The Warp
Crystal Labyrinth
"It's about time."
Murmuring to himself, Tzeentch placed aside the dried corpse in his hands and gazed toward a distant point.
.....
Brass Citadel
Seated casually upon his brass throne, Khorne watched the blood-soaked spectacle below—humanoid warriors with horns and beastlike faces hacking each other apart with bloodthirsty blades. Without much interest, he responded across the void:
"Then let us begin the division."
.....
In the Garden of Nurgle, the Plague God stopped stirring his cauldron.
Within the Palace of Pleasure, Slaanesh, freshly awakened, also made the same decision.
Thus, under the united will of the four Chaos Gods, an immense psychic surge erupted—piercing the boundary between the Warp and realspace, tearing across infinite distance—
—straight into Terra.
A single invisible shockwave swept through.
The majestic Himalayas—untouched even during the calamities of the Golden Age—were split apart instantly, as though carved by a cosmic blade.
At the mountain's deepest core, the Emperor's secret laboratory was obliterated in an instant—reduced to dust.
Every barrier and protection he had prepared might as well have never existed.
The twenty incubation pods stored within were seized by the Chaos Gods' power and hurled across the galaxy, scattered to distant worlds.
At a nearby camp, the Emperor sensed this disaster. His concentration shattered in that moment.
Through faint lingering traces of Warp energy, he immediately recognized the culprits.
Rage ignited within him—burning like a star.
But even so, against the combined might of the Four, all he could do was glare skyward in fury—powerless to stop them.
---
Meanwhile, within the Crimson Heaven, Orsaga also felt the disturbance.
Although the other four Chaos Gods obscured most details, small residual clues remained.
By tracing timelines and examining subtle distortions, Orsaga deduced their intent:
The others wanted chess pieces—agents within realspace.
If they did not intervene now, the twenty Primarchs would grow under the Emperor's guidance, shaped fully by his teachings and indoctrination.
Once their foundational personalities solidified, meddling would be far more difficult.
Thus, the Four cast them out—each toward a different fate—hoping to guide the Primarchs toward paths aligned with Chaos.
After a moment of consideration, Orsaga decided not to interfere… yet.
If he wanted to involve himself later, he could simply "reap the fruit" once the others had done the sowing.
Why bother competing now, when the seeds had only just been planted?
---
Ten Years After the Himalayas Collapsed
Arik Taranis frowned in deep thought.
The Unification Wars were nearing their end.
But a new and troubling issue had arisen:
Recently, the Emperor had been deliberately strengthening the newly formed Astartes Legions and Custodians…
while paying noticeably little attention to the Thunder Warriors, who continued to fight and bleed on the front lines.
Even as casualties mounted, no reinforcements were assigned.
'The Emperor is weakening us…'
This treasonous thought began to form in Arik's mind after multiple ignored requests for support.
As time passed, a dark shadow grew within him.
And he was not alone—many Thunder Warriors felt the same.
Disquiet spread through the entire Legion.
As their commander, Arik had no answers.
He too waited—hoping the Emperor would provide an explanation.
But none ever came.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
A new campaign was about to begin.
Though tens of thousands of Thunder Warriors worried their Legion might soon be disbanded, they followed orders as they always had—marching toward Mount Ararat in the Kingdom of Urartu.
This time, however, beneath their confidence lay clear signs of unease.
Even the supporting civilians sensed something was off.
---
Whether due to desperation or resignation, Urartu's resistance was weak.
Within days, Arik—covered in blood—planted the banner of the Lightning Eagle atop Mount Ararat.
He knew then:
The Unification Wars were over.
Every major warlord had been defeated.
Only scattered remnants remained, hiding where they could.
Arik exhaled slowly.
"May His Majesty allow us to serve just a little longer…"
After long contemplation, he had begun to understand:
The Thunder Warriors were doomed to be replaced.
They were powerful—but unstable.
Short lifespans. Genetic collapse. Mental deterioration.
Too dangerous for a lasting empire.
Arik, unusually long-lived among his kind, had already witnessed many Thunder Warriors die suddenly as their bodies failed—without battle, without warning.
He now understood the Emperor's intentions.
Standing at the summit, watching mortals, Astartes, and Thunder Warriors celebrating below, he murmured inwardly:
'Times are changing. We are being replaced by those more suited to the future… such is fate.'
He resolved to speak to his soldiers—urge them to accept the Emperor's decisions peacefully.
At worst, their ranks would be diminished, split apart, or retired from service.
At that moment, a young Thunder Warrior jogged toward him excitedly:
"Lord Commander! We just received word—the Emperor is hosting a celebration feast tonight!"
Arik blinked, pulled from his heavy thoughts.
A smile spread across his face.
"Oh? Is that so? Then everyone should tidy themselves up—change into formal attire and tend to their wounds. As Thunder Warriors, we represent His Majesty's honor, we cannot attend the feast looking like battered savages."
"Yes, sir!"
....
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