The Eye of Terror.
Distorted colors tumbled in the void like a mad painter's palette, forcibly blending countless impossible colors together. A massive Warp storm rotated slowly at the edge of vision, like an opening eye of a dark god watching the entire galaxy.
At the center of it all, a gargantuan Gloriana-class battleship floated silently.
The Vengeful Spirit.
This warship, which carried the most agonizing memories of the Human Empire's history, was now fully corrupted by Chaos. Hideous spikes crawled across the once-stately hull, and black-red energy veins spread over the armor surface like blood vessels. Corruption was everywhere.
In the ship's long corridors, a massive monster stood. The iconic topknot on his head was so prominent that anyone could recognize his identity at a glance.
The Warmaster of Chaos, Ezekyle Abaddon.
He stood up and paced the corridors of this legendary warship. His heavy, iron-like steps struck the metal floor with dull thuds, sounding like a countdown to doomsday. The interior of this Gloriana-class vessel had been corrupted beyond recognition. Dim, blood-colored light cast over his massive Terminator Power Armor, making the blasphemous marks look particularly hideous. Distorted faces flashed across the walls from time to time—souls imprisoned within the ship's hull, wailing silently.
At this moment, Abaddon felt excellent. Whether it was the daemon sword in his hand or the surging power within him, both were so formidable that he felt capable of contending with a Primarch. No, that was too conservative. In the face of this power, even the Primarchs would have to bow and kneel. And for this, Abaddon had paid only a small price.
A price? Abaddon's mind drifted over the thought for a second before casting it aside.
He had forgotten everything about a certain ambush; it was as if it were a distant dream that never happened. The ultimate result left him with nothing but a bone-deep loathing for a single figure—a hatred so intense that Abaddon would instinctively clench his fists whenever he thought of that name. However, there were far too many things to loathe about that figure; Abaddon didn't doubt his feelings for a moment. The number of people in the galaxy who wanted that guy dead could probably form a line from Cadia to Terra. He was just one of many.
"Ah, my respected, my dearest Ezekyle. You have become much more approachable now."
Then, that irritating voice rang out from beside him. Abaddon turned his head and saw the face he wanted to tear to pieces.
Erebus.
The First Chaplain of Chaos flashed a malicious smile. He gazed at another perfect work of art he had personally crafted, feeling a sense of physical and mental pleasure.
"I can feel the power of Chaos surging; the Gods are acknowledging you," Erebus continued. "You now possess several facets of the style your father once had."
At any other time, such a comment, which was indistinguishable from a provocation, would have sent Abaddon into a towering rage. His Talon of Horus would have taught this man which words could be spoken and which could not. But Abaddon only experienced a moment of daze. The words of the figure beside him seemed to have been passed through layers of overlapping filters, leaving his eyes misty before he finally nodded slowly.
"You are right, Erebus." Abaddon's voice was low and steady, as if that moment of trance had never occurred.
Seeing Abaddon's reaction, Erebus, who had recently joined the Black Legion and become its First Chaplain, smiled with satisfaction.
"Now, the Chaos forces of the entire galaxy are gathering under your banner." He walked beside Abaddon, continuing his report. "Warbands from the Lord of Change, the Lord of Pleasure, the Lord of Plagues, and the Lord of Skulls have all gathered here at your disposal. The Legion reappears in the world, with thousands upon thousands of Astartes following your command."
"Even those Daemon Primarchs, under the will of the Chaos Gods, have had to enter deep cooperation with you and are willing to accept your command to a certain extent." Erebus's tone carried a near-pious fanaticism. "Furthermore, even the Daemon Primarch of Chaos Undivided—the Lord of Iron—is willing to provide industrial and logistical support. The blasphemous arts of the Dark Mechanicum will appear under your command, and a fleet that blots out the sun will array before your tent."
He finally concluded, spreading his arms as if embracing the entire power of Chaos. "It is truly a scene of vibrant life, where all things compete for growth."
Abaddon nodded. No matter how loathsome Erebus was, his words were correct. The power currently in his hands could be said to gather the vast majority of forces within Chaos. Even if a few reclusive individuals hadn't answered his call, he could say without hesitation that this power far surpassed the sum of his previous twelve Black Crusades.
The advantage was his! Abaddon felt extremely satisfied. He continued forward, and the two moved through the corrupted ship until they reached the doors of the bridge.
"Ah, Abaddon. Are you alright?"
As Abaddon strode in, the heavy, massive doors opened automatically and submissively before him, as if even inanimate objects were bowing to the Warmaster of Chaos. A question full of doubt rang in his ears.
His close friend and psychic advisor, Khayon. This Chaos Sorcerer, who had lived for ten thousand years, looked at Abaddon with worry, his gaze lingering for a moment on the Warmaster's gradually distorting features. Khayon felt that his master had undergone some unknown transformation in certain aspects. For example, over the last ten thousand years, Abaddon had emphasized the Black Legion's leading role and had not been subservient to the Four Gods. But the recent preparations, the gathering of warbands devoted to specific gods, and Abaddon's actions all made Khayon suspicious.
"I am fine." Abaddon shook his head, his voice carrying undeniable power. He cast a gloomy gaze across the bridge.
According to his orders, the key personnel had gathered. This was the strength now under his command.
Haarken Worldclaimer was talking and laughing loudly, clearly feeling high-spirited and flushed by the power his master wielded. Beside him, Typhus, representing the Plague Lord, sat silently; murky liquid dripped constantly from his corrosion-pitted Power Armor, burning smoking holes into the metal floor. Lucius the Eternal, the scion of Slaanesh, was slumped on the floor with a twisted expression of pleasure, his fingers unconsciously moving over his armor as if savoring some extreme sensation only he could feel. Ahriman, the chosen of Tzeentch, sat silently on the bridge, his helmet masking his expression, but anyone could feel the psychic fluctuations churning around him.
All the "sages" were gathered. Of course, Kharn, the chosen of Khorne, was not among them. After all, if a certain someone were present, Erebus would never have dared to show his face here. This wasn't cowardice; it was simply a wise man staying away from a collapsing wall.
Abaddon's gaze swept over everyone and finally fixed on the holographic projection at the center of the bridge. It was a map of the galaxy; the Eye of Terror sat within it like a hideous scar, and around it, countless markers representing Chaos fleets were moving slowly, converging into an unprecedentedly massive force.
"Then let the war council begin," Abaddon's voice was cold, echoing through the bridge like a winter wind. Everyone's eyes fixed on him. "The Thirteenth Black Crusade is about to begin."
The Warmaster tilted his chin slightly, his voice carrying an unquestionable majesty. "This time, just like before, I will bring victory once again."
At these words, the others reacted strongly. They straightened up, their eyes flashing with excited and bloodthirsty light. They could already see the hell their slaughter would bring, satisfying the dark gods they served and gaining even greater blessings.
"I have an objection."
A hollow, ethereal voice rang out. Everyone turned toward the source, their faces showing shock. They wondered who would have the courage to act as the nail that sticks out in such a meeting of authority. Under everyone's gaze, Ahriman, holding his Black Staff, calmly raised his head and stared straight at the Warmaster of Chaos.
"As everyone knows, the False Emperor's Primarchs have stepped out of history. Even with Primarchs on our side, this will be a difficult war." The two lenses on his helmet glowed with ghostly blue light, like foxfire in an abyss. "Most of us here lived through that war, so logically speaking—I mean no offense—we need to verify the leader's strength."
Ahriman's voice was steady, as if he were merely stating a standard fact.
"Interesting." Abaddon's voice turned dangerously sharp. He narrowed his eyes, and his topknot seemed to tremble slightly, like a venomous snake sensing a threat. "And your meaning is?"
Beside him, Khayon gripped his own staff. While his suspicions were one thing, seeing his master threatened was another. Even if Ahriman was a brother of the same bloodline, the two had parted ways and turned blades against each other ten thousand years ago; there was no psychological burden.
"Heh." Ahriman let out an ambiguous chuckle. He lightly raised his hand, and a distorted silhouette appeared in the center of the bridge.
It was a Castellax battle-automata. It wasn't particularly massive, but the power contained within its metal body was clearly felt by everyone present. "This is a Castellax. Those here who understand will know what it is; I won't introduce it further. It's just a toy I requested from the Lord of Iron and modified." He paused, tapping his staff. The machine's eyes lit up. "Its strength is certainly enough to cause some trouble for a Primarch—"
Ahriman hadn't finished his sentence. A violent gust of wind whipped across the bridge. Everyone's eyes widened in shock. Even Lucius, immersed in his own sensations, sat up straight. Wow, I have to see this.
The afterimage was too fast for Astartes neural reflexes to capture. In an instant, Abaddon's figure disappeared and reappeared in the same spot. It was as if he had never moved.
But the Castellax lay on the ground. It had been bisected at the waist instantly, the upper and lower halves separated by a cut as smooth as a mirror.
Abaddon cast a cold gaze toward Ahriman. There was no anger or killing intent in that gaze, only a near-apathetic calm. Ahriman sat back down silently. His movements were steady, as if everything that had just happened was within his expectations. He spoke no more.
Resisting the urge to find trouble with the sorcerer, Abaddon simply surveyed everyone in the room. "Does anyone else have an objection?"
His voice was calm but echoed like ice. No one answered. The Warmaster withdrew his gaze with satisfaction and looked back at the galactic map.
Erebus smiled satisfied behind him. His gaze lingered on Abaddon's back for a moment before turning to the map. In his eyes, every marker on that map was more than just a military deployment. It was the gears of fate turning. It was the chessboard he had planned finally being revealed.
"Adam..." Erebus whispered the name. He shook his head with regret. Oh, my. How could the Lord of Carrion be so wicked? A great god who clearly belonged to the realm of Chaos was tricked by that liar into believing he was human. This god of undefined distortion had not yet awakened, yet he could already surpass veteran Chaos powers in certain fields. What would it be like if he truly ascended to the highest throne of Chaos?
As a long-tested chosen of Chaos, a pure villain devoid of "low-level interests," Erebus was very much looking forward to it.
Khayon's gaze moved between Abaddon and Erebus, the unease in his heart growing heavier. But he said nothing. In the realm of Chaos, doubt itself was a danger. He simply lowered his head and began preparing for the coming war.
Outside the bridge, the energy storm of the Eye of Terror grew more violent, as if responding to the Warmaster's declaration. Countless engine lights of the Chaos fleet flickered in the darkness like falling stars.
The war was about to begin.