A blood-red world, scabbed with hive-cities belching fire and smoke. Massive siege engines grind across cratered badlands. In the distance, a towering citadel-keep, the Bastion of Ironflesh, looms like a monolith of war.

The Great Crusade, 844.M30. The Emperor of Mankind reaches a world forgotten by reason… but ruled by war.

Imperial warships descend through burning skies. They called the world Victoria. A cruel irony. There was no victory here. Only conquest… or death.

Warlords ruled by siege and flame. The greatest of them Warlord Daisho was not a man, but a machine-clad god of carnage.

And beneath his iron hand, a child was raised not as a son… but as a weapon. The boy called Mors. A name whispered with fear across the hive clans. Even before the truth was known.

The Emperor steps from His golden lander amidst silence and smoke. When the Emperor came, He found not just a lost son… but the war-forged core of a Legion waiting to be born.

200 warriors in battered black warplate kneel. Terran-born, scarred and unyielding. The 2nd Legion. Just 200 strong. No glory, no triumph. Only the Emperor’s will—and the hand of Mors to wield it.

Mors, now grown, in brutal baroque power armor, face half-shadowed, Daisho’s flayed banner draped behind him. As he eyed the emperor, the second legion behind him and the custodians that surrounded the emperor