The sound of heavy logging guns thundered across the slum from distant positions, a constant percussion that never quite faded. Each burst created overlapping echoes that bounced between buildings, making it impossible to determine exactly how many weapons were firing or from which directions. The noise formed a baseline rumble, as ever-present as a heartbeat.
Occasionally, the sharper roar of Flamers cut through, distinctive and unmistakable. The sound carried weight, the whoosh of igniting promethium followed by the crackling rush of flames consuming whatever they touched.
David's metallic form approached the Land Raider's landing site with measured strides, the Man of Iron's footfalls creating rhythmic impacts against broken pavement. Blue light from its optical sensors cut through the smoke-filled darkness, painting everything in cool tones.
It reached the massive vehicle and climbed smoothly into the crew compartment, metal hands finding purchase points with mechanical precision. The moment David interfaced with the Land Raider's systems, everything changed.
The engines roared to life with a sound that resembled nothing so much as an enraged tiger, a deep bellow that resonated in bone and made the air itself vibrate. The thirteen metal tracks that supported the vehicle's tremendous weight began to rotate, grinding against earth and stone.
The Land Raider lurched forward, pulling itself free from the impact crater it had created upon landing. The pit was over a meter deep, earth compacted by the sheer kinetic force of seventy tons dropped from altitude. Metal scraped against stone with a screech that set teeth on edge.
The heavily angled front section adjusted slightly, tracks on one side moving faster than the other, turning the massive hull to orient on a new heading. There was no hesitation, no pause to assess the route. The Land Raider simply accelerated, building momentum like an avalanche gaining speed.
A building stood in its path. Old construction, walls already weakened by years of neglect and recent fires. The Land Raider didn't deviate.
It crashed through the structure as if the walls were made of paper. Support beams shattered. Concrete exploded into clouds of dust and fragments. The entire building groaned, structural integrity compromised beyond recovery, and sections began collapsing even as the Land Raider emerged from the far side, continuing its rampage without slowing.
Everything that stood before its dark, blood-stained front was destroyed.
Empty buildings disintegrated under the tracks. Walls that had sheltered families for generations became rubble in seconds. Thrall, those mindless corrupted rushing toward the front lines as reinforcements, were simply crushed. The Land Raider's massive weight reduced them to powder and bloody mud, their bodies offering no more resistance than the buildings.
The tracks left red smears across broken pavement, painting the vehicle's path in gore.
Minutes passed in this fashion, the Land Raider carving a straight line through the slum's heart, demolishing everything in its way with mechanical indifference. Its metal shell became coated in sticky blood, layers accumulating until the original ceramite color was barely visible beneath crimson.
Then it arrived at one of the suspected enemy strongholds David's surveillance had identified.
The Land Raider slowed but didn't stop. From within the crew compartment, Nolan took manual control of the twin assault cannons mounted to the hull. His hands moved across targeting controls, acquiring the building's primary support structures with practiced efficiency.
The assault cannons opened fire.
The weapons unleashed torrents of high-caliber rounds, each cannon spitting hundreds of projectiles per minute. The sound was catastrophic, a sustained roar that drowned out even the engine's bellow. Tracers painted lines of light through the smoke-filled air, creating a visual web that connected the Land Raider to its target.
The building's support columns disintegrated under sustained fire. Load-bearing walls exploded outward in showers of pulverized concrete. Without structural integrity to hold it together, the entire building began collapsing in on itself, floors pancaking downward in sequence.
And David, still controlling the Land Raider's movement systems, drove directly into the collapsing ruin.
The vehicle's front section punched through falling debris, tracks grinding over rubble and the bodies of Thrall who'd been using the building as a staging area. The Land Raider crushed everything beneath it, metal treads reducing bone and stone alike to fragments indistinguishable from dust.
A figure burst from the ruins, moving with desperate speed despite obvious injuries. A Blood Coven priest, robes torn and bloodied, face contorted with pain and rage. He stumbled over broken concrete, trying to gain distance, to find space to cast, to do anything that might save him.
He had no chance.
Two figures launched from the Land Raider's open hatch simultaneously, moving with the coordinated precision of warriors who'd fought together before. Old John gripped the C'tan Phase Sword, that ancient Necron weapon humming with barely contained power. Nolan wielded the Warscythe, its blade blazing with emerald energy.
They hit the ground running, boots finding purchase on unstable rubble, and immediately accelerated toward the fleeing priest. Their charge cut through the Thrall still struggling to rise from the building's collapse like a blade through water.
Nolan's blue power armor became a canvas of violence. Blood sprayed across the ceramite plating with each swing of the Warscythe, hot and arterial, until the armor's original color vanished beneath layers of crimson. Bodies flew backward from impacts with the weapon's haft. Limbs separated from torsos, spinning through the air. The ground behind him became carpeted with broken flesh, a trail of devastation marking his path.
The priest tried to turn, to mount some defense, but Nolan was already there.
The Warscythe's curved blade hooked under the priest's chin, the movement almost gentle in its precision. Then Nolan pulled, and the priest's head exploded into fragments, skull and brain matter reduced to spray by the weapon's entropic energy.
The body collapsed, already beginning to dissolve as blood pooled around it.
Nolan stopped moving. He stood perfectly still amid the carnage, power armor dripping blood, the Warscythe held loosely in one hand. Water from broken pipes somewhere in the ruins trickled across the ground, mixing with blood to create pink rivulets.
He waited. Patient. Knowing what would come next.
The blood began to gather, defying gravity, rising into shapes. The priest's form started reassembling, pulling itself together from spilled vitae. First resurrection. Nolan watched it happen, mentally marking the count, then killed it again when the reformation completed.
Time passed. Minutes blurred into hours. The cycle repeated across dozens of locations.
Night began its slow retreat, darkness gradually thinning toward the gray pre-dawn light that promised morning without delivering it. But the sky remained overcast, heavy clouds pressing down like a lid on a pot. The promise of rain had been building for hours.
Then it came.
Fine droplets began falling from the oppressive sky, so small they were almost mist rather than proper rain. The precipitation drifted more than fell, settling gently onto everything below. It touched burning buildings and created hissing steam. It mixed with blood and diluted it into pink streams. It collected in puddles and craters, creating mirrors that reflected the fires still consuming the slum.
The smoke that had choked the air for hours now mingled with moisture, creating a choking fog that stung eyes and coated throats.
From distant positions, the sounds of combat continued without pause. Lasguns discharged with their characteristic sharp cracks. Heavy logging guns maintained their tearing roar. The battle had raged all night without letup, a constant background noise that had become almost normal through sheer repetition.
The Thrall, their numbers seemingly endless despite thousands being killed, continued flowing toward the front lines. They mixed with fanatical believers who retained enough mental function to use weapons, creating a combined force that crashed against the defensive positions in waves that never quite stopped.
The Gang Dogs' lines, weakened by casualties and exhaustion, bent under the pressure. The defensive perimeter contracted, giving ground to maintain cohesion.
In another section of the slum, far from the main battle lines, the Land Raider finally slowed to a stop.
Its metal body remained motionless for a long moment, engines idling down from their sustained roar to a lower rumble. Steam rose from overheated components, mixing with the gentle rain to create localized fog.
The hatch opened.
Nolan emerged first, climbing out with movements that spoke of deep fatigue beneath the power armor's strength assistance. His blue ceramite plating was no longer recognizable as blue. Instead, it had become a abstract painting of violence, layered blood creating patterns in shades ranging from bright arterial red to dark oxidized brown. The effect was almost rainbow-like in its variety of crimson tones.
He raised both hands to his helmet, disengaging the seals with soft hisses of equalizing pressure. The metal helm lifted free, and Nolan drew a deep breath of outside air.
It was fresher than the recycled atmosphere inside the armor, carrying the clean smell of rain despite the underlying stench of smoke and death. Cool droplets immediately began settling on his face, washing away grime in slow rivulets.
Old John followed, the C'tan Phase Sword balanced casually across his shoulder armor. He stepped down from the Land Raider's deck and tilted his face upward, letting the rain fall directly onto his weathered features. His single eye closed in appreciation as the water washed across his crimson-stained beard, beginning the slow process of cleaning away the accumulated blood.
"Nolan," Old John said after a moment, his voice carrying easily in the relative quiet. "This night, we eliminated more than twenty hidden strongholds that were being used to control Thrall. We killed thirteen Blood Coven priests personally. We rescued at least tens of thousands of untransformed civilians." He turned his head, fixing his one eye on Nolan's profile. "So why do you still look so unhappy?"
Nolan remained silent for several heartbeats, his gaze distant. Water droplets collected on his eyelashes, distorting his vision slightly. He drew another slow breath, holding it in his lungs before releasing.
"Aside from that Mexican woman we killed first," he said finally, his voice flat and measured, "we haven't encountered any other high-ranking Blood Coven members. Not one." His jaw tightened. "That means the building strongholds throughout the slum aren't their real nest at all."
He paused, processing the tactical implications. "Their actual command center must be underground. Beneath the slum itself."
Old John's eyebrows rose slightly. "Underground? Well, we can search for it. Even if they've built their nest below ground level, there must be entrances. Ventilation systems. Access points. We just need to look more carefully..."
Nolan's hand rose in a dismissive gesture, cutting off the suggestion before Old John could develop it further. His expression had shifted, settling into something cold and final.
"Killing their leadership now serves no purpose." The words emerged with absolute certainty, carrying the weight of a decision already made. "We've been killing all night, and look at the result. The Thrall haven't decreased in number. They've increased. That's led to significant casualties on Bucky's side. If he hadn't deployed the heavy combat servitors when he did, the defensive line would have collapsed hours ago."
Nolan's hands clenched at his sides, the power armor's gauntlets creaking slightly. "Facing an enemy stronghold that extends through underground tunnels in all directions, we simply don't have the manpower to continue grinding against the Blood Coven's resources. We'd bleed ourselves dry trying to root them out position by position."
He drew breath again, and when he continued, something in his voice had changed. Become heavier. "Moreover, half an hour ago, Raditus contacted David with news. With Tony Stark's full assistance, they've successfully manufactured the Phosphex Charges ahead of schedule. The packaging is complete."
The implications hung in the air between them, as heavy as the rain clouds above.
"In other words," Nolan said quietly, "our weapon of mass destruction is en route to this location."
Old John remained silent for a long moment, processing what he'd just heard. Then a grin split his face, transforming his weathered features. He shook his head slowly, sending droplets flying from his soaked crimson beard.
"Nolan," he said softly, "have you finally made your decision?"
"I should have made it much earlier." Nolan's voice carried something that might have been regret, or perhaps simply acceptance of necessity. "The idealistic notion of saving everyone made me reckless. Made me ignore reality. We've done everything we can. Now we have to make the final choice."
His eyes narrowed slightly, rain collecting in the creases. "I can't justify sacrificing my limited forces to save the remaining civilians. Not when the mathematics don't support success."
He turned suddenly toward the Land Raider, raising his voice to carry through the open hatch. "David! Notify Bucky immediately. He's to lead the Gang Dogs and civilian volunteers in a full retreat. The combat servitors and any automatic servo robots still functional will remain behind as rear guard. Their objective is to delay and disrupt the Thrall's pursuit for as long as possible."
"Understood, my lord." David's response came from within the vehicle, that characteristic synthesized voice carrying perfect calm. The Man of Iron's optical sensors flashed as it transmitted the orders through the network.
The Land Raider's cockpit hatch closed with mechanical finality, sealing David inside to coordinate the withdrawal.
Nolan stood motionless in the gentle rain, his face turned upward toward the gray sky. Water collected on his features, running in thin streams down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. His eyes remained open despite the precipitation, staring into the clouds as if searching for something beyond them.
He exhaled slowly, the sound emerging almost as a sigh.
"Old John," he said quietly, his voice nearly lost beneath the ambient sounds of distant combat and falling rain. "We should leave as well. Everything here will cease to exist soon."
His hands opened and closed at his sides, a gesture that spoke of tension beneath the calm exterior. "Although this universe has no Emperor to hear prayers, I still ask that the souls of all innocent people, all those who suffered through no fault of their own, find their way to peace."
His voice dropped even lower, becoming almost a whisper. Words meant for himself as much as for any divine entity that might be listening.
"May the Emperor shelter all who still draw breath. May death grant the peace life withheld. May their souls be carried to the Golden Throne, beyond the reach of pain."
The prayer hung in the air, fragile and futile and heartfelt.
Old John stood beside him in silence, one weathered hand rising to rest briefly on Nolan's shoulder armor. The gesture said everything words couldn't. Understanding. Support. Shared burden.
They remained like that for several moments, two warriors standing in the rain above a battlefield that would soon become a crematorium, bearing witness to a decision that would haunt them long after the fires finally died.
Then, together, they turned toward the Land Raider.
There was nothing more to say. Nothing more to do but leave and let the weapon finish what they couldn't.
The rain continued falling, gentle and merciless, washing blood from armor but unable to cleanse the weight of what was coming