Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor Chapter 412 - 413: Abaddon — We've Found Them, Mobilize the

In the darkened hall...

Ghosts wailed and screeched as they fluttered in the air, their cries echoing in a ghastly chorus.

"I call upon Your na, O Eternal in Flux... grant Your revelation..."

The Grand Sorcerer Zaraphis stood in trance, his pupils veiled in milky film, reciting a complex and forbidden incantation — a plea to the all-seeing, all-knowing god of change and chaos.

He sought the insight of the Changer of Ways — to be gifted with wisdom and clarity.

Abaddon stood atop the stairs, watching with unmistakable discomfort.

He despised the treacherous god of change, yet he had no choice but to rely on its power — always needing to discern if the answers granted were laced with lies.

As the incantation deepened—

A ritual circle glowed beneath their feet. From its center, a column of shimring blue Chaos energy surged upward. Several eyeless sorcerers, bound in rune-etched iron chains, thrashed and murmured maddening whispers.

"I hear it... I see a glimpse of fate! The answer..."

Zaraphis strained his ears, sorting through the endless stream of lunatic babble:

"The Terror Legion... they lie in the northern star clusters, hidden amidst a storm of ruin.

Their god... they worship one nad Diablo... a newly born god of Chaos. He is... who? Just who is He?"

The sorcerer's brows furrowed — the more he listened, the more confused he beca. Even that unknowable being seed incapable of finding the answer.

Zzzzzrk!

A high-pitched shriek of violent psychic backlash erupted. The bound prophets began dying off one by one, black sli oozing from their orifices, so with heads violently rupturing.

It seed the Eternal in Flux had encountered sothing — and severed the connection in rage.

The ritual collapsed in a violent surge of force.

"No!"

Zaraphis was flung across the chamber, crashing into the corroded, rusted wall of the sanctum.

From the abyssal void, rotten arms of decay and death stretched out, clawing at Zaraphis as if trying to drag him into the unknown.

"That damned Chaos liar! What's He playing at now?!"

Abaddon stord forward, the Talon of Horus erupting in fla and burning away all the foul specters, seizing the sorcerer with one massive hand.

His crimson eyes glowed cold. "Did you get anything useful?"

Zaraphis gasped for breath, replying shakily,

"The ritual... went awry. The Lord of All Knowledge... didn't like my question. He gave no insight into Diablo. But I did learn where the Terror Legion is..."

"Hmph. Just another obscure Chaos preacher... likely a fabricated entity. Not worth the concern."

Abaddon didn't seem bothered.

The Warp teed with self-proclaid gods. Few were worthy of regard.

He only cared for the tangible happenings within the galaxy. The Chaos gods were, at most, tools to be exploited.

As for the Terror Legion? They were just so fledgling little faction — hardly worth naming among his enemies.

The only reason the Chaos Warmaster even considered crushing them was because they had grown too arrogant — and he needed to vent his recent frustration.

Abaddon studied the star map that Zaraphis had marked.

It was a zone wracked by Warp storms — a chaotic and barren stretch of space. He sneered at the thought of the Terror Legion cowering like gutter pirates in such desolate terrain.

Finding them in a place like that wouldn't be easy.

Then a thought struck him — and his interest piqued.

If the Terror Legion had secured so many resources in such a barren hellscape, maybe there was more at play... perhaps an ancient vault, or an uncharted mineral-rich system.

If the Black Legion could claim such a prize, it might ease so of their current strains.

As for the so-called "Dark Foundry" technology the Terror Legion boasted... it wasn't anything new. Just unnecessarily flashy.

A waste of good materials!

"You, my prophet — what did you see?"

Abaddon turned to another seer, Chaos Oracle Moriana, his gaze cooling slightly.

Because of the capricious nature of Tzeentch, he always preferred to cross-reference prophetic answers with another.

Moriana leaned on her withered black staff, Warp energy fading from around her.

She conjured a star map in the air and pointed to a certain region.

"They are here... but fate warns . This place bears danger..."

Abaddon's brows furrowed.

Though the search zone had narrowed, it still spanned several sectors — and the Warp storms only complicated things.

"Is there no precise coordinate?"

"War... Warmaster, perhaps... I already have the exact position."

A Tzeentchian aide hesitated — then spoke:

"In one of their recruitnt broadcasts... the Terror Legion gave exact coordinates, along with a route map..."

He pointed toward a darkened chanical construct on the floor.

At so point, it had begun flickering again, projecting shaky visuals.

But the device was clearly damaged — its recordings looped in wild, unfiltered chaos:

Erotic clips of the Chaos Warmaster and a dual-gendered commander in a compromising embrace.

Terror Legion recruitnt ads with their warriors posed gloriously.

The complete coordinate map.

Everyone saw it.

The recording — crude and glitchy — laid bare every embarrassing detail. And that star map? It was detailed: complete routes, hazard zones, and more.

So considerate it almost felt like a taunt.

Even worse, the coordinates matched the region Moriana had pointed out — turning all their prophetic rituals into a joke.

Sultry voiceovers occasionally accompanied the flickering projections, only worsening the humiliation.

Toward the back of the chamber...

A certain Slaaneshi commander shrank down, sneaking a glance toward Abaddon's tall, imposing figure — a trace of anticipation glimred in his heavily painted, androgynous features.

He hoped he was the one in the projection.

Then quickly looked down, pretending innocence — praying the Warmaster hadn't noticed.

Silence fell over the hall.

But everyone could feel it — the temperature dropping, the crushing pressure of restrained rage.

"...Aide. Did you morize that star map?"

Abaddon's voice cut through the quiet — low, hoarse, freezing.

"...Y-yes, my lord."

The Tzeentchian aide didn't dare lift his head, cursing his own foolishness. He should've pretended not to notice anything and let the Warmaster find it himself.

"Good. Begin preparations. I expect a full invasion plan."

Abaddon appeared calm. With a flick of his hand, he crushed the projection device beneath his boot — strolling back toward his throne.

Then, almost casually, he added with deadly nace:

"...And never again allow these things within my fortress."

"Y-Yes!"

The aide nodded like a woodpecker, desperate to flee.

Abaddon waved his hand, dismissing the gathering.

The Chaos lords quickly dispersed — none daring to linger. The Tzeentchian aide was the first out, almost sprinting in relief.

At the hall's exit, the Slaaneshi commander sneaked one final glance at Abaddon's broad back...

Lost in so unspeakable thought.

"Bastards!"

Once the chamber was empty, Abaddon erupted in fury.

His chest heaved with burning wrath — grinding his teeth hard enough to crack them.

His clenched hand crushed the alloy throne's armrest into twisted scrap.

It felt like the entire galaxy was conspiring against him — the Regent of the Imperium, the Chaos raiders, every Chaos warband, the Terror Legion, even this mysterious new god Diablo.

Each of them — stripping away his authority.

But slowly, Abaddon cald.

This humiliation was temporary. It would not break the great Chaos Warmaster, the Grand Despoiler.

He was still the mightiest in the Eye of Terror — and commanded the largest force.

He would one day rule the galaxy.

The only rightful master of mankind.

No one could deny him this fate.

...

Days Later

Abaddon made it official.

He declared the Terror Legion an enemy of the Black Legion and began mass mobilization.

Within a deep chamber of a space fortress...

A lone Chaos Space Marine was quietly repairing his power armor — deeply focused, a far cry from the frenzied berserker he'd be on the battlefield.

Every warrior had to learn this craft. Even basic repairs were essential.

Because most of them, especially those at the fringes of power, received little logistical support.

And if your armor shattered mid-battle, you'd only et disgrace and defeat.

As the Chaos warrior worked diligently to repair his battered armor, his gaze occasionally drifted to a nearby recruitnt poster for the Terror Legion. In his eyes shimred a faint glimr of envy... and longing.

He wanted to be one of them.

Then ca the summoning orders — the Chaos warrior's expression lit up in surprise and joy. Without hesitation, he stuffed the recruitnt notice deep into the rotting cavity of his abdon and donned his armor.

He marched out.

On the way, his eyes t those of several other Chaos warriors. In that brief exchange, a silent understanding passed between them.

They all moved toward the assembly area.

The Black Legion had recently intensified its surveillance, cracking down on any attempts by warriors to defect. Lone individuals had no ans of reaching the rumored haven that was the Black Abyss.

But now... now, they had a chance.

These disgruntled soldiers, tired of being overlooked and undervalued, planned to use the chaos of war to slip away — to flee to the mythical Black Abyss and offer themselves to the Dark Prince, to Diablo the Destroyer.

... The M|V@|.LE&!M@P!YR- t&ea m. w!orked h.ard* on th#i s- c.h^a^p$t^e.r..

Black Legion Staging Grounds

Above the Black Legion's stronghold, a vast number of Chaos warships gathered, radiating nace.

Abaddon stood on the observation deck, staring up at his fleet — a force that he hoped would return triumphant and laden with spoils.

This campaign did not require his personal involvent — not yet. The Terror Legion didn't rit it.

In all the Eye of Terror — perhaps even the galaxy — there were only a handful of powers worthy of a Chaos Warmaster's personal march.

Besides, soone had to stay behind and secure their hold.

Still, Abaddon took no chances.

According to initial assessnts, the Terror Legion numbered fewer than 8,000 warriors — most of whom were defectors from the Black Legion or other lesser Chaos factions.

They weren't elite — rely fringe troops who had turned their backs on their masters. They hadn't had enough ti to beco a real threat.

Their fleet was even smaller — pitiful, really.

Yet the Eye of Terror was in utter disarray, war raging on all fronts. The Black Legion itself was embroiled in multiple large-scale conflicts with over a dozen major Chaos factions, and its core strength was committed to the Watchstar Warzone.

Resources were tight.

To muster even 15,000 Chaos Marines for this extermination campaign was already far above what most would consider appropriate.

Still... the warning from Chaos Seer Moriana lingered in Abaddon's thoughts.

Overconfidence and pride — lethal flaws for any general.

He knew better.

So the Warmaster doubled the deploynt — sending two Chaos commanders, over 600 warships and battle groups, and more than 30,000 Chaos Space Marines.

An overwhelming show of force to crush the nascent Terror Legion and strip their base to the bone.

Watching the fleet depart, Abaddon's crimson eyes glead with iron resolve:

"Perhaps... the destruction of the Terror Legion will mark the true resurgence of the Black Legion."

...

Black Abyss

On the sprawling plaza of the fortress world, the Dark Foundry shrines stood tall and foreboding.

Terror Legion warriors returned one after another from raids — each laden with spoils and captives. Every soldier had earned their haul.

Their achievents — asured in trophies, captured slaves, and looted resources — would be converted into Blood Points.

The internal currency of the Terror Legion — and more precious than gold.

Disembarking from their warships, warriors stord toward the exchange shrines, dragging captives, hoisting severed heads, or carting exotic loot.

The air rang with violent celebration.

In the distance, even more Chaos structures were being erected. Laborers, so with tentacles and multi-eyed visages, toiled tirelessly, wiping sweat from their monstrous faces.

But their expressions?

Joyous.

There was hope here — hope for a future.

"So much life... such vitality..."

Eden's awareness, anchored in the statue of the Dark Prince, observed it all with satisfaction.

He watched as warriors spent their freshly earned Blood Points — all rushing toward the Dark Foundry Shrine.

It was working.

He had crafted this economic system with great care — a system designed for the warriors.

...

Dark Foundry Shrine

Rotting tentacles curled around its architecture. Bones and floating eyeballs crackled with fla.

All manner of gear was displayed on black altars — elite power armor, custom weapons, ammunition, Chaos Centurions, Helbrutes... even Hell Drakes and hatchlings.

Here, warriors could use Blood Points to purchase anything: gear, vehicles, land, or even the temporary service of other warriors.

So veterans, flush with points, indulged themselves. They eagerly picked out the most flamboyant armants and left broke — but satisfied.

Savings?

Ha. Never heard of her.

anwhile, those with fewer points gazed longingly at the altar's bounty. So were even tempted to steal.

But they didn't dare.

Because anyone foolish enough to try would be imdiately labeled as walking Blood Points — fair ga for the others.

Eden's gaze shifted toward the accessories section.

Just as he suspected — the busiest area by far.

On these altars were explosive, grotesque, and gaudy accessories:

Capes woven from screaming souls

Skull-shaped warp trinkets

Blackfla Demon Wings

Tentacle-wrapped chestplates

Each dripping with special effects.

The gear here wasn't useful — not really. But it looked damn good.

For example, the Wailing Soul Cloak did little in real combat. Its shrieks might startle a civilian, but had no effect on Astartes.

Didn't matter.

It looked like a relic-tier artifact. Style over substance.

Especially since all Terror Legion armor was uniform — identical patterns. Chaos Marines, more than their Imperial cousins, valued intimidation and status symbols.

They wanted to stand out.

And nothing scread "alpha" like rare, limited-edition costic trophies.

The rarer and more outrageous the piece, the more likely it would draw challengers — and thus, more glory.

Recently, there had been dozens of duels over rare items. More than ten Terror Legionnaires had been slain in these battles — beyond saving.

This only made the accessories more desirable.

In the Legion's hierarchy, wearing standard armor without any trophy bling was social suicide — it ant you had no victories, no Blood Points, and no respect.

Exactly what Eden intended.

Because by pushing this vanity arms race, he could:

Sell extravagant trophy gear at inflated prices

Reclaim Blood Points at minimal cost

Cycle resources efficiently

Without such asures, the welfare system would beco unsustainable.

But once the Legion grew — once its forces looted more worlds — the Blood Point economy might even turn profitable.

"Still too slow..."

Eden sighed.

The army wasn't growing fast enough. With just over 10,000 Terror Legionnaires, they weren't ready for the upcoming Plague Wars.

Sure, the current wave of captives might push that number to 30,000.

But reaching 50,000 in ti? That was another story.

The real issue was fa.

The Dark Prince and Diablo the Destroyer just didn't have the na recognition yet.

Without prestige, even bribes and promises of power weren't enough to lure in the proud elite of Chaos.

Veteran warriors refused to serve an unknown god.

Eden mused aloud:

"Hmm... Maybe it's ti for a 'friendly exhibition match' between the Dark Prince and the Savior, or the Devourer of Gods."

That way, he could use one persona to boost the other.

Let the Dark Prince steal the spotlight in a public clash. Let Diablo's fa piggyback on the Savior's — and throw so shade at Ka'Bandha, the infamous blood-crazed daemon.

A little clout-leeching off Big K couldn't hurt.

After all, in the Age of the Warp, where gods rarely manifest physically, their reputation ca entirely from their followers.

Winning by association.

Eden sent this marketing plan to the Savior's propaganda departnt.

A massive galactic dia crossover needed preparation — buzz, hype, drama.

Can't just flex out of nowhere and expect people to care.

Then he turned to defense.

It was still the growth phase.

He needed airtight defensive plans — if the Legion's headquarters were ever discovered and destroyed, it would be a devastating loss.

No risks.

Only moves with calculated payoff.

(End of Chapter)

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