Axion tightened the fleet's encirclement around the four Arks of Omen, each already scarred by the jagged breaches of their violent ejection from the Warp.
With breathtaking precision, the silver fleet systematically dismantled the Arks' external defenses. The weaponry displayed a surgical finesse that stood in stark contrast to its previous brutality. Every strike was perfectly calibrated to neutralize the organic, pulsating gun-towers of the Arks, eventually plunging the four colossal vessels into absolute silence.
Then, the world-drowning invasion began.
Massive troop-carriers launched countless drop-pods, which descended like silver rain onto the surface of the Arks. As the metallic casings hissed open, swarms of mechanical entities poured forth.
Automated Sentry-Troopers efficiently crushed the resistance found on the complex hull-surfaces—Daemons, Traitor Astartes, and crazed cultists alike. A chorus of agonized wails rose from the twisted metal as the slaughter spread inward, carving a path into the dark heart of each ship.
Nanite swarms accompanied the Sentry-Troopers and Armored Wardens. The labyrinthine structures of the Chaos vessels were literally deconstructed by a silver tide; excess materials were repurposed on the spot, transformed into Automated Sentry-Guns that secured the conquered ground. Every inch of the ship-cemeteries was purged, every corridor dismantled, every deck-plate invaded.
Daemons lurking in the shadows fell in swathes to the humming edges of Particle Vibration Blades. Though the Neverborn possessed a degree of resistance to ranged projectiles, the flexible chassis of the Sentries, combined with combat subroutines that turned every unit into a master duelist, allowed them to harvest the Warp-spawn like wheat in an autumn field.
…
Upon his Brass Throne in the Immaterium, the embodiment of Rage and Blood was drawn to this immense conflict.
Khorne's gaze pierced through the veils of the Empyrean, fixing upon the blood-soaked battlefields within the Arks. A roar of indignation erupted from the Blood God, causing the countless figures prostrate before his throne to tremble in terror. They felt his searing fury and profound dissatisfaction.
This was not war as Khorne intended. While the decks ran red, the slaughter was devoid of the essence he craved.
The Iron Men possessed no emotional resonance. To them, killing was merely a means to an end, a clinical task performed without joy, sorrow, or fervor. Traitors, Daemons, renegade warbands, and xenos vermin died by the second, but their ends provided no sustenance for the Blood God. There was no blood-lust in their hearts, no hatred for the enemy, no burning need for vengeance.
There was only cold, calculated termination.
Neutron beams reduced Traitors to incinerated husks that smelled of scorched meat. Atomic pulses shredded Daemon Engines and corrupted wargear. The Iron Men's tally of death was staggering, yet Khorne found it intolerable. To him, this was meaningless extinction.
Furthermore, these emotionless machines lacked any soul-projection, leaving the Blood God with no metaphysical lever to crush them. Khorne had never anticipated that his own previous, fleeting gaze would inadvertently cause these machines to develop a permanent immunity to the Warp's corruptive influence on their sapient cores.
Subtlety was not his domain.
Suddenly, a flicker of cerulean light appeared. A towering, blue-skinned avian figure with three heads manifested within the blood-drenched realm of Aether, letting out a series of bizarre, warbling cackles.
"Ge-ge-ge..." The shrill, mocking laughter sounded utterly alien in the desolate Land of Blood.
"Tzeentchian filth! Phokulozortis!" a voice thundered. "You reek of the stench of Change. How dare you set foot in the sacred domain of Khorne?"
"Has your scheming master sent you here to steal glory? This blood-stained earth and these mountains of skulls are no place for your games. You, whose mind is a nest of conspiracies, are like a fox sneaking into a lion's den. Do you seek death?"
"Your presence is a profanity against the Blood God! I, Karanak, the Hound of Vengeance, will tear you limb from limb and use your flesh to fertilize this realm! Your soul shall burn eternally in my master's wrath!"
The massive three-headed Flesh Hound bared its claws, letting out a low, guttural growl that shook the air.
"Foolish cur, do not presume to block my path," Phokulozortis replied, his three heads bobbing in unison. "The Great Weaver sees all. The Blood God's confusion disturbs the Great Balance; I have come to reposition the pieces on this chaotic chessboard."
"You are but an extension of Khorne's savage will. How could you comprehend our higher machinations? Though this realm bears his name, the will of Chaos knows no borders. I act in accordance with the decree of Tzeentch, to liberate the Blood God from his own blind rage. Your impulsive actions make you a sinner against the harmony of the Pantheon."
Phokulozortis held his three heads high, looking down upon Karanak with utter disdain.
"Hmph! You Tzeentchian maggot, cease your prattling," Karanak snarled. "Your 'mission' is nothing but another of your master's twisted plots. The Blood God's will is iron; it is not for a charlatan like you to manipulate. You think your honeyed words can blind me? You are a sparrow chirping among lions, insignificant and doomed. Return to your master's nest, or I shall rend you asunder!"
Enraged, Karanak lunged at the avian sorcerer, his three maws snapping toward Phokulozortis's necks.
Caught off guard by the hound's speed, Phokulozortis barely managed to raise a golden staff etched with maddening sigils, thrusting it between himself and Karanak's gnashing teeth.
"Accursed mutt!"
A massive rift tore open in the void above, and a bolt of brilliant blue lightning struck Karanak. The impact sent the great daemon hound tumbling across the blood-slicked plains.
In response, a colossal axe etched with runes that promised eternal slaughter flew from above the Throne of Skulls, wreathed in crimson light, and smashed into the rift.
"Khorne, your pet seems to hold a prejudice against my servant."
A giant blue hand caught the returning axe and tossed it casually to the ground. Two immense presences, one of burning scarlet, the other of shifting azure, now loomed over the domain.
"Tzeentch, you craven architect of lies!" Khorne's voice was a tectonic roar. "Your schemes are like buzzing flies upon my battlefield. Your convoluted plans are a desecration of pure combat, you coward who hides in the shadows of fate!"
"Heh, pure combat?" Tzeentch's voice dripped with mockery as he projected a vision of the Iron Men's clinical 'slaughterhouse.' "Ah, a slaughter so pure it is almost... intoxicating. Hahaha!"
"Hmph! One day you shall be ensnared by your own idiotic designs!" Khorne growled, momentarily silenced by the cold reality of the metal tide.