Chapter 5.2 – Descent into the Mind's Abyss
The stench of blood and burnt flesh clung to the air, thick enough to taste. The Hive World's underbelly reeked of decay, a festering wound in the Imperium's domain. Kyle wiped sweat from his brow, his body aching, muscles screaming from exhaustion. The mutants were already dead—now, the cultists came.
Gunfire roared in the darkness. The Astra Militarum held the front, lasrifles discharging in disciplined volleys. The narrow corridors of the underhive amplified the chaos, screams and war cries echoing off the rusted metal walls. Kyle ducked behind a makeshift barricade, steadying his lasgun. He was no Astartes—not yet. He was a serf, a soldier in service to the Dark Angels, fighting in the Emperor's name with nothing but human flesh and bone.
"Keep your fire steady! Hold the line!" The Astra Militarum sergeant's voice was hoarse, but firm. "They're breaking formation!"
Kyle peeked over the barricade. The cultists surged forward, their movements erratic, eyes burning with fanatical zeal. They wielded crude weapons—autoguns, makeshift blades, and rusted chainswords stolen from fallen Imperial forces. Their heretical symbols, etched into their flesh with self-inflicted wounds, pulsed with unnatural energy.
A guardsman to Kyle's right screamed as a chainaxe tore through his chest. Blood splattered against the metal walls. Kyle swung his lasgun up, sighted down, and fired. The shot burned through the cultist's neck, dropping him instantly.
"Push forward! Don't let them regroup!" Another officer barked orders, leading a charge. The Astra Militarum, despite their losses, advanced over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Kyle followed, lasgun tight in his grip.
Then, the chanting began.
It slithered through the air, a guttural hymn to an unholy god. The very walls seemed to pulse with its resonance. Kyle felt it in his bones, a vibration that gnawed at his mind. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus.
"Incoming!" An Astartes' voice cut through the din.
From the gloom, hulking figures emerged—cultist champions, their bodies grotesquely enhanced by dark blessings. One bore a jagged warblade wreathed in unnatural flame. Another's body swelled with raw muscle, skin splitting from the strain of its corruption. Their presence alone sent ripples of unease through the ranks.
A Dark Angel moved like a shadow, bolter roaring. The champion with the warblade barely had time to react before a mass-reactive round blew apart his skull. But more pressed forward, unrelenting.
Kyle fired again and again, each shot precise, aimed at weak points—joints, exposed flesh, the eyes. He was not as strong as the Astartes, not as fast. But he was disciplined. Every kill bought them inches, every step forward another moment of survival.
And yet, the cultists did not relent. The deeper they pushed, the louder the chanting became. The blood pooled at their feet, thick and congealed, as if drawn toward something below. Kyle felt a shiver crawl down his spine.
This was no ordinary battle. Something waited for them deeper in the hive's abyss.