A Space Marine clad in black armor lifted the last head of the two hundred Orcs he had decapitated. The brown skulls were neatly arranged beside him, forming a blood-soaked pyramid—a grim monument to a nearly completed mission.
"Ashborn Claw! I still need twenty-three more Orc heads to finish this assignment!" he roared, his voice hoarse but brimming with the thrill of slaughter.
Once, he was known as a savage hunter of the Black Legion, a bloodthirsty hound of Abaddon the Despoiler. Now, under the banner of Emperor Kenthelion, little had changed—he still severed the heads of his enemies and offered them as tokens of loyalty.
"Don't look for me yet!" shouted another Space Marine from the same warband, his voice echoing from the ruins. "I haven't hit my quota either! I'm still short twenty-six xenos heads!"
They were the Ashborn Claw—former shadows of Chaos, now instruments of annihilation in the service of the Imperium Caelestis. Their nature hadn't changed. Only their targets had.
While the brutal ex-Black Legionnaires continued their massacre, several Emperor's Children were carefully rescuing oil paintings that had once adorned the walls of Fortress Echelon—masterpieces that were seconds away from becoming Orc toilet paper.
More than two dozen former traitor marines had formed small groups across the battlefield. Relations between them had slowly improved. The World Eaters, once servants of Khorne, were learning restraint. The Death Guard, who once worshipped Nurgle, had developed a curious appreciation for hygiene. The Emperor's Children, followers of Slaanesh, now adored the arts. Even the Iron Warriors, once servants of Chaos Undivided, had taken a liking to siegecraft and military architecture over dark rituals.
Everything was moving in a better direction… except for one thing: Alpharius.
He remained alone and isolated, speaking to no one, as no one dared to start a conversation after Jenkins tried to say hello, only for the man to remove his helmet and whisper, "I am Alpharius." Since then, Jenkins hasn't spoken a word and rumor has it he even reported a sandbag for espionage, while Alpharius himself disappeared and is now said to communicate only with the battlefield statues.
"Hey! Don't spill blood here! I won't let these priceless paintings be tainted by filthy Orc gore!"
A Space Marine from the Emperor's Children glared at a Black Legionnaire who was busy decapitating another Orc and shouting victoriously.
As the two began bickering, Varkus Hellmaw accidentally stumbled upon an Orc hiding behind a control console.
"Looks like we're one step closer to that signal," he muttered.
Just as Varkus raised his chain axe to deliver the perfect execution, a World Eater burst through the rubble and cleaved the Orc's head clean off in a flash.
"YOU!!!"
Varkus's blood pressure spiked. The Orc he had tracked with great effort was stolen—right before his eyes.
"You red-skinned mutt! Who told you to steal my kill?!"
It felt like a butcher's spike had been driven into his skull.
"What's the problem? Can't you just butcher a few Grots and call it even?" the World Eater replied, casually—and mockingly.
The words stabbed at Varkus's pride. Grots? A sacred purge mission, reduced to Grot-hunting?
"You want a fight? If you're that mad, come at me," the World Eater said, spitting on the ground. "You were still wearing crotchless training pants when I was butchering heretics for the Emperor!"
He stomped on the severed Orc head and grinned.
"I'm a veteran of Terra. Five millennia of spilling xenos blood in the Emperor's name."
Varkus grinned back, cold and biting.
"And what about the next five millennia? You ran into the Warp and tried to kill the Emperor, didn't you?"