacted instantly, dropping equipment, grabbing weapons, scurrying to cover like well-trained parasites.

Then the first shots rang out—precise, deliberate, deadly.

Neophytes fell screaming, scorched holes in their chests.

Davidian frowned. “Orks don’t usually fire with such accuracy…”

He raised his magnoculars again, and this time his heart froze. From the rear of one of the trukks, six figures in blue ceramite armor leapt, bolters roaring, their crimson fists unmistakable.

“Those aren’t Orks!” he roared. “They’re Crimson Fist Battle Brothers!”

He slammed his clawed hand onto a vox rune. “Deploy the Rock Grinder!”

The driver—a hunched, three-armed mutant—nodded with a fanged grin and slammed the ignition rune. The Rock Grinder roared to life, a bladed industrial monstrosity, and tore across the yard. It slammed into the second trukk with thunderous impact, shearing metal and throwing debris in all directions. The trukk reeled back, engine screaming, and peeled away, skidding toward the stolen crates.

The Crimson Fists Battle Brothers surged forward, bolters barking, their target clear—secure the stolen weapons.

Davidian’s acolyte guards, clad in scavenged armor and wielding rotary saws and chainblades, met them head-on. The clash was brutal, intimate. Screams and mechanical shrieks echoed as the acolytes carved through five of the Battle Brothers in moments, their fanatical fury overwhelming.

Only one remained—the Veteran of the squad. He fought with precision and defiance, but even he was no match for Davidian’s speed and cunning. With a cruel grin, the Primus drove his bone sword through the Battle Brother’s chest, twisting it as the light faded from his eyes.

High above, watching from the shadowed heights of a skeletal gantry, Commander Magnus clenched his fists. He could bear it no longer.

He leapt with vengeance in eyes.

Blue armor flared as he landed amidst the cultists, his energy sword crackling with righteous fury. With two fluid strikes, he cleaved down a pair of acolytes. Then he met Davidian's blade.

Their duel was brief but brutal—metal shrieking, sparks flying. Magnus kicked Davidian across the concrete floor. The cult leader groaned, spitting blood, but laughed.

“You’ll pay for that, human…”

But then—a voice from the darkness.

“No, Davidian. Go and gather more of the cult. We need to finish this and retreat into the shadows. Leave this one to me…”

From the ruins, a towering form emerged—a Genestealer Matriarch. Her limbs were long and sinuous, her talons black as obsidian. Her violet carapace shimmered with psychic static, and her elongated head crackled with energy.

Davidian bowed low. “Yes, Matriarch, as you command.”

He vanished into the shadows.

The Matriarch turned her gaze on Magnus. Bolts of psychic force lanced from her forehead, seizing him mid-stride. His sword clattered to the floor as he floated, muscles rigid, teeth grinding in agony.

“I can see your mind…” she whispered, her voice like silk soaked in venom.

Magnus screamed, his body twitching as the psychic claws ripped into his thoughts. He trembled and began to float before the Matriarch.

Across the yard, more trukk engines howled and a Crimson Fist Assault Squad disembarked, eyes wide in horror.

“That thing has Commander Magnus!” their sergeant cried. “To arms!”

They surged forward—but the Rock Grinder’s rear hatch exploded open, and with a roar, the Genestealer Abominant stepped forth. Massive, hunched, and bristling with muscle, he was followed by five hulking aberrants, each more twisted than the last.

“You aren’t going anywhere…” the Abominant growled.

The Battle Brothers fought valiantly—but their blades barely cut through the monsters’ hide. One by one, they were smashed, gutted, broken. The last Battle Brother was crushed beneath the Abominant’s hammer like an insect.

Magnus screamed as he watched them die, floating helplessly surrounded by crackling psychic energy.

“You are strong, Battle Brother,” the Matriarch cooed. “But I will open your mind and learn your secrets…”

A surge of red psychic fire burst from her skull, drilling into Magnus’s mind.

“Ah… there it is!”

Visions erupted—Xantheus, the Mechanicum Magus. The captured Grey Knight. The data slate. The location of the cult. The next move of Bogsnot, the conniving ork warboss.

Then—more gunfire.

One of the original trukks roared through a shattered wall. A lone Crimson Fist stood tall in the bed, heavy bolter braced and blazing.

“Commander Magnus! Hold on!”

Rounds punched into the Matriarch’s carapace. She shrieked, recoiling.

“What I’ve just learned,” she hissed, “is worth more than stolen weapons.”

She released Magnus. He crashed to the ground, limp and deflated.

“We’ll meet again… MAGNUS!”

And with a laugh that echoed through the ruins, she leapt through a shattered window, disappearing into the dusk.

The surviving Battle Brother rushed to his commander’s side, hoisting him into the trukk, his own armor scorched and leaking. He winced, coughing blood.

“She… she got into my mind… She knows…EVERYTHING.”

The trukk peeled away into the shadows.

Far above, nestled in the twisted ruins of a tower, Bogsnot, the ork warboss, watched through a pair of human binoculars, a fat cigar clenched between tusked teeth.

He grinned.

“I love it when a plan comes together…”

Magnus was losing his mind. The corridors of Outpost Virex echoed with the relentless clang of ceramite boots and the whispering hum of power armor systems. The air was thick—not with smoke or dust, but with a suffocating tension. For three days, Commander Magnus of the Crimson Fists had neither rested nor spoken in anything but cryptic mutterings and venomous commands. His once steel-eyed gaze, the embodiment of Imperial discipline, now burned with a frantic, haunted light.

The Genestealer Matriarch had touched his mind.

It was supposed to be a victory. A routine purge of a splinter cult hiding in the mineral depot beneath the rocky crust of Nostramo Quintus. But when the strike team breached the inner sanctum, they found more than clawed aberrations and twisted hybrids—they found her. Shrouded in shadow, with eyes like ancient stars, the Matriarch had seen Magnus. And he had seen her. Their minds collided in a flash of warp-tainted horror.

Since then, he had not slept.

The command center was in chaos, though no alarms blared. Vox systems blinked and pulsed, ignored. Commissar Gaunt’s messages came in with increasing frequency and urgency—first inquiring, then demanding. Commander Cruz’s calls were layered with concern and frustration. Still, Magnus stood motionless before the central auspex array, his gauntlets clenched behind his back, armor slick with sweat beneath the plates.

“Keep searching,” he muttered, not for the first time. “She’s not dead. She’s hiding. I feel her.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and the gathered Marines exchanged uneasy glances. Brother-Sergeant Valen stepped forward. “Commander, the Matriarch was destroyed. We confirmed the—”

“SILENCE!!!” Magnus whirled, eyes wild beneath his helm, which now rarely left his head. “You didn’t feel her mind invade yours. She called my name…she still calls my name. I know she lives!”

His outburst was followed by a long silence, broken only by the beeping of the unattended vox. None dared approach him now. Not even Valen, the most loyal among them.

And then…

A deafening crack tore across the sky, reverberating through the bedrock of the outpost. The very air seemed to shudder. Marines instinctively grabbed their weapons, the instincts of war never far from the surface.

Magnus looked up toward the heavens, pupils dilating as though he could see through the ceiling itself. A voice only he could hear began to whisper—no longer from within, but from above.

Brother-Sergeant Valen turned, issuing commands, rallying the Crimson Fists into defensive positions. But behind them, Magnus knelt, laughing maniacally through clenched teeth.

“They’re here,” he whispered in a sinister tone, the words trembling. “She’s here.”

And outside, the ground began to shake.

The skies above Nostramo Quintus burned crimson.

Three objects tore through the heavens like firebrands cast by angry gods. Each one trailed a tail of smoke and fire, screaming toward the surface with terrifying speed. Magnus shielded his eyes as they descended, his armor sensors struggling to keep up with the sudden heat bloom.

One collided with the skeletal remnants of an ancient Mechanicum spire, sending shards of metal and dust into the air. Another slammed into the ground mere meters from a Crimson Fist APC, rocking the armored vehicle on its treads. The third vanished into the outskirts of the ruins beyond sight.

As the dust cleared, the battlefield fell into a moment of eerie silence.

What emerged from the craters was not debris… but eggs.

Armored, alien, pulsating. Each was coated in thick red and purple carapace, glistening with alien ichor. The central egg glowed faintly from within, a heartbeat of something terrible and alive.

Magnus narrowed his eyes.

From the ruins, shadows moved. Not shadows—Hive Aliens.

They came swiftly, a swarm emerging from every alley and broken building, grotesque figures moving with unnatural grace. Several floated, tentacles writhing in the air—Zoanthropes, mind-warping monstrosities. Behind them, the ground trembled.

A Carnifex—a living siege beast—roared, its acid cannon hissing as it unleashed a stream of corrosive death toward the Crimson Fists.

“Secure the eggs, Marines! To arms!” Magnus bellowed, diving into the husk of a building for cover as the tanks rolled forward, guns blazing.

Bolters thundered. One APC’s hatch burst open as a squad of Space Marines stormed out, weapons raised. Bolter fire lit the battlefield as the Alien Hive beasts surged forward, bodies exploding under disciplined volleys. But they kept coming—mindless and relentless.

From the side, like a dagger in the dark, a brood of Genestealers rounded a corner—led by a hulking, twisted thing with a slavering grin.

Grexel. The Broodlord.

He didn’t roar. He didn’t charge. He laughed, a psychic cackle echoing in the minds of every Marine present.

In seconds, the Genestealers were upon the first squad. Screams. Blood. Armor torn like paper. A second squad, chainswords in hand, leaped from the other APC into a blender of talons and teeth.  One Marine managed to impale a Genestealer on his chainsword before being knocked to the ground. Grexel loomed above him, claws raised, ready to strike.

“Enough!” Magnus’s voice boomed like a thunderclap.

He exploded from cover, psychic lightning crackling across his arms. Energy coalesced into twin bolts of searing death, launched outward with explosive force. Nine alien skulls burst like boils, spraying ichor into the dust.

One bolt struck Grexel square in the abdomen, shattering chitinous armor. The Broodlord screamed, staggering. Magnus closed the distance, his energy blade igniting, slicing two Genestealers in half as he charged. Grexel lunged, but Magnus rolled beneath him, twisting, and drove his sword deep into the beast’s side.

Grexel crumpled, snarling in pain.

Magnus stood over him, power flaring in his eyes and ready to deliver the deathblow.

But the Broodlord... looked up at him and smiled.

“The Matriarch sends her regards, MAGNUS… and left you a gift,” Grexel whispered into his mind. “You will help it grow… it is your destiny…”

Grexel pointed toward the tower—where the largest egg pulsed atop the platform. Then, with a psychic shriek of laughter, he vanished into the ruins, leaving Magnus stunned.

Hive warriors emerged from the shadows—but paused. They didn’t charge. Instead, they screeched and sprinted away from him, up the tower.

Protecting the egg.

Magnus grappled to the top as below him, tanks exchanged fire with the floating Zoanthropes. The Carnifex roared, lashing out as flamer bursts scorched the battlefield. The air was thick with ash, acid, and alien blood.

At the top, Magnus found them.

Five Hormagaunts and a Hive Warrior surrounded the pulsing egg like zealots at a shrine. They screamed and lunged—but Magnus was faster. His blade danced, cutting down the beasts in a storm of motion. The Warrior struck last, its talons whistling through the air, but Magnus rolled beneath its slash and drove his sword into its chest, hurling it from the tower.

The battlefield below churned with chaos.

The Carnifex, wounded and howling, turned and stomped into the mist, retreating. Crimson Fists advanced, their flamers igniting the remaining eggs—green fluid hissing as the alien spawns burst and melted.

Magnus turned to the final egg. Alone on the platform. Still pulsing.

It didn’t feel alien.

It felt… familiar.

He stepped forward, compelled by a force he couldn’t explain. His hand hovered above it, the glow within reflecting in his visor.

Two Battle Brothers climbed the tower behind him. One raised a flamer.

“Shall I take the flamer to it, Commander?”

Magnus didn’t look back. He slowly lowered the Marine’s weapon with a gauntleted hand.

“No, Captain. Too many of our brothers died for these eggs. We owe it to them to find out what they are. Put this one in an incubator. Dr. Romanov will begin her research.”

The Marines hesitated. Even in the face of strange orders, they obeyed. “Yes, Commander”.

The egg was carefully sealed and loaded into the APC. The dead were left behind, claimed by war.

On the ride back to the firebase, the few survivors sat in silence, their armor scorched, their spirits heavy. No one dared speak.

Magnus sat apart, staring at the containment field that held the egg.

It still pulsed.

Still called.

And in the deepest part of his soul, he knew… something had changed. He could feel it under his skin, behind his thoughts, curling around the edge of his sanity.

Only one word echoed in his mind.

Destiny.

The flickering fluorescence of the subterranean laboratory on Nostramo cast long, twitching shadows across steel walls. In the center of the room, an incubator hummed with cold life, bathed in an eerie green glow that pulsed rhythmically from within. The alien egg—ovoid, slick, and laced with faint bioluminescent veins—sat like a heartbeat frozen in time, connected to thick cables and archaeo-tech systems designed more for containment than understanding.

Magnus, a towering figure in crimson and brass armor dulled by grime and loss, stood at a console, his helmet off, eyes lit by the soft glow of data scrolling past. He was not just reading—he was searching. Something deep in the core of his soul burned as fiercely as the reactor below their feet.

Across the room, a woman in a lab coat with black gloves and a high-collared uniform jotted notes onto an aging dataslate. Dr. Minerva Romanov, her sharp features half-lit by green illumination, scanned telemetry feeds with a curious mixture of scientific reverence and carnal thrill. She was dangerous. Beautiful. Brilliant. And entirely too calm in the presence of the unknown.

Suddenly, the double doors exploded open with a hiss and clang.

“Where is Magnus!!!” came the voice, like a bolt of chain-lightning through a battlefield.

Commander Corvus Cruz, his storm-grey armor still bearing the soot of battle stomped into the room. His helm was off, his scarred face a grimace of fury.

Dr. Romanov looked up without fear, offering a cold, polite smile. “Good evening, Commander Cruz. We weren’t expecting you...”

Corvus' eyes locked on the alien egg. His face twisted in disbelief and revulsion. “What in the Throne is the meaning of this,” he growled, pointing, “and who the hell are YOU!!!?”

Before she could answer, a deep voice drifted from the shadows of the far corner, where Magnus had half-faded into the gloom, one hand resting on the grip of his bolt pistol.

“Her name is Dr. Minerva Romanov,” Magnus said evenly, “and she is one of the most respected biologists in the sub-sector.”

Romanov turned to Corvus with a mischievous smirk and offered a slow, theatrical wink.

“The DNA we’ve analyzed for the xenos egg is quite astounding,” she said, almost breathless with awe. “We’ve never seen anything like it. It’s absorbing not just moisture from the atmosphere, but harnessing radioactivity itself. It’s growing, evolving, by feeding on ambient radiation.”

Corvus took a step back, hand twitching near his chainsword. His voice rose with rage looking straight at Magnus. “Have you gone MAD!?? You’re STUDYING this thing???”

Magnus stood, his armored bulk moving with unnatural calm. “Ten of my battle brothers died retrieving this egg, Corvus. They deserve answers. They deserve to know what those aliens were protecting.”

The tension was broken when Romanov, suddenly uneasy, crossed the room with feline grace.

“I’m so sorry, Commander Cruz,” she said softly, brushing her hair behind one ear. “I will take my leave.”

She stopped before Magnus, resting her palm against his breastplate. “Shall I wait for you in your bedchambers…?” she asked, voice like poisoned honey. She leaned up, kissed him slowly, possessively, and glanced sidelong at Corvus.

“Commander.” She nodded curtly, then disappeared through the side door, leaving the scent of oil, perfume, and secrets in her wake.

Corvus seethed. “I see you’re enjoying yourself here on Nostramo…” he spat.

Magnus gave a cold, bitter chuckle. “Anything to help me forget I’m on this nightmare of a planet. I only live for the Mission, Corvus.”

“What MISSION, Magnus!” Corvus roared, gesturing wildly toward the incubator. “Two of our battle brothers remain kidnapped, a cult is sweeping through the ranks of the planetary defense forces, and we have made NO progress to find the missing Tech-Magus Xantheus!”

Magnus stood silent, his expression unreadable. He finally spoke, voice low.

“I need more time, Corvus. The Emperor would want to know what those aliens were protecting. You’ve never seen a xenos like this before. I must fulfill…my destiny.”

He turned to the egg. The light of it bathed his face in a sickly glow. He was transfixed. Possessed. Silent.

Corvus’s voice softened—barely. “Destiny? I don’t know what happened to you at the depot Magnus, but you are not yourself. We’re leaving now to rescue Tacitus. The data we pulled from the dataslate was accurate. We strike tonight. We’ll capture that fugging ork and put him in chains. Maybe even save a few of our own.”

Without looking away from the egg, Magnus nodded. “Take two squads of my men. And good luck.”

Corvus stood at the threshold, pausing. For a moment he considered saying more, but shook his head realizing it might be too late. He turned and left, boots echoing through the corridor like the tolling of a bell.

As he passed by Magnus’s bedchambers, the door cracked open.

Dr. Romanov stood within, her uniform now gone, replaced by shadows and silk. She held two glasses of Amasec, her figure illuminated by the firelight of a relic lamp. Her smile was more than seductive—it was predatory. And as her head tilted, Corvus noticed her eyes, glinting faintly with a purple and violet hue not present before.

His hand twitched near his vox.

He turned away, steel in his spine.

“Ready my ship,” he barked into the comm.

And as he disappeared into the cold dark of Nostramo’s night, the egg in the lab pulsed faster. Almost like it had heard everything.

Beneath the city of Nostramo Quintus, on the outskirts of the rusted industrial badlands, the long-dead Ferratonic Incinerator stood like a titan from a lost age. Tubes spiraled into the dirt like the fingers of a buried god. Metal panels flaked like diseased skin. But deep inside it still pulsed—faint, radioactive, and ancient.

And that was all Grungfist the Mek needed to hear.

Bogsnot’s favorite mek, Grungfist was no ordinary ork. Loud, grumbling, obsessive—he saw machines as potential gods of war. “Big killy things,” as he called them, and none so promising as the Ferratonic relic. So when he'd heard of a captured Battle Brother who knew the override codes to the incinerator's ancient stabilizer systems, he begged his warboss to bring the prisoner. The machine could not be moved while its core was stabilized, but override it—and the machine could awaken. Or be reborn into something worse.

Grungefist arrived with his krew in a convoy of rust-eaten trukks and clanking battlewagons, dragging the captured marine, Tacitus, up the corroded platform that circled the incinerator. They’d just reached the interface controls when the hum of spacecraft engines echoed across the blackened sky.

“We got trouble, boyz!” Grungefist barked, dropping Tacitus on the grated platform. Sirens wailed. The orks scrambled for weapons.

Two armored dropships screamed overhead—sleek and silver with the sigil of the Grey Battle Brothers. They deployed like thunder, slamming into the platform with a force that shook the rusted bones of the structure. The first wave landed hard—and died harder. Two were blown apart by a trukk's cannon fire, their remains strewn in oily puddles.

Commander Corvus Cruz landed with the second wave, power armor gleaming, eyes alight with fury.

“Tacitus—hold on!” he shouted as bolt rounds hissed past his head.

No sooner had he reached his brother than four ork berserkers clawed up the platform, mech-armor hissing, chainsaw arms revving with hunger. Cruz's gauntlet surged with power—he incinerated one mid-leap, its torso evaporating in blue fire.

But the orks kept coming.

Wave after wave swarmed the Battle Brothers, a green tide of brutality. One by one, the marines fell—ripped, smashed, burned. Until only Corvus remained, bloody, surrounded, standing above the incinerator's heart.

Grungefist strode forward, blood-dripping axe raised. “Looks like you’ll be joinin’ yer brother,” he laughed, sputtering metal shrapnel from his broken teeth.

“Go to HELL!” Corvus growled.

A flash-bang grenade hit the ground. Smoke engulfed the platform. And when it cleared—the commander was gone.

The orks bellowed in triumph—but it was short-lived.

From the blasted horizon came the roar of something greater. A tank, massive and thundering, crashed over the ash-dunes. Atop it stood Magnus, the Crimson Fist, his eyes burning with psychic fire.

The tank fired a missile. It slammed into the base of the platform. Orks dove for cover, screeching.

“Protect da incinerator! Da boss needs it!” Grungefist barked, rallying his troops.

The tank kept coming. Gunfire howled. Orks died in droves.

From the cliffs above, Magnus reappeared—hands crackling with storm-born wrath. He unleashed bolts of lightning into an ork truck. It screamed, sparked—and exploded.

Magnus charged, power sword drawn, cleaving through orks like wheat. When he reached Grungfist, the mek swung his chain axe—cutting deep into Magnus’s shoulder pauldron. Sparks flew.

But Magnus kicked him square in the chest, knocking the ork to the ground.

He advanced, sword thrumming with energy, placing it at Grungfist’s throat.

“What do you want with the incinerator? Speak now or die.”

Grungefist cackled, bleeding but defiant. “*Da power! Ultimate power—for da boss’ special projekt!”

Magnus looked up.

The incinerator, though dormant, still glowed. Ancient. Primordial. Dangerous.

Seeing him distracted, Grungfist scuttled away, laughing.

But Magnus no longer cared.

Magnus remained transfixed and staring at the incinerator. This tower of dormant potential—could be exactly what he needed for the alien egg incubating back in his lab… it was changing. Evolving. It needed fuel. It needed THIS.

“Lieutenant, disable the stabilizer. Prepare it for transport.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Magnus ascended the platform where Tacitus still lay chained. The marine's armor was scorched, his face bloodied—but alive.

Magnus knelt beside him, untying him.

“You’re going home, Brother Tacitus.”

“I owe you my life, Commander,” Tacitus whispered.

Magnus helped him to his feet, then pointed to a groaning ork crawling nearby.

“Looks like you won’t be going home alone.”

Magnus raised a hand and sent a bolt of energy through the ork’s skull. The greenskin slumped, unconscious.

“Take him to Corvus. See what he knows.” Magnus said, smiling grimly.

The storm of war had passed.

But darker plans were just beginning to take shape.

The deck of the dropship trembled with the low hum of thruster burn, its metal belly rattling like a caged beast as it sliced through the soot-streaked skies over the badlands of Nostramo Quintus. The atmosphere outside was dense with ash and industrial fog, remnants of a world choked long ago by its own ambition.

Commander Corvus sat in silence, his dark, expressionless helm staring into the floor of the transport bay. Around him, three Scout Battle Brothers sat poised in their grey Mk VI armor, dull and unadorned, save for the faint black etchings of kill-tallies carved into their vambraces. They did not speak. They rarely needed to.

In the middle of the compartment sat Lug, an Ork that looked like he’d lost more fights than he’d won—which, for an Ork, meant he was probably still dangerous. Handcuffed and chained at the ankles, Lug smirked with yellowing tusks and reeked of grog and meat grease.

Back at headquarters, he’d talked. It didn’t take much—steaks, fermented grog, and a bit of implied violence. He’d given up the name: Xantheus, a rogue Tech-Priest with forbidden data. And more importantly, he’d given up the location of the base camp, long buried in the badlands that wound around the dying mines of Nostramo’s western cliffs.

He’d spoken of a machine, still alive in the dark.

But when they asked why he wouldn’t go near it, he’d only muttered, “You can go there, but leave me out of it…”

As they approached the drop zone, the comms system crackled.

“Commander, it’s the Lord Marshall Sieger. He wants the coordinates of Xantheus’ base camp.”

Corvus turned his helm slightly toward Sergeant Varn, his vox-gravelled voice betraying a flicker of surprise.

“THE Lord Marshall? Is he bringing the Crusade to Nostramo?”

“No, Commander,” Varn replied cautiously. “He’s… here. He needs the coordinates to send support for our mission. He sounds... quite displeased.”

Corvus stared at the floor in silence. The ship hummed, and time stretched. Then finally:

“Inform the Lord Marshall we are en route, and are sending a scout team. We will transmit the coordinates within the hour.”

“Yes, Commander.”

No other words were exchanged. The quiet resumed like a tomb's breath.

-------------------

The dropship landed with a muted thud, hydraulic arms groaning as the rear hatch descended. The team emerged into the remains of a mining plant, rusted gantries reaching like skeletal fingers into the air. The sun was red through the smog—bloated and sick, casting long black shadows.

Commander Corvus surveyed the landscape with a grim eye. Mountains of slag and broken stone surrounded them, the planet's bones piled high and forgotten. He turned to Lug.

“There’s nothing here.”

Lug grinned wide. That’s when the roar of a warbike echoed through the crags.

The sound of metal, madness, and combustion.

Lug burst into laughter, chains clinking as he rocked back.

“You didn’t think Bogsnot would just leave me wif you lot? That’s why we’z loyal to 'im. He takes care of us!”

Corvus’s stance stiffened. The air became electric with tension.

“Get into those hills,” he commanded. “I’ll stay with the Ork.”

The Battle Brothers moved with silent precision. One took cover behind the ruins. Another sprinted toward high ground. The third vanished into the rocks like a ghost.

That’s when the wild-eyed first ork appeared, bounding up a ridge, blaster shrieking, green psychic energy boiling in his fingertips. A bolt of warp-charged electricity cracked through the air toward Brother Cassian, but the Scout’s shield matrix flared and drank in the power like rain on steel.

“Not today,” Cassian chuckled darkly, and opened his flamer.
The ork screamed once before he was engulfed in holy fire.

A warbike skidded into view, twin barrels barking. Cassian dove for cover. But before the Ork rider could unleash another volley, a spore-mine, grotesque and pulsing with xeno ichor, floated silently down from the ridge.

Boom.

Acid exploded in all directions, melting flesh and steel. The Ork dismounted screaming, flesh sizzling, before Brother Talen finished the job with a clean las-bolt to the bike’s fuel cell. The vehicle detonated, engulfing the rider in a final, flaming salute.

“Move forward!” barked Corvus through the comm system.

From above, two stormboyz dropped like iron angels, jetpacks wailing. One screamed a guttural war cry, swinging wildly with a chainsword—but Brother Kael parried, his own blade slicing clean through the greenskin’s neck. The other landed behind him with a roar, but Kael thrust his power lance back without even looking, impaling the Ork through the chest.

Only one remained. Shivering. Cowardly. Backed into a jagged rock formation and circled by the three grey-armored scouts.

“Tell us where the computer system your boss hid is,” growled Sergeant Varn, his voice cold as a crypt. “And we might let you live.”

The Ork's arms shook as he pointed. “It’s there! It’s there! Behind dem rocks! Da boss buried it… rigged it with bombs. I got da thingy here but I wouldn’t—”

He pulled out a crude black detonator with a red button the size of a coin.

“Detonator?” Varn echoed.

The ork reached out to deliver it the imposing Battle Brother sergeant, but his shivering nervous hand caused it to slip, and fall to the ground.

KA-KRACKOOM!

Rocks flew in all directions. Dust, debris, and fragments of steel rained down. When the cloud cleared, the entrance to a hidden cave yawned before them. Inside sat two massive consoles, rusted but alive, cables snaking into the darkness like tendrils.

But the Ork wasn’t looking at the computers.

He was looking at the cave.

His skin turned pale green. His legs shook.

“We need to go. We need to GO. Da boss sealed it to keep 'em inside!”

“Keep what inside?” Varn asked sharply.

And that’s when they heard it.

The chittering.

A rising, skittering tsstssskk-kk-kkskkk that grew louder with every breath.

They came from the darkness like floodwater—red-armored hive beasts, claws like swords, teeth like daggers, surging in waves. They swarmed over the rocks, over the console platforms, out of the black throat of the cave like some ancient, buried hunger had finally awoken.

Each creature moved with alien grace—fast, fluid, intelligent. Their shrieks were pain given voice, and their eyes glowed with the light of predatory instinct.

“Commander, requesting support immediately,” Varn said over the vox, backing toward the ridge. “We are under attack!”

The cave had just erupted in a searing bloom of fire and stone. The jagged cliffs of Nostramo’s dusty badlands were still shaking, choking the wind with ashen smoke. Seemingly out of nowhere, Templar Battle Brothers slammed down in drop-pods falling from the sky—twenty of the Emperor’s finest—now running at the rim of the scorched crater, bolters raised, senses honed.  They weren’t ready for what came next. 

The dust hadn’t even settled when they came.

Wave after wave of alien hive-creatures poured out from the ruptured wound in the mountain. First came the scuttling forms, slick with gore and gleaming red chitin, claws that sparked as they scraped the ancient cogitators embedded in the cavern’s mouth. Their mouths frothed with acid, shrieking an inhuman choir that echoed across the sands. Dozens and dozens in a swarm of death.  

Sergeant Vael of the Templars snarled behind his helm, “By the Throne, what in the Emperor’s name—”

His answer came as five of the creatures darted forward—unnaturally fast, a blur of claws and sinew—racing toward a sniper team repositioning on the low ridge. The lead xenos radiated psychic energy, a pulsating glow emanating from the bulbous growth on its forehead. It raised its clawed hand—then fired a bolt of crackling psychic force.

The snipers froze mid-motion, locked in place, spasming violently as their armor sparked and screamed in protest. They stood like statues for barely a second—then the swarm was upon them. Blood, bone, and ceramite exploded into the air, shredded and flung like paper under a storm of blades.

“Burn them!” roared Vael, voice raw over the vox.

Promethium flamers ignited with a chorus of blessed fire. Whole groups of the xenos were immolated, shrieking as their acid blood sizzled against the earth. But still they came. Climbing over the charred corpses of their kin. Pouring from the cave in endless tide.

The sand turned black with ichor. Red with Templar blood.

Brother-Major Atheon lumbered forward in his battle-mech, the Crusader's Wrath, flamer systems roaring to life. He unleashed hellfire, and for a moment it seemed like they might hold. Then a shadow loomed above them.

A massive Carnifex—a towering brute of alien flesh and armor—leapt from the broken husk of a manufactorum ruin. It crashed into the battlefield like a meteor, landing directly on the mech. The ground split. Atheon turned too slow.

The Carnifex’s claws found purchase, lifting the mech off the ground like a child’s toy. Sparks flew, gears screamed, and with a triumphant screech, it tore the mech in two. Fire and black smoke erupted from the ruin of the machine, and Atheon’s final scream was lost in the rising cacophony of battle.

“Get us out of here! We are overwhelmed!” Vael shouted into his vox, blood splattered across his helm.

A moment later, the thunder of engines roared overhead. A dropship pierced the skies, its descent rapid and low, guns blazing to clear a narrow path. The few surviving Templars—bloodied, half-limping—rallied and fell back to the extraction zone. They fired until their weapons overheated, until their power packs screamed empty warnings.

The last of them leapt aboard just as the drop bay sealed shut.

From the air, they watched.

Thirty seconds. That was all it took.

The hive creatures gathered their dead. Their wounded. And the bodies of the fallen Templars. They worked in horrifying synchronicity—an intelligence behind their feral coordination. Then they vanished back into the cave’s black maw. Gone. Like smoke in the wind.

All that remained: the charred wreck of Crusader’s Wrath, a few scattered bolters, and the blood-soaked sands of Nostramo Quintus.

Hours later, in the cold silence of the command chamber aboard the Fury of Faith, Commander Corvus stood over his wounded brothers. Their armor cracked, limbs missing, but their spirits—scarred more than flesh.

In the center of the chamber, bound in heavy chains, knelt an Ork named Lug.

He had told them not to go there. Had warned them that the cave was cursed, infested. That the machine they sought had better been left buried.

Now, the Templars had bled for it.

Corvus’s gauntleted hand trembled with restrained rage. He loomed over the Ork, fury in his burning eyes.

“You led us into that PIT,” he said, voice low with venom.

Lug looked up, a fat lip curled in a sneer, and said simply:

“I told you to leave me out of it…”

No one spoke after that.

There was nothing more to say.

Even for warriors who feared no death, they knew what the Ork meant.

Some things should stay buried. 

The scent of scorched ozone still lingered in the transporter, mingling with the dry reptilian musk of Captain TakiWatanga’s armor. His golden-yellow eyes, slit and ancient, blinked slowly as the grey canyons of Nostramo’s badlands rolled beneath them like a burial shroud of ash and memory.

Opposite him, wrapped in the black ceramite of the Templar Battle Brothers, Commander Vex sat like a statue of judgment. His data-slate glowed dimly, casting a pale light across the scars on his jawline.

“We’ve suspected that many in the Human Defense Force are part of the Soul Snatcher Hive Cult,” TakiWatanga rumbled, his voice thick with contempt and ancient weariness. “This could be our moment to catch them in the act.”

Vex nodded, tone grim.

“The Lord Marshall is equally concerned about the strange behavior of some members of the Defense Force. Thank you for contacting me, Captain.”

The transport shuddered to a halt, landing behind a crescent of low mountains near a crumbled imperial shrine swallowed by dust. The air outside was still—eerily still—as if time itself avoided this place.

“Captain Watanga, incoming vehicle on approach… appears to be… an Ork wagon?” reported one of the saurian officers, eyes glinting from beneath his bone-plated helm.

Commander Vex looked up sharply.

“Let’s disembark and get a visual,” Watanga ordered.

Six figures—three Saurians, three Battle Brothers—moved like shadows across the ridge. Below, among the broken spires of the shrine, three men in Human Defense Force uniforms argued nervously as two lumbering Orks strode toward them.

Vex adjusted his binoculars, face hardening.

“That’s the same Ork from Corvus’ briefing. What in the Emperor’s name are our soldiers doing meeting with that thing?”

From their vantage, voices echoed upward.

“You said it would be 25K credits! Now you want 30K?! That wasn’t the deal!”

“Tell Magnus he don’t get no parts without 30K! And the boss wants the weapon too!”

One of the humans glanced up.

“Hey… what’s that on the ridge?”

Their cover blown, Captain Watanga rose, his voice sharp and commanding.

“In the name of the Nostraman Saurian Space Police, you are all under arrest! Put down your weapons or face lethal force!”

Weapons barked to life. Bolter fire cracked. Laser blasts ripped the air. The ridge exploded into battle.

Captain Watanga surged forward, laser blaster roaring. A Defense Force soldier leapt from cover, grazing one of the Saurians—only to be tackled and subdued by the eldar veteran in a flash of martial grace.

“You are under arrest!” Watanga growled, pumping a shockwave through the man’s nervous system. He collapsed, twitching and limp.

Meanwhile, the lead Ork—a hulking brute of armor, chains, and grime—charged with a roar, punching through a Templar’s guard and battering him to the ground. One of the Saurians met him in a grapple, claws scraping against jagged armor.

“Gonna need some help here, guys!”

A bolt round from a crouching Templar found the Ork’s backside. With a yelp of pain and anger, the brute turned tail.

“I’ll be back! You’ll all pay for that!”

As the chaos settled, only one human remained. He was yanked up by his collar by the towering Saurian captain.

“Who sent you here, soldier? Speak—or lose an arm.”

“It… it was Magnus! We’re working for Magnus!” the man stammered.

Commander Vex’s face darkened.

“The Crimson Battle Brother, Commander Magnus? Why would he be dealing with Orks?”

A low, growing rumble vibrated the stones beneath their feet.

“Engines… and drums,” a Saurian whispered.

They turned toward the sound. Over the ruined hilltops, an Ork battle wagon appeared like a nightmare out of time—covered in spiked armor, jury-rigged guns, and feral warriors. Atop it stood Grungfist, laughing as he stared down at them.

“You thought you could get rid of Grungfist so easy, huh?! HAHAA!”

The team took cover, weapons raised.

“Hold position,” Captain Watanga barked. “We’ve got range—they’ve got chaos. Let them make the first mistake.”

But the Orks didn’t charge.

Grungfist raised a hand, grasping a glowing green talisman around his neck.

“When do we attack boss? Let’s gooo!” One of the smaller orks asks him eagerly.  

“Wait.” Grungfist said, not taking his eyes off the Saurian and Battle Brother positions.  As he grasped the talisman around his neck and lifted his hand slowly and his hand began to glow with a faint green light, and the wagon began to rumble.  

“What you doin’ boss?  You ain’t gonna do what I think your gonna do…” The small ork asked him nervously.  Wild eyed and grinning, Grungfist looked on as his hand glows more and more bright,

“I don’t care if it’s a good plan. It'll be fun!”

He snapped his fingers.

The wagon vanished.

A long silence fell. Dust hung in the air like a breath held by the planet itself.

“What the hell just happened?” Commander Vex muttered, staring at the empty space.

A second later—BOOM!—the wagon reappeared mid-air directly in front of them, slamming down in an explosion of earth and metal. Orks poured out like floodwaters, screaming and firing wildly.

“Fall back!” Watanga roared.

Blades clashed. Blood sprayed. One of the Saurian officers was grabbed and slammed into a wall by a laughing Ork. A trio of heavily armored Saurians with spike fists surged forward, smashing the wagon’s axle and flipping it with inhuman strength.

But from atop the nearby tower, Grungfist snapped his fingers again—teleporting behind the snipers stationed there.

“Now who’s getting shot in the ass, huh?!”

He butchered the squad, leaving only one alive.

“You comin’ with me, shiny scales!”

He cracked the officer on the skull, dragging him like a trophy as the Orks continued their frenzied assault.

Below, Watanga and Vex saw the tide turning. The field was a chaos of green and red.

“Fall back to base! Retreat!” Vex commanded.

As they retreated under covering fire, Grungfist stood atop the ruined tower, his prisoner slung like a bag of loot.

“You hear me, lizard-boyz?! You got 24 hours to give us back Lug—or I turn this one’s skull into a trophy for my teef shelf!”

His laughter echoed across the ash-filled skies of Nostramo.

And as the transport pulled away, TakiWatanga clenched his claws, rage glowing beneath his scaled skin.

“Magnus… You’ve got answers to give. And we’re coming to collect.”

The sky above Nostramo Quintus churned like an infected wound, clouds bleeding chemical storms in slow spirals of green and black. Lightning danced across the broken peaks, illuminating the rusted skeletons of manufactoria long since consumed by rebellion, decay, and things better left unnamed.

An ear-splitting bwaaaAAAARRRT echoed across the cracked plains, followed by the mechanical howls of scrap metal against tortured earth. Out of the radioactive mist shot a brutal custom warbike, twin autocannons welded onto each side of its extended fork, a cloud of dust spiraling behind its roaring wheels. Riding it like a mad god was a massive ork, muscles bulging, green skin scarred and pitted from too many fights survived.

LUG, freshly released from the deepest vaults of the Knights of Grey Battle Brother captivity, grinned wide enough to split his face.

The bike was a death machine. A gift. A labor of pure ramshackle genius from Grungefist, the ancient Mek and veteran ork leader. Its barrels spat smoke with each bump, and the stabilizers hissed like angry beasts as Lug tore across the wastes.

Behind him thundered an iron leviathan: a battle wagon so covered in guns it practically waddled from the weight. Smoke-belching exhausts jutted in every direction. It groaned with the sound of over-packed orks muttering and punching each other in the ribs as they guarded crates filled with machine parts, dataslates, cryo-cooled psyker brains, and stolen cogitators.

Lug's destination loomed ahead: the crumbling shell of an ancient Imperial shrine, half-buried in the red sands of the badlands. Once a holy site of the Emperor's divine light, now it was nothing more than a black-market meet-up for heretics, renegades, and those who asked too few questions.

Waiting at the shattered altar were three soldiers in the ruined gear of the Nostramo Defense Force—faces covered, eyes twitching. The air was thick with tension and the scent of oil, ozone, and betrayal.

Lug roared up, kicked his bike sideways in a spray of gravel, and marched toward them, cradling a bolt pistol the size of a servitor’s torso.

“Does Magnus want these parts or not? I ain’t got all day!” he growled, voice thick like wet gravel, eyeing them with suspicion.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, a crate in hand. “Yeah, yeah... 30K credits. It’s all there. And this time, NO surprises!” He tossed it to Lug, who caught it with one arm and cracked it open.

The ork sifted through the creds and data-chits, his massive green fingers surprisingly nimble. He grunted in approval. With a bark in his crude dialect, his orks began hauling the parts down from the battle wagon, forming a crude assembly line.

And far, far behind the transaction, another vehicle hovered silently over the broken landscape—a Kusari-pattern hovercar, sleek and obsidian, marked with the subtle sigils of the Eternal Dynasty. Hidden in its shadowed cabin were clan warriors: lean, sharp-eyed, clad in flowing stealth-weave armor, bearing the ancient blades and neural disruptors of their ancient order.

At their head sat Captain Hi Kamuri, face like carved jade, a tight grimace etched into his lips as he watched Lug through a scope. His clan insignia shimmered faintly on his chest plate, a phoenix wound in chains.

“Confirmed visual,” one of the ninjas whispered, barely audible over the quiet hum of the vehicle’s grav-pads.

Kamuri didn’t look away. “Target is the ork known as Lug. Recently released without record or explanation. A Knights of Grey Battle Brother decision... which is never accidental.”

Another ninja, masked in bone-white silk, added: “He knows something about the bounty we came to collect. And he spoke a name.”

Kamuri finally pulled back from the scope. His eyes burned like twin suns behind his elegant war-mask.

“Magnus.”

The hovercar descended into a gulch, hidden from view. The Dynasty warriors disembarked silently, disappearing into the ash-swirled rocks around the shrine. They moved like ghosts, cloaked in ancient technologies that bent light and baffled auspex.

Captain Kamuri drew his blade—a whisper-thin monomolecular saber from the royal forges—and raised two fingers in a gesture only his warriors understood.

Ready the ambush. The ork must be taken alive.

Three orks stood guard on rusted shipping containers, smoking fungus cigars and manhandling oversized machine guns forged from scrap and hate.

Then came silence.

And then—decapitation.

Three Eternal warriors emerged like whispers, slashing upward in perfect unison. The orks' heads tumbled to the dust with wet thumps, followed by the clang of armor hitting metal. Their corpses slumped like bags of slagged servos.

“WOT WAS DAT?” came the bellow.

An ork leader rounded the containers, eyes glowing with primal psyker energy. He saw them. They moved.

He struck first.

Warp-flame roared from his green fist, vaporizing two of the Dynasty warriors mid-leap.

“We got trouble, boss!!” he shouted.

Down below, Lug’s warbike roared to life. Its exhausts belched black fire. He skidded into motion, tires chewing stone. “Wot in da name of Gork’s ass goin’ on!?”

Across the ruins, Kamuri advanced with his squad of ten. At his side, pounding the earth like judgment, came the Jintek-class Reaver Beast, a cybernetic war-dog the size of a drop-transport, its metal fangs glinting with internal flame.

The orks screamed and charged.

Spears whistled.

The first ork was impaled mid-run, lifted screaming into the air before being flung aside. Another was caught by a knife to the eye. The last of the three leapt with his chainblade raised—only to be shattered beneath the reaver beast’s pounce. The construct bounced off a mountain fragment and returned, claws first, turning the final ork into a mess of green pulp.

“WOT IN DA HELL IS ALL THIS?!” Lug screamed.

He twisted his bike in reverse. Twin autocannons flared—then coughed, sparked, and sputtered dead.

The rest of the mob surged forward. Too late.

A storm of flying blades and monowire spears descended.

One by one, they fell—clutching throats, shrieking, vanishing in a blur of blood and metal. Only one ork leader remained, his green hand flaring with chaotic light.

He never finished the chant.

Kamuri’s spear struck him through the chest, pinning him to a broken aquila shrine. He slumped, twitching.

“NOT AGAIN!!” Lug howled.

His warbike launched forward, screaming across the ruins in a last, desperate bid for freedom.

Kamuri stepped into his path, raised a final spear—this one humming with encoded signals and sharp prongs.

He threw.

Mid-flight, the spear exploded.

A net of plasma-chains burst outward, wrapping Lug and his bike in an energy-laced mesh. The vehicle skidded, flipped, and crashed into a crater. Sparks showered upward. The ork groaned beneath the wreckage.

Captain Kamuri approached, his blade low, his steps slow and deliberate.

He looked down at Lug, tangled in plasma-steel, his green chest rising and falling like a storm-drum.

“Looks like being a prisoner is your destiny,” Kamuri said.

Lug spat dust. Groaned.

“Not again…”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Beneath the crumbling megaspires of Nostramo, in a fortress-turned-prison built into the bowels of the planet's skin, the ork known as Lug sat on a rusted bench gnawing on what might have once been a femur. The damp stone walls sweated filth. Pipes hissed. Shadows twitched like they were alive. He grunted between chews, eyes dull, but not dead.

A cracked barrel of grog sloshed at his feet. He swigged, belched, and let out a string of curses that would make a hive gang blush.

The corridor outside his cell was lit by flickering lumen strips. Two guards stood motionless in ceremonial black, faces concealed beneath porcelain-white demon masks. They were from the Eternal Dynasty Royal Clan, trained since birth to be killers in silence and shadow. Ninjas in name and practice.

Footsteps approached—measured, controlled.

Captain Hi Kamuri emerged from the darkness in a long black officer’s coat lined with red thread, his expression unreadable. A monomolecular blade rested at his hip. His presence bent the corridor into attention.

He stopped before the guards.

“How is our guest?” he asked calmly.

One guard looked at the other, then back at Kamuri, disgust clear even behind the mask.

“All he does is piss, curse, and ask for more meat and grog.”

The second added, “And he smells absolutely terrible.”

From within the cell, Lug’s voice rasped out like rust scraped on iron.

“You gonna beat me up like them Battle Brothers did?” His tone was flat, uncaring.

Kamuri smirked faintly. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

He pulled a steel stool from the wall and sat outside the cell door.

“Guards, bring our guest more meat. And leave us to talk.”

Lug raised a finger lazily. “Don’t forget the grog.”

The guards exchanged a look, then silently turned and marched off to fulfill the request.

Kamuri leaned forward. “We have many questions for you. I hope we can count on your candor.”

Lug swirled the last of his grog and glanced through the small window that offered a view of the polluted night sky, barely visible through the sulfuric fog.

“I don’t even care anymore. Keep the grog and meat coming. I’ll answer your questions. We’ll all be dead soon anyway…”

Kamuri raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“The liAen Hives are gonna swallow the whole planet,” Lug muttered. “They got hives everywhere now, and they got help too. Ever since they got the relic…”

He paused. His large frame, built for war and mayhem, began to tremble slightly.

Kamuri lit a thin, cigarette and extended one toward Lug through the bars.

Lug stared, took it after a moment, and Kamuri lit it for him.

“Dunno how many hives. Too many,” Lug continued. “One of the big ones is protectin’ some relic they have. Some kinda orb. Gives ‘em power.”

Kamuri exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “What kind of power?”

“Boss said it sees through time. Past, future… makes things grow… makes things heal.” Lug said the last word like it was a sin.

Footsteps returned. The guards wheeled in a barrel of grog and a plate stacked high with dripping meat. They opened the cell door, slid it inside, and backed away without a word.

Lug grinned and clapped his hands. “Now we’re talkin’! What else you wanna know, chief?”

Kamuri leaned back. “You said the hives have help. From who?”

Lug paused, chewing. “Some humans. Got a cult, worship the bugs. Call themselves Soul Snatchers or summit. Got a powerful one helpin’ them.”

Kamuri’s eyes narrowed. “Is it… Magnus?”

Lug stiffened. Then smirked and winked. “I ain’t supposed to say his name.”

“Why does Magnus—this 'powerful one'—need the fuel cells?” Kamuri pressed.

“They for the Ferratonic Incinerator. He’s usin’ 'em to grow something. Some kind of xenos experiment. Big one.”

Kamuri stood slowly, facing away, letting the smoke curl from his lips in silence.

Finally, he asked, “Do you know the location of the missing tech-magos… Xantheus?”

Lug shrugged. “Everyone keeps asking me dat.  No, I don’t. But I know where her camp was. Her cogitator systems are still there—right at the mouth of one of them big alien hives.”

Kamuri turned back. “Why is it there?”

“They took it. The bugs. They took the relic from Xantheus, and she wants it back, I reckon.”

A spark flickered behind Kamuri’s eyes—cold, calculating. If Xantheus was alive, and her systems intact, the relic could be within reach. One mission. Two objectives. The Eternal Dynasty would rise above the ashes of Nostramo’s decay.

“You’ve been most helpful, Lug. Sleep well. We depart at sunrise.”

Lug dropped the bone and leaned forward, face serious for the first time.

“I told them Battle Bozos the same thing—I don’t want no part of it. I’ll take you there. But I ain’t getting close. You don’t know what those bugs can do.”

Kamuri locked eyes with him through the bars. “You don’t know what we can do either. Sleep well, Lug.”

The captain turned on his heel, his coat sweeping the floor like a shadow, and strode into the darkness. The ninja guards took their place once more, silent as tombs.

Lug picked up a hunk of meat, stared at it for a moment, then threw it back on the plate.

“Lost my appetite…” he muttered, curling up in the corner.

The sun over Nostramo Quintas was more a suggestion than a presence, choked by the eternal smog of the hive city. Beyond the outskirts, in the badlands where sand turned to scorched glass and the sky crackled faintly with static charge, Captain Hi Kamuri of the Eternal Dynasty Royal Clan raced across the wastes in his hover transport, cutting through the wind like a blade.

Bound in the front seat, the enormous green figure of Lug, an Ork warboss turned reluctant guide, grunted in protest as the transport hit a small ridge and kicked airborne for a breath. Kamuri didn’t flinch. His obsidian armor gleamed with blue-gold trim, his porcelain mask concealing emotion entirely.

“I told you I don’t want no part of this. This is a BAD idea…” Lug groaned, thick chains pulling at his neck.

Kamuri said nothing, but gave the vehicle more thrust. Behind him, a half dozen other transports followed — silent riders clad in the midnight silks and alloyed bone of dynastic assassins, their blades folded into shadow, their eyes ever on the horizon.

They crested the final ridge and came to a silent halt. Kamuri and his warriors disembarked, taking cover behind jagged stone formations. Before them, nestled between two cracked mountains, yawned the mouth of the alien hive cave.

The cave pulsed with an unnatural rhythm — breathing, almost. Near its entrance, rusted mobile data-stations, long overtaken by moss and desert dust, were scattered. The remains of Tech-Magos Xantheus’ expedition.

But they were not alone.

Down in the valley, the XIII Company of the Templar Battle Brothers was already in position. Towering warriors clad in black ceramite and white crusader tabards, led by Commander Grimvald Vex, barked orders. His voice thundered even over the harsh winds:

“Secure the mouth! Snipers, top of the ruins! Heavies to the left flank!”

From the Imperial ruins nearby, a Battle Mech stomped down the ridge, its massive steps shaking the rock beneath. Snipers scrambled into place, locking their scopes onto the cave. Kamuri’s mask tightened imperceptibly.

“Damn! They beat us to it,” he muttered. “They always do.”

Then came the sound — a chittering symphony of rage.

From the cave, hive aliens surged outward. Hundreds. Their red carapaces glinting, brown claws scraping across stone, their teeth bared in what passed for hatred. They moved in synchronization, like a bloodthirsty tide, hissing and screeching like a blasphemous choir.

“Can we get out of here now?” Lug groaned again.

“Shut him up,” Kamuri ordered, and two assassins bound the Ork’s mouth with reinforced cloth.

The aliens came faster, some of them evolved, wielding bio-ranged weapons — launching acidic bile and chitinous darts.

Then the behemoth came.

A massive red-and-white alien, easily the size of an imperial transport, its limbs ending in razored claws and its face a grotesque fusion of mandibles and fangs, roared. Acid dripped from its gullet as it stomped into view, the ground trembling with each step.

“Stay back!” bellowed Commander Vex. “Mech, forward!”

The Battle Mech advanced, flamers and autocannons warming up — but too late. A group of smaller, agile aliens ambushed it from the ruins. One slashed deep into a leg joint, sparks flew, and the mech staggered.

“Take them down!” Vex roared.

A storm of las-fire incinerated the ambushers. Vex’s command unit surged forward, chainswords whirring and bolters spitting, seeking cover among the crags. The hive answered — moving like a school of fish through fire and ruin.

Alien warriors swarmed the hill, and blood flowed.

“Fall back! Flamers, purge them!”

The Templars burned them in droves — black smoke curling into the pale sky. Yet the tide never seemed to stop. Vex’s face, beneath his helm, was a mask of wrath and purpose.

Then, something unexpected.

Above the ridge, standing with stoic calm, three hooded priestesses appeared, cloaked in red and gold, hands crackling with arcane energy. Their chant echoed through the valley like the memory of thunder:

“Im Namen von Xanthea!!!”

Power erupted from their hands. Every beam of their wrath turned hive creatures to dust.

The behemoth turned toward them, bellowing a sound so visceral that even hardened Space Marines flinched. It charged — thunder incarnate — at a speed unholy for something so large.

Still, the priestesses stood unmoved.

Then — one beam, one light, one death.

The creature exploded, shards of bone and meat scattering over the plains. The few remaining hive creatures broke, disappearing into the rocks like ghosts into fog.

The priestesses descended in silence, walking down to the long-abandoned computers. The lead priestess typed something in a glyphic language, and the screen lit up — a map of tunnels, strange script flowing across it.

“What’s going on?” Vex growled, motioning his men forward.

Two priestesses raised glowing hands. The third continued typing, studying. She then powered down the machine and placed her hand on it. Energy surged. Sparks flew. The console died.

“Who are you!!?” Vex demanded.

The lead priestess responded with a gesture of gratitude, pointing at one of the dead alien hive warriors, then said in a dialect twisted with age:

“Sie haben die seltsamen Insekten getötet, danke!”

The servitor translated imperfectly, parsing out ancient glyphs.

“It’s a lost dialect… Indo Terran-adjacent. Possibly even Germanic. Ancient even by Mechanicus standards.”

Vex lowered his weapon slightly. The tension thinned. The priestesses mirrored the Marines’ respectful salute.

“Ask them… if they know where Xantheus is,” Vex ordered.

The servitor showed the Tech-Magos’ image. The priestesses lit up, speaking excitedly:

“Xanthea, Xanthea! Xanthea ist hier entlang. Komm mit uns, um die Orbnacht zu finden!”

“They say... she’s inside. Along with something they call the ‘Orbnacht’...” the servitor translated, voice laced with confusion.

The priestesses motioned toward the cave.

“Orbnacht! Orbnacht zu finden!” they called, beckoning the Marines.

“Send coordinates to the Suarian Space Police. Reinforcements. We’re going in ready,” Vex ordered.

Above, hidden in the rock, Captain Kamuri watched, silent.

“Shall we follow them, Captain?” a ninja whispered beside him.

Kamuri’s eyes never left the cave.

“No. Let them bleed first. Let them find the truth of the hive and this... Orbnacht. And when they crawl out…” He smiled beneath his mask.

“Then we strike.”

The dark cavern yawned before Captain Watanga like a vast, uncaring mouth, a place that had swallowed many before them. His massive form towered above his soldiers, sitting atop his tyrannosaur steed, the creature’s thick tail swinging back and forth in anticipation. His red-scaled face was grim, framed by the ever-present, bristling crest of bone that ran from his brow down to the back of his neck. His amber eyes glinted with resolve, but his mind was restless, pondering the mystery unfolding in the depths of the cave.

“Commander Vex of the Battle Brothers wants us to follow the three cultists into the hive while they regroup,” Captain Watanga said, his voice a low growl that echoed off the cavern walls. He addressed Sergeant Ka’rash, his second-in-command, the behemoth of a Saurian who stood near him, clutching a heavy plasma rifle.

“Understood, Captain,” Ka’rash responded, his broad jaws clicking together. His own mount, a smaller raptor-like creature, shifted uneasily, sensing the rising tension. The three cultist women in their shrouded red robes gestured toward the depths of the cave, chanting in a strange, guttural dialect.

"Orbnacht zu finden!" The words reverberated like some ancient incantation, filling the air with an unsettling weight. Their voices were alien, yet oddly familiar.

“Orbnacht...” Watanga muttered, the word familiar yet unplaceable. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring as he analyzed the robed figures. They seemed less like allies and more like harbingers of some ancient doom, but their power was undeniable.

"Inform Commander Vex we’ll follow the cultists as far as we can, and start mapping the inside of this place,” Watanga ordered, his sharp claws tapping against his energy spear. He could feel the air crackle with danger, but there was no turning back now.

As they followed the cultists into the cavern’s bowels, the passageways twisted and turned like the innards of some vast, forgotten beast. Watanga and his men moved cautiously, scanning every shadow, every curve of stone, their boots leaving faint prints in the dust. Their advanced scanners mapped out the maze, and yet every twist seemed to lead them deeper into an unknown. The silence was almost suffocating, only broken by the occasional sound of distant shrieks and the clatter of bones from unknown horrors.

Hours passed. The cultists led them through a labyrinth of caverns, their steps quick and purposeful. Finally, the women stopped at the mouth of a dark, narrow corridor, their expressions unreadable.

The sergeant, Ka’rash, spoke in a low voice, “Captain, something’s wrong. This place... it feels wrong.”

“I know," Watanga said, his voice tinged with unease. He motioned for the team to halt. "Wait here.”

The cultists whispered amongst themselves, their strange, red eyes glinting. Then, in a flash, they were gone—vanishing into the blackness of the corridor without so much as a sound.

A sudden, awful shriek echoed from the dark. A battle had begun, distant and ferocious. Then, after a long, spine-chilling silence, the chittering began.

“Hive creatures!” Ka’rash barked, his voice filled with dread. From the shadows, they emerged—swarming alien horrors, red and white, with hard carapaces and wickedly long claws. They moved like a tide, crawling along the walls and ceiling.

“Captain! Look at their markings!” Ka’rash shouted, his breath quickening. “Those—those are the same carvings we found in the temple on Mictlan! The Galaxionista of Legend!”

Watanga’s eyes widened. "Impossible. The Galaxionista—the creatures of legend. We thought they were just myth!"

Before he could process it further, the swarm was upon them. The Saurians opened fire, energy bolts and bullets cutting through the air in a desperate attempt to stem the tide. Watanga roared, urging his tyrannosaur forward, and thrust his energy spear into the writhing mass of alien flesh, sending the creatures flying.

"Burn them with fire!" Watanga howled, his voice like thunder. The Saurians fired their flamers and plasma cannons, and the cave lit up in an inferno of destruction. Alien bodies exploded into ash and shreds, but there were too many. More and more poured from the walls, as if the very earth itself was birthing them.

Suddenly, from the side, a pack of Soul Snatcher aliens materialized out of the shadows, leaping toward Watanga and his mount. They moved with deadly precision, but Watanga was faster. With a violent swipe of his energy spear, he cleaved two of them mid-air, their bodies disintegrating into nothingness.

The remaining Soul Snatchers pounced on the tyrannosaur. Watanga’s mount roared in fury, shaking them off like ants before biting down, crushing one with its massive jaws.

The battle raged on, and just as it seemed like the tide might be turning in the Saurians’ favor, a massive Carnifex alien erupted from the dark corridor. It bellowed a challenge, its bio-cannon spewing corrosive acid, melting several of Watanga's soldiers in seconds.

“Fall back!” Watanga barked, but his order was drowned out by the screams and the carnage. Just then, a large winged Hive Beast descended from above, its talons slashing into the Saurian ranks.

An Anklyasaur, clad in thick armored plating, charged forward from behind Watanga. With a deafening roar, it fired its flamethrower, incinerating the Hive Beast in a flash of orange fire.

“Take them down!” Watanga screamed, his fury rising like a storm. The Saurians unleashed everything they had—lasers, bullets, flame—scattering the alien swarm into bits and pieces, but still, they kept coming.

Then, just as hope seemed lost, the cultists reappeared from the corridor, their hands aglow with magic. They raised their arms, and with a great blast of energy, reduced the remaining Hive Beasts to ash in an instant. The cavern stilled, the air thick with the smell of charred alien flesh.

The cultists gestured for Watanga and his men to follow them, their faces cold, their eyes burning with strange fervor. The Saurians hesitated, but the allure of the mysterious power was too strong. They followed, down into the heart of the hive.

The cavern ahead opened into a vast, sprawling expanse, more terrifying than anything Watanga had ever seen. The walls crawled with Hive creatures, their chitinous bodies skittering over one another, while at the center of it all, something far more incredible lay—an enormous glowing orb, held by a series of skeletal claws.

The cultists screamed in excitement, “Orbnacht! Orbnacht!” as they pointed to the orb.

Watanga’s breath caught in his throat. The orb... It was IDENTICAL to the Ololtic, the sacred relic of the Saurians, the source of their power, the very heart of their empire. And it was in the hands of these unknown cultists, surrounded by the Alien Hive horde of the Galaxionista.

He turned to Ka’rash, his mind racing. "The Ololtic... It's the same! This is... this is impossible."

Before he could say more, a rumble shook the ground beneath them. Tremors spread like wildfire, and Watanga’s heart sank as massive claws began to tear through the earth itself, digging toward them.

“We need to get back to Commander Cruz—now!” Watanga roared, his voice filled with urgency. "We can’t face this alone."

The Saurians turned, launching smoke bombs to conceal their escape, the cavern filling with a cloud of confusion and haze. They ran, fighting against the fear that gripped their hearts as the ground shook with the approach of something far worse than they could imagine.

When they finally emerged into the open air, away from the nightmare beneath the earth, Watanga’s breath was ragged. He looked at Ka’rash, his eyes fierce, yet filled with a secret terror.

“No one must know,” Watanga whispered, his voice like gravel. “The Ololtic and the Orbnacht are one in the same. It must remain a secret we take to our graves.”

Ka’rash nodded silently, understanding the weight of the burden they now shared.

And so, the truth of the Ololtic and its dark twin, the Orbnacht, remained locked within their hearts, buried deep under layers of secrecy and fear. For some truths were far too dangerous to ever see the light of day.

The wind howled low across the cemetary gates, whispering through jagged metal bones of a long-forgotten imperial temple half-buried in ash. Captain Kamuri, of the Eternal Dynasty Royal Clan, knelt upon its spine, the storm-grey dusk painting his battle robes in smoke and shadow. His masked ninja warriors crouched around him in complete silence, unmoving statues carved from darkness itself.

Through his archaic-but-modified binoculars, Kamuri observed the Templar Battle Brothers below. Their power-armored forms stomped across the rocky plain like armored gods. Massive crates of munitions were offloaded from dropcraft, servitors hauling them toward the staging lines.

At the heart of the chaos stood Commander Griwald Vex — tall, scarred, and furious.

“Form ranks, load ordinance! That hive won’t burn itself, now will it?! I want that breach ready in ten minutes, or I’ll throw your hearts in first!” he bellowed, slamming his power maul into the earth for emphasis.

Kamuri’s voice was a whisper, but his warriors heard it like thunder.

“The Templars are foolish to sit so idly for so long. Ready the ambush.”

A nod from his lieutenant was all it took. Hands flickered in silent signals. Across the ridge, the ninja warriors melted into motion like ghosts—sliding into position with blades drawn and eyes gleaming red through the shadows.

Behind them, the prisoner stirred.

Lug, the ork, green-skinned and mountain-sized, sat lazily tied with synthropes, guarded by two black-clad ninja. His tusked grin widened.

“We 'ain’t all idle…” he chuckled darkly.

In a blink, the ropes snapped under the strain of sheer muscle. One ninja went flying as Lug’s boot connected squarely with his chest. The other drew a blade—only for Lug to catch the sword, snap it in half like dry wood, and send his attacker tumbling with a backhand that cracked like a thunderclap.

The first ninja rolled to his feet, kicked low—only to be caught mid-air, spun like a sack of potatoes, and thrown ten meters down the ridge.

Lug was up and running.

Three steps later, a whirring sound sliced the wind. A bolo coiled tightly around his legs, and the ork face-planted into the dust with a thud that cracked the ridge.

When he looked up, Kamuri was standing over him, expression unreadable, energy lance humming inches from his neck.

“I have a better proposal for you…” Kamuri said smoothly. “How many barrels of grog would it require for you to fight with us, Mr. Lug?”

The ork cackled, wiping blood from his lip.

“Room upgrade too! I might as well live well while I’m stuck with you lot!”

Kamuri extended a hand, and to everyone's surprise, helped him to his feet. He handed over a heavy carbine with an underslung missile launcher. Lug’s grin widened.

“Take the communications beacon. I want to know what the Saurians are transmitting to the Templars from inside the hive.”

“Tell your cooks I like my meat rare!” Lug snarled. “They keep burnin’ it!”

With a laugh, he charged down the ridge toward the beacon. Las rounds danced around him, bouncing from his thick armor. He shoulder-checked a Templar guard into a crater, then opened fire with the carbine, reducing a second to pulp and sparks. A missile streaked from the launcher—boom—engulfing another behind cover in fire and smoke.

He looked back, pointing a thick finger at Kamuri:

“And quit sendin’ that light grog to my cell! I want the harder stuff!”

Kamuri gave the faintest smile.

But the amusement died quickly.

The Battle Brothers, now aware of the ambush, turned with precision snipers and opened suppressive fire. Energy bolts ripped across the ridgeline, forcing the Eternal Dynasty warriors into retreat. They ducked behind ruins, the air crackling with laser fire and exploding stone.

Then came the tremor.

A Templar war mech—titanic, bristling with cannons—lurched forward, launching volleys into the ninja positions. Kamuri’s men flipped and vanished into cover, unable to answer the raw firepower.

“We’re no match for their guns,” Kamuri muttered, drawing his lance. “Let’s settle this the old way. With blade… and blood.”

With terrifying grace, the ninjas surged forward. Their movements were poetry—flipping over walls, vanishing into smoke, reappearing inside enemy formations. The Templars, armored titans though they were, couldn’t match the speed. Blades found joints. Explosives were slipped under greaves. Blood fell like black rain.

Commander Vex’s retreat led them into an ancient cemetery—a place of cracked tombs and dead heroes. He swung his hammer wildly, pulping one ninja against a stone obelisk.

“Where the fug did these guys come from?! Throne, this planet is cursed!”

But curses offered no defense against Kamuri.

With his Oni bodyguards flanking him—warriors twice the size of the average soldier, clad in demon masks and wielding massive nodachi—Kamuri carved a path through the remaining Templars. They reached the main communication beacon just as Vex was the last one standing.

Vex’s hammer met Kamuri’s lance. Sparks flew. Vex was kicked to the ground, dazed and bleeding.

Kamuri stood over him, voice cold and still.

“Log into the communication hub. We need to know what the Saurians found in there.”

Vex coughed blood and chuckled grimly.

“You won’t like what you see…”

He activated the beacon. A holo-feed blinked to life—showing a cavern so massive it swallowed mountains. In its center, a grotesque claw held a glowing orb, pulsing like a dying star.

On the feed, Commander Watanga of the Saurians appeared, scaled face grim.

“Commander Vex… we’ve located the Orbnacht… but there is something else. Much too large for us to handle alone—”

The feed cut. Alarms screamed.

“What does this mean?” Kamuri asked Vex laced with concern.

Before he could answer, one of the remaining captured Templars looked up, pale.

“Commander Vex… That’s the alert. Incoming enemy aircraft—fast approaching!”

Kamuri and Vex both turned skyward. The clouds split as three colossal dropships thundered through the atmosphere, streaking toward their location.

Vex stepped back, alarm rising.

“Those look like Imperial ships—but this was never authorized. What’s going on here?!”

Behind them, Lug cackled.

“I recognize dem ships…”

Kamuri tensed. Vex clenched his fists.

“Looks like MAGNUS is back,” Lug said with delight, cocking his carbine.

Kamuri narrowed his eyes, face calm but mind racing as he realized the real war hadn’t even begun.

Commander Vex stood motionless, his crimson-and-bone Templar plate dented and smeared in soot and blood. Around him, his surviving Battle Brothers bore silent witness to failure, their arms raised in surrender, lasguns and bolters discarded at their feet. A squad of Eternal Dynasty Warriors, cloaked in shifting shadow-weave armor, held them at gunpoint—silent, unmoving, alien eyes glittering behind angular masks.

Three dropships tore through the roiling storm above, leaving contrails of plasma and flame. The Dynasty Warriors turned their helms upward—just for a moment. The sound was overwhelming, and the winds whipped Vex’s ragged cape into a frenzy.

Vex squinted through the dust storm and muttered, “What the hell is Magnus doing here?”

The lead dropship's repulsors kicked up a storm of grit. Vex shielded his face, his ceramite gauntlet smudged with battlefield filth. As the boarding ramp hissed open, thick smoke poured out. Two towering Crimson Battle Brothers stepped forward first, their blue ceramite plate glinting, scorched with purpose. Between them strode Commander Magnus—bareheaded, face angular and proud, his crimson cape billowing behind him like a war banner.

Beside him, a slender woman in a tailored jumpsuit descended gracefully, eyes glued to a flickering dataslate, her raven-black hair swept behind a utilitarian clip. Dr. Romanov. Beautiful, efficient… and utterly disinterested in the chaos.

Magnus glanced around the disarmed Templar Brothers, cocked his head, and said with smug disdain:
“Put your hands down, you look like an idiot.”

The moment his words landed—the Dynasty Warriors were gone.
No shimmer, no sound, not even corpses. Empty wind and nothing more. The battlefield was now just… quiet.

Vex blinked, stunned, then looked down. Beneath his boot, half-buried in the ash, was a curved Dynasty dagger. He crouched and picked it up, wiping it clean on his leg.

Magnus took one look at Vex’s bruised face and filthy armor.
“What the hell happened to you lot?”

Vex stared into the middle distance.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Magnus gave a dry chuckle, pulled out a pair of tactical binoculars, and turned toward the distant Alien Hive Cave across the ridgeline.

“Well, whatever it was, you’re done here. Relieved of this mission. I’ll take it from here.”

Vex’s jaw clenched.
“What!!?? Relieved!? Who authorized this!?”

Magnus didn’t even look away.
“Chancellor Alderan. The Lord Governor himself.”

The name hit like a thunderbolt. Vex’s gauntleted fist curled.
“Chancellor Alderan!? How!?”

Magnus gestured over his shoulder with a jerk of his head.
“Dunno. Ask him yourself.”

The Templars turned in unison as Chancellor Alderan descended the ramp. Regal in flowing tan and crimson linens, adorned in alien gold, his green, amphibious skin shimmered beneath the sunlight. Bioluminescent tentacles drifted lazily from his face. Twin security cyborgs flanked him, silent and imposing.

Alderan extended his hand in a graceful blessing.
“May the Emperor bless you, Commander Vex. So sorry for the slight change in plans.”

The Templars bowed respectfully, though unease burned behind their eyes.

Vex stepped forward, the urgency rising in his voice.
“Chancellor Alderan, the Saurian Space Police breached the Hive’s perimeter, and inner sanctum. We were about to move in—”

Alderan raised a single long finger, silencing him.
“Captain Watanga has already briefed me. I've instructed the Saurians to fall back and redirect west. We’ve received intelligence that the Orks in that quadrant are constructing a superweapon.”
He exhaled dramatically.
“We’ve tolerated their nonsense for far too long.”

Vex stepped forward again, desperation edging his voice.
“But Lord Chancellor, we’ve also discovered signs of an Orb Relic—”

“Commander Vex.” Alderan interrupted, voice like silk-covered steel.
“Commander Magnus will take over Alien Hive operations. After all, he is working closely with one of the galaxy’s foremost hive experts—Dr. Romanov.”

She gave a brief, calculated smile without looking up from her slate.

“Commander Magnus, when you're ready.”

Vex snapped his head toward Magnus.
“Ready for what?”
His voice cracked with disbelief.
“What are you planning to do, Magnus!?”

Magnus returned his binoculars to his belt.
He smiled. Coldly.
“My job.”

Above them, the sky ignited.

A beam of radiant light lanced from high orbit, followed by the streak of an orbital missile.

The mountains trembled. The Alien Hive entrance erupted in fire and light. The ground shuddered. Stone, steel, and ancient flesh crumbled beneath the fury of a weaponized god.

When the smoke cleared, the entire ridgeline had collapsed—an obliterated crater where once stood their objective.

Commander Vex could only stare, his voice bitter ash.
“All that work… for nothing.”

Chancellor Alderan turned to him, hands folded behind his back.
“Now that’s settled... Commander Vex, I want your full attention on locating the missing Tech-Magos. We’ve received word that bounty hunters, mercenaries, and even a Kusari delegation have entered orbit. This situation must be resolved discreetly and quickly.”

Vex stood frozen, torn between duty and fury.
“Of course, Lord Chancellor.”

Alderan smiled approvingly.
“Nostramo is in good hands with such loyal servants of the Empire. May the Emperor bless you both.”
He turned and returned to his ship.

Magnus paused at the ramp and turned with a wicked grin.
“Have fun finding your witches and relics, Vex.”

Vex’s eyes burned.
“You know that bombardment didn’t eradicate the Hive. You just collapsed our entrance.”

Magnus’s smile faded, jaw tightening. He stepped toward him.

“Are you accusing me of something, Vex?”

Vex leaned in, voice like venom.
“Why so defensive, Magnus? You wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re protecting them, would you?”

Magnus stared him down.
“You might want to think about protecting yourself.”
He turned and disappeared up the ramp.

Dr. Romanov was last. She paused, looked over her shoulder… and smiled.
A flash of purple glimmered in her eyes.

Then they were gone.

The ships screamed into the sky, leaving only dust, silence, and broken spirits behind.

Vex turned to his second-in-command, voice quiet, resolute.

“Get me a comms link with the Lord Marshal and Commander Corvus.”
His voice hardened.

“I fear Magnus may have been compromised.”

The hum of generators and distant shrieks of industrial servitors echoed through the steel canyons of Sector Delta-9. Resting on top of a humming power cell generator, her legs crossed and her purple synth-leather coat rippling in the low wind, sat Nocturna Blaze—cyberpunk assassin, gunrunner, and professional purveyor of beautiful destruction.

A cigarette dangled between her lips, its tip glowing a dull red. Her two towering cyborg bodyguards flanked her, standing motionless, eyes glowing with pulsing cerulean light. The crates of high-capacity fusion cells beneath her hissed faintly, a reminder of their barely-contained volatile energy.

The low rumble of a military APC broke the silence. The vehicle ground to a halt, its crimson insignia glinting under the dirty light. Out stepped Commander Magnus of the Crimson Battle Brothers, clad in deep red ceramite, the gold trim of his armor slightly scorched from recent conflict. His battle brothers fanned out wordlessly, scanning for threats.

“You’re late.” Nocturna exhaled smoke in his direction without looking up.

Magnus removed his helmet, revealing a chiseled face marked by age and war. “I know your time is valuable, Ms. Nocturna. I assure you—you’ll be paid well for it.”

Finally meeting his gaze with eyes as cold as orbit-drop steel, Nocturna flicked ash onto the generator. “Just what are you using these power cells for, Magnus? These are star destroyer grade. They ain’t even rated for ground-level infrastructure.”

She hopped down smoothly, her heeled boots clanging against the metal deck. The cyborgs moved to begin offloading the cells.

“You’re better off not knowing that…” Magnus replied, his voice tight as he signaled to his troops to begin the loading process.

The moment hung, brittle and suspicious—until the low grumble of engines echoed through the corridors of the city-sprawl. The sound multiplied and deepened.

Nocturna’s expression soured. She tapped her cigarette out on the side of a crate. “I’m disappointed, Magnus. I thought we had an understanding about our discretion.”

From the distance, a voice like gravel and gasoline bellowed through a makeshift loudspeaker.

“Disappointment!  Ha! Disappointment’s the only feeling possible when it comes to Magnus!”

A massive ork trukk screeched around the corner, metal plates clanging wildly. On top stood Grungefist, a monstrous green brute in rusted armor, his carbine aimed loosely at the tank transport. His tusks were stained with blood and oil, and a lopsided grin spread across his face.

“You haven’t called, Magnus. I’ve missed ya… And now I’m gonna FIST YA!”

He opened fire. Bullets peppered the APC, bouncing off its thick plating.

Nocturna ducked behind the power cell crates, cackling. “First-name basis with orks? VERY disappointing.”

Two ork trukks charged in from side streets, their mounted guns blazing. Grungefist howled with laughter.

“Ready for a magic trick, Magnus!?” He snapped his fingers, and both trukks vanished in a shimmer of crude teleportation tech—only to reappear inches from the Crimson Brothers.

Orks poured out, screaming war cries. A mech walker from the Battle Brothers clambered up a nearby hill and unleashed a torrent of flame, torching several attackers.

Above them, jetpacks whined.

Punkgrog, a wiry ork with neon-pink mohawks and goggles, led a team of stormboyz descending from the polluted sky. They slammed into a heavy weapons team, tearing bolters from their hands and hurling Space Marines down the cliffside.

The tank transport rotated and roared, its side cannons blasting apart the jump packs of two stormboyz. Their fuel cells erupted midair, sending flaming orks spiraling into the ravine.

Magnus, now hiding behind scorched crates, rose with a snarl. Lightning crackled from his gauntlets, and he launched arcane bolts into the ork horde, electrifying their ranks. Orks screamed and flailed, smoke curling from their armor.

From his perch, Grungefist snarled and leapt down, his massive powerclaw humming with dark energy. With a roar, he and three ork veterans lifted the entire tank and flipped it on its side, sending sparks and fuel spilling.

Magnus watched in horror. “The price for those parts just DOUBLED, you green freak!”

He charged, energy sword flashing. He missed—but landed a brutal kick to one ork's chest.

Grungefist caught Magnus by the collar and yanked him up like a doll.

“I’LL DO THE FISTING, MAGNUS!”

With a thunderous CRACK, he slammed his claw into Magnus’ chest, sending him flying into the overturned tank.

A hatch burst open.

Five Abominant Soul Snatcher mutants—all teeth, claws, and twisted purple muscle—poured out of the tank, screeching. They sprinted toward the power cells, smashing orks aside.

Grungefist blinked. “Snatchers? You’re keeping strange company these days, Magnus.”

Ignoring him, the mutants surged toward the transport.

Back at the crates, Nocturna kicked a mutant square in the face, stomping on its reaching hand.

“Hands off, Snatcher FILTH!” she shouted, her needle pistol firing into another’s skull.

“Hey Magnus.  Lose my number!” She nodded to her cyborg pilot, and the hover transport roared to life, lifting from the ground. As dust and grit blasted across the battlefield, Nocturna’s silhouette grew distant in the haze.

Magnus picked up his bolter, dusting himself off. He stomped over to Grungefist, who was brushing ork gore from his claw.

“What’s gonna happen when the Saurian Space Police find out about your little ‘Special Projekt”, Grungeboy? YOU’LL be the one getting fisted!”, he spat.

His remaining brothers righted the tank, now sputtering and scorched, and began loading in.

“I can’t wait to put your skull on a pike, you battle BITCH!” Grungefist bellowed after him.

Magnus ignored the insult, boarding the transport.

Punkgrog wandered over, chewing on something vaguely fungal. “Didn’t know Magnus was runnin’ with dem Snatchers now.”

Grungefist stared at the horizon, watching the crimson transport vanish into the smog.

“Perfect,” he muttered. Then, slowly, his tusked mouth curled into a grin.

“I don’t think anyone else does either…”

Under the choking skies of the night-wreathed planet Nostramo, war never ceased. The mountains were black iron, the soil soaked in blood long since dried to rust. There, where hope had long fled and only duty remained, stood Commander Grimvald Vex, his silhouette cast in stark relief against a hellfire sky.

He stood atop a jagged hill, winds howling like daemons across the wasteland below. His white cloak flapped in the breeze, emblazoned with the sigil of the Templar Battle Brothers—the Emperor's justice in a galaxy spiraling toward oblivion. Through grimy augur-binoculars, Vex watched the plains beyond, where dust storms obscured the horizon, and a roar began to rumble. 

Thundering engines, belching smoke. Rattling trukks and battle wagons, cobbled together from rusted metal and savage genius. Ork banners whipped in the wind, crude glyphs and chains flailing madly. The unmistakable glyph of the warboss Grungefist flew high and ugly.

“Just Grungefist,” Vex muttered, handing the binoculars to his second-in-command, Brother-Sergeant Malrek. “Fool thinks to take our position with noise and rust. Once they’re in range, lay down suppressing fire. We've got the high ground. They’d be idiots to attack.”

As he spoke, the Templar Battle Brothers moved like disciplined shadows. Las-cannons hummed to life atop tripods dug into the rock. Snipers took up roosts in the jagged escarpments, their scopes gleaming dimly. Assault Marines knelt, murmuring litanies as they fueled their jump packs, chain swords whining in anticipation.

Far below, atop a rust-slicked trukk belching fumes, Grungefist bared his tusks in a grin foul enough to sour metal. Grease coated his scarred frame, his rusted blue armor adorned with scrap trophies and bits of engine. His yellow eyes glinted like a predator’s.

“Dem power cells dey protectin’? Mine,” he growled to no one in particular. Then, slamming his boot down on the pedal, he roared, “Time for a FISTIN’!”

The trukk bucked and screamed forward, its engine threatening to explode. Dozens more followed, the Ork convoy charging like stampeding beasts.

“Commander, they aren’t slowing down,” Malrek reported, his voice taut.

Vex nodded once, lowering his visor, his face a mask of grim resolve. “Then we will not falter. We serve the Emperor, and He protects His own. Take them down!”

The battle began with a shriek of energy and a fury of righteous fire.

Sniper rounds lanced through the air, puncturing the front plating of the ork wagons. Sparks flew, panels ripped free—but the crude machines didn’t stop. They never stopped.

Assault Marines launched from the ridge, jetpacks roaring as they descended upon the convoy. They struck with fury, chain swords carving arcs through smoke and green hide. But the orks met them like a tide of muscle and madness.

“LOOKEE WHAT WE GOTZ ‘ERE!” howled an ork boy, drooling and giddy.

The assault marines were overwhelmed in moments, driven back by sheer mass. One marine went down under the weight of five greenskins, his armor buckling, blood spraying the dust black.

Vex snarled. “Throne! Gun them down, Sergeant!”

From behind him, the Templar Battle-Mech—a relic of a forgotten age—stepped forth, shaking the very earth. Twin barrels spun into motion. Its Gatling cannon lit up the sky, slamming hundreds of rounds into the ork lines. Bodies fell, blood exploded in clouds of mist and rot. The orks scrambled, roaring in frustration.

“We hold the high ground,” Vex growled. “They’ll never reach the cells.”

But fate, in its cruelty, heard him speak.

With an engine shriek, Grungefist’s trukk shifted gears and roared up the rocky hill like a steel beast possessed. Sparks flew from the tires as it carved a path straight toward the ridge. Vex turned, too late.

The trukk screeched to a halt, metal grinding against stone. It sat meters from Vex, fumes curling around its frame. Grungefist leapt down, lit cigar in his tusked maw, his smile all threat and madness.

Knowing the hill was lost, Vex raised his hands. Around him, his remaining troops followed suit, forced into submission beneath the orks’ guns.

“Have yer boys load da cells into the trukk,” Grungefist ordered. “Spare ya some fingers if ya move quick.”

Vex stood stiffly, watching as his brothers moved, humiliated under ork jeers and crude laughter. But the sting of defeat was nothing compared to what came next.

“I don’t know what your boss Bogsnot has planned,” Vex said coldly, “but it won’t work.”

Grungefist’s grin vanished. In a blur of movement, he grabbed Vex by the collar and yanked him close.

“He. Ain’t. My. BOSS.”

Silence fell like a guillotine. Even the orks paused, some backing away. Vex met the warboss’s bloodshot eyes. And in them, he saw something worse than savagery—intent.

“You don’t know nuffin’, Vex,” Grungefist growled. “You walk around all proud in yer shiny armor, thinkin’ yer righteous. Meanwhiles, one of yer own’s runnin’ wit’ the SNATCHERS now.”

He spat the last word like a curse, then barked laughter. “HAHA! Even da dinoz are turnin’. Ya better check yerself, Commander.”

Vex felt a cold stab of realization. Magnus. The Crimson Battle Brother. Whispers of forbidden dealings, of altered behavior, of strange disappearances.

And now... the Saurians? Their ancient alliance strained, even corrupted?

Grungefist climbed back into his trukk, laughing madly as it turned and thundered back down the hill, leaving dust in its wake.

Vex remained, silent in the smoke-choked dusk, eyes fixed on the horizon. Around him, the wind blew cold. His men said nothing.

He had feared the orks, loathed them. But this was worse.

"Damn the day I ever landed on this forsaken rock... Lord Marshall Sieger is gonna hang me for this." Vex muttered to no one.

But the Emperor heard.

And the stars above offered no comfort.

On the edge of the Badlands of Nostramo Quintus, stride a roaring Tyrannosaurus Rex, rode Commander Watanga, scaled and armored, his cold eyes scanning the desolation. Beside him, lumbering through the irradiated mist, was the spiked titan known as Paprika, an ankylosaurus clad in reactive battle plating, tail bristling with ion charges.

Riding beside him was his second-in-command, Sergeant Drokk, hunched over a worn scanner blinking erratically. The readings glitched, spasmed, pulsed in strange frequencies.

“Commander Vex of the Templar Battle Brothers has gathered some intelligence regarding a Soul Snatcher operation in the eastern region,” Watanga growled, his voice gravel against iron. “What are you getting on your radar, Sergeant?”

Drokk turned, claws dancing across the cracked display. His throat tightened.

“Commander… there must be some mistake. The Soul Snatcher operation appears to be in the center of… a Crimson Battle Brother outpost.”

Watanga froze. The thought was heresy. Crimson Battle Brothers—genetically modified zealots of the Imperium, sworn protectors of law and order lead by Commander  Magnus. Allies. Or so he had believed.

“How could that be?” he muttered, spurring his mount into a thunderous charge.

They reached the shattered edge of the outpost—ruins of black ferrocrete jutting from the soil like broken teeth. There, through scorched binoculars, they watched.

Neophyte Soul Snatchers, twisted humanoid clones with stolen skin and veiled faces, loaded crates of illegal spice, energy weapons, and advanced scanners onto a repulsor-loader. And on those crates—the unmistakable mark of the Crimson Battle Brothers.

“Something isn’t right here…” Watanga hissed, tail flicking. “Move in.”

The Saurian Space Police squad emerged from cover—gleaming in obsidian carapace, riding atop growling raptors, tail-blades slicing the air. But then, silence was torn apart as three Crimson Battle Brothers leapt from an APC, weapons raised. Two were masked; the third was bare-headed—his pupils hazed with faint violet light, void of soul.

“You have no jurisdiction here,” the lieutenant droned, voice lifeless. “Turn back or deadly force will be used.”

Watanga stepped forward, talon clenched on his plasma lance.

“Lieutenant, there are Soul Snatchers directly behind you, conducting an illegal operation!”

But the response came cold and robotic.

“Turn back. Deadly force will be used.”

The barrel of a bolt rifle snapped toward him. Watanga’s blood ran cold.

“Lieutenant, we are the Saurian Space Police. It is our duty to defend this planet, even when YOU won’t!”

Paprika bellowed, shaking the ground—then charged.

Shots rang out. The APC turret whined, then thundered. Flame engulfed Paprika’s flank—she rolled in agony, screeching, tail smashing a crate of spice before stumbling away into the ash.

“In the name of the Saurian Space Police, you are all under arrest!” Watanga roared.

Out from the dunes, a herd of Saurian riders streaked forward—raptors screaming with bloodlust. Lances pierced the side of the APC, rupturing a fuel line. One bolt—then boom—the tank erupted into fire.

But it was just the beginning.

From behind, a second tank arrived—sleek, crimson, and humming with unnatural energies. Its doors opened—and from its depths crawled five massive purple abominations, sinewed mutants dripping ichor, their maws stretched in silent screams.

The first wave of Saurians was annihilated in seconds.

Three massive Saurian crocodile warriors charged next—shields raised, spines flaring, bodies covered in ceremonial glyphs. They slammed into the tank, crushing its tread, biting into its metal hide.

And then she came.

The Matriarch.

A towering mutant witch, half-Soul Snatcher, half-nightmare. Her skin shimmered with veined purples and psychic light. Her laughter sliced the battlefield like a blade of glass.

“Welcome, Watanga,” she sneered. “Now it’s time to learn your secrets.”

She raised her fingers. A wave of crackling blue psychic energy exploded outward—two crocodile warriors fell, smoking. A third began to rise—his body trembling, pulled into the air, surrounded by flickering lightning.

“You must resist her!” Watanga screamed, galloping toward the Matriarch.

But the Matriarch was already inside the crocodile’s mind.

“What’s this? You are hiding an Orbnacht Sphere of your own? I see it… in a temple… beneath the roots of…another world. But where? Share your secrets!”

Just then—Watanga struck.

He leapt from the back of his Tyrannosaur, boot colliding with the Matriarch’s side. She reeled, hissing.

The Rex pounced—one clawed foot pinning the Matriarch’s chest to the ground. Her laughter only grew louder.

“Your secrets have been revealed, Watanga. Galaxion will be so pleased! Hahaha!”

Watanga’s lance sparked with fire—aiming for her heart—until a storm of bullets and laser fire forced a retreat. Crimson Battle Brothers opened fire. Mutants surged forward. Watanga and his surviving warriors fell back under a hail of ruin.

They regrouped hours later, hidden deep within a ravine littered with the bones of long-dead titans.

Sergeant Drokk approached, clutching a half-melted Soul Snatcher communicator, cracked but still humming.

“Commander… we recovered this during the retreat. One of their comms units. If we can break the encryption, we can find out who is coordinating this operation.”

Watanga seized it, claws trembling with fury.

The name appeared—holographically etched in burning script.

-Nocturna Blaze-

The APC’s engine rumbled like a dying god beneath layers of ash-choked ruin and the skies above Nostramo Quintus remained perpetually black with soot and memory. Sergeant Jubal Khan of the White Scars sat rigid in the command seat, his helm locked into the sensor grid.

Faint traces of life flickered across the auspex.

“Coordinates confirmed,” Khan growled, his voice distorted through the vox. “The Lord Marshall reported cult activity in this sector. We’re to capture their leaders for interrogation. The rest...” His gaze darkened behind his visor, “…we burn.”

The ten White Scars within the APC said nothing, but their hands clenched around bolters, chainswords humming with caged wrath.

The transport turned a corner.

Then—drums.

The beat echoed through broken alleys and shattered windows, primal and maddening. As the APC crested a rise in the ruins, the source revealed itself.

Atop a blasted knoll stood a monolithic stone, ancient and alien. Its face bore three vast circles etched with a single vertical line cutting through all of them. The symbol thrummed with some inner light. Flanking the monolith were two priestesses in flowing crimson robes, arms raised to the sky, lips moving in guttural, archaic chants—Old High Gothic, laced with what the data archives called proto-Germanic.

Below them, another priestess stood facing a sea of ragged figures—humans, mutants, and a smattering of xenos, hundreds strong. They swayed and sang in unison:

“Xanthea, Xanthea, Hüterin der Orbnacht, wir warten darauf, dass sich die Drei aufstellen!”

The air rippled. The stone glowed faintly, pulsing to the rhythm of their blasphemous hymn.

Inside the APC, the battle-brothers stared in grim silence. For a moment, even they knew unease.

“What sorcery is this, Sergeant Khan?” one of the brothers asked, voice taut.

“I don’t know, brother,” Khan said, “but in the name of the Emperor, we will cleanse it.”

The APC’s floodlights blazed to life, searing through the gloom and illuminating the ritual. The cultists recoiled, shielding their eyes. Panic bloomed. Screams tore the ritual apart as dozens fled into the ruins.

Khan activated the external vox.

“By decree of the Emperor of Mankind, lay down your arms and prepare for processing.”

Some cultists dropped to their knees, sobbing, crawling toward the tank. The White Scars disembarked—ten giants in white ceramite, storming across the rubble with practiced violence. Khan’s eyes caught three signal-suppression pylons surrounding the stone.

“They were trying to mask the ritual,” muttered one brother. “Avoid detection.”

Then—SHE screamed.

The central priestess convulsed, throwing her head skyward. A shriek tore from her throat, impossibly loud—so loud the Astartes stumbled, even through their helmets.

The stone exploded with blue fire.

Specters and daemons poured from it, phasing into existence like horned shadows, screeching and howling. Wings erupted from the priestess’s back, twisting her into something monstrous. She rose into the air, eyes ablaze, and plunged her spear into the APC.

The tank jolted, lights flickering.

“HOSTILE!” Khan roared.

Bolters barked. The White Scars poured fire into her, rounds tearing into corrupted flesh and divine sinew. She shrieked again and hurled a blast of energy from her spear—two battle-brothers were reduced to glowing ash.

More ghosts closed in, their incorporeal forms flitting between rubble. Bolter fire hissed as rounds passed through and vanished into mist. Sergeant Khan leapt from the damaged APC and unleashed a controlled burst. The priestess screamed as rounds shredded her wings. She rocketed into the sky, vanishing into the smoke.

Then came a second horror.

From the ruins emerged a shrouded figure, machine and wraith, cloaked in a translucent blue veil. It raised a skeletal hand and fired a lance of energy into the APC. Sparks exploded from the hull.

“LASCANNON!” Khan ordered.

The turret turned. A brilliant beam lanced out, annihilating the structure behind the spectral figure. Stone and steel collapsed, burying the ghost-machine.

But it wasn’t over.

Daemons burst from the alleys—limb-twisted beasts, gnashing and howling. One brother was torn in two by clawed appendages. Another was dragged screaming into a wall of shadow. A towering wraith-behemoth loomed above the ruins, formed of smoke and malice.

Khan bellowed, “We are flanked! Collect the dead—fall back!”

The survivors retreated, dragging fallen gene-brothers into the wounded APC. The monolith behind them was a blazing beacon now, the rip in reality wide and howling. More entities spilled out, shrieking with glee.

As the carrier sped away, Sergeant Khan slammed a fist on the vox console.

“To Lord Marshall—this is Sergeant Khan. We’ve encountered a Class Alpha Warp Breach on Nostramo Quintus. I repeat: this is not a cult. This is a god-cursed DOORWAY. Request full Imperial Defense deployment. Exterminatus-grade cleansing may be required.”

The transmission cut.

Hours Later...

A recon team arrived.

No bodies.

No signs of battle.

The ruins were silent.

The monolith was gone.

And far in the distance, beneath the soot-draped sky, something sang in a voice not meant for mortal ears.

The bridge of the IMMORTAL CHAMPION’S lights flickered under the old battle star cruiser’s strained generators, casting long shadows across the command dais, tension coiled like a living thing.  Commander Griwald Vex of the Templar Battle Brothers and Commander Corvus Cruz of the Knights of Grey stood rigid, armor plates clicking as they shifted uneasily. Between them, looming like a specter carved from iron and hate, Lord Marshall Seiger glared down at the planet with a contempt he could no longer restrain.

“Both of you are failing.”

His voice cracked like artillery fire against the command deck. Griwald and Corvus stiffened, exchanging a brief, sharp glance—each searching for a word, an excuse, anything. None came.

“Xantheus is nowhere to be found.  A cult festers inside the planetary defense force. The orks have doubled their claimed territory. And now—” He spun on them, spittle flying from his beard, eyes wild. “—now I am told an ALIEN HIVE is spreading and may wipe out the planet entirely!?”

The Lord Marshall leaned close, breath hot with fury.

“Did I miss something, Commanders!?”

“No, sir,” they answered together, stepping back as shame hollowed their voices.

Seiger exhaled a long, ragged breath and turned to a display console. With a few terse commands, a frozen image appeared—grainy, static-laced footage depicting a jagged stone monolith etched with three vertical dots. Demons clawed their way from its cracking surface, while citizens fled in hysteria.

“The White Scars sent something interesting,” Seiger said, calmer but no less menacing. “No one can find the missing tech-magos Xantheus, but she seems to have developed a cult capable of tearing open the veil.”

The hum of the cruiser deepened, a metallic groan echoing through ancient support beams. No one dared to speak.

“Is anyone capable of talking on this bridge!?” Seiger bellowed, voice booming through the chamber.

Cruz stepped forward. “Lord Marshall, if I may… The orks on Nostramo are more than we—”

“I am in no mood for excuses, Cruz!” Seiger snapped.

The bridge fell silent once more, broken only by the crackle of overloaded vox lines and the distant grind of the cruiser’s aging engines.

After a long moment, Seiger spoke again, lower, grim.
“This isn’t the first time Xantheus has developed a cult…”

Griwald and Cruz exchanged a look—confusion and dread mingling.

“Your report about the Orbnacht—the only useful thing you’ve managed—prompted deeper research.” He keyed the console again. The screen shifted to archival footage: grainy holo-vids of armored warriors bathed in firelight, following a woman whose eyes glowed unnaturally bright.

“In the age of darkness,” Seiger intoned, “during the Second Crusade of Mankind, Xanthea of the First Legion—Blood Brothers—claimed to discover ancient artifacts. Orbs of impossible power. She promised immortality and dominion when they were aligned.”

He let the words hang like a guillotine blade.

“The Legion splintered. Many followed her into the dark. They vanished—some say perished chasing fantasies. Others insist they opened a door into the warp… and never returned.”

On screen, Xanthea raised a shimmering orb while thousands knelt.
Griwald felt a chill beneath his cuirass.

“But Lord Marshall,” he said, voice tight, “how could this be the same Xanthea? This was millennia ago.”

“I don’t know,” Seiger admitted. “But your reports indicate she also seeks an Orbnacht now. The cult resurfacing on Nostramo bears her iconography, and there is a bounty on her head stretching across twenty sectors.”

He leaned close to the console—eyes guarded.

“What has this tech-magos uncovered… or RE-discovered?”

 Before anyone could answer, the console erupted in shrill, urgent beeping.

A deck sergeant turned. “Lord Marshall, incoming transmission.”
Seiger grunted. “From whom?”

“A commander… Gunther. Of the Blood Brothers Legion.”
The sergeant swallowed. “He requests immediate audience. He warns of an impending attack.”

Silence fell again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Seiger stared at his two commanders. Both looked pale beneath their helmets, unnerved by the coincidence—or fate—now confronting them.

“Blood Brothers, you say,” Seiger murmured, voice low. “What legion?”

The deck sergeant checked the display, hesitating before turning back.

“First Legion, Lord Marshall.”

Silence and the hum of the ancient ship filled the void of the bridge once again, while outside, far down below on the surface, Nostramo waited…

_____________________________________________

The fog rolled over the jagged hills like a living shroud, thick enough to choke the breath from a mortal’s lungs. From that high ridge overlooking the cracked earth of the Badlands, three figures stood against the grey dawn—hulking silhouettes of armor and authority.

Commander Griwald Vex of the Templar Battle Brothers, armor etched with vows of unending war.
Commander Corvus Cruz of the Knights of Grey, cloak snapping quietly in the void-winds.
And Lord Marshall Seiger, stern as a fortress wall, flanked by his honor guard of tower-shielded elites.

They waited.
And in the distance, a rumbling grew.

Through the fog came the shape of a tank—blocky, angular, unmistakably ancient. Its treads shrieked against the shale as it crawled toward them, armored plates scorched black from wars fought before their grandfathers’ grandfathers were born.

Seiger’s eyes narrowed behind his helm.
“That’s a first-generation APC…” he muttered, awe and apprehension entwined.

The kind of machine spoken of with reverence.
The kind of machine that should have been in a vault, not rolling across a cursed world.

The relic groaned to a halt before them, its hull steaming in the cold morning. A moment later, the rear ramp hissed open.

Out stepped Commander Gunther.

He was a giant even among augmented warriors—broad-shouldered, clad in Mark I plate, its edges hammered by time, its surface engraved with the archaic sigils of the Blood Brothers 1st Legion. Behind him marched several warriors in the same impossible armor and a jittery service droid, its photoreceptors glowing a nervous blue.

Cruz whispered, unable to stop himself.
“I’ve only ever seen armor like that in the historical archives…”

The ancient warriors lined up and struck their fists to their chests.

“Der Kaiser beschützt!” Gunther barked.

The salute snapped like thunder. His warriors echoed it in unison.

The service droid stepped forward, voice box whirring.
“Translation: The Emperor Protects. Commander Gunther sends his greetings and carries an urgent message for you, Lord Marshall Seiger.”

The three imperial commanders returned the salute—though confusion flickered behind their helmets.

None of them had ever heard such a language.
None of them had ever expected Blood Brothers here.

Seiger spoke first.
“Let Commander Gunther know we are grateful for his arrival, but surprised. The Blood Brother Crusade currently operates thousands of sectors from Nostramo.”

The droid relayed the message in the strange, ancient tongue. Gunther nodded solemnly.

Then came the warning.

“Commander Gunther brings grave news,” the droid continued. Its voice grew shaky. “He warns you of Commander Magnus. Magnus is incubating a monster within his laboratory. He seeks an ancient artifact—one that would bring doom upon this world. Gunther implores your aid to stop him.”

Cruz stepped forward.
“It’s true,” he said, “I saw it. Magnus has lost himself—madness, corruption, obsession. I feared this day would come.”  (See Chapter 13) 

Seiger’s jaw tightened. Magnus had been one of his best. One of his brightest. A hero carved from iron… if the reports were to be believed.

He wanted to deny it.
But Cruz’s tone was iron-clad.

The droid resumed.
“Magnus breeds a creature designed to track the artifact. Our mission—Commander Gunther’s mission—is to ensure he never acquires it.”

Seiger asked the question he already feared the answer to.
“Is this artifact… the Orbnacht?”

The reaction was immediate.

Gunther’s warriors stiffened, hands twitching toward their weapons. Even their ancient helms seemed to darken. Gunther himself stepped forward, voice booming with unrestrained urgency.

“Wir müssen die Orbnacht finden, bevor Magnus sie findet!”

The droid recoiled, servo-motors whirring in fear before translating:

“We must find the Orbnacht before Magnus does—or else…”

A silence settled over the hill. Heavy. Tragic. Inevitable.

Cruz, Vex, and Seiger exchanged grim looks.
The pieces of the story were aligning—and the picture was monstrous.

Finally, Seiger gave his command.

“Tell Commander Gunther we will coordinate a confrontation with Magnus at dawn. He must ready his troops and await my transmission.”

The droid translated. Gunther saluted once more, as did his warriors. They filed back into their relic APC, the ancient tank roaring to life. With a belch of smoke and fury, it thundered away across the dead landscape, swallowed by fog and dust.

The moment it vanished, Seiger exhaled a low, rasping breath.

“I don’t know what is happening,” he said to his commanders, “but it reeks of chaos magic…”

The fog on the hill curled around them like the fingers of an unseen hand.