He had been climbing through waste, dust and narrow paths. Whatever structure he was in right now, it had seen better days, or not, depending on what it actually was. Gerhard reached the top after a full hour, pulled himself up onto the rusted gantry and stayed low, one hand pressed against the cold metal as he steadied himself. For a moment, he did not move, simply listening.
The sound, which had brought him here in the first place, was now deafening.
Gunfire echoed through the massive dome, autoguns rattling in endless bursts, the deeper, more powerful rhythm of stubbers hammering away somewhere in the distance, and the sharp, almost clean crack of lasguns cutting through it all. Even the effects of plasma weaponry could be heard. And explosions... so many explosions.
Beneath the loud and seemingly endless sounds of war, something else lingered. A wet, dragging undertone of disease and decay... and blood. A kind of sound that did not belong to anything living, and therefore fit the theme perfectly.
Gerhard lowered his head and looked to the other side. From where he lay, he had a 'great' overview of a lot that went on down below. But as his eyes moved down... The sight forced him to pause.
The dome-like cave beneath him was humongous, far larger than anything he had passed through before. It was not just a simple chamber, but an entire ruined district, an entire section of the Underhive that had partially collapsed into itself, then been repurposed into a stronghold of various degrees, and was now home to an immense battlefield at least hundreds of miles in diameter.
Broken hab-blocks leaned against each other at nightmarish angles, and one mega hab-block stood in the midst of it all. Walkways had fallen and were repaired with machinery, fires burned in pockets, casting flickering light that didn't really help with sight, turning everything into a mess of shadow and movement.
And within that chaos... War.
Not the kind of scattered bits of violence Gerhard had grown used to in the past weeks. No, this was the typical Warhammer 40k war that he remembered pieces of lore. It didn't look like much organisation was going on, at least not on all sides. It was overwhelming, almost.
Gerhard remained still on his high platform, his body pressed against the rusted metal, low enough that only his eyes and the top of his head rose above the jagged edge of the rooftop. From here, he could see almost everything.
The battlefield spread out beneath him in several layers, each section bleeding or fusing into the next in a way that made it impossible to separate one warfront from another. It was not a clean engagement with defined lines, but it never was. It was a living, shifting mass of death, destruction and disease, where positions changed by the second.
To his right, the Genestealer Cult advanced through the broken structures with disturbing precision, most likely following the commands of the broodmind. But they were also the only 'precise' units in all of this. Their lines were not rigid, favouring quick but precise strikes, and they were consistent. Neophytes occupied elevated positions and cover points, firing controlled bursts down into the enemies. Their weapons, both ranged and close quarters, flashed in short sequences, never wasting more ammunition than necessary, or so it seemed. When one fell, dozens more stepped forward into the same position without hesitation, constantly advancing and killing as they went.
Between them, Acolytes moved at high speeds, slipping through gaps in the rugged terrain and broken hab-blocks that stood between them and the largest one in the middle and closing distance wherever the human line weakened.
Rock saws roared as they moved, cutting through metal, barricades, and flesh alike. They struck where the enemy lines faltered or grew weak under the strain, tearing openings that the rest of the cult immediately exploited, like the brutal faction that they were. Aberrants roared and smashed their power hammers into the enemy lines and metal barricades.
Further ahead and to the sides, where the fighting became more brutal and close and personal, the Purestrain Genestealers tore through everything they reached. They did not engage in firefights, they did not hesitate, they killed anything and everything in their path. They sped across walls, dropped from the ceilings, surprising those who had barricaded themselves below, and appeared where they were least expected, striking with that overwhelming speed and powerful claws, before vanishing and moving to the next one.
There were even Acolyte Iconwards, holding their banners and Atalan Jackals all around.
Acolyte Iconward – Lv.30
|HP: 2400/2400
|MP: 300
|The most intelligent and capable of the Acolyte Hybrids will be entrusted with a sacred duty: the bearing of the cult's colours into battle. These creatures are banner-bearers that strengthen the cult through morale and genetic resonance.
Atalan Jackal – Lv.20
|HP: 1600/1600
|MP: 120
|Riding Munitorum-built Dirtcycles or Wolfquads, Atalan Jackals roar across the wastelands and dart through subterranean tunnels. They have the uncanny ability to pick out the best positions from which to launch in a killing strike, using their vehicles to leap over obstacles and onto roofs or gantries.
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But what caught Gerhard's attention most was not the frontline, though, but what stood behind it at the far end.
Higher up, on a relatively protected and secure platform that overlooked much of the battlefield, a small group of figures remained almost completely still. They were not fighting with the other troops. They were not moving with the others and only observed.
At the centre of them stood a Magus. The figure was almost motionless, no doubt communicating commands through their psychic link and repositioning their troops. And the cult below it moved following the will of the broodmind.
Magus – Lv.60
|HP: 9000/9000
|MP: 6000
|A powerful psyker and spiritual leader. Weak physically, but devastating through psychic manipulation.
Weapon: Force staff
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Around the Magus stood other hybrids, more advanced and specialised, less visibly deformed. They did not engage in the fighting directly either. Their attention was nonetheless fixed on the battle, scanning, observing, adjusting their strategies, and then communicating this to the Magus.
They were responsible for the communications and information gathering. This cursed group were learning, listening in to vox channels, spying, learning and making everyone adapt to the changes.
Gerhard narrowed his eyes slightly.
"That's a problem."
Then his gaze shifted to the centre of the battlefield, where the mega-hab-block stood.
Humanity.
Or what remained of it.
The defenders had built a line where they could, using whatever they had, turning the mega-hab-block into the last line of defence against the horrors that were assaulting them from THREE DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS. Scrap metal, broken vehicles, chunks of collapsed walls, anything that could stop a bullet or slow something down even remotely. Even corpses were used; that's how desperate and no less stupid they were.
The barricades were uneven, improvised, and already failing in places. Still, they held just enough to give the defence structure, and they were constantly rebuilt over and over again, each cycle getting worse.
Gangers and the Planetary Defence Forces occupied most of the visible positions, and it was clear they were a motley crew. Their armour didn't match, their colours weren't uniform, and the variety of their weapons made it clear that cohesion hadn't been their strong suit from the start. Some were armed with autoguns, while others preferred stub guns or shotguns. A few wielded weapons that resembled a patchwork of spare parts, clearly held together by a mix of desperation and sheer will. Their appearance spoke volumes about the chaotic nature of their gathering, each individual telling a story of their own faction, the struggles they had faced, and the unbelievable shit they were going through.
Normally, the gangers would have been shooting at each other in their usual rivalries. But now, in this desperate moment, they found themselves fighting side by side. It wasn't out of camaraderie or friendship, but a grim necessity driven by the threat they were facing.
Their firing was wildly erratic, a chaotic rhythm of shots that came too long or too short, with many wasted rounds and sloppy reloads. Yet, what they lacked in precision, they made up for with raw volume and fierce aggression. All that counted was to fire and to kill as much as possible. Anything that moved had to die. They didn't back down easily; when something broke through their makeshift defences, they charged forward with whatever they could grab—blades, pipes, anything that could inflict pain.
Behind this chaotic front line, the Planetary Defence Forces maintained a more organised stance. Their uniforms were a patchwork of dirt, blood and tears, often barely recognisable, but the discipline they held was unwavering. They trained for this... poorly, but it helped a bit; they fired their lasguns, wasting fewer ammunition than the others.
PDF Trooper – Lv.5
|HP: 268/500
|MP: 20
|Barely trained human. Weak and expendable.
Weapons: Lasgun, Combat Knife
-
Key positions where the bulk of the attacks originated were held by heavy weapon teams, which anchored sections of the line. The heavy stubbers rumbled continuously, a deafening sound that desperately tried to suppress the attackers' advance. This relentless fire forced even the more aggressive enemies to rethink their approach, initially shifting tactics in the face of the resistance.
But it didn't last long, as the heavy stubber would overheat at times, break down at others, or just stop working for no reason. Which made the lines shift back and forth, depending on how the 'machine spirits' felt in that moment.
Moving between both groups were the Enforcers. Their black armour stood out even through the chaos. They were fewer in number, but far more focused. Bolters shot at long range, and shock mauls cracked against anything that got too close, or maybe even broke through the lines momentarily. They moved where they were most needed, reinforcing weak points, dragging people back into position, or, when necessary, forcing them there. They were trying to keep the defence from collapsing into a mass panic.
Gerhard looked to the very centre. There, surrounded by layered barricades and guarded positions, was the command point.
It was not impressive. It was simply the strongest place they could build in the time they had. And even from above, Gerhard could see that it was under heavy strain.
His heart was palpitating as he took in the scene on the other side. Unlike the brutality of the Genestealer Cult, that side of the battlefield was a swirling mess of brutality, filled with shouts and the metallic tang of blood and the biting smell of rot. Gerhard could feel the weight of the humans' fear as he watched the different forces collide, each embodying its own nightmarish essence.
It wasn't the Genestealers that made a mortal kill themselves, choosing a quick death; it was the deformed tide of the plague host pressing forward, a relentless wave of infected and mutated beings.
Poxwalker – Lv.14
|HP: 1270/1600
|MP: 0
|A victim of the so-called Walking Pox - one of the numerous diseases created by Nurgle. Victims of this virus find their bodies shutting down and rotting until, eventually, they die, though not completely. Such is the jolly humour of Nurgle that they remain cruelly conscious and aware of all that happens around them, souls of victims trapped in their dead bodies; with a rictus grin, they stagger out in search of living meat to feast on.
-
The Poxwalkers shuffled forward, even as they took immense losses, driven by some terrible instinct to advance, like the Plague Zombies, which made sense. Gerhard could only look on as their sheer numbers began to choke their side of the battlefield, an impossible force that didn't seem to have an end, as it spread the disease further through the air and ground.
The Poxwalkers were by no means alone, though. There were Plague Zombies, Accursed Nurgle Cultists, Poxbringers and more.
Accursed Cultist Mutant – Lv.24
|HP: 2320/2900
|MP: 80
| Heavily mutated cultists. Whether born of rituals, experimentation, or the predation of Warp denizens, these aberrations were herded into battle as shock troops, their tainted flesh regenerating grievous wounds with unnatural vigour.
-
And then came the third war front... from that side came a disgustingly loud bellowing from Khorne cultists and Chaos Beastmen, their feverish thirst for violence and blood painting their side crimson, in stark contrast to the sickly green.
Chaos Beastman – Lv.23
| HP: 1440/2500
| MP: 20
| A savage mutant warrior with bestial aggression and brute strength, thirsting for blood and death.
-
They surged forward like a living tsunami of flesh, holding their weapons aloft and their voices raised in unholy fervour. They threw themselves at all sides equally, which was the only reason humanity still stood in the middle of it all. Each collision with the barricades pressed through the ranks of defenders, and Gerhard felt a pang of anger as he saw the disgusting display and the unending onslaught, and the frenzy of bloodlust.
But amid the chaos, it was the champions of Khorne that truly sent a chill down anyone's spine. They stood larger and more menacing than the rest, cutting through the defenders with a vicious grin that spoke of their singular purpose: kill. It was a sight that seemed to embody the very essence of madness.
"A normal Tuesday, basically."
Now, with all three forces pressing in, Gerhard felt the full weight of the situation. It wasn't just about holding the line for the humans anymore; it was about prolonging the inevitable for as long as possible. This wasn't about survival; anyone could see that. What was there to survive? Surviving might be the worst thing that could happen to a human here.
"Well... this is... suboptimal," Gerhard concluded brilliantly.