The surface.
The edge of the impact zone.
The dust had not yet fully settled. The air was thick with the pungent stench of molten metal, ozone, and pulverized rock. The ground was webbed with fissures, from which searing currents of air billowed out, warping the line of sight.
A squad of ten Astartes moved through the jagged debris and twisted wreckage in a standard tactical formation.
They were an Iron Warriors recon squad, tasked with surveying the surroundings, assessing the impact's effects, and hunting for valuable intelligence—specifically, enemy movements. Through his oculars, the Sergeant scanned the hellscape they had personally authored. Sensors fed a stream of data into his helmet: thermal anomalies, radiation readings, geological stability... all within acceptable parameters.
To an Iron Warrior who had endured countless battlefields far worse than this, this was nothing.
However, his vigilance did not waver for a second. The lapdogs of the False Emperor would certainly not sit idly by.
As if to confirm his suspicions, several swift mortal soldiers flickered past a ten-meter-high slag heap about three hundred meters to the squad's left.
"Enemy contact! Three o'clock!"
The growl echoed through the encrypted channel.
Almost simultaneously, a storm of fire erupted from that direction. It wasn't the typical flicker of lasgun beams. Blinding azure plasma spheres shrieked through the air, instantly melting gaping holes in the section of ship hull the squad had been using for cover. This was followed by high-yield bolter rounds, each explosion kicking up massive chunks of rock and metal shrapnel.
"Cover!"
The Astartes immediately ducked behind wreckage and began to return fire. Their bolters barked in precise semi-automatic bursts, forcing a mortal soldier—who had leaned out to lob a grenade—back behind cover.
The engagement turned white-hot in an instant.
The Iron Warriors fanned out, seeking flanking positions and retaliating with precise, lethal fire. Their experience was vast, their coordination seamless; every volley they unleashed was a calculated threat. Ordinarily, in an encounter like this against most Astra Militarum units, they would have steamrolled the opposition in minutes.
But this time, things were different.
In the gaps between the exchange of fire, taller figures—Astartes in grey-blue power armor—burst forth like shells from a cannon! Using the terrain and the suppressive fire of their mortal allies as cover, they closed the distance with terrifying speed.
"For the Emperor!"
"Iron within, Iron without!"
Amidst the thunderous war cries, the Astartes collided.
Chainswords clashed with power axes, spraying blinding sparks and emitting a bone-grinding screech. Both sides were superhuman combatants with strength and speed far beyond mortals; the battle instantly devolved into a brutal, bloody melee.
The Iron Warrior Sergeant swung his power fist, punching an oncoming Astral Claw back several steps. The enemy's breastplate caved in, and he collapsed, unmoving.
"Something's not right."
To a veteran of the Long War, the combat prowess of these Astartes was merely average. What surprised him was the coordination of the mortals.
When an Iron Warrior tried to sweep the area with a heavy bolter, three mortal soldiers immediately pivoted, focusing plasma and bolter fire on him, forcing him to abandon his shot and dive for cover. When an Astral Claw left an opening in a duel, a mortal officer lunged forward without hesitation, using his own body to block the Iron Warrior's power sword. A split second later, a chainsword seized the opportunity, biting deep into the attacker's neck joint to avenge the fallen officer.
Blood, shattered limbs, metal shards, explosions, the roar of bolters, the scream of chainswords, and dying bellows... it all wove together into a cruel battlefield symphony.
This recon squad of seasoned Chaos veterans found themselves pinned down by a team of Astartes and mortals working in such tight synchronization that they couldn't quickly break through or annihilate them.
Between bursts of fire, the Sergeant observed the battlefield. He saw the high-quality gear the mortal auxilia carried, their discipline in the face of Space Marines—even sacrificing themselves willingly—and the near-instinctive tactical cohesion they shared with their Astartes counterparts.
This was a far cry from the Imperial Guard in his memory, who were often little more than cannon fodder or background noise.
However, searching deeper into his ancient memories...
It's so similar. It's far too similar.
His pupils suddenly constricted.
—"Solar Auxilia?!"
"Solar Auxilia?"
A hovering servo-skull slowly rotated its rusted brass eye socket, its precision crystal lenses transmitting the distant battle. Deep within the battle barge, in a compartment repurposed as a command post, the images flickered on a screen.
Seeing this, the Warsmith murmured the same thought as his veteran soldier on the ground. He instinctively straightened up in his seat.
However, barely half a second later...
"Hmph." A self-deprecating snort. He slumped back into his chair. "Gave me a start for a moment."
The Warsmith's voice regained its habitual coldness. "...It is merely the shape of it."
His gaze swept over the weapons the mortal soldiers were using and their tactical maneuvers, which, while brave, were still green.
"Equipment, training, experience... they are all leagues apart," the Warsmith critiqued.
Ten thousand years ago, the true Solar Auxilia advanced shoulder-to-shoulder with the Astartes Legions through mountains of corpses, achieving nearly a one-to-one kill ratio in critical sectors. How could these mortals, with perhaps a decade or two of training, even hope to be compared to them?
Even the most depraved Chaos traitor would puff out his chest with pride when speaking of the era of the Great Crusade. That was the age when humanity swept across the galaxy. And now, just because he saw a few well-trained mortals, he had involuntarily compared them to the Solar Auxilia?
It was... pathetic.
The dim light in the chamber flickered eerily, and the temperature dropped several degrees without warning.
"It seems your recon squad has run into a bit of... unexpected trouble, my Lord." The Tzeentchian Sorcerer spoke with his usual mocking lilt.
The Warsmith didn't turn. His voice was indifferent. "So what? My warriors are enough to crush them."
"Enough? Perhaps." The Sorcerer drifted closer, the hem of his robes hovering above the floor. "But the cost? From what I know, the industrial hive you intend to seize is... not small. With only the Astartes you have on hand, even if you win, the price will be steep, won't it?"
"If you have time for idle chatter, go finish preparing your next prophecy," the Warsmith interrupted impatiently.
"Oh, I am offering you a solution," the Sorcerer said, his voice becoming more gleeful. "You see, while your void shield array is essentially scrap due to the overload, if you were willing to... proactively detonate its remaining unstable energy, combined with the proper ritual, I could open a delightful warp rift right here. Then, I could call upon a group of helpful 'allies' to sweep away the obstacles for you. Wouldn't that be pleasant?"
"...Frix reported to me earlier." The Warsmith frowned slightly, a hint of confusion in his tone. "The void shields took such a massive hit in a short window that they are completely dead. Where would unstable energy come from? It couldn't possibly achieve what you're describing."
"Tsk, tsk. Don't be so certain." The Tzeentchian Sorcerer wasn't discouraged; instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I know you have 'that'... don't you? That precious 'contract.' Just use it to call upon a mere flicker of the 'Lord's' projection. Repairing or even strengthening a broken shield array would be child's play."
The Warsmith finally turned, his gaze locking onto the Sorcerer. The air in the room seemed to freeze, save for the faint hum of the ceiling lights.
"Sorcerer." The Warsmith's voice was bone-chilling. "Put away your little games. Trading that contract for a pack of uncontrollable daemons? Who do you think I am?"
He turned and strode toward the exit, his heavy footsteps thundering against the deck.
"Without your 'help,' I will still crush the lapdogs of the False Emperor. I will take this hive, and this world."
The hatch hissed open. Outside was not a narrow, damaged corridor, but an open-air platform at the edge of a massive hull breach. Searing wind carrying smoke and sulfur lashed against him. Before him lay a chaotic, grand spectacle.
The molten impact crater was like a wound in the earth. In the distance, the silhouette of the industrial hive flickered through the heat haze. Beneath the Warsmith, in the relatively flat areas at the edge of the crater and on the clearings sprawling out from the emergency exits of the crashed ship, a silent assembly was complete.
It was the embodiment of a desecrated aesthetic.
Massive, heavy-footed Helbrutes, their bodies a fusion of biological flesh and metal cannons, reflected the dull light. Helldrakes circled low, emitting silent shrieks, corrosive slime dripping from the holes in their wings. Brass Scorpions marched on multiple legs, alongside Chaos tanks with twisted turrets and armor etched with faces of agony.
Between them stood a staggering number of Iron Warriors. They stood in silence, each radiating the coldness of millennia of slaughter.
The Warsmith spread his arms, as if to embrace the entire world. His voice boomed through his vox-emitters, sounding like grinding steel, drowning out the wind and the scattered fire in the distance:
"Eighty hours!"
His declaration was filled with unquestionable arrogance.
"Within eighty hours, I will crush all resistance. I will turn that hive into my workshop, and this world..."
The Warsmith paused, the red light in his oculars burning like blood.
"...will be taken completely!"