As the production of Skaven aircraft surged and Ork scrap-factories were dismantled before they could even be bolted together, the Greenskin surface offensive began to crumble.
The retreat accelerated into a rout when several Warbosses leading the Waaagh! fleet had their heads inexplicably detached from their shoulders. Deprived of leadership, the Orks descended into characteristic infighting, and the verminous tide swept across Bard to claim the rest of the planet.
The final blow fell in orbit. The World Blight, first of the Arks of Omen and flagship of Clan Skryre, unleashed its fury. Under a relentless bombardment of Warp-lances and Warp-macro cannons, the Ork junk-fleet was reduced to drifting slag.
Greenskins are a galactic plague, their reproductive spores capable of seeding entire ecosystems in the most desolate corners of the void. Yet, they met their match in the Skaven. When every square inch of a world is claimed by the Under-Empire, there is no room for a second infestation. The gluttonous rat-men devoured everything in their path; the Ork spores were consumed long before they could ever sprout into fungi.
With total victory secured, the Skryre Warp-engineers began the planet's absolute transformation.
They polluted the very core of the world, turning it into a titanic power source. As a reward for their triumph, Lucius himself manifested a miracle of dark divinity: he transmuted the molten iron heart of the planet into a colossal mass of glowing green Warpstone. The sheer magnitude of the raw Chaos energy caused the entirety of Clan Skryre to tremble with a mixture of awe and fanatic devotion.
The Skaven proceeded to upscale their ship-grade Warp-lances and macro-batteries several times over. On this planetary-scale weapon platform, hundreds of Skryre-aligned sub-clans vied to install their most deranged architectural visions.
Mountain ranges were hollowed out to house terrifying ordnance. Infinite networks of tunnels honeycombed the crust. Every weapon system was linked via subterranean conduits to the Warpstone core hundreds of kilometers below, drawing upon a literal world's worth of infinite energy.
When Ikit Claw engaged the planetary engines and Bard began to drift out of its natural orbit, the Chief Warlock's ecstasy was palpable. He knew he had secured an asset for Skryre that few in the galaxy could hope to oppose.
This was not born of clan loyalty, but cold ambition; Ikit calculated that once the old wretch Morskittar finally perished, his claim to the leadership of Clan Skryre would be unassailable.
"No need… no need to fret over the Rictus-things or the Pestilens-things! We want more! More! More worlds to become Skryre play-things!"
Ikit cared little for Vigilus or the struggles of Clan Rictus and Clan Pestilens there. To him, the fate of the Nachmund Gauntlet and the fading light of the Astronomican mattered naught; they could not dim the shadow of the Great Horned Rat.
Guided by the Grey Seers, the tolling of the Great Bell echoed through the Warp, lighting the way for all Skaven-kind.
…
On Vigilus, Skrolk sensed the shifting tides. Across the vast expanse of the galaxy, beyond the Nachmund Gauntlet, the spiritual echoes of countless Skaven were erupting. It was a virgin territory, a sprawling wasteland of ignorant, masterless slaves waiting for the "enlightenment" of Clan Pestilens.
When Skrolk sought counsel from the Corruptor Greater Daemon, Nagdanon, the Warp-entity responded with sibilant pride.
"Yes... the Great Horned Rat has bested the foolish gods of the Man-things... the power of the Skaven, the shadow of the Horned One, shall spread across the entire galaxy..." Nagdanon spoke with a voice like a death-rattle, eerie yet filled with dark reverence.
"No—no! We cannot waste-throw time here!" Skrolk shrieked, dancing with agitation. He was desperate to bring his plagues to the ignorant masses of this new, fertile frontier.
To Clan Pestilens, Vigilus had become a hollow prize. Had they not been pursuing the Death Guard and the Purge, they would never have bothered to stop here at all. If Clan Rictus wanted this graveyard, let them have it.
…
In the Dirge Mast sector, the Astra Militarum found themselves reeling against a horrifying new foe: Skaven whose flesh had been fused with cold iron in a grotesque mockery of the bionic, yet who moved with unnatural, predatory speed.
These frenzied steel-skinned ratmen were the Plague Monks of Clan Resilience. These frenzied zealots felt no pain. They attacked with dual blades or spat clouds of dissolved metallic shards, shrapnel of their own melting bodies, as ranged salvos.
Those struck by these attacks died in absolute agony; the Warp-diseases carried by the metal spread with unnatural speed, liquefying flesh in seconds.
Even the Ultramarines found the engagement grueling. The toxic fog drifting from the monks corroded even power armor, eating through ceramite plates with terrifying ease.
However, just as Marneus Calgar found himself pressured by the tripartite siege of Skaven, Chaos, and Orks, the verminous xenos, who had previously seemed an endless tide, suddenly began to withdraw.
"What is the meaning of this?" Calgar demanded, staring at the Southern Front where the tactical situation had shifted in an instant.
"Unknown, my Lord," a battle-brother replied over the vox. "They are retreating."
"Have the Adepta Sororitas cleanse the battlefield and all remains with holy promethium," Calgar ordered, his voice grim. "Then, push the line. Ensure no foothold remains for a counter-offensive."
Calgar's caution was warranted, but unnecessary. Driven by his fanatic zeal, Skrolk did not wish to remain a second longer. He had commanded thousands of Plague Priests to enact a mass psychic translocation, vanishing the Pestilens host back to their plague-ships.
Upon hearing the news, Kratch Doomclaw of Clan Rictus exploded in a fit of rage. These Pestilens filth had no honor! They had promised to help him take this world!
With the departure of Clan Pestilens, Clan Rictus was left alone on the grand stage of Vigilus. Though they boasted the greatest number of Stormvermin, they lacked the specialized bio-weapons or arcane machinery to break the stalemate. Caught between the green tide and the desperate Imperial counter-attacks for the water spires, Kratch was struggling just to hold the Stygian Spires.
It was then that a psychic transmission reached him.
"Who is it? If it is a Pestilens-thing, tell them to rot! Curse them-them!" Kratch roared, spraying spittle at the attending Grey Seer. The Seer did not take offense; instead, he bowed low with uncharacteristic obsequiousness.
Kratch was, after all, a member of the Council of Thirteen. Not even a Grey Seer could afford to be flippant in his presence.
"Yes-yes... it is Gnawdwell, Lord. The Mors-thing," the Grey Seer hissed with a wide, toothy grin.
"A Mors-thing?" Kratch's fury cooled, replaced by the calculating coldness of a Council member.
Unlike the mutual loathing common between most clans, Rictus and Clan Mors maintained a functional relationship, largely because neither possessed a technological monopoly. In truth, Mors was in an even tougher position; while Rictus had their superior breeding programs for Stormvermin, Mors began as a non-entity.
The rise of Lord Gnawdwell, taking Mors from an obscure minor clan to the Sixth Seat of the Council, was a feat respected even by his rivals. Most importantly, Gnawdwell was a rare breed of Skaven: a visionary who rarely broke a pact once struck.
"Speak then, let us see-watch what that wretch Gnawdwell has to say-speak." Kratch settled back, nodding with regained composure.
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