Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The battlefield was a symphony of ruin. War stood at its heart, a monolith of crimson and steel amid the chaos of Earth's shattered husk. His massive blade, Chaoseater, sang as it carved through an angelic vanguard, its jagged edge splitting gilded armor and spilling golden ichor across the cracked stone. Around him, the air trembled with the clash of warring realms—Heaven's host descended in blinding rays, their hymns drowned by the guttural roars of Hell's legions clawing up from the abyss. Demons swarmed, their claws raking at his armor; angels dove, their spears flashing like streaks of dawn. War met them all with the same unyielding fury, his crimson cloak snapping in the ash-laden wind. This was his purpose, his penance, the endless dance of balance he'd been forged to uphold.

The sky above churned, a roiling canvas of fire and shadow. Lightning split the clouds, illuminating the skeletal spires of a city long crushed under the weight of apocalypse. War drove Chaoseater into a demon's chest, its molten blood sizzling as it sprayed across his gauntlets. He yanked the blade free, pivoting to meet an angel's thrust. The spear glanced off his pauldron, and with a roar, he shattered the warrior's wings with a single blow. The angel fell, screaming, its light fading into the dust. For a moment, War stood still, his breath steady despite the carnage. He was the Horseman of Chaos, the breaker of worlds, and this war was his crucible.

Then the sky screamed.

A sound unlike any he'd known tore through the battlefield—a keening wail that drowned the clash of steel and the shrieks of the dying. War's head snapped upward as a jagged rift clawed its way across the heavens. It pulsed crimson, its edges writhing like a festering wound, spilling a light that burned the eyes. The angels faltered mid-flight, their wings trembling; the demons howled, clawing at the air as if to flee. War planted his boots, driving Chaoseater into the ground to brace against the sudden gale that ripped across the ruins. This was no work of Heaven or Hell. He could feel it—a pull, deep and vast, something older and hungrier than anything the Charred Council had ever unleashed.

"Face me!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap against the storm. The rift answered with silence, widening until it swallowed the sky. Tendrils of red light lashed downward, coiling around him. He swung Chaoseater, severing one, but more took its place, tightening like chains. The ground beneath him cracked, and with a roar of defiance, War was torn from the earth. The battlefield vanished—angels, demons, ruins—all consumed by a void of swirling madness. Colors bled into one another, voices whispered in tongues he couldn't grasp, and the weight of Chaoseater was his only anchor as reality unraveled.

He fell through nothing. Time stretched, then snapped. A jolt rattled his bones, and he landed hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he lay still, the ringing in his ears drowning out all else. Then he rose, shaking off the disorientation, and took stock of his surroundings.

The air stank of rot and rusted metal. War stood in a wasteland of cracked earth, strewn with the twisted hulks of machinery—hulking, tracked things he guessed were tanks, though none like those he'd seen in Earth's final days. Their hulls were scorched, some melted as if by unnatural flame, others pierced by jagged rents. A toxic yellow haze clung to the ground, its acrid bite stinging even his hardened senses. Scattered among the wreckage were bodies—human, but wrong. Their flesh was bloated, some split open to reveal twisted organs, others marked with crude symbols carved into their skin. War's lip curled in disgust. This was no battlefield he knew.

He tightened his grip on Chaoseater, its familiar heft steadying him as his instincts screamed of danger. The wind carried a faint sound—rhythmic, guttural, growing louder. Chanting. War's eyes narrowed as figures emerged from the haze. They were human, or had been once. Their robes hung in tatters, stained with blood and filth, and their eyes burned with a wild, unhinged fervor. Some clutched jagged blades, others bore crude firearms etched with the same symbols he'd seen on the corpses. At their head strode a gaunt figure, his skull crowned with iron spikes driven into the flesh, blood weeping from the wounds. He pointed a trembling finger at War and shrieked, "The Warp claims all!"

War didn't hesitate. The first cultist lunged, a rusted cleaver raised high. Chaoseater met him mid-stride, cleaving through torso and spine in a single arc. Blood sprayed, dark and thick, as the body crumpled. The others rushed him, fearless and frenzied, their chants rising to a fevered pitch. "Blood for the Lord of Skulls! Flesh for the Changer!" A woman with half her face flayed open fired a pistol, the slug ricocheting off War's armor. He closed the distance in two strides, driving Chaoseater through her chest and out the other side. Another swung a chain-axe, its teeth whining as it bit into his pauldron. War roared, wrenching the weapon free with a twist of his arm, then crushed the man's skull with a backhanded blow.

They were no match for a Horseman. In moments, the wasteland was silent again, save for the wet gurgle of the dying. The leader staggered toward him, clutching a dagger inscribed with a twisting, eight-pointed star. War met his gaze, unflinching, as the man rasped, "The… Warp… sees…" With a final swing, Chaoseater silenced him, the head rolling free to stare blankly at the yellow sky.

War stood amid the carnage, his breath steady, his mind racing. These were not demons, nor angels—just mortals, twisted by something dark and unfamiliar. He knelt beside the leader's corpse, studying the symbol etched into the ground beneath it. That same eight-pointed star, its lines pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat. It stirred something in him—not fear, but a rare flicker of uncertainty. He'd faced the legions of Hell, the wrath of Heaven, the judgment of the Charred Council itself. Yet this place, this symbol, felt… wrong. Vast. As if it watched him in return.

A tremor shook the air, faint but unmistakable. War rose, turning toward the horizon. The yellow haze parted briefly, revealing a jagged silhouette—towers, impossibly tall, clawing at the sky like the bones of some ancient beast. A city, perhaps, though its scale dwarfed anything he'd known. The rift that had brought him here was gone, the sky now a uniform shroud of poison. He reached for the Charred Council, seeking their guidance, their molten voices that had steered him through centuries of war. Nothing. For the first time since his forging, he felt… alone.

No—not alone. A sound drifted from the haze, low and rhythmic. Footsteps. War hefted Chaoseater, its edge still dripping with blood, and turned to face the new threat. Whatever this place was, whatever forces had torn him from his world, he would meet them as he always had—with steel and fire. He was War, Horseman of the Apocalypse, and he would carve answers from this wasteland, one corpse at a time.

But as he stepped forward, a flicker of crimson caught his eye. High above, barely visible through the haze, a scar lingered in the sky—a faint echo of the rift that had swallowed him. It pulsed once, then faded, leaving only the oppressive yellow gloom. War's grip tightened on his blade. This was no accident. Something had brought him here. Something vast.

And it was watching.