The doors opened slowly, revealing a deep darkness behind them. That darkness was not merely an absence of light; it was a physical presence, like the throat of a cursed dimension that would swallow anyone who dared enter.
The four Chaos Lords did not hesitate. They filed in one by one. Behind them, the massive doors closed silently, isolating them completely from the outside world.
The space inside was unexpectedly... ordinary. Dim lights poured from a corner of the ceiling, barely illuminating the small area. Abaddon's private chambers did not fit the common image of a Chaos Warmaster's lair. There were no luxurious decorations, no twisted statues, and no signs of ritual sacrifice. There were only a few simple metal tables and chairs, a wall covered in tactical star maps, and a weapon rack in the corner.
But none of that mattered. The person at the center of the room was the true focus.
The Warmaster of Chaos—Abaddon.
He sat there like a statue frozen for ten thousand years. Every scratch on his black power armor told the story of a campaign, and the Chaos Star on his pauldron seemed to possess its own life in the dim light. The row of skulls hanging behind him cast long, distorted shadows. Most striking of all was the high topknot rising from the Warmaster's head—a unique hairstyle that served as his personal icon among the chosen of the Chaos Gods.
Abaddon looked up. His pitch-black eyes were as calm as stagnant water, yet full of surging undercurrents. The four Chaos Lords felt an overwhelming, soul-shaking pressure simultaneously.
"Greetings, Despoiler," Devram Korda was the first to drop to one knee.
Ygethmor followed, his smile fading slightly. Skyrak knelt slowly, his movements carrying the characteristic lethargy of a Nurgle worshipper. Urkanthos was the last to kneel—Khorne's followers did not bow easily, but at this moment, he knelt lower than any of them.
It wasn't out of loyalty. Deep down, none of the Chaos Lords felt conventional loyalty toward Abaddon. They knelt because right now—at this very second—Abaddon was truly prepared to kill. And he would do so without hesitation.
"Good," Abaddon's deep voice rang out. "I hope you bring me good news."
The four Chaos Lords exchanged glances. Silence lasted for several seconds. Finally, Ygethmor stood up—as a follower of Tzeentch, he was always the most appropriate spokesperson for such occasions.
"Yes, Despoiler. We bring the will of the Four Gods." He paused, appearing to weigh his words—a rarity for a Tzeentchian. "They are willing to support your actions. They are willing to increase their investment in you."
Ygethmor's tone was unusually blunt, lacking the riddles and metaphors typical of his kind. "After all, the changes in the False Emperor are obvious to everyone—including the False Emperor himself, his decaying Imperium, and the shifts in his loyal lapdogs. It is something we must all be wary of and must restrict."
Abaddon snorted coldly. "Tell me something I don't know."
Ygethmor did not back down at the impatient tone. "The Four Gods are prepared to increase the level of investment in your Black Legion. Their demonic legions, including various Greater Daemons, will appear under your command and follow your orders."
Abaddon's gaze moved slowly, landing on Skyrak. "Including Nurgle?"
Skyrak looked up. His face, blessed by the Grandfather, showed signs of fatigue, but he answered slowly. "Of course. The Grandfather merely encountered a small situation; it is nothing more than a minor irritation." He paused before adding, "The Grandfather will still act. The Death Guard remains whole, and they will appear under your command, raising the strength of your Astartes to a new level."
Abaddon nodded slightly. "Very well."
He stood up from his seat. In that moment, the room seemed to shrink. As Abaddon stood, his massive frame dominated the field of vision. The skulls on his pauldrons rattled softly, as if whispering of forgotten deaths. He took a step forward. The dim light cast a giant shadow before him, nearly enveloping the four Chaos Lords.
"And? That is still far from enough." Abaddon's voice was calm but carried an unquestionable pressure. The four Lords felt his gaze—cold and scrutinizing, like a butcher appraising sheep for the slaughter.
Ygethmor took a deep breath. "The chosen of the other Chaos Powers will also serve under you. This includes Lucius the Eternal, Khârn the Betrayer, Typhus, and Ahriman. They will lead their respective Astartes forces and follow the Despoiler's lead to set the Imperium ablaze."
Abaddon did not respond. He stood silently, scanning their faces. Silence stretched for a long few seconds.
Then— "This is still far from enough. What of the Daemon Primarchs?" Abaddon looked directly at the four, a dangerous fire igniting in his eyes. "I need the Daemon Primarchs to also follow my lead."
The four Chaos Lords froze. They exchanged a wordless, incredulous look. Finally, Devram Korda stepped forward. Slaanesh's followers were always the bravest, or rather, the most reckless.
"I apologize, Despoiler," his tone remained respectful, but his wording was unambiguous. "That is unlikely."
Abaddon's gaze sharpened instantly. Korda did not flinch; in fact, the blessing of Slaanesh made him enjoy the thrill brought by this danger. "Those Daemon Primarchs are the most precious treasures of the Four Gods. Even the Powers cannot, or will not, make them simply follow your orders." He added, "It is too difficult."
"Difficult?" Abaddon repeated the word, his voice icy. His dissatisfaction was blatant. In the Eye of Terror, rumors circulated that "Daemon Primarchs had knelt before the Warmaster," and some key Black Legion figures had even claimed it was true. But everyone present knew those were lies. To make those arrogant Daemon Primarchs bow to the orders of an Astartes? One could only say a certain person wasn't worthy yet.
Abaddon clearly understood this. "Then the plan for Cadia cannot be implemented. On the battlefield, the corpse on the throne will surely send Primarchs to face me directly." Abaddon stopped in front of the four, speaking coldly. "While I, who have won a hundred battles, do not fear this, it undoubtedly lowers the success rate of the plan."
The four Chaos Lords grumbled internally, but none dared show it. Ygethmor spoke again: "Despoiler. The intent of the Chaos Powers is that you may accept further blessings from the Four." His tone was carefully neutral. "They are willing to bestow more power to support your Black Crusade against the Imperium."
"Impossible." Abaddon's answer was so fast it seemed thoughtless. His gaze swept over the four. "I am clear-headed. I am not a puppet to be manipulated by the Four Gods. I only—use them." He emphasized the word 'use.' "I will not become their slave, as you have."
From the Horus Heresy to these ten thousand years, the performance of his gene-father had made things very clear to Abaddon. He would not become like that. Never.
"Is that so? That is truly a pity," Ygethmor said softly.
The four Chaos Lords looked at one another. Then—they stood up simultaneously.
There was no verbal communication, no obvious signal. But in that instant, the four Lords serving different gods from different warbands made a perfectly synchronized move. They rose from their kneeling positions.
Devram Korda's hand slid toward his hilt. Ygethmor's smile returned, this time with a genuine chill. Skyrak's hunched frame straightened slightly. Urkanthos's breathing grew heavy, and the fire in his eyes began to spread. They opened their formation and slowly closed in on Abaddon.
Abaddon's eyes flashed with alertness. "What do you think you're doing?"
The four were silent, continuing their approach. They didn't even bother to explain. Abaddon was almost moved to a mocking laugh. Who gave you the courage? "Stupid." He didn't even move.
Urkanthos struck first; Khorne's followers were always the most impatient. He roared and swung his power axe, lunging at Abaddon in the savage, signature style of a Khorne Berzerker. The power axe tore through the air with enough force to cleave Terminator plate.
Then, Abaddon moved. His movements were almost impossible to track, a perfect display of ten thousand years of combat experience. He didn't even bother to fully raise a guard, simply making a casual swipe with the Talon of Horus.
Thump!
Urkanthos's charge was cut short. The power axe, capable of shredding ship armor, was caught by Abaddon's hand! The scream of the disruption fields filled the room. In the next heartbeat, the Talon of Horus—a legendary weapon that had shredded countless lives—drove straight into Urkanthos's chest.
Rip—
The Terminator plate was torn like paper. Urkanthos let out a grunt as a massive wound appeared in his chest, blood and a darker substance spraying out.
"The first one," Abaddon said coldly, withdrawing his claw and letting Urkanthos's body collapse backward. He then drew another weapon from his waist. The pitch-black daemon sword radiated an aura that made the soul tremble. It was the primordial daemon born from the first murder of humanity, which had once fought the Emperor himself in the Webway. Abaddon gave the sword a casual flourish, pointing it at the remaining three.
But just as he prepared to step forward... Hum—
An invisible force suddenly pressed down. Abaddon's body stiffened. It was psychic power—a terrifying level of psychic might squeezing him from all directions, trying to suppress every movement. He turned his head, his gaze falling on Ygethmor. The Tzeentchian was glowing with an eerie blue light, countless sorcerous runes spinning around him.
"Despoiler, do you know?" A multitude of eerie voices whispered in his ear. "Everything you possess—the Black Legion, the blessings of the Eightfold Path, your status in Chaos—none of it is truly yours."
Abaddon's body trembled under the psychic pressure. No, it wasn't just psychic power. He felt it—the power he was already familiar with, the blessings of the Chaos Gods, was... receding? How? This was impossible!
Abaddon gritted his teeth. He forced his arm to move, every motion excruciatingly difficult under the suppression. He raised the Drach'nyen high and slashed toward the Tzeentchian's face.
Bang!
Ygethmor dodged clumsily, and the psychic suppression loosened for a split second. Abaddon prepared to follow up, but heavy footsteps came from behind. He instinctively turned, raising the Talon of Horus—
Urkanthos! The blood god's follower, who had just had his chest torn open and should be dead, was standing again. Dark red energy surged within the massive hole in his chest, forcibly binding his shattered organs and flesh together.
"I won't go down that easily—" Urkanthos roared, lunging again.
Abaddon gave him no chance. The Talon of Horus struck again, this time tearing Urkanthos's head clean off. Shards of power armor and meat flew everywhere. Urkanthos's headless body swayed twice before finally falling again.
"Ridiculous fool." Abaddon panted as he turned. On the other side, Korda and Skyrak had closed in.
Schlick—
Caught off guard, his pauldron was sliced open. The pain sharpened Abaddon's focus. He knew he was in a bad spot. But it didn't matter. A Chaos Warmaster was never one of those fools who only knew how to fight to the death. His left hand reached for his waist, and a device fell into his palm. It was a Warp teleportation beacon.
As a tactical master, he often used this to extract himself from a battlefield. Now, he would activate it to summon the Bringers of Despair, who were on standby in the teleportarium, to execute these traitors! Without hesitation, Abaddon activated the device.
Hum—
A blinding light exploded in the room. The teleportation channel was forming; the Bringers of Despair were about to step through. Abaddon breathed a sigh of relief. As long as his elite guard arrived, everything would be fine!
The flash intensified. It wasn't the stable light of a transport device, but a stinging, twisted explosion carrying an ominous aura. Abaddon instinctively stepped back, raising the Talon of Horus.
As the light faded, a figure stepped out from the channel. Adam's eyes narrowed. It was a figure in red power armor, but the pattern of the plate, the dense Chaos script covering the face, and the pitch-black eyes burning with eerie light...
"Long time no see, Ezekyle."
The First Chaplain of the XVII Legion, the Word Bearers, the Hand of Destiny and Herald of Chaos—Erebus—pulled his lips back into a grotesque smile.
Abaddon's pupils shrank. Why was he here?! Where were my guards?
In that instant, seizing the perfect opportunity and disregarding any sense of honor, Erebus thrust a strangely shaped athame—a xenos artifact—directly into the Warmaster's chest!