In the northern Wastes—a cursed land of molten lava, twisted totems, fierce winds, and scorching heat—an army trudged back after a failed but not entirely fruitless southern invasion. The land, scarred and corrupted by Chaos, seemed slightly subdued compared to before. The death of Morkar had weakened the chaotic winds flowing from the destroyed Warp Gates in the far north, leaving the terrain marginally less hostile.
The remnants of the Chaos host, retreating in scattered bands across the Weeping Mountains and northern passes, were in low spirits.
Another Everchosen of Chaos had failed to conquer the mortal realms.
Three to four hundred thousand Chaos warriors had perished. Everchosen Morkar had inexplicably taken his own life, the Norscan High King Asavar Kul had been slain, and their elite forces were all but annihilated. Even the Chaos Dragon, Skraekhor the Mighty, had fallen at Wolfenburg. This was a devastating blow to the forces of Chaos and their Norscan allies.
Yet, in the Wastes and Norscan Mountains—lands teeming with life born of Chaos—the loss of life could be replenished in a matter of years. It wasn't the loss of manpower or soldiers that terrified the returning Chaos champions but rather the wrath of their dark gods.
The Chaos invasion had failed to acquire the sacrifices and plunder demanded by the gods. Most of the loot had been abandoned or recaptured during the retreat. Now, the champions of Chaos feared the divine retribution that awaited them. The dark gods could grant them unimaginable power, but they could just as easily strip it away, turning them into Chaos spawn or forsaken husks.
Some, however, seemed utterly indifferent to the gods' displeasure. To them, defeat was simply another exciting experience, and retreat an unexpected twist in the dance of life. As for the plunder? It didn't matter—they had already enjoyed the thrill of the invasion and could always try again next time.
Beneath the kaleidoscopic skies and twisted light of the northern Wastes, a band of Slaanesh followers danced and reveled.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump!
The first figure, a flamboyant man named Sigvald, wore nothing but an extravagant loincloth. A champion of Slaanesh and a favored prince, Sigvald seemed far more interested in dancing than anything else.
Prince Sigvald twirled his shoulders to the rhythm, his golden locks bouncing in time. His devoted warriors, the Mirror Guard, mirrored his movements, their polished armor reflecting the twisted lights of the Wastes.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump!
The second figure, a massive daemon prince named Cassoron, led a troupe of daemons in a grotesque performance. Wielding a corrupted and blasphemous instrument, he played a discordant melody that resonated with both power and pain.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump!
These followers of Slaanesh roamed the world in search of the most exquisite sensations and pleasures. Invasion after invasion, their pursuit of artistry and indulgence never waned. No matter the setbacks they faced, they never stopped dancing.
One day, amidst the barren plains of the northern Wastes, two figures met and exchanged fateful words.
Prince Sigvald: "Wow! You can really dance!"
Daemon Prince Cassoron: "Wow! You can really dance!"
And so, they began to dance together, their movements perfectly synchronized.
A melodious yet unsettling song echoed across the Wastes, as Sigvald and Cassoron sang in harmony. The Prince of Slaanesh and the Daemon Prince moved with the same rhythm, their bodies twisting in eerie unison.
"Is this Slaanesh's excuse?"
"If you could start over, would you love me again?"
"Slaanesh brings pleasure, but also torment~"
"Once we danced together, amidst the legendary yellow~"
"Now blood and lust have drowned it all, transforming into twisted chaos!"
The grotesque dance intensified, mortals and daemons joining the fray in a cacophony of madness. The participants devoured one another in an orgy of destruction, some dissolving into piles of flesh while others ascended into forms of pure ecstasy.
Not far away, a unit of Chaos knights watched the debauchery with cold disdain.
If Prince Sigvald had been paying attention, he might have noticed the sheer power radiating from these knights. They were stronger than even Morkar's Crimson Reapers. Ruthless butchers mounted on massive Chaos warhorses, both riders and steeds clad in thick plates of daemon-forged armor. Their weapons burned with black fire, each strike capable of obliterating any foe.
This was the Swords of Chaos—the elite warriors of Archaon, the Everchosen, and the End Times' champion. Every one of these knights had once been a king, warlord, or chieftain in their mortal lives. Now, they lived only as loyal followers of Archaon, the undisputed master of Chaos.
"Morkar has failed, my lord," spoke Wadek Khrone, a Kurgan Khan and Archaon's second-in-command. His voice was laced with scorn as he observed the Slaaneshi revelers. "When we see displays like this, it's no wonder he lost."
"Morkar did not fail. His strategy was sound," Archaon said calmly. Standing tall and imposing, the Three-Eyed King gazed at the distant revelry. "He simply failed to master himself."
"Failed… himself?" Wadek muttered, pondering Archaon's words. "Do you mean his plan was effective, but his will faltered?"
"To succeed in anything, one must be resolute, confident," Archaon replied, his burning eyes narrowing as he watched Sigvald and Cassoron. "As Everchosen, fulfilling one's purpose is the ultimate method of destruction. Morkar has shown me what not to do. He has given me a blueprint for improvement."
"My lord," Wadek, though a peak-level Sanctuary warrior, bowed his head humbly before the Everchosen. "Morkar was a brave man, but he could have achieved so much more."
"There's no room for pity. He understood the price of serving the gods," Archaon said, the hellfire in his eyes flaring brighter. "He wanted revenge, and he achieved it. From his perspective, he succeeded. From ours, he still succeeded. Remember: I chose the Four Gods; they did not choose me. I decide to destroy the mortal world, not them."
"I understand," Wadek said, bowing deeply.
Archaon glanced at his elite Swords of Chaos, his contempt for Morkar's limited vision evident. Revenge? True revenge was the annihilation of all existence—the complete erasure of every mortal, civilization, and memory. Burning a city or killing an enemy was pitifully small-minded.
Morkar's failure served as a lesson, one that strengthened Archaon's resolve.
Hesitation leads to defeat.
He would prove that the gods of the Old World were liars. He would expose the Empire of Sigmar as a sham. He would destroy every trace of Charlemagne, Ulric, and Sigmar, delivering a fitting end to the mortal realm.
But the time for a southern invasion was not yet ripe. The losses from Morkar's campaign needed to be replenished, and Archaon knew better than anyone that even the strongest Everchosen would face formidable adversaries.
Recently, Archaon had been plagued by visions in his dreams and waking moments.
In these visions, he saw a fractured galaxy, split in two by a massive Warp rift. He saw 88 planets consumed by Khorne's demons, their inhabitants screaming in agony.
A voice whispered to him: You are doomed to fail unless you gather the six artifacts of Chaos. Only then will you receive our 'true blessing.' Not the false and weak blessings of Morkar, but our real favor.
Real favor? Archaon's interest was piqued. Despite his immense power and centuries of wandering the Wastes, he understood that even the Everchosen could fall. The first Everchosen, Morkar the Uniter, had been slain by Sigmar. The second, Aesir-Kvarl the Anointed, had been defeated by Ludwig the Savior. Morkar had perished by his own hand.
Archaon commanded an army divided into eight rings, with the Swords of Chaos at its core. His forces were vast, capable of summoning half a million soldiers at will. But it wasn't enough. He needed the final artifact: the Crown of Domination.
This crown symbolized the ultimate authority of the Everchosen and would exponentially increase his army's power. Yet despite a century of searching, it remained elusive.
In his vision, Archaon sneered at the gods' cryptic guidance. "Very well, where is the Crown of Domination?"
"Only one being knows its location."
"Who?"
"The First Daemon Prince, Be'lakor. The crown is as old as he is."
"And where can I find him?"
"Seek the Land of Shadows and Deceit. Only by finding Be'lakor will you locate the Crown of Domination. With the six artifacts united, we will open a passage through the great Warp storm and grant you our true power and legions, as we once did for Hor
us. Fulfill your destiny as the World-Ender."
"I see," Archaon said, his course now set. The Land of Shadows and Deceit awaited him.
As the Everchosen departed, Daemon Prince Cassoron paused mid-dance, glancing in the direction Archaon had gone.
Cassoron was the first to cross the great Warp storm into this world, chasing someone he had vowed to destroy.
His target was none other than his own primarch.
Cassoron's true name was Julius Cassoron, and he was not alone.
Elsewhere, the Lord of the Black Clouds had also descended upon this world with his progeny, seeking to claim the soul of a certain angelic being.
--- I am the herald of a new storm. ---
As Archaon received his divine revelation, a powerful resonance rippled through the mortal realm, felt by all the primarchs scattered across the world.
Aboard the passenger ship, Ryan Macado, the Grey Knight Primarch, gazed westward, a profound unease gripping his heart. "What was that?"
In Redfish Village, Angron, the World Eater Primarch, paused mid-swing of his hoe. His weathered, farmer-like face darkened as he muttered, "Him. Is he… returning?"
In Middenheim, Leman Russ, the Space Wolf Primarch, froze while grooming an ice bear. Every hair on his body stood on end. "The Master of Baal? Are you next?"
A resonance of extraordinary power stirred within every primarch, echoing across the realm.
Meanwhile, in Lustria, at the golden star-pyramid of Hexoatl, the Slann Mage-Priest Mazdamundi sat upon his throne, exhaling softly as he addressed Fulgrim, the Primarch of the Ashen Legion, standing below him.
"The ritual is complete. The great soul has been restored."
"I understand," Fulgrim said with a nod, unable to hide his anticipation. "Finally…"
"Do not be so eager. Even with our full efforts to conceal his return, the ripples of his awakening have reached the entire world," Mazdamundi warned gravely. "I can already sense three malevolent forces converging on us."
"Three forces?" Fulgrim frowned but quickly smirked, gripping the golden power sword Glory at his side. "Then let them come!"
"This will be the place of the angel's rebirth—and the grave of evil!"
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