A warp rift, like a festering wound, tore open at the inner edge of the system surrounding the planet Fular. Thick, sticky crimson energy seeped from the dimensional fissure like blood.
With a silent distortion of space, the first wave of World Eaters warships pierced into realspace, their savage prows bristling with bone spikes and skulls, exhaling corrosive blood mist from the seams of their armored hulls.
Thirty-seven Chaos-tainted warships formed a profane blockade, their engines' blood-hued exhaust turning Fular's atmosphere a sickly pink.
In low orbit, a Star Destroyer left over from the Galactic Empire was just now turning into alert formation. Under the blood-red light, its armor plates seemed to flicker in a reflection of panic.
"For the Blood God—!!!"
To everyone's horror, that deafening war cry didn't come from the invaders—it came from the fleet communications of Fular itself.
The World Eaters' fire-control systems immediately locked onto their targets.
Ri~ fwoosh—fwoosh—!
As warp energy boiled within the barrels, the first salvo ripped through the frigid vacuum of space.
Hundreds of scarlet beams carved lethal paths, interspersed with cursed physical shells filled with the ashes of Khorne-worshipping cultists. On impact, they erupted with psychic screams of madness.
The lead Star Destroyer's shields shredded like paper beneath the barrage. On the bridge's observation panels, the terrified faces of officers were reflected, paralyzed with fear.
Boom. BOOM—!!
Explosions bloomed in silent fire across low orbit.
A frigate tried to flee, but its engines were hit the instant they ignited. The overload of its hyperspace drive burst into a blue vortex, instantly dyed blood-red by the following blasts.
Its wreckage scattered like burning petals into the atmosphere, carving dozens of flaming scars across Fular's skies.
Only now did the planet's ground defense systems activate, too late. Plasma turrets fired desperate green beams skyward, but the World Eaters' second wave had already begun.
Those descending steel meteors burned in Fular's atmosphere, trailing crimson fire like a reversed meteor shower.
The orbital battle had become a one-sided slaughter.
One of the World Eaters' capital ships clutched a resisting Star Destroyer with its enormous clawed limbs. The claw's sharp talons pierced directly through the fragile bridge.
Through shattered viewports, Imperial officers could be seen writhing in agony, their blood forming floating red pearls in the vacuum.
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
The war cries of the World Eaters echoed across all frequencies, so loud that even anti-air gunners on the ground could hear their bone-chilling howls.
Three Khorne-blessed assault ships formed a wedge formation. The massive guns on their prows began to charge, dark red energy pulsing like beating hearts.
With a blinding flash, these profane weapons unleashed not plasma, but torrents of coagulated blood and metallic shards.
Fular's orbital defense station spun slowly in space, its structure bisected by a massive chainblade weapon. Molten metal still dripped from the wound.
The few surviving turrets continued firing autonomously, but their green blasts were powerless before the World Eaters' psychic shields.
And that wasn't all—the World Eaters began releasing a barrage of "meteors"—
Thousands of drop pods, each carrying elite warriors. The pods were etched with profane runes that screeched under atmospheric friction.
From beneath the ships' armored bellies, launch bays opened in dense clusters, firing the pods in rapid succession.
Shaped like massive bullets, their exteriors bore grotesque reliefs of the sacrificed—faces twisted in agony, frozen in metal.
"Hahaha—! Die—Die DIE!"
"Let these cowards witness true war!"
Another round of war cries erupted over the comms. The pods shot forth, their thrusters spewing crimson flame, like arrows of blood loosed upon the planet.
A second wave. A third. Soon, all of Fular's lower orbit was blanketed with these deadly "seeds," their descent weaving a vast web of death across the atmosphere.
From observation posts on the ground, defenders stared in terror as the sky filled with blood-red streaks.
WOOOO—OOOO!!
The shrill whine of air raid sirens screamed, but everyone knew—this was the last gasp of a dying world.
On Fular's surface—
Kovaks, the massive mining city, sprawled atop the planet's largest promethium vein like a festering sore embedded in flesh.
Towering smelting stacks belched endless industrial waste, painting the sky a diseased orange-red.
The city was split by an invisible line—
The northern zone held the governor's palace, corporate HQs, and officer residences. Their glass-fronted high-rises glittered coldly in the sunlight.
The southern zone was a cramped hive of laborers, with prefab shacks stacked upon each other, and narrow alleys perpetually reeking of rancid synthetic food.
The disparity between rich and poor here was thicker than the atmosphere itself.
Elites in the north enjoyed luxury goods from the Outer Rim, sending their children to private academies to learn how to manage more workers. Meanwhile, southern laborers crawled into mine shafts day after day, dying slowly from promethium radiation.
Criminal gangs, black market traders, and Imperial tax officials all gnawed their share of profit from the city's flesh.
But today, both nobles and commoners raised their eyes skyward in horror.
The screeching air raid sirens tore through the city's noise—until a new sound overpowered them.
The metallic scream of atmosphere being shredded.
BOOM—BOOOOM!!
The first pod slammed into the northern plaza, its shockwave shattering nearby glass towers.
Then a second. A third. The pods fell like meteors—some pierced the domes of luxury apartments, others slammed into the slums of the labor sector.
Then, silence.
Dust swirled in the wind. The sirens still echoed, but all held their breath, staring at the steaming, coffin-like hulks.
THUNK—THUNK—!
Hatches burst open, revealing crimson light within, and—
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!!"
"KILL! KILL! KILL!"
Their war cries thundered like a storm. The World Eaters poured out.
They were worse than the legends.
Their power armor was crusted with dried blood. Chunks of flesh from previous worlds still clung to their chainsword teeth.
Their helmets glowed red within, their throats roared not with voices—but with beast-like growls.
Local shock troops tried forming a defense, bolts of red and green plasma crossing the streets in deadly webs.
The World Eaters didn't even bother to dodge.
WHRRR—SNAP—!
Their armor deflected the "weak" blasts. Their axes and swords sliced through troopers like paper.
One officer raised his rifle—then the world spun.
His head was in the air, his body still standing. Arterial blood sprayed onto a World Eater's armor and was greedily absorbed.
Security droids opened fire in formation—but their logic cores couldn't comprehend why their enemies didn't fear death.
One World Eater took a plasma blast to the chest and simply laughed before cleaving a droid in half with his chainsword, sparks and fluid spraying everywhere.
Millions of laborers tried to flee, but the exits were sealed.
The World Eaters weren't in a hurry to kill everyone. They were enjoying the hunt.
One of them snatched a hiding Twi'lek, lifting him by his head-tails and savoring his fear—
SSHRRRRR—!!
He tore the tails off. The Twi'lek's scream wasn't even over before the axe split his chest open.
This wasn't war. This was a sacrificial rite.
The World Eaters built a pyramid of corpses, placing the shock captain's head at the top.
With blood, they painted the Eight-Pointed Star upon the ground. Their war cries echoed through the city skies.
At the highest point of the city—
The governor of Fular collapsed on the balcony, watching helplessly as his guards were slaughtered.
A World Eater in Terminator armor ascended the stairs, his steps like death tolls.
"P-please…" the governor whimpered, hand outstretched.
The World Eater gave no reply. He raised his chainsword axe.
WHRRRR—SKRRRT—!!
The roar of the blade drowned the man's last plea. Serrated edges shredded his silk robe, then skin, muscle, bone—
Blood gushed like a fountain, painting the balcony red.
The governor's upper body was nearly bisected, entrails and bone shards strewn across the tiles. His head rolled down the steps, eyes wide in terror, as if unable to comprehend how quickly death had come.
The Terminator stared at his handiwork, respirator hissing beneath his helmet.
He raised the severed head to the sky, roaring:
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!!!"
The governor's death shattered what remained of Fular's resistance.
Its already dysfunctional command structure collapsed.
Shock officers found their comms filled only with screams and battle cries—no orders, no leadership.
Some squads still resisted, but most were already fleeing.
They had never seen Chaos.
The World Eaters were more monster than man, towering over two meters tall, their armor adorned with spikes and skulls. Plasma bolts barely scorched their hulls.
And worse—were the daemons.
Flesh Hounds burst from the shadows, skin flayed, muscles raw, acidic saliva dripping from jaws as they tore throats open.
Bloodletters swung jagged swords, laughing like metal grinding on metal. Plasma bolts passed through them like ghosts. The next moment—their blades claimed heads.
Most despairing of all—was the sky.
A crimson warp rift tore open in Fular's atmosphere like a bleeding wound.
Within, twisted faces wailed. Chaos energy poured like rain, driving mortals mad or mutating their flesh into unspeakable horrors.
At the center of the battlefield stood a crimson-robed Chaos sorcerer, staff raised high. His voice did not come from his throat—but echoed in all minds:
"Tremble, insects—your souls shall belong to the Blood God!"
His magic spread like plague—
A trooper dropped to his knees. Cracks split his skin, blood seeped from pores, and he exploded into a cloud of gore—his soul twisted and sucked into the sorcerer's runed staff.
Nearby, weapons melted in soldiers' hands, scalding their flesh. Their bodies writhed—fingers turned to claws, spines bent and twisted. They became half-human chaos spawn, attacking comrades in madness.
Morale collapsed entirely.
Amid the chaos, Fular's underworld sensed "opportunity."
Gang thugs stormed the luxury stores in the north, looting madly. But the warp's influence twisted their greed into bloodlust.
One gang member suddenly laughed, splitting his comrade's head with a machete while screaming Khorne's name—then was cleaved in two by a World Eater.
Smugglers tried to flee, but their ships were crushed mid-air by giant claws from the rift, their wreckage falling like burning meteors.
Most terrifying were the mentally unstable criminals.
They knelt, praying to the rift. Blood-red runes appeared on their skin. Eyes turned crimson. Muscles bulged. They became Khorne cultists and joined the slaughter.
Civilians had nowhere to run.
Nobles in the north hid in fortified shelters—but warp energy seeped through every crack. Locks failed, blast doors warped, and World Eaters burst in, dragging victims out and beheading them for sacrifice.
Laborers in the south fled to mine shafts—but Flesh Hounds and Bloodletters had already sealed the exits.
One mother cradled her child in the rubble, watching her husband torn apart by chaos spawn. Her mind shattered. She laughed, walked toward a World Eater, and offered her neck to the axe.
Some still knelt, praying to absent gods, hoping for salvation.
But their prayers went unanswered—only the Blood God's mad laughter echoed from the warp rift.
However, a company of Iron Warriors was en route through warp strata. Their destination: Fular.
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