The rift tearing across the galaxy continued to accelerate in its distortion. Within this vast seascape where the Sea of Souls intertwined with the material universe—an abyss of dread where the two beca indistinguishable—the ever-shifting contest of the Immaterium’s laws drew the attention of all beings.
The Father of Decay—the Lord of Pestilence, the Great Corruptor, the God of Plague and Disease... had fallen!
Many eyes turned toward this cataclysmic change.
In the superdinsional heights above the Immaterium, the eruption of emotion and passion—unfathomable to mortals—rippled through the veil that separated the real universe and the Warp, setting off waves upon the boiling surface of this ethereal sea.
A massive storm was gathering within the Warp. Vast, violent tides of dark energy converged in their full fury.
Two opposing laws clashed with blinding intensity: the sickly, putrid greenish-yellow curtain of decay was being overshadowed by the budding, radiant violet-red canopy of rebirth.
The crystalline forest that had sprouted from the Garden of Plagues had already shattered the rotting black fences woven from decayed vines—now transforming into a sea of forests!
Nurgle had been defeated.
He had fallen before the newborn Chaos God—the Supre Goddess of Destruction and Collapse—Finality!
Within the Great Rift, beyond the two titanic entities locked in struggle, the kaleidoscopic storms of energy allowed the discerning to glimpse other presences:
The most striking was the blood-red hue reeking of iron and copper—emanating from the Skull Throne, from the Brass Citadel. It belonged to Khorne—the Blood God—whose thunderous growl of fury and anticipation echoed through the void.
The blood god’s lust for slaughter and fresh blood surged uncontrollably. He gazed upon every act of carnage between the two realms with joyous fervor.
Then ca the eerie, ever-shifting blue—a reflection of the Crystal Labyrinth upon the rainbow plateau, filled with sharp whispers and sinister laughter.
Ever-changing and elusive, Tzeentch—shrouded in deceit—hid behind the crimson veil, glancing left and right. Like a bird with fanged talons and feathers of glass, he clawed toward the endless reaches of reality, scheming even as he circled warily.
And then, the ambiguous, seductive violet-pink glow—flowing from the Realm of Pleasure, from the Fortress of Excess—where Slaanesh’s shrieks of ecstasy rang wild and unrestrained.
Compared to his elders, the youngest god seed slightly less formidable. Thin wisps of pink mist slithered into the battlefields of pure destruction and death, seeping into the gardens behind the Black Palace of Damnation.
Red sneered, blue cheered, and then ca laughter—pleasured, delirious laughter climbing ever upward.
Strange emotions stirred. A sudden sense of sha and emptiness filled all hearts—a desire for repentance after indulgence. Only the Aeldari wept uncontrollably.
A cry—a mother’s cry. They knew it well. It was the farewell lant of the "Mother."
Yet none noticed that...
A faint, nearly imperceptible glimr of golden light—cold, yet carrying a trace of warmth—pierced through the curtain of Finality’s power. It crossed the veil between realspace and the Warp, carrying with it the essence of a king, a galactic overlord, an unfeeling tyrant, a failed father, a rciless craftsman...
It was a call.
...
In the depths of the Eye of Terror—on the planet Sicarus.
A gray, desolate world. Beneath its pitch-black sky, the land was scarred by decay, twisted, corrupted beyond salvation.
Perhaps once, it had been a world of harmony and beauty. Now, it was defiled—lifeless.
The surface bore the hue of dried blood. Endless sacrificial pits stretched from one horizon to the other, ending only at the edge of jagged cliffs.
Sand, shattered stone, and heaps of skulls mingled with the blackened corpses of mutants and abominations, so thoroughly blended that one could scarcely distinguish bone from stone or steel from flesh.
Upon this field of blasphemous bones stood an enormous fortress, shaped like a monastery—yet desecrated beyond recognition.
Its glittering spires and elegant balconies had been twisted into grotesque, pulsating tumors. Smooth marble had beco coarse flesh. The sacred was replaced by the obscene.
Upon the eight-pointed star of Chaos, severed heads hung from the cavernous ceilings—so still twitching.
Even impaled living beings writhed among them.
Their screams and struggles were futile, for this was the world of the Word Bearers—the traitor legion’s Daemon planet.
"The Great Rift—it’s a divine revelation! Our Lords have heard our prayers! Praise the Blood God! Praise the Prince of Pleasure! Praise the Changer of Ways! Praise the Lord of Destruction and Collapse! Praise the God of Pla—"
Like ghostly whispers lingering in the dark, the deep, guttural voice kept repeating the invocation over and over.
Dark red armor glead under flickering candlelight, its jagged edges shifting with every movent.
They were the fallen Word Bearers. Their armor was carved with dense profane runes, the edges adorned with razor-sharp spikes—so grown from twisted tal, others from bone. Even their swollen, ruptured flesh was inscribed with prayer markings.
The leading Dark Apostle wore no helt. His pale, bald head was crowned with horns and coarse, reddish-brown skin—his face etched with warped scripture. In one hand he held a staff topped with the eight-pointed star, while his filed teeth chattered incessantly with manic devotion.
It was yet another grand sacrificial ceremony.
"I heard the ’Plague’ legion isn’t too pleased," one muttered.
"After all, our benevolent Father of Decay was the one who lost ground, wasn’t he?"
The towering columns and arches, sculpted from bone, were slick with blood. Several unhelted Word Bearers with forked tongues drank deeply from crimson goblets, their laughter sharp and shrill.
Though the Word Bearers were a Chaos Undivided legion, nominally worshiping all the Dark Gods, factional divisions had always existed. Even their prayers carried personal biases.
"Has any brother-Chapter figured out what the new god favors?"
"No idea. But if this new god were to bestow blessings, our blood brothers would surely hold a massive ritual in celebration. They’d never stay quiet about it."
"True enough. Our blood brothers are too shallow—half-hearted and insincere. The Lord of Destruction must be honored with cataclysm, not petty bloodletting anyone can do."
"Perhaps it’s ti for the Word Bearers to act. Abaddon’s Black Legion has failed yet again—losing n, losing the Vengeful Spirit, even his own life on Cadia."
"Unfortunately, due to the Chaos Gods’ struggle for dominance, divination is impossible. My brothers in the Warp are silent. Has the First Chaplain not returned yet?"
"They say it was the work of the Corpse Emperor’s cursed son..."
"Hmph! The False Emperor’s sorcery and tricks. Even if a Primarch returns—so what? Do we not have our own Primarch?"
"Abaddon, heheh... ’The era of the Primarchs is over,’ is it? Such arrogance. Foolish, weak, failed Abaddon—a reckless pretender who stole the title of Warmaster. He paid with his life, as he should have."
Perhaps in the days when the Black Legion still held strength, the Word Bearers wouldn’t have dared to mock him so openly. They might even have cooperated with the Despoiler’s campaigns. But now—dead n hold no power. The words of the defeated are nothing but ash.
Respect? Hah. That is not the way of Chaos.
"A warband without a Primarch is rely a pawn of the gods. A legion? Without a Primarch, dare it call itself a legion? Only we are the Dark Gods’ true chosen. I can hardly wait to savor the wailing of those pitiful fools beneath the False Emperor’s corpse throne."
"Hahaha... Let the destruction of those pathetic drears stand as our devotion to the Dark Gods... our fait—hiss—"
They never finished their sentence.
Agony—unlike anything they had ever felt—struck all at once.
Since their embrace of Chaos, never had they experienced pain so deep, so absolute. It reached into their very genes—the remnants of demi-god bloodlines—awakening, echoing, crying out in tornt. Both of their hearts thrashed violently, screaming warnings they could not comprehend.
The pain ca swiftly—and vanished just as quickly. When one of them looked up to et the gaze of his gene-brother, both understood without speaking.
You felt it too?
"What... what just happened?"
When they looked again toward the altar beneath the columns, the endless chanting had ceased. In its place lay shattered bones and multicolored entrails. The Chaos staff of solid auramite, once held by their apostle, was half-buried in the heap of flesh—impossibly conspicuous.
"Enem—"
Before the nearest Word Bearer could even draw his weapon, the dim candlelight flickered—and from within their shadows rose a tall, black silhouette, engulfing them all.
The giant was so imnse that even veteran Word Bearers, who had survived ten millennia since their ascension to daemonhood, seed like children before him.
Beneath his disheveled black fringe was a pale, sorrowful face untouched by Chaos corruption. Tears stread silently from eyes as dark and pure as the endless night—cold and utterly devoid of warmth—as they fixed upon the heretics.
On his pauldrons glead a single emblem—the raven of the Night Lords, seen but for an instant. The leading sorcerer’s eyes widened, his fanged mouth trembling in disbelief. "Corax..."
Zheng—!
The massive lightning claws known as Raven’s Talons shimred with pale light, their edges sharp enough to cleave the air itself—and indeed, they did. With a single sweeping motion, ceramite and auramite armor were torn apart, flesh and bone reduced to crimson mist under overwhelming kinetic force.
The dozen Word Bearers surrounding the pillars never even managed to disengage the safety on their weapons before being sliced cleanly into eight pieces.
Zzt—
Shrrrk—
Silent and spectral, the nineteenth Primarch—Father of the Raven Guard—Corvus Corax, clad in the Emperor’s gift, the Sable Armour, moved like a shadow through the blasphemous fortress. His form flickered between the Word Bearers like a ghost, harvesting lives with inhuman precision.
In less than ten seconds, the pile of corpses reached the height of the columns. The profane hymns ceased, replaced by an eternal, suffocating silence.
"Father..."
After his work was done, Corax halted. Around him lay only mangled remains and congealed gore. The stench of rot filled the air, yet he paid it no mind. His damp eyes turned upward, toward the void beyond the do.
There it was—the Great Rift, tearing across the galaxy.
With his golden fist pressed to his chest, Corax slowly opened his eyes, his voice heavy with loneliness. "Why... why have you beco this, Father? The Imperium... your dream, my dream—how did it co to this?"
"The olive branch of the Chaos Gods... why did you take it? Why? Is it because She is the newborn Chaos God—that you thought She could be bargained with?"
"All kindness is deception. She will be nothing but a stronger, crueler master. In the end, we will all be made to serve Her desire!"
Corax could not understand.
"The Imperium is on the brink of collapse... and yet you accepted such poisoned aid, knowing full well its price..."
Just monts ago, while stalking the Word Bearers’ Daemon world—hoping for a chance to strike down the vile sorcerer who spawned this heresy—he had heard it: a low, distant call from the Chaos dinsion above the Immaterium. It was his father’s voice—familiar, yet unbearably alien.
’My child... Corax... Nineteen... return... join... Her armies...’
A single voice—yet it carried the weight of billions of breaths, a chorus of awe and despair whispering through his mind. Ethereal and mournful, faint as wind over the dead.
The Emperor had once denied His godhood. But the dull storm raging in Corax’s mind told him otherwise. His Father had begun the ascent toward divinity—only one step away from godhood!
Raised upon the Throne—a silent, unwilling god!
Through the violet-red fissure of the Warp, Corax had glimpsed the Immaterium: a frozen void where a pale sun burned eternally, and beside it, the silhouette of a Star God shrouded in destruction and endless darkness.
"Emperor... the Golden Throne’s power fades... the Throneworld will beco the next Eye of Terror... your people will perish... this is a fair bargain..."
And in that mont, Corax thought he saw Terra itself—the Golden Throne, and upon it, his Father’s decayed, withered corpse. Around Him coiled serpentine tendrils of violet light, whispering temptations in sweet tones as they crept up His body, crawling toward the Throne’s steps...
Every ti he recalled that vision, Corax felt pain beyond endurance—sharper than the betrayal of Isstvan V.
"I must return to Terra!"
Corax refused to believe that his father—the Emperor—had willingly sought godhood. There had to be another reason. There was always sothing hidden, so secret plan—just like before, when He acted alone, deciding everything by Himself.
"Cadia... the site of Chaos’s greatest defeat. I must uncover what Father’s words truly an."
anwhile, within the Webway labyrinth, the lingering storm of Finality’s Warp power enveloped the Emperor’s will, carrying it onward.
’Five... Six... Commorragh... Terra...’
A horse’s whinny and a wolf’s proud howl echoed together.
’One...’
Within Imperial space, on a death world blanketed by dense forests and howling mountains—
’Eighteen...’
’Seven...’
’Thirteen... awaken.’
...
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