In the Hive Tunnels
The horde surged forth. Mutants and cultists, a chaotic amalgamation of malformed flesh and screaming fanaticism, rushed forward like a disorganized tide. They brandished crude weapons—rusted axes, spiked clubs, or hastily cobbled-together firearms. Their daemonic masters had promised rewards beyond their comprehension, but the reality in the tunnels was far more brutal.
Upon reaching a major junction, a cultist of Khorne, his shaved head covered in bloody runes, caught sight of the enemy front line. It wasn't a mere troop of soldiers. It was a wall. A wall of black metal, iron skulls, and gatling cannons. The Irons Skulls. Their silence was more terrifying than all the screams of the horde. The fanatic, moments before drunk with rage, felt a spark of primitive fear cross his mind.
"Perhaps... we should change direction?" he stammered to his neighbor.
But it was already too late.
BOOM.
A Spider Mine erupted from the ground before them, its glowing red sensor blinking once before exploding in a flash of shrapnel and plasma. The explosion was the signal. A chain of detonations ripped through the horde. Mines, placed with calculated precision by the Hecatoncheires, detonated wherever the enemy density was highest. The attacks weren't frontal, but lateral, from the floor, from the ceilings—varied, unpredictable, and devastating.
The Hecatoncheires themselves advanced behind this curtain of explosions, their multiple weapon arms methodically clearing the survivors. It was an implacable advance, a high-tech steamroller crushing a tide of flesh and perverted faith.
Julius advanced at the heart of his troops. Beneath his helmet, a cold smile on his lips, he exulted. Every explosion, every enemy death represented energy points, a precious resource. So far, he had encountered no organized resistance, no real threat. But he was no fool. He knew this slaughter was merely the prelude, the foretaste of a far more violent storm brewing in the depths.
Several Kilometers from the Minefield – Eastern Zone, Outskirts of the Underhive
Here, the air was different. Less of the cacophonous madness of Slaanesh or the machinations of Tzeentch, but a raw anger, a simple, direct thirst for carnage. This was the domain of Dorokar.
Dorokar was a servant of Khorne, a warlord whose body was a tapestry of scars and trophies. His gang, the "Flayers," operated on the fringes of the Underhive. During the Governor's reign, they had been forced to hide, their blood-soaked rituals hunted by deviant-hunters. Every month's end, a systematic purge had kept their numbers low and stifled their fury.
But now, everything had changed. The Dark Master had arrived, the laws had collapsed. Freedom. A freedom to kill, to maim, to offer blood and skulls to the Blood God without restraint.
Yet, this freedom was slamming into an unexpected obstacle. Dorokar, standing atop a pile of rubble, watched his scouts' reports with frustration. His attempts to join the great slaughter, to offer Khorne a harvest worthy of him, had all failed. Surprise attacks launched against the mechanical invaders had been countered with cold, murderous efficiency. These enemy troops, these "Bastion" forces, were more powerful, more organized than anything he had ever faced. Their weapons spoke a language of fire and steel that even the purest fury struggled to break.
The warlord growled, gripping the haft of his double-bladed axe. Khorne would not accept excuses. He wanted blood. Lots of blood. And Dorokar was determined to give it to him, even if he had to shatter the steel of these newcomers with his own hands. The real battle, the one that would satisfy his god, had not yet begun.