Warhammer 40k:The Lone Star

Chapter 1: Ashes of Giliard

POV: Third-Person

Location: Giliard – Main Hive City of Gilead

For five long years, the once-glorious hive city of Giliard has been gripped by unrelenting anarchy. The underhive, lowerhive, and middlehive have fallen into the hands of warring heretical factions, each carving out their own domains amid the wreckage. Chaos-worshiping cults, roving bands of marauders, cannibalistic tribes, and monstrous daemon-spawn infest the ruins, reducing the once-thriving hive to a hellscape of bloodshed and horror.

Only the upperhive remains a bastion of relative order, held by the Astra Militarum and the Planetary Defense Force. Though the scent of desperation and grief lingers in the air, the embattled defenders still cling to a single, flickering hope—the Imperium does not forget its own.

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### **POV: Third-Person – Middlehive, Northern Sector**

Amid the shattered buildings of the middlehive's northern sector, a lone figure sprinted through the ruins, the air around him alive with the screech of lasfire. Bandits—thirty or more—pursued him with murderous intent, shouting curses as they clambered over rubble, eager to claim his corpse as a trophy.

The figure was clad in tattered rags, his face obscured by a crude mask. Mismatched plates of scavenged armor were strapped across his body, barely enough to stop a blade, let alone a bolter round. In his hands, he gripped a chainsword, its brutal teeth dormant for now. A worn lasgun was slung across his back, its charge pack nearly drained but still functional.

He dashed toward the entrance of a half-intact hab-block, reaching its doors before spinning on his heel. With a mocking gesture—his middle finger raised in open defiance—he taunted his pursuers before disappearing inside.

The bandits snarled in fury, their rage overtaking what little sense they had. Spurred on by wounded pride, they surged forward, weapons raised, eager to tear him apart for his insolence.

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### **POV: Leon (The Masked Man)**

Darting up the building's crumbling stairwell, I raised a fist and clenched it—a silent signal.

*Clink.*

The soft, metallic click of a detonator priming reached my ears. I nodded in satisfaction and sprinted down a ruined corridor, positioning myself at its far end, just beyond the entrance.

Drawing my lasgun, I let my chainsword rest at my hip. It rumbled briefly, as if protesting its lack of use, but this was not the time for close combat.

I didn't have to wait long. The moment the first bandit stumbled into view, my lasgun hummed, and a crimson bolt lanced through his chest. He shrieked as he fell, the scent of seared flesh mingling with the acrid stench of the hive.

No hesitation. I squeezed the trigger again and again, cutting down another before they had a chance to react.

The corridor erupted in chaos, bandits howling as they fired blindly, their shots slamming into walls and ceilings. I ducked behind cover, leaning out only to send another disciplined burst into the fray. Each time, one or two more fell.

By the time the last of them had stumbled into the kill zone, I had already culled eight of their number without so much as a scratch.

Perfect.

Without a moment's pause, I turned and fired a single shot at the window behind me. The glass shattered, shards raining down as I leapt forward, seizing hold of a waiting rope.

As if on cue, a triumphant voice rang out from the distance.

"HAHAHA! DIE, YOU WRETCHED SCUM!"

*BOOM.*

The explosion rocked the building, flames and debris spewing outward as the structure began to collapse. I slid down the rope, embers stinging against my armor as I descended.

The moment my boots hit the ground, I exhaled slowly, slumping against a nearby wall to catch my breath.

Footsteps approached. I already knew who it was.

A wiry teenager, no older than me, stepped into view. Unlike me, he lacked armor, his only possession of value being the battered but well-maintained sniper rifle slung over his shoulder.

Varn.

"Hah! You should've seen their faces when you jumped! By the Emperor, I swear they pissed themselves."

He grinned, extending a hand.

I let out a quiet chuckle. "Shut up, Varn. If you laugh like that any louder, someone might mistake you for one of them."

He scoffed, helping me to my feet. "Yeah? Well, they had it coming."

Brushing off the dust, I nodded toward the distance. "Come on. The captives won't free themselves."

With that, we set off toward the bandit encampment, taking our time. Most of their numbers had already been dealt with—cleaning up the rest wouldn't be difficult.

Varn, however, fell silent, a rare moment of hesitation in his step. Then, his voice lowered.

"Hey, Leon."

I hummed in acknowledgment, my focus still on the path ahead.

"It's about the boss."

I stiffened slightly, though I kept walking.

"He's not doing well," Varn continued, his tone uneasy. "We all see it. He's barely eating, barely sleeping. He won't even let anyone leave the camp to scavenge. He's running himself into the ground."

I didn't answer.

Varn sighed. "You and him saved all of us. You gave us a reason to keep fighting. But if he keeps this up…"

I already knew where this conversation was headed. I had confronted the boss about it two days prior. It ended in a shouting match, then a fight—one I started, out of frustration more than anything else.

*"I need to do this. Your father's death wasn't fair. He was a good man, Leon. Better than me. He didn't deserve to die like that. At the very least, I can honor his words—help people whenever I can."*

I couldn't even look at him after that. I walked away, leaving him alone with his burdens.

I hadn't seen him since.

Now, the others had started asking me if they could help ease his load. I refused to let too many risk themselves, so I made a deal—one person could accompany me on each mission. Today, that person was Varn.

The silence between us stretched on as we neared the bandit camp.

Varn, sensing my unwillingness to speak further, said nothing more.

We pressed on. The night was not yet over, and there was still work to be done.

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