A line of Chaos Warriors does not charge so much as arrive: an advancing wall of black iron that shrugs off arrows, cannon-shot, and courage with the same indifference. Each warrior carries a lifetime of northern warfare inside armour no mortal smith could replicate, and swings his blade with a strength that owes as much to the gods' favour as to muscle. Empire drill-masters teach that it takes five state troopers to bring one down; veterans of the northern marches call that estimate optimistic.
Every Chaos Warrior was once merely a man: a marauder or tribesman who survived enough battles to attempt the long pilgrimage into the Wastes and win the gods' regard. The plate he returns in is a covenant rather than clothing: fused to the flesh, never removed, a visible pledge that its bearer has traded hearth, name, and homeland for a single upward road. Chaos Warriors do not raid for plunder anymore. They fight to be noticed.
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