A viridescent storm of plague engulfed the whole of Coruscant. Once the radiant capital of the galaxy, it had now become a rotting altar.
Nurgle's "blessing" was the first to descend, dragging the planet into eternal decay.
Towering skyscrapers were covered in pustulent blotches; metal frameworks softened and collapsed in the "sickly-sweet" stench of rot.
The streets no longer flowed with rain, but with yellow-green pus that pooled into rivers reeking of death's perfume.
Hundreds of billions—perhaps trillions—of corpses writhed and rose again, nourished by pestilence. Skin sloughed off to reveal crawling maggots and fungal tumors, yet still they shambled forward, singing hoarsely of Grandfather Nurgle's mercy.
Yet Nurgle was not the sole victor.
Khorne's roars echoed in the flames, and a tide of blood surged from Coruscant's core.
Those who had not succumbed to the plague—resisting civilians, security forces, or Vader's increasingly blood-crazed legions—suddenly lost all sanity. Muscles burst through armor and uniforms, bones warped into horns, and their weapons twisted into bloodthirsty axes and swords.
Once-imperial stormtroopers, and even average citizens, became berserkers the moment even a flicker of rage stirred in their hearts.
They slaughtered indiscriminately, friend and foe alike, carving massive eight-pointed stars in the ruins with rivers of blood.
Each act of violence expanded Khorne's domain, until the entire sky was drenched in crimson and the faint outline of a brass throne shimmered within the clouds.
At the same time, Tzeentch's schemes wove through the shadows.
Coruscant's databases erupted with strange runes. Holograms distorted into whispering, thousand-faced figures.
Surviving tech-adepts went mad one after another. Some saw their skulls grotesquely enlarge; others suddenly gained forbidden warp sorcery, blue fire dancing at their fingertips. Still more crumbled into crystalline shards, only to reassemble elsewhere in wholly new forms.
Worst of all were the physical archives—
Ancient tomes flipped open on their own, and old holo-recorders no longer played lessons of the past, but instead unveiled countless apocalyptic prophecies. Just a second of viewing was enough to shatter the viewer's sanity.
And in the heart of this Chaos revelry, Slaanesh's tendrils finally pierced the veil of reality.
Even though Darth Vader, reborn in flesh, had long rejected sensory indulgence, his cold restraint could not halt what had already been sown.
In the banquet halls of the shattered Imperial Palace—and in the upscale districts—what remained of the noble class was undergoing revolting "ascension."
Gala gowns burst as overstimulated skin grew too sensitive. Pearl necklaces were absorbed into swollen flesh, becoming part of the body.
Some used gilded dinner knives to carve into their own cheeks, moaning in bliss from the blend of pain and pleasure.
Others entangled into writhing, monstrous symbiotes, each newly formed nerve ending shrieking for more stimulation.
Vader's legions were not spared.
Several stormtrooper units turned their blasters on their comrades' limbs—not to kill, but to savor the screams.
Their white armor leaked aromatic slime, and from behind their visors came wet, labored breathing.
Even elite death troopers began engaging in grotesque "artistry," using daggers to carve living sigils into prisoners' skin—designs that shifted hue with pain.
The air itself carried Slaanesh's gifts.
Ventilation systems now pumped in pink-violet mist. Inhaling it conjured physical manifestations of one's deepest desires. Many clawed out their own eyes while laughing, for normal sight no longer satisfied their distorted cravings.
In the ruins of the Coruscant Symphony Hall, self-playing instruments emitted maddening music. Those who heard it danced until their muscles tore and bones shattered—yet died with smiles of ecstasy.
And at the center of this Chaotic orgy stood Darth Vader.
Or rather, what had been Vader, now reborn, watching quietly from the rear of his Lambda-class shuttle as its ramp hung open.
His body was free of mechanical constraint—yet closer to darkness than ever before.
The blessings of the Four Gods surged within him—
Nurgle granted him an immortal body. Khorne gifted endless wrath. Tzeentch bestowed forbidden knowledge. Slaanesh unknowingly fed him the bliss of domination.
Under Chaos' corruption, Coruscant's near-orbit had become a twisted hell.
In Vader's fleet, the once-feared Imperial warships had undergone desecrating transformations far beyond mechanical limits.
Ships favored by Nurgle grew pustules. Their turrets no longer fired lasers or proton torpedoes, but spewed viscous, toxic mist.
Their engines mutated into rotting hearts that pulsed plague spores across ships and surface.
Naval officers laughed as they rotted. Their uniforms fused with flesh, yet they still manned their living ships.
Those ships that first launched the "special military operation" against Palpatine's loyalists were now bleeding from their decks. Autoturrets twisted into metal maws lined with teeth.
And within them, crew tore each other apart without reason.
Survivors grew bronze-hardened skin.
These ships rammed resisting vessels and space stations, splitting them with horned prows before vomiting out mutated stormtroopers to board.
Recon vessels morphed into non-Euclidean shapes, flickering between realspace and the Warp.
Their data cores burned with blue flame, their computers composing blasphemous hymns in code.
When enemy ships tried to lock onto them, these ghost-vessels split into nine copies—attacking from all dimensions at once.
Slaanesh's influence over Vader's personal fleet was comparatively limited.
Most of his disciplined crews resisted the Lord of Pleasure—or, like Vader, simply sneered at its seductions. Only a few weaker-willed ships succumbed.
The desires they had buried deep became cracks into which Slaanesh's tendrils slipped.
These corrupted ships were disturbingly beautiful.
Their cold metal exteriors now shimmered with a translucent, bioluminescent film that pulsed with the Warp's rhythm.
Their windows no longer shone with steady light, but with swirling, psychedelic hues. Those who stared too long suffered overwhelming sensory hallucinations.
The Imperial insignia on their hulls twisted into ambiguous carvings. Gun batteries devolved into decorative crystal structures, refracting dizzying violet light into space.
When friendly stormtroopers attempted boarding, they found horror beyond comprehension.
The first wave of boarders melted into pearl-like liquid, forming a sentient Pool of Desire on the deck.
The second wave suffered stranger fates—
Their spines grew four extra limbs. Helmets fused into smooth masks. They began to dance—unnervingly perfect ballet, though they had never studied it, as if manipulated by invisible strings in an endless performance of death.
These ships continued executing a warped "battle plan."
They glided through combat zones, launching pleasure-torps at allied ships.
Any crew struck experienced their life's ultimate ecstasy—then crystallized into glittering statues, smiling eternally.
Upon learning this, Darth Vader immediately ordered his fleet to avoid these ships—not out of fear, but because even with reborn eyes, he refused to witness such debauchery.
By now, Coruscant's surface was utterly unrecognizable.
Nurgle's garden covered the northern hemisphere. Khorne's blood rivers surged through the southern continents. Tzeentch's maze took over sacred temples and ruins. Slaanesh's palaces of pleasure rose near the equator.
The atmosphere had become a kaleidoscopic vortex. Warship debris, caught by gravity, burned as they fell—only to mutate into monstrous machine-flesh hybrids mid-descent.
Most terrifying of all: the planet itself began to pulse, like an egg about to hatch. Chaos energy poured from cracks in the crust.
When the last orbital station plunged into the crimson clouds, Coruscant and its star system vanished from all stellar maps.
The planet twisted in the tides of the Warp—
It no longer belonged to realspace. It had become a fallen sanctum of Chaos, within the Star Wars universe now designated "Seventeen."
The Chaos Gods had long been vexed by their war with the Human Imperium.
Khorne thirsted for blood, yet the Astartes' iron will proved resilient.
Nurgle's plagues were often burned away by the Inquisition's purging rituals.
Tzeentch's schemes were unraveled by foresight from Sanguinius or Samuel.
Slaanesh's temptations could not breach the asceticism of the Space Marines.
But then… their gaze pierced the veil into this new universe—and the Four Gods howled in hunger.
The Force here surged like fertile soil long untouched.
Its Light Side—compassion and mercy—tasted sweet and weak to Nurgle.
Its Dark Side—rage and hatred—was a perfect feast for Khorne.
The Jedi's reliance on foresight made them easy prey for Tzeentch's lies.
And this galaxy's appetite for pleasure laid Slaanesh's path wide open.
Most delightful of all: this universe had no concept of Warp defense.
Jedi mistook whispers of Chaos for Force visions.
Sith Lords welcomed them, thinking such voices were their own power.
And Darth Vader… was the crescendo.
His shattered body, a canvas for Nurgle.
Twenty years of rage, a banquet for Khorne.
His tragic fate, a perfect narrative for Tzeentch.
His split identity—Anakin and Vader—a crack for Slaanesh to enter.
When he accepted the Four Gods' blessings on Coruscant, he became the Chaos vessel of this universe—
A living beacon bearing all four marks.
As Vader was reborn, the Force cried out in pain across the galaxy.
Above Coruscant, a rift opened in the sky. Daemons poured through—Bloodletters and Plaguebearers dancing in blaster fire.
But the truest corruption was at the Force level.
Scattered Jedi found that drawing the Force summoned Warp runes on their hands.
Sith discovered their Dark Side powers carried whispers not of their own making.
Force-sensitive neutrals suffered hallucinations, or combusted during meditation—some transforming into Warp-mutated monsters.
Thus, the Four Gods found prey even more delicious than the Imperium.
And the tragedy of the Star Wars universe?
They didn't even know they were being devoured.
This… is Chaos Hymn: The End of Coruscant.
"…"
Darth Vader slowly turned his gaze from the Warp rift above—its crimson scar stretching across the sky, writhing with inhuman forms.
The sickly glow of Chaos shimmered across his reborn, pale face. In his red eyes, the fall of Coruscant was reflected.
He turned. His black cape dragged through slime, leaving a serpentine trail across the corroded floor.
"Return to the flagship."
His voice carried no mechanical rasp—only a calm terror.
"Inform the fleet: prepare for hyperspace jump. Set course… for Tatooine."
From his comms, the twisted voice of the pilot answered:
"Yes, Lord Vader…"
The words oozed like pus from a throat full of infection, each syllable wet with bursting blisters.
As the ramp closed, Vader and his hundred elites vanished into the shuttle.
The Lambda-class ship, now bloated with tumor-like growths, spewed chunks of meaty matter from its engines.
But as it exited atmosphere, the corruption flowed gracefully—as if Slaanesh had cast one last veil of beauty over the vessel of death.
Ahead, the Ravager-class Star Destroyer maintained the silhouette of Imperial power.
But look closely, and you'd see breathing veins across its hull. Its gun emplacements were now giant eyeballs—watching hungrily as their master returned.
Inside the shuttle, Vader's fingers absently traced his lightsaber hilt.
The weapon had changed—its crystal chamber now pulsed with the Chaos star. The metal shell shifted, inscribed with runes that crawled across the surface.
And as for Tatooine?
Vader had sensed his son's presence there…
------------------
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Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 256)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 336)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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