The jungle of Gorgona Secundus was a festering wound beneath a sky the color of bruised flesh, its air thick with the cloying stench of decay and the sharp tang of scorched metal. Twisted vines hung like nooses from shattered trees, their bark clawed and splintered by the Tyranids' relentless assault months prior. The ground squelched underfoot, a mire of mud and ichor that clung to the crimson boots of the Blood Angels as they moved through the undergrowth, their Mark III power armor dulled by grime and battle scars. The silence was a heavy shroud, broken only by the drone of carrion flies and the occasional snap of a branch beneath ceramite. The Swarmlord's death had shattered the Hive Mind's hold, but Gorgona Secundus remained a battleground, its jungles crawling with lesser bioforms and the stubborn remnants of Ork warbands.
Thaddeus Valen led a squad of ten through the mire, his green eyes sharp beneath the visor of his helm, cutting through the gloom with a predator's focus. His armor bore the marks of the Swarmlord's wrath—deep gouges across his left pauldron, a testament to a bone saber's bite—and his right arm, once broken, was now encased in a ceramite brace, its surface etched with the blood drop insignia of the IX Legion. In his grip, a chainsword rested, its teeth silent but hungry, a weapon that had tasted xenos flesh and craved more. Beside him marched Kael, the Dreadnought, his towering form a monument of war-forged steel. His hull was pitted with burn marks and gouges, the legacy of this planets battles, and his twin heavy bolters swiveled with a low hum, scanning for threats. "This stillness is unnatural, Little Brother," Kael's voice rumbled from his sarcophagus, a deep resonance that vibrated through the damp air. "The greenskins don't yield. I hear their filth on the wind."
Thaddeus tilted his head, his senses straining against the oppressive quiet. "Too calm," he murmured, his voice low but firm. The vox hissed in his helm, a crackle piercing the tension. "Sargeant Valen, report," came Brother Cassian's voice, a veteran whose bolter had claimed countless Lictors in the long months of cleansing. "Perimeter secure," Thaddeus replied, his tone steady but edged with unease. "No Tyranid traces. But Kael's right—the Orks are stirring." The Dreadnought pivoted with a groan of servos, his weapons locking onto a cluster of gnarled trees, their branches drooping like the limbs of the dead. "Their roars echo faintly. They're not done with us yet."
The war for Gorgona Secundus had been a crucible of blood and fire, a campaign that had forged Thaddeus from a determined novice into a warrior of note earning him the position of Sargeant. The alliance of the Blood Angels, the Black Templars of the VII Legion, and the Astra Militarum had crushed the Swarmlord's hordes, but the toll was steep. Hundreds of his brothers had fallen, their gene-seed salvaged by Apothecaries to ensure the Legion's future, while the guardsmen's bodies filled shallow graves, their names lost to the jungle's embrace. The Black Templars had been a relentless force, their black armor adorned with purity seals and the skulls of vanquished foes, their faith as unyielding as their bolters. Now, their mission here was ending. High on a ridge overlooking the Blood Angels' forward camp, Chaplain Mortrel stood atop the wreckage of a Chimera, its hull crumpled from a Carnifex's charge. His crozius arcanum gleamed in his fist, a weapon of sanctified wrath, and his skull-helm turned toward Azkaellon, the Blood Angels' commander, resplendent in his golden armor.
"The Emperor's will summons us to new wars," Mortrel declared, his voice a hoarse bellow that carried over the hum of engines. "Rogal Dorn has spoken, and we heed his call. Gorgona Secundus is yours to finish, Azkaellon." The Blood Angels' leader removed his helm, revealing a face etched with the lines of countless battles, his dark eyes meeting Mortrel's with a nod of respect. "Your strength turned the tide, Mortrel. Sanguinius will know of your deeds." The Chaplain grunted, a rare flicker of acknowledgment softening his stern visage. "And yours. The Crimson Guardian"—his gaze shifted to Thaddeus below, a crimson speck against the mud—"is a name worth carrying forward." With a sharp command, he signaled the withdrawal. Drop pods thundered skyward, their exhaust trails streaking toward the Indomitable Fury in orbit, ferrying the bulk of the VII Legion away. Captain Valtor's voice crackled through the vox, clipped and final: "Return to the fleet. Astra Militarum, hold the line."
The Astra Militarum obeyed, their Leman Russ tanks grinding toward transports, their treads chewing the earth, while rows of weary guardsmen followed, lasguns slung over shoulders worn thin by months of attrition. Yet not all departed. A small force remained: fifty guardsmen under Lieutenant Praxis, their drab fatigues patched and faded, their lasguns still warm from skirmishes, and three Black Templars—Mathius, Tharlic, and Tech-Marine Gorvax—to bolster the Blood Angels' final efforts. The Indomitable Fury's engines flared in the void, a distant star fading from view, leaving Gorgona Secundus to the survivors' care.
Time dragged on in the ravaged world, each day a slog of blood and vigilance. The Blood Angels, now a mere sixty strong, scoured the jungles and swamps, their bolters and flamers purging the last vestiges of Tyranid life. Rippers swarmed from hidden burrows, their small, scuttling forms a nightmare of teeth and hunger, capable of stripping a corpse to bone in moments. Thaddeus had seen them overwhelm a guardsman in seconds, reducing him to a skeleton before a flamer could intervene, and his squad burned them by the dozens, leaving smoldering piles of ash in their wake. Genestealers were a subtler menace, their four-armed bodies sleek and lethal, their claws designed to rend ceramite and flesh alike. "They're the Hive Mind's scouts," Thaddeus told his brothers one night, his voice low over the crackle of a campfire, its light casting shadows on his scarred armor. "They infiltrate human worlds, planting cults to soften them for invasion. Silent killers—if we miss one, it's a seed for ruin." Each encounter sharpened his instincts, his youthful fire hardening into a cold, resolute edge.
Kael remained his constant companion, the Dreadnought's ancient wisdom a bedrock amid the grind. "I stood with Sanguinius at Ullanor," he recounted one evening, his hull creaking as he shifted, the glow of his optic lens flickering. "He clove an Ork Warlord in two, his wings a storm of radiance. That strength lives in you, Thaddeus." The sergeant clenched his fist, his resolve steeling. "I'll prove it," he swore, though the Red Thirst simmered in his veins, a gnawing rage he battled with every breath. Azkaellon observed from the camp's edge, his silence a test, his golden form a beacon of expectation. The Astra Militarum held the northern plains, their lasguns a steady pulse against roaming Orks, while Mathius and Tharlic patrolled the eastern ridges, their bolters felling greenskins with mechanical precision. Gorvax tended to the machinery, his servo-arms whirring over Kael's hull and the guardsmen's battered gear, his chants to the Omnissiah a low drone beneath the jungle's hum. The planet's subjugation seemed imminent, its threats dwindling to echoes—until the earth quaked with a roar that split the sky.
The sound was a guttural bellow, a war cry that tore through the canopy and sent carrion birds screeching into flight. Thaddeus snapped to attention, his squad forming a tight ring as the jungle erupted in a cacophony of stomping feet and savage yells. Orks surged from the undergrowth, their hulking forms clad in patchwork armor and war paint, their crude choppas and sluggas gleaming with rust and fresh blood. Hundreds strong, they poured forth like a green tide, their eyes wild with battle-lust. At their head loomed a Weirdboy—an Ork Shaman—his presence a grotesque anomaly even among his kin. His skin was a mottled green, veined with pulsing black lines, and his eyes blazed with an unnatural glow, like embers stoked by a power beyond the material realm. In his right hand, he gripped a staff of twisted metal and bones, topped with an Ork skull adorned with jagged horns, its surface crackling with green lightning. The air around him shimmered with psychic energy, a chaotic aura that warped the ground beneath his feet.
"WAAAGH!" the Weirdboy roared, his voice a psychic thunderclap that slammed into Thaddeus's squad like a physical blow, staggering them. Orks were a race born for war, their very existence a testament to chaos and resilience, but the Weirdboys were a rare breed among them. These shamans tapped into the WAAAGH!, the collective psychic energy of their kind, a primal force fueled by the Orks' love of battle. Their minds were unstable vessels, soaking up the rage and excitement of their brothers, channeling it into raw, destructive power. A Weirdboy's head could explode in a gory mess if the energy overwhelmed them, a fate as common as it was spectacular, but this one was potent, his control a jagged edge of madness and might. With a sweep of his staff, he unleashed a bolt of green lightning that struck Brother Darios square in the chest, the young Blood Angel's armor melting under the surge, his body collapsing in a heap of charred flesh and ceramite. The stench of burnt ozone and roasted meat filled the air, and Thaddeus's grip tightened on his chainsword, his fury rising like a tide.
"Thaddeus, the Shaman!" Azkaellon's voice barked through the vox, sharp and commanding. "End it now!" "Aye, Commander!" Thaddeus snarled, thumbing the activation rune of his chainsword, its teeth screaming to life with a feral roar. He charged forward, leading his squad—Kael, Cassian, and the eight others—into the green storm, their bolters blazing in disciplined bursts. Orks fell in droves, their thick skulls exploding under the impact of ceramite rounds, their bodies crumpling into the mud, but the horde pressed on, their numbers swelling with each fallen replaced by two more. Kael strode into the fray like a war god, his heavy bolters thundering with a relentless cadence, shredding a cluster of greenskins into a mist of blood and gore. His massive feet crushed the fallen, his chassis absorbing the wild swings of choppas that clanged uselessly against his armor.
Thaddeus fought his way to the clearing where the Weirdboy stood, a towering brute atop a pile of Tyranid corpses, their chitinous limbs still leaking ichor into the earth. The Shaman grinned, his tusks glinting like daggers, and slammed his staff into the ground, unleashing a wave of psychic energy that rippled outward. The blast hurled Cassian back, his armor skidding through the mud, and cracked Thaddeus's pauldron, sending a jolt of pain through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, his boots sinking deeper as he pushed forward, the mud sucking at his legs like a living thing. "Blood for the Angel!" he roared, breaking into a sprint. The Weirdboy swung his staff, a jagged bolt of lightning searing the air. Thaddeus dove aside, the energy grazing his armor's edge, leaving a blackened scar, and rolled to his feet, his chainsword slashing upward. The blade bit into the Ork's thigh, tearing through muscle and sinew in a spray of dark blood that splattered his visor, but the Shaman laughed, a guttural sound that echoed with madness, his psychic aura flaring brighter.
"Weak 'umie!" the Weirdboy spat, his voice a rasp that clawed at Thaddeus's mind. He raised his staff again, and a torrent of green energy slammed into Thaddeus's chest, the force hurling him back into a fallen tree. The trunk splintered under his weight, his vision swimming as pain radiated through his ribs, and the Red Thirst surged within him—a crimson haze of bloodlust, urging him to tear, to rend, to lose himself in slaughter. He saw flashes of his fallen brothers, their faces twisted in death, and his hands shook, the chainsword nearly slipping from his grasp. But he clenched his jaw, his will a bulwark against the tide. Not now. Not here. Kael lumbered into the clearing, his assault cannon roaring, spitting explosive rounds that hammered the Shaman's position. The Weirdboy raised a shimmering field of green energy, deflecting the barrage, the air crackling with the clash of force, but it bought Thaddeus a moment to recover.
Cassian staggered upright, blood streaming from a gash in his helm, and fired precise shots that felled an Ork mid-charge, the greenskin's head bursting like a ripe fruit. The rest of the squad flanked the horde, their bolters and blades carving a bloody path, thinning the tide with grim efficiency. The Weirdboy turned toward Kael, his staff glowing with a lethal charge, but Thaddeus seized his chance. With a primal yell, he lunged, his chainsword screaming as it arced through the air. The blade struck true, severing the Shaman's right arm at the elbow in a gout of blood and bone. The staff clattered to the ground, its energy fizzling into erratic sparks, and the Weirdboy howled, clutching the stump as green lightning lashed out uncontrollably, frying a dozen of his own kin in a chaotic blaze. Thaddeus pressed forward, his weapon plunging into the Ork's chest, the teeth grinding through ribcage and muscle in a symphony of destruction. The Shaman's roars faded to a wet gurgle, his psychic glow snuffing out as he collapsed, his massive frame thudding into the mud.
The Ork horde faltered, their WAAAGH! energy unraveling without its anchor, their cohesion dissolving into confusion. Thaddeus's squad descended upon them, bolters barking and blades flashing, cutting down the greenskins in a methodical slaughter until the clearing fell silent, save for the drip of blood and the hum of Kael's reactors. Thaddeus stood over the Shaman's corpse, his chest heaving, his armor scorched and dented, the taste of copper on his tongue. Two brothers lay dead—Darios and Lysor—their crimson forms still among the carnage, their sacrifice a bitter weight on his shoulders. Victory was theirs, but it was a hollow thing, tempered by loss and the endless grind of war.
The jungle's oppressive silence returned, broken only by the labored breathing of the survivors and the distant crackle of vox chatter. Thaddeus wiped the blood from his visor, his green eyes scanning the devastation, his mind wrestling with the cost. Cassian limped forward, his helm cracked but his bolter still clutched tight, a nod of respect passing between them. Kael's massive form loomed beside him, his assault cannon cooling with a faint hiss, his optic lens fixed on the fallen Shaman. "A worthy foe," the Dreadnought rumbled, his voice a mix of reverence and weariness. "You struck well, Little Brother." Thaddeus nodded, his voice hoarse. "For the Angel. For the Emperor." But the words felt heavy, the Red Thirst still a shadow in his blood, its whispers subdued but never silenced.
A low rumble grew in the distance, the sound of engines cutting through the jungle's hum. From the ridge above, a Blood Angels Rhino rolled into view, its crimson hull adorned with the winged blood drop of the IX Legion, its tracks grinding the mud into submission. The rear hatch hissed open, and out stepped Captain Raldoron, Chapter Master of the Blood Angels' First Company, a towering figure in ornate crimson armor. His helm was removed, revealing a stern face framed by close-cropped silver hair, his eyes a piercing blue that carried the weight of centuries. His power sword hung at his side, its hilt engraved with the victories of a dozen campaigns, and his presence commanded silence from the weary squad. Azkaellon followed, his golden armor gleaming despite the filth of Gorgona, his expression unreadable as he joined the Captain's side.
Raldoron's gaze swept the clearing, taking in the fallen Orks, the Tyranid remnants, and the bloodied Blood Angels. "The Shaman's death marks the end of resistance here," he said, his voice a deep timbre that resonated with authority. "Azkaellon's reports spoke of your valor, Thaddeus Valen, and I see it proven." He stepped forward, his boots sinking into the mud, and drew a crimson cloak from a sealed compartment on the Rhino's hull. The fabric was woven with threads of adamantium, its edges embroidered with the blood drop sigil, a relic of the Legion's earliest triumphs. "For your stand against the xenos, I name you Warden of the Crimson Veil," Raldoron intoned, draping the cloak over Thaddeus's shoulders. "Wear this, and let it shield you in the wars to come."
Thaddeus bowed his head, the cloak's weight a tangible honor, its crimson folds settling over his scarred armor. "I am unworthy, Captain," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest, "but I will strive to be." Raldoron's lips twitched in a rare, faint smile. "You already are, Sergeant." He turned to Kael, his gaze softening with respect. "And you, ancient brother, held the line when lesser machines would falter." From the Rhino, he produced a gilded laurel, its leaves forged from ceramite and etched with runes of endurance, and affixed it to Kael's hull above his sarcophagus. "Bear this Laurel of Defiance, Kael. Your strength is the Legion's pride."
Kael's speakers crackled, a low hum of gratitude. "For Sanguinius and the Emperor," he rumbled, his optic lens glowing brighter. The squad raised their fists in salute, their voices a ragged cheer that echoed through the clearing, a brief spark of triumph amid the gloom. Raldoron nodded to Azkaellon, who stepped forward, his vox crackling with orders. "The planet is ours to purge. Mathius, Tharlic, rally the Templars. Praxis, bring your men. We end this now."
The final cleansing of Gorgona Secundus began at dawn, a relentless campaign to scour the last vestiges of resistance. Thaddeus led his squad alongside Cassian, their bolters and chainswords a symphony of death as they hunted through the western jungles, purging Rippers and Genestealers with fire and steel. Cassian's precision was unmatched, his shots piercing the skulls of lurking xenos, while Thaddeus's blade cleaved through chitin and flesh, his new cloak billowing like a banner of blood. Mathius and Tharlic, the Black Templars, took the eastern ridges, their black armor a stark contrast to the green as they felled Orks with disciplined volleys, their bolters roaring in perfect unison. Gorvax followed, his servo-arms repairing damaged gear—a guardsman's lasgun, a Blood Angel's power pack—his chants a steady rhythm beneath the chaos.
Kael marched at the forefront, his heavy bolters a thunderous roar that shattered Ork mobs and Tyranid nests alike, his Laurel of Defiance glinting in the weak sunlight. Azkaellon commanded from the center, his golden armor a beacon as he directed the assault, his power sword flashing to behead a Genestealer alpha that dared to strike. The Astra Militarum under Lieutenant Praxis held the northern plains, their lasguns a steady drumbeat, their bayonets slick with Ork blood as they pushed back the greenskins' final, frenzied charges. Days bled into nights, the jungle's shadows shrinking as the combined forces burned and blasted their way through every hollow and thicket. Ork camps were razed, their crude idols toppled and crushed; Tyranid burrows were collapsed with melta charges, their occupants incinerated in searing blasts. The Weirdboy's death had broken the greenskins' spirit, and the Hive Mind's remnants lacked the coordination to resist.
By the seventh day, the planet was silent, its threats reduced to ash and ruin. The camp buzzed with weary activity as the Blood Angels and their allies prepared to depart. Thaddeus stood atop a ridge, his cloak catching the wind, his gaze fixed on the horizon where smoke still rose from the purged jungles. Cassian joined him, his helm under his arm, a rare grin cracking his blood-streaked face. "A world taken for the Emperor," he said, clapping Thaddeus's shoulder. "You've earned that cloak, Warden." Thaddeus nodded, his green eyes distant. "At a cost," he murmured, thinking of Darios and Lysor, their absence a wound that lingered.
The conquest of Gorgona Secundus was complete, but its fate was far from over. In the Great Crusade, a planet brought into compliance faced a meticulous transformation under the Imperium's iron grip.The Adeptus Mechanicus would descend first, their tech-priests and servitors scouring the jungles for resources—metals from shattered Ork war machines, rare minerals beneath the mud, even the bio-matter of fallen Tyranids for study in their arcane laboratories. Gorgona's ravaged ecosystem, stripped bare by the xenos' hunger, would be cataloged and reshaped. Terraforming engines might stabilize its climate, purging the rot with promethium fires and sowing seeds of hardy Imperial crops to feed future garrisons. The Astra Militarum's survivors, like Praxis's men, would leave behind a skeleton force—perhaps a regiment of conscripts—to hold the planet until colonists arrived. These settlers, drawn from overcrowded hive worlds, would toil to build manufactorums and shrines, their lives pledged to the Emperor's glory. The Blood Angels and Black Templars would record Gorgona's fall in their annals, a footnote in the Crusade's vast ledger, while the Inquisition's shadow loomed, ever watchful for signs of lingering corruption. Gorgona Secundus would become a cog in the Imperium's war machine, its jungles tamed, its people bound to eternal service—assuming the Tyranids' taint didn't fester beneath the surface, a possibility none dared voice aloud.
As the camp disassembled, its tents folding into crates and its defenses stripped for salvage, Azkaellon approached Captain Raldoron near the Rhino's command hatch. The golden-armored commander's face was grim, his helm tucked under his arm, his dark eyes reflecting the smoke-laden sky. "Captain," Azkaellon began, his voice low but urgent, "we must speak of the insects—the xenos we faced here." Raldoron turned, his silver hair catching the faint light, his piercing blue gaze locking onto Azkaellon. "The Tyranids," he said, the word unfamiliar yet heavy with menace. "You've briefed me on their leader, the Swarmlord. What more?"
Azkaellon gestured toward the jungle's edge, where the charred husks of Rippers lay scattered. "They're unlike anything we've seen, Captain. Not Orks with their brute chaos, nor Eldar with their guile. These are insects—swarms driven by a single mind, a hunger that consumes all. The Rippers, small as they are, strip flesh to bone in moments, leaving nothing behind. We burned hundreds, but they kept coming from burrows we couldn't find. Then the Genestealers—four-armed killers, silent as shadows, their claws rending ceramite like parchment. They're scouts, sowing corruption, turning worlds against us before the swarm arrives." He paused, his jaw tightening. "And they evolve. The Swarmlord's horde birthed hybrids—Ork flesh melded with Tyranid chitin—stronger, faster, adapting to our blades and bolters. We've never faced a foe that devours and remakes itself so swiftly."
Raldoron's expression darkened, his hand resting on his sword's hilt. "A hive mind, you say. Like ants, but with the cunning of a general. How did they come here? The Crusade's records speak of no such xenos." Azkaellon shook his head, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I know not, Captain. A splinter fleet, perhaps, lost in the Warp and spat out here. Or a vanguard, testing us before a greater tide. They consumed everything—trees, beasts, even their own dead. If they reach a hive world, or Terra itself…" He trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging between them. Raldoron's eyes narrowed, his mind turning over the implications. "Sanguinius must know. The Emperor too. This is no mere xenos rabble—it's a plague that could unmake the Crusade." He clapped Azkaellon's shoulder, a rare gesture of camaraderie. "Your vigilance saved us here, brother. We'll carry this warning to the stars."
The conversation lingered in the air as the camp's final preparations concluded. Servo-skulls buzzed overhead, cataloging the dead for the Legion's records, while guardsmen loaded crates of salvaged gear—Ork scrap, Tyranid carapaces, anything the Mechanicus might deem useful. Thaddeus watched from the ridge, his cloak fluttering as he overheard snatches of Azkaellon's words, the weight of the Tyranids' threat sinking into his mind. Kael rumbled beside him, his hull creaking as he shifted. "A new enemy," the Dreadnought mused, his voice a low growl. "The galaxy grows darker, Little Brother." Thaddeus nodded, his hand tightening on his chainsword's grip. "Then we'll burn brighter," he said, his resolve hardening against the unknown.
A roar split the sky, a Blood Angels strike cruiser descending through the clouds, its crimson hull emblazoned with the winged blood drop. The Spear of Baal touched down, its ramps lowering to reveal a hangar bay lined with Thunderhawks and drop pods. Raldoron emerged, his presence a rallying call as he addressed the assembled forces. "Gorgona Secundus is ours, a testament to the IX Legion's might and our allies' resolve. The Crusade calls—we board the Spear of Baal and carry our fire to the stars." Azkaellon followed, his golden armor gleaming, and directed the loading of gear and wounded. Mathius and Tharlic saluted Thaddeus, their Black Templars discipline a quiet respect, while Praxis's guardsmen marched aboard, their lasguns slung with the exhaustion of survival. Kael's massive form clanked up the ramp, his Laurel of Defiance a proud mark of his valor, and Thaddeus followed, his squad at his heels. The Spear of Baal's engines roared to life, the ship lifting from the mud with a shudder that shook the earth. As Gorgona Secundus shrank below, Thaddeus stood at a viewport, his hand resting on the crimson cloak, the Red Thirst a faint echo he'd mastered for now. The planet was theirs, a hard-won prize, but the galaxy loomed ahead, its wars an endless crucible awaiting the Blood Angels' wrath.