Kahn glared at the approaching Battle Sister, his demonic form scarred yet still exuding menace. Even as he struggled against the oppressive psychic field suppressing him, he grinned ferociously. No matter the place or circumstance, he would never back down from a fight.
"In the name of the Emperor, heretic, your death has come!" Shivara declared, tossing aside the empty injector of combat stimulants. She met Kahn's gaze, undeterred by the looming presence of a Prince of Khorne.
"I never expected mere mortals to stand against me. Why, has Duke's heir not yet been born?" Kahn scoffed. Even clad in her power armor, the Battle Sister barely reached his chest, while his immense, daemonic frame towered over her like a mountain. He looked down with contempt at the fragile form before him.
"You should count yourself fortunate that it is we who found you. We Sisters will at least grant you the mercy of a swift beheading. Had it been the Doom Slayers, they'd have found a far more... creative way to end you."
"The hatred those men have built up from endless wars is more terrifying than any daemon. You would beg for our kindness if they were your executioners."
Shivara's mocking words sent Kahn into a frenzy.
"Arrogant wretch! Die in the name of Khorne!"
He lunged, swinging his massive chainblade in a crimson arc. Fueled by the Blood God's rage, his power surged beyond mortal limits, his speed almost unnatural. His enormous bulk moved with terrifying agility, his armor a mere extension of his fury.
Yet Shivara did not falter. She was one of the first warriors of the Heart Network on Ophelia VII, a battle-tested veteran among the Emperor's elite. Every Sister of the Heart Network was devout and deadly, but Shivara was exceptional even among them.
Her expertise in bio-augmentation allowed her to surpass human limitations. Enhanced by combat drugs of her own design, her mind sharpened, her body surged with power, and her fervor ignited into a near-religious ecstasy. Psykana energy flared from her eyes, and her gauntleted fist burned with raw soul fire.
"Bang!"
Her punch struck Kahn with thunderous force, sending him hurtling backward faster than he had charged. The daemon crashed into the bulkhead, warping the reinforced alloy under the impact. The Machine Spirit of the ship groaned in protest as the corridor trembled.
"That's it?" Shivara sneered, stepping forward. Her armored boot came down upon the fallen daemon's head, pinning it to the floor. A mere mortal, standing triumphant over a champion of Khorne.
Kahn roared in outrage, his fury shaking the walls. Bloodlust and humiliation burned through him. His corrupted ichor boiled, demanding vengeance. He would not—could not—accept this.
"Stand up."
Shivara granted him the chance, waiting as he dragged himself to his feet. The moment he rose, her armored foot lashed out in a whip-like kick, sending him crashing into the bulkhead once more.
"You were once a true warrior before you fell to Chaos. Strength alone does not make a warrior great—unyielding will does."
Her chainsword ignited with a deafening roar.
"You are no warrior. You are a coward, lost to the Dark Gods. In the name of the Emperor and by the mercy of Lord Dukel, I end your miserable existence."
The blade tore through his corrupted flesh, severing his head with a final, brutal stroke.
Daemon blood gushed from the decapitated corpse, and Kahn was dragged screaming back into the Warp. His blasphemous whispers lingered in the air as the World Eaters still aboard were purged. The Khorne fleet, sensing the loss of their champion, retreated into the Immaterium, abandoning wreckage in their wake.
With the space battle won, the Imperial expeditionary forces began planetfall, cleansing heretics and xenos alike. But the galaxy remained in turmoil. The Great Rift churned with war, and the victorious Warmaster of Chaos rallied an unprecedented daemon horde. Meanwhile, the Tyranid Hive Fleet Leviathan pressed ever closer to Baal.
Cult activity surged, the Genestealer cultists growing ever bolder. Though the true horror had yet to arrive, war had already engulfed countless worlds.
The Sons of the People
This Chapter of Space Marines was born not from sacred oaths but from bureaucratic error. Lacking official Imperial recognition, they received no sanctioned supplies, wielding only what they scavenged or repurposed. Yet, despite their hardships, they fought with unshaken loyalty, offering their lives for the Imperium's survival.
When Baal's distress signal reached the wider galaxy, many nobles cowered in fear, hesitating. But the Sons of the People did not. Their wargear bore the marks of poverty, yet they deployed without hesitation to the war-ravaged world.
Now, fewer than a thousand strong, they held the line against the Tyranid tide. Their Chapter Master surveyed the battlefield, his experienced eyes widening at the sight before him.
The sky teemed with bioforms, blotting out the sun. The ground, once a fortress world, was an ocean of chitinous horrors stretching beyond the horizon. Towering Bio-Titans lumbered forward, tearing through Imperial defenses with nightmarish ease.
Even for a veteran Astartes, the sheer scale of the Tyranid swarm was staggering.
The will of the Hive Mind loomed over the battlefield, anticipating victory. The moment the Imperial defenses fell, the world would be consumed, its biomass feeding the Hive Fleet's relentless advance. If Baal fell, the Tyranids would sweep across the sector unchallenged.
At the brink of defeat, a fireball streaked across the sky, smashing into the heart of the battlefield.
At first, the Chapter Master assumed it was another Tyranid spore pod. But through his visor, he realized the truth—this was no Tyranid construct of flesh and mucus.
It was a massive Ork Rokk.
With a thunderous impact, the crude yet devastating war machine erupted, disgorging a storm of gunfire. Ork artillery and oversized firearms belched destruction, shredding the Tyranid ranks with sheer, brutal firepower. And with them came the Orks, a green tide of howling warriors eager for slaughter.
The Sons of the People had fought Orks before. The Chapter Master still bore scars from their previous clashes.
"From Tyranid digestion to Ork slaughter. Not the worst way to go," he muttered wryly, a grim smile crossing his face.
Yet something was different. The sigils on these Orks' banners were unfamiliar—red, interwoven circles, symbols he had never seen before.
Then, the battlefield shifted. The Orks pressed forward, but at their head was something else entirely. A towering figure, clad in armor that put even the largest Warboss to shame, carried a massive banner with the same unfamiliar sigil.
The Chapter Master's blood ran cold.
Bonebreaker Saraka, the great prophet of the Orks, the leader of the gathering Beast Tide, the initiator of the Orks' Great Waaagh!, and the massive, unstoppable force.
He was here.
The Sons of the People had long heard of this warboss's deeds. The green tide he led was among the most terrifying threats in the galaxy. He had appeared in the Baal system early on, waging constant war against the Tyranids and Daemons—yet had never clashed with the Imperium.
The Imperium had long been aware of his existence. Commander Dante of the Blood Angels had once considered purging them, but the sheer size of the Ork horde made it a daunting task. With the Tyranid menace looming, the Imperium had hesitated.
Now, as the Chapter Master beheld the long-feared warboss, his heart wavered. Bonebreaker Saraka was even larger than the rumors had suggested.
Clad in super-heavy armor, the sheer presence of the massive Ork eclipsed even the mightiest Tyranid bioforms. All Imperial defenders stared in stunned silence, waiting for his next move.
Bonebreaker did not hesitate. With a roar, he charged the Tyranid lines, flanked by his elite Nobz—hulking warriors clad in crude but formidable wargear.
The Tyranid swarm shattered before him. At that moment, Bonebreaker seemed an avatar of Gork and Mork, a living embodiment of Orkish brutality.
A storm of carnage followed in his wake. Orks and Tyranids clashed in an orgy of violence, yet none could match Bonebreaker. The twin barrels of his kustom shootas spat fire and death, his power klaw shearing through chitinous armor like paper. The sheer force of his blows sent Tyranid bodies flying, their corpses piling around him in mounds.
In mere moments, Bonebreaker had carved a bloody swath through the enemy ranks, his colossal frame buried beneath the accumulating remains of the slain. Each step sent a fresh cascade of Tyranid gore to the ground.
Yet the Tyranids were not without response.
A vast Mawloc, larger even than a Tyranid Bio-Titan, erupted from beneath the battlefield. Its gaping maw engulfed Bonebreaker in a single, horrific bite. A hideous screech of tearing metal and splintering bone echoed across the war zone, forcing all within earshot to cover their ears.
The Hive Mind expected victory.
Instead, moments later, the Mawloc convulsed violently. Its titanic body writhed before collapsing. Its stomach bulged grotesquely—before bursting apart in a shower of viscera.
Gunfire rang out. The creature's limbs were blown open, ichor spraying in all directions. From the gory wreckage, Bonebreaker emerged, dripping with the remains of his would-be devourer.
Raising his power klaw high, he bellowed his triumph.
The Orks went berserk. Their Waaagh! energy surged through the battlefield, rippling even into the Warp. Enraged by their leader's display of might, they charged with renewed fury, eager to partake in the slaughter.
The Tyranid lines crumbled. Bio-Titans fell beneath the relentless green tide. Ork warships bombarded the Tyranid hives from orbit, eradicating them with brutal efficiency. The Hive Mind attempted to adapt, but it was futile against the sheer ferocity of the Orks.
The swarm was annihilated.
From the safety of their fortress, the Sons of the People watched in stunned silence as the green horde obliterated the Tyranid menace.
Good news: the Tyranids were defeated.
Bad news: a far greater Ork threat remained.
The Imperial defenders gripped their weapons. There was no illusion of survival—they had already accepted their fate. Their only duty now was to take as many greenskins with them as possible.
The Chapter Master, too, prepared to die in his fortress.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The Orks did not attack.
Instead, they built crude structures across the battlefield. They did not press the assault but remained where they stood, as if… waiting.
For the first time in his life, the Chapter Master witnessed Orks engaging in what seemed like strategy. They were not rampaging, not mindlessly destroying, but biding their time. The eerie calm that followed filled him with greater dread than the battle itself.
After weeks of turmoil, a bold thought crossed his mind.
He had to go to them.
The Imperial forces were hopelessly outmatched. Rather than await slaughter, he would investigate. If he could uncover the Orks' intentions, he might salvage something from this disaster.
And so, alone, the Chapter Master approached the Ork encampment.
To his astonishment, he was not immediately slain. Instead, several hulking Orks, their armor adorned with strange, blood-red glyphs, halted him. After a brief exchange, they led him into their war camp.
And then, he met Bonebreaker Saraka.
A fortress of iron and scrap loomed before him, patrolled by gargantuan Ork Nobz wielding oversized weaponry. Their mere footsteps shook the earth.
Inside, Bonebreaker awaited.
Up close, the Ork warboss was even more imposing. His sheer mass seemed to distort the air, his presence suffocating. Even as an Astartes, the Chapter Master felt his resolve waver before this living colossus.
Bonebreaker's voice boomed, shaking the very walls of his fortress.
"What do you want?" the Chapter Master asked, expecting a declaration of conquest.
Instead, Bonebreaker grunted. "Da bugs ain't done yet. Instead of chasin' 'em everywhere, we'z waitin' 'ere till da real fight shows up."
Then, to the Chapter Master's shock, the warboss added, "A monster once told me—when ya meet a humie like you, just give 'im this."
With that, Bonebreaker held out an object.
A small, golden Aquila.
The Chapter Master's breath caught in his throat. The sight of an Ork—this beast—holding such an artifact was impossible. Yet, as his gauntleted hand closed around it, his vision blurred.
Before him, beyond Bonebreaker's massive frame, loomed an even larger figure.
A towering giant, clad in dark armor, his black hair like flowing ink. His war-scarred cloak dripped with ancient blood. His gaze burned with unyielding will.
"What is this?" the Chapter Master whispered.
"For the Emperor."
The words thundered in his mind, spoken with unwavering conviction.
Reflexively, the Chapter Master straightened, his posture rigid.
He left Bonebreaker's presence, his mind reeling. The Sky Eagle had revealed more than he could comprehend. Bonebreaker Saraka was no ordinary warlord—he was bound to something greater.
But to whom? Who was the monster the warboss had spoken of?
The Chapter Master resolved to stay, to watch, to uncover the truth.
As he stood deep in thought, the heavens darkened.
He looked up.
The stars were vanishing. A shadow crept across the system, blotting out the light.
"A solar eclipse?"
No. This was something else.
In the heart of the darkness, blood-red glyphs ignited—an intricate pattern of wheels within wheels.
…
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