Ten minutes later.
On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, a silence so thick it felt solid filled the air.
Abaddon stood before the captain's throne, his eyes fixed on the approaching planet through the observation window.
Pythos.
On most star charts, this planet was an insignificant speck—a coordinate for a world with zero strategic value in the vast territories of the Imperium. Yet now, it had become the sole destination of this Black Crusade, the final straw in all of Abaddon's plans.
They had arrived.
During their near-light-speed flight, astronomical distances that usually required long periods to traverse were compressed at a frantic pace. The Chaos fleet had originally appeared in this system directly through the Warp; they were not far from Pythos to begin with. Even under conventional sailing standards, it was a journey measured in hours.
Now, they were there.
Abaddon's gaze swept across the bridge, over the Chaos slaves busy at their stations, and over the consoles and screens distorted by Warp corruption. His mouth twitched.
They had succeeded. They had reached their destination.
But then what? What was the cost?
The thought surfaced involuntarily in the Warmaster's mind. The image of the enemy fleet remained etched in his brain—six thousand Gloriana-class battleships in a massive array, like a lethal river of stars pouring destruction into his ranks. It was a sight that made every Chaos servant tremble to their soul.
The Planet Killer, the behemoth capable of destroying worlds in a single shot and the ultimate deterrent of the Black Crusade, was now drifting wreckage. Its speed was too slow. Abaddon had been forced to abandon it, watching as it was torn to pieces in that terrifying fire-grid.
And the Chaos cruisers? Abaddon turned to the holographic tactical projection. The icons representing cruisers were sparse—fewer than one in ten remained. In an Imperial Navy manual, this loss rate would be defined as "total annihilation."
As for the battleships—the capital ships Chaos had spent millennia looting from Forge Worlds—half were gone. Abaddon clenched his teeth.
Even the Vengeful Spirit was scarred. The void shield arrays had overloaded completely under the concentrated fire of the Gloriana-class main batteries, emitting the groans of equipment on the verge of total failure. The hull itself had taken heavy damage; enemy attacks had torn massive gashes in the prow like the claw marks of a beast.
It would be extremely difficult to repair. That was the judgment of the Dark Mechanicum Tech-Priests. It meant that for the next hundred or even thousand years, the Vengeful Spirit would carry these scars.
Rage surged in Abaddon's chest. He felt like a fool being toyed with, a clown performing a farce on stage.
Those damned Daemon Primarchs!
Those so-called Primarchs hiding in the depths of the Warp, indulging in past glories, had promised him they would heed the call of the Black Crusade. They said they would manifest in this great campaign and tear the Imperium apart.
Where were they now?
Abaddon even suspected they were hiding in some corner of the Warp, using sorcery to watch his pathetic performance and laughing mockingly. At the thought of himself—the Warmaster of Chaos, the supreme commander of the Black Legion, the Despoiler—reduced to this state, his fury burned.
"You need to be calm," a voice came from behind him. Erebus said, "You aren't in a fit state to continue commanding."
"Calm?" Abaddon spun around. "You want me to be calm? Do you know how much we lost for your information?" His voice echoed through the bridge. "How can I be calm now?!"
Erebus fell silent for a moment. His face, covered in Chaos scriptures, looked eerie in the dim light. The blasphemous words carved into his flesh seemed to writhe.
"Anger won't make the enemy disappear," he finally said. "You don't need an excuse to vent; you need a decision."
Then Abaddon spoke. "I cannot give up. Do you hear me, Erebus? I cannot give up."
Abaddon turned back to the window, watching the planet grow larger. "The costs have exceeded my limits. I brought the core of the Black Legion; I summoned the fleets of dozens of warbands; I used every resource gathered over thousands of years—and now you want me to retreat? You want me to run back to the Eye of Terror like a stray dog?"
He shook his head with a paranoid intensity. "Never. There is only one choice now."
Abaddon's gaze sharpened. "The Warp rift you spoke of. The rift rumored to be second only to the Eye of Terror. Once it is torn open, the entire system will be sucked into an unimaginable Warp storm. Like the breaking of Caliban, everything around it will be swept away instantly—even Gloriana-class battleships won't last long against such power. This is our only chance to strike a heavy blow to the Imperium."
Erebus said nothing, merely watching Abaddon. The Dark Apostle understood the situation. The politics of Chaos were thousands of times more complex than those of any mortal court. Every warband leader coveted higher status; every Chaos Lord looked for a chance to betray and usurp.
Abaddon held the throne of Warmaster not because of personality or legitimacy, but because of victory. Constant victory. Every Black Crusade was proclaimed a win, even if it wasn't. Abaddon had to announce his martial achievements at every public occasion. This was the law of survival in the world of Chaos: "Winner-ology."
You had to keep winning, even if the victories were fabricated. Once you showed a sliver of weakness, the followers who bowed to you would tear you apart. If Abaddon crawled back to the Eye of Terror now with a crippled fleet, everything would end. Not just the allied warbands, but even his own Black Legion would fracture into dozens of small groups and vanish into the darkness of the Warp.
Abaddon could not allow that. He took a deep breath, suppressing his rage.
"Haarken," Abaddon said, naming a name. "I hope the Worldclaimer brings me good news." His tone grew cold. "He volunteered as the vanguard to reach this system through the Warp turbulence. His mission was to establish outposts and scout defenses—and I gave him the support of the Night Lords Astartes."
Abaddon's voice turned icy. "He wouldn't tell me he couldn't even take a single planet, would he?"
Just then, the bridge communication array emitted a piercing buzz. The fleet commander's voice reached Abaddon, sounding strained.
"Lord," the commander said, "we have received reports from the Night Lords. Haarken Worldclaimer is confirmed dead."
Abaddon froze. What? Haarken was dead? How?
Rage rose again, more uncontrollable than before. Abaddon felt that nothing had gone right—from the moment this cursed crusade began, everything moved toward the worst outcome.
"Who killed him?" Abaddon asked through gritted teeth. He forced himself to stay calm. He figured that if the enemy could pull out six thousand Gloriana-class ships, nothing on this planet should surprise him. Haarken's death was unexpected, but in light of what he had just witnessed, it seemed logical. Knowing the cause of death would at least prepare him for the coming fight.
"The Night Lords' report is a bit..." The commander's voice became hesitant. "It's strange, Lord. I am re-confirming."
"Speak," Abaddon said, his voice hard as iron. "What did they say?"
After a brief silence, the commander spoke. "They said... Haarken was rammed to death by a Baneblade."
The bridge fell into a deathly silence. Abaddon laughed in spite of himself. A Baneblade. His Worldclaimer, a leader of Night Lords, a Chaos champion who survived countless Warp campaigns—rammed to death by a super-heavy tank?
Useless! It was utterly disappointing!
However, at that moment—a shrill alarm exploded through the bridge. The augur readings jumped wildly. Outside the window, the void was torn apart by light again. Golden, blue-white, and brilliant red beams shrieked from the darkness of space, slicing through the void like a reaper's scythe, landing in the midst of the Chaos fleet.
Explosions bloomed on the fleet's flank. A cruiser's void shields overloaded instantly, and its hull was punched through by a macro-cannon shell. The ship snapped in two in a silent explosion, its oxygen and fuel turning into an expanding fireball that illuminated the ships scrambling to evade.
The Imperial fleet. Those Gloriana-class battleships had caught up again.
In the short time Abaddon had delayed, those massive ships had shaken off the latest divine punishments and were grinding forward like an approaching storm. Every push carried an unstoppable momentum, as inevitable as death itself.
"I suggest you don't delay any longer," Erebus's voice rang out again.
"I know," Abaddon snorted. "I don't need your reminders, Erebus. I am the commander of this fleet."
Erebus's face twitched under his hood. He cursed inwardly. Even now, you're playing these games? But the Dark Apostle said nothing. He simply stood there, waiting for the decision.
Abaddon looked out the window again. The planet was right there. Pythos. This was his only chance. He took a deep breath and spoke. His voice boomed like thunder across the fleet channels.
"Attention all units! All ships, release all drop pods immediately! Deploy everyone who can fight to the surface—every Chaos Space Marine, every Dark Mechanicum Skitarius, every mortal servant of the Chaos Gods!"
His voice burned with a manic determination. "Once on the ground, we initiate the Warp ritual immediately! We will turn this planet into a massive ritual site—a landing place to pour the fury of the Warp into the material universe!"
Outside the window, the first batch of drop pods detached from the bellies of the Chaos warships. They fell like rain toward the atmosphere of Pythos, carving burning trails under the pull of gravity. Behind them, the fire from the Gloriana-class battleships continued. In the void, the light of destruction never ceased. It was no different from the rest of this war-torn galaxy.
At this very moment. On the surface of Pythos.
Chapter Master Malakim Phoros pulled his power sword from the chest of a fallen Night Lord, the movement difficult and slow. The friction between blade and bone emitted a shrill screech, followed by the dull sound of gushing blood. Dark red liquid splashed over him, adding a fresh, viscous layer to the power armor already covered in dust and cordite.
Malakim looked up, his gaze passing over the killing field that had just fallen silent. All around him were the corpses of Night Lords.
A Baneblade super-heavy tank sped past and stopped beside him. The hatch was pushed open from the inside, and Colonel Straken leaned out. They did not speak or exchange greetings. Both simply looked up at the burning sky together.
The war was about to begin.