Warhammer 40k:The Lone Star

Chapter 8: The Cleansing of the Flesh Cutters

POV: Third Person

Location: Southern Bandit Camp

Three moons loomed above the night sky, their pale glow casting an eerie light over the wasteland. The wails of the tormented had dulled, but their presence still lingered—a haunting chorus of agony that echoed beyond the twisted walls of the Flesh Cutter Bandit Camp.

The camp itself was a grotesque abomination, a desecrated metal factory turned into a fortress of carnage. Rusted scrap metal formed jagged barricades around the perimeter, while crude, saw-blade traps littered the surrounding wasteland. Within these walls, debauchery reigned supreme. Two hundred—perhaps three hundred—degenerates lurked about, drunk on their own filth, reveling in sadistic pleasures and speaking of atrocities that would make a daemon blush.

But inside the factory, the true horror unfolded.

Over a hundred souls suffered unspeakable torment. A man, strapped to a rusted table, whimpered as his flesh was peeled away in meticulous strips by a rusting blade. Another, suspended by chains, shrieked in raw agony as he was lowered, inch by inch, onto roaring saw blades—his flesh sheared from bone, his screams swallowed by the grinding metal.

A woman moaned—a sound not of pleasure, but of shattered sanity—as a brute defiled her, his sweat-slick body heaving in twisted ecstasy. Each time he reached his climax, he carved a fresh piece from her flesh, chewing it with relish. If she, by some cruel twist of fate, found release, he would carve a piece and force-feed it to her. Elsewhere, another woman hung in spread-eagle bondage, her wrists and ankles bound to pulleys that stretched her body with each pull. Her tormentors laughed as they wrenched her joints to their breaking point, her tortured screams mingling with the grotesque symphony of suffering.

This was not a mere bandit camp. It was a blasphemy against the very notion of life. Even the most twisted of daemons would pause to admire such a masterpiece of depravity.

And at its heart, in a chamber of dismembered flesh and discarded limbs, lay their king and queen.

Margaret, the consort of carnage, a woman of pale flesh marred with crude, stitched spikes, moaned in satisfaction beneath the hulking figure of Darot the Gut Ripper. Around them, mutilated remnants of the living whimpered in pools of their own blood—broken toys discarded by their cruel masters.

As Darot pulled on his tattered garments, he did not bother to look back. "I'll be gone for the day, Margaret dear," he said, voice thick with arrogance. "One of those damned Gun Rats struck our slave convoy. Time to return the favor."

Margaret hummed her approval, licking blood from her lips as Darot gathered two hundred of his men. Chainsaws, cleavers, and rusted blades filled their hands as they marched into the night—oblivious to the doom lurking beneath their feet.

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POV: Leon

Location: Sewers beneath the Factory

Disgusting.

The putrid stench of the sewers threatened to invade my lungs, but I refused to breathe it in. Filth clung to my boots, thick and rancid, the refuse of a world that had long since abandoned decency. Skittering shapes lurked in the dark, vermin twisted by radiation and hunger, but they were of no concern.

I adjusted the straps of my light armor, ensuring the plates protected the vital points. My laspistol rested at my hip, but it was my chainsword that thrummed beneath my touch—a loyal beast eager for slaughter. I patted its hilt, feeling the eager vibrations of the weapon, as if it too sensed the carnage to come.

With a final check of my map—courtesy of Goss—I pressed onward through the filth. My target was clear: the basement entrance that would lead me into the very heart of this wretched hive.

Minutes passed before I found the hatch. I climbed, hand over hand, my heartbeat steady even as the screams above grew clearer. Agony. Desperation. The sounds of men and women being unmade. I clenched my jaw so hard that I tasted blood.

I cracked the hatch open and peered inside.

Madness. Horror. Filth incarnate.

My fingers dug into the ladder's rungs as I fought to contain my fury. *Animals.* No, animals had dignity. These creatures were beneath even that. They were a disease. And I would be the cure.

I forced a slow breath. Then another. Rage would have its time, but not yet. First, I needed to find the woman. Margaret. The festering core of this rot.

Slipping through the shadows, I moved with silent precision. The bandits, drunk on their own perversions, never saw me coming.

One brute stood over a limbless man, carving strips of skin from his torso like one might peel an orange. He never heard me approach. My arm wrapped around his throat, a sharp *crack* echoing as his neck twisted unnaturally. I lowered his twitching body and turned to the still-living man. His remaining eye met mine—pleading.

"Rest now," I murmured. "Your suffering ends."

A swift dagger thrust to the heart silenced his pain.

And so it began.

A bandit dragging a screaming girl? His throat slit before he could even draw breath to react.

Another cackling fiend, holding a saw to a boy's bound wrists? My knife slid through his ribs, twisting, rending.

The executions continued. Silent. Merciless. The blood of the wicked painted the factory floor as I made my way toward Margaret's chamber.

With each kill, I became more creative. A man flaying his victim found himself dangling from meat hooks, his own entrails spilling to the floor. Another, laughing as he peeled back fingernails, found his own fingers removed one by one. For every sin committed, I delivered a fitting punishment.

By the time I reached my destination, the last sentry stood before me, his heart still pulsing within his severed mouth.

I turned toward the chamber doors. My grip on the chainsword tightened, its motor rumbling with anticipation.

There would be no mercy. No prisoners. No salvation.

Only vengeance.