The Chaos army at the gates of Wolfenburg had finally been defeated, but the human coalition had paid a terrible price—nearly 10,000 soldiers lay dead or dying.
Now, the Chaos forces faced a war on two fronts.
Ryan silently surveyed the bodies of the fallen Bretonnian knights and peasants who had perished at the gates of Wolfenburg. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his grief and frustration weighing heavily on his shoulders.
Reiksmarshal Helborg signaled the coalition forces to advance. The city of Wolfenburg was still burning, with much of it reduced to smoking ruins. Ryan led the Grail Knights in a thunderous charge, finally unleashing the full strength of Bretonnia's steel tide.
The Chaos army that had invaded Wolfenburg had achieved astounding success in this campaign of destruction. However, the cost had been enormous. Of the 120,000 troops that had started the assault—along with Beastmen auxiliaries and Chaos cultists—only 86,000 remained.
Araloth and Agrim Ironfist had fought valiantly for over ten hours before reinforcements finally arrived. Araloth's Grey Cloaks had been reduced to a mere dozen Wood Elves, and Grimnir's Axe Warriors had lost 85% of their Dwarven Slayers.
Even Agrim, who seemed indefatigable, was finally being forced to consider resting. Yet the Slayer King refused to yield: "No! I'm not done fighting! You can't make me rest! Let me tell you something—when I'm dead, I'll have all the time in the world to rest!"
"But you must rest now!" Reiksmarshal Helborg interjected, his voice thick with emotion. The old marshal drew his rune-encrusted sword, Grudgebearer, its glowing runes reflecting the weight of his words. "King of Karak Kadrin, I swear on the blood of Charlemagne that your kin have fulfilled their oaths. Your people have honored their alliance and met their obligations. Now, let us Imperial men bear this burden."
At Helborg's command, the Imperial army formed ranks once more. The Bretonnian knights, under the leadership of Berchmond and Louen, regrouped for another assault. King Ryan, standing beside the Fay Enchantress Morgiana, observed the battlefield. Around the king stood his Grail Guard and the Old Guard, a disciplined line of battle-hardened veterans awaiting his orders.
As Ryan gave the signal, the Bretonnian forces advanced into battle.
"This direct assault is costing us dearly, Ryan," Morgiana said, holding the Holy Grail of Potions in her hands. The Fay Enchantress frowned as she surveyed the city, now swarming with Chaos forces. "Your brother doesn't seem like a particularly wise man."
"He has his convictions, and I have mine," Ryan replied calmly, nodding toward Louen and Berchmond to proceed with their attack. "For our father's sake, I'll help him this one time."
"You seem... angry," Morgiana remarked, sensing the tension in Ryan's demeanor. Having spent so much time with him, she had learned to read even his subtlest emotional cues.
"I don't get angry at a caged beast," Ryan said, though his expression betrayed a deep frustration. "I'm just saddened for my soldiers. They shouldn't have had to suffer such enormous losses. But... this is the burden of chivalry. I feel like I'm trapped in a prisoner's dilemma—no matter what choice I make, it feels like the wrong one."
"I will stand by you," Morgiana said softly.
"I know," Ryan replied, turning his attention back to the battlefield. For now, the best he could do was minimize casualties through careful command.
Even Imperius, his mighty griffon, seemed eager to join the fray, but Ryan placed a calming hand on the beast's head, signaling it to remain patient.
As the battle raged, Ryan began to understand why Leman Russ was so disliked among the Primarchs.
It wasn't Russ's role as the Emperor's enforcer or his use as a tool of imperial will that alienated his brothers. After all, everyone understood that Russ's actions were ultimately the Emperor's orders, and resentment toward Russ for carrying out those orders was misplaced.
The real issue lay in Russ's overbearing attitude and his tendency to wield the Emperor's authority with a touch of personal bias.
He brought his personal vendettas into the power he exercised.
Russ never admitted fault—never.
And after the fact, no one could truly hold him accountable, because his actions were sanctioned by the Emperor himself.
It was a delicate dynamic.
On the battlefield, the Chaos army and the human coalition clashed amidst the smoldering ruins of Wolfenburg. The arrival of fresh human reinforcements quickly broke through the Chaos army's outer defenses, placing the invaders in a precarious position.
The defenders of Bull's Keep—over 20,000 Imperial troops—held firm against the Chaos siege. The inner fortress, built from granite and obsidian, was a nearly impregnable stronghold. Taking it would require significant time and effort.
Yet, at this critical juncture, the Chaos army suddenly found itself leaderless.
The Eternal Champion, Black Iron Mortkin, stood silently among his Crimson Reapers. He issued no orders, and without his unified command, the Chaos forces began to fight in disorganized skirmishes.
So what was Mortkin doing?
He stood motionless, his expression unreadable. Ever since he had slain Oleg, Mortkin had felt a surge of power coursing through his veins. The boundless energies of Chaos sang within him, and whispers from the Warp filled his mind. The Dark Gods were pleased with his achievements, granting him even greater strength.
More importantly, Mortkin felt a new awareness—an understanding of his place within a much larger design.
At the edge of his consciousness, he perceived something distant, something monumental. In the far reaches of the Kurgan steppes, countless Chaos tribes—numbering in the tens of thousands—were rallying under another Eternal Champion. This new champion was stronger than Mortkin, his army larger, his will unbreakable.
His name... his name was...
"Archaon," Mortkin murmured, as if compelled by instinct.
"You are the beginning of the End Times," the Dark Gods whispered to him.
"You are the start of the great plan, Mortkin, but he will be the one to end it all."
For an hour, the battle raged on. Without Mortkin's leadership, the Chaos forces faltered, forced to fight on two fronts. They suffered defeat after defeat, retreating toward Mortkin's position.
Finally, Leman Russ defeated the Greater Daemon of Slaanesh, the Eternal Dancer, in a brutal duel.
The Reiksguard, under Helborg's command, shattered the Norscan shield wall.
Nuln's Ironclads unleashed devastating volleys, annihilating an entire squadron of Chaos Knights.
Duke Berchmond led the Bretonnian cavalry in dividing and destroying Chaos warbands.
Yet the human coalition still faced grim odds. Ryan estimated that fully defeating the Chaos army would cost at least half of their remaining forces.
At last, Mortkin moved.
The Eternal Champion set down his Black Iron Axe and removed his horned helm.
Beneath it was a weathered face, framed by a white beard and marred by signs of mutation. Despite the deformities, his features retained the rugged characteristics of a Norscan—a man with deep-set eyes, a sharp nose, and a face etched by years of hardship.
Leman Russ, still locked in combat, caught sight of Mortkin and roared in fury: "Mortkin! You will pay for your crimes! Prepare to face my judgment!"
Russ's words seemed to trigger something within Mortkin.
"I... had... no... choice!" Mortkin bellowed, his voice like rolling thunder. The Eternal Champion's anguished cry echoed across the battlefield: "I had no choice! That was my home! My people! My family!"
"I didn't want to kill! But I had no choice!" Mortkin shouted, his voice raw with emotion. "I wanted vengeance! Do you think I didn't know what a pact with the Dark Gods would mean? But I had no choice!"
Mortkin raised his voice so all could hear: "I tell you now, Southerners—there is no one who can command me! No one who can judge me! Not even the Dark Gods themselves!"
The Eternal Champion's declaration reverberated across the ruins of Wolfenburg, stunning friend and foe alike.
At that moment, Mortkin's voice softened, his resolve firm: "Let Wolfenburg be my atonement for Dragonskeep. Let my legend end here."
With those final words, Mortkin raised his Black Iron Axe and, in an act that shocked even the Dark Gods, severed his own head.
Blood sprayed across the battlefield as Mortkin's headless body fell to its knees.
The Crimson Reapers, Mortkin's loyal bodyguards, howled in grief. Forming a shield wall around their fallen lord, they fended off all who approached.
The death of Mortkin shattered the Chaos army's morale. Without their leader, the once-formidable host dissolved into disorganized factions. Some fought to the death; others fled.
After nine grueling hours of battle, the human coalition finally declared victory.
As night fell over the smoldering ruins of Wolfenburg, the fires that had raged for days were finally extinguished.
The battlefield was littered with bodies—of men, Chaos warriors, and monsters alike. Wolfenburg's defenders, battered but victorious, stood amidst the wreckage of their triumph. Yet, there was no celebration, no jubilant cheers. The victory felt hollow, the cost too great.
The Crimson Reapers, Mortkin's loyal elite, had surrounded his headless corpse. They refused to let anyone approach their fallen leader. Every attempt to breach their shield wall ended in bloodshed, whether from human or Dwarf forces. The Reapers would rather die than allow their king's body to be defiled.
It wasn't until Leman Russ himself descended upon them, his fury unrelenting, that the Reapers began to falter. With Ryan's intervention and a ferocious assault by Aurora's summoned Greater Ice Elemental Lord, their defenses were shattered. Finally, Morgiana unleashed a devastating Grail Comet spell, obliterating the remnants of their shield wall.
And yet, even in death, the Crimson Reapers' loyalty remained unwavering. The entire warband, every last Chaos Chosen, chose to immolate themselves alongside their king. Their bodies turned to ash, leaving Mortkin's corpse untouched in the ruins of the city he had conquered.
Wolfenburg, the final resting place of the Black Iron King, became his tomb.
The battle had ended, but the victory carried no glory. Unlike the triumph of the Three Kings' Battle, there were no grand feasts or celebratory parades. Wolfenburg's defenders felt only exhaustion and sorrow.
The streets of the city were filled with the dead—soldiers, citizens, knights, and monsters. The smell of burnt wood and scorched flesh hung heavy in the air.
Ryan stood silently in the center of the ruins, his sword Vengeance still drawn. Around him were the remnants of Bretonnia's finest: Grail Knights, Old Guard veterans, and knights who had survived the carnage.
Morgiana approached the king, her usual air of grace overshadowed by the devastation around her. "It's over," she said softly, placing a hand on Ryan's shoulder.
"No," Ryan replied, his voice heavy with grief. "It's never over. Not while Chaos still lingers."
He looked around at the smoldering ruins, the battered survivors, and the endless carnage. "We've won the battle, but at what cost? Thousands of lives, countless dreams... and for what? A city that lies in ashes?"
Morgiana tightened her grip on his shoulder. "The cost is steep, Ryan. But this is the price of duty. Of chivalry. Of standing against Chaos. You've done what you could."
Ryan shook his head, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. "I only wish I could have done more to save them."
On the battlefield, the coalition forces regrouped. The victory had come at a staggering price—nearly 20,000 dead.
Bertrand, commander of the Old Guard, limped toward Ryan, his uniform torn and bloodied. "Sire," he said, his voice weary, "Wolfenburg is ours. The Chaos forces have been routed. But the cost..." He didn't need to finish. The weight of their losses was written on his face.
Ryan nodded grimly. "Have the survivors regroup. Tend to the wounded. And send word to the Empire that Wolfenburg stands, though barely."
Leman Russ approached, his armor covered in the blood of Chaos Daemons. The Wolf King looked at Ryan, his expression unreadable. "Mortkin is dead," he said flatly.
Ryan turned to face him. "At the cost of how many lives?"
Russ growled, his anger barely restrained. "I don't regret it. Mortkin had to be stopped."
Ryan's eyes hardened. "And now his death has left the North weaker than ever. The forces of Chaos will regroup, Russ. You've killed one warlord, but another will rise to take his place."
The tension between the two Primarchs was palpable, but neither spoke further. They both knew the war against Chaos was far from over.
As the soldiers of the Empire, Bretonnia, and their allies began the grim work of tending to the wounded and burying the dead, a somber silence fell over the city.
Aurora, drained from summoning the Greater Ice Elemental Lord, sat on the steps of a ruined temple, her hands trembling. "It's over," she whispered to herself, though she doubted her own words.
Nearby, Araloth and Agrim Ironfist rested against a pile of rubble. The Wood Elf hero was bloodied and exhausted, his limp more pronounced than ever. The Slayer King, despite his numerous wounds, grinned as he took a swig from a flask of ale.
"Well, elf," Agrim said, his voice gruff but warm, "we're still alive. That's something, isn't it?"
Araloth chuckled weakly. "Barely. But yes, it's something."
The two warriors shared a moment of quiet camaraderie, their bond forged in the crucible of battle.
In the days that followed, the survivors of Wolfenburg worked tirelessly to rebuild. But the scars of the battle—both physical and emotional—would linger for generations.
The story of Wolfenburg's defense would be told for years to come, a tale of heroism, sacrifice, and the unyielding resolve of men and women who refused to bow to Chaos.
But for those who had fought and survived, there was little solace in the victory.
For Ryan, for Leman Russ, and for all who had stood against the tide of Chaos, the battle of Wolfenburg was not a triumph.
It was simply... the end.
An end marked by ash, blood, and silence.
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