NOVEL WEB Chapter 9: Chapter 6: Purging the Scum
**Chapter 6: Purging the Scum**
**POV:3rd Person
**Three Days Later**
The cold wind howled through the ruins of the old city, carrying with it the scent of ash, rusted metal, and the ever-present stench of decay. The once-proud structures of this nameless hive-world had long since crumbled, leaving only skeletal remains of buildings and the husks of abandoned war machines. This was the Imperium at its lowest, a place forsaken by the Emperor, yet still clinging to the last vestiges of humanity.
Leon adjusted the grip on his chainsword, feeling the weight of the holy instrument of death in his grasp. At his side, his lasgun was secured, ready to purge the wretched filth of the wasteland. He led a team today—one of the five hand-picked groups tasked with eliminating the festering scum of the bandit camps. This was not just vengeance; it was duty. The bandits had preyed on the weak for too long. Mr. Jacob, reluctant as he had been, saw no alternative when the youths of Camp Varkas demanded retribution. But revenge was not enough—discipline and skill were required. After grueling tests and trials, only five teams were deemed fit for war.
Leon's squad moved with precision through the ruins, their footsteps silent amidst the wreckage.
Varn, the sharpshooter, walked slightly behind Leon, his long-las rifle held at the ready. He had the eyes of a predator, able to pick off targets with cold efficiency.
Goss, the trapper and locksmith, flanked their right, marking their surroundings on a crude map. He carried a pack filled with snares, explosives, and the tools of his trade. His skill in bypassing locks and securing escape routes made him invaluable.
Merah, the team's medic, brought up the rear. Her duty was the hardest—to keep them alive in a galaxy that seemed determined to see them dead. Her medikit clinked softly as she moved, a grim reminder of the fragility of life in the Emperor's forsaken domains.
They had been moving for hours, tracking the signs of a nearby bandit encampment. Goss had found a trail—discarded ration packs, footprints leading deeper into the ruins. Varn had spotted movement in the distance, the unmistakable flicker of firelight in the darkness. Now, as they neared the source, the time for preparation was over.
Leon raised a fist, signaling a halt. The others took cover behind the remains of a collapsed hab-block. Ahead, the bandits' camp sprawled within the shell of an old manufactorum, crude barricades erected around its perimeter. Sentries patrolled lazily—undisciplined, barely armored, armed with scavenged autoguns and blades. There were at least twenty of them.
Leon turned to his team, speaking in hushed tones. "We do this fast. Varn, pick off the sentries. Goss, set traps along the exits in case they try to run. Merah, you stick close and cover us if things go bad. We move on my mark."
Varn took his position, settling behind a broken wall. The sharp *crack* of his long-las echoed through the ruins, and the first sentry crumpled, a cauterized hole burned clean through his forehead. A second shot followed, another bandit dropping before the alarm could be raised.
Leon surged forward, his chainsword roaring to life. The first bandit he reached barely had time to turn before the whirring teeth of the holy weapon carved through his torso, spraying gore across the rubble. Another came at him, swinging a rusted machete—Leon parried with a brutal strike, his chainsword grinding through the man's ribcage, reducing him to a twitching, screaming mess.
Panic spread among the bandits. Some turned to fight, others ran for the exits. Goss's traps awaited them.
A fleeing raider screamed as he stumbled into a pressure mine—his legs were vaporized in an instant, his torso flipping through the air before crashing lifeless to the ground. Another found himself caught in a razor-snare, the wire slicing clean through his throat. He gurgled, clutching at the gaping wound before collapsing, his lifeblood soaking the dirt.
Leon moved through the chaos, his lasgun barking between swings of his chainsword. A bandit lunged, only to be met with a bolt of energy to the skull, his face reduced to charred ruin. Another tried to raise his weapon, but Leon's chainsword took his arm off at the elbow before biting deep into his chest, silencing his screams in a fountain of crimson.
Varn continued his deadly work, every shot finding its mark. Merah kept close, ensuring none of their own fell.
Minutes passed, though it felt like an eternity. When the last bandit fell, choking on his own blood, silence reclaimed the ruins.
Leon wiped his chainsword clean on a dead man's tunic, scanning the carnage. The camp was theirs.
The others began searching for supplies, checking the makeshift cages where prisoners were held. Among the captives were civilians—emaciated, beaten, but alive. Leon met their eyes, nodding once.
"You're safe now. The Emperor protects."
They would return to Camp Varkas by nightfall, another victory won. But in the grim darkness of the far future, there were always more battles to fight.