The Warp.
Amidst the tumbling waves of energy, a consciousness began to slowly awaken. It could feel a familiar force dragging its existence at this very moment.
Swimming along this force, it could vaguely see the dim light of the real universe beckoning once more. The contract personally signed and branded upon the very essence of its soul pulled steadily and powerfully through the veil.
Vashtorr—the Arkifane, the God of Machines, master of the domain of baleful crafts—opened his eyes. Within a mind composed of logic, calculation, and a thirst for twisted creation, a thought flashed:
"Interesting."
He drifted through the currents of the Empyrean, ultimately following the guidance of that contract. He pierced the boundary between reality and illusion, beginning to take form in the material realm at the center of a meticulously constructed ritual.
His senses sharpened from chaos to clarity, and the details of his surroundings became distinct. Vashtorr looked around. He was currently standing in the center of an ancient, dust-covered, and rusted chamber. On the cold iron walls, data cables hung like dead veins, and a few flickering screens flowed with broken code of indeterminate meaning. The air was thick with the pungent scent of machine oil, and a constant electronic hum vibrated in the ears.
According to his sensory perception as the master of baleful crafts, the chamber itself, the machinery within, and even the materials composing it had undergone subtle mutations during long years of Warp whispering. This made Vashtorr, the master of the Soul Forges, feel quite good.
Simultaneously, the matter composing his current form was aggregating under the guidance of Warp power and the ritual array below. A vortex of Warp energy swirled slowly beneath the Arkifane's feet. Below the vortex, the ground was inscribed with ritual tracks so complex they were dizzying—this was certainly not the work of an ordinary Chaos Sorcerer, exceeding even those he had seen who had spent far longer in the craft.
His body was being refined from the offerings piled upon the ritual nodes. Severed cables rose twisting like live snakes, rusted gears automatically locked and rotated, brass pipes leaked scalding steam, and some fresh flesh was forcibly extracted from corpses... Finally, all these things merged into the core of the vortex above, beginning to assemble his new demonic avatar.
Even Vashtorr had to secretly admire the efficiency of this ritual.
"Hello, Vashtorr."
A cold, hard voice rang out, interrupting the minor god's scrutiny. Vashtorr raised his head, which was currently being formed from gears and optical lenses, with great interest. He saw a Warsmith standing motionless outside the ritual array, while a Chaos Sorcerer holding a staff stood solemnly nearby, the shimmer of psychic light flickering at the tip of his staff. Further back in the shadows, a Death Guard holding a massive scythe stood silently like a statue, his form radiating a lethal aura.
"Warsmith. It has been a long time; you seem to have changed much."
Vashtorr's voice echoed in the chamber like the grinding of rusted gears. From the outside, the Warsmith appeared as usual, his face covered by the distinctive helmet of the Iron Warriors, carrying that iron-like silence characteristic of the Legion. However, as a minor Warp god, Vashtorr's intuition still captured some unspeakable differences.
But... Vashtorr quickly dismissed that trace of doubt. He could clearly perceive the connection of the contract, as solid as ever. He could even vaguely touch the soul at the other end of the connection through the link—cold, resilient, and filled with the sharp edges of reality. It was exactly what a typical Iron Warrior should look like, identical to his Primarch, Perturabo.
There was no problem. The contract was absolute. It seemed he was just overthinking.
However, this time Vashtorr did not see the frenzied Khorne-worshipping possessed warrior who had accompanied the Warsmith during their last meeting, and several other familiar Iron Warrior faces were also missing. It seemed this Warsmith's warband had indeed suffered significant setbacks recently, which might explain his current urgency.
"So, you have activated the contract and summoned me here." Vashtorr's voice took on his characteristic arrogant tone. "State your demand."
He certainly had the capital for arrogance. As a self-proclaimed future great power of Chaos and a player on the galactic chessboard who could not be ignored, even the four in the Warp sometimes had to condescend to place orders in his domain and seek his support.
Vashtorr continued: "However, you must also pay a satisfactory reward afterward. If you violate the contract... your soul will burn eternally as fuel within my forges. Now, state your reward."
Vashtorr was intrigued. Based on his understanding of this Warsmith, setting up such a display meant he must be extremely confident in the chips he held. What could it be? The imprisoned soul of an Alpha-level psyker? A fragment of a lost STC from the Dark Age of Technology? Or perhaps the secret true name of a Daemon Prince he was interested in?
The Warsmith's helmet moved slightly, and a flat, straightforward voice came out.
"...An 'Ouroboros' key fragment."
???
The light on Vashtorr's face, composed of machinery and flesh, suddenly became intense and flickered erratically, as if he had suffered a sudden overload.
What are you talking about? How do you know about this?!
Almost instinctively, his massive arm—a mixture of mechanical limbs and demonic claws—slammed upward, reaching for the Warsmith! At the same moment, the Chaos Sorcerer beside the Warsmith instantly raised his staff and struck the ground, causing a psychic barrier to hum to life. Vashtorr also immediately felt the ritual foundation forming his avatar begin to vibrate violently. Anti-psychic rune measures were triggered, and a powerful repulsive force threatened to banish his already unstable existence back to the Warp!
"...Fine."
Vashtorr forcibly suppressed his momentary impulse and shock. He slowly lowered his raised claw, and the restless energy currents around him gradually calmed down. He was, after all, a rare Chaos entity in the Warp who valued contracts and deals; a momentary loss of composure was not his style.
At this point, Vashtorr didn't bother to ask the Warsmith how he had learned about the "Ouroboros fragment." Even thinking with his toes, he knew the other party wouldn't reveal it. But... how much did this fellow actually know?
Vashtorr's mind worked at high speed. Knowing he was pursuing these legendary creations was one thing; understanding the meaning behind them, the details of his plan, or even the relevant forbidden knowledge was quite another. Surely he couldn't know the history and function of this artifact in such great detail?
Naturally, a considerable sense of vigilance rose in Vashtorr's heart. However, on the other hand, the Warsmith was willing to offer this item as a reward, which at least indicated that he had no direct competitive relationship for the time being. The threat... was still within a controllable range.
"What do you want me to do?" Vashtorr's voice returned to a cold calm.
Then, he heard the Warsmith's voice from beneath the helmet. The originally calm tone seemed to have a tiny fluctuation, the emotion nearly sounding like he was grit his teeth.
"Revenge."
"Revenge?" Vashtorr suddenly found this interesting. "What is the target? Against whom?" If you have something you're unhappy about, say it so I can be happy.
"The Phalanx. The Imperial Fists Chapter. Those lackeys of the False Emperor," the Warsmith said coldly.
...Well. Vashtorr was speechless. This answer was both unexpected and yet made perfect sense. The ten-thousand-year-old love-hate relationship between the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors was already known to the entire galaxy. From this, it seemed this Warsmith had likely suffered a great loss at the hands of those arch-enemies again and was badly wounded.
"You also know that an Ouroboros key fragment is so... rare." The Warsmith's tone became steady again. "Therefore, you must satisfy my request and act in person. My warband will join you in a combined assault on the Phalanx, with the goal of capturing it."
"If the operation is successful, the Phalanx itself can belong to you. It is a precious creation worthy of your status as the Master of the Soul Forges. I only need the fact of its 'Fall' itself; this ritualistic result is enough to serve as the perfect sacrifice to satisfy my Warp ascension ritual and help me ascend to the rank of Daemon Prince." He paused, giving the final condition. "When the matter is finished, I will hand the Ouroboros fragment to you. The contract will be complete, and we will be even."
Capture the Phalanx? Attack the mother ship of the Imperial Fists, that legendary mobile fortress? A crystallization of the Dark Age of Technology? Undoubtedly, even for a minor Warp god, this was an extremely tempting proposal. Moreover, if he wanted to seize the remaining artifacts later, combine them to open the gate to the Webway, and complete his final plan, he would inevitably have to face the Dark Angels Chapter in a fight to the death. Having the Phalanx in hand in the future would be an unparalleled asset.
Vashtorr fell into a brief silence. His powerful mind, composed of logic circuits, began to calculate at full capacity. Then, Vashtorr's eyes lit up. He remembered something. There indeed seemed to be a significant opportunity here.
"I agree." His voice carried an air of finality. "However, as a precaution, I still need to confirm a few things." Vashtorr thought to himself.
As expected, the Warsmith's reaction was just as he had predicted, his tone carrying obvious doubt and caution.
"...You agreed too easily. That is the Phalanx; its location is in the Sol system, right in the heart of the False Emperor's lackeys' strongest forces. Our action means a frontal assault into the lion's den. We must first find a way to infiltrate the Sol system, and then we need to break through the internal defenses of the Imperial Fists in an extremely short time... any mistake in the process will lead to failure."
Vashtorr, on the contrary, felt completely at ease. This reaction was the concern a Warsmith who truly sought revenge should have.
"It seems you are unaware. Warsmith, have you perhaps not received the latest astropathic news yet?" The mechanical compound eyes of Vashtorr flashed with an interested light. "A Primarch... has returned to the material universe at this very moment and has arrived at the Imperial Palace on Terra."
"What did you say?!"
As soon as the words fell, Vashtorr saw with satisfaction that the Warsmith's armored, massive frame shuddered violently. Even through the armor, the momentary shock could not be hidden. The Chaos Sorcerer beside him and the Death Guard in the shadows also seemed to experience imperceptible fluctuations because of this news.
"...Who is it?" the Warsmith asked in confusion, his voice carrying a hint of the "facing a great enemy" feeling from ten thousand years ago. "Could it be... Dorn?"
"No, not the Praetorian of the Palace." Vashtorr enjoyed the intense reaction, his hiss carrying a hint of pleasure. "It is the Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion, Roboute Guilliman. He has crawled out of his ornate sarcophagus."
He paused, letting the information settle in. "This news is spreading through the entire galaxy via astropaths. More importantly, certain great entities deep within the Warp... have reacted extremely enthusiastically to this. I have reliable information that a grand welcoming ceremony targeting Terra and that returned Primarch is brewing. The Empire's attention and Terra's defensive focus will be firmly drawn away at that time."
Vashtorr leaned forward slightly, whispering. "We can exploit this window. When all eyes are focused on Terra, it will be the moment when the Phalanx is relatively isolated. We only need to concentrate our strength to deal with the Imperial Fists garrison within the fortress itself."
The Warsmith was silent for a moment, seemingly digesting this earth-shaking news and weighing the pros and cons. Finally, he slowly raised his head, the cold light in his helmet's lenses meeting Vashtorr's gaze in the air.
"...This is indeed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." The Warsmith's voice returned to an iron-like hardness, even carrying a hint of urgency. "So, what are we waiting for?"
"Excellent." Vashtorr withdrew his gaze and began to brand the new contract terms and action plan onto each other's souls through the Warp connection.
"All according to plan!" he thought with satisfaction.
At the same time.
"All according to plan!" Dantioch, who had been performing diligently for a long time, breathed a sigh of relief and thought with satisfaction.
On the other side.
The Imperial Palace, Terra.
In a room, Adam withdrew his gaze and came back to his senses, smiling slightly. Just now, he had simultaneously watched the entire process through a psychic link with Dantioch's reality intensity, seeing the "live broadcast."
"All according to plan!"
Naturally, Adam was also very satisfied. The good show was about to begin!