Upper Hive – Pre-Invasion Chaos
As the Thunderborns ceased their saboteur strikes, Venomfang's forces surged in to assess the devastation, only to be met by a wasteland of blasted ruins and smoldering wreckage, the air thick with ash and the metallic tang of ionized smoke.
Confused and seething with frustration, they scoured the broken thoroughfares and shattered spires aimlessly, finding no trace of the elusive enemy.
Meanwhile, word of the obliterated command center had not yet reached High Command.
Bereft of fresh directives, the heretic units began a hasty withdrawal to their pre-assigned defensive positions, mechanically reverting to their original deployment plans like insects following a dead queen's last pheromone trail.
....
Within minutes, five defensive sectors in the westernmost districts of the Upper Hive were caught in a maelstrom of unexpected assault.
From every conceivable direction.
Autonomous artillery batteries, loyal to no master but their programming commenced a ruthless shelling spanning from the northernmost foxholes all the way down to the southernmost outpost.
The sky was rent by streaks of hellish shells, each a messenger of annihilation.
The once-pristine firmament of the Hive turned a sickly orange, backlit by fire and ruptured ozone.
Explosions tore through ancient fortifications, reducing venerable structures and hardened emplacements to mere heaps of debris and dust.
Infantry huddled in their cramped bunkers, weapons clutched in trembling hands as they muttered fervent invocations to the Lord of Wisdom, pleading for survival under the relentless, indiscriminate shelling.
Even the high-ranking officers, their voices quivering as they manned their command posts, sent frantic, desperate reports up the chain of command:
"The enemy has teleported in!"
"We are under heavy bombardment!"
"Requesting immediate reinforcement!"
Yet, there was only static in reply.
Even a request for retreat, an order that should have been met with curses and reprimands, was instead met with silence.
Stripped of all command, the officers retreated into their shelters, whispering meager prayers for survival beneath the oppressive din of war.
The screams of incoming shells were ceaseless, and with every detonation the very ground quaked as if in torment.
Amid the roaring explosions, the distant, anguished cries of the wounded could still be discerned, though they were drowned in the cacophony of artillery thunder.
As the barrage poured down like the wrath of the Emperor, recon drones soared overhead—silent, unblinking eyes scanning the chaotic battlefields.
Every surviving enemy combatant's location was digitized in real time and relayed back to the autonomous artillery control units.
By the fifth wave of shelling, the refined targeting algorithms kicked in.
Those who had survived the earlier bombardment, believing they had been spared by divine will, once again heard the whistle of falling death.
But this time, every shell found its mark with unerring precision just outside their flimsy bunkers and trenches.
"Boom∼! Boom∼! Boom∼!"
Each thunderous impact battered the defensive lines, hammering reinforced walls and unleashing torrents of molten shrapnel in every direction.
Inside the crumbling shelters, soldiers winced at each impact that rattled their fragile hopes, their whispered prayers faltering under the weight of impending doom.
Then, after an uncountable succession of explosions, the bunker ceilings began to fracture.
Dust cascaded in ghostly plumes.
Horror-stricken soldiers craned upward in mute terror.
A final, devastating shell burst through, detonating within the confines of the bunker.
Flames, shockwaves, and the grisly spray of shredded flesh erupted from every breach, erasing entire squads in a single, cataclysmic moment.
This grim scenario repeated endlessly over the three-hour-long bombardment.
When the last shell finally found its mark, the artillery drones relayed a resupply request, teleporting back to the Underhive to fetch fresh munitions.
The moment the relentless bombardment subsided, the First Legion surged forward.
At the northernmost defensive line, those few survivors barely had time to gasp before the very earth trembled beneath the thunder of advancing troops.
In the distance, they beheld a fearsome sight.
Armored infantry clad in ceramite power armour, marching in disciplined unison alongside hovering Leman Russ tanks, their bolters and lascannons primed for carnage.
Trailing behind them, more infantry emerged, methodically zeroing in on targets with deadly precision.
Every las-shot was a death sentence—piercing flesh, severing limbs, felling foes with surgical accuracy.
The Leman Russ tanks then unleashed volleys of rockets—each salvo, a dozen or more warheads tearing through the air—a full company of armored behemoths, advancing in flawless formation.
The entire battlefield was soon engulfed in raging infernos.
Buildings collapsed, intricate trenchworks were obliterated beneath roaring firestorms, and even the metal-plated ground turned a sorrowful, ashen black.
By the time the choking smoke dispersed, the once-formidable defensive line had been utterly annihilated.
Not a single heretic combatant remained.
The two attacking regiments swept through the smoldering ruins, initiating bio-scans to detect any remaining life before executing them without hesitation.
Each soldier, hardened by war, became an instrument of merciless retribution.
They witnessed the despair etched on the faces of their dying foes.
Flickers of regret passed across scorched visages, too late for redemption.
Perhaps, in those final moments, the heretics finally understood that blind faith in the Lord of Wisdom was meaningless.
Once the northernmost defensive line was secured, the two regiments waited for their comrades to finish clearing the other four trenches.
Then, they would all teleport to the next battlefield
....
Ever the vanguard, the Thunderborns always led the charge.
With the bulk of regular forces dispatched to neutralize secondary defensive positions, the Thunderborns were free to concentrate on critical, high-value objectives.
Grey tore through three dilapidated buildings, charging into a fortified chapel and systematically clearing every entrenched heavy weapon operator.
Consulting his data-link, he confirmed that he was near the second enemy defensive sector.
Then, for the first time, he paused, pondering the enemy's layered stratagems.
The enemy hadn't merely erected haphazard obstacles.
They had constructed five meticulously planned defensive lines along the southern approaches to the Upper Hive.
Yet, due to Anruida's pre-planted teleport beacons in the western sector, their forces had bypassed the primary frontlines entirely.
Launching a surprise flank assault.
Grey had assumed they would teleport directly into the heart of the heretics defensive lines.
But now, clarity struck him.
The entire defensive plan of the enemy had been rendered obsolete by the order of Qin Mo.
"I see a fortress."
Yoan's voice crackled over the vox-link.
Immediately, the target's coordinates materialized on Grey's HUD, his enhanced optics mapping the fortress's exact contours.
To the unaided eye, it was but a modest cluster of buildings, seemingly insignificant.
Yet his enhanced optics delineated the fortress's precise structure, revealing it as a perfectly square stronghold.
"Another relic of a millennia-old Hive?"
"Most likely."
"We take the roof first, clear downward."
Without further discussion, the Thunderborns mobilized.
....
This stronghold, though stout, paled in comparison to the monumental Wall of Koy, they could easily vault over it.
Each Thunderborn scaled a nearby tall building, vaulted to its rooftop, and then leaped with precision toward the fortress.
They descended from every conceivable angle, landing simultaneously upon the fortress roof.
Panic seized the defenders.
In their disarray, they could not even decide whom to target first.
By the time they picked a target, most were already cold corpses.
The roof was secured in mere seconds.
Then, the Thunderborns breached downward.
Gunfire and agonized screams intermingled as energy beams lanced through walls.
Entire squads were annihilated before they could mount any semblance of resistance.
From the outside, the fortress trembled as its garrison was eradicated from within.
The Thunderborns moved with the brutal precision born of countless campaigns, their focus absolute.
Yet, amid the chaos of slaughter and conquest, none of them noticed.
They were being watched.