A moment later.
Aboard the Conqueror, the slaves of the Foresworn Warband were preparing the grimy, rune-scarred Dreadclaw drop pods. Some of the mortal thralls conscripted into the warband had already completed their final preparations and were now being herded into rows of drop pods like cattle bound for slaughter.
The air stank of engine oil, sweat, ozone, and the coppery tang of old blood. Torchlight flickered across steel bulkheads engraved with warped runes and kill markings, casting jagged shadows over chained mortals and the towering forms of Chaos Astartes.
Shalok Skulltaker, Champion of the 8th Claw and master of decapitation assaults, led fifty Khorne Berzerkers through the battle-scarred corridors toward the launch decks.
At the sound of their heavy, echoing footfalls and the hissing of corrupted respirators, nearby mortal slaves scattered in panic.
Those too slow or unfortunate to cross the Chaos Space Marine Berzerkers' path were seized and and butchered. Their throats were dragged across chainaxe teeth in crude blood rituals, the gory act doubling as an unholy "sharpening" ritual.
The Berzerkers didn't even register the slaves as people, just raw stimuli.
The Butcher's Nails, the cybernetic implants embedded deep within their brains, shredded empathy and restraint, replacing them with an endless hunger for violence that never truly ebbed.
Moments of calm triggered waves of agony, while acts of violence brought brief relief. Pain fed the Nails, and the Nails drove their hosts to inflict more pain in return.
After using a mortal thrall to "hone his edge," Shalok felt a fleeting relief from the torment inflicted by the Butcher's Nails.
The relief lasted only moments.
It was never enough.
The agony always returned. It built behind his eyes and crawled through his thoughts until instinct overwhelmed reason. The world sharpened whenever blood was spilled. Sound became clearer. Motion became easier to follow. Even the vibration beneath his boots felt more distinct.
The Nails taught him to need that clarity, no matter the cost.
He continued marching purposefully toward the section of the ship where the Dreadclaw drop pods were stationed.
"Shalok."
A familiar voice rasped through his vox-channel. Though his breathing intensified with impatience, Shalok held back his ire.
The one addressing him was none other than Kossolax, the Chaos Lord of the Foresworn.
"Split evenly across the drop pods. Don't cluster together. We're targeting separate landing zones," Kossolax ordered. "And remember your objective. This is a decapitation strike, don't waste your rage on the rank-and-file vermin unless they block your advance. Prioritize officers, command relays, and senior Tech-Priests."
"Hrrgh… Hrrgh…" Shalok answered only with low, animalistic growls. Kossolax heard the response clearly through the vox-link.
But Kossolax said nothing more. He knew Shalok would obey, however impatient and blood-hungry the Butcher's Nails made him.
Kossolax understood the Nails better than most.
Every Nails-wearer became dependent on violence because the implants rewired the brain's reward systems.
The implants were not merely pain-engines. They constantly punished moments of calm and rewarded acts of violence with brief neurological relief.
Over time, they stripped away discipline, restraint, and long-term reasoning, slicing away higher thought in exchange for brutality.
The timing of the assault only worsened the effect.
The battle was imminent, and the Nails howled within Shalok's skull, demanding blood and pain to silence their grinding torment.
"I orchestrated this entire operation," Kossolax continued. "I agreed to Huron's absurd terms. This war is not just about taking a Forge World."
A brief pause followed.
"I have a greater ambition: to reunite the scattered warbands that once flew the banner of the World Eaters Legion."
"… …"
Shalok said nothing, listening in silence.
As second-in-command of the Foresworn, Shalok had always suspected that the Butcher's Nails had less sway over Kossolax than others.
Even warriors from allied warbands whispered about it.
Among the Prodigal Sons Warband, some joked:
'Kossolax seems more like a sage among madmen. Sure, he's bloodthirsty, but compared to you Nail-junkies, he's practically a priest of logic.'
That reputation was one of the main reasons the smaller World Eater splinter warbands tolerated Kossolax's authority.
Most World Eater leaders ruled only through fear and immediate strength. Kossolax combined brutality with long-term planning, making him far more dangerous than many of his rivals.
"Give them hell, brother," Kossolax said before ending the transmission.
Shalok stepped into the nearest Dreadclaw Drop Pod. Other Chaos Astartes entered theirs in sequence, locking themselves into cramped restraint harnesses as launch crews completed final checks.
The pod door began sealing shut with a mechanical hiss.
"Hrrgh… Hrrgh…" Shalok's breathing deepened further, growing harsher and less human with each passing second.
As the pod sealed and the launch countdown began, a voice echoed through the interior. Its tone was unnervingly calm and mechanically precise.
"This is a joint operation. Shall we delay launch until the other warbands begin synchronized descent?"
Shalok recognized the speaker immediately.
The machine spirit of this Dreadclaw was particularly eccentric, Shalok had used this one many times.
The corrupted machine spirit had developed habits over centuries of war. It regularly initiated unwanted conversations and occasionally delayed launch procedures to ask unnecessary questions.
"NO! We land before them!" Shalok roared. "Drop NOW!"
The Dreadclaw responded instantly.
Launch clamps disengaged with explosive force, hurling the pod out from the Conqueror's assault bay toward the southern hemisphere of the Forge World below.
Violent acceleration slammed against Shalok's armored frame, but he remained motionless inside the restraint harness.
His mind burned, not with fear or strategy, but with hunger.
The Nails were no longer grinding quietly inside his skull. They were shrieking in anticipation.
Across the fleet, hundreds of drop pods of different patterns and warband markings descended alongside one another. During the early stages of atmospheric entry, they maintained synchronized altitude and velocity before gradually dispersing toward separate target zones across the planet's surface.
....
On the surface: Fortress Beta
Tech-Priest Vick stood atop one of Fortress Beta's void-shielded spires after returning from the lower manufactorum sectors. Beneath his feet, the structure vibrated with the steady pulse of reactor systems buried deep within the fortress foundations.
He was surrounded by clusters of anti-aircraft batteries and tracking arrays. Their ancient but lethal weapon systems rotated constantly, scanning the upper atmosphere for incoming threats.
Rather than personally micromanage the Skitarii defense forces, Vick stood motionless and watched the sky.
It was night.
Not a natural night illuminated by moons or stars, but one broken repeatedly by the intermittent glow of orbital bombardment.
Lances of fire descended from orbit at irregular intervals, briefly turning the darkness white before vanishing again.
Vick watched calmly as the enemy fleet designated Fortress Beta as a primary bombardment target.
The fortress void shields flared with electric-blue light each time they intercepted incoming strikes. The energy barriers distorted under the pressure before redirecting the bombardment into the Immaterium before it could fully penetrate the defense grid, rendering the orbital bombardment temporarily ineffective.
For now, the shields held.
But every successful interception consumed enormous power from the fortress reactors. Vick's internal calculations estimated that, at the current bombardment rate, sections of the shield network would begin failing within several hours.
Just as the defending troops breathed a sigh of relief, confident in their void shield's protection, the real terror descended.
The night sky ignited.
Dozens, no, hundreds of crimson and gold fiery trails scorched the heavens.
Vick knew at a glance: these were no meteors.
They were Drop Pods.
Streams of targeting data flooded across his visual augmetics as he calculated descent trajectories, impact zones, and probable deployment patterns. The Drop Pods silhouettes matched known Astartes assault pods with alarming consistency.
Meanwhile, Sevin, the battlefield commander, moved swiftly, relaying orders to all units guarding critical manufactorums, plasma conduits, and command relays.
Every Tech-Guard commander received immediate deployment instructions.
Drop Pods, after all, were a nightmare for any force that had lost orbital supremacy.
Each pod could bypass fortifications, trenches, minefields, and defensive lines before delivering a squad of elite killers directly onto critical infrastructure.
No matter how well-defended a command center or high-value target was, a Drop Pod could punch through the sky, land within proximity, and unleash shock troops within seconds.
"01011010," Sevin transmitted while staring upward. His cranial implants calculated impact vectors in milliseconds before distributing firing solutions across the fortress noosphere.
The skies lit up as ground-based anti-aircraft emplacements roared to life, spitting torrents of tracer rounds and searing plasma bolts into the blackness above.
Explosions filled the air with expanding clouds of fire and debris.
Even Ironstrider Ballistarii, joined the barrage, their autocannons firing continuously into the night sky.
To an untrained observer, the defense net seemed impenetrable.
But Vick knew better.
He had studied enough historical combat records to understand the mathematics involved. Once orbital superiority was lost, defending against large-scale Drop Pod assaults became an exercise in attrition and damage mitigation rather than prevention.
"Where is the Imperial Navy support?" Sevin growled beside him, his voice distorted by layered vox-static. "Where is the Agripinaa Fleet? How were hostile warships allowed to enter the system uncontested?"
His complaints were punctuated by bursts of static and streams of noospheric data. Even while speaking, his command protocols continued issuing orders across the fortress network without interruption.
"You're the Magos," Vick retorted dryly. "Who are you asking?"
"I am… still awaiting clarification…" Sevin answered before abruptly pausing as fresh information entered his neural feed. "I've just received confirmation. Our fleet was intercepted in a neighboring system. They are currently engaged... with pirate elements."
Vick said nothing.
His gaze shifted toward the wide clearing at the base of the spire.
Sevin had already calculated the most likely landing zones of the Drop Pods. Skitarii cohorts and Cult Mechanicus units surged into position with machine-like coordination.
Vanguard Skitarii and Rangers established overlapping firing lines behind reinforced barricades. Kataphron Breachers moved forward to form armored bulwarks, their heavy weapons locking onto descending targets, serving as both barricade and walking siege turrets.
Even Ruststalkers and Electro-priests gathered near the perimeter, preparing for close-quarters combat once the enemy breached the outer lines.
A Datasmith guided a Kastelan Robot into position. The machine towered over the defenders like a walking bunker, its weapons humming as reactor heat built within its armored shell. Its photonic sensors strobed red while cycling through target priorities.
The fortress's macro-weapons rotated in unison, their barrels now aimed not at orbit, but at their own soil.
The projected enemy's landing zone was encircled with deadly efficiency. A two-hundred-meter kill zone was established: empty, silent, and waiting.
Not a single verbal order was spoken aloud.
Every command moved through noospheric channels instantly, demonstrating both Sevin's efficiency and the Adeptus Mechanicus doctrine of synchronized warfare.
Now only one question remained.
Would mathematics, preparation, and concentrated firepower be enough to stop the Chaos warbands once they reached the surface?
.....
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