"The Dark Gods smile upon us!"
---
It was a corpse like any other, left to rot in an alleyway far from the watchful eyes of the patrols. The body was pierced clean through the heart by a sharp weapon, leaving behind a pool of blood.
It lay there through the night; flies and other creatures ignored it, unwilling to get close.
It stayed there until searching teams arrived at dawn to comb the district for survivors. Upon inspection, it was immediately clear the man was long dead.
The corpse was quickly covered in rags and loaded onto a cart bound for the cemetery, to be buried among countless others.
Before the burial, standard procedure was required: every body needed to be checked, to see if they bore a Falna, if they belonged to a Familia.
And when Wisla laid eyes on the body… he froze, eyes widening for a brief second. Enough for his colleagues to glance at him, puzzled.
An inhuman shadow rose up from the body, one that didn't resemble a man but a monster. Wisla's colleagues didn't seem to notice it, but he was sure of what he saw.
Then it vanished.
Wisla quickly resumed his work, thinking the shadow was a mere hallucination from exhaustion.
The body was recorded as unaffiliated—no Falna—and cleared for burial.
The corpse was lowered into the earth without a second thought.
If only an experienced mage had spotted the corpse, they would have sensed that this was no ordinary body.
It was the body of a Chaos worshipper, its veins still carrying the remnants of damned blood, its flesh steeped in the touch of Warp energy.
But such corruption could not truly thrive here. In these lands, the Immaterium held no foothold. Chaos was out of reach.
But the sheer deaths, despair, helplessness, sadness, anger, bloodlust, and pleasure of the Evils, the hunger and the pain that is being experienced in this conflict all accumulated, paving the way for the Immaterium's influence to creep into Orario, if faintly.
…It only needed someone to amplify it.
---
"Honey, what are you doing?"
The love of his life's voice pulled at his ears. Concerned, but gentle.
She was pregnant with their child. It had been six months since he got the news, and he was overjoyed—though also afraid.
But Wisla couldn't focus right now. His head was splitting, every sound gnawing at his nerves, his sharp half-elven ears twitching at the faintest creak.
His life was supposed to be normal.
As a half-breed, he had been an outcast among elves, their obsession with purity leaving no place for him. With humans, blending in had been easier.
He had carved out a modest success for himself, working as an inspector in the Guild. Soon, if the war with Evilus quieted, he was set to become a section leader—that is, if a stray bombing didn't snuff him out first.
He was content. He was happy. He would start a family with his beloved Rein and live out his life in peace.
"Honey, look at me."
Her voice snapped him back. Rein's soft hands turned his head, forcing him to meet her warm brown eyes, filled with worry. Her hair, usually neat, had grown a little unkempt in the chaos of the previous night, but to him it only made her more beautiful.
Her lips trembled as she asked, "Did something happen at the cemetery?"
The cemetery…
"Agh…" Wisla clutched his head, the memory searing through. That body he had used Status Thief upon to check for a Falna. The moment that wrongness had sunk into him.
The shadow…
"Honey! Are you alright?!" Rein cried, pulling him close in panic, but Wisla tore away, stumbling from the home as she called after him desperately.
And then it started again.
'Accept it.'
'It is your destiny.'
'Everything will be yours.'
The voice slithered inside his skull, though no one stood near. His mind shook, pain drilling behind his eyes. An invasive and cold presence took root inside him.
Wisla had never been gifted in magic, though his elven mother had taught him the basics. He had never shown promise, never cast spells, but he could sense magic faintly, like the brush of wind on skin.
That alone set him apart from most mortals without Falna.
And when he saw that corpse… he had felt its wrongness. The unnatural stench of it in the air.
Then the voice invaded his mind.
'Wisla. I am your friend.'
'Leave me alone!' He clutched his head, gasping in the alley, breath ragged.
'I cannot do that.'
The tone was soft. Almost sincere.
'I am here to help you, Wisla.'
'I don't want your help!'
'But you do. If not, why have you not sought help to be rid of me?'
'Because everyone will think I'm crazy!' His eyes darted wildly, searching the shadows for any solution.
'Do you not want your spouse to survive? Do you not want your child safe?'
Wisla froze.
'Ah~'
The voice savored his silence.
'Let me show you the future awaiting you in this land of Orario, my friend.'
"Ahhh!" Wisla screamed, the pain exploding behind his eyes. His body collapsed to the cobblestones, pupils whitening as his mind was drowned in visions.
He saw Rein.
Her body lay in a pit, tossed among countless corpses, her limbs limp and broken, her frame bloodied.
"Rein…" His voice cracked, trembling.
Her dress stirred. Something moved beneath the cloth. Tiny hands, struggling weakly.
A child. His child. Torn from her womb way before its time, wailing in a world of corpses.
"No…" Wisla whispered, denial choking him.
The pit caught fire. The flames rose, consuming the dead, consuming Rein and the infant alike.
"No… no… NOOO!" Wisla howled, throwing himself into the vision, hands outstretched, trying to drag them back from the fire.
And then—
The alley returned. His vision cleared.
'This is your future, Wisla. Unless you listen to me.'
The voice pressed against his soul, its words sharp as a knife.
And there, on his knees, despair drove Wisla into a choice that would damn him.
---
Pious was a good boy. Only ten years old, he never spoke bad words, never disrespected the elderly, and never once disobeyed his sick mother, whom he loved dearly.
That was why, when he left the camp despite her countless warnings not to, guilt immediately began gnawing away at his conscience.
But he had to. His mother was ill, bedridden, and she needed medicine—but the Adventurers wouldn't bring any!
So he had taken matters into his own hands. He would find the medicine, save his mother, and prove himself.
…But he didn't know the way. And now, he was lost.
"Was it there…?" he whispered to himself in confusion, turning in place, eyes darting across the ruined streets. Everything was destroyed, twisted by the Evils' attacks, and the once-familiar alleys now looked alien and hostile to the little boy.
"Are you lost?"
A voice spoke behind him. The boy jolted in fright, spinning around.
Pious's eyes widened as he looked up at the man, fear shining in his young, watery gaze. "P-Please don't hurt me," he begged, his voice trembling.
Innocence laid bare in a time where innocence meant death.
"Don't worry. I will help you." The man's voice was flat, drained of emotion. His eyes were dull, haunted.
Pious's face lit up with hope. "Really!?" he exclaimed, almost bouncing in place, childish glee overwhelming his earlier fear.
The man was… an elf? His ears were a little long, so Pious assumed so. He wore a Guild uniform too, which made the boy relax even more.
"Y-Yes…" The man's voice cracked, unsteady. "I-I will take you to your… m-mother."
Pious followed without hesitation. Reckless, yes—but this was a Guild worker. He wouldn't hurt him.
They walked together into darker and darker streets. The further they went, the tighter Pious's chest grew. Shadows stretched unnaturally. The boy bit his lip, unease creeping in.
Then suddenly, the stranger collapsed to the ground. His shoulders shook violently. Tears streamed from his eyes, his face twisted in silent torment.
Pious blinked, tilting his head. Concern cut through his fear. "M-Mister, is something wrong?" he asked softly, stepping closer.
"I'm sorry…" The elf's voice broke completely, trembling like shattered glass. "I will do anything for my family."
Pious didn't understand. But he, too, was willing to do anything for his mother.
He smiled faintly, about to say so—
CRACK!
The boy's body dropped lifelessly to the ground, his small skull split open by the rock clutched in Wisla's trembling hands.
It was quick. Pious never even registered the pain. He died instantly.
The boy was not bad. He was a good child, perhaps too good—trusting too easily, following a stranger without question.
His only sin had been disobeying his mother once. And that one mistake cost him his life.
"Ahhh!" Wisla choked on his own cry, dropping the bloodied stone. His hands shook violently. "Stop it—stop it now, you monster!" he screamed at the voice in his head, slamming his forehead against the cobblestones in anguish.
'You have done well.'
"Stop showing me…!" Wisla sobbed, his whole body thrashing around. His vision burned with the same vision—the sight of his family in the flames, dying again and again and again. The voice forced him to relive it without end.
'You are ready now, Wisla.'
The unseen presence purred, delight in its every word. It cared nothing for the broken boy's corpse at Wisla's feet.
'Ash falls, blood clings… the child is gone, and the Dark Gods turn their gaze to you, Wisla… they smile, they smile!'
Its tone was gleeful, reveling in cruelty. The lack of empathy sickened Wisla.
"Please… enough… enough! I can't—I can't—" Wisla's voice cracked into a whimper.
The voice did not answer his plea.
'With this offering, I will channel power unlike anything these backwater lands have ever witnessed. Sorcery beyond mortal grasp…'
Wisla couldn't process the words. Couldn't care. His gaze remained locked on the tiny body at his feet, blood pooling beneath its head. The reality of what he had done swallowed him whole.
'Arise, Wisla.'
The voice thundered now, resonating in his soul.
'Draw deep, deep upon the rite… drink the blood, the little blood, the innocent blood. Take it, Wisla… claim what is yours…'
Wisla trembled. His body screamed no. His soul begged no.
…And yet.
Wisla rose.
---
Night befell Orario, marking the end of the second day of the Seven Days of Blood.
Most of the city had already finished its rushed weeping and mourning of the dead, and now its survivors lay scattered in makeshift camps.
In the Northeast, District One, the refugee camp breathed a suffocating gloom. Its inhabitants had lost as much as any other—husbands, daughters, sons, mothers, fathers.
The night was full of coughing, crying, and the low groans of the hungry.
"Where is he…" A mother wept in her sickness, coughing up blood as she clutched her chest, awaiting the return of her beloved son Pious.
She was restless, barely able to stand without stumbling to the ground, yet she would not sit while waiting for him.
She bore a rare sickness, a disease that spread slowly through her body, draining her youth, draining her strength, leaving only a hollow agony day after day.
"My boy…" Her voice cracked again, fresh tears tracing her cheeks as the hours passed with no sign of her Pious.
Her grief was not unique. It was only another thread woven into the tapestry of despair draped over the camp.
Everyone wept. Everyone had lost someone. Everyone was hungry.
And their suffering went unnoticed. The Adventurers stationed nearby brought no food, no medicine. Hours crawled by without even a scrap of bread.
Then finally—someone came.
"Line up…" His voice was low and dull, almost mechanical. His elven ears marked his heritage, his Guild uniform gave him legitimacy.
He carried with him food. A pot of meat soup.
Not much, but in these times, it was salvation.
The people ate greedily. It tasted foul, bitter and strange… but it filled their bellies.
The poor mother could not bring herself to eat. How could she, when her son was still out there? She clutched the bowl tightly to her chest instead, intending to give it to Pious when he returned.
But Pious would never return.
And the soup she carried in her hands... was Pious.
Wisla's thoughts were gone. His will was stripped bare by the entity that had wormed its way into his soul.
He had drunk the blood of the innocent. He had sealed a pact with the monster.
And as promised, he now possessed powers beyond this realm, powers he had never asked for.
'Start the ritual.'
The voice commanded.
'Do not falter. Do not break. Spread corruption through them, through their hunger. Let chaos thrive.'
Wisla's broken mind could barely register the words.
'Chant with me.'
Wisla's lips trembled, but he obeyed.
'Blood made broth, flesh made feast, spirit made seed—all are offerings to the Architect of Fate.'
Wisla repeated with a hollow voice. Warp energy coiled from his words like wind, infecting the air, seeping into ears and souls.
'Let the ignorant drink. Let the blind consume. Let their souls be stirred, as the broth stirs.'
The camp ate. Their bellies warmed. Their dreams curdled.
'Through meat and marrow, the enlightenment flows. Through hunger and thirst, the pact grows.'
Wisla's eyes widened with each phrase, as his hands—his own hands—gave bowls of mortal flesh to the hungry.
'Taste, and be changed. Eat, and be bound. Drink, and be theirs.'
Wisla shut his eyes. The last bowl left his trembling hand.
'This is no child's flesh, but destiny's flesh.'
The pot was empty. The deed was done.
'The Architect weaves, the Grandfather embraces, the Lord of Skulls rends, the Dark Prince whispers… all gods are one in chaos.'
The ritual was complete. Its fruit would ripen soon.
That night, bellies full, the refugees slept soundly.
And as they slept, the whispers began.
They dreamed. They hallucinated. They saw shadows speaking their names.
They saw the future—Adventurers turning on them for begging food, leaving them to die in cultist hands.
They saw their loved ones die again, their meager possessions stolen, their prayers ignored by their gods who played games with their lives.
But in the shadows, the Architect of Fate whispered salvation. He promised escape, safety, power—
though none could say what god spoke to them, or why they felt their words rather than heard them.
And he was not the only God.
The sick asked for comfort.
The angry asked for vengeance.
The dissatisfied asked for satisfaction.
Every weakness. Every hunger. Every wound in the soul was a door.
And through the ritual Wisla had performed, the doors opened wide.
Chaos was inside them.
---
"Pious?"
The poor mother dreamt of her son, who was waving at her from a distance. Behind him, a great gate of light shone, illuminating the suffocating darkness around them.
"My boy—come back!" She rushed toward him, desperate. Yet with each step she took, the horizon stretched farther and farther away.
"Why don't you accept your gift?" A monstrous voice slithered into her dream, low and vile, whispering from the shadows that binded her.
"Pious, baby, come to me!" the mother cried. Her fear and attention were all upon her son. She cared nothing for the voice, nothing for where she was, nor why this nightmare clung to her. She wanted only her child back.
But he was always out of reach. No matter how she strained, no matter how she clawed forward, the light and the child within it slipped further from her grasp.
At last, she collapsed. Her frail, sick body gave way, crumpling into the dirt. She wept at her own weakness, her hands trembling, her tears falling into nothingness.
"Accept the gift, mortal… and you will have the strength to continue your chase," the daemon's voice pressed on, weaving temptation into every word.
"My son… he's all I have." The mother lifted her gaze once more to the far horizon. Her little boy still waited, still waved, patient, unwilling to leave for the light without her.
"Accept the gift. Accept the Grandfather's blessing. Embrace your sickness. Nurgle will end all your suffering…"
The temptation coiled around her heart. In her frail, pitiful state, how could anyone resist?
At last, reluctantly, she whispered her acceptance. Not for herself. Not for power or relief. But for the desperate chance to recover her strength just enough to chase her son to the very end of the light.
A mother who damned herself for the sake of her child. Truly poetic.
The daemon's laughter echoed through the void.
It had begun. This realm would now witness the horrors of the Dark Gods.
---
The End
---
Edgy? Yeah
Faithful to 40k? I'd say so
I watched a full hour-long breakdown on how Chaos spreads like wildfire, so I think I've got it covered (mostly)
Fun to write? Hell no
I'd rather be smashing skulls than diving into emotional manipulation
What's going through your head, reader? Probably: "That corpse was the cause all along!"
Good hook? Eh, I'll be real: I was originally gonna make this just about a lone Krieger, but that felt way too dry, Nothing unique about it
With Chaos, I've got way more room for experiments and messed-up scenarios
Heads-up: the main Chaos God pulling strings in this story is Tzeentch
Why? Because making Danmachi characters witness a spell that turns someone into a living meat pile sounds fun as hell
Anyway, this chapter's just to show how Chaos started spreading
Thanks for the support.