The concentrated fire of a dozen auto-rifles wasn't enough to pin down a maniac in heavy steel plating. Tanking the hail of bullets, Slater charged right into their formation and swung his chainaxe in a vicious horizontal arc.
The survivors tried to run, but Slater was way too fast. The chainaxe hacked left and right, throwing strings of gore into the air with every swing. In less than thirty seconds, every single one of those gunmen had been reduced to cold meat on the ground.
Slater stopped in his tracks.
All around him, blood pooled and mixed with the filthy, stagnant water. Off in the distance stood a dense, shadowy crowd. They gripped their weapons with eyes full of fear, rage, and madness, but not a single one entertained the thought of running.
In an Underhiver's dictionary, running and dying were synonymous. Since they were dead either way, they might as well go out swinging.
Slater raised his head.
By now, his eyes had turned completely crimson. It wasn't a color that belonged in human eyes. It was as if something ancient, primal, and utterly insane was gazing out at the world.
He felt an unprecedented surge of power coursing through his veins. That power came from every drop of blood spattered across his armor, from every life he had reaped, and from the fire of madness burning hotter and hotter in his chest.
He had no idea if this actually counted as Khorne's blessing. He didn't even know if Khorne was real.
But he did know one thing: this felt so fucking good.
Slater threw his arms wide and tilted his head back. His lips parted, spitting out that ancient, bloody prayer...
"Blood for the Blood God..."
He took a step forward.
"Skulls for the Skull Throne..."
He hoisted the chainaxe high into the air.
"Blood for the Blood God..."
Pushing off the ground with explosive force, he launched himself into the crowd like a cannonball.
"Skulls for the Skull Throne!!!"
His axe blade came crashing down, sending a geyser of blood into the air.
In Warhammer 40k, Khorne's followers never gave a damn about who their opponents were. They only cared about one thing: making the blood flow in the Blood God's name, earning honor and courage through endless war.
This wasn't exactly his original intention. Slater never considered himself a "Khornate cultist," and he sure as hell wasn't interested in being some Chaos God's lapdog. But the sacrificial methods he'd snagged from the Chaos players over in the Emperor's Children fleet spelled it out for him.
If you wanted real power, this was what you had to scream.
The louder you yelled, the harder you butchered, the stronger the power became.
As for what the words actually meant? Not his fucking problem.
It wasn't like he was actually clocking in for a shift at the Blood God's factory. He was just borrowing His power to make the killing spree more satisfying. What kind of power it was didn't matter to him; as long as he could use it, he didn't care. Even as a Chaos faction player, you could tell him to drop to his knees and shout "Long live the Four-Armed Emperor!" and he'd do it.
Because all he wanted was power. All he wanted was the ultimate, unfiltered adrenaline rush.
Slater swung his chainaxe, reaping life after life from the mob.
Wherever the blade passed, blood sprayed in the name of Khorne. This was his version of a ritual. No red tape, no hypocritical prayers. Just pure, unadulterated slaughter and the most direct kind of sacrifice.
Because Khorne despised the weak, just as He despised cowards who refused to face their enemies head-on. And right now, Slater was going toe-to-toe with enemies outnumbering him ten to one, offering up skulls in the most savage way possible to a Blood God he hadn't even bothered to respect.
He was starting to get why those psychos chanted this line every day.
It wasn't out of pure faith. It was because screaming it at the top of your lungs just felt so damn good.
He completely stopped caring whether the people he was hacking apart were the elderly, women, kids, or grown men. He didn't care if they had families to feed. He didn't care about their dying wails or their curses.
In this shithole of a world, in this cannibalistic Underhive, what was the conviction of the weak even worth?
Only the strong had the right to make the rules.
Only the strong got to enjoy the game.
And since he, Slater, was in this world... Since he had a shot at controlling his own destiny, he was going to be the strong one.
Screw the Emperor, screw the Four Gods, screw the Primarchs and the Astartes.
Fuck it we ball, bring on the smoke. The Emperor could shine his fucking boots for all he cared. He was going to hack and slash until the end of time, right up until he deleted his account and uninstalled.
He was going to make this godforsaken galaxy burn for him just this once.
[System Prompt: You have completed a sacrifice.]
[Khorne's Attention: Faint]
[Current Points: 347]
Slater ignored the system notifications. He just kept swinging his chainaxe, carving through the resisting ants in front of him. Behind him, rivers of blood formed in his wake. He wore a smile that could make countless worlds tremble.
--
Meanwhile, in a place beyond mortal sight, deep within the Warp, inside a domain forged of brass and skulls.
A pair of eyes narrowed slightly.
His gaze pierced through the endless void, landing on the planet known as Istark II. It fell upon the ruins currently being dyed red. It locked onto the figure lost in a frenzy of slaughter.
The corners of His mouth slowly curled into a smile.
It was a smile that could make countless worlds tremble. The smile held satisfaction, but also a certain kind of... anticipation.
"Continue your glorious war," His whisper echoed across the Brass Throne, sounding like the reverberations of an ancient battlefield.
"The more blood you offer, the richer My blessings shall be."
"Until the very end..."
"I shall grant you endless glory and courage."
--
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