Chapter 4 - Deployment into Madness
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The transport rocked violently as the Thunderhawk cut through the polluted skies of Hive Kalrathis, its wings slicing through the thick smog that clung to the world like a decaying shroud. The city below was in ruins, its towering spires reduced to skeletal remains, draped in the flickering glow of burning refineries. The scent of death, fuel, and something far worse leaked through the cracks of their helmets.
Kael Varus stood among the ranks of the Dark Angels, silent, observing. His armor was still unadorned, lacking the sigils and heraldry of the Legion, a reminder that he remained an outsider, a tool under suspicion. The others barely spoke to him, but it did not matter—his focus remained ahead. This was his first true battle, and he would learn.
"Two minutes until deployment," the pilot's voice crackled through the vox.
A towering Astartes, his armor inscribed with purity seals, turned his helm toward Kael. Sergeant Enoch, his squad leader, a warrior of cold efficiency, spoke through the helmet's vox.
"You fight with us today, whelp. Do not falter. The Watchers have eyes on you."
Kael simply nodded, fastening his bolt pistol to his hip and gripping his combat blade. He had trained. He had fought in drills. But this was different.
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Descent into Ruin
The drop was swift. They landed on the outer hab-blocks, where the PDF remnants had dug into makeshift trenches against an overwhelming tide of mutants. Their warcries were mindless, their flesh twisted by the taint of the Warp. They charged without fear, without hesitation, their numbers a grotesque tide of flesh and madness.
The Imperial Guard had held the line for days, their forces dwindling, their morale fraying. The arrival of the Dark Angels was both a salvation and a judgment.
"Push forward! We purge this filth!" Sergeant Enoch roared, his bolter barking death into the oncoming horde.
Kael moved instinctively. The mutants were not warriors, but they were fast, unpredictable. The first one lunged—its face a mockery of human features, its limbs twisted into talons. Kael sidestepped, driving his blade deep into its throat before pulling the trigger of his bolt pistol, sending a round through its skull.
But there were too many. For every one that fell, two more took its place.
The Thunderhawks had barely departed when the second wave struck—heavier mutants, warbeasts with bulging, pulsating muscles. A Guardsman was torn apart, his screams swallowed by the monstrous roars. Astartes chainswords revved, bolters thundered, but the enemy did not relent.
Kael found himself pushed back, forced into the trench as one of the abominations loomed over him. It snarled, reeking of filth and rot, its jagged teeth dripping with bile.
Then the plasma round struck its skull, superheating bone and flesh, reducing the creature's head to slag.
Kael looked up.
Sergeant Enoch's bolter smoked as he turned away. "You hesitate, whelp, and you die."
Kael did not respond. He simply gripped his blade tighter and pushed forward again. He would not falter.
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The Bloody Push
The first line broke, and the Dark Angels led the charge into the upper hab blocks. What had once been homes were now charnel pits—bones stacked like effigies, the walls scrawled with blood-runes of worship.
The deeper they pushed, the more organized the resistance became.
These were not simple mutants.
They were cultists.
Enoch knew it too. His vox crackled. "Regroup. The enemy adapts. We take this sector before nightfall."
Kael exhaled slowly, scanning the shadows ahead. This was just the beginning. Something deeper waited below the surface of this dying city. Something worse than the madness they had already faced.
And he would see it soon.
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End of Chapter 5.1