Beatdown

The battlefield became a cauldron of chaos, a relentless storm of steel, flesh, and fire. The war cries of the Berserkers mixed with the deafening roar of war engines, the ground shaking beneath the weight of their charge. They came from all directions—blood-mad warriors wielding daemon-bound glaives, howling chainaxes, and crackling power fists, their armor bathed in centuries of slaughter.

The Doom Slayer stood in the eye of the storm. His argent-infused chainaxe purred in his grip, its energy hungry for destruction. His bolt pistol hung at his side—but he needed no gun. His eyes swept the battlefield, analyzing, calculating, hunting.

The Berserkers rushed him in a crimson tide. He launched forward, low and fast, his first strike carving upward in a brutal arc that split the nearest warrior from groin to sternum. The argent energy vaporized the Berserker's blood before it could even spray, but the others were already upon him.

A glaive screeched toward his throat. He ducked under it, stepping into the Berserker's guard and ripping the weapon from his grasp. With a fluid spin, he reversed the grip and slammed the glaive's pommel into the warrior's helmet, shattering the skull inside. Another glaive came from behind—he twisted, caught it mid-swing, and forced it into another Berserker's chest, impaling him.

A war engine screeched toward him, a crude spiked ram mounted at its front, its treads tearing up the corpses of the fallen. The Slayer leapt onto it just before impact, his boots slamming into the metal with a thunderous clang. He drove his axe into the cockpit, tearing the panel apart, exposing the frenzied cultists piloting it. One reached for a sidearm—too slow. The Slayer grabbed him by the collar and yanked him through the ruined cockpit, hurling the screaming heretic into the grinding treads below.

The second pilot pulled a lever—the machine surged forward, straight toward a cluster of Berserkers. Perfect.

The Slayer slammed his fist into the machine's internal fuel lines, tearing them apart. Fire burst forth, swallowing the cultist whole, but the Slayer was already gone, flipping backward off the doomed vehicle as it plowed into the ranks of its own allies, detonating in a storm of flame and shrapnel.

But there was no time to breathe.

A Berserker with a power fist lunged at him, the weapon crackling with unholy energy. The Slayer sidestepped, but the warrior anticipated it, swinging a chainaxe with his other hand. Sparks erupted as the Slayer barely parried with his own axe, the impact jarring the Berserker's bones. He kicked the warrior's knee sideways with brutal precision, shattering the joint. As the Berserker stumbled, the Slayer grabbed him by the wrist, ripped the power fist clean off his arm, and shoved it onto his own.

A bolt pistol barked—a Berserker at range. The Slayer threw his stolen power fist like a missile, the armored gauntlet slamming into the gunner's face and pulping his skull.

Another war engine barreled toward him from behind, this one covered in thick plating, spikes, and a massive rotary cannon that spun to life. The Slayer sprinted toward a broken wreck, using it as a springboard to leap high.

QUAD DAMAGE.

The surge of power filled his body as he flipped through the air. Mid-flight, he reached down, yanked the heavy bolter from a dead Chaos Marine's hands, and landed atop the moving war engine.

Then he unleashed hell.

The heavy bolter, now fueled by Quad Damage, tore through the horde like a god's wrath. Berserkers exploded into mist as the rounds hit them, their armor shattering under the amplified impact. The war engine's own armor proved useless—the Slayer turned the bolter downward and fired into the machine beneath his feet. The rounds ripped through its reinforced plating like parchment, detonating the fuel supply inside.

The explosion hurled him through the air. He twisted mid-flight, landing in the midst of another wave of Berserkers. No bolter. No pistol. Just his axe.

ONSLAUGHT.

The Slayer vanished.

To the Berserkers, it was as if Khorne himself had struck them down. One moment, their weapons swung at open air— the next, their comrades were falling in pieces. The Slayer moved faster than thought, an emerald phantom in the bloodstorm. His axe cut through armor like it wasn't there, severing limbs, torsos, heads in a whirlwind of carnage.

One Berserker brought his glaive down—only to be disarmed, his weapon wrenched from his hands before being driven through his own gut. Another swung a chainsword, but before it even connected, the Slayer was behind him, ripping the weapon from his grip and using it to carve through three more.

War engines screamed, their gunners turning their turrets toward him. He seized a dying Berserker by the belt and hurled him into the lead vehicle's treads. The machine stalled as blood and armor jammed its gears, and the Slayer sprinted up its stalled hull, using it as a ramp to launch himself toward the next. He landed atop it, grabbed a rocket launcher from a fallen Havoc Marine, and fired point-blank into the war engine's cockpit.

Fire erupted, consuming another squad of charging Berserkers.

And still, the Chaos Lord watched.

The Juggernaut beneath him shifted, flames licking at its metal form. His hymn was complete.

The battlefield trembled.

The Slayer turned, his armor soaked in the blood of the fallen, his eyes locking onto the towering figure.

The Chaos Lord smiled beneath his helmet.

"Now, at last," he rumbled, raising his massive axe, "a worthy sacrifice upon this altar for Khorne."

He sat atop his Juggernaut like a war-god incarnate, his presence a storm of bloodlust and unrelenting malice. The war-beast's molten veins pulsed beneath its living metal hide, its breath a furnace blast of burning hatred. The Collar of Khorne clamped around its thick neck shimmered with infernal power, distorting the air around it, warping reality itself to resist the unnatural forces.

The Chaos Lord threw back his head, exhaling black smoke from his blessed Face of Khorne, his eyes glowing with the forge-light of Khorne's bone-thrones. His flesh rippled, the veins across his body thick and pulsing, as though the very essence of slaughter coursed through him. His right hand swelled grotesquely, his nails elongating into curved, black talons—the Hand of Khorne, a monstrous weapon of pure carnage. In his left, his chainsword Flesh-Ripper howled, the fangs of the Flesh Hound set into its edge gnashing as though hungry for Doom Slayer's blood.

Doom Slayer tightened his grip on his argent-infused chainaxe. His rage did not abate, but the battlefield had shifted. This enemy was unlike the horde before—he was not mindless fury, but controlled slaughter.

The Talisman of Burning Blood hanging from the Chaos Lord's neck pulsed with power, holding his berserker rage in check. He was a living embodiment of Khorne's will—pure, distilled aggression, honed into a terrifyingly disciplined killer. The battlefield around them became his domain.

The power of Praise of Khorne surged through his armor, warping the very metal, reinforcing it with unholy blessings, making each plate an extension of his monstrous will. Bolts would not pierce it. Blades would glance from it.

The Juggernaut's hooves pounded the blood-soaked ground, sparks flying from its living-metal form as it shifted in place, eager to charge. The Chaos Lord raised Flesh-Ripper, the weapon vibrating with dark hunger, and pointed it at the Doom Slayer.

"You are strong, warrior," he growled, his voice like grinding iron. "But you are not yet worthy of Khorne's gaze. Kneel before me, submit, and I shall grant you purpose. Or resist more, and your skull will join the mountain at the foot of his throne."

Doom Slayer did not answer. Instead, he raised his Bolt Pistol.

The battlefield detonated into pure carnage.

The Juggernaut thundered forward against the bolt pistol fire, the collar's power working against the rounds' power ups, each step a seismic impact, its molten veins spewing embers into the air. The Chaos Lord swung his Flesh-Ripper, its chains lined with the fangs of Khorne's hounds, howling with an unnatural hunger. The moment Doom Slayer lunged, a hymn of slaughter erupted from the Berserkers, their voices raw with devotion, their chants an unholy call—and the blood answered.

Portals of writhing gore ripped open from the battlefield.

From the pooling viscera of the fallen, dozens of Bloodletters emerged, lesser daemons of Korne, their crimson blades burning with warp fire, their glowing eyes locking onto the Slayer with the single-minded purpose of a hunter scenting prey. The Berserkers, already in a frenzy, became even more deranged, pounding their breastplates like war drums, their glaives and daemon-bound chain weapons screeching for carnage.

Doom Slayer did not hesitate.

The Quad Damage sigil ignited. His vision sharpened, his strength multiplied. With a single cleave, his argent-powered chainaxe ripped through the nearest Berserker's torso, bisecting him as his glaive shattered from the force. He twisted mid-motion, firing his Bolt Pistol point-blank into a charging Bloodletter's snarling maw. The warp-spawned skull detonated in a shower of steaming ichor, but three more took its place, their daemonic shrieks piercing through the din of war.

A war engine roared from the left, its treads chewing the battlefield apart as it plowed toward him, its spiked prow thirsty for a kill. The Slayer vaulted off a fallen Berserker's corpse, grappling onto the war machine mid-charge. With one brutal motion, he ripped open its hatch and threw the panicked crew out into the waiting Bloodletters. Their screams were brief.

Onslaught surged through him.

Doom Slayer leapt off the war machine, twisting midair, his chainaxe meeting a descending glaive—the clash sent a shockwave rippling outward, staggering the nearest Berserkers. He did not let the opening go to waste. He spun low, his axe carving through a Berserker's knee, disarming him in the most literal sense. The glaive-wielding warrior crashed down, his own weapon impaling him as Doom Slayer tore the glaive free, instantly flipping it around and driving it into the throat of another Berserker mid-charge.

The Chaos Lord descended like a meteor, his Juggernaut colliding into the war machine Doom Slayer had just abandoned, shattering it to pieces. Smoke and flame belched outward as the warlord swung his Flesh-Ripper, the daemon-blade screeching in joy. Doom Slayer barely ducked in time, rolling beneath the colossal strike before countering with a vicious bolt pistol shot straight into the Chaos Lord's side.

Nothing.

The Praise of Khorne. The bullet's impact barely left a dent, its force leeched away. The warlord's iron clawed hand lashed out, seizing Doom Slayer by the throat. His Hand of Khorne crushed with inhuman strength, its nails digging deep. Chaos Lord's body blurred for an instant as the Talisman of Burning Blood pulsed once more, its rage-tide attempting to force him into Khorne's thrall.

But the Slayer's rage was his own. And it was stronger.

With a snarl, he broke the Chaos Lord's grip, twisting his own monstrous strength against him. His boots dug into the earth, his muscles coiling like a vice, and with an impossible feat of raw brutality, Doom Slayer ripped the Chaos Lord off his Juggernaut, flipping him through the air.

The behemoth of a warrior crashed through a group of Berserkers, scattering them like dolls, his impact leaving a crater of churned blood and crushed corpses. The Juggernaut itself reared in confusion, Doom Slayer launching himself at it—his chainaxe burying deep into its molten skull. The beast screeched, fire vomiting from its nostrils as its own destruction became inevitable.

The battlefield was a maelstrom now.

War engines crashed, Bloodletters shrieked, Berserkers rushed in unrelenting waves, but Doom Slayer only grew faster, stronger, deadlier. His Quad Damage-enhanced axe carved through power armor like paper, his Onslaught-fueled strikes tearing apart anything in his path.

Yet the Chaos Lord rose.

His armor cracked but unbroken, his rage swelling, the hymns to Khorne reaching their crescendo.

And then, he charged.

The ground quaked beneath the Chaos Lord's charge.

His warcry was a maelstrom of fury, the hymns of Khorne merging with the battlefield's blood-soaked chorus. His praise to the Blood God carried a terrible weight, a force that drove the Berserkers and Bloodletters into a renewed frenzy. The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath his momentum, the Face of Khorne blazing with the inner light of the brass forges, his breath expelling black smoke from the funeral pyres of a thousand slaughtered worlds.

Doom Slayer met his charge head-on.

With Quad Damage still surging in his veins, he tore through the final line of Berserkers, his chainaxe cleaving through three at once, their daemon-bound weapons shrieking as they shattered in their death throes. Bloodletters leapt from the collapsing portals, clawing at him, their infernal blades seeking purchase—but he was faster.

Doom Slayer's boots struck a fallen war engine, using its burning wreckage as a launching point. He soared through the air, his chainaxe grinding to life, ready to meet the Chaos Lord's devastating charge.

The warlord's Hand of Khorne surged forward, the razor claws glistening with aetheric bloodlust, each nail hardened beyond mortal steel. Doom Slayer twisted midair, his movements impossibly sharp, and in a flash of argent-powered speed, he severed two fingers from the Chaos Lord's monstrous hand.

The warlord roared, the wound only fueling his rage further.

His Flesh-Ripper howled, the daemon within it screaming in blood-hunger, swinging with terrifying force—Doom Slayer barely ducked beneath the first arc, the daemon's fangs missing his helmet by a hair's breadth.

The Onslaught power-up burned through him like a war drum's pulse.

He slammed his chainaxe into the Flesh-Ripper, locking the two weapons together. Sparks screamed as the daemon's fangs gnawed against his blade, but Doom Slayer's will was unbreakable. The Chaos Lord pressed forward, his sheer mass threatening to overpower even the Slayer's monstrous strength.

Doom Slayer responded with brutality.

He drove his boot straight into the Chaos Lord's knee, shattering ceramite and forcing the warlord to stumble for the first time. The brief moment of imbalance was all Doom Slayer needed—he wrenched his chainaxe free, reversing the grip, and jammed it straight into the Chaos Lord's exposed ribs.

Blood fountained.

But the warlord did not fall.

Instead, he laughed.

The Talisman of Burning Blood pulsed, the Rage of Khorne swelling to its breaking point. The wound only made him stronger. The Flesh-Ripper burned red-hot in his grip, fueled by the slaughter, and with a roar that rivaled the Juggernauts of Khorne, he unleashed a devastating backhand swing.

Doom Slayer did not fully evade.

The strike collided with his shoulder, sending him skidding across the battlefield, his boots tearing trenches through bloodied earth. Berserkers surged toward him, taking advantage of the warlord's strike—but the moment they reached him, he was already moving again.

A bolt pistol shot to the throat, a chainaxe through a skull, a glaive ripped from one warrior and hurled into another's chest—every movement a calculated slaughter.

The Chaos Lord charged again, undeterred, unyielding.

Doom Slayer reloaded the bolt pistol in mid-sprint, firing three precision shots into the warlord's advancing form. Each round cracked against his armor, but the blessings dampened their force, absorbing much of their power. The Flesh-Ripper swung down in a vertical arc meant to bisect him in two.

Instead, Doom Slayer caught the blade mid-swing.

His gauntleted hands locked around the daemon-infested steel, his boots dug deep into the ground, and with a monstrous heave, he redirected the weapon's momentum—twisting it out of the Chaos Lord's grip.

The Flesh-Ripper tumbled from the warlord's hands.

For the first time, the Chaos Lord's eyes widened.

And then, Doom Slayer drove his fist straight into his helmet.

A crater formed upon impact. The Chaos Lord reeled back, his vision snapping white from the sheer force.

Doom Slayer did not let up.

A bolt pistol round tore through his knee, forcing him down. A chainaxe strike carved into his shoulder plate, rending through armor and muscle alike.

Then Doom Slayer seized his helmet.

With an impossible display of brute force, he ripped it free.

The Face of Khorne glowed with pure bloodshed, its eyes burning like the bone-forges of the Brass Citadel. Its bellowing smoke choked the air, its visage the perfect embodiment of war and slaughter.

And Doom Slayer punched it again.

And again.

And again.

Each blow shattered more of Khorne's blessing, fracturing the infernal glow in his eyes, the warlord's body finally failing against the unrelenting storm of destruction.

And then, Doom Slayer raised his chainaxe.

The Chaos Lord, blinded, broken, bleeding, snarled in defiance even as his own lifeblood poured onto the battlefield.

And Doom Slayer's axe fell.