Warhammer 40k:The Lone Star

Chapter 9: The Butcher's Path

POV: Leon

The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning flesh as I walked toward my objective. The corridor behind me was a vision of carnage—limbs strewn about, walls painted in arterial spray, and the muffled gurgles of the dying barely audible beneath the ever-present hum of saws and screams of agony.

A few paces ahead, two guards stood posted before the chamber I sought. They turned to face me, eyes filled with casual curiosity, their postures lax, their spirits dulled by their own degeneracy.

"Oi, piss off, mate," one sneered. "Go back to whatever twisted thing you were doin'—tch, lucky bastard, gets to have all the fun while we stand here babysitting the boss's bitch."

The other chuckled, shooting me a jealous glance, oblivious to the malice in my gaze. That was all it took. Rage boiled over, and without hesitation, I revved my chainsword to life. The blessed machine roared as I lunged, the teeth of my weapon biting deep into their unarmored forms, eviscerating them in a single, brutal swing. A shower of crimson coated the rusted floor as their torsos separated from their legs, their final screams lost amid the factory's unholy symphony.

I stepped over their bisected remains, unconcerned with being overheard—the entire compound was already a cacophony of suffering. Grasping the rusted door handle, I wrenched it open and slipped inside.

The scent inside was worse—stench of unwashed flesh, blood, and rot. The room was strewn with bodies, some dead, some barely clinging to life, their tormented groans ignored by the lone figure at the far end. She lay upon silk sheets, bathed in the dim glow of candlelight, unbothered by the misery surrounding her.

I clenched my fists, steadying my breath. The mission came first. Suppressing my disgust, I sheathed my chainsword and instead withdrew a combat knife, moving with silent precision to the half-living wretches on the floor. Mercy was a blade to the throat, and I granted it swiftly. One by one, their suffering ended, their final gasps replaced by silence.

Turning back to my true target, I withdrew a syringe from my belt—a potent sedative, strong enough to render a grox unconscious. Without ceremony, I drove it into her thigh, twisting it as I injected the contents. She awoke just long enough to let out a strangled cry before her eyes rolled back, and she slumped into unconsciousness.

With practiced efficiency, I slung her over my shoulder and stepped back into the blood-slicked corridor. The time for subtlety had passed.

Reaching into my cloak, I retrieved my contingency plan—a whip-like cord strung with a dozen frag grenades, their pins rigged to a single pull.

"I was hesitant to use this," I muttered, my voice low, "but better to grant them swift release than leave them to further torment."

With a violent arc, I swung the rope, sending the grenades scattering across the chamber. A single, sharp pull. The pins snapped free.

I did not wait for the explosions. I turned and sprinted toward my entry point, the reverberations of my destruction chasing me like a vengeful specter.

*BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM*

The factory trembled as the rusted beams groaned and gave way, crushing those unfortunate enough to stand beneath them. Screams of terror mixed with the thunderous collapse as the structure began to cave in upon itself.

Reaching the hatch, I did not slow—dropping down with little regard for the woman slung over my shoulder. My boots hit the foul waters of the sewer, and without pause, I ran toward the exit.

A distant crash echoed behind me as the factory met its demise, and I allowed myself a single, whispered oath:

"Soon, they will know the agony they inflicted. Soon."

With that, I vanished into the tunnels, bound for the next battlefield.

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POV: Darot the Gut-Ripper

Location: Near the Gun Rats' Encampment

*RIP*

The wet, delicious sound of tearing flesh was a melody to my ears. My blade slid through meat and sinew, parting the midsection of another wretched Gun Rat as I pulled free his steaming innards. He convulsed, eyes wide with horror as I twisted his guts around my arm like a trophy, relishing the sensation.

I laughed, a deep, guttural thing, as my warband continued their butchery. The corpses of our enemies piled high, while the fresh slaves we claimed screamed in terror.

I turned to my attendant, Sirius, who stood nearby with his ever-present look of irritation. A shame he lacked the stomach for true indulgence.

"Oi, Sirius," I called, wiping blood from my face. "How many did we lose?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "More than necessary. If we'd use guns, we wouldn't be bleeding men like this. In total, we lost fifty to a mere twenty of their lot."

His tone held just a whisper of scorn. Enough to make my blood boil.

With a single, fluid motion, I swung my blade downward, impaling the cooling corpse at my feet. The wet squelch of punctured organs punctuated my rage.

"Don't overstep, worm," I snarled, stepping toward him. "If you weren't so damned useful, I'd have your hide flayed and sewn into my cloak."

He stiffened but wisely lowered his gaze, stepping back. Coward. I clicked my tongue in disdain.

"That's why your family died," I muttered before turning away, losing interest in his existence. I had more pressing matters—there was plunder to be claimed, and blood yet to be spilled.

And I would drink deep of both before the night was through.