Chapter One: The Legion Unleashed
It began with fire.
As the Great Rift tore across the galaxy, the blinding tear of the Cicatrix Maledictum unleashed nightmares across the Imperium. Daemons poured from the Warp like pestilence, seizing entire sectors in days. Astartes chapters fought desperately, Imperial Guard regiments burned through reserves, and the common folk of the Imperium were left to pray to the Emperor—prayers that went unanswered as the galaxy descended into madness.
But then, on the darkest battlefields, the fire of the Damned began to answer.
The first whispers of the Legion of the Damned's return came on Holis V, a forsaken world on the fringes of Segmentum Obscurus. In the choking darkness of a blasted manufactorum city, the Astra Militarum 42nd Steel Wardens were cut off, their cries for reinforcements drowned out by the guttural war songs of the Death Guard forces laying siege. The city was a graveyard of twisted metal and bone, an arena of sickness and decay where the rotting corpses of the Plague Marines advanced without end.
But as their last defenses crumbled, an unnatural chill swept through the air, freezing the bile-slicked ground beneath the boots of the advancing Death Guard. The fires of the Plague Marines' incendiary rounds flickered and faded, replaced by a burning, spectral flame that filled the murk with cold, flickering light. The Imperial defenders, huddled behind crumbling barricades, stared in terror and awe as shimmering shapes emerged from the shadows. They were cloaked in black and wreathed in ghostly fire, their armor bearing the cracked insignias of long-dead chapters.
The Legion of the Damned had arrived.
With grim silence, they descended upon the Death Guard, moving through the air like wraiths, untouched by the plague and rot that defiled the city. Boltguns crackled with hellish flames as they tore through Plague Marines, their spectral rounds bypassing diseased armor and tearing into the soul. A Damned Dreadnought, towering and covered in corroded plating that smoldered with eternal fire, charged forward, crashing into a foul Blightbringer. The daemon engine howled in fury as the Dreadnought's iron claws clamped down, tearing it apart in a single, brutal motion.
Watching from above, Ferrus Manus led his legion, his cold iron gaze sweeping the battlefield. The once-stalwart Primarch of the Iron Hands was now an unyielding apparition, a towering shadow wrapped in tendrils of ghostly metal that shimmered like liquid steel. His iron hands pulsed with an eerie, bluish light, and with every step, he left ghostly impressions in the ground, as though reality itself strained under his presence. He moved forward with unhurried steps, his gaze never faltering, unfeeling as his spectral blade sheared through daemons and heretics alike. To him, this was simple duty—an execution of justice without pity or remorse.
As Ferrus swept across the field, Sanguinius soared above him, a blazing figure of spectral light and shadow, his wings a radiant vision that cast eerie brilliance onto the broken earth below. His visage was still as beautiful and sorrowful as it had been in life, but now tempered by a tragic power that radiated from every fiber of his being. He descended upon a squad of Death Guard, his ethereal Blade of Radiance blazing as he swept through them, the blade's light so intense it seared the very essence of the plague-ridden Astartes. They collapsed, their bodies disintegrating in his wake.
Amidst the carnage, the Steel Wardens' Captain Tarvek looked on in disbelief, struggling to comprehend the spectacle before him. As he watched, Sanguinius's gaze fell upon him, and for a brief moment, the Captain felt both the overwhelming sorrow and righteous fury of the fallen angel. Sanguinius nodded, acknowledging him, but nothing more. The Damned had no need for thanks or acknowledgment from the living—they came only to complete what was left unfinished.
Across the battlefield, the Legion of the Damned showed no mercy, no hesitation. A spectral Rhino Transport rumbled through the ruined streets, its machine spirit screaming in a song of vengeance as it barreled into a group of Cultists, scattering them like chaff before stopping to release squads of Damned Astartes who poured out in silence, firing flaming rounds that shattered enemy lines. The Plague Marines attempted to rally, but each attempt was crushed under the calculated, ruthless precision of the Damned, their every move guided by an iron will that had transcended death.
A lone Plague Champion, bloated and hideous, bellowed a defiant challenge, his rusted blade raised high. Ferrus Manus turned toward him, his cold, glowing gaze locking onto the Champion's diseased form. The Champion's bellow faded as Ferrus approached, each step heavy with inevitability. Ferrus reached out with his iron hand, grasping the Champion's head and lifting him effortlessly. For a moment, the Champion writhed, gurgling curses. But with a slight squeeze, Ferrus crushed his skull, casting the corpse aside without a word, his silent fury colder than any rage.
The Death Guard retreated, their morale shattered as the Legion closed in with relentless precision. But Sanguinius was merciless, unleashing a spectral storm that swept through the ranks of the retreating Plague Marines. They tried to flee, but his Lamented Glory surged forth, consuming them in a tempest of holy fire that left nothing but ash. To him, they were parasites infecting the Imperium's body, and he would see them burned away without regret.
As the last remnants of the Death Guard were obliterated, the Damned began to fade, their forms dissolving into flickering shadows and embers. Ferrus cast one last look upon the battered Steel Wardens, his expression cold and unreadable. To him, they were tools of the Emperor, useful yet fragile, and he felt nothing for them beyond his duty to protect. In moments, the battlefield was empty, save for the Steel Wardens who staggered, wounded and bewildered, amidst the still-smoking remnants of their foes.
Captain Tarvek clutched his weapon, a shiver running through him as the lingering cold of the Legion's presence faded. He had witnessed legends, but they had been no saviors, no heralds of glory. They were judgment incarnate, a manifestation of the Emperor's fury beyond mortal restraint. The silence that followed was eerie, leaving the survivors with a grim understanding: the Damned did not come to save; they came to destroy anything that threatened the Imperium, and they did so without a shred of mercy.