Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The Warp storm raged, a maelstrom of purple and black that swallowed the hive city's spires. Lightning clawed the sky, its jagged arcs casting the ruins in a sickly glow. War followed Aelius through the outskirts, their boots crunching over ork corpses and shattered steel. The Ultramarines moved in tight formation, their boltguns raised, their vox-chatter a murmur of tactical precision. The air thrummed with an unnatural weight, pressing against War's armor like a living thing. He gripped Chaoseater tighter, its familiar heft a bulwark against the storm's disquiet.

Aelius led them to a looming structure—a cathedral, its gothic arches cracked and blackened, its stained glass shattered into glittering dust. Statues of winged figures lined its facade, their faces eroded by time or defaced by violence. To War, they resembled Heaven's host, but their stillness bore the Imperium's mark—rigid, unyielding, a monument to a god he didn't know. The Ultramarines had claimed it, their banners of blue and gold draped over broken pews, their ammo crates stacked beneath a crumbling altar. It was a fortress now, not a sanctuary.

"Inside," Aelius voxed, his voice cutting through the storm's howl. "The Warp's fury grows. We hold here until it passes." His squad filed in, securing the perimeter with practiced efficiency. War entered last, his crimson cloak trailing over the threshold, his eyes scanning the shadows. The air within was stale, heavy with incense and the tang of promethium. A faint hum emanated from a generator, powering flickering lumen-globes that cast the nave in a dim, unsteady light.

Aelius removed his helm, revealing a stern face—scarred, weathered, with eyes like polished steel. He set it on a crate, studying War with a mix of suspicion and respect. "This storm is no natural thing," he said. "The Warp bleeds into reality here. It's drawn worse than orks—heretics, daemons, things that defy the Emperor's light."

War leaned Chaoseater against a pillar, its tip resting in a pool of dried blood. "Your Emperor means nothing to me," he replied, his voice a low growl. "But this Warp—I've felt its pull before. It tore me from my world."

Aelius's jaw tightened. "Then you're marked by it, stranger. A dangerous fate." He turned to his squad, issuing orders to fortify the windows. War watched, silent, his mind churning. The storm's energy echoed the rift's crimson madness, a thread linking his arrival to this universe's chaos. He reached for the Charred Council again, seeking their guidance. The void answered—until it didn't.

A searing pain lanced through his skull, dropping him to one knee. The cathedral blurred, and voices erupted—molten, fractured, echoing from a vast distance. "War…" The Charred Council's tones were distorted, their fiery visages flickering in his mind's eye. "Balance… torn… restore…" The words shattered into static, their meaning slipping through his grasp. He saw them—the three stone faces, wreathed in flame—screaming as tendrils of purple shadow clawed at their chamber. The vision snapped, leaving him gasping, the cathedral swimming back into focus.

Aelius was at his side, sword half-drawn. "What sorcery is this?" he demanded. "Are you tainted?"

War rose, shaking off the pain. "No sorcery," he rumbled. "A call. From those who forged me." He didn't elaborate—the Council was his burden, not this warrior's. But the vision lingered, its fragments a command: restore balance. Here, in this alien realm? The thought gnawed at him, its purpose unclear.

Before Aelius could press, a Marine shouted from the perimeter. "Contacts! Multiple signatures—closing fast!" The vox crackled with urgency as bolters snapped to firing positions. War retrieved Chaoseater, his senses sharpening. The storm's howl masked the enemy's approach, but he felt it—a malice deeper than the orks', colder than the Ultramarines' zeal.

The cathedral doors exploded inward, splinters raining as crimson-armored figures stormed through. They were giants like the Ultramarines, but their ceramite was etched with profane runes, their helms twisted into leering skulls. Boltguns roared, their rounds laced with a sickly glow, and the air thickened with the stench of corruption. Aelius's squad returned fire, their disciplined volleys cutting down the first wave, but more poured in—relentless, chanting in a tongue that grated against War's soul.

"Word Bearers," Aelius snarled, donning his helm. "Traitors to the Emperor. Heretics who worship the Dark Gods." He charged, his power sword blazing, and War followed, Chaoseater hungry for blood.

The clash was immediate, brutal. War met a Word Bearer head-on, their bolter rounds sparking off his armor. He swung Chaoseater, shattering the weapon and cleaving through the traitor's chestplate. Dark blood sprayed, and the Marine laughed—a wet, gurgling sound—before collapsing. Another struck from the side, a jagged axe crackling with warpfire. War parried, the impact jarring his arms, and retaliated with a thrust that punched through ceramite and spine. The traitor fell, but the air shivered as a new threat emerged.

A figure strode through the chaos—taller, robed in tattered crimson, its armor adorned with scrolls and skulls. A sorcerer, its staff pulsing with purple light, its voice a hiss of power. "An outsider," it intoned, eyeless sockets glowing beneath its hood. "A soul ripe for Tzeentch's embrace." It raised the staff, and the air twisted—reality bending as tendrils of warp energy lashed toward War.

He dodged, the tendrils scorching the stone where he'd stood. The sorcery unnerved him, its echoes mirroring Hell's dark magics but infinitely more insidious. He roared, charging the sorcerer, but the Word Bearer gestured, and the floor erupted—jagged spikes of warp-tainted rock spearing upward. War leapt, rolling past the trap, and swung Chaoseater at the staff. The blade met an invisible barrier, the impact reverberating through his bones. The sorcerer laughed, a sound like breaking glass, and unleashed a bolt of purple flame.

War took the hit, his armor smoking as he staggered. Pain flared, but he'd endured worse. He tapped the ember of his Chaos form, a flicker of power surging through him—his eyes glowed, his strength doubled. With a bellow, he shattered the barrier, driving Chaoseater into the sorcerer's chest. The staff clattered away, its light fading, and the traitor hissed, "Tzeentch… sees… you…" before slumping dead.

The Word Bearers faltered, their chants breaking. Aelius and his squad pressed the advantage, cutting down the rest in a storm of bolter fire and blade work. War stood over the sorcerer's corpse, breathing hard, the Chaos form's heat receding. The cathedral was a ruin anew—pews splintered, walls pocked with craters, the air thick with blood and ozone.

Aelius approached, his armor scarred, his sword dripping. "You've faced warp sorcery and lived," he said, his tone a mix of awe and wariness. "Few can claim that."

War stared at the sorcerer's staff, its runes still faintly pulsing. "It's like Hell's taint," he muttered, "but worse. Deeper." The vision's echo returned—restore balance. Was this the imbalance the Council meant? This "Chaos" the sorcerer served?

Aelius followed his gaze. "The Word Bearers are slaves to the Dark Gods—traitors who plunged the galaxy into ruin. That one spoke of Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways. If it marked you, you're a target now."

War's lip curled. "Let it try to claim me. I've broken stronger chains."

The storm outside lessened, its thunder fading to a dull growl. Aelius sheathed his sword, gesturing to the altar. "We hold here until dawn. The hive's underbelly hides more of their kind. We'll root them out—together, if you're willing."

War nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. The sorcerer's words—an outsider—rang with the Council's fractured command. His arrival wasn't random; this universe's chaos had summoned him, or been torn open to drag him in. He glanced at the sky through a shattered window, the Warp's shadow lingering like a predator's gaze. Answers lay ahead, in blood and fire.

He'd carve them out, as he always had.