"Where the hell did this bring me? Is this still the same galaxy?"
In the Segmentum Solar, upon an unnamed planet.
The sky was a silent, deathly grey-blue. Outside the thin atmosphere, the light of distant stars fell cold and bleak, illuminating the barren surface so that it resembled a quiet graveyard.
A figure holding a staff stood atop a jagged rocky ridge, gazing up at that starry sky.
His skin was pale as the moon, his facial features refined to an almost ethereal degree, and apart from a pair of pointed ears, he was virtually indistinguishable from a human.
A luxurious robe fluttered gently in the light breeze, a faint runic aura flowing across its surface.
Yet at this moment, the owner of this robe had fallen into a state of bewilderment bordering on a complete breakdown.
Eldrad Ulthran's eyes, pitch-black like deep wells, reflected the star map overhead—a map both familiar and alien.
His gaze was so melancholic, so lost, that this Aeldari Farseer, who had honed his perfect psychic prophecy abilities through two long millennia, doubted his own psychic foresight for the very first time.
What in the world is this?
Ulthran's lips trembled slightly, and the gracefully sculpted staff in his hand creaked under his tightened grip.
He remembered clearly.
Extremely clearly.
Not much time had passed since he had ventured into the Webway.
By the crude reckoning of human calendars, it had likely been less than a month. He had merely led his followers on a deep exploration within the depths of the Webway, attempting to find the item that concerned the destiny of the entire Aeldari race.
Yet when he emerged and merely looked up at the night sky...
How did he suddenly feel unable to understand even what was happening in the galaxy today?
Where was the Eye of Terror?
That giant Warp rift hanging in the center of the galaxy, straddling the stars like a festering wound—that source of Chaos that constantly radiated suffocating, terrifying ripples, making all psykers shrink from looking at it directly—
Was gone?
What kind of joke was this!
A joke like this—even Cegorach, the Laughing God of the Aeldari, probably wouldn't dare make it, right?
The corner of Ulthran's eye twitched.
Hahahaha.
He suddenly wanted to laugh.
I get it!
This had to be a plot by Tzeentch.
That twisted blue birdman loved playing these kinds of tricks the most.
Yes, that had to be it.
Hahahaha—
Ulthran actually laughed out loud.
The laughter echoed across the surface of the desolate planet. At first, it carried a bit of relief, but as he laughed, the sound cut off abruptly.
Because he was Ulthran, one of the most powerful living psychic Farseers of the Aeldari.
The starscape was real. The Warp was truly calm. The Eye of Terror had genuinely closed. The festering wound that had plagued the galaxy for tens of thousands of years through Chaos's infiltration of the real universe—had truly healed.
How is that even possible?
"Farseer, what should we do now?"
A deep voice came from behind him.
The speaker was an agile Aspect Warrior clad in armor.
His armor was covered in battle scratches and scorch marks, and a subtle crack marred the visor of his helmet, making it clear he had just survived a fierce battle not long ago.
He was an Aspect Warrior of Craftworld Ulthwé, belonging to one of the most elite forces fighting against Chaos.
Ulthwé was located near the Eye of Terror—to be precise, near where the Eye of Terror used to be.
They were the Aeldari faction that fought the Chaos forces spilling out from the Eye of Terror the most—one could even say without exception.
For countless millennia, the Aeldari of Ulthwé had stood like a dam against the tides of Chaos. They prided themselves on being the sturdiest guardians in the galaxy, firmly believing that even their dark kin indulging in corruption, or fellow Craftworld kin, could not compare to them when it came to fighting Chaos.
However, the problem was—
This Aspect Warrior now realized that everything he took pride in seemed to have lost its meaning in an instant.
The Eye of Terror was gone.
What had they been fighting all this time?
What on Ulthwé was going on?
"We must return to the Craftworld immediately," the Aspect Warrior said, suppressing the shock in his heart, his tone urgent. "We must know what on earth happened. The Craftworld right now—"
"I want to accomplish all of that too."
Ulthran interrupted him.
The old Farseer slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over the followers standing behind him.
He pursed his lips.
"My friend, I am sorry," Ulthran said. "Look at our current state. Are we fit to carry that out?"
The Aspect Warrior fell silent.
He looked back.
Standing behind them was a battered and broken squad.
Those Aspect Warriors who had once been so valiant were all injured now—armor broken, weapons shattered. Some could not even stand firm and needed support from their comrades.
And those most precious Aspect Warriors—the elites who had spent hundreds or thousands of years on their Paths to master their psychic powers perfectly, so as not to be consumed by the Youngest Sister—
Of the followers Ulthran had led into the Webway, less than one in ten remained.
The Aspect Warrior's heart twitched violently.
He even noticed that many familiar faces had disappeared. In the battles deep within the Webway, most of them had not even had their spirit stones brought out.
They were either lost forever in the shattered branches of the Webway, or had already been devoured by that entity.
Location unknown.
Life or death equally unknown.
However, Ulthran's gaze passed over those battle-scarred faces and ultimately rested at the center of the formation.
There, several of the most elite Aspect Warriors were fiercely guarding a large chest.
The chest was sculpted entirely from wraithbone, its surface dense with sealing runes, its four corners inlaid with spirit stone fragments from the core of the Craftworld.
When Ulthran's gaze fell upon that chest, the confusion and exhaustion on his face were replaced by a deeper emotion.
It was resolve.
What was inside that large chest was the hope of the entire Aeldari race.
Or—ultimate destruction.
Regardless, Ulthran always believed one thing: what he was doing now was far better than letting the Aeldari rot away in a state of hedonistic stupor, marching toward total annihilation.
Even if there was only a sliver of possibility, he was willing to gamble everything he had.
To gamble for a future.
"Your journey should end here," a voice suddenly sounded. "Step no further."
That voice was exceptionally familiar.
Ulthran's brow merely twitched; not even a hint of surprise showed on his face.
He turned back calmly.
Below the rocky ridge, among the jagged stones and withered vegetation, figure after figure had quietly appeared at some unknown moment.
What first caught his eye was a vibrant splash of color. They swayed gently with the wearers' footsteps, as though every movement was a meticulously rehearsed theatrical performance.
Behind that lead figure were even more individuals dressed in the same manner.
Ulthran's pitch-black eyes narrowed slightly.
It was the Aeldari Troupe from the Black Library, serving under Cegorach, the Laughing God.
He even saw several masked Aeldari among them—Solitaires, who held extremely high status within the Troupe!
They place this much importance on me?
Ulthran let out a silent, cold laugh.
The figure leading the Troupe walked toward him with elegant and composed strides.
As the distance closed, Ulthran clearly saw that face—a face he had known for over ten thousand years, yet which felt extraordinarily unfamiliar now.
His old friend, Shadowseer Sylandri.
"Does the Laughing God object to my actions?"
Ulthran tightened his grip on the staff in his hand.
Even if it was an old friend he had known for over ten thousand years, he would never allow them to meddle in his plans.
It was an impossibility.
And an act he could never agree to.
"Yes."
Sylandri's voice lacked the calm it usually held when conversing with Ulthran. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, and her sharp eyes reflected Ulthran holding his staff. "What you are doing is merely a mistake."
She tightened her grip on her alien blade.
"Stop here. Hand that item over to us."
Her words fell.
For a moment, the air seemed to freeze.
Beneath the grey-blue sky, the two groups confronted each other from a distance.
Then, Ulthran laughed.
"Heh. You know the rules."
"If you want it, come take it yourself!"
It all came down to a good old Baalite standoff, as the humans would say.