If the Four Gods had previously been merely "chatting in a data-vault," they had now fully logged into a grand arena of carnage, ready to execute their foes with the most "intimate and friendly" of death-blows.
"Lord Titus... you?" Gadriel looked at Titus. Though the Captain's physical form remained unchanged, a majesty and power that seared the very soul radiated from him, causing Gadriel's voice to tremble.
The veteran Metaurus, however, reacted instantly. He fell to both knees before the figure that was at once familiar and utterly alien. A look of transcendent revelation washed over his face as he whispered, "…My Lord... Our Emperor, Our Hope... Master of Mankind…"
Witnessing Metaurus's display, the remaining Ultramarines, Gadriel included, stared in absolute astonishment. Then, as if a crushing weight had been lifted from their spirits, they knelt, casting aside their bolters and blades like devout cenobites entering prayer.
"Withdraw and fulfill your duties. When this matter is concluded, Titus shall return to you," the Emperor spoke. His voice carried a resonant echo… calm, yet brooking no defiance. Simultaneously, the labyrinthine, shifting terrain of the metal arena peeled away like soft clay, opening a direct path for extraction.
"…As You command, King of Kings." Metaurus was the first to find his feet, his eyes burning with renewed resolve. He felt his strength, and that of his brothers, restored to its absolute zenith.
The other Astartes reclaimed their weapons, saluting the Emperor one final time before retreating without hesitation, obeying His divine mandate. For them, this was a glory beyond measure; the memory of this moment alone would sustain them until the hour of their deaths.
Under the Emperor's crushing psychic pressure, none dared bar their way.
The traitors, the Emperor's Children, Death Guard, and World Eaters, did not move to intercept. Before that holy radiance, these oath-breakers recalled the vows they had long ago forsaken. They bowed their heads in a mixture of deep shame and primal terror, like children caught in a monstrous transgression.
As for the Red Guard, the Skaven were gripped by pure, unadulterated cowardice.
But suddenly, a surge of crimson, frenzied warp-energy erupted from Khârn. The Chosen of Khorne, who moments ago had been trembling with shame, was instantly filled with a malevolent aura that rivaled the Emperor's own.
Bolstered by this presence, the other World Eaters snapped back into a state of fearless, Butcher's-Nail-induced rage, even baring their teeth at the Master of Mankind.
Khârn, now a vessel for Khorne, let out a sneering roar. His chainaxe, now seemingly forged from living, burning blood, pointed directly at the Emperor. "Come! In blood and iron, entertain me! Feed the Blood God!"
The World Eaters were no longer afraid, but the Death Guard fared worse. Caught between the Emperor's soul-crushing light and Khorne's aura of fury, they oscillated between repentance and mindless rage, until a power of bloated, twisted vitality descended upon Typhus.
The Death Guard were restored to their "glory." Their decaying forms, which had begun to crumble under the psychic pressure, solidified and surged with unnatural vigor.
Chittering Nurglings crawled from the ruptured plates of their armor, their shrill screams rising in a rhythmic chant: "Sevenfold plague, sevenfold curse! Sevenfold blessings!"
The ground beneath Typhus's feet instantly rotted; metal turned to mold and sprouted weeping pustules. This domain of decay expanded rapidly until it collided with the crimson tides of Khorne and the golden light of the Emperor, stabilizing only when the three divine realms held each other in a stalemate.
"Haha... do not fear, my children. Embrace your change, embrace my gifts..." Nurgle's jovial, tectonic laughter boomed, re-congealing the filthy faith of the Death Guard. They turned their gaze toward the Emperor, their eyes burning with horrific, blasphemous intent.
"No-no! Bad-bad! We go, run-flee!" Ska Bloodtail hissed urgently to Queek. The situation had spiraled beyond comprehension. These humans had suddenly become entities of such scale that the Skaven felt like tiny rats drowning in a galestorm.
The rest of the Red Guard were paralyzed, their legs shaking as they foamed at the mouth, whimpering prayers to the Great Horned Rat.
But as Queek turned to lead the rout, a twisting, invisible darkness manifested within him. The Headtaker's twitching body suddenly snapped upright.
Queek rose, twirling his power-maul with practiced ease as if it were a mere toy. He walked unhurriedly into the fourth corner of the arena, a zone of ruin and chaos squeezed between the other three divine domains.
Lucius glanced at the other three and smirked. "Hope I'm not late, hehe~"
Across the entirety of Ironward III, every Skaven felt the sudden, suffocating presence of the Great Horned Rat.
Deep underground, Chief Grey Seer Pattriksh, mid-ritual, collapsed before the altar. He prayed fervently, his heart soaring with the delusion that this was a supreme omen of favor.
"The King of Many Tails!" Ska Bloodtail cried out. Sensing the terrifying aura radiating from his old friend and superior, he and the entire Red Guard prostrated themselves, pressing their snouts into the dirt. "The Horned Rat walks among us!"
The most pitiable of all were the Emperor's Children. Their leader, Lucius the Eternal, had already been obliterated by the Emperor's initial psychic flare, and Slaanesh had no desire to crudely possess a nameless crowd of jesters.
Without a god to shield them, they were ravaged by the passive auras of the others. Mold and pox erupted across their "perfect" skin; mutated crimson muscle swelled, crushing their own bones; their faces elongated into muzzles sprouting filthy fur; and finally, golden flames ignited within them, incinerating their bodies and souls alike.
The Dark Gods didn't even notice them. They were merely collateral damage, the "static" of a divine conflict.
None of the gods cared for the "clowns." Their respective followers, save for the lone Emperor-Titus, stood fearlessly behind their masters.
"I GO FIRST!!" Khorne, ever the most impatient, roared. Controlling Khârn's body, he lunged toward the Emperor like a crimson hurricane.
His speed was a blur even to the enhanced senses of the Astartes. Titus vanished a heartbeat later. In less than a billionth of a microsecond, a titanic explosion of sparks engulfed the arena.
The Emperor, wielding a blade of living fire, clashed with the twin axes of Khorne. They moved with a strength and velocity that defied the laws of physics, every strike laden with world-ending psychic force.
"Finally, a real fight with you! HAHAHA!!!" Khorne's laughter was incessant. It seemed the "Blood-Father" was thoroughly enjoying the chance to step off his throne and spill blood personally.
"Haha, why don't we have a little practice ourselves? Don't worry, consider it a friendly discussion on the meaning of life," the Nurgle-possessed Typhus chuckled toward Lucius. He raised his Manreaper with a mask of grandfatherly kindness, though his face remained hidden behind his helm.
Lucius flexed Queek's limbs. This body was far superior to any Skaven Warlord he had piloted before. He bared his yellowed teeth. "Come then. I stand as The Corruptor!"
The Great Horned Rat had many aspects: the King of Many Tails for the brutality of war, the Twisted Breeder for chaotic evolution, the Shadow Lord for treachery, and the Corruptor for plague and death. Today, Lucius chose to challenge Nurgle on his own putrid turf.
Nurgle looked upon him with a doting, yet mocking gaze. He intended to teach this "little brother" a lesson: life is precious, and one should not merely embrace destruction. Why not become a shut-in god who fosters life? After all, what could be more perfect than a Black Plague?
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