The combined might of the elite Thousand Sons sorcerers was immensely powerful in an area rich in psychic energy, so much so that even the Lord of Change dared not face it head-on.
"Mirror Teleport."
An eerie chant echoed out as the Arch-Sorcerer's staff radiated brilliant light, projecting a series of hexagonal prisms directly in front of the floating spheres of mutated flesh.
The pale lightning carried terrifying destructive force, incinerating every walking dead in its path into ash—and reducing the mortal garrison troops into cinders as well under its wake.
Ahriman and his fellow sorcerers held nothing back. They sought not only to obliterate the mutated masses of flesh that had once been their battle-brothers, but also to erase every single mortal witness present.
Though the mortals were already driven near to madness upon beholding the flesh-spheres, there was no guarantee that a few would not slip through the net.
And so, to protect the secrets of the Legion, the Thousand Sons sorcerers chose to wipe out the garrison forces in the same stroke.
In a ten-thousandth of a second, the lightning bridged the distance. Bearing Ahriman's absolute, destructive resolve, it hurtled relentlessly toward the raging masses of mutated flesh.
Tragically, just as the Thousand Sons sorcerers were about to succeed, the prisms materialized out of thin air.
The lightning struck with a deafening roar. Layers of ripples splashed across the hexagonal prisms, as though shattering the outer boundaries of space itself.
"Warp Fold!"
Just before the prisms shattered, Viridis flashed a sinister smile. Another surge of warp energy manifested beside it, pointing squarely at the elite Thousand Sons a thousand meters away.
The pale-white psychic lightning erupted outward from the prism—only this time, its target was the very master who had unleashed it!
The sorcery of Tzeentch inverted reality itself, folding the psychic lightning to turn the spellcaster's own force back against them.
In a realm where warp energy flourished, a spell that seemed impossibly refined to ordinary eyes was nothing more than child's play for a named Lord of Change.
It drew power from conspiracies of betrayal and instigation, wielding seemingly bottomless strength at the climax of the rebellion.
"Ahriman, my friend," the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch sneered, its voice dripping with venomous mockery. "Did you truly believe you could reach us using the very spells we bestowed upon you?"
Before Ahriman and his brothers could recover from their shock, alarm bells rang frantically in their minds.
"Shields!"
A Cataphractii Terminator growled, abandoning his attempt to suppress the pursuing dead with gunfire as he rerouted all available power from his armor into his personal shoulder shields.
It was still not enough!
Ahriman and his brothers knew all too well how much raw power they had poured into that attack. Instantly exerting their utmost effort, they cast layer upon layer of psychic barriers around their battle-brothers.
Rumble—!
The massive lightning bolt slammed into the ground with a thunderous explosion, whipping up countless pale arcs of electricity that hungrily licked the earth.
A sea of thunder detonated across a hundred-meter radius. Lightning danced like silver vipers, reducing everything in the vicinity to charred cinder as the Sekhmet Guard was swallowed whole by the ocean of electricity.
"Mmm~"
The conspirator looked on with unsatisfied relish, its long tongue licking its eyes so it could better behold the scene once the blinding thunder and lightning faded.
As the electric glow slowly dispersed, the Sekhmet Guard were revealed kneeling on the ground, battered and severely compromised.
Their once-vibrant crimson armor was scorched and mottled, wisps of dark smoke venting from the seals of their suits. Their ornate decorations were shattered into fragments, and they propped themselves up on their force tulwars to keep from collapsing, the warp flames upon their blades dimmed to a few dying embers.
From the edge of the sky came the scream of engines. Reluctant to draw too close, mortal fighter jets fired missiles from their underbellies, raining ordnance around the Sekhmet Guard to blast out a clear defensive perimeter.
The Greater Daemon made no move to stop them, standing atop the wall with amused curiosity as it watched the sorcerers cling to life amidst the smoke.
It had done this intentionally, sparing Ahriman's insignificant life.
Within the master plan woven by the Architect of Fate, this man still served a crucial purpose—his hand was needed to turn the wheels of destiny.
This was merely a game; there was no need to destroy a vital pawn.
He and his foolish father were already hopelessly entangled within the web of fate, unable to break free.
The runic tiles of Prospero were shattered into rubble. Ahriman and his men knelt half-submerged in the charred ruins of the lightning strike, barely supporting their bodies with their weapons to avoid falling completely before the monster.
As they gasped for air, their hearts held only a profound, hollow numbness.
The truth Viridis had spoken hit them like a sledgehammer, shattering the proud heart of their sorcery.
Even the ancient, sacred codices housed within the psychic libraries had been tainted by filthy, unholy corruption!
The horrifying implications ran deep: there was no telling how far the corruption had penetrated everything the Thousand Sons currently possessed.
What could be trusted? What was a trap?
Was this deliberately engineered by someone? Or was it a gift from the Immaterium?
Viridis acutely sensed their rising doubt. It merely smiled sinisterly, brushing magical starlight from its fingertips without the slightest concern that its secrets had been exposed.
To those who sought it, knowledge was the most intoxicating poison.
Even knowing that reaching for it meant risking total obliteration, seekers of knowledge would still flock to it like moths to a flame.
It was an instinct impossible to suppress.
The Immaterium was vast and boundless; who could ever truly distinguish truth from falsehood?
When desire was suppressed by dread, the withdrawal symptoms of unfulfilled craving would only drive curious seekers into deeper madness.
The Thousand Sons were already caught in the net, incapable of escaping the fate arranged for their Legion by the Architect of Fate.
Everything it was doing now—though seemingly exposing a great deal—in truth had zero impact on the master plan.
When tomorrow came, the sun would still rise; once the scars healed, the Thousand Sons would forget the excruciating pain of today.
The Greater Daemon was well aware that the Slayer had uncovered the anomaly, intentionally piercing through certain warp truths to leave a deep impression on the Thousand Sons, warning them to tread carefully.
Yet would an addict bound to their vice ever heed the earnest warnings of others?
Perhaps out of fear of authority and overwhelming strength, they might temporarily restrain themselves and lament their errors—only to fall into deeper, more reckless depravity once again.
This was merely a minor interlude before the final act; even an entity as great as the Slayer could not use ordinary logic to save a soul bound for inevitable damnation.
"I am growing somewhat bored," Viridis said disdainfully. "My dear brother Ahriman."
"This game of revealing the truth seems so dreadfully redundant on fools like you."
"The noble efforts of that great entity have been laid bare in all their pale fragility. He could see through our guises and orchestrate an operation to expose us."
"Yet alas..." Viridis's yellow avian eyes shifted, its tone lacing with a pathetic sigh: "Stupidity cannot be saved."
The Greater Daemon of Tzeentch acted precisely like a classic villain in a story, brazenly unveiling its plan before a helpless party of heroes.
Though it seemed like the reckless gloating of a victor, it revealed no critical details, couching its words in ambiguous mystery.
It was still stoking the curiosity of the Thousand Sons sorcerers, luring them into an even deeper trap.
So long as curiosity remained, the plan of the Architect of Fate would never fail.
Even as deception and mockery played out time and again, those who believed they had received divine enlightenment would still plunge headlong into the trap like moths to a flame.
The Greater Daemon's sigh was genuine and deep.
In its eyes, the Thousand Sons were nothing more than a band of fools masquerading as scholars—arrogant and ignorant, their destinies toyed with effortlessly upon the chessboard.
The same held true for the demigod father of their Legion; after all, their stupidity and pride were inherited directly from that demigod's nature.
Thus, the Slayer's attempt at salvation could never succeed.
Unless... the Thousand Sons Legion was erased at its very roots, becoming the third fallen Legion to resolve the threat once and for all.
Yet the resolve to sever a limb to save the whole was something the Imperium of Man no longer possessed...
The Greater Daemon of Tzeentch stepped down from the ruins, trampling the sacred soil of Prospero beneath its desecrated form.
Standing nine meters tall amidst the rubble, it remained completely unarmored and undefended—as if this were no battlefield, but merely its own quiet library.
Its words cut like daggers and its footsteps struck like chisels, precisely piercing the raw, sensitive nerve endings of the sorcerer.
The ignorant contempt in its voice was completely unmasked, slamming into Ahriman's tortured heart like a merciless sledgehammer.
Psychic attacks tore through physical flesh, while words designed to crush the spirit obliterated their resolve. Coupled with the horrific truth of the Flesh Change coming to light, Ahriman and his brothers were left utterly exhausted in body and mind, their aura dimming significantly further.
In the skies above, artillery shells rained down continuously. Missiles launched from the depths of Tizca streamed overhead, providing heavy fire support for the front line.
Flashes of fire erupted around the base of the wall as deafening detonations shook the ground beneath their feet.
Yet looking closely, the carpet bombing served no real purpose, kicking up nothing more than hollow clouds of smoke and shockwaves.
There were simply far too many psykers among the rebels.
The loyalists had been possessed, while the opportunists leveraged the knowledge shared by the Thousand Sons to turn around and rebel against the Legion itself.
Traitor psykers anchored soul-harvesting arrays, recklessly draining the souls of civilians to pour raw power into their psychic shields.
Having shed all moral constraints, these psykers transformed into the foulest pus of corruption, festering at the very heart of the Thousand Sons Legion.
Completely ignoring the Lord of Change, the mortal psykers split into streams around it, surging toward the inner reaches of Tizca and charging for the pyramid libraries.
With matters escalated to this point, the holdout operation led by Ahriman at the northwestern corner of the wall had officially failed.
Viridis leaned on its staff as it walked closer, its towering form casting a dreary, ash-gray shadow that looked down upon Ahriman and the Sekhmet Terminator Guard.
"Time is running out, you know~"
Its voice remained unchanged—sinister, laced with casual, mocking amusement: "How do you intend to stop us?"
Ahriman felt a wave of profound, total exhaustion wash over him.
The planned ambush was in ruins, and his frequent casting of major divination spells had utterly drained his psychic reservoir.
Forcing himself up with the support of his staff, he tilted his head to meet the down-turned gaze of the bird beast, his eyes cold with icy scrutiny.
The instant their eyes met, Ahriman felt as if he could read the interpretation of countless secrets and answers within those golden pupils.
With his psychic reserves depleted and his unyielding will wavering, he was inevitably contaminated by the daemon's memetic corruption.
His consciousness was dragged by external streams of information. Amidst the haze, he heard dark whispers asking: "Is the flow of events unfolding just as your prophecy foretold?"
"Where is your victory? You have no other choice!"
In his visionary haze, Ahriman seemed to see once again that the victory foretold by the Corvidae prophecy was subtly different.
The final outcome of the rebellion remained a victory, yet the journey to reach it was shattered into jagged pieces, riddled with unhealable voids.
"Notice what's missing?"
A vast stream of information tumbled from Viridis's brilliant feathers, as if deliberately reminding Ahriman of the exact factor missing from the path to victory.
Having had enough amusement, the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch grew somewhat bored, wishing to depart early and distance itself from these fools.
What was missing from the prophecy?
As a favored servant of Tzeentch, Viridis knew the answer all too well.
The psychic prophecy contained every element imaginable—except for any trace of the Slayer and the Doom Marines.
These fools like Ahriman had no idea why, when Magnus returned to Prospero and cradled victory in his hands, his brother the Slayer was not standing beside him.
Those entities who defied prophecy possessed unpredictable fates, existing completely outside the realm of foreseeable futures.
Arrogant trust in prophecy combined with the supreme confidence of fighting on home turf had created the illusion of composure during Ahriman's fleeting glimpse into the future.
Though skilled in divination, he was not a good prophet.
When struck by a sudden, overwhelming assault, he was unable to even quiet his mind to carefully unravel the threads of prophecy and hunt for unusual clues.
Viridis lowered its slender arm, its withered fingers lifting the lower edge of Ahriman's helmet to force the sorcerer to tilt his head upward.
Ahriman saw the bird-like monster's staff glowing brightly, followed by a massive surge of warp energy.
His eyes widened in shock as his psychic senses detected a tremendous shift: dozens of powerful entities had suddenly manifested around the perimeter of Tizca.
Though not quite as dominant as the monster before him, their auras shared the exact same origin. They had already breached the outer wall and were launching a rapid assault on the inner defenses.
Tizca was on the verge of falling!
"Chief Librarian!"
An urgent call rang out through his helmet vox, the voice of the communications sergeant screeching in desperation: "Unknown entities have appeared out of nowhere! They shattered our psychic barrier, and our Legion brothers can barely hold the line!"
"..."
Ahriman snapped out of his dazed state instantly. Leaping back, he held his staff horizontally in front of the Primarch's personal guard.
He was utterly baffled: what did the monster before him and its kin truly seek to gain?
Invading Prospero seemed to be nothing more than a boring pastime to them, to the point where they even stingily dropped a few hints along the way.
What on earth did they want?
Ahriman could not bring himself to believe that a unique and immensely powerful species would be satisfied with merely playing tricks on mortals.
"Don't be nervous," Viridis said in a surprisingly calm, bizarre tone, raising an arm in front of its chest. "Two choices lie before you."
It extended a single finger: "One: drop the orbital shields and let your fleet bombard Tizca—strike the magnificent architecture and preserved knowledge, wiping them out along with the rebels."
"And these," the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch spread its wings, revealing the two raving masses of mutated flesh behind it. "Burn them clean with a single fire."
"Yet would you ever choose to order an attack on your own Legion's homeworld?"
"Two," the Greater Daemon tilted its slender neck, looking toward the warships hovering near the starport. "Request aid from the one who exists outside of prophecy, and lay bare the Thousand Sons' most deeply guarded secret before him."
"Time is running out," it urged with triumphant delight. "My venomous brothers are mounting a fierce assault on the inner defensive lines, and the lives of your Legionaries are rapidly fading away."
Ahriman fell silent. He felt like a wooden puppet, completely manipulated at every turn.
Standing in the midst of this war, he felt deeply connected to everything unfolding, yet simultaneously felt like an irrelevant outsider.
The monster before him and the Gene-Primarch: the former had plotted long in advance, lurking within the Legion under a guise of purity, seemingly scheming toward some world-shattering grand goal.
Meanwhile, the Gene-Primarch had perceived everything. With a few brief words, he had forced the crisis to erupt ahead of schedule, using it to hammer the Thousand Sons and warn them of the dangers of psychic abuse and the leakage of forbidden knowledge.
The Thousand Sons Legion was merely the victim swept into the storm—and simultaneously, the sacrificial lamb.
"The Legion will etch this disgrace into memory!"
Ahriman glared intently at the strange monster as he reached behind him to pull his battle-brothers up from the ground. His tone was heavy with a hatred carved deep into his very bones.
He could see it clearly now.
For some unknown reason, the psychic entity calling itself "Viridis" had never intended to kill him.
It used humiliation and trickery to toy with him to its heart's content, merely to satisfy some unknown emotional craving.
Furthermore, Ahriman saw through the true nature of these options: beneath the surface of the choice lay yet another layer of humiliation.
He could never bring himself to call in orbital bombardment to destroy the city built through the painstaking efforts of his genetic father.
Therefore, his only path was to call for help!
To request a brother Legion to extend a helping hand and drive back these filthy psychic abominations.
"Then you had better remember this well," Viridis chuckled softly, its round eyes narrowing into slits. "For a very long time to come, our fates will be intertwined with one another. And..."
A surge of deep intrigue flared in the depths of the Greater Daemon's eyes as it lowered its voice to speak in a hushed, mysterious whisper: "...and He delights in endless, mutual schemes."
Paying no mind to those cryptic words, Ahriman opened his helmet's communication array, patching into the silent Doom Marines channel.
Replacing his refined composure with absolute gravity, he spoke with utter sincerity: "In the name of the King of Warriors—I, Ahzek Ahriman, Chief Librarian and First Captain of the XV Legion, the Thousand Sons, acting with full proxy authority over all Legion matters during the Primarch's absence..."
"Do hereby request the great King of Warriors to extend a helping hand to Prospero, and drive out these treacherous monsters from our homeworld!"
The moment his words fell, a heavy voice of a hardened warrior boomed back through the communication channel:
"The XXI Legion, the Doom Marines, will intervene in the battle for Prospero and purge the invaders from our brothers' homeworld!"
[Orbital Drop Initiated]
As the request for joint operations went out and the communication channels merged, the cold, automated announcement of the cogitator array chimed in—sounding like divine music to the ears of the Thousand Sons.
The rebellion had struck far too swiftly and chaotically, catching the Thousand Sons completely off guard.
Aided by their Tutelaries, the rebels possessed a deep mastery of Prosperine sorcery and were intimate with the Legion's fundamental defensive deployments.
Now, the sorcerer-scholars of the Thousand Sons were tasting the bitter harvest of rampant psychic proliferation.
Empowered by stacked warp blessings, mortal psykers had closed the power gap between themselves and the Astartes to an infinite degree. Sacrificing mortal lives and fellow psykers as raw offerings without second thought, they leveraged overwhelming numbers to suppress the Legion at every turn.
Yet with the Doom Marines Legion joining the fray, this farce was finally drawing to a close!
[The Majesty of Kings is launching drop pods.]
An artificial intelligence voice—far colder than the cogitator array, yet noticeably more dynamic and devoid of mechanical deadness—echoed across the vox-channel.
Trapped in brutal hand-to-hand combat, the Thousand Sons and the rebels stole a glance upward at the underside of the blue-and-white warship, where electromagnetic sparks lingered along the deceleration vectors.
They were here!
Whether rebel or Thousand Sons sorcerer, every heart sank abruptly.
To those sensitive to the warp, the release of the drop pods felt as though the entire sky were collapsing in on them, bringing an invisible, suffocating weight that left every psyker gasping for air.
Across the Tizca urban combat zone, the smiles froze on the faces of the Lords of Change treading upon the ruins. Their brilliant blue feathers flared up in unison as they raised their avian heads toward the heavens.
What the ninety-nine Lords of Change beheld was not a clear blue sky, but an endless, falling darkness.
Their carefree demeanor vanished instantly. Gripping their staves tight, they braced themselves in full battle readiness.
With the Doom Marines entering the fray, the farce was over—the true battle had begun!
From this moment on, a single misstep meant complete and utter obliteration, denying them even the chance to flee back into the Immaterium.
"The farce is over," a Lord of Change sighed softly. Exchanging a brief greeting with its kin, it sacrificed a collection of mortal souls to snap open a warp portal, fleeing the battlefield without hesitation.
"I shall depart."
"Now that the master plan is exposed, combat has lost all meaning."
"The arrival of the Doom Marines will suppress our warp powers. I shall return to the Crystal Labyrinth to plot our next conspiracy and vengeance."
"Frontal engagement is meaningless; with the psychic winds suppressed, our advantages evaporate into nothing."
Thirty-six Lords of Change had zero desire to entangle themselves any further. Having harvested enough souls for a feast, they tore open warp portals and departed Prospero without a backward glance, returning to the Realm of Chaos.
Of the ninety-nine Lords of Change, a full third abandoned the field in an instant.
Yet the remaining Greater Daemons showed no intention of leaving. Halting their advance toward the inner city, they stood their ground, preparing massive warp spells.
[Daemons detected opening portals and retreating. Recalibrating entry trajectories.]
The internal AI system of the drop pods reported continuously, altering their descent vectors in real time based on computer recalculations.
Over a hundred Doom Marine drop pods adjusted their courses, tearing open atmospheric gaps as they descended with absolute, suffocating suppression.
At the northwestern wall, Viridis lost all trace of its smile. Glancing back at Ahriman and his men, it spread its wings and launched itself into the sky.
The true battle was here.
It had no intention of retreating to the Realm of Chaos just yet. Since its plot had been laid bare by the Doom Marines, it intended to exact a measure of blood interest first.
"Watch them," Viridis called another Lord of Change from the crowd, gesturing for its venomous brother to keep guard over Ahriman and the others.
Tales of the Doom Marines ran rampant throughout the Immaterium, and Viridis wanted no unexpected disruptions while facing such formidable foes.
Receiving its task, the Lord of Change casually sacrificed over a hundred mortals, laying down an isolation ward to imprison the Thousand Sons sorcerers.
"I am leaving this place," it informed Viridis. "The ward will sustain itself for one minute."
With that, it tapped into the lingering soul energy to tear open realspace. Casting a single glance toward the falling drop pods, it left behind a look that bade Viridis good luck before departing.
The young daemon had no idea what it was truly up against.
This particular Lord of Change had survived the Battle of Requiem Star as part of the Daemon Prince's Choral Choir, witnessing the true names of countless Greater Daemons being permanently extinguished.
Remembering that horrific spectacle made it tremble to its core.
Spurred by those dreadful memories, it quickened its pace and ducked into the warp rift, vanishing without a shred of lingering reluctance.
Inside the isolation ward, the mental clamor in the minds of Ahriman and his brothers quieted down significantly. As their psychic senses rapidly withered, they could only watch through a thin, hazy barrier as the monster departed in haste.
Unable to hear any sound, they were completely at a loss as to what was transpiring.
"Hmph!"
Viridis let out a cold snort, scorning its brother's cowardice. Once it confirmed the Thousand Sons sorcerers were securely trapped, it set about preparing its spell in isolation.
It sought to slay a Doom Marine and earn the personal gaze of the Architect of Fate.
Now was an exquisite opportunity—an unseen eye was gazing down upon Prospero at this very moment.
If it succeeded, its status would be elevated among the highest ranks of daemons.
Driven by this ambition, Viridis did not hesitate. Closing its eyes as it hovered cross-legged in midair, it floated its staff in front of its chest and began chanting demonic incantations.
Though the chant produced no audible sound, daemonic script spilled into the mortal realm, turning into visible, brilliant blue glyphs.
The spell fell softly—gorgeous yet utterly venomous—triggering nine distinct stages of mutation.
The marks embedded deep within the rebels' souls activated fully, causing mortal bodies to twitch and spasm as they collapsed in waves like a receding tide.
Demonic sigils flared upon the mortals' foreheads, drawing their soul energy into the marks. Guided by the daemonic chanting, this energy manifested as swarms of psychic butterflies that fluttered upward into the sky.
In an instant, thousands of radiant psychic butterflies danced chaotically across the battlefield. The stark contrast between ethereal beauty and visceral slaughter created a cruel, tragic aesthetic.
In the sky above, runic script rotated around Viridis as the butterflies streamed into its staff.
With every butterfly absorbed, the light flowing along the staff grew brighter and more mysterious, carrying with it the sorrowful wails of gathered mortal souls.
Suddenly, the outline of the spell array and the glow of the staff flickered erratically, wavering in stability.
The feathers on Viridis's face flared outward as it opened its eyes to stare into the sky, a look of unprecedented gravity dawning in its gaze.
The Doom Marine drop pods had entered the atmosphere, accelerating to Mach 30.
As the drop pods drew near, the field of suppression grew intensely suffocating, severely disrupting the flow of warp energy.
"Rise!"
With no time to lose, Viridis let out a piercing screech. Driving the souls directly into its staff, it opened its avian beak wide and inhaled sharply, swallowing a thousand souls in a single breath.
Its blue feathers erupted in brilliant splendor, casting out thousands of colorful rays like a dazzling phoenix.
"Come then!"
Viridis shrieked as its soul and staff resonated in unison, amplifying its physical form to an immensely powerful state. It was fully confident it could slay a Doom Marine.
Staring at the approaching drop pods, a murderous glint flared in its eyes—the moment had arrived!
"I shall become a legend!" A rasping roar squeezed from its throat as it swung its staff horizontally, carving out a arc of moon-white light.
Though Ahriman on the ground could hear nothing, he could feel the immense, suffering souls condensed within that frigid, blinding flash.
"Go!" Viridis smiled cruelly as the moon-white light shattered space itself, shooting straight toward the falling drop pods!
Strike while they are vulnerable!
The descent phase was when the Doom Marines were at their most exposed—how could a treacherous daemon of Tzeentch ever pass up such a golden opportunity?
Rumble—!
The moon-white slash swept across the void, condensed warp energy surging in violent mutations as it erupted into countless bolts of lightning and deafening roars.
The terrifying psychic shockwave swept across the entire battlefield like a howling gale.
Engaged in fierce combat, sorcerers and daemons alike sensed the shift, turning their heads mid-battle to cast attentive gazes from every corner of Tizca.
[High-intensity psychic surge detected.]
[Initiating countermeasures.]
Bul-Kathos listened to the automated notification from the drop pod's AI with an expressionless face, his calm eyes reflecting the external optical feeds.
[Anti-psyker missiles launched.]
On the outer hull of the drop pod, alloy armor panels slid open as several anti-psyker missiles activated, trailing plumes of exhaust fire as they launched downward.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Along the drop pod's calculated flight path, a series of detonations kicked up a storm of fine dust.
Bone ash harvested from the Soulless created a hazy, misty veil in the sky—like a shower of meteors refracting into a celestial river of stardust.
The moon-white slash met its absolute bane. Its ferocious aura instantly withered as the pure warp energy was eroded by the Blank bone ash, mottling with gray, hollow voids.
"Filthy soulless husks!"
Viridis screeched, flapping its wings to pull away from the dust zone as the glowing light on its body dimmed significantly.
Cursing as it shook the dust from its feathers, it glared fixedly upward, its knuckles whitening as it gripped its staff until it creaked.
Sizzle!
Amidst its intense expectation, the psychic slash struck the drop pod directly. The void shield instantly overloaded and collapsed, and the alloy armor proved paper-thin.
The drop pod was cleaved diagonally in two, losing balance in an instant as it flipped and ignited in midair.
A look of delight surfaced on Viridis's face—now was the perfect opportunity to strike a fallen foe!
Flapping its wings, it accelerated to supersonic speed, brandishing its glowing staff as it charged toward the tumbling drop pod.
"Feel the wrath of Bul-Kathos!"
What answered the daemon of Tzeentch was an enraged, furious roar!
The howl was more terrifying than thunder, shattering the psychic winds and shaking souls to their core.
Viridis's eyes widened in shock as a dark-armored figure stood tall and unyielding at the breach of the tumbling drop pod.
The AI system had failed to evade the slash, yet it had altered the angle of impact, preventing the psychic attack from harming the warrior inside.
Bul-Kathos caught sight of the enemy. With eyes blazing in fury, explosive force erupted from his legs, transforming him into a black artillery shell.
Unsheathing the weapons at his waist with both hands, the dual blades of his axes flared to life. With resolute light glowing along the edges, his body arched like a drawn bow as he cleaved down toward the daemon of Tzeentch.
"Lightning!"
Viridis swallowed hard, opening its beak wide to spew a bolt of psychic lightning as thick as a barrel, hurtling toward the warrior who had nowhere to dodge in midair.
Boom—!
Another deafening explosion shattered the air as thunder detonated out of nowhere, blinding lightning painting half the sky in brilliant radiance.
"Weak and pathetic!" A low growl echoed from within the sea of thunder. The black shadow plummeted wrapped in lightning, electricity crackling from brown muscle like a raging God of Thunder descending upon the world!
Having gorged on a thousand souls, the Greater Daemon's psychic attack was extraordinarily potent.
The threshold of raw golden psychic inertia broke, melting into liquid steel that peeled away from Bul-Kathos's frame.
Bathing in molten gold, he rode the thunder and raised his dual axes high, cleaving down with savage force!
Horrified, Viridis raised its staff to parry, blue flames flaring in the deep recesses of its eyes.
Clang!
The dual axes collided with the glowing staff like two worlds crashing together. The resulting shockwave was visible to the naked eye, blasting out a massive vacuum zone around them.
Bul-Kathos's white hair whipped wildly in the wind as Tzeentchian daemonfire ignited across his body. Gritting his teeth in fury, he pressed his axes down relentlessly.
With overwhelming strength reinforced by downward gravitational momentum, the daemon's wings could no longer maintain their hover. Viridis and Bul-Kathos tumbled together, locked in combat as they fell from the high heavens.
"Your psychic tricks are useless."
Bul-Kathos flashed a cruel smile. Though Tzeentchian daemonfire bathed his entire body, it failed to burn even a single braid at his temples.
This was a gift inherited directly from his gene-seed—every brother of the Legion was naturally immune to weak, fragile psychic tricks.
Though he appeared battered and engulfed in flames, he suffered zero real damage; such tricks could never shake the blessing of their genetic father.
Viridis offered no reply, merely white-knuckling its staff to suppress the violent trembling of its hands.
The sheer impact of the weapon collision had split the skin between its talons, spilling daemonic blood in all directions and nearly dislodging the staff from its grasp.
Furthermore, as the Doom Marine drew near, the warp energy was rapidly withering away, and the power within its body was gradually sinking into dead silence.
The Doom Marines inherited the traits of the Slayer—that targeted, anti-warp resolve caused the god-given true name within its body to tremble in terror, making it impossible to unleash its full strength.
Weakened, and weakened further!
Psychic attacks were completely ineffective, and its body—constructed of pure warp energy—was continuously wasting away under the field of suppression.
Yet the enemy's rage burned without a second's pause, his strength growing continuously stronger.
Only now did Viridis truly understand why its venomous brothers had fled so swiftly.
This was a completely asymmetrical battle. As one side waned and the other waxed, forget a spellcasting Greater Daemon of Tzeentch—even a bloodthirsty Greater Daemon of Khorne would gain not the slightest advantage here.
After brief contact, it felt only a wave of profound disgust—this battle was simply impossible to continue.
Thoughts racing in a flash, Viridis realized it could not win, and so it sought to flee.
It did not want to die. The death dealt by a Doom Marine was true, absolute death.
"Trying to run?"
A harsh, furious curse rang out as Bul-Kathos spotted the retreat in the daemon's eyes.
"That's right!" Viridis felt no shame whatsoever, openly admitting it as its wings spread wide once more, seeking a point of balance to break away from combat.
It knew all too well that it could not afford to reach the ground.
If it were pinned down on the earth, escape would become a absolute impossibility!
"I am unwilling—!"
Miserable, shrieking wails echoed from other parts of the city as Greater Daemons met their ends, permanently erased from both realspace and the Immaterium.
"Cowardly filth, don't even think about escaping!"
Bul-Kathos roared in rage, abruptly releasing the pressure on their clashing weapons as his dual axes slid off to the sides.
With the sudden release of resistance, Viridis was unable to dissipate its force in time. Before it could react, a sharp, searing pain shot through its claws.
"Screeech!!"
The tragic, avian wail cut through the air. Eight talons were severed cleanly away; real, physical pain resonated directly from its conceptual origin, forcing Viridis to howl in agony.
"Get away from me!" It kicked out with all its strength, its bird claws piercing into Bul-Kathos's chest plate as it launched him backward.
In midair, Bul-Kathos had no footing to leverage, forced to watch helplessly as the daemon took to the air once again.
Panicking wildly, Viridis instinctively reached to grab its staff, only to realize with a shock that all its fingers had been sliced off.
Seeing its formidable enemy kicked away, Viridis let out a sigh of relief, flipping gracefully in midair to catch the staff with its foot talons.
"Don't you dare run!"
A roar laced with raw unwillingness echoed through the sky as Bul-Kathos fell toward the earth back-first, hurling the battleaxes from his hands toward the daemon with every ounce of his strength.
The axe blades spun through the air like butter-flies. Off its guard, Viridis failed to anticipate a sudden ranged attack, unable to dodge in time.
Pfft.
The first battleaxe bit deep into the Greater Daemon's abdomen, pulverizing its daemonic organs and exiting through its spine. The second battleaxe cleaved open its chest, severing half of its daemonic heart before its blade tore out the back, cleanly slicing through the wing tendons.
With its heart shattered, the body lost its source of power; with its wings severed, the form could no longer sustain flight.
Viridis vomited great mouthfuls of dark blood and organ fragments, its vision going dark as its body flipped, plummeting like a fallen eagle.
"Die for me!"
Bul-Kathos showed no mercy. Unsheathing the phase sword from his waist to activate its blade, he hurled it outward once more.
The spinning sword hurtled through the air, expanding continuously in Viridis's vision as despair flashed in the deep recesses of the daemon's eyes.
It now regretted its choice so bitterly its heart ached, constantly questioning why it had stayed behind instead of fleeing with the other daemons.
The phase blade sliced through its armpit, tearing through flesh without a hint of resistance as it cleaved horizontally through the daemon's body, severing it in two at the chest.
Bul-Kathos rested his hand on his half-melted shoulder cannon, manually calibrating his aim directly at the daemon above.
A ring of fire erupted from the barrel as the only operable volkite beam discharged. The Greater Daemon of Tzeentch was instantly set ablaze, turning into two tumbling fireballs.
Fire possessed a natural, innate bane against demonic entities.
Viridis writhed in agony, its long, slender neck twisting like a snake as its venomous tongue curled under the heat, letting out broken, agonized shrieks.
It was about to meet its end amidst regret and torment.
Beholding this spectacle, the Thousand Sons sorcerers beneath the barrier erupted into cheers, feeling the sweet satisfaction of vengeance served.
That hideous monster would never stir up trouble again.
Bul-Kathos watched silently for a long moment before turning to look downward, searching for a landing point.
"I will not... die here!"
A venomous screech forced its way through a ruined throat. Though the flames had incinerated its radiant plumage and subjected its body to excruciating agony, Viridis was ecstatic.
Its demonic staff was within arm's reach!
Extending its long, slender neck, Viridis caught the staff in its scalding beak. Its ruined lungs squeezed out a few stray sparks: "I... will remember today's... humiliation."
With those words, right under Bul-Kathos's furious glare, it bit down with all its strength, shattering the crystal staff.
Crack~
As the staff shattered, a surge of warp energy erupted, tearing a rift into the Immaterium through realspace.
Viridis's vision was blurred—the flames had burned away its eyes—yet it watched the rift burst with the light of hope.
It extended its neck and inhaled with all its might, drawing scorching air into its ruined lungs.
The warp rift was within reach; it stretched its neck outward, drawing in hot air once more.
A powerful jet of air blasted backward as Viridis extended its neck, thrusting its head into the warp rift as its broken body abruptly went limp.
The warp rift snapped shut, space itself cleaving through the daemon's neck.
Viridis's consciousness returned to the Immaterium, where it would reform its physical vessel and await its next scheme and revenge.
Thump—
Bul-Kathos crashed through the roof of a residential building, smashing through multiple floors before coming to a safe landing as the structure absorbed the impact.
He rushed out of the building immediately and approached the isolation ward. Under the stunned gazes of the Thousand Sons sorcerers, he shattered the barrier with a single punch.
"Are you alright?"
Ahriman looked at the psychic barrier dissolving into stardust, his lip twitching slightly. "We are fine."
"Thank you for the support."
After expressing his gratitude, Ahriman and his men set about preparing a teleportation array once more. "We need to head to the command chamber."
Bul-Kathos nodded heavily. Raising his hand toward the breach in the wall, he stepped back as he spoke: "Leave this place to me."
Ahriman looked up at the sky, seeing the arrival of the Nur support units. Nodding, he closed his eyes and began chanting the teleportation incantation.
A flash of teleportation light flared up, and Ahriman vanished along with the Sekhmet Guard, returning to the pyramid command chamber to oversee the global battle.
Bul-Kathos cast a glance at the dissipating demonic remains, shaking his arms. Phase claws extended from his un-melted gold gauntlets as he charged toward the city gates with his bare upper torso.
Wherever he passed, the light of warp magic dimmed. The rebels who had been beguiled by the Tzeentchian daemon recovered their sanity, falling to their knees and offering no further resistance.
Yet there were also pure traitors who had turned villain willingly. Refusing to accept defeat, they resisted even more frantically, driving their warp magic to unleash attacks.
However, the situation was fundamentally different now.
With their psychic powers suppressed, the sorcerers were even more fragile than ordinary mortals—how could they possibly stand against a Doom Marine?
As Nur support drop pods landed, elite auxiliary forces stepped out of the transport ships, establishing defensive perimeters and picking off rebels with electromagnetic rifles to seal the breach in the wall.
Similar scenes played out across the entire battlefield. As massive quantities of Blank bone ash rained down alongside artillery bombardments, the rebel sorcerers proved paper-thin.
Artificially grown Blank bones were not as potent as true Blank remains, yielding marginal effects against daemons.
Yet their strength lay in sheer volume—they could be scattered indiscriminately across the entire battlefield, proving more than enough to handle the psykers.
Ten minutes after the Doom Marines joined the fray, the last Lord of Change fled realspace. Seeing that the tide had turned, the other warp entities abandoned their soul harvests and retreated into the Immaterium.
Lacking the assistance of warp entities, the rebels' psychic potency plummeted. Coupled with the suppression of the Blank bone ash, their threat level dropped to that of ordinary mortals.
In a sense, they were perhaps even less dangerous than ordinary mortals.
A typical mortal rebellion possessed heavy weaponry and armored units; yet the citizens of Prospero, accustomed to relying on psychic power, possessed little in the way of heavy weapons support.
Deprived of warp magic, even the mortal garrison forces of Prospero could wipe out the rebels.
Unable to reverse their decline, the rebels retreated from the psychic suppression zones, pulling back toward their respective library cities.
The Thousand Sons sorcerers intended to press the advantage and completely crush the rebel forces before the Crimson King returned, presenting the Primarch with nothing more than a written report.
Yet the King of Warriors issued a command halting the Legion's pursuit, ordering them to hold only the capital city of Tizca and allow the rebels to retreat back to their cities.
Though puzzled, the Thousand Sons obeyed the order.
The orders of a Gene-Primarch were meant to be followed; they possessed neither the desire nor the standing to resist or question.
In truth, many could guess the intent: the Primarch wished for his brother to see firsthand—and take seriously—the dangers of rampant psychic abuse.
How could cold, written data and recordings ever compare to a bloody, gruesome reality?
Only when the truth cut to the bone would the victims and the instigators who drank the bitter cup truly care and engrave the lesson into their hearts.
And so, the Thousand Sons sorcerers chose obedience.
The rebellion that had nearly brought Tizca down had already changed many.
Psychic abuse—a concept that had been raised before but never taken seriously—was brought back to the fore in the Legion's internal council assemblies.
Before Magnus's return, the Thousand Sons legionaries who had survived the rebellion and suffered its horrors formed a faction known as the "Black Scorpion Society."
Adopting the scorpion as their sigil, they established an academic faction.
The scorpion possessed a deadly sting and excelled at lurking in ambush. In many totems, it symbolized danger and restraint—representing the spirit of the Black Scorpion Society.
Having witnessed danger, some chose solemn reflection.
Before long, the spirit of the Black Scorpion Society gained the approval of many Thousand Sons sorcerers.
The rebellion and the presence of the Tutelaries had forced the sorcerers to realize that what trickled out from the Immaterium was not entirely a gift; it concealed unimaginable dangers.
The Immaterium was inhabited by dangerous entities, consumed by insatiable desires, craving the souls of realspace beings.
After enduring three cautious days, a fleet jumped into realspace at the Mandeville point.
The lead flagship was a striking, radiant red. A pyramid was built upon the upper deck of its stern, a massive sun symbol was etched into its lower armor plating, and a towering scarab relief adorned its prow ram.
It was the flagship of the Thousand Sons Legion—the Photep, flagship of Magnus, the Crimson King.
Having received word of the rebellion on his homeworld, the Gene-Primarch was leading his Legion back from the sea of stars.