Battle Report: The False Vault

The Lodge of Infinite Rage and the Graven Golems had come together in an uneasy alliance, bound by a singular goal: to breach the ancient vault hidden beneath the underhive. Rumours spoke of untold riches, lost tech, or perhaps something far more valuable waiting beyond the thick steel doors.

But as they neared the site, the two gangs were met with an unexpected sight—a ramshackle shantytown built around the vault entrance. Crude market stalls, battered fuel tanks, and scattered piles of crates sat beneath loose tarpaulins. It looked more like a trading post than the gateway to treasure. The gangs moved cautiously through the half-abandoned streets, scanning the settlement’s scurrying inhabitants. Something wasn’t right.

Then the first attempt to breach the vault came.

Korgan, a fire-crazed initiate of the Lodge, lobbed an incendiary grenade at the towering steel door—four stories high, thick enough to withstand centuries. The fire shouldn’t have done anything. And yet, when the flames licked across the surface, something strange happened. The metal blackened, bubbled. A groan echoed from within. The prospectors shot each other uneasy glances. Vault doors weren’t supposed to give that easily.

Driller, a Squat Drill Master perched high on a walkway, squeezed the trigger of his autogun. A burst of fire rang out, but the rounds barely left a scratch. He swore as his weapon unexpectedly ran dry, its mechanism clogged with tunnel grime.

Meanwhile, the gangs spread out. The Golems, ever pragmatic, picked through nearby crates. One prospector, using his trained pet, popped a lock and hit the jackpot—a cache of credits, likely stolen from previous would-be vault raiders. A Corpse Grinder, lacking such finesse, grew frustrated with his own locked crate and turned to more satisfying prey—the terrified settlement inhabitants scrambling for shelter.

At the vault, a series of melee strikes from the cultists did little, their blades shrieking harmlessly off the metal. Then, the Charter Master of the Graven Golems—Graven Iron-Shaper himself—stepped forward, his massive mining tool humming to life. Plasma seared through the metal, carving a deep, molten wound into the structure. The vault let out a metallic wail, its weakened frame buckling.

That was all the invitation Seymour, a blood-mad Skinner, needed. With a roar, he hurled himself forward, his rotary flensing-saw shrieking as it chewed through the sundered steel. The vault door gave way with a final groaning protest, collapsing inward with a deafening crash.

Then the trap was sprung.

A whine of servos. The clatter of shifting debris.

Gun platforms rose from concealed recesses in the walls. Two twin-linked heavy stubbers swiveled into position, their barrels locking onto movement. Grenade launchers tracked heat signatures. The few remaining settlers fled into the shadows, leaving behind only cold, unfeeling sentry turrets to do their work.

The first shots rang out, cutting down Claim Jumper—the hired gun in the Golems’ employ. He barely had time to react before the stubbers found their mark, rounds punching through his armor. He hit the ground hard, his body twitching. His kin hesitated, momentarily rattled.

The Corpse Grinders, however, responded with fury. An initiate hurled himself at one of the heavy stubber nests, hacking wildly, but his blades barely scratched its plating. His luck held just long enough to dodge the return fire, bullets shredding the air around him.

From the walkways above, a Golem spotted an opportunity. If he didn’t act, more of his kin would fall. Sprinting out into the open, he made a desperate dash for one of the grenade launcher control panels. A deafening explosion sent shrapnel flying, but he pressed on, slamming into the console and wrenching it to his will. With a hiss of servos, the turret whirred away from his allies, its barrels now harmlessly aimed at a distant wall.

The melee raged below. A Grinder waded through the gunfire, unscathed, his butcher’s mask blackened with soot, his breath coming in heavy, snarling bursts. Angrak, the Harvest Lord, stormed the remaining heavy stubber nest, his paired cleavers swinging in brutal arcs. Sparks flew as one blade carved through a barrel, silencing half the weapon. The turret sputtered, still firing from its remaining gun, but it was losing the battle.

Meanwhile, the Golems, wary of betrayal, had been holding back, positioning themselves to counter a possible backstab from their temporary allies. But now they faced their own problem—they were running dangerously low on ammo. Autoguns clicked dry, forcing them to reload as the sentry guns continued their onslaught.

Then, another explosion—this one far closer.

The Grinder who had been fiddling with a locked loot crate made a grave mistake. A concealed booby trap detonated, sending him flying backward in a cloud of shredded metal and scorched fabric. He groaned, battered but alive. The same couldn’t be said for Claim Jumper, who had stopped moaning entirely.

Finally, with a last, combined effort, the turrets fell silent. Bullet casings littered the ground, smoke curled from ruined emplacements, and the stench of burned flesh and ozone filled the air.

For a moment, the survivors turned to their leaders.

Would the truce hold?

But the rage of both gangs wasn’t for each other—it was for the settlement dwellers who had lured them into this deathtrap.

The Lodge of Infinite Rage and the Graven Golems ransacked the shantytown, dragging out the few stragglers who hadn’t fled in time. Faced with furious cultists and vengeful prospectors, the survivors quickly turned over anything of value.

For their efforts, the Lodge of Infinite Rage claimed a Cartographic Overlay—one of the rare surviving maps of Sector G12. More than just a relic, it was an active tactical boon. With its guidance, a fighter could deploy beyond the usual constraints, slipping ahead of the enemy before the battle even began.

The Graven Golems, ever pragmatic, uncovered something more tangible: an Ablative Energy Shield. A relic of ancient craftsmanship, the phase generator could withstand almost any attack—once. It granted its wearer an impenetrable 2+ armor save, but the power core would burn out after a single impact.

Satisfied with their spoils, the gangs turned their backs on the ruined settlement. But their work was far from done. Word of their deeds had already spread. New recruits were waiting at their strongholds —young, ambitious fighters eager to join those who had bested the False Vault.

For the Lodge of Infinite Rage, victory was celebrated in blood and excess. Their Gambling Den rang with cheers as they bet big on a King of Spades, collecting riches and feasting on fresh meat—no doubt the remains of the treacherous settlers.

But elsewhere, in the depths of the underhive, the real vault still lay hidden. Beyond rusted gates and forgotten passageways, something awaited. And Billy’s Scrappers and Barry Hood’s Barry Men had a new lead. They had made their own truce.

For now.