The eastern battlefield, Ghost Rail.
This place was no flat plain, and the "rail" wasn't a single railway suspended directly over the Webway, either.
In truth, Ghost Rail had the typically complex terrain of Commorragh. Countless massive tracks, built over tens of thousands of years, intertwined, overlapped, and coiled around one another like a nest of giant serpents, forming a vast metal jungle.
Beneath the tracks lay a bottomless rift in the void.
On either side of the rift stood long-abandoned, rusted cargo containers, piled like mountains, amid the scattered remains of Spirit Bone.
Harold, commander of the rebel army's Eastern Front Sword Regiment, stood at a concealed observation post behind the main defensive line.
Directly ahead of him were the defenders, still putting up a desperate resistance, but it was nothing more than a last, dying struggle.
After days of fierce assaults, the garrison inside the Ghost Rail stronghold had long since run out of ammunition and supplies. Now, they were only buying time.
The real threat lay behind the rebel army.
Two full-strength Marauder Groups were closing in at tremendous speed under Amalfi's orders.
The enemy outnumbered them, outgunned them, and even had higher morale. They were nothing like the scattered stragglers the rebels had faced before.
Harold. It was almost laughable.
He had once been a Commissar who graduated from the Loyalist Academy of the Imperium of Man. But during a war, he had taken pity on the residents of a Hive City and failed to collect the Tithe. Branded a sinner, he was later caught in the Warp while being transported, and that was how he ended up in Commorragh.
After arriving in Commorragh as a slave, he had suffered torment and torture.
Harold had already fallen into complete despair when he met Alvin, a fellow