At this moment, on the planet Pythos.
On the surface.
A certain Chaos Warmaster, still unaware that he had been strategically abandoned by the four Chaos Gods, was flying into a rage.
"Damn it, what exactly is happening? I don't want to hear any excuses! I want to know right now why this is happening!"
Abaddon's roar exploded in front of the sacrificial altar of the Chaos ritual, the fury in his voice nearly igniting the surrounding air. Beside the Chaos Warmaster, the massive ritual altar emitted unholy light.
The altar was built from pitch-black stone, its surfaces carved with twisted Chaos script. Every symbol pulsed slightly, like the beating heart of some deformed creature. Several Astartes from the Lamenters Chapter lay sprawled across the altar, their chests sliced open by ritualistic blades. Dark red blood welled from the hideous wounds, flowing along the carved grooves of the altar and mixing with the writhing Chaos script.
The blood seemed to possess a life of its own, boiling the moment it touched the Chaos script and rising as crimson mist into the Warp energy shrouding the ritual grounds. Around the altar, Chaos Sorcerers from various legions held staves, chanting desecrated incantations.
Hours ago, Abaddon had descended directly to the planet's surface via Warp teleportation. Almost immediately upon landing, he established this ritual under the direction of Erebus. The four Chaos Gods had seemingly discarded their usual cold indifference. Even though the sacrifices offered were merely a few Astartes, an unprecedented ritual power suddenly expanded, enveloping the entire planet like a giant, invisible palm.
Now, this planet had become a weak point—a fragile, vulnerable membrane between the material universe and the Warp.
Abaddon believed such a setup would deter the Imperium. With the veil between the Warp and reality blurred on this planet, and the "hole"—the ultimate goal of his journey—being present, any use of heavy weaponry, orbital bombardment, or Exterminatus by the Imperial fleet would trigger a massive Warp storm. This storm would rise like a waking beast, dragging those Gloriana-class battleships directly into the abyss of the Warp.
At that point, the forces of Chaos would gain a massive source of supplies and might even capture those Gloriana-class ships. Abaddon was certain the Imperium could not accept such a loss. This would effectively block the possibility of orbital bombardment and drag the Imperium into a ground war.
However, Abaddon clenched his teeth. He could not accept this result alone.
This was not his original objective! He had paid a staggering price, gathered immense power, and utilized every resource the Black Legion had accumulated over thousands of years.
And yet, what was the result?
At this moment, the Chaos Warmaster's fleet was nearly wiped out. Now, only the Vengeful Spirit was struggling to escape the pursuit of the Gloriana-class battleships in the material universe, relying on its engines which were deeply corrupted by the Warp and possessed strength beyond expectation. Before Abaddon's teleportation, the escort fleet that once guarded the Vengeful Spirit had been essentially annihilated.
Thinking of the Chaos servants dead on those ships and the Black Legion Astartes turned to ash in the fire... such horrific losses and bone-deep costs were unacceptable to Abaddon. With such a terrifying sunk cost, he had to complete his grand task on this planet.
Only by expanding that Warp rift—the legendary rift said to be second only to the Eye of Terror—could he prove that all these sacrifices were worth it. Only then could he prove this crusade was a heavy blow to the lackeys of the False Emperor and a great victory, like the Black Crusades of the past.
But after establishing the first ritual without pause, when Abaddon directed his Chaos Sorcerers to begin the second ritual and call upon the Daemon Primarchs with whom he had already signed contracts—
A problem arose. No one answered.
There was no reaction. The Daemon Primarchs had seemingly stood him up. Neither Magnus nor Fulgrim, neither Mortarion nor Angron responded to his call. At the other end of the psychic communication matrices, only the cold and ruthless Warp silently mocked his futility.
Abaddon was furious! His rage almost burst from his chest. Those beings were so base! They wouldn't even keep a basic promise. Did they possess even a shred of shame or honor?
Abaddon's breathing became heavy and erratic. His chest heaved, and he felt his temples throbbing. In this moment, Abaddon felt like a fool being toyed with by everyone.
Thinking that he now had to rely on the ground forces dropped onto this planet to complete the plan, even someone as confident as Abaddon felt a trace of bewilderment.
Six thousand Gloriana-class battleships. The Imperial military force carried within them was a number that even Abaddon, in his current state of mental conflict, dared not imagine.
Would they win? If the Daemon Primarchs did not appear, if the Imperium brought out high-level combatants, if the opponent sent two Primarch-level fighters—how would he resist? How would he respond?
Abaddon paced irritably in front of the altar, each step heavy enough to crack the ground.
"Ease your mind," a voice came from his side.
Erebus held his staff, his face covered in Chaos scriptures appearing particularly eerie under the dim ritual light. His mouth twitched into a gesture that could be called a "smile."
"Those Daemon Primarchs merely have their own little schemes. They are aligned with you in the general direction."
"You have the nerve to speak?!" Abaddon turned sharply, his eyes burning with rage as he stared at the Dark Apostle. "Where is your Primarch? Why is Lorgar not present?!"
Erebus's expression stiffened slightly. "I am not entirely clear on that matter." His tone carried a hint of subtle annoyance. "Don't you know? I broke off contact with him long ago."
As the gene-father he personally induced into Chaos, Erebus did not hold the same level of respect for his Primarch as a typical Astartes. However, at this thought, Erebus frowned.
Why had Lorgar not reacted? Logically, he should have appeared on the battlefield. After all, the Word Bearers' nemesis was the Ultramarines—this was common knowledge throughout the galaxy. During the Great Crusade, they had clashed unpleasantly over the burning of Monarchia. Later, the Battle of Calth during the Great Heresy locked the hatred between the two legions into an eternal blood feud.
Furthermore, the Word Bearers were one of the few Chaos forces that maintained legion-scale cohesion after the Heresy, possessing an independent and complete recruitment system. Thus, Lorgar's current behavior was worth pondering.
Erebus frowned, recalling his gene-father's recent actions, but quickly pushed it aside and spoke to Abaddon. "Then pack up. We should immediately go to find the location of the seal."
"Yes." Realizing that fury was useless, Abaddon let out a heavy snort. He forced himself to suppress his surging emotions and began preparing to lead the ground forces toward the target location.
At that moment—
Boom!
The sound of endless explosions suddenly echoed. The noise was like rolling thunder, wave after wave hitting the eardrums.
What was the situation?! Abaddon looked up sharply.
But before he could react, a massive amount of artillery shells fell into the ranks of the Chaos army like a rainstorm. The shells drew dark red trails in the sky as they fell, slamming into the ground with piercing shrieks.
However, the psychic shields maintained collectively by the Chaos Sorcerers flared up at the critical moment. The shells exploded against the shields, the light of the blasts burning fiercely on the surface of the barriers, turning into a boiling sea of fire that illuminated the hideous faces of the Chaos servants.
Beyond the light of that sea of fire, the sound of roaring approached.
"For the Emperor!"
As if thousands of men and horses were shouting in unison, this classic battle cry erupted from countless throats, merging into a grand torrent that rolled over the land like a crashing wave.
A roaring barrage of bolter shells and volkite beams suddenly lashed out from the outer positions. The lethal firepower washed over the Chaos base again and again. The smell of ozone and gunpowder spread—the quintessential scent of war.
"For those we cherish, we die in glory!"
Another synchronized battle cry rang out. This time it was clearer, deafeningly loud due to the closing distance.
Accompanied by the iconic hum of power swords activating, Astartes clad in bright yellow armor surged from the smoke like a rising tide. They swung their melee weapons with calculated ferocity. The roar of chainswords, the whine of power axes, and the crackle of thunder hammers intertwined. They vented their weapons upon the Chaos servants with primal fury, pushing forward with every ounce of their strength.
They advanced toward the Great Enemy that had entangled the Imperium for ten thousand dark years.
Chapter Master Malakim Phoros's figure flickered within the sea of bright yellow armor, his power sword still dripping with the blood of Night Lords.
Abaddon watched these "ants" who dared to defy death, his teeth grinding together. If he wished, he could crush them into dust with a mere flick of his finger.
"Stay calm," Erebus's persuasive voice rang in his ear. "We cannot afford further impulsiveness. Every second is precious. Imperial reinforcements could arrive in force at any moment. Entangling ourselves with the defenders of this planet now is a mindless move."
Abaddon's chest heaved violently.
"Delorm," Abaddon finally spoke. His voice was icy. "Lead your warband to cover our rear." He turned his gaze toward the blood-soaked Chaos Champion standing beside him. "Give these lackeys of the False Emperor something to remember. I have a plan to complete."
With those words, Abaddon turned and strode toward the back of the sacrificial altar. Behind him, the Chaos Space Marines of the Black Legion began to form their ranks.
Chapter Master Malakim swung his power sword with movements so crisp and precise they looked like standard diagrams from a tactical manual. He slashed into the seam of a neck guard, twisted his wrist, and thrust the tip straight into the heart. Just like that, he impaled a Chaos Astartes through the chest. Foul blood erupted, bearing an ominous dark purple hue, splashing onto Malakim's bracer and the ground. The blood hissed upon contact with the earth, as if the soil itself was being corroded.
Malakim frowned. He kicked away the twitching corpse, his power boot striking ceramite with a dull metallic thud. The body rolled twice before landing face-up, its dimming lenses staring blankly at the burning sky.
"Lackey of the False Emperor!" A roar suddenly exploded. "I am your opponent!"
Malakim looked up, his gaze piercing through the smoke and blood mist hanging over the battlefield. A Chaos Champion stood there, completely encased in crimson armor. He was significantly taller than the surrounding Chaos Marines. His ancient MKIII power armor was covered in traces of Warp corruption, and his helmet was shaped into a hideous skull, with eyes burning with a fierce blood-red light.
The Chaos Champion strode toward him. Malakim said nothing. He raised his master-crafted plasma pistol. The machine spirit operated at an logic-defying speed, and bolt after bolt of blue-white plasma spat from the barrel, shrieking toward the Champion like falling stars.
The Chaos Champion's silhouette suddenly blurred. He was much faster than his bulk suggested. A plasma bolt grazed his shoulder guard, leaving a scorched black mark on the crimson plate. The Champion did not pause; he moved through the lethal web of plasma with an instinct honed over ten thousand years of slaughter.
Two Astartes of Chapter Master caliber realized each other's strength in the same instant. Without a word, both stepped toward the other. The distance closed. During this process, other Astartes attempted to challenge them, only to become corpses beneath their feet. They stepped over the bodies before they even hit the ground.
When the distance between them reached a critical point—Malakim moved.
His left hand suddenly reached for his belt and pulled out a flare gun. A flash of confusion flickered in the Chaos Champion's eyes. What is this? Before the thought could finish, Malakim pulled the trigger.
A thick, burning smoke grenade shot from the barrel, landing precisely at the Champion's feet. Fiery red smoke billowed up like a living thing, rolling and spreading through the air, instantly blinding the Chaos Champion.
Then, a shriek as if the air itself was being torn rang out. The sound was so sharp and piercing that everyone on the battlefield felt a stinging pain in their eardrums. The prepared Lamenters split apart from Malakim's sides like a retreating tide.
The Chaos Champion finally saw it. On the other side of the red smoke, a massive black shadow was rumbling forward at supersonic speeds.
It was a... Baneblade?
At this moment, a piece of intelligence finally clicked into place for him. But it was too late.
BOOM!
The dull sound of steel colliding with flesh exploded. The Chaos Champion's chest made intimate contact with the Baneblade's frontal armor. Just like the unlucky soul before him, this blessed Chaos Champion had no room to struggle before the supersonic mountain of steel. He was instantly turned into a mess of shredded meat stuck to the treads. Blood sprayed from every crack in his armor, leaving radial splashes across the hull of the super-heavy tank.
Colonel Slaykes leaned halfway out of the hatch of the Bane of Traitors. His face remained expressionless as he gave a slight nod toward Malakim.
Malakim nodded back. He didn't even spare a second glance at the remains; his eyes were fixed on the distance—where Abaddon had disappeared. There, a brilliant, dazzling light of a Warp teleport was gradually fading. The light was an unsettling purplish-red, like pus and blood from deep within rotting meat, leaving a distorted afterimage in the air.
The Chaos Warmaster had left the battlefield.
"Damn it!" Malakim gritted his teeth.
Meanwhile, at another location on Pythos.
In a span of time that could be measured in seconds, Abaddon stepped out of the Warp teleportation light. His feet landed on entirely different ground. Behind him, Erebus and a large number of Chaos Sorcerers followed, standing silently.
They looked around. This was no longer a battlefield soaked in artillery fire and blood. There was only silence and various types of rocks. The Warmaster's gaze slowly swept over his surroundings.
They were inside the mouth of a mountain cave. The walls were made of a deep gray rock, showing no signs of manual excavation, yet smoothed like glass by some ancient force over eons.
Abaddon's brow furrowed deeply. "This is the location of the seal you detected?"