War-Born
"Today is a good day to die."
Sergeant Milus Iustitus of the 2nd Chapter of the XIIIth Legion had uttered this phrase for nearly a century, a ritualistic mantra before every battle. A century of relentless warfare, waged across countless blood-soaked worlds, had honed him into a warrior of grim resolve. Yet, as the years passed, Milus couldn't help but wonder if each battle would be his last.
Milus embraced this mindset, though he was neither a fatalist nor one who sought death. He merely accepted the inevitability of it. And when his time did come, he intended to face it with the dignity befitting one of the War-Born, even if that once-proud title would eventually fade into obscurity. Why not find some solace in its certainty?
His journey had been a long one. Born in the unforgiving Caucasus Wastes, the son of a soldier and a whore, Milus had been destined for a short and brutal life. The cannibal clans that roamed the wasteland claimed many, and he might have been their next meal if not for his strength and tenacity. The ancient spirits of the wastes seemed to have other plans for him, guiding him to the Emperor's armies.
Milus became more than a mere survivor; he became an Astartes.
As a Space Marine, he was thrust into the heart of the fiercest battles, far from Terra. He and his brothers were forged in the fires of the Luna Pacification, the first true engagement of the Great Crusade. From there, he fought through the brutal Sedna Campaign, witnessing the destruction of the "False Moon." Thirty years later, he was embroiled in the Osiris Rebellion, a campaign that teetered on the brink of disaster.
Throughout these wars, Milus had witnessed countless deaths and countless victories. He had earned his rank through steadfast service and unwavering commitment. Yet, despite his accomplishments, he knew he had never truly stood out among his peers. When their Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, was found, Milus did not expect much to change. He had been wrong.
Guilliman sought to transform the XIIIth Legion, molding a legion of savage warriors into paragons of leadership and strategy, champions of war and empire. Where Milus once saw only the glory and virtue of battle, Guilliman showed him the power of discipline, order, and foresight. But Milus struggled to see the point. He was a product of a savage world and a savage time—a relic of the past.
But there was no shame in such thoughts. Milus understood that all those who once called themselves the War-Born would eventually fall, their names replaced by new legends. Was that wrong? He didn't think so. He had been born in a drug den, an existence steeped in squalor and brutality, yet now he fought alongside beings who were revered as gods. For all the pain and horror he had endured, Milus Iustitus had risen above the countless souls who had perished on Terra before him.
All relics, no matter how revered, were eventually replaced, lost, or destroyed. What truly mattered was how their stories endured, carried forward by those who followed. His weapon, Exemplar's Honor, embodied this philosophy. An ancient Volkite Charger, its origins could be traced back to a time when the clans of the Caucasus Wastes still remembered Terra as green. It had passed from petty warlords to wasteland champions before finding its way into Milus' hands.
Exemplar's Honor had already claimed many lives long before Sergeant Iustitus wielded it. He had discovered the relic with the help of Tech-Priestess Suzi K'apt, whom he had saved during the First Pacification of Luna. In gratitude, Suzi had restored the weapon, breathing new life into its ancient mechanisms.
Suzi had told him that the machine spirit within Exemplar's Honor had likely seen a thousand battles. It was a venerable tool of war, worthy of a rising champion—or perhaps one whose journey was nearing its end. Yet Milus never saw himself as either. The weapon seemed to pulse with power, even when logic dictated it should be spent. When all seemed lost in the heat of battle, Exemplar's Honor always had just enough energy to deliver a final, decisive blow.
This mysterious resilience made Milus wonder whether the machine spirit was simply trying to survive or had a greater purpose in mind for him. He never delved too deeply into whether a gun could possess agency, but the thought lingered.
Milus believed that all things, whether man or machine, had a measure of free will and destiny. Not a grand fate destined for greatness, but a specific time and place where they would fulfill their duty. And when that duty ended, it would be in death—because only in death does duty end.
He knew it would be a good day when that moment came for him.
War had come once again. The Ultramarines, steadfast as ever, turned their gaze upon a formidable new enemy. The Tixburi Consolidation had committed an unforgivable crime, shattering sacred oaths by attacking a diplomat under the banner of protection, slaughtering Astartes, and then arrogantly accusing one of their captains of a crime he had not committed.
The Primarch was incensed, as were his sons, brothers, and virtually every other soul—human or otherwise—within the Gaunzi Nebula. The Consolidation had already begun its assaults on any who crossed its path. The reasons for this war no longer mattered, only its swift and decisive end.
Guilliman had summoned every resource for this campaign, even extending desperate offers to the unlikeliest of allies. The Eldar, renegade forces commanded by the Archtraitor, unaligned human factions, and even xenos had been approached. Outrageous wasn't the half of it; whispers of treason echoed through the ranks.
Yet Milus and his squad remained unfazed. If anything, he found the situation amusing. Their Primarch, so famously bound by rules and order, was now teetering on the edge of scandal, willing to risk his legacy to achieve victory.
Milus respected that resolve. In the early days of the Great Crusade, when the fate of Sol was still uncertain, commanders and soldiers alike had been prepared to do whatever it took to win. He had witnessed entire companies of Astartes perish to the last warrior, regiments obliterated in their trenches, and the burning wrecks of ships littering the void—all in the name of ending the Long Night.
It took true courage to win a war in this brutal galaxy. So be it if Guilliman needed to ally with traitors, aliens, or anyone else. Those who criticized him were the same cowards who hesitated when it came time to sacrifice. They were timid souls, destined to follow the lead of those with greater willpower and resolve.
And so, when the Primarch finally declared the full-scale invasion of the Consolidation's homeworld, Tixburi, the XIIIth Legion, prepared to descend into the fires of war once more. Of course, as always, complications were inevitable.
The Tixburi Consolidation's defenses were formidable. Their orbital weapons, advanced sensors, and dense minefields would make any direct assault grueling, even for the vast coalition fleet. The greatest obstacle, however, was the Tixburi star fortress—codenamed the Basilica. This massive structure dominated the planet's orbit, bristling with enough firepower to repel even the most determined attack.
A frontal assault on the Basilica seemed suicidal if not for a critical flaw in its defenses. Through shrewd intelligence—possibly from those elusive Aeldari—the Primarch had learned that the Basilica's point defense systems were severely limited. This left it vulnerable to concentrated fighter and bomber attacks. However, reaching the fortress was challenging; approaching squadrons would be intercepted and destroyed long before they could strike.
But Guilliman had devised a bold strategy. The fleet possessed the range to launch a massive torpedo barrage towards the Basilica. Though most of these missiles would inevitably be intercepted by the fortress' defenses, there was a crucial opportunity amidst the chaos. Hidden among the tens of thousands of torpedoes would be several hundred boarding torpedoes, each carrying squads of Space Marines.
Even if 90% of the first wave were obliterated, the survivors would be enough. The few boarding torpedoes that breached the Basilica's outer hull would deliver their deadly cargo—hundreds of Ultramarines storming the gun decks. Once the defenders were engaged, it would create a critical opening for the Imperium's transport craft and bomber wings to launch a full-scale assault on the star fortress.
Guilliman called for volunteers from among the coalition Astartes, and predictably, many stepped forward, eager to be part of the first strike and to earn glory in the campaign's opening battle. Among them were Milus and his squad, the Red Tusks, who were particularly keen to join the initial assault.
The decision required little deliberation. The Red Tusks were a small but elite unit whose accomplishments often went unrecognized, largely due to their unorthodox tactics. But in this war, unorthodox thinking might be the key to survival—if not victory.
Most would have balked at the idea of participating in what was, by all appearances, an unpredictable and near-suicidal mission. Surviving the journey through the void to the Basilica was a daunting challenge on its own. Reaching the fortress, facing a fortress teeming with millions of soldiers, seemed like a death sentence.
But Milus and his fellow War-Born had endured far worse. If this was to be his final battlefield, so be it. Compared to the horrors he had faced during the war for Sol and other distant campaigns, the Tixburi were a far less terrifying foe. After all, they were still just humans.
And Milus, with grim certainty, knew many ways to kill humans.
Somewhere in the darkness of the void…
They were crammed into a metal tomb, far too small for the Red Tusks' liking. Not that it mattered much. There was just enough room for their ammo and weapons, which was all that counted. The rest of the torpedo had been packed with extra fuel, giving it the necessary thrust to punch through the Basilica's defenses and deliver them—wherever they "landed."
"Damn it all," Gerra Delitor grumbled over the vox, the only way to communicate in the deafening roar of the launch. "I knew I forgot something. Didn't pack a backup power generator for my maul." He gestured to The Thunder's Roar in his grip.
"You're going to get yourself killed one day because of that," Perderus Skelum muttered, half-joking. "You've got a terrible memory, Gerra." Yet even as he spoke, Milus saw Perderus double-checking his own gear, fingers instinctively wrapping around Shadow's Edge, his custom power blade.
"Maleus," Milus called out over the vox. "Did you forget anything?"
The demolitions expert, Maleus Cadere, shook his head. "No." He was a man of few words, only speaking when necessary—a curious trait for someone who specialized in making things explode.
"Got everything, then?"
"Yes."
Milus nodded, satisfied. He turned his gaze to Ramic Leon, the squad's sniper and part-time techmarine, who was hunched over the torpedo's only cogitator. "How much longer, Ramic?"
"Soon," Ramic replied cryptically. "Assuming we don't get atomized mid-flight or veer off course."
Gerra snorted in disapproval. "Why the hell are we assaulting this station like this? I thought our gene-sire and his brothers were supposed to be clever."
"This is clever," Perderus countered dryly. "It's just not safe."
Milus couldn't help but smirk beneath his helmet. "What's this, Gerra? Don't tell me you're nervous?"
"I'm not nervous. I just don't like the idea of dying in the void." Gerra tried to raise his power maul to emphasize his point but found insufficient space. "I'll die with The Roar in my hands."
"Keep thinking positive," Ramic remarked, eyes still on the cogitator. "Good thoughts into the universe and all that."
"Hmm," Maleus chimed in with a low rumble of agreement. "No fear." He hefted The Breaker, his siege tool of choice, and stood ready. "We'll win."
Gerra clapped Maleus on the right pauldron, a rare gesture of camaraderie. "You always know how to give us a speech, Maleus."
"Ehh."
Milus felt the ghost of a smile tug at his lips. In these brief, private moments, the brotherhood of the Red Tusks shone through. They had once been more numerous, but one by one, they had fallen, leaving only the five of them. They had been through much already, and Milus believed they would go through a few more before dying.
"Sergeant," Ramic's voice crackled over the vox. "We're about to reach the Basilica. The ruse worked—I'm picking up signals from a few hundred other boarding torpedoes alongside ours."
"Good," Milus replied, his tone calm but satisfied. The plan had succeeded, and soon, they would link up with other squads to press for larger objectives. "Our immediate task is to neutralize gun ports before the Tixburians regroup and counterattack. We need to move fast and hit hard."
The Red Tusks' mission was straightforward—search and destroy, just like countless times before. But Milus couldn't shake a nagging feeling that gnawed at the back of his mind. Operations of this scale always spiraled out of control. Something was bound to go wrong.
"What do you think our odds are, Sergeant?" Perderus asked casually. "These Tixburians aren't just pushovers. Their tech and weapons are nothing to scoff at."
"Tch," Gerra snorted. "We've crushed plenty of enemies who boasted about their advanced tech. Those warp-spawned freaks were the only ones who ever gave us real trouble."
"Careful," Maleus cautioned. "Complacency kills."
"Consolidation forces are disciplined, too," Ramic added. "They won't break and run just because we show up."
"Then make sure none of them live to run," Milus ordered, his voice firm. "No prisoners. The only mercy we offer is the swift death of bolt and blade."
Suddenly, the torpedo lurched as the auxiliary engines engaged, accelerating them toward their target. "Fleet command just sent word," Ramic said. "The First of Iron is making their attack run."
Gerra groaned in frustration. "Of course they are. It's not enough that they always want to be first on the ground—they have to try and take the Basilica for themselves. Glory hounds, the lot of them."
"Wolf," Maleus muttered almost absently. "A recurring theme."
The other four stared at Maleus for a moment before chuckling in unison. "War Hounds, Luna Wolves, Space Wolves... you'd think by now someone would've picked a name after a dragon or something," Perderus quipped.
"Salamanders," Maleus replied, deadpan.
Perderus tilted his helmet toward him. "Those aren't dragons."
"Close enough."
Ramic glanced away from the cogitator for a moment. "When did you get so pedantic, Maleus?"
"Always have been," Maleus replied, his tone as steady as ever. The squad broke into laughter, the tension that had been lingering in the cramped torpedo dissipating. The call to battle was close now—a feeling they all knew too well. The waiting was the worst part, but it would be over soon enough.
Minutes ticked in silence before Milus finally spoke, "Time to arrival?"
"Two, maybe three minutes," Ramic answered, double-checking his gear. "We're on course for a breach."
Milus closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he centered himself. "It's a good day to die."
"Let's make sure we take a few hundred of these bastards with us," Perderus growled. "For Captain Tavrin and all the others."
"Agreed," Maleus rumbled, a dark resolve in his voice.
"Save your resolve for the fight ahead," Milus ordered, his voice steady over the vox. "This will be the first of many battles to come. I feel it in my bones."
The torpedo's engines roared as the last fuel was spent, giving it a final burst of speed. Milus could hear the hum of the melta cutters at the front, preparing to carve through the Basilica's hull.
With any luck, they would breach a solid deck and land amidst the enemy, making their arrival a deadly surprise. If the fates willed it, a dozen or more Tixburi soldiers would be dead the moment they hit the ground.
The cogitator flickered with rapid data streams, and the squad's displays projected their approach at terrifying speed. Milus felt the familiar shift in gravity as the torpedo entered its final descent, the artificial pull of the star fortress beginning to tug at them. A sharp jolt rattled through the hull as the torpedo's hardened prow collided with the first layer of the Basilica's void shields, a brief resistance before shattering under the torpedo's relentless momentum.
"Brace!" Milus barked over the vox, and he and his brothers locked into position, muscles tensing as the moment of impact neared.
The melta cutters roared to life, their searing heat filling the torpedo with an ominous red glow as they chewed through the Basilica's outer armor. Rated to withstand ship-grade weapons, the fortress' defenses faltered before the torpedo's specialized tools. The torpedo shuddered violently as it slammed into the star fortress, the shriek of metal grinding against metal reverberating through their bones.
And then, it stopped. Silence fell, the sudden stillness jarring after the chaos of the descent. The torpedo had buried itself deep within the Basilica, its prow embedded in some random deck. A groan echoed through the hull as the final layer of metal gave way, and with a heavy lurch, the torpedo ground to a halt.
Red lights flickered on, casting a harsh glow over the squad. Milus glanced at his display—structural integrity was holding, but barely. They had made it by the grace of fate.
"Cutters have done their job," Ramic confirmed, already working to disengage the hatch locks. "We're in."
Milus nodded. "Weapons ready. We hit hard and fast."
With a hiss of depressurization, the torpedo's front hatch blasted open, releasing a rush of air and the chaotic sounds of the chaos beyond. Alarms wailed, and distant shouts in a foreign tongue echoed through the corridors, the voices tinged with panic and resolve; smoke and ash filled the air and distorted everything within a few meters as fires blazed.
The Red Tusks surged forward, emerging into a smoke-filled chamber. Their landing had been precise—they had breached into a storage deck, crates, and supply containers scattered haphazardly across the floor. Tixburi soldiers, caught off guard by the sudden intrusion, froze for a heartbeat, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. It seemed they couldn't comprehend the reality of Astartes standing before them momentarily.
But then Milus saw a shift in their eyes—hardening with grim determination, the gaze of veterans who had seen death and were not afraid to face it again. Instantly, they reached for their weapons, their training or mental conditioning overriding their fear.
"Clear the deck!" Milus commanded his voice a thunderous roar as he raised Exemplar's Honor. The Volkite Charger hummed with deadly energy, seemingly aware that the battle had begun. Milus squeezed the trigger, and a beam of incandescent energy sliced through the air, vaporizing one of the soldiers in a flash of searing heat. His dying scream echoed through the chamber, adding to the cacophony.
Pandemonium erupted.
Gerra's Thunder's Roar crackled as he swung it down with brutal force, the power maul crashing into an enemy trooper's chest. The impact sent the man flying into a bulkhead with a sickening crunch, his body crumpling to the floor. Perderus moved like a wraith, his power blade Shadow's Edge flashing as he cut down two Tixburians who had attempted to flank Milus, their blood spraying across the cold metal floor.
Maleus, the demolitions expert, brought his siege tool, the Breaker, down onto a group of soldiers, the heavy weapon smashing through their bodies with merciless precision. Ramic, hanging back to provide covering fire, picked off any remaining stragglers with sharp, precise bolt shots. The battle was swift, brutal, and efficient—a testament to the Red Tusks' prowess.
But these Tixburians fought with a ferocity that surprised even the seasoned Astartes. They weren't reckless, but many seemed prepared to sacrifice themselves if it meant giving their comrades a better chance to land a killing blow on the Space Marines. They fought like cornered beasts, desperate and deadly.
Still, the deck soon belonged to the Red Tusks. The bodies of Tixburi soldiers lay strewn across the floor, their blood pooling beneath the harsh lighting. Milus surveyed the room, his helmet filters working to clear the haze of smoke and dust.
"First breach successful," he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Form up. We need to move deeper before reinforcements arrive."
The Red Tusks gathered at the exit, weapons at the ready, their expressions grim but resolute as the battle for the Basilica had only begun.
Milus expected Tixburian resistance within moments of their arrival, and his instincts proved correct. As the Red Tusks emerged from the warehouse-like facility where their torpedo had embedded itself, they encountered a squad of a dozen Tixburian soldiers. These weren't mere conscripts—they wore light power armor, sleek and reinforced, and wielded a mix of plasma rifles and E-Chem guns that crackled with volatile energy. Their gear was formidable, the kind of firepower that could decimate a platoon of regular troops.
But the Red Tusks weren't regular troops. They weren't even regular Space Marines.
Gerra wasted no time. With a roar from his jump pack, he launched himself down the corridor toward these Txburians, the wide and tall passage perfectly suited for his assault. The sudden aerial charge caught them off guard, but again, to their credit, they recovered quickly. Three lead soldiers drew power blades even as Gerra descended upon them, their shimmering edges sparking to life as they prepared to meet the Astartes in close combat.
They never got the chance to try their luck.
A bolt shell from Ramic's precise aim punched through the visor of one soldier, dropping him instantly. Milus followed up with Exemplar's Honor, its energy beam carving through the air into another target, reducing him to smoldering ash in seconds, while the third trooper had his power-armored head caved in by Gerra's maul. The remaining troops opened fire, filling the air with ozone and the taste of scorched metal.
Perderus, ever the opportunist, tossed a smoke grenade into the fray. The hallway filled with a thick, choking fog, obscuring vision and throwing the Tixburians into disarray. With a predator's grace, he slipped into the melee, his power blade flashing in the darkness as he struck with lethal precision.
Amidst the chaos, Maleus remained focused on their objective. He hadn't joined the battle, instead analyzing their surroundings. The star fortress' security systems had kicked in, and heavy doors slammed shut around them, cutting off potential escape routes. But where others saw a dead end, Maleus saw an opportunity. With the Breaker in hand, he approached one of the sealed doors.
The heavy siege tool whirred to life, its destructive power focused on creating a new path. Sparks flew as they tore through the reinforced metal, carving out an exit while his brothers occupied the Tixburians.
Gerra's maul crackled as he brought it down on another soldier, the impact sending shockwaves through the air that would have stunned any other man, but again, the Tixburians seemed to have been born of stronger stock and soldiered on. Milus saw one of the doors open, and another team of soldiers arrived, to which he aimed Exemplar's Honor toward and decimated a soldier carrying a meltagun.
Finally, with a screech of tearing metal, Maleus finished his work. Where the security barrier once blocked their path, a new "door" now stood. "Exit's ready!" he called out over the vox.
Milus glanced at the bodies of the fallen Tixburians and those filtering into the corridor. "Move out!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the smoke and chaos over vox as they exited violently.
The Red Tusks regrouped and swiftly moved through the makeshift exit, leaving behind the wreckage of their first skirmish. The fortress' alarms blared louder, and Milus knew this was only the beginning. The real challenge lay ahead.
Several hours later…
The Basilica was a paradox of design. It had all the hallmarks of what one might have found within Imperial stations but was simultaneously different in almost every aspect. There was far too much lighting and open spaces, but then you'd come across corridors and rooms specifically prepared to act as kill zones.
Milus had to applaud the Tixburians. This siege would have been difficult had they had more time to set up their defense. Instead, it was clearly undermanned, allowing the Red Tusks to move mostly unimpeded through the sprawling, maze-like behemoth that was Basilica.
Even so, it was a difficult and lengthy process. The squad objective, a macrocannon battery designated as Objective Primaris, was buried somewhat deep within the star fortress' superstructure, and reaching it had proven more difficult than anticipated.
Since their arrival, three hours of brutal, relentless combat had followed. The Red Tusks had fought through countless security checkpoints, often nothing more than hastily made barricades or sentry positions, and engaged in multiple firefights, their armor scorched and battered from the repeated engagements.
Every Tixburian they faced fought with the grim resolve of someone who knew there was no escape. Surrender wasn't an option—it was death or victory. The Red Tusks were almost starting to respect this dogged determination.
Still, the Red Tusks kept focus. Ramic had breached a few data terminals, giving them a better idea of their location near their objective. Sometimes, it had been faster or easier to let Maleus use the Breaker to make a new entrance or exit. Considering Tixburian patrols hounded them at every turn, each encounter was more desperate than the last, so it was the more tactically sound option.
As the battle for the Basilica, the Red Tusks had crossed paths with several other Astartes units, all making their way toward their targets in the fortress. Most of these encounters were brief—exchanging quick words or tactical data before moving on. Yet, not all of their brothers had been so fortunate.
More than once, the Red Tusks stumbled upon the bodies of fallen Astartes, more often having become a victim to a well-placed plasma blast or high-velocity round to the helmet. It heartened the Red Tusk to see that every one of their dead brothers had been surrounded by the remains of the Tixburians they had taken down with them.
For every dead Astartes, there were dozens of Tixburian corpses scattered around—workers, armsmen, and a few soldiers. The sight weighed heavily on Milus, not because of the loss of his fellow warriors—they had long accepted death as part of their duty—but because of what it indicated about the enemy's resolve.
The Tixburians were fighting with a fanatical resolve, unwilling to surrender or retreat. These bastards threw themselves at the Astartes, not with a lack of self-preservation, although they certainly did not fear death, but rather because they were simply trying to buy time or hinder them for their more capable comrades to eventually remove the invaders. It was a stark contrast to many other human foes they had faced, who at least had the sense to retreat when overwhelmed.
"This isn't just defense," Milus muttered as they passed yet another corridor littered with bodies, all of whom had died with weapons in hand. "It's a last stand." These Tixburians could have easily retreated, but they stood their ground.
Perderus, always attuned to his sergeant's moods, caught the remark. "They're dying to protect something. Or someone. Perhaps a leader or something of value deeper inside the fortress."
"Or they're just fanatics," Ramic added darkly, scanning the area ahead with his auspex. "The Black Brigades are no different."
Milus shook his head, "No, they weren't defending anyone or anything important. They were doing their duty."
"Admirable." Maleus remarked, "But worthless."
"Doesn't matter why they did it," Gerra growled, hefting his power maul. "If they stand and fight, we don't have to track them down."
"Stay focused," Milus ordered, his voice sharp with authority. "We're closing in on Objective Primaris. That macrocannon battery must be neutralized before it can target our fleet."
The Red Tusks pressed forward without a word, their discipline unshakable. Yet Milus's mind churned with thoughts of the battle so far. The Primarch had warned them that the Tixburians were different—psychologically, they weren't like other humans. He had seen it in their eyes during every encounter: a shift from fear and panic to an unnerving, fanatical resolve. These weren't just soldiers or armsmen. Even the workers, those untrained in the arts of war, had faced the Astartes with a calmness that defied logic. They fought and died with the same grim determination, laying down their lives for reasons Milus could only guess at.
This war was different. It wasn't like the campaigns the Ultramarines had fought before, nor even the brutal battles the War-Born had faced. Milus couldn't help but compare the eerie encounters on the Nomad World or the Ritual War. But this was worse—an entire population that seemed to know no fear of death, armed with technology rivaling Mars.
The realization settled heavily on him. The Tixburians weren't just defending their fortress—they were fighting with a purpose that transcended survival. They weren't just up against soldiers; they were fighting a belief system that made these people unyielding in their resistance.
Milus tightened his grip on Exemplar's Honor. Whatever the Tixburians believed, it wouldn't be enough to stop the Imperium. He had seen monsters and those who called themselves gods eventually die at their hands. The Consolidation would be no different.
"No mercy, brothers," he murmured, half to himself, half as a reminder to the others. "We fight until the job is done."
The Red Tusks pressed on, navigating the maze-like corridors with brutal efficiency. Every corner turned could lead to another skirmish, and they moved with weapons raised and ready. The sounds of distant gunfire echoed through the halls, a constant reminder that the battle for the Basilica raged around them.
After an eternity of constant fighting, they finally reached the outskirts of the macrocannon battery's location. The massive weapon loomed ahead, a hulking piece of machinery built into the very structure of the fortress. Its barrels extended outward, ready to unleash devastation upon the Imperial fleet if left unchecked.
Milus signaled for his squad to halt. "We've made it. Objective Primaris is within sight."
Surveying the area, they quickly took cover behind large metal crates. The battery was heavily guarded by Tixburian soldiers—more than they had encountered in any previous engagement. These troops were different, though. They wore heavier armor, their weapons more advanced, and their positions were fortified with barricades and auto-turrets.
"Looks like they know how important this position is," Perderus remarked, his voice low. "They're dug in."
"Good," Milus replied, his tone steely. "It means we've hit them where it hurts. We take down that battery, and we cripple their ability to strike back at our fleet."
The Red Tusks readied their weapons, steeling themselves for the final push. The past three hours had been grueling, a relentless battle through the labyrinthine depths of the Basilica, but the mission wasn't over yet. They had come too far to falter now.
"How do we want to play this?" Gerra asked, his eagerness palpable, a fierce light in his eyes.
Maleus, ever the tactician, responded with a single phrase: "Galon IV. The Gem Gate." The memory of that old victory, decades past, brought nods from the others. It was a tried-and-true strategy—one that had broken a fortress once before, and it would do so again.
Milus wasted no time. "Ramic, kill the lights. Perderus, move under cover and get into position. We'll keep them occupied."
Ramic's fingers danced over the cogitator. "Ready," he confirmed, his voice calm as he rerouted power from the control systems, plunging Objective Primaris into darkness.
"On my mark," Milus ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos ahead. "We hit them hard, fast, and don't stop until that battery is under our control. For the Emperor and the Primarch!"
The power flickered out instantly, leaving only the dim glow of emergency lights. The Red Tusks moved like shadows, creeping forward through the darkness. But their stealth didn't last—within moments, they were spotted. The Tixburians scrambled to react, but it was too late.
Milus was the first to open fire, Exemplar's Honor blazing to life, its beams cutting through the gloom and tearing into the enemy ranks. Ramic, hanging back, covered fire as Gerra and Maleus surged forward, their weapons brutally slashing through the entrenched defenses.
The Tixburians had prepared for an attack, but perhaps not from a single squad of Astartes. Despite their formidable defenses and well-established kill zones, the Red Tusks pressed forward relentlessly. The Tixburians' focus on suppressing fire created a deadly tunnel vision, allowing Perderus to slip through the smoke and shadows unnoticed.
When the Tixburians realized what was happening, it was too late. Perderus was among them, striking with deadly precision. Chaos erupted as explosions and weapons fire tore through their lines, the sudden assault breaking their cohesion. The Red Tusks seized the opportunity, surging forward with the momentum of the storm.
Milus led the charge, his voice cutting through the vox with unwavering resolve. "No hesitation, brothers. Push through and clear the way."
They moved with the precision of seasoned warriors, each Astartes a deadly force unto themselves. Gerra, a whirlwind of destruction, tore through barricades, his Thunder's Roar crushing soldiers beneath its weight. Maleus, ever methodical, blasted through walls and obstacles with his siege tools, creating new paths where the enemy thought they were secure. His demolitions sent shockwaves through the corridors, and the smell of burning metal filled the air as they dismantled the enemy's defenses.
For all their discipline and resolve, the Tixburians were simply outmatched. Their plasma turrets, their power-armored troops, and their tactics could not stand against the sheer force of the Red Tusks. Each clash ended similarly: Tixburian bodies littered the ground, and the Astartes pressed onward, unstoppable.
Yet, despite their progress, Milus knew time was slipping away. Every second spent fighting in these cramped, narrow corridors was lost. But there was no room for hesitation. Every step forward was closer to victory—and they couldn't afford to lose more time.
The final resistance crumbled under their assault, but the Red Tusks could feel the toll it had taken. The air was thick with smoke and ash, the echoes of battle still ringing in their ears. The Tixburians had thrown everything into the defense of this position, but it wasn't enough. Gerra's final, thunderous strike shattered the last barricade, clearing the path to the control chamber.
They stormed the room, weapons raised—but no one was left to oppose them. The Tixburians had been eradicated, their last stand futile against the might of the Astartes.
Within minutes, the Red Tusks had secured the macrocannon battery. The sprawling gun emplacement, now silent and under their control, was theirs—Objective Primaris was neutralized. Milus surveyed the aftermath, feeling a peculiar sense of finality to the battle. It had been a hard-fought victory, but he knew better than to question a win when it was handed to him.
Victory was victory, and there was more to be done.
"Ramic, see if you can tap into their communication networks. We need a clearer picture of what's happening across the Basilica," Milus ordered, his voice firm.
"On it," Ramic replied, moving swiftly to one of the command consoles. The Tixburian systems were eerily efficient. Unlike the Imperium's often clunky and overwrought machinery, the enemy's consoles were streamlined, and the interface was almost intuitive. Clearly, they relied less on the masses of gunners and servitors the Imperium used and more on a tightly organized system of automated control and coordination.
"Maleus, prep the charges. If we're forced to leave, we won't let them retake this position," Milus continued, his tone brooking no argument.
Maleus nodded silently, moving off to lay the explosives with practiced efficiency. He knew the importance of denying the enemy any ground they had gained.
"Gerra, Perderus, secure the area. Sweep for additional entrances, traps, anything that could be a threat," Milus ordered as he moved with them, checking the perimeter.
"Yes, sergeant," came the simultaneous reply as the two Astartes set off on their tasks. The next half hour passed in a blur of methodical, calculated movement as they secured the facility, ensuring it was defensible and ready to be held—or destroyed—if needed.
Then Ramic's voice crackled urgently over the vox. "Sergeant, control over the fortress communication center has been established. Seems the Valorons arrived two hours ago and took it. I'm getting a good look at the situation. Most of our tertiary objectives have been completed, but there's been heavy fighting around the reactor room."
"Then that's where we're headed next!" Gerra's enthusiasm came through loud and clear.
But Ramic quickly interjected. "Hold on, new orders just came through. Several squads have reported encountering a Tixburian unit that's impossible to pin down. They're escorting what appears to be high-value cargo toward the inner sanctum of the Basilica. We've been tasked with intercepting and securing that cargo immediately. A relief force is en route to reinforce our position, and all the necessary tactical information for our mission has been uploaded."
Milus processed the information swiftly, but a lingering unease gnawed at him. He felt it many times before in past battles. Especially whenever they encountered heavy losses, they needed to be careful.
"Then let us make haste, brothers," Milus commanded, his voice steady but resolute. His grip tightened around Exemplar's Honor, the weapon's familiar heft a reassuring presence. Whatever awaited them was inconsequential. Their foes would die, and that was all there was to it.
The Basilica shuddered from some unseen blast. Alerts could be heard over the vox hailers scattered throughout the station. They were now blasting calls to the Tixburians to lay down their weapons and surrender to the Imperium. Judging by the sounds of intense fighting, this was being thoroughly ignored.
None of that mattered to the Red Tusks. They moved with lethal precision through the labyrinthine corridors of the Basilica, guided by Ramic, who was keeping an eye on their approximate location while the others found any landmarks or identification tags. If nothing else, Ramic hacked into one of the local networks and tried to tie the clues together.
A dangerous prospect, given the current state of things on the Star Fort. The Basilica had become a battlefield, with hundreds of skirmishes raging across its decks. Astartes squads clashed with Tixburian elite units, while companies of Imperial Army forces fought pitched battles against entrenched enemy positions. The air was thick with the sounds of war—bolter fire, the shriek of energy weapons, and the thunder of distant explosions.
None of that mattered to the Red Tusks.
Milus led his squad through the chaos, his mind focused on their mission but alert to the broader implications. The Tixburians were putting up fierce resistance, but something about their actions struck him as calculated—deliberate. It felt less like a desperate defense and more like a series of delaying actions as if they were buying time for something critical. The thought gnawed at him as they pressed deeper into the Basilica, the intensity of the battles around them growing with each step.
"Stay sharp, brothers," Milus voxed, his voice cutting through the din. "The enemy is stalling us for a reason. Whatever they're up to, we can't let them succeed."
Ramic, moving just behind Milus, had been monitoring their route, his eyes scanning the data feeds on the auspex/dataslate he had on his right arm. Ramic had spent the better part of two hours leading through a few service tunnels or corridors that were either empty or with little to no defenders.
"Sergeant," Ramic spoke up, "based on the defenses we're encountering, we're nearing the main armory."
Perderus glanced at his brother, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "What makes you say that?"
"Two reasons," Ramic replied. "First, the transport lifts and belts we passed were moving munitions—macrocannon shells, to be exact. That means they're being fed from the central storage, which is located in the main armory."
Perderus nodded, but his curiosity lingered. "And the second reason?"
Ramic hesitated for a brief moment before answering almost sheepishly. "We passed a sign that said 'Alpha Armory Maintenance Tube' about thirty seconds ago."
"Oh," Perderus responded flatly, the realization dawning on him.
Milus rolled his eyes, though his helmet concealed the gesture. "The armory would be a key target," he said, more to refocus the squad than to critique. "If they're moving high-value cargo, it could be weapons—or something even more dangerous to mount a counterattack."
Gerra cut in, his voice low. "One cargo container, right? What sort of weapon fits in there?"
Maleus, his tone grim, answered the question already hanging in the air. "A bomb."
The weight of that possibility settled over the Red Tusks like a storm cloud. Milus clenched his jaw, the realization hitting hard. "Whoresons are planning to blow the Basilica." It made sense—the brutal, fanatical resistance, the willingness to die for a delaying action. If the Tixburians were cornered, they might take everyone with them.
"We need to pick up the pace," Milus ordered, and the others echoed their agreement over the vox. The urgency in his voice fueled their movements as they pressed deeper into the Basilica. The corridors narrowed, and the dim lighting only heightened the sense of impending danger, as if the fortress itself was closing in around them.
When they reached a massive set of blast doors, the squad halted. The absence of Tixburian soldiers was almost more unsettling than their presence. Ramic immediately moved to the control panel, his fingers dancing over the keys as he searched for a way to breach the defenses. The others spread out, securing the perimeter and readying themselves for whatever was on the other side.
"Ramic," Milus said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "Get us in."
"I'm on it, sergeant," Ramic replied, his focus unshakable. "This won't be easy, but I can break through."
Milus gave a brief nod, scanning his surroundings before addressing the squad. "This unit we're tracking—Imperial command warned us they're elusive. They favor stealth and mobility, like the Raven Guard. When we engage, we need to corner them quickly."
Gerra grunted in response. "Easier said than done. Ever try to pin Perderus in a battle? Slippery bastard, this one."
Perderus chuckled, his tone light despite the gravity of their situation. "Maybe you're just slow and clumsy, brother."
Maleus, ever serious, cut through the banter with a warning. "Watch your fire. Might hit bomb."
The tension thickened as Ramic continued to work on the blast door, the air heavy with anticipation. The Tixburians knew they were coming and were ready to fight to the last man. But Milus was equally resolute. They had faced impossible odds before, and they would face them again. Victory was within reach—if they could act quickly enough.
The blast doors groaned open, and the Red Tusks stepped cautiously into the main armory, their senses primed for danger. The silence was thick and oppressive, yet the armory was alive with activity. Automated machines clanked and whirred, methodically loading and transporting munitions, oblivious to the carnage unfolding across the Basilica. Conveyor belts hummed with energy, tirelessly feeding shells and ammunition to the war effort. But despite the constant motion, the absence of Tixburian soldiers felt like a gaping void.
Milus signaled for the squad to spread out, his voice a low murmur over the vox. "Stay sharp, brothers. You don't need decades of battle to know this isn't right."
The main armory was colossal, with enough space to fit a Warhound scout-titan and still have room to spare. Stacks of ammo crates and logistical supplies lined the walls, a treasure trove that could resupply entire regiments. But the vastness only added to the unease, the emptiness amplifying every footfall.
As they ventured deeper, Ramic's auspex emitted a sudden, insistent ping. "Sergeant," he called out, tension sharpening his tone. "I'm picking up a radiological signature. It's strong. The Tixburians might've planted an atomic charge."
Milus's mind raced. An atomic blast would reduce the entire Basilica—and everyone in it—to ash. He muttered a curse under his breath. "We need to find that crate. Ramic, can you lock down the source?"
"Trying, but it's faint—probably shielded," Ramic replied, his fingers working furiously over the auspex. "There's a lot of interference here too. We might have to rely on visual confirmation."
Milus didn't like it—none of it. As they pressed on, the unsettling sensation of being watched crept over him, growing stronger with every step. His grip on Exemplar's Honor tightened. The Tixburians hadn't just planted the bomb; they were still here, waiting.
Suddenly, Exemplar's Honor began to hum, its mysterious power cells charging with an ominous thrum. Milus's instincts flared. "Ambush!" he barked over the vox, diving for cover as the first shots rang out.
The Red Tusks reacted with transhuman reflexes, moving faster than any mortal could follow. They found shelter behind the armory's machinery and storage crates, the only available cover large enough to shield even a Space Marine. But the cover was fragile—whatever weapons the Tixburians wielded left smoldering, fist-sized holes in the crates, a grim reminder that even Astartes weren't invincible against such firepower.
Milus strained to locate their attackers, but the interference Ramic had warned about now clouded his sensors entirely. He had to rely on his enhanced vision. Then he saw them—shimmering figures moving through the armory, their forms cloaked in power armor that distorted light like a mirage. Enhanced Cameleoline? No, this looked more advanced—more alien, like something out of the Eldar's arsenal.
"50 meters out! Switch to full-spectrum scan and engage!" Milus commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. He opened fire, and Exemplar's Honor unleashed searing thermal rays. But even at impossible speeds, the shimmering field around the Tixburians made it maddeningly difficult to tell if his shots hit their mark. His brothers unleashed their own barrage—bolters, plasma, and explosives, filling the armory with a deafening roar.
Yet the Tixburians were fast, their movements fluid and precise. They darted from cover to cover, their shimmering forms blending seamlessly with the environment. It was as if they were fighting shadows. But the Red Tusks were no strangers to such challenges. Gerra and Perderus flanked the attackers with lethal efficiency while Maleus began setting demolition charges, sealing off potential escape routes.
"Focus fire!" Milus shouted, his voice a beacon of command amidst the tumult. "Overwhelm their cloaks!"
Ramic, still working to locate the bomb, fired off a few shots of his own, his data feed streaming across the squad's HUDs. "I'm tracking the radiological signal—it's deeper inside, but we must clear these bastards first!"
Milus clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of time pressing down on them. They couldn't afford to get bogged down in this ambush—not with an atomic threat looming. He raised Exemplar's Honor high, its glow intensifying. "No mercy, brothers!" he roared. "Break them! Show them the fury of a hundred years of service! Ave Imperator!"
The battle was joined as the Red Tusks surged forward.
What made the War-Born so deadly wasn't just their ferocity, though they had it in abundance, nor their cunning or strategic brilliance, though both were evident. It was their sheer mental endurance. Battles like these were as much a contest of wills as they were of arms and skill. In engagements that stretched for hours, it wasn't the first strike that decided the outcome but the first mistake—small, almost imperceptible errors that could shift the tide of battle.
The Tixburians learned this the hard way during the brutal ten-hour engagement. Both sides had been locked in a grueling fight where patience and precision dictated survival. The armory's vast and cluttered terrain provided countless opportunities for ambush, and the Tixburians exploited everyone. They forced the Astartes into long-range skirmishes, nullifying the Space Marines' superior physiology.
The first six hours were agonizingly slow. It was a deadly dance of positioning and suppressive fire, with each side waiting for the other to falter. The War-Born, however, were unyielding.
Milus led his squad with relentless discipline, refusing to let the pressure break their cohesion or force them into a dangerous position. They had to stand firm and resolute. The threat of the atomic charge loomed large, but Milus knew they'd have already set it off unless the Tixburians had a trigger ready. He focused on maintaining the squad's composure, waiting for that inevitable slip from their enemies.
It came suddenly. Ramic, ever vigilant, caught a glimpse of a cloaked Tixburian trooper through a faint reflection. His shot was precise, bouncing off a piece of ceramite and finding its mark in the enemy's skull. That was the turning point—the moment the Tixburians lost their momentum.
From there, the battle shifted. Another hour passed, and another Tixburian fell, caught in a crossfire between Perderus and Gerra. Then Milus claimed another, his attack finding its mark through the shimmering cloak. The Red Tusks, once on the defensive, began to tighten their grip.
Maleus's demolition charges sealed off potential escape routes, forcing the Tixburians to fight on terms they couldn't sustain. They weren't planning on retreating, but now, they had no choice but to face the inevitable. One more last stand on this wretched fortress.
One by one, the Tixburians fell. Ramic claimed another pair, his precision striking true once more. One brave commando attempted to close the distance, charging Maleus with a blade, only to be cleaved in half by the Breaker. As their numbers dwindled, the remaining Tixburians made a desperate final push, hoping to take the Red Tusks down.
It didn't work. The fools didn't realize the Red Tusks had prepared an explosive kill zone for such an instance. While the explosions or shrapnel didn't get the commandos, it forced them out of position.
After ten hours of relentless combat, the final Tixburian fell. The shimmering figure collapsed under the combined fire of the Red Tusks, its armor flickering and failing. The armory fell silent, the only sounds of the automated machines, still dutifully performing their tasks, unaware of the battle that had raged around them.
Milus stood amidst the fallen, surveying the battlefield. His armor was scorched and battered, but he and his brothers had triumphed. The Tixburian threat, at least here, was extinguished.
"Report, Ramic," Milus said, his voice weary but resolute.
Ramic, who had been scanning throughout the battle, finally confirmed what they had all hoped. "Radiological signal confirmed—it's here, but I don't think it's primed. We'll need to neutralize the bomb before we can call this a win."
Finding the bomb proved much easier when a deadly special forces team wasn't actively trying to kill them. The atomic charge lay nestled within a reinforced crate, and Maleus approached it with the calm focus of a seasoned demolitions expert. He examined it briefly, his experienced eyes quickly identifying the key components. With a swift motion, he pulled off the control mechanism and disarmed the device with practiced ease.
"Amateurs," Maleus muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.
Ramic stepped closer, peering at the exposed innards of the warhead. "It's... a jerry-rigged atomic warhead? Why cobble something like this together?" He glanced at Maleus, frowning. "Why wouldn't they have a functioning, military-grade one?"
"That's a question for the higher-ups," Gerra interjected, his voice carrying a note of grim practicality. With a casual confidence that bordered on reckless, he removed his helmet despite the ever-present risk of lingering threats like snipers. The act conveyed his trust in their victory—at least for now.
As the recycled air hit his face, Gerra scowled. "Bah. Recycled air always smells the same—stale and lifeless."
Perderus, unable to resist a jab, removed his helmet and wrinkled his nose at the stench. "You don't think the burning bodies and wrecked machinery behind us might have something to do with it?" he quipped, his tone laced with dry humor. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicion, and he grimaced. "Awful."
Maleus ignored their banter, still focused on the disarmed bomb. "Still dangerous."
Milus joined them, his helmet still in place, his voice authoritative. "Put your helmets back on you two. And we're not here to question why they did it—just that they can't do it again." He turned to Ramic. "See about getting a signal out to command. We're done here."
Ramic nodded, activating his vox. As he relayed the message, the Red Tusks allowed themselves a moment of respite, though none would fully relax until they were off the Basilica and away from the smoldering remnants of battle. There was still so much to do. More enemies to fight.
Milus couldn't shake the thoughts of what awaited them below on Tixburi. These Tixburians had shown they were ready to fight to the death, willing to plant bombs in their own facilities just to deny their enemy the upper hand. If they were this desperate now, what might they resort to on their homeworld? The thought gnawed at him as they prepared to leave the armory.
The atomic charge had been disabled; the enemy could not trigger it now. But securing the main armory, deep behind enemy lines, was a task beyond the Red Tusks. Once the station was taken, the Imperial Army would sweep in to secure and fortify it.
"Sergeant, command wants us to regroup with the rest of the company," Ramic reported, his voice cutting through the silence. "We're making a final push to secure the station. Orders are to seal this armory before we go."
Milus nodded, his gaze lingering on the now-silent armory. "Understood. Let's get it done." He turned to his brothers, his voice carrying the weight of their shared experiences. "Good work, brothers. Another victory to add to our tally."
Gerra snorted with a half-smile, "But who's counting?"
"We are," Maleus replied with a rare touch of pride.
Milus nodded in agreement. "As are the other War-Born." He knew that their kind—those forged in the fires of the earliest moments of the Great Crusade—were becoming fewer with each passing battle. The newer generations of Ultramarines, shaped by different wars and different circumstances, would carry on the legacy. But today was not their day to fall. Today, they had survived, and the thought brought a cold satisfaction.
"It's a good day to die," Milus remarked as they moved out, sealing the armory behind them. "But that doesn't mean we have to."
And with that, the Red Tusks pressed forward, ready for the next battle, the next challenge—whatever the war demanded of them.
---
@Daemon Hunter Another one for the pile.
