Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The wasteland gave way to shadow and steel. War trudged through the haze, Chaoseater resting across his shoulder, its edge still crusted with the blood of the madmen he'd felled. The horizon had drawn him toward the jagged silhouette he'd glimpsed—a city, towering and grotesque, its spires piercing the toxic yellow sky like the fangs of some ancient predator. As he approached, the ground shifted from cracked earth to pitted metal, littered with refuse and the skeletal remains of machines. The air thickened with the stench of oil, sweat, and decay, a miasma that clung to his armor like a second skin.

The city loomed closer, revealing its scale. It was no mere settlement but a hive—a sprawling, vertical labyrinth of blackened steel and flickering lights, stretching miles into the heavens. Its lower tiers sprawled outward, a tangled mess of slums and manufactories belching smoke into the haze. War's boots rang against the metal as he entered its outskirts, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a banner of war. The streets were narrow, choked with debris and the hunched forms of humans—gaunt, hollow-eyed figures who scurried away at his approach, muttering prayers or curses he couldn't decipher.

He felt their eyes on him, fearful and hostile. War cared little. He sought answers, not their approval. The rift that had torn him from Earth lingered in his mind, its crimson pulse a mystery gnawing at his resolve. The Charred Council's silence weighed heavier with each step, a void where their molten voices should have been. He needed to understand this place—its people, its wars, its purpose. And if it meant carving a path through its heart, so be it.

A shout broke his thoughts. "Halt, mutant!" The voice was sharp, edged with desperation. War turned to see a squad of soldiers emerging from a side alley—humans clad in battered flak armor, their faces obscured by rebreathers. They clutched rifles, their barrels trembling as they leveled them at him. Their leader, a wiry man with a scarred lip, barked again. "In the Emperor's name, drop that blade or we'll burn you down!"

War's gaze hardened. "I kneel to no emperor," he rumbled, his voice a low thunder. The soldiers flinched, but their fear only fueled their aggression. A volley of lasfire erupted, crimson beams sizzling through the air. War moved, faster than his bulk suggested, twisting aside as the shots scorched the ground where he'd stood. Chaoseater swung in a wide arc, cleaving through the nearest rifle—and the arm holding it. The soldier screamed, collapsing in a spray of blood, and the others opened fire again.

They were no warriors, only prey. War advanced, shrugging off glancing shots that sparked against his armor. He drove Chaoseater through another, the blade punching through chestplate and flesh with ease. A third lunged with a bayonet, aiming for his side; War caught the weapon in his gauntlet, snapping it like dry wood, then crushed the man's skull with a single blow. The leader fumbled with a vox-unit, shouting into it as he backed away. "Contact! Unknown hostile—requesting reinforcements!" War silenced him with a thrust, the man's final words gurgling into nothing.

The skirmish ended as quickly as it began. War stood amid the bodies, his breath steady, his mind cold. These men had fought with zeal, but not skill. Their cries of "Emperor" echoed the fervor of Heaven's host, yet their weakness was mortal, not divine. He studied one of their rifles—crude, but effective, its design unfamiliar. Before he could ponder further, a new sound cut through the haze: the heavy tread of boots, precise and synchronized.

He turned to face a new threat. From the shadows of the hive's towering structures emerged warriors—giants clad in blue ceramite, their armor adorned with a golden "U" sigil. They dwarfed the fallen soldiers, standing nearly as tall as War himself, their movements disciplined and deliberate. Their leader bore a crested helm and a crackling power sword, its blade humming with restrained energy. Boltguns leveled at him, each barrel a promise of death.

"Identify yourself," the leader demanded, his voice amplified through his helm. "You bear the stench of Chaos, yet you slay its minions. Speak, or be purged."

War straightened, meeting the warrior's gaze—or where he assumed it lay behind the helm's red lenses. "I am War," he said simply, resting Chaoseater's tip against the ground. "I seek answers, not your mercy. Who are you to challenge me?"

The leader stepped forward, undaunted. "I am Brother-Captain Aelius of the Ultramarines, servant of the Emperor of Mankind. This world is under His protection. Your presence defiles it."

"Emperor again," War muttered, his tone edged with disdain. "Your god holds no sway over me." He hefted Chaoseater, its weight a challenge in itself. "If you want my blood, come take it."

Aelius raised his sword, and the Ultramarines advanced. The first bolt round exploded against War's pauldron, staggering him but not breaking his stride. He roared, charging into their ranks. Chaoseater met a power fist, the clash ringing like a forge hammer on anvil. The Marine grunted, holding ground, but War's strength prevailed—he twisted the blade, forcing the fist aside, then drove it through the warrior's chest. Ceramite cracked, and the Marine fell, blood pooling beneath him.

Another swung a chainsword, its teeth whining as it bit into War's side. The armor held, but the force rocked him. He retaliated with a backhand, sending the Marine sprawling, then parried a boltgun's barrel as it fired point-blank. The round detonated against a nearby wall, showering them with debris. Aelius joined the fray, his power sword flashing in precise arcs. War met him blow for blow, the Horseman's brute strength clashing with the captain's skill. Sparks flew, illuminating the gloom, as their duel carved a circle of destruction through the street.

War was impressed, grudgingly. These warriors were no rabble—they fought with purpose, their coordination honed by centuries of war. Yet their blind devotion baffled him. He'd faced fanatics before, but these "Ultramarines" carried their faith like a weapon, unyielding and absolute. Aelius landed a glancing blow, the power sword scorching a line across War's chestplate. He growled, retaliating with a sweeping strike that forced the captain back.

The fight might have ended in slaughter—War's or theirs—had the ground not trembled. A guttural roar echoed through the hive, followed by the clatter of crude machinery. From the shadows burst a mob of green-skinned brutes, their eyes blazing with savage glee. They were hulking, misshapen things, clad in scrap armor and wielding oversized weapons that belched smoke and flame. Their cries—"WAAAGH!"—shook the air as they charged, heedless of friend or foe.

War and the Ultramarines broke apart, turning to face the new threat. A bolt round from Aelius's pistol pulped a greenskin's head, while War cleaved another from shoulder to hip, its thick blood splattering his cloak. The creatures laughed through the carnage, their numbers swelling as more poured from the alleys. Aelius barked orders, his squad forming a firing line, but War fought alone, a whirlwind of steel amid the chaos.

One of the brutes, larger than the rest, swung a massive cleaver at him. War ducked, driving Chaoseater upward through its jaw. The creature gurgled, still swinging even as it died, forcing him to wrench the blade free. He glanced at Aelius, who was locked in combat with another, his sword severing limbs with surgical precision. Their eyes met briefly—warrior to warrior—and a silent understanding passed between them.

The greenskins pressed harder, their reckless ferocity overwhelming the street. War saved Aelius from a stray shot, deflecting a slug with Chaoseater's flat. The captain nodded, a grudging acknowledgment, before returning to the fray. Together, they held the line, cutting down the tide until the last of the brutes fell, its body twitching in a pool of its own gore.

Silence settled, broken only by the crackle of Aelius's vox. The captain lowered his sword, studying War with wary respect. "You fight like a daemon, yet you stand against the xenos filth," he said. "What are you?"

War wiped Chaoseater clean on a fallen greenskin's hide. "A stranger," he replied, his voice low. "Brought here by forces I don't yet understand. Your Emperor means nothing to me—but your enemies might."

Aelius hesitated, then sheathed his blade. "This world is a battlefield, stranger. If you're no servant of Chaos, you may yet prove useful. Come. We'll speak under truce."

War nodded, though his guard remained. The hive loomed around them, its shadows hiding more threats. He'd found no answers yet, only blood and steel. But this Aelius—this Ultramarine—might hold a piece of the puzzle. For now, that was enough.