The Forge of Souls exists as a sovereign divine realm—a searing landscape of molten iron and industry. Much like the planet Wyrmwood, it is a sprawling megalopolis composed of iron constructs and the technological flotsam of a thousand civilizations. Warp-entities drifted here only to be forcibly augmented; indigenous iron daemons and terror-batteries endowed the realm with an incredible, nightmare defensive capacity.
Yet, at this moment, the defenses of the Forge of Souls were at their nadir. The will of Vashtorr the Arkifane was manifest in the material universe, embroiled in a three-way chaotic brawl against Lion El'Jonson and the forces of Clan Skryre.
The shadow of Lucius, vast enough to eclipse the firmament, manifested outside the borders of the Forge. With a sweep of his colossal hand, he scattered countless Vermin Herders and Verminlords across the periphery of the realm like grain cast upon a field.
He did not enter the fray immediately. Before the towering avatar of the Great Horned Rat, a shimmering violet entity coalesced within the Warp.
"Oh, darling… do not spoil the sport by intervening personally. It would be such a bore," Slaanesh whispered. The Prince of Pleasure appeared before Lucius in the guise of a breathtakingly exquisite maiden, their form lithe and malevolent, their voice saturated with silken threats.
The Dark Prince knew well that the strength of the Great Horned Rat far exceeded that of a pretender like Vashtorr. To ensure the "entertainment" endured, Slaanesh did not mind delivering a personal warning.
Suddenly, a crimson tsunami erupted with a deafening, thunderous roar: "Show me your war, vermin, do not let me despise you!" Even as the words were spat, the blood-red tide of Khorne glared fixatedly at Slaanesh.
Lucius understood the unspoken laws of the Immaterium. It was much like a Warhammer hobby shop: once your opponent has deployed their miniatures, you cannot simply put on boxing gloves, leap onto the table, crush the pieces, and demand a real-world fistfight.
"I shall abide by the rules," Lucius said, nodding to the two manifested Chaos Gods and the two who watched silently from the shadows.
It was a daunting confrontation. This was the most significant threat Lucius had faced since his transmigration. Fortunately, the Ruinous Powers lacked genuine interest in the Skaven, and by extension, the Great Horned Rat. While the Skaven's creed overlapped with the four gods in parts, their essence followed a path entirely distinct—lacking the malleable "potential" found in humanity.
"So cooperative, my darling…" The Slaaneshi avatar blew a lingering kiss toward the Horned Rat before vanishing. Khorne unleashed a guttural, huffing snarl of fury and likewise dissipated into the ether.
Lucius let out a cold snort, his heart a mixture of indignation and smirking pride. Since time immemorial, which transmigrator in the Warhammer universe could claim to stand face-to-face with the Four, let alone have Slaanesh call them 'darling'?
After a moment of self-consolation, he shifted his form back to his primary aspect: a figure draped in charcoal robes, clutching a staff of rat-pelt, vanishing into the ranks of the Rat Ogres.
"Fortunate that I had the foresight," Lucius mused. Looking at the lithe, statuesque Rat Ogres surrounding him, his mood improved significantly. Though their bodies were fur-clad and their faces elongated and rodent-like, they were, at the very least, a somewhat aesthetic form of beast-kin.
"My first time viewing the Warp from this perspective," Lucius whispered, looking toward the horizon. The gargantuan iron city sat amidst a volcanic landscape, where countless living machines and fortifications writhed with a sickening vitality.
He raised his rat-pelt staff and commanded softly, "Ring the bell. Attack!"
The command was a mere whisper, yet it thundered in the ears of hundreds of millions of Rat Ogres.
The power-packs of the Skryre Vermin Herders roared to life, venting plumes of toxic warp-gas. Their Warp-lightning Halberds crackled with malevolent energy.
"Eyah-ha-ha-ha!!"
Amidst the Herders' manic cackling, thousands of massive Warp-lightning Cannons were brought to bear. These war engines, appearing as little more than junk-iron scrap-heaps, featured six-barreled rotary cannons capable of chambering an entire daemon. They began to spin with a rising mechanical shriek as they advanced.
In life, every Vermin Herder had been a Skryre Warlock-Engineer or apprentice. In the realm of the Great Horned Rat, they had forged mechanical monstrosities far more insane than those found in the mortal realms. Now, they brought them forth to settle the score with the Forge of Souls!
At the rear, atop a titanic carriage of timber and warpstone, two Verminlords hauled on frayed, eternal ropes. They sent the Great Bell into a frantic, resonating peal.
Before the bell stood a white-furred Verminlord with eight twisted horns, clutching a holy tome of rat-hide. This was Kritislik, the Fanatic-Plague Lord, chanting the litanies of the Great Horned Rat at the top of his lungs.
The Skryre Herders calibrated the elevation of their lightning cannons. Then, the world turned green.
"Fire!"
A volley of ten thousand cannons erupted. The warpstone muzzles gathered immense power before unleashing lances of emerald lightning that slammed into the mountain-high walls of the Forge of Souls. In response, the gargantuan defensive batteries of the Forge, manned by bound Soul-Grinders and iron-daemons, opened fire upon the rat-tide.
In an instant, the air between the city walls was a blinding strobe of red and green artillery fire.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A massive fireball streaked toward Lucius, and a projectile resembling molten slag and liquid iron crashed beside him. These shells, forged of Warp-psionic energy, carried a magical potency against daemons, much like warpstone itself. Instantly, the Rat Ogres near Lucius were reduced to molten slag. Their shrieking essence dissolved, flowing back into Lucius's own being.
"Oh, the cruelty of war. How fascinating," Lucius muttered, shaking off the droplets of molten iron that failed to even singe his black robes. He rolled his eyes; he felt like a spectator who had activated "God Mode" on a battlefield.
Under the relentless, suicidal assault of the rat-tide, a section of the Forge's wall finally buckled and collapsed.
"YES-YES! FOR THE HORNED RAT!"
Leading the breach were thirteen Warbringer Verminlords. These Rat Daemons, hailing from Clans Mors and Rictus, were the ultimate Skaven melee units. They charged headlong into the fractured city walls!
Possessing all the martial frenzy and combat cunning of their race, these towering Verminlords swung their warp-glaives in wide, scything arcs, scattering the swarming lesser daemons of the Forge like chaff.
"Gah-ha-ha-ha! DIE! Dead-flesh things! ALL DIE-DIE!!"
As Greater Daemons, their strength was absolute. They carved a bloody corridor through the defenses, and behind them, the Skaven "bikers" riding Doom-Flayers and Doom-Wheels roared into the breach!
Whirring blades and terrifying momentum ground the Forge's defenders into the dust. Even in the narrow, urban confines of the city, these metal monowheels rampaged with unnatural agility.
As the Skaven breakthrough forces poured into the Forge, drawing the attention of the wall-defenders, the shadow-clad Eshin Vermin Herders moved. Dressed in midnight garb, they clung to the base of the walls before utilizing shadow-steps and grappling claws to scale the mountain-like ramparts.
They were led by thirteen Deceiver Verminlords—the apex assassins of the Eshin Clan. With impossible grace and speed, they reached the battlements, silently neutralizing every daemon sentry in their path.
"Progress is acceptable," Lucius said, nodding as he watched the rat-tide begin to swallow the Forge of Souls. "But it would be best to secure the Forge before Vashtorr realizes his house is on fire."
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