Now, the once-proud capital of Ostland, the historic city of Wolfenburg, was almost entirely consumed by flames or reduced to rubble. The Chaos horde had followed Mortkin's orders with unwavering devotion: burn everything, destroy everything, slaughter everyone.
More than 80,000 Imperial citizens lay dead amidst the ruins, their bodies strewn across streets and courtyards. The 20,000 survivors, weak and desperate, fled toward Bull's Keep in a chaotic retreat.
On a blazing avenue, Oleg von Zhukov, leading a contingent of Bull Knights and the Black Guard of Ostland, faced Mortkin and his Crimson Reapers head-on.
The city burned all around them. Imperial troops, cut down like fields of wheat, fell in droves under the relentless onslaught of Chaos warriors. Streams of steaming, red blood flowed across the streets, and from all sides, the Chaos horde closed in on Oleg's forces. The Norscan conqueror fought with every ounce of his strength, his lungs heaving and his muscles screaming with pain, knowing full well that his efforts were futile.
Mortkin, clad in his black iron Chaos-forged armor, stepped forward, wielding his Hellfire Sword in one hand and his Black Iron Axe in the other. With a single swing of his sword, several fully-armored Black Guards were flung into the air, their bodies reduced to mist and gore. With one swing of his axe, two Bull Knights, shields raised, were sliced clean in half—armor, flesh, and bone cleaving apart like parchment.
The Bull Knights and Black Guards fought valiantly to protect their baron. Yet, against Mortkin, there was no hope. No weapon could pierce the protective aura of Chaos that enveloped him. He was vengeance incarnate, an avatar of unrelenting rage and destruction.
The Crimson Reapers, the elite warriors of the Dark Gods, slaughtered their foes with brutal efficiency. Each of these Chaos Chosen required six or more Imperial soldiers to bring down, and even then, mortal men had no chance against their supernatural power, granted by the gods themselves.
And then there was Mortkin—Chaos Eternal Champion, unstoppable, each strike of his weapons claiming the lives of ten or more warriors. His advance was swift, and his fury was unrestrained.
Oleg fought like a wolf backed into a corner, his shield and his sword, Ivan the Terrible, cutting down foe after foe. But he knew the truth: this was the end. The horns of the southern reinforcements grew louder, but they were still miles away. For now, in front of him, the brilliance of human history and civilization was being systematically obliterated. All Oleg could do was fight until he drew his last breath.
One by one, the loyal Bull Knights fell. The Black Guards gave everything they had to slow Mortkin's approach, but they could not stop him. The Eternal Champion moved like a terrifying shadow of red and black, a storm of blood and death.
Grandmaster Leopold of the Bull Knights fell, his body cleaved into pieces and smashed into pulp.
Commander Vladimir Ludnasys of the Black Guard met an even more gruesome fate. Mortkin gripped his skull with both hands, driving his thumbs into Vladimir's eye sockets. With a sickening crunch, the Eternal Champion tore Vladimir's skull apart, splitting him down the middle along his spine. Blood, bile, and entrails sprayed into the air, painting Mortkin in a mosaic of red and white. He let out a low, satisfied growl as he admired his handiwork.
Oleg watched, grief and guilt tearing at his heart. He stood tall, a proud and feral wolf, his chest heaving as he cut down Chaos warriors with his shield and sword. But the men defending him fell one by one. Knight-Captain Gordon took a blade meant for Oleg, his body crumpling as his lifeblood spilled onto the cobblestones. The last of his men were struck down by the hammers and swords of the Crimson Reapers.
Until finally, Oleg stood alone.
"This is all your fault, Oleg. All your fault!" The guilt and sorrow threatened to consume him, driving the baron to the edge of madness. Surrounded by hundreds of Chaos Chosen, he broke into hysterical laughter. Dirty tears carved paths through the blood and ash on his face.
"This is all your fault, Oleg. You're unworthy of being your master's disciple. You're no true alpha wolf."
Oleg had made peace with his end. He was ready to die here, to atone for his mistakes. His recklessness and arrogance had cost the lives of his people. Now it was time for him to pay that price. His life was worthless, but it was all he had left to give.
But even this small wish would be denied. Mortkin had other plans. The Eternal Champion stepped forward, his voice like the echo of a demon from the Realm of Chaos, distorted and malevolent. Yet his words were clear, understood by all who heard them. "This is all your fault, mortal," he said. "You."
Oleg spat a curse under his breath and raised Ivan the Terrible. He had no intention of debating with Mortkin.
"This is all your fault," Mortkin repeated, his tone laced with contempt. He didn't attack immediately, savoring the moment like a hunter toying with prey. "Because of you, I am here. I hate you, Oleg. But I also thank you."
Mortkin moved slowly, circling Oleg. "If not for you, I would have lost my will to live. You destroyed my homeland, and now I've destroyed yours. Fair is fair. You gave me a reason to keep going—revenge. For that, I'm truly grateful."
Oleg snarled, his face twisted with hatred. "The only mistake I ever made was not killing every last Norscan, leaving scum like you alive!"
"Indeed, we both hate each other. There's no need for reason," Mortkin said calmly, nodding. "You've hated us since birth, and I was raised to take from the Southerners—to steal your treasures and your skulls to adorn my halls."
Mortkin's voice was tinged with sadness, a deep melancholy. "This is the cycle, Oleg. This hatred will never end. Blood must wash away blood. We're all pawns of the gods. I once saw through their games and tried to resist, but in the end… I am but a man. I cannot stand idle in the face of such things."
The gods had gotten what they wanted. Hundreds of thousands of brave men had died to satiate their greed, and Mortkin had given everything to achieve his vengeance.
At least now, Mortkin could stop running from fate.
"Now it's fair, Oleg," Mortkin said. "You destroyed my home, and I've destroyed yours. You took the lives of everyone in Dragonskeep, and I've taken the lives of your people. You claimed your glory as the Norscan Conqueror, and I have claimed mine as the Destroyer of the South."
Oleg's face was wracked with sorrow and guilt. He didn't see that Mortkin bore the same expression.
"Let's end this. I'm tired, Oleg. So tired." Mortkin raised his weapons. "I'll give you three chances. Consider it an apology. I'm sorry for all of this. For all the humans who've died in this war. Norscans, Kurgans, Huns, Mongols, Imperials, Kislevites, dwarves, elves, Bretonnians… I hope they find peace in death—a land without war, without hate."
Oleg roared in defiance, refusing Mortkin's hollow words. "For the Empire! For Ostland! For the Father Wolf and Sigmar!"
With a deafening battle cry, he lunged at Mortkin. The first strike of Ivan the Terrible crashed against Mortkin's chest plate, only to rebound harmlessly off the Chaos-forged armor. The runes etched into the metal glowed with maddening light, their power forming an impenetrable barrier.
"That was your first strike," Mortkin said calmly.
Furious, Oleg put all his strength into the second blow. He twisted his body, channeling every ounce of power from his waist and back, his sword aimed at the vulnerable seam near Mortkin's neck. The icy magic coursing through the blade erupted in a frenzied storm.
The blade struck true—but once again, the Chaos energy shield flared to life, deflecting the blow.
"Your second strike," Mortkin said, his tone unchanged.
Oleg let out a primal scream. Tossing aside his shield, he gripped his sword with both hands and raised it high, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into a final, desperate attack. The blade came crashing down like an avalanche, a raw expression of his rage and despair.
The sword struck Mortkin's shoulder. A faint white mark was left on the armor.
"Your third strike," Mortkin said softly. "Now it's my turn."
With terrifying speed, Mortkin's Black Iron Axe smashed Oleg's shield to pieces. His second and third strikes landed on Ivan the Terrible, shattering the blade.
The fourth strike severed Oleg's left leg at the thigh. The baron fell to the ground with a scream of agony, his lifeblood spilling onto the scorched earth.
Mortkin planted his iron boot on Oleg's chest. The baron struggled fiercely, refusing to give up, his eyes burning with defiance.
If only you were a Norscan, Mortkin thought. You would have been worthy of boundless glory and the highest honors. You chose the wrong side, Oleg.
Mortkin's mind drifted back to his childhood in Dragonskeep—the cold winters, the scarcity of resources, the fierce competition for survival. Despite the hardships, there was warmth in his memories, a sense of camaraderie and purpose. But Dragonskeep was gone, its people slaughtered by Oleg and his forces. Killing Oleg wouldn't bring it back.
Deep emotions churned within Mortkin's heart. For a moment, he hesitated, his grip on the Hellfire Sword tightening as old memories flickered through his mind. The shouts of his kin, the laughter of his brothers-in-arms, the cries of the slain—all of it seemed to echo within him.
But there was no undoing the past. Even if Oleg died here, Mortkin knew the cycle of hatred and bloodshed would continue. It always had.
The Eternal Champion made his decision. He wouldn't prolong Oleg's suffering. There would be no gloating, no further bloodletting. Just an end, swift and merciful.
The Hellfire Sword plunged downward, piercing Oleg's eye and driving deep into his skull. The blade continued downward, slicing through bone and embedding itself into the stone floor beneath.
Oleg's body convulsed twice, then lay still.
"Sometimes, the end of the story is not a grand triumph," Mortkin said softly, his voice hollow, empty. "Sometimes, it's just an ending."
The Chaos warriors around him erupted into cheers, celebrating the death of Wolfenburg's last defender. But Mortkin felt no joy. There was no sense of triumph, no satisfaction in this moment. Only relief.
It was over.
The horns of the Imperial reinforcements blared in the distance, their sound growing louder with each passing second. A massive army, led by Ryan and his knights, appeared on the southern horizon, racing to Wolfenburg's aid. Their banners flew high, and their battle cries echoed across the plains.
But Mortkin had anticipated this.
To the south, he had prepared an ambush: twelve Chaos Daemon legions, led by the Daemon Prince Eternal Dancer of Slaanesh, along with hordes of monstrous warbands commanded by the twin-headed Chaos-chosen giant, Gugo. These forces had lain in wait for the reinforcements, hidden from sight.
As the Imperial army approached Wolfenburg, they fell directly into the ambush. Exhausted from their long march, they were struck by a coordinated attack. Slaanesh Daemons danced among the ranks, their seductive auras sowing confusion and despair. Chaos beasts smashed into the flanks, breaking the formation of the knights.
Mortkin's Chaos Dwarf engineers had also spent an entire day constructing trenches and artillery emplacements to block the southern approach. As the Imperial knights charged, they were met with a storm of cannon fire and deadly volleys from concealed batteries. The knights fell in droves, their advance shattered before it could even begin.
Ryan, seeing the trap unfold, ordered his forces to regroup and mount a defense. The reinforcements would need time to reorganize, but time was not on their side.
Mortkin stood atop the smoldering ruins of Wolfenburg, watching the unfolding battle from a distance. He observed the reinforcements' desperation, the chaotic flurry of clashing armies, and the carnage spreading across the battlefield.
"They thought they could save Wolfenburg," Mortkin muttered to himself. "As if I would leave them unprepared."
The Eternal Champion raised his head toward the sky, his voice booming across the burning city, the plains, and even the distant Central Mountains.
"Let the world remember my name!" Mortkin roared, his voice filled with rage and sorrow. "I am Mortkin, Black Iron Conqueror, King of Norsca, Scourge of the South, Warlord of the Crimson Sky, Slayer of the Blood God's Bride, Chaos Eternal Champion! The Black Iron Mortkin stands here!"
"If you seek the glory of defeating me, if you desire my head as your prize…" Mortkin's voice grew even louder, carrying like thunder.
"Then come and take it!"
His shout echoed through Wolfenburg, reverberating through the mountains, forests, and valleys. The challenge was issued, and it would be remembered by all who heard it—mortal and immortal alike.
As the sun began to rise, its light illuminated the ruins of Wolfenburg, now under the dominion of Chaos. The city had fallen, its people slain or scattered.
In the distance, Ryan's forces continued their desperate struggle, caught in Mortkin's carefully laid ambush.
And atop the ruins of Wolfenburg, surrounded by flames and corpses, stood Mortkin, his black iron armor glinting in the firelight, his Hellfire Sword still dripping with blood.
The battle for Wolfenburg was over.
But the war had only just begun.
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