The galaxy held by the Dark King 'Roboute' was the most active warzone in existence.
This entrenched, dark sovereign posed a monumental threat to the Imperium. No one knew how many legions or warbands he had harbored, nor how many hidden cards he still held close to his chest. Even when besieged by a full three hundred Chapters and over three million Space Marines year-round, his domain remained unbroken.
Unless the Emperor or Perturabo intervened personally—or Guilliman was reassigned to command the front—no force could pierce such an unrelenting, shameless line of defense. Having caught his breath, the Dark King held his ground against four Primarchs simultaneously, cementing his status as the Imperium's top threat.
Aside from the dormant Necrons, 'Roboute' was the Imperium's most dangerous enemy, actively pushing back against the containment lines. The Imperium simply lacked the bandwidth to deal with him outright; it was not a matter of capability. Thus, the Dark King remained cooped up in his domain.
'Roboute' understood his own limits—he lacked the strength to launch a full-scale galactic counteroffensive. His resistance was merely a desperate struggle for survival, yet he refused to yield. Equipped with the technology and Webway access Perturabo had once granted, he could maintain his defensive perimeter even if fully reverse-engineering the tech remained out of reach.
The Dark King would never surrender unless someone severed his head from his shoulders.
For this reason, the area demanded the largest military presence in the Imperium. Over half of all Chapter forces were deployed to this single galaxy—far exceeding the military strength stationed back in the Segmentum Solar.
War raged endlessly here, making it the hotbed for Chaos resurgence.
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The Warhammer Guard Chapter, a successor of the Iron Warriors, specialized in heavy weaponry and battlefield assault. Like most Iron Warriors successors, they believed in total firepower saturation and heavy armor supremacy. Every battle-brother deployed in Tyrant Terminator Armor or Centurion Suits, packing astronomical firepower.
Their Chapter Master, Petrov, was renowned for solo-clearing a Tyranid Battleship and single-handedly turning the tide to annihilate a secondary Tyranid fleet.
Currently, in the Helios System, they worked alongside the Flesh Tearers—a successor Chapter of the Blood Angels—to eradicate a local xenos threat.
It was supposed to be a routine operation. Two elite Chapters purging a psyker xenos species was a straightforward affair. Following standard doctrine, the fleet opened with lance strikes and macro-cannon salvoes to cripple the enemy navy before neutralizing ground-based planetary defenses. They then deployed Abominable Intelligences and ground infantry. The entire process rarely took more than five days to wipe a xenos species from existence.
This system was no different. Petrov and Amit barely cared about the species' name, submitting only mandatory data to the Logic Engines. To them, xenos were merely livestock awaiting slaughter.
Both the Warhammer Guard and the Flesh Tearers were on the extreme end of their respective Legions, still addicted to close-quarters combat and the visceral pleasure of butchering their foes. It served as a violent outlet for the rage they harbored.
Xenos and traitors belonged in the grave. Heretics and enemies deserved only total execution.
The joint purge was nearing its end.
The psyker species that had occupied the system for nearly two thousand years watched its homeworld's final Hive Mother burn. Psyker spires collapsed under orbital bombardment, and blue xenos blood formed small rivulets in the ruins. Severed limbs, mangled flesh, and bone dust littered the landscape—whether torn apart by heavy bombardment or ripped to shreds by the furious Warhammer Guard and Flesh Tearers.
"Xenos resistance dropped below three percent," Petrov's voice echoed through the joint command channel. Calm and collected, he remained unaffected by the bloodlust. "Begin field cleanup. Gather all xenos samples and lingering data, then notify the Mechanicus to rebuild."
"Calling it quits already, Petrov?"
Amit approached, his tone laced with disappointment. His Tyrant Terminator Armor was drenched head-to-toe in blue xenos blood, with a severed limb hanging from his pauldron. The dual chainblades mounted on his vambraces were clogged with flesh, and blood dried around his mouth.
Amit was nowhere near satisfied. "I was just warming up."
"Hold off until we find the next target," Petrov replied. "Consider this an appetizer. If you can't contain yourself, head over to the Solar Segmentum and pick a fight with a Chaos warband. The traitors there have been active lately. I'm planning to check it out myself—care to join?"
"Gladly." Amit's grin stretched unnaturally wide.
Unlike the Blood Angels, the Flesh Tearers' faces had twisted after centuries of bloodthirsty warfare, ruining the noble features granted by their gene-seed. They were never satisfied with merely killing an enemy; they needed to tear them apart, feeling flesh burst beneath power fists and bone snap under chainswords. They savored the dying shrieks, finding the low wails music to their ears.
Their mutations had driven them to extremes—the complete opposite of the Lamenters.
The Warhammer Guard was different. While they indulged in ruthless violence, their discipline remained intact. The Iron Warriors' internal culture had declined slightly following the Legion's split, yet the Warhammer Guard still held to strict order when called upon.
Petrov knew that if he let his brothers indulge any further, High Commander Dantioch of the parent Legion would visit them personally, likely invoking the Decimation policy to force them into re-education. Petrov refused to let shame be carved into his brow or helmet. It was time for a change.
A complete culture overhaul starts right after this battle, Petrov resolved.
However, disaster struck before he could act.
A coalition fleet of multiple Chaos warbands—at least five major battle fleets—struck the system simultaneously from multiple vectors, engaging the Imperial fleet in orbit.
"Damned traitors," Amit spat out the xenos skull in his hand, a terrifying smile breaking across his face as his chainblades revved with a sharp whine. "At least this mission won't end so boringly."
"Profaners Warband, Blood Harvesters, Shattered Blade... at least three named warbands, likely more," Petrov observed grimly. "Don't be careless, Amit. These traitors aren't acting normally—they've formed a rare coalition. I suspect traitor Ultramarines are behind this. They are dangerous."
Petrov did not share Amit's excitement. The timing was too precise, as if orchestrated to ambush the Imperial forces. "This is a deliberate trap. I've ordered the Logic Engines and Abominable Intelligence units to expand the search perimeter. We need to reach the fleet immediately."
Before they could reach their Stormbirds, massive Warp rifts tore open across the planetary crust. Dozens of capital ships emerged, their sheer mass disrupting the planet's gravitational field.
How did the traitors pull this off?
Neither Petrov nor Amit had an answer, but they were instantly plunged into an asymmetric battle. The two Chapters found themselves ambushed by forces outnumbering them tenfold.
Macro-cannons and lance batteries scorched the surface. The heavy firepower pinned down the Imperial forces; hundreds of Titans fell under ship-grade bombardment within minutes.
The Imperial fleet was dragged into an unwieldy battle, while the ground commanders were cut off and surrounded. The Warhammer Guard and Flesh Tearers were not falling to blades, but being pulverized by orbital strikes.
No armor could withstand such firepower—not even a Primarch.
Atmospheric rifts continued to spew enemy forces. The surface turned into a boiling sea of fire, trapping the landing forces.
"All units, find cover!"
"How? There is no cover against this!" Amit roared back.
The bombardment lasted fifteen minutes, permanently altering the planet's geography.
Imperial casualties spiked. Battle-brothers were vaporized, crushed, and reduced to subatomic particles beneath the barrage. Tyrant Terminator armor and Centurion suits could deflect infantry fire and survive short-range Titan strikes, but proved no better than flak armor against ship-grade weaponry.
Petrov was thrown dozens of meters by the shockwave of a nearby lance strike. His armor slammed into the ground with a deafening crash, alarms blaring as the internal servos failed. He had shielded Amit from the brunt of the blast, leaving the Flesh Tearer temporarily unconscious before Petrov revived him.
They had survived through sheer luck, but the others were not so fortunate. Of the four thousand battle-brothers who had deployed, less than a tenth remained.
"Our fleet needs time to break through—they're pinned," Petrov said, scanning the sky as drop pods began to rain down. He kept his composure despite the carnage. "We hold until reinforcements arrive."
"They're still sending down ground forces," Amit looked up at the expanding Warp rifts. "At least five more warband fleets are queuing up. They brought everything."
"They've been waiting for this moment," Petrov noted coldly. "To them, we're cornered prey. Their landing forces are dropping in like vultures."
"Our Abominable Intelligence legion was wiped out in the initial strike," Amit admitted, realizing the gravity of the trap. "How long can we hold?"
"I don't know," Petrov replied.
"Tch. I never thought I'd die on a rock like this after killing traitors and xenos for centuries," Amit mocked himself. "I suppose these traitors will take my head as a trophy for their dark masters."
"Our brothers will avenge us," Petrov said, drawing two massive Power Axes from his waist. His formidable size rivaled that of a Dreadnought. "And so will our Father."
"Then let's make them pay," Amit's chainblades roared to life, his eyes burning with red bloodlust as the enemy closed in. "Let's see who takes down more before the end."
"How about a wager on the kill count?" Amit added.
"No need," Petrov replied calmly. "They gave up their orbital advantage to fight us on the ground. I promise you: none of us are dying today."
Amit looked at his friend, whose massive form seemed to tower even larger. He laughed out loud. "If you're that confident, who am I to accept defeat? Fine! Let's slaughter these traitors together!"
Petrov didn't reply, as Amit had misunderstood his meaning.
He was referring to the Iron Warriors' greatest secret—a truth hidden by their Father from the rest of the Imperium.
It was a secret that had to remain protected, as its exposure could plunge the Imperium into turmoil once again. It was a failsafe Perturabo had created specifically for his Legion—a privilege granted only to the Space Marines of the Iron Warriors out of deep favoritism for his sons.
Perturabo had lied to the Emperor and his brothers to ensure his sons would never end up in demon daemon-forges again.
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"What is happening?! How are they doing this?! Petrov?!"
Amit stared in absolute shock at the battlefield, now enveloped in a strange, black radiance.
The fallen Iron Warriors—brothers who had just been slain—were standing back up. Enveloped in the dark light, the resurrected warriors charged back into the ranks of the Chaos Space Marines with unrelenting fury.
How was this possible?!
Amit's mind went completely blank.