The pact between Abaddon and Magos Pholios had reached its first cold realization: the descent upon the uncanny world was underway.
Data-casts revealed an atmosphere choked by virulent toxins, a lethiferous miasma likely born of ancient chemical cataclysms. Millennia ago, an Adeptus Mechanicus Explorator fleet had stumbled upon this world; every soul who set foot upon the surface remained there forever. All that endured were the fragmented vox-logs and grainy pict-captures transmitted back to the ships holding station in orbit.
Among those static-heavy images was the silhouette of an ancient vessel, nestled deep within a labyrinth of cyclopean mechanical structures. Forensic analysis of the hull geometry and material composition suggested its keel had been laid during the 27th or 28th Millennium.
Abaddon committed true elites to this reclamation.
From the Black Legion's inner circle, the Bringers of Despair, he deployed Falkus Kibre. Once a formidable Terminator Captain of the Luna Wolves, XVIth Legion, Kibre was a master of shock assault, his tactical acumen forged in the fires of the Great Crusade and refined through ten thousand years of heresy.
Accompanying Kibre were two tactical squads of Terminators, twenty-four veterans who, like him, had once answered to the name of the Luna Wolves.
The Despoiler did not stop there. At his signal, Lheorvine Ukris selected several World Eaters warbands, those whose minds had not yet been entirely hollowed out by the Butcher's Nails, alongside hundreds of thousands of Traitor Guard from the Lost and the Damned.
These mortal thralls were the beasts of burden, intended to assist the Astartes and ultimately crew the ancient relic-ship back to Abaddon's fleet. The Warmaster demanded the vessel whole and intact, though its true scale remained a mystery, shrouded by the planet's shifting mists.
Human life was a cheap currency; to spend it in such quantities was a negligible cost for the Warmaster's ambitions.
Little did they know, this massive deployment was exactly what Pholios desired. Though the Magos had long since devolved into the blasphemies of the Dark Mechanicum, he remained desperately, pathetically attached to his own existence. The presence of such a vast martial screen afforded him a fragile sense of security.
Pholios remained blissfully unaware of Abaddon's private directive to Kibre: the moment the ancient ship was secured, the Magos was to be terminated. His remains were to be salvaged; perhaps his augmetics would fetch a fair price in some future dark trade. Abaddon had pointedly bypassed Ukris for this task; he knew the former World Eater would leave nothing of the Magos but a red smear, ruining any potential salvage value.
As massive heavy-lifters and bulk landers disgorged legions of men and materiel from the fleet, Pholios emerged from his Ark Mechanicus. He moved amidst a cohort of Legio Cybernetica automata, rebuilt with forbidden dark-tech, the air around them filled with the rhythmic grinding of gears and the sinister hum of malefic energy.
As the ground forces began their deployment toward designated coordinates, the Balefleet above, acting on Abaddon's command, began its slow, predatory slide into the nearby Warp.
The Warmaster knew the meddling Dark Angels would not be far behind.
Yet, while he held the lapdogs of the False Emperor in contempt, he harbored a deeper wariness for the "iron-clads." For now, he could only hope the xenos would either entangle or annihilate his pursuers.
On the surface, a thick, emerald haze, driven by howling gale-force winds, quickly scoured away the traces of the Chaos landing.
Abaddon settled into a patient, watchful silence.
…
By a twist of fate, the Dark Angels had nearly lost the scent of the Black Legion in the void. Their pursuit had been severely hampered by the interventions of a Sautekh Dynasty fleet.
Only by capturing the lingering chronal and energetic signatures of the Balefleet's engagement with the Thexians were the Unforgiven able to correct their course.
As the Dark Angels reached the system's outer rim, their sensors immediately spiked with traces of Chaotic corruption bleeding from the emerald-shrouded world. Yet, the void around it was empty. The massive Balefleet had seemingly vanished into thin air upon reaching this coordinate, leaving only the world below radiating a suspiciously overt psychic stench.
It bore all the hallmarks of a crude trap.
The Lion weighed the Despoiler's intent before issuing his commands. He ordered the fleet to high alert and signaled Azrael to dispatch scouts to the planet's surface to identify the source of the corruption.
The Dark Angels knew nothing of this world veiled in green smog. To prevent unnecessary attrition, a comprehensive reconnaissance was mandatory.
Dozens of assault craft, carrying hundreds of mortal scout teams and several Adeptus Astartes scout squads, plunged into the atmosphere. Usually, initial planetary surveys were the sole province of mortal auxiliaries, but given the palpable taint of the Warp, a full Scout Company of the Dark Angels was deployed to ensure the integrity of the data.
…
The emerald mist was a physical weight, thick enough to defy any long-range orbital surveillance. The Warp's energies swirled in the upper atmosphere, yet curiously, the profane power seemed unable to disperse or influence the strange vapor.
As the Thunderhawks, Valkyries, and Chimera APCs, dropped via low-altitude grav-chutes, hit the ground, the first trial of the Imperial forces began.
The mortal scouts, despite their environmental gear, were unprepared for the planet's lethal alchemy. As the ramps of the Valkyries dropped, over a third of the mortal teams were struck down instantly. The mere contact of the mist with a sliver of exposed skin, a wrist, an ankle, was enough. Horrific green lesions bloomed across their flesh with unnatural speed, and agonizing pain shattered their consciousness.
Reacting with grim haste, several pilots slammed their hatches shut, stemming the influx of the mist.
The atmospheric pressure was within normal parameters, and while they had anticipated environmental hazards, none had foreseen a toxin of such rapid, terrifying lethality. Standard-issue respirators and rebreathers protected the face, but they were not sufficient against a contact-poison of this caliber. Those standing nearest the deployment ramps became the first casualties of the Dead World.
As their comrades donned more cumbersome, sealed hazard suits and rushed forward with med-kits, they found only corpses.
In contrast, the scouts who had endured the jarring, stomach-turning descent inside the sealed hulls of the Chimeras found themselves blessed by fortune. Though the landing had been violent enough to leave many retching, they were able to begin their reconnaissance immediately from within the safety of their armored vehicles.
Following the initial reports, every mortal scout began to resemble the grim silhouettes of the Death Korps of Krieg, fully encased and sealed.
For the Astartes, however, there was no such crisis. The moment the sensors on their Power Armour detected the atmospheric lethality, the suits automatically sealed, clicking into internal life-support cycles without a second's delay.
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