A legend had always circulated through the hive cities of Holy Terra: whenever night fell, a righteous champion known as Batman would appear. And if you had a guilty conscience and happened to run into Batman, you'd better pray you had a bottle of ice-cold Nuka-Cola in your hand.
As the most densely populated place in the human realm, Terra's hive cities had become the industry's gold standard, sprawling across half a continent. They weren't just places where people gathered; they were proof of the Imperium's almost fantastical materials science, and another important piece of evidence the Imperial Fists used when relentlessly dissing the Iron Warriors.
Rivals were natural enemies. Whenever the Lemon Cans and the Little Bees crossed paths, they always argued over who was the Imperium's greatest architect. Their disputes gradually escalated into savage brawls, punches landing with all the force of a manly slugfest.
Over the past ten thousand years, the Iron Warriors had built a fortress line along the Great Rift, stretching across half the galaxy. Their madness knew no bounds: even in the Warp, one could see the iron shadow of the line, stained with countless restless souls.
Yet despite building such a magnificent wonder, whenever an argument broke out, the Iron Warriors' cans could never outshout the Imperial Fists. That was because the Imperial Fists had built the entire Solar Segmentum's defensive line and taken on all construction work on humanity's homeworld, including the Imperial Palace.
But at that very moment, Dorn wanted to drag over the bastard who had built the hive cities and strap a Pain Glove onto his junk before giving him a couple of good punches.
Damn it, why had the hive cities become so bloated?
Looking at the architectural plans his sons had just unsealed for him, Dorn could