Chapter I: A Dog and a Chainsword.

A/N: This is a litle idea I had during New Year, and since nobody else did anything similar, I said to myself "Why not?"

I don't own neither Chainsaw Man nor Warhammer 40k.


This was not supposed to happen, not to him. His warband, his ship, everything he worked for so hard for the last century, the work of his life, the reason as to why he decided to betray the Imperium in the first place, all annihilated in a matter of hours. His dreams of conquest, of purging the disgusting followers of the Corpse Emperor, even his ambition of ascension, all vanished in front of him.

He was supposed to use that planet as a base of operations from which to attack and seize an imperial mining world. From there, he would use the materials and slave labor to further strengthen the warband and make way for more conquests, and with that accumulate power and glory to the point of achieving the personal favor of the Blood God. Perhaps even usurp the position of that fool of Abaddon and take his rightful place as Warmaster, and finally succeed in what both him and his pathetic Primarch failed to do: Claim the skull of the False Emperor.

They found little to no resistance once they attacked that puny planet. Thousands of skulls were claimed from the pathetic guardsmen who were garrisoned there, the surviving population being enslaved and put to work almost immediately, with a few disobedient ones used as prey for the hungry Flesh Hounds. Everything was going according to plan, it was only a matter of time before they set up the conquest of the system, and from there, the entire Sub-Sector… but then that thing appeared.

It came out of nowhere, slaughtering everything in its path without thought. Whether human, Astartes, or Daemon, nothing seemed to be able to stand up to it and its blind carnage through the world. Its brutality was unparalleled, even putting the Khorne Berzerkers to shame as their brutalized remains scattered the ground in a gore fest.

He was Articus, a Chaos Lord, the one who bathed and fested in the blood of thousands of Corpse Emperor worshippers, the bane of entire star systems, one of the most brutal warriors at the service of the Blood God, the one destined to claim immortality and greatness, and yet there he was, trying to flee to safety like a weakling while holding his almost severed arm in an attempt to save it.

The now disgraced Lord was now trying to find a way to leave that damned planet, leaving his crazed brothers behind as they were butchered by that thing. His blood lust was still there, he could hear the voices in his head demanding him to turn around and claim the skull of the attacker for the Skull Throne, but even he in his blind wrath knew that it only meant suicide. They were attacked by something that did not belong to Real Space, but that neither was like any other Daemon he had ever faced before. It was something worse, far, far worse.

"Damn it all!" he shouted in rage as he heard the sound of both flesh and ceramite being eviscerated and ripped apart along the screaming of his men.

It was disgraceful. He, a Champion of Khorne, fleeing the battlefield. He should be leading his men, battling and killing in the name of his patron god, accumulating glory and building the path to daemonhood, but instead of that he was retreating like a damned coward and searching for the way out of the planet, leaving behind both his plans of conquest and his now doomed Warband.

He had to live. His Warband could be rebuilded, he could compensate his failing to the Blood God with the skulls of an entire planet and regain His favor, but most important of all, he had to warn the others. It did not matter if he needed to swallow his pride and go to the Despoiler himself to warn him in person, someone needed to know about that monster before it was too late.

Suddenly, he fell to the ground. Something had grabbed his legs, or rather, cut them off from the distance. He was now in the ground, legless, screaming in rage as he swinged his battle-axe around in a blind fury, shouting profanities and threats to his attacker. He shouted until the point that he lacked air to continue, just staying on the ground, panting miserably, just a shadow of his former self. It all went silent from there, without a single sound in the now deserted battlefield.

Then he heard the roar of a chainsword.


The Underhive, an Emperor-forsaken place, where not even the Arbites bothered to keep an eye on. Buried under miles of dirt and cement, remote and isolated from the rest of the Hive, it was a place where the scum of society gathered: Gangs, mutants, abhumans, cultists, and even xenos who managed to pass under the watchful gaze of the imperial authorities, all settled amid the filth and the wastes, making a home for themselves far away from the Emperor's light.

Centuries and centuries of isolation made the inhabitants of the Underhive ignorant of the world outside. Few knew about the wars that raged throughout the system between the loyalists and the ruinous powers, even less cared about them save for the few heretics who eagerly awaited the triumph of their wicked masters. The aperture of the Cicatrix Maledictum and the rise of psykers hardly presented any change for the inhabitants of the Underhive, who continued their constant struggle for survival in the eternal warfare between gangs, ignorants of the hell that had been unleashed not only in the world, but also throughout the galaxy.

However, something did change, for the new influx of warp-tainted beasts and Daemonic beings brought with it a new and dangerous profession, one that until recently was only performed by the callous members of a secret order of the Inquisition, but that now was seen as a profitable job for both the foolish and the mad: Daemon hunting.

The heretical act of slaying creatures of the Warp and selling their remains in the black market quickly became a popular career choice for the inhabitants of the Underhive, who risked both their lives and souls for the promise of riches that only a Rogue Trader could dream. Countless men and women perished in their reckless endeavor, and the few who managed to survive and thrive quickly found themselves at the end of a bolter for their heresy. But for every illegal Daemon hunter that was consumed or executed, three more arose to take advantage of the lack of competition. Despite being such a dangerous profession, Daemon hunting continued to be a desirable vocation for the desperate masses of the Underhive, especially for a boy consumed by debt.

"Let's see. Cutting scrap… 's 60 grand a month!"

The young man walked down the darkened alley, counting his earnings on an old crumpled piece of paper. He walked in a carefree manner, without worrying about the dangers that hovered around every corner of that damned place.

"The kidney I sold the other day… that was 1.2 mil. And my right eye was worth 300 grand, I think," he muttered as he rubbed himself, still sore from the clandestine operation. "Oh right, I sold one of my balls the other day. How much was it? 100 grand?"

He was a scrawny young man, with dirty and scruffy blond hair and clothing that did justice to his economic situation, consisting of a simple pair of extremely worn out pants full of holes, walking barefoot and without any kind of garment covering his chest, exposing his malnourished and scarred body, the result of both many battles and operations to extract and sell his non-essential organs. The eyepatch he wore was proof that even his eyes were not safe from being sold, in fact, he was even beginning to consider selling his own nose, although he needed to find someone willing to pay a fair price for it.

"So the remainder of the loan is… 38 million Thrones." he said nonchalantly as he put the dirty paper back to his pocket.

Walking alongside him was what seemed to be some kind of canine, although with a bizarre fisionomy. His body was small, round, and plump, covered in red fur. He had small legs, so it was forced to walk briskly in order to keep up with its human companion, giving it a rather cute appearance, but this cuteness was overshadowed by the enormous chainsword like appendage protruding from the center of his head.

The curious duo finally stopped their walk, now finding themselves near a toxic waste dump, one of the many found in the Underhive. There, drinking from the green and toxic waste, rested a big and deformed being, one that swallowed the toxic waste in a lively and cheerful way. From the purulence of his huge, rotten body, it was safe to assume that it had already received the touch of Chaos. Was it a Chaos tainted mutant, or a Plaguebearer? He always had trouble remembering the exact difference between the two, for all he cared they both smelled like the putrid vomit of a dead rat, not to mention the fact that there was always a high price on their heads, so it did not matter in the end. The important thing was that he had to kill them before the stench hit him and forced him to bathe. He could not afford to waste precious water on something so banal.

Both the blond and the canine hid behind a half crumbling wall, taking care that the deformed one did not hear them, although this would not be a problem seeing that this one sipped in such a noisy way that it would hardly notice something beyond its rotten nose. The surprise factor was always useful when it came to hunting.

"There he is, they promised at least 500 grand for the fatass," he murmured to his pet as he watched the target carefully.

The canine gave a low bark before jumping into the arms of the blond, with him grabbing it by the handle that emerged from its body, carrying it like a weapon.

"All right Pochita, you know the drill!" he said cheerfully as he grabbed the canine's tail, which, oddly enough, had the shape of a small trigger throttle. He quickly pressed it, making the chainsword sticking out of his head activate, roaring with power. "Time to hunt!"

And with that the young man came out of his hiding place and launched his attack against the distracted entity, attacking in a fierce and brutal way, hoping to survive the encounter in order to collect the reward. Such was life for Denjius, it had been that way since that fateful day eight years ago.


Life was never fair with poor Denjius. Not only was he unlucky enough to be born and raised in the Underhive, but also was left orphaned at a young age. His mother died a few years after his birth due to a heart disease, and his drunk and deadbeat father took on a monstrous debt to the biggest gang around, only to commit suicide shortly after and leave the debt for his son to pay off.

Hungry, jobless, without family, and with a debt that only a nobleman from above could pay when he was only eight years old, Denjius' short life basically ended before it could even begin. The gangsters would surely kill him and sell his body parts to the highest bidder in order to pay the loan, maybe even keep parts of his face to decorate their armors like the sick bastards they were.

The young boy resigned himself to death, just hoping they would kill him in the least painful way possible, although knowing the kind of people he was dealing with, he knew that it would not be the case. Already plunged into despair, the child simply started walking through the slums in the hope that a stray bullet would end his suffering. He preferred to avoid giving the gangsters the pleasure of torturing him before killing him.

He walked for hours, already feeling hungry and thirsty, although that was not new to him. Eventually fatigue subdued him, causing him to collapse to the ground. His body lacked the energy to continue, so he just rested there, with his face buried in filth, easy prey for anyone.

Denjius slowly closed his eyes, knowing that if he fell asleep, he would never wake up again. But just when he was about to lose himself in his dreams, he heard something that caused his survival instinct to force him to get up off the ground: Growling.

In front of him was a bizarre canine, grunting at him in a threatening manner. It was like no other animal he had ever seen before, not only for its crimson fur, but also for the massive chainsword sticking out of its head. The boy was ignorant in many ways due to his lack of education, but given the animal's abnormal appearance, it was easy to suspect that it was some kind of mutated animal, or worse, a Daemon. It was of no importance to the boy, he was going to die anyway at the hands of the gang members, so being mauled and eaten made no difference to him.

"If you're going to eat me, just do it…" whispered the weary boy.

Instead of attacking, the strange animal just fell to the ground much to the boy's surprise. It was hurt, with several gunshot wounds along its stomach, bleeding in large quantities. It was fatal, the poor creature would surely die in no time, not that it did matter to Denjius, after all he was going to die as well. However, seeing it so powerless, so weak, so helpless, Denjius could not help but see himself in the creature. They were both the same, just victims in a cruel and merciless world, at the mercy of bastards who would not hesitate to step on them like insects. Be it the gangs, the Daemons, or the supposed Emperor who allowed him to suffer, all of them trampling on them as if they were nothing more than unimportant scum. He was sick of that.

The boy stretched out his arm before the canine, much to its confusion

"Bite me," he said. "I heard Daemons feed on blood, so if you're one and you don't want to die, bite me!"

The animal looked at the arm for a few seconds, unsure of the offer. It finally decided to accept, proceeding to fiercely bite the scrawny arm, starting to suck the young man's blood as he let out slight groans of pain. Soon the immediate effects of this began to show. as the wounds in its stomach began to heal in an unnatural manner, quickly closing the wound until it disappeared without even leaving a single scar, regaining its vitality.

Both canine and boy looked at each other in silence. The blond was on the verge of fainting due to blood loss, but he could still stay conscious

"Don't think I'm doing this for free. This is a contract," the blond said while rising from the ground, approaching the recovered animal.

His gaze was a determined one. He knew how stupid it was to make demands to a Daemon, but he did not care, he was going to do whatever necesary to live, and if that meant making a deal with a Daemon, then so be it.

"I helped you, so now you help me!" he said firmly as the creature continued to bite his arm, staring at him. "I… I don't want to die."


Eight years had passed since that fateful day, when that bizarre friendship began. It had been said that Daemons were never trustful, that only a fool or a mad man would even attempt to establish any kind of relation with an inhabitant of the Warp, but Denjius did not give a damn about that. Even if Pochita was a Daemon, he was more reliable than anyone he had ever met, which was not much considering that he had only dealt with gang members in his life.

The curious duo lived in a small, crumbling hut built from scrap metal, in one of the disabled corners of the Underhive, away from the annoyances of so-called "civilization". It was a hard and unrewarding life, where something as simple as a hot meal was a luxury they could hardly afford more than once every few months, but the company they kept each other made it bearable.

They made their living with illegal Daemon hunting, with most of their profits going directly to pay off the debt to the local gang. Most of the time they had to deal with Daemonic beasts, other times they were tasked to hunt weak Lesser Daemons, all in order to gather the reward. It was an insanely dangerous job, but it paid well, although unfortunately not enough to end the debt.

"Those bastards," the blond complained as he lay down on his makeshift bed. "They paid less than they promised."

The last hunt was a success, but the payoff was pitiful. Just a quarter of what they originally promised, with most of it going directly to pay off the debt. Denjius could not even complain about it because his employer was the leader of the same gang he was in debt to, so he just had to put up with it.

"I guess we won't have dinner tonight either…"

His stomach was killing him. He had not eaten anything since the morning, although one could hardly say that he had eaten properly since his breakfast consisted of a handful of flour accompanied by dirty water. It was a miracle that he was still able to hunt with his squalid body. If it wasn't for Pochita then he would have become Daemon food years ago.

"Woof!"

The little dog jumped into the bed, settling into the arms of the blond, who responded by huddling with him. The nights were cold and they lacked blankets, so the two of them depended on each other for some warmth.

It was strange, Pochita was supposedly a Daemon, a creature that existed only to corrupt and kill humans, but he did not behave like one. He was friendly, loyal, and affectionate, or at least he was only to him in particular, showing ferocity or apathy with others. Maybe he was different? Or maybe he was only faking it in order to manipulate him? Whatever the truth was, he did not care, he was too hungry to bother thinking about such things. He would rather sleep and forget about his problems for a few hours.

Denjius rested on the bed, moving from side to side in an attempt to fall asleep. This proved difficult, for his stomach was growling like a wild beast due to the hunger. He grunted in resignation, knowing that it would be another sleepless night.

"... damn it, I'm so hungry I can't sleep" he complained while rubbing his remaining eye. "I can't sleep, so I keep thinking about the debt, and that only makes it worse."

Pochita rested on his chest, also trying to sleep. Curiously enough, he never knew if the Daemons needed to sleep or not, but it was obvious that Pochita was trying hard to do so every night.

"Y'know, I've decided. If I'm going to sleep tonight, I'm gonna dream about whatever I want, " he said as he fixed his gaze on the holed roof of the hut. "About eating bread and fruit that isn't rotten. Also makin' out with a girl, preferably one who isn't abhuman or mutant, a normal hot chick. Play some card games or hunt some rats with her, fallin' asleep in her arms, that kind of stuff. Pretty great dream to have, don't you think?"

The canine looked at him enthusiastically, letting out a cheerful bark. "Woof!"

Denjius smiled. Maybe he would not be able to sleep, but at least telling his favorite dreams to Pochita put him in a good mood. It gave him the slight hope that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

But of course, that was not meant to happen.

"Damn, my throat is sore," he complained while starting to cough.

The coughing was normal at first, but it soon turned frantic, forcing the boy to get up from the bed in panic as he covered his mouth with his hand, starting to cough even more violently. Suddenly, he felt some kind of warm liquid coming out of his mouth.

"Wha…"

He looked down and stared in horror at what layed in his palm: Blood. He was coughing up blood. Just as his mother did before dying of a heart disease.

"Woof!" Pochita barked in a concerned way, alarmed by the presence of blood.

Just at that moment, as Denjius was barely processing what was happening, loud knocking could be heard at the junk door of the shack.

"Brat! The boss wants to see you, move your ass and get to work," a male voice on the other side of the door shouted, no doubt a member of the gang to which he was indebted.

Denjius was shaking as he contemplated the blood in his hand, sweating cold. He was in no mood for Daemon hunting, but refusing a job from the gang was basically a death sentence. He was cornered, he had no choice but to accept.

"At least let me dream a little…" he whispered, overwhelmed.


It was past midnight, although it was hard to tell in the Underhive. Sunlight was only a myth for those who were born and grew there, with fire and neon light being the only source of light they ever knew.

Sounds of gunfire and screams could be heard from afar as Denjius and Pochita made their way to the point of reunion, being escorted by various gang members. Men and women wearing extravagant costumes, with tattoos on their arms and legs, and some even with bionic replacements. The blond was barely able to recognize some of them, although that was not unusual. Hundreds would die and hundreds more would join the gang's ranks by the end of the week, so there were very few who lived long enough to be recognizable to him.

It was an extremely long and tiring journey, one that made the boy suspicious. Did they want to take him to a remote place to kill him? It would not be the first time, he had already dealt with several greedy and ambitious men and women in the past, many of whom wanted to get rid of him because of his reputation as a hunter, in order to appropriate Pochita, or simply for perverse pleasure.

They continued walking, dangerously approaching The Sump, a place that not even the most stunted mutants would dare to go near. Finally they came to an old building, one that looked like an old factory from its structure. The gang leader was waiting for them at the entrance of the building. He was an old, tall man with a muscular, scarred body, with much of his right arm replaced by a mechanical claw. His hair was gray, with a sleek mustache and beard that one would expect from a denizen of the upper floors, not a dirty gangster.

"You're late, Denjius," said the old man monotonously, showing little emotion beyond his perpetual apathy.

"Sorry, sir," replied Denjius, ever so respectful to the man who could easily cut him in half if he wished.

"Come in, I've got something for you."

The youngster followed obediently into the factory, wielding Pochita in his arms already prepared for battle. If they were called so abruptly then it would only mean that there was a dangerous Daemon around, and that meant a juicy reward if they managed to slay it.

"It's dark as hell here," commented Denjius.

The older man did not say anything in return, just walking silently deeper and deeper into the darkness of the building. Minutes of insufferable silence passed by, making the young Daemon hunter starting to feel nervous. He had a bad feeling.

"Denjius, boy, you have our thanks," the older gangster said, finally breaking silence.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah," the boy replied.

"Always obedient like a dog, working for leftovers like a one too," he continued.

This startled Denjius, causing him to stop walking. "What?"

"Thing is… I hate the stentch of fucking dogs."

Out of nowhere, a blade stabbed Denjius's chest from behind along with Pochita. The attacker was one of the henchmen of the gang, who viciously twisted the weapon in the boy's chest, making him scream in agony as blood came pouring from his mouth and nose. His canine companion was no exception, having the tip of the sword protruding from his own chest.

The scrawny blond fell to the ground in pain as he watched in shock how the gang members started to surround him. In front of them was the gang leader, who watched him bleed to death nonchalantly.

"You see, boy," he began speaking. "We saw how powerful you are thanks to that Daemon mutt you have. We wanted to get stronger in order to annihilate the other gangs, so we made a contract, just as you did".

The realization hit Denjius as he looked around. The gang members were mutated, with their skin turned a sick green and horrible protuberance growing out of their bodies. They looked like rotten corpses, and yet they smiled, having wicked and sickly smiles drawn on their putrid faces. It was the Rot. Nurgle's Rot.

Even the always serious and stoic gang leader began laughing, but it was not a human laugh, it was a distorted, raspy howl, as if hundreds of insects were echoing at the same time inside his throat.

"What we wanted was a Daemon's power…" said the leader as his body began to increase in size and shape, with his skin taking on a sickly green tone. His belly began to inflate, bursting into a show of blood and pus, revealing putrid organs and dozens of insects emerging from the hole. "And what I wanted was the death of a foolish Daemon hunter."

A grotesque, amorphous figure stood in the place of the gang leader. It was massive, bigger than any Daemon he had ever seen, with a disgusting, nauseating appearance. It was not like the Daemons or beast he was used to hunting, no, it was something far greater than that.

"Young man, these mortals were wise enough to yearn for the blessing of the Grandfather, so I gave it to them in His name and glory. Now they rejoice with the greatest gift that the Plague Lord has ever provided to this ungrateful galaxy," the Daemon proclaimed fervently. "But you, you have denied His gift by slaying his servants in their efforts to spread His love. This, cannot go unpunished."

The Daemon turned around, confronting the horde of infected surrounding him, with his putrid intestines falling from his fat belly with every move.

"You shall now slay this ungrateful mortal, may his soul find repentance once he reaches The Garden!" the creature exclaimed, prompting the infected followers to respond with shouts and fanatical chants dedicated to their new deity.

It was obvious what was going to happen. They were not only going to kill him, they were going to sacrifice him. His soul would be given as an offering before the Dark God, condemning him to an eternity of suffering and agony in The Warp.

Denjius got up from the ground just as quick as his wounded body was capable of, hugging the dying Pochita to his bloody chest as he began to run, having the now mutated gang chasing him behind.

He ran as fast as his weak legs would allow him to run, with a thousand thoughts coming across his panicked mind. He had spent much of his life trying to pay the debt, so there was much he never got to experience. He never got to kiss a girl, to eat a normal meal, to sleep in a warm and comfy bed, to even just live a quiet life.

´I just wanted to dream about a normal life´ he thought to himself as he listened to the crowd approaching from behind. ´But you couldn't even let me have that much?´

And just like that, hundreds or blades came from all sides, severing his body. His head, his legs, his arm, his torso included, each one was pierced, mutilated, and mercilessly ripped apart along with Pochita, whose small and plumpy body was hacked in half.

With that, Denjius' short and unfulfilled life came to an abrupt and bitter end.


The bodies of the curious duo were dumped in a pit next to ten other corpses, undoubtedly previous sacrificial victims. The decapitated head of Denjius rested just above the corpse of Pochita, with small drops of blood flowing from its mouth until it fell on the canine's face, with some managing to enter the canine's mouth. With that, the little Daemon managed to revive, although in a half conscious manner.

With loose thoughts in his clouded mind, one specific memory came to him as he gazed upon the mutilated corpse of his human companion. About the day they made a certain pact.

"Pochita, one of these days I might be killed by a Daemon, and I worry about what'll happen to you. You might starve to death, or get killed by another Daemon Hunter."

The canine got his body back together, finally healed from the attack. Denjus had saved his life with his blood a second time.

"I heard that Daemons can take over the bodies of dead people. If you can do that… then I want you to take my body."

He approached the body of his deceased friend, looking closely at his dismembered arms and legs.

"After I'm dead the gang will forget about me. You can leave the Underhive, maybe even this world, and go live a nice life and have a nice death."

Metal wires began to reattach the limbs to the main body as the body of Pochita slowly merged with the corpse of the blond.

"If you manage to do that, then please… fulfill my dreams for me."


Denjius woke up abruptly, opening his only eye in surprise. He was in a dark place, looking quite similar to the shack in which he lived in. Probably the other world, or perhaps an illusion of his dying mind.

On his chest lay Pochita, who looked at him with a happy expression.

"Pochita…" he said, astonished.

The canine replied with a joyful bark. "Woof!"

"So… you took over my body, huh?"

Pochita contemplated him in silence for a few seconds. Then, he began speaking.

"I always loved hearing your dreams, Denjius," said the little crimson dog, much to the surprise and shock of his human friend. "This is a contract. I will be your heart, in exchange… show me all of your dreams."


"POCHITA!" screamed Denjius as he got up from the pile of corpses, now in the real world.

He was gasping, still unsure of what just happened. He realized that his vision was now different, he now had his right eye back. Not only that, all of whis wounds, scars, everything he once had in his body was now gone. Soon he realized he had something sticking out of his chest. It was a small trigger throttle, just like the tail of Pochita.

"What is this?" a deep, distorted voice echoed. "You still live, despite being sent to The Grandfather? Children, make this insolent stay dead!"

The mutated horde obeyed the command of the Daemon, launching themselves in multitude against the sole man.

"Pochita…" Denjius whispered while looking at the trigger of his chest.

The blond was not bothered by the murderous horde that was coming his way. He could only think about the one single friend he ever had, now forever gone. All because those bastards wanted more power for themselves, because they wanted to satisfy their greedy needs at his expense.

He only wanted a normal life, but as long as people like them existed, it would not happen.

"If you want to get between us and our dream…" he began speaking as he pressed the trigger. "THEN GO FUCKING DIE!"

The mutated gang fell on top of him, crushing him in dozens of stabs, bites, and blows. Silence flooded the place after that, with not a single sound to be heard beyond the buzzing of the flies circling around the Daemon… but then the roar of a chainsword resounded.

Soon, heads and limbs flew off in an explosion of blood. The angry horde struggled in vain to hold off the attacker, which emerged from the crowd in a gore show. This new being had a mostly human body, but its head had a Daemonic, mechanical shape painted red and black, with long, jagged fangs instead of teeth. An enormous chainsword emerged from the center of its metallic head, already activated and roaring with ferocity. Similarly there were two large, long chainswords emerging from its forearms, attached to the flesh of its arms and splitting its hands in half in a grotesque spectacle.

The new creature made its way through the multitude, slicing everything that stood in its way with horrendous ease. Not even the blessings of Nurgle were able to protect the gangsters from the edge of those saws.

"This cannot be," muttered the Daemon as he felt dread for the first time in centuries. "You… you should not be here, y-"

The creature leaped high into the air, landing on the Daemon as he buried one of its chainswords in the Daemon's chest, causing him to scream in pain and agony. The Daemon suffered, Nurgle's blessings failing to protect him as he felt his body being mutilated. Not content with that, the metallic creature began to tear apart the amorphous body of the Daemon rapidly and erratically in an angry frenzy, finally reducing it to miserable pieces of rotting flesh floating in a pool of blood and pus.

The rest of the infected could only watch in despair as their Daemonic guide was annihilated.

"Looks like you guys became Daemons, and since I'm a Daemon Hunter, that means I gotta slaughter you all," uttered the creature, in its raspy, distorted voice. "And if I kill you all, that means that my debt is gone!"

With that, it launched itself to the multitude, unleashing an orgy of blood and guts as it broke through in its wrathful attack, laughing in an unhinged manner. However, its laugh, while maniatic, was mixed with something that could only be described as a whimper of sadness. No matter how much it killed, the creature that once was Denjius lost something of immeasurable value.


Three new visitors from above had appeared in the Underhive, causing panic among the impoverished masses. Mutants, cultists, and xenos alike hid as best they could, trembling in dread as they watched from the shadows as two Arbites escorted a single woman, one wearing a symbol that struck terror into the hearts of those who knew its meaning.

The mysterious trio made their way to the abandoned factory, finding a river of blood flowing from within. Once they entered, they could see how hundreds of mutilated corpses lay scattered throughout the length and breadth of the place, all ravaged with remarkable fury.

"Looks like we came too late," mused the hooded woman as she walked among the corpses.

There, in the middle of the carnage, stood a bizarre creature with a human body but metallic limbs and head, with sharp clasps emerging from them. It lay still, head down, covered with blood and viscera.

"One is still alive," pointed out one of the Arbites, readying his weapon.

The woman approached the creature, looking at it in the face without any hint of fear.

"Curious. You don't smell like a human, but neither like a Daemon," she said as she looked at the corpses around her. "Are you perhaps responsible for this?"

The creature looked at her head on, barely managing to mumble a few simple words. "H-hold me."

Its body began falling to the ground, exhausted, only to be catched by the hooded woman, who held him close to her in an embrace. Just at that moment the metal that made up his diabolical face began to melt, falling to the ground in a liquid form, leaving in its place the face of a young blond boy.

"I see, so you were human," she noted.

"Is he possessed? A Daemonhost perhaps?" asked one of the armed men.

The woman shook her head. "No, you can tell a possession by their face. He's clean."

The female laid the tired boy on the ground while removing her hood, revealing her beautiful face and bright scarlet hair. A goddess of beauty in comparison to what was usually seen in those parts.

"I came here to hunt down a Daemon, but you beat me to it, and from what I see you used unholy assitance to do it. Now, you have two options to pick. You either die here like a heretic, or you get to live as my pet," she explained coldly, but ironically smiling in a friendly manner. "Of course, if you choose to be my pet, I promise you that I will feed you well."

The boy glanced at her with a tired look on his face, his mouth half open and barely conscious. However, he managed to make the effort to ask the most important question.

"What's food like?" he asked in a faint whisper.

"Some grox meat, vegetables, bread, and maybe fruit if you behave," she answered.

He looked at her in silence for a few seconds once he heard the offer.

"That sounds like heaven."