The surface of Absolution had been smeared filthy by the smoke of war and plunder.
The sky was leaden gray, mingled with black smoke from burning fires and the pale trails left by antiaircraft fire.
Abdullah's massive figure, clad in Power Armour covered in blasphemous carvings, stood at the center of a large Word Bearers warehousing hub they had just captured.
Beneath his feet lay shattered concrete and toppled crates. The air was thick with dust, acrid gunsmoke, and the distinctive smell of a logistics base—a mixture of food, medicine, and raw materials.
"Faster! Faster! Move those hands and feet! Empty it all! Not a single grain of food or a single screw is to be left behind!" The voice of the Second Legion's overseer blared through external speakers, hoarse and laden with unquestionable authority.
The overseers did not carry anything themselves. Like mobile watchtowers, they patrolled the chaotic scene of plunder, occasionally lashing out with long whips that left scorched marks beside servants who moved too slowly, provoking terrified wails and even more frantic labor.
His plan was simple and greedy: launch a lightning assault with overwhelmingly superior numbers, then plunder as many supplies, as much equipment, and as many people as possible from this prosperous frontier world before the Word Bearers' main force returned—whether for slaves or recruits.
Time was everything. Efficiency was life.
All around him, a frenzy of plunder unfolded.
Thousands upon thousands of captured mortal servants, most of them sallow and emaciated, with numb eyes and ragged homespun clothing, toiled like worker ants under the prodding of traitor Space Marines and even more vicious mutant taskmasters.
They pushed, pulled, and hauled all manner of transport vehicles, moving supplies from warehouse after warehouse in a steady stream onto the transport ships parked nearby with their cargo