PS: Thoughts on the new End Times Plague expansion and the new Grail Knight class.
Marcus Kruber (Empire Captain): "Saltzpyre, I understand now. Human strength has its limits!"
Saltzpyre (Witch Hunter): "Marcus, what are you even trying to say?"
Marcus Kruber (drinking the Grail's holy water and raising his knightly sword): "I no longer believe in Sigmar. For the Lady!!!"
Saltzpyre: "Kruber? How dare you?! …And yet, I shall follow your command~"
———Transition to the main story———
Behind the breached city gates stood over a thousand Imperial troops, including two handgunner regiments (already reduced by more than half), one greatsword regiment (with barely over a hundred left), and several halberd and sword-and-shield companies. These survivors had gathered tightly around the steam tank, ready to face the Chaos horde pouring in from the other side.
Their enemies were two Chaos warbands led by Chaos Champions. From Norsca came Swengor, Son of the Blade, while the Kurgan Champion Issava commanded another contingent. These two had earned the honor of being the first to assault the gates. Under their leadership, the Chaos warriors formed tight ranks, their horned helmets—covering their entire faces except for narrow slits—emitting pale, icy mist, like the breath of the abyss itself. They surged forward relentlessly, their determination to offer Wolfenburg to the Dark Gods unshakable, their thirst for eternal glory unwavering.
"Form ranks! Hold the line!" roared Viscount William. "Ostland bulls, stand firm!"
"Steadfast as stone!" the Imperial soldiers shouted back, their resolve unshaken.
The first to meet the Chaos army's furious onslaught were the halberdiers. The savage northern charge crashed against their disciplined ranks, like a storm battering unyielding rock. Halberds pierced vile flesh and Chaos armor alike. The steam tank's cannon roared, its engineer channeling all his rage into precise shots from the steam cannon. Each booming shell obliterated several Chaos warriors, reducing them to shreds of blood and gore scattered across the battlefield.
In the opening minutes of battle, the two Chaos warbands had already lost a fifth of their forces. Yet reinforcements surged endlessly through the breached gate. The halberds and spears skewered Chaos warriors one after another, but more continued forward, trampling over their fallen comrades. Under the unrelenting pressure, the once-solid Imperial battle line began to buckle and warp.
The frontline started to falter.
"For Taal and the Empire!" a voice thundered from behind the Imperial lines. Viscount William charged forward with a massive two-handed sword. His body became a living battering ram, plowing into the Chaos ranks. Blue flames of judgment, a gift from the God of the Wild, ignited along his blade.
In William's hands, Chaos warriors' armor crumpled like paper. Wherever he passed, the enemy fell one after another—be they savage marauders, heavily-armored warriors, or even fearsome Chaos daemons. William von Zhukov, champion of Ostland, stood fearless and unyielding.
"Ostland's sons!" he roared as the first wave of Chaos attackers was driven back. Turning to his shaken troops, he bellowed: "Darkness has come, my brothers! Sons of Ostland! The time to choose has arrived!"
"Fight, and you may die. Run, and you might live a while longer."
"But make your choice now, sons of Ostland. Will you take up arms and stand with us, with all of Ostland, with me, William? Let us show these Chaos scum that they can kill us, take our lives, destroy our cities and villages, but they will never break our spirit!"
The viscount raised his flaming greatsword high, his voice echoing across the dark night and the glow of countless torches. "Chaos will never take our freedom!"
"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!" the Ostlanders roared, their blood boiling with centuries of defiance.
For three thousand years, the Ostlanders had guarded the Empire's northern frontier. Their fire had never dimmed.
Three thousand years.
"The Bull Banner shall forever stand upon this land!"
"Indigo Raiders, forward!"
"For freedom! For the Empire!"
"For the Empire!!!" The wild battle cries of painted warriors clashed with the roars of Chaos. A new wave of slaughter began.
The mournful notes of Ostland's bagpipes drifted far and wide, reaching even the ears of Mortkin, the Everchosen of Chaos, sitting in his distant war camp.
The melody was tragic, desolate.
A single icy-blue tear slipped from the corner of Mortkin's eye as he gripped his Hellfire Sword tightly.
"They are all brave men, true warriors, men of conviction."
"Why must we kill one another? Do we not live under the same sky?"
"This must end. It all ends here. This is the reckoning the southerners deserve."
Mortkin rose and retrieved his weapon.
Kargkhank had fallen—a worthless failure.
It was his turn now to end it all.
Meanwhile, both Araloth and Agrim Ironfist were severely injured. Araloth's wounds were the most grave; his knee, crushed under the hoof of the Khorne daemon, remained shattered despite the miraculous effects of the Life Spring berry wine. He was now a cripple, and both of his weapons were destroyed. His Grey Cloaks abandoned their original position and rushed to shield their leader, helping Araloth retreat.
The Slayer King's injuries were less severe. Gathering the remnants of his butcher army, he prepared to assist the defense of the Ubersreik gate. However, news arrived that a Nurgle Champion, Borthal the Plagueborn, had led his rot-infested warband to overrun a flagellant militia defending another part of the city.
The last flagellant fell, torn to shreds, while in the central street, a terrifying manticore dueled Borthal. The two monstrous figures, evenly matched, had already fought several brutal rounds, their bodies riddled with injuries. The manticore's claws tore through the Nurgle Champion's armor, nearly snapping his spine. Yet, feeling no pain, Borthal swung his scythe, severing the manticore's wings. The beast trembled violently, but Borthal only laughed. He stomped on a dead flagellant, ripping the chain flail from the corpse's hand. With a swing, he smashed the manticore's skull.
As the manticore's body shrank and disintegrated, it revealed the form of a filthy, exhausted amber wizard. The mage tried to speak, but Borthal silenced him by grabbing his face. With a sickening motion, the Nurgle Champion ripped the wizard's head and spine from his body. He licked the dripping blood and flesh from the vertebrae, laughing. "I declare this a victory for Borthal!"
All Imperial troops in the surrounding area had fallen. There was no one left to stop the Nurgle Champion and his warband from advancing toward the rear of the gate's defenders.
Until a volley of arrows pierced Borthal's bloated, pus-filled abdomen, spilling his intestines onto the street.
"We're still here," said Araloth, lowering his bow, his leg still crippled.
"Humans are finished, elf boy. Now it's our turn!" Agrim Ironfist gripped his axe tightly.
A new battle erupted on the blood-soaked streets.
The fight on the flanks bought time for the defenders at the gate. However, wave after wave of endless Chaos warriors breached the city, forcing the Imperial troops to retreat step by step. The steam tank Unyielding, a prototype model, continued firing relentlessly, obliterating rows of Chaos warriors. But for every northern marauder that fell, seven or eight more surged forward.
The boiler began to overheat, threatening to explode. The halberd line was breached. Piles of Imperial soldiers' bodies formed gruesome mounds. What was once a solid battle line had dissolved into disarray. Even the Indigo Raiders, personally led by Viscount William, suffered devastating losses. Though they repelled wave after wave of Chaos attacks, every clash left fewer brave warriors standing.
One by one, the defenders fell. Halberdiers, handgunners, swordsmen—all were overwhelmed.
The roar of a dragon shook the skies.
Chaos Dragon Streiskhul the Mighty descended upon the battlefield. The massive beast unleashed black and red dragonfire, engulfing Unyielding in flames. Though the steam tank retaliated with its cannon, blowing a hole in the dragon's scales, it was too late. Overheating from the corrosive bile splattered onto its boiler, the steam tank detonated in a massive explosion, killing everyone nearby—friend and foe alike.
Viscount William was thrown through the air by the blast, his consciousness fading as he landed amidst the carnage.
The resistance crumbled.
Under the burning walls of Ursas Gate, the legendary Indigo Raiders were wiped out.
Viscount William, the last man standing, was surrounded by Chaos warriors. Though he slew two more, a Chaos Champion delivered a fatal blow, driving a massive blade through his heart.
As his life ebbed away, William smiled. With his final breath, he shouted one word:
"Freedom!"
The battle was lost. Chaos banners bearing the eight-pointed star were raised over the city as dawn broke.
Yet in the distance, horns sounded—human reinforcements had arrived. The sound was powerful and resolute, cutting through the chaos and despair like a ray of light. But for the defenders of Wolfenburg, it was too late. The city was already ablaze, and its people were dead or scattered.
In the ruins of the city streets, Baron Oleg von Zhukov and his Bull Knights rode valiantly through the wreckage, desperately trying to save as many survivors as they could. The Black Guards of Ostland followed closely behind, shielding the knights as they attempted to evacuate soldiers and civilians. Their mission was clear: regroup at Bull's Keep and prepare for the last stand.
However, their path was blocked by a towering Chaos Lord, mounted atop a monstrous Chaos Steel Bull. Behind him stood his personal guard—the Crimson Reapers, a blood-soaked elite warband.
"Oleg von Zhukov, at last," Mortkin, the Everchosen, growled as he fixed his burning gaze on the young baron. He had traveled across half the world, guided by the power bestowed upon him by Tzeentch, and now the culmination of his journey stood before him.
The Black Iron Battleaxe in Mortkin's hands swung with devastating force. In one motion, it cleaved through a dozen Black Guards, sending limbs and blood flying into the air.
Oleg recognized his nemesis instantly. Fury boiled within him as he shouted: "Mortkin! You will pay for what you've done—for every life you've taken! I'll kill you myself and avenge my people!"
With that, the two armies collided before the gates of Bull's Keep.
The clash was apocalyptic. The Bull Knights charged, their lances piercing through the ranks of the Crimson Reapers. Behind them, the Black Guards held their ground, striking down Chaos marauders and warriors alike with grim determination. But for every Chaos soldier that fell, two more took their place.
Oleg himself fought like a man possessed, his sword cutting through Chaos warriors with each strike. His armor was splattered with blood, his strength fueled by the memories of his people and his home. Yet no matter how many foes he slew, Mortkin remained untouched, his presence looming like a shadow over the battlefield.
Mortkin's Crimson Reapers were relentless. Their axes and swords carved through the Black Guards, thinning their ranks with every moment. The Bull Knights, too, began to falter as the Chaos Steel Bull charged into their lines, goring knights and horses with its massive horns.
But Oleg would not yield. Locking eyes with Mortkin, he roared: "Face me, coward! Or are you afraid of a true warrior?"
Mortkin dismounted from his Steel Bull, his massive frame towering over the battlefield. He raised his Hellfire Sword, its blade glowing with an otherworldly heat. "Come then, Oleg von Zhukov. Let us end this."
The baron charged forward, his sword clashing against Mortkin's in a blinding flash of sparks. Their duel shook the ground, each strike creating shockwaves that sent nearby soldiers—both Chaos and Imperial—flying.
Mortkin was a juggernaut, his strength and skill honed by countless battles. But Oleg fought with the desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose. His strikes were precise, his movements fueled by a fury that even the Chaos Lord could not ignore.
"You fight well, mortal," Mortkin admitted as their swords locked. "But you cannot win. Your people are doomed. Your city is ashes. Your gods have abandoned you."
"Shut your mouth!" Oleg spat, pushing Mortkin back. "We don't fight for gods. We fight for our freedom, for our families, for the Empire!"
Their battle raged on, neither gaining the upper hand. But as the minutes passed, it became clear that Oleg was tiring. His armor was dented and scorched, his sword arm trembling from the strain. Mortkin, on the other hand, seemed almost invincible, his dark powers sustaining him as he pressed the attack.
The remaining Bull Knights and Black Guards could only watch as their leader fought alone against the Everchosen.
At the same time, in the heart of the city, Araloth and Agrim Ironfist had managed to hold their ground against the fifth Chaos warband to breach the walls. The remnants of the Grey Cloaks and Grimnir's Axe Warriors stood with them, though their numbers had dwindled to less than fifty.
Both Araloth and Agrim were exhausted. The Wood Elf hero, his knee still shattered, leaned heavily on his bow as he loosed arrow after arrow. Agrim, his axe coated in daemon blood, fought with the stubborn resilience that only a Slayer could muster.
But even their combined strength was not enough to turn the tide. Reports of defeat came from all sides.
"Ubersreik Gate has fallen!"
"Wolfsfarr Gate has fallen!"
"Lunster Gate has fallen!"
"The city is overrun!"
"Retreat! Retreat! All forces, fall back to Bull's Keep! Retreat!"
Wolfenburg was lost. Chaos poured into the city from three directions, leaving nothing but flames and corpses in their wake. Every building was burning, every street littered with the dead.
Oleg von Zhukov's desperate attempt to save survivors was faltering. The Bull Knights' charges grew weaker as more of their number fell. The Black Guards, once a proud force, were reduced to a handful of warriors fighting to protect their baron.
And yet, the battle between Oleg and Mortkin continued. The two combatants fought like avatars of their respective causes—Oleg, the embodiment of Imperial courage and defiance; Mortkin, the harbinger of Chaos and destruction.
Finally, Mortkin disarmed Oleg, sending the young baron's sword flying from his hands. The Chaos Lord raised his Hellfire Sword for the killing blow.
But before he could strike, the distant sound of horns grew louder.
Human reinforcements had arrived.
The sound of cavalry hooves thundered through the streets as the banners of the Empire appeared on the horizon. The remnants of Wolfenburg's defenders, hearing the horns, rallied one last time. Even as the flames consumed their city, they fought with renewed hope.
Mortkin paused, his burning gaze shifting toward the approaching reinforcements.
Oleg, bloodied and beaten, managed a weak smile. "You… didn't… win…"
The Chaos Lord sneered. "The city is mine, mortal. But if your reinforcements wish to join you in death, so be it."
Mortkin turned to face the incoming Imperial army, his Crimson Reapers falling into formation behind him. The battle was far from over. But for Oleg and the people of Wolfenburg, the arrival of reinforcements was a glimmer of hope in the darkest hour.
The horns of salvation had sounded.
The fight for Wolfenburg was not yet done.
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