Asmodai had once again proven his prowess in interrogation. Even when faced with a deranged, Chaos-ravaged cultist, he could extract reliable intelligence within days.
"Lord Efilar," Asmodai began, his voice steady, "Abaddon remains aboard the Vengeful Spirit. The battle on Vigilus has driven his black host to the edge of collapse. The Greater Daemons now deem him an incompetent leader, blaming his weakness for the loss of the Vigilus Campaign. As it stands, he commands only a fragment of his Black Legion aboard the Vengeful Spirit."
Within the command headquarters, Asmodai delivered his report directly to Efilar.
Having relayed all he had learned, Asmodai hesitated, then added with a rare glint of eagerness,
"My lord, under these circumstances, I believe that if we strike swiftly and decisively, we can assault the Vengeful Spirit, sever the head of the Dark Warmaster, and retreat before the ruinous powers in the Immaterium can react."
Efilar nodded thoughtfully. "It is feasible. Our current strength is sufficient to launch a precision strike, to bring death to the Dark Warmaster himself."
Murmurs of grim approval rippled through the chamber. Every loyal servant of the Imperium had, at one time or another, fantasized about ending Abaddon's blighted existence — to sever his head from his body and earn undying glory in the name of the Emperor and the Imperium.
Now, the chance lay before them. How could they not grasp for it?
For over ten millennia, Abaddon the Despoiler had been a blight upon humanity.
He had launched thirteen Black Crusades against the Imperium. In the earlier Crusades, he wrought terrible carnage, but achieved little lasting gain.
Yet in the Twelfth Black Crusade, within the Gothic Sector, he captured the Blackstone Fortresses — ancient weapons of unfathomable power — and shattered entire star systems.
During the Thirteenth Crusade, he breached the Cadian Gate itself, rending reality and leaving a festering scar across the galaxy: the Great Rift.
Abaddon's name had thus gained a meaning beyond terror — he represented unity among the otherwise fractious and chaotic forces of the Warp. Under his iron will, daemons who knew nothing of loyalty or order rallied into a cataclysmic tide of destruction, striking at the Imperium's most vital arteries again and again.
None loyal to the Emperor could suffer such an enemy to live.
Efilar and the other high officers of the command swiftly resolved: they would strike personally, to end this ancient threat.
If Efilar could present Abaddon's head to Warmaster Dukel, it would be a triumph remembered across ages.
Yet across the warp, tides of malevolence churned.
It was no coincidence that Efilar had uncovered Abaddon's weakened state.
The Emperor — the true and Eternal Emperor of Mankind — had declared war upon the Ruinous Powers themselves. Alone, He battled them endlessly within the Warp, binding their strength and shackling their reach.
Thus, the Four Chaos Gods could now invest only a fraction of their might into the material realm and the Empyrean. Their grip had weakened, their influence diminished.
Meanwhile, the threat of Dukel grew with every passing day.
Warmaster Dukel — ruthless, visionary, unstoppable — was forging the Imperium anew with a will of iron. His audacious plan for the great Virtuality, a dominion extending into the warp itself, was like a vast abyss devouring the fabric of Chaos.
Every day, his empire expanded. Every day, more worlds were united under his iron rule.
Betrayers and heretics were obliterated. Mankind, under Dukel's dominion, was shedding the bloodsoaked curse of fratricide and division.
The reawakened, driven will of humanity was carving deep wounds into the Immaterium. The warp itself trembled under the strain.
The Chaos Gods saw the future that might unfold if Dukel remained unchecked — and it terrified them.
Thus, when Abaddon faltered at Vigilus, the gods withheld the annihilation he deserved.
Instead, they rallied to him.
Greater Daemons descended upon the Vengeful Spirit, imposing brutal discipline upon the squabbling lesser daemons. Warbands and cults hastened to his banner. Even lowly daemonkind, ignorant of loyalty, were whipped into uneasy formations.
Across the void, Chaos fleets advanced. Ancient Imperial warships twisted into nightmarish forms, alien crafts enslaved by daemonic will, and daemonforged monstrosities sailed through the currents of the warp.
The Plague Arks, the Bloodcrushers, and other dread vessels crossed the stars, while daemon-forged titans from corrupted forge worlds massed for war.
When Abaddon received word of these reinforcements, his despair evaporated.
Once more, the Despoiler stood defiant, a bloody smile carved across his scarred face.
The Fourteenth Black Crusade was imminent — a tide of ruin without precedent.
This time, Abaddon vowed, the Imperium would fall.
The Warp is an endless ocean, shaped by the tides of emotion, thought, and soul.
Countless civilizations — from the ancient, elusive Old Ones to the decadent Aeldari and now mankind — had sought to master it.
All had failed.
No race, no matter how mighty, had pierced the true mysteries of the Immaterium.
Even now, its deepest reaches remain unknowable, its oldest denizens hidden in realms beyond comprehension.
Some call these places the Empyrean, or the High Heavens.
All living things are tied to the Warp — it sustains existence and threatens it alike.
And all who gaze too long into its depths risk madness... or worse.
At this moment, a small, solitary vessel sailed calmly through the tides of the Immaterium.
Like a lone boat adrift on a violent sea, it rode the howling Warp storms without ever capsizing. Hideous daemons loomed and circled in the turbulent dark, but recoiled whenever they neared the ship — as if sensing that within it lurked a presence more terrible than themselves.
Jets of plasma fire roared from the ship's thrusters, driving it onward with relentless force. At its prow, a carving of a pure, untainted human skull gazed defiantly into the storm.
On the deck, Horus stood firm, his gaze locked on the shifting, malevolent skies of the Warp.
"Everything will come to an end," he said, voice unwavering.
For mortals, to look so deeply into the Immaterium was death or madness. But Horus — reborn, relentless — did not flinch.
"I open the future," he murmured. "And that door shall be left behind in the past."
When his companions had questioned him — asking if he truly intended to breach the Moloch Gate — Horus had answered them thus. His cryptic reply drew laughter from his companions. Even the mightiest of Primarchs, it seemed, could not resist speaking in riddles.
Horus did not mind their mirth. He welcomed it.
Trust was easily given by Horus; status meant nothing to him. If he judged another worthy, they were his equal — his brother or sister — without question. His loyalty to his chosen companions was fierce and unshakable.
"The future of the galaxy matters more to me than my own life," Horus said.
The ship roared onward, its Gellar Field sparking against the surrounding madness. The storms of the Warp screamed, but Horus stood unbowed, turning to face his four companions.
"I want to see the future — not the one that merely awaits us, but the one I will forge with my own hands.
The Imperium is old, crumbling under its own weight. Dukel raises the banners anew — mankind, unified once again under strength and will.
But I must stop him."
"I cannot stand by and watch hope turn to ashes, see humanity march blindly into ruin.
I will reignite life across this galaxy — not empty triumphs of the past, but a true rebirth. Mankind's glory will be restored... greater than ever before.
And I will witness it."
His voice rang with conviction. His love for humanity, for the dream of a better Imperium, burned brighter than any star.
But his companions had their own passions.
"As long as we can fight!" growled the second companion — a hulking, scarred warrior in battered blood-red plate, clutching a massive axe.
The others ignored his blunt outburst.
Instead, like Horus, they turned their eyes outward — staring unflinching into the churning madness of the Sea of Souls. Miraculously, none were harmed. As they watched, the roiling Warp began to quiet, as if recoiling from their collective will.
Before them, visions coalesced: glimpses of what Horus dreamed — or perhaps what he might yet shape.
A sickly, pale lightning forked across the heights of the Warp's storm, a crack of thunder resounding... and then silence.
"Horus! Do you see it?" cried the fourth companion — a woman with a silvered voice, her face hidden behind a purple veil. "They are chanting your name. They are praising your deeds!"
"Yes," Horus replied, his heart stirring even as his gaze remained fixed ahead.
"They love you, Horus! They love everything you have done!" the first companion added — a robed scholar in pale blue, clutching a quill and book, his calculating eyes gleaming.
A vast roar of adulation rose in Horus' ears, drowning even the howl of the Warp.
"But they do not truly know me," Horus said humbly.
"Even so, they love you. And you saved them," the first companion answered smoothly, every word precise.
At that, Horus laughed — not in mockery, but in joy.
"Come, Horus!" cried the third companion — a fat, jovial trader whose immense body hid a cunning soul. "See these people! See their happiness, their abundance, their strength! All of it, brought forth by your hand!"
The companions led Horus below decks, into the ship's shadowy heart, their laughter and joy contagious.
"What a beautiful sight," Horus said, voice filled with awe.
"So beautiful," the fourth companion echoed softly.
The scarred warrior grunted, axe resting heavily across his shoulders, but said nothing.
Horus looked upon them — these strange brothers and sisters he had gathered in his pilgrimage to Moloch's Gate, seeking the means to save humanity.
Strangely, he realized, he could not remember their names. They had given them once — but each time he tried to recall, the knowledge slipped away, like mist through his fingers.
He felt a twinge of guilt, yet dared not ask again.
He remembered how he had found them:
The first, the scholar, he had met in a place of prophecy and fate, trading nine priceless crystalline relics for his loyalty.
The second, the warrior, he had fought on a blood-drenched world for eight days and eight nights, earning his respect through brutal combat.
The third, the trader, he had encountered in the lands of the dead, purchasing his allegiance with seven ancient, corroded coins.
And the fourth — the veiled beauty — he had simply... found. Or perhaps she had found him.
As he thought, he felt slender, silken hands slide into his own.
"Horus," whispered the fourth companion, her voice low and hypnotic. Her beauty was otherworldly, her form neither wholly male nor female — transcending such simple divisions.
"You are our hero," she breathed. "We all admire you."
Horus felt his heart stutter. He stared into her radiant face, into eyes shining with an impossible light, and for a moment — a brief, trembling moment — forgot the vastness of the Warp raging beyond the hull.
Horus turned his head aside, forcing himself not to look directly at the figure before him.
He and his four strange companions tried to remain immersed in the alluring visions of a bright future—but suddenly, the dreamscape was shattered. Thousands of discordant spears of golden light pierced the illusion, stabbing deep into their minds.
Horus narrowed his eyes instinctively against the brilliance. Around him, his companions recoiled like chastised children caught in wrongdoing.
Horus did not fault them for their weakness. Even he, once the mightiest of all the Emperor's sons, felt a primal fear stir deep within under that terrible golden radiance. What chance did his companions have?
The group pulled away from the vision, shaken.
Is this truly the future? Something... something is wrong. Horus could feel the dissonance in his very soul, but he could not yet name it, nor understand the lurking wrongness gnawing at the edges of his awareness.
"Horus," the scholar in blue robes spoke up suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension, "I sense a calling."
The Primarch turned to him. "What kind of calling?" he asked.
The scholar's expression remained calm and reverent. "In the depths of the Sea of Souls—the Immaterium—there are tens of millions of surges. Great psychic tides, all flowing in the same direction. They converge where Chaos Warmaster Abaddon is gathering his strength. The Black Legion is calling out."
Horus frowned.
The beautiful woman at his side, ever poised, seized the moment with a sweet, melodic voice. "Horus, you once said that Abaddon was your most trusted son," she said gently. "After all these centuries... don't you wish to see him again?"
Did I say that? Horus felt a pang of confusion. His memories had been... fragmentary lately. Sometimes, he could not even recall the names of the companions beside him.
Still, he brushed aside the thought. "He's not the same now," Horus said coldly, his voice heavy with disdain.
Yet after a pause, his gaze darkened with grim purpose.
"But I will go to him. I must reclaim my weapon—and the Spirit of Vengeance."
"HRAAAH!!"
The second companion—an ugly brute clad in battered red armor—bellowed a primal roar of savage delight, his voice cracking the stillness like a thunderclap.
...
TN:
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