Adrian Hawke stood before a silver-white wall of metal that radiated heat without cease. Beyond that immense, heavy alloy barrier lay the geothermal plasma core. Scalding heat passed through the metal, making the air around it shimmer and warp.
Only one final step remained.
He thought that once the colossal energy unleashed by detonating the core was joined with the Warp ritual nearing completion, the veil between the Sea of Souls and reality would be torn apart entirely.
Then, with the aid of psychic teleportation, he would escape safely—and Heras City, that city devoted to the False Emperor, would be utterly destroyed.
Amid an endless sea of flame and death, the servants of the great Blood God would descend. And he would become the absolute master of this world before taking vengeance upon that damned Imperium.
Adrian gave a cold laugh. He had no concern whatsoever for Imperial resistance. Aside from the thousands of elite warriors gathered here, the rest of his army was hundreds of kilometres away, feigning a full-scale offensive against the Imperium's main force.
He knew that only a few Astra Militarum regiments were stationed near this city. The closest, the 101st Ashen Watchers Regiment, numbered barely three thousand men—and during the blood sacrifices of the past few days, he had already bled some of their strength away by throwing worthless rabble at them.
That was precisely why he had selected this city as the sacrifice. It was remote enough, and its defenders were nothing to fear.
A few days ago, those Imperial dogs had even sent scouts down here, but the Chaos warband working with him had slaughtered almost all of them. Only one little rat had escaped, perhaps carrying back a fragment of intelligence.
But it did not matter. They had no time left. The ritual was almost complete, the steel wall was about to be breached, and everything would proceed according to plan.
Then Adrian seemed to feel someone's gaze upon him.
He spun around and looked towards the main passage exit atop the distant mound of mine spoil opposite the plaza. Under the dim yellow light, there was nothing there—only rough rock walls and heaps of discarded stone.
Was it merely an illusion?
Adrian frowned. Something felt wrong. It was instinct.
He turned and strode towards the centre of the plaza. Seven Chaos Adeptus Astartes stood there in dark crimson power armour, like seven silent statues wrought for slaughter. Their armour was scarred by battle, while horrifying skulls were impaled upon the spikes of their power packs and pauldrons.
Adrian stopped before the leading World Eater. The warrior stood half again as tall as he did, and a low hiss issued from the breathing grille of his power armour.
"Go and inspect the main passage," Adrian said, his voice calm but bearing the unchallengeable force of an order.
The World Eater slowly turned his head. The gaze behind his faceplate settled on Adrian. After several seconds, a low growl emerged from the helm.
"Fuck off, mortal. You have no right to command me."
The voice dripped with contempt.
Adrian's expression did not change. He was long accustomed to the attitude of these so-called demigods.
Meeting the World Eater's gaze, he said slowly, "I am only reminding you that if the ritual is disrupted, our master may not be pleased."
He paused and glanced at the four psykers conducting the rite nearby, then at the vast eight-pointed star painted in blood upon the ground.
"I assume you would not wish to see the offering to the Blood God ruined by rats either?"
The World Eater was silent for several seconds. His power armour emitted a deep hum as its internal systems accelerated. At last, he gave a cold snort.
"If there is nothing there, I will hang your skull from my axe."
Adrian smiled faintly. "If there is something, remember to leave a few alive. I want to know exactly how many men they sent down here."
The World Eater offered no reply. He turned and gestured to two warriors beside him. Three suits of crimson power armour activated at once, marching towards the main passage on heavy steps.
Their footfalls echoed across the empty plaza. The cultists around them hurriedly moved aside, their faces displaying a mingling of awe and terror.
The World Eater led his squad into the darkness of the passage.
The Butcher's Nails implanted behind their skulls never ceased to torment their nerves. The craving for blood and slaughter burned through their veins like fire.
They were sick of this tedious waiting. Had that mortal not been chosen by the Blood God, they would long ago have hacked off the heads of every living thing here.
The air in the passage was stifling and foul, thick with the stench of sulphur and blood. The World Eater walked at the front, his helmet display shifting to thermal vision. In its pale green image, the passage ahead appeared empty.
Yet he still noticed something unusual.
On the ground, scattered footprints showed as faint traces of residual heat in the thermal display. There were many of them, and they were fresh—no more than half an hour old.
There were rats here.
The Butcher's Nails sent his lust for slaughter surging at once. His right hand clenched instinctively around his chainaxe. The teeth along its blade began to turn slowly, issuing a low, vicious growl.
"Prey," he said to the two warriors behind him over their internal vox-channel, unable to suppress the excitement and agitation in his voice. "Lots of it."
The three World Eaters quickened their pace. Their crimson power armour was so massive within the narrow passage that it nearly filled the entire space. They followed the trail of footprints ahead, utterly unaware that they had already been discovered.
Of course, they would not have cared. All they wanted was the blood of these rats.
**
Duvall crouched in the shadows of the left-hand fork, his back pressed against the cold rock wall. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching from the main passage, growing steadily closer.
"They are here," he said in a lowered voice.
The two meltagunners behind him nodded and braced their weapons against their shoulders. Their fingers rested on the triggers, their breathing growing quick with tension.
This was Duvall's solution. By the time he received word that the World Eaters were coming, there had been little time to prepare.
The passage was too narrow and the range too short to make effective use of heavy autocannons. As for rocket launchers, he could not be certain what consequences they would bring in such an enclosed space.
Only meltaguns would do. They were close-range weapons with limited reach, but in return they possessed truly horrifying destructive power—enough to melt through heavy vehicles.
That also meant they had to wait until the World Eaters entered optimal range before opening fire. It meant they had no room for error.
But with an Astartes's neural reaction speed, even an ambush could not guarantee a hit. They needed someone who could draw the enemy's attention completely.
Duvall took a deep breath. His gaze passed through the rock wall towards the right-hand fork, where the main force was already in position.
And among them stood a lone figure dressed in a commissar's uniform. Duvall closed his eyes, and the face of the young soldier with the wounded arm surfaced in his mind.
"Are you certain? Your sacrifice is inevitable."
"Yes, Commissar. I understand."
"...Tell me your name." Duvall looked at the wounded soldier as he asked. He knew the man's name already, but he still wanted to hear him speak it.
"Commissar, there is no need to remember my name." The young man smiled, showing a flash of white teeth.
In silence, Duvall removed the peaked cap bearing the golden Aquila from his head and placed it on the soldier's. Then came the black greatcoat and red sash.
"I will remember you, Alec." Duvall adjusted the cap as he watched surprise cross the soldier's face, then patted his shoulder and turned away, taking the two meltagunners with him into the adjacent fork to hide.
He knew what it meant for that soldier to put on his clothes. It meant he would become the bait that drew the enemy's attention. It meant he would certainly die.
Against mighty Adeptus Astartes, mortals could only purchase their enemy's death with their own inevitable sacrifice. It was a lesson bought in blood across countless wars.
Yet the man had stepped forward without hesitation. Duvall dearly wanted to ask him why. Why was he not afraid of the pain and death awaiting him? Was it loyalty? Faith in the Emperor of Mankind? Or hatred for Chaos?
He did not know. But he could not ask.
He was a commissar.
The footsteps drew closer.
Duvall could feel the faint tremor beneath the ground. World Eater power armour was too heavy; every step sent dust sifting down from the rock walls.
He raised his left hand and gave the signal to prepare.
The meltagunners adjusted their stances and aimed their barrels at the designated firing point. The soldiers in the right-hand fork gripped their weapons tightly.
Through the gap, Duvall saw the first crimson figure appear around the corner.
It was the leading World Eater, his power armour covered in the scars of battle and his pauldrons etched with blasphemous runes. A chainaxe rested in his hand, its teeth spinning madly with a piercing shriek.
Then came the second.
The instant the two Chaos Adeptus Astartes entered the sightline of the soldiers in the right-hand fork—
Duvall brought his hand down hard.
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