Across the galaxy, Khârn the Betrayer, the Exalted Champion of Khorne and chosen of the World Eaters, had brought glory to the Blood God through the roar of his chainaxe. Since Angron's return had once more consumed the Legion's remaining sliver of sanity in a tide of mindless fury, Khârn had led his own warband through the stars, seeking a way to reforge the shattered XII.
As they drifted through the void, the Warp, usually parted by the sheer violence of their passage, suddenly churned into a boiling, visceral crimson.
"Lord of Skulls!!"
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!!"
The World Eaters within the warband erupted in fanatical cheers; such an overwhelming manifestation of Khornate power could only herald the presence of their patron deity. Khârn felt no gratitude, only a cold, escalating rage for the slaughter to come. He knew the Blood God was calling him, summoning him to butcher in His name.
A tide of infinite blood surged through the corridors of the strike cruiser, drowning Khârn and his warriors in an instant.
Simultaneously, Typhus and his warband were likewise beckoned by the Grandfather. Having obeyed Nurgle's direct whims during the Plague Wars, the Traveler currently enjoyed much higher favor than the sulking Mortarion. To a summons from the Plaguefather himself, Typhus offered nothing but absolute compliance.
Finally, there was Lucius the Eternal. The peerless duelist of the Emperor's Children, who stole the flesh of his conquerors to respawn eternally, was unceremoniously dropped by Slaanesh into a sprawling ruin on the moon of Ironward VIII, a wasteland of gargantuan mechanical structures that resembled a twisted colosseum.
Under the combined might of the Ruinous Powers, the Imperial architecture of Ironward VIII began to warp and distend. Metal groaned and reshaped itself like living tissue, eventually forming a titanic Roman-style arena that consumed two-thirds of the moon's surface.
Crawling out from the sea of blood, Khârn and his warband revved their chainaxes, their bloodshot eyes scanning the environment through the visors of their "bunny-eared" helms. Strangely, they found themselves confined within a sealed chamber of rusted, blackened iron. Aside from their own kin, there was no life to be found.
"By the Blood God, what is this?" Khârn muttered. He stepped forward and brought his axe down on the metallic wall with a thunderous blow.
Sparks flew as the metal cleaved like parchment, only to instantly knit itself back together. Recognizing this as a supernatural phenomenon beyond his control, Khârn ceased his efforts. Even with the Butcher's Nails biting into his brain, he remained one of the few World Eaters capable of lucidity; he understood that a power far greater than any mortal was at work here.
Indeed, the anomaly on Ironward VIII was a masterpiece of the Forge of Souls, a perfect arena crafted by Lucius using his nascent authority over "Malevolent Artifice." In the empyrean above the arena, the five Chaos Gods watched their pawns.
The Three had sent their champions and their respective warbands. Lucius, lacking his own corrupted Astartes, had been forced to field Queek Headtaker and his Red Guard to make up the numbers.
Queek was equally agitated. He had just finished slaughtering a unit of "beard-things" when he was suddenly snatched away. To be interrupted mid-kill left the Headtaker in a state of murderous pique.
"Excellent, now we wait for our final contestant," Lucius said, nodding toward the Emperor as the players took their marks.
The Three seemed genuinely intrigued by this novelty. It was as if veteran RTS players had suddenly switched to a high-stakes "Arena Mode." This micro-perspective offered a different flavor of entertainment.
The Emperor closed His eyes and made a slight gesture. Titus and his squad, having just carved their way through a Skaven patrol, found that the only available path led directly into the heart of the gargantuan structure.
"This... did the records say such a structure existed on Ironward VIII?" Gadriel asked, squinting up at the metal spires that pierced the heavens.
"This is not the work of Ultramar. This is the foul influence of the Warp," Titus replied grimly. Though every instinct screamed against entering, a hallowed, resonant voice echoed in his mind, commanding him forward.
Titus obeyed the Divine Will.
They soon entered a labyrinthine interior that felt uncannily deliberate. It wasn't a functional outpost; it was a grand arena, reminiscent of the traditional pits of Macragge, filled with cover, obstacles, and strange "items."
"My Lord, a cache!" An Ultramarine opened a series of iron crates emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila. Inside lay a bounty of bolt shells, plasma flasks, and a full arsenal of chainswords, power packs, and thunder hammers.
"They are pristine, sir. Fully functional," the Marines reported after testing a few rounds. Their excitement was palpable; after days of continuous grinding combat, their supplies were dangerously low, and their battle-barge remained silent.
"Resupply immediately. In my experience," Titus commanded, slamming a fresh mag into his bolter, "when you find a cache this generous, trouble is close behind."
He knew the rule, that supplies precede the slaughter. Gadriel, having fought alongside him through the entire campaign, understood this grim logic perfectly.
No sooner had they rearmed and advanced than the staccato roar of bolter fire erupted.
Titus dove for cover as his squad returned fire instinctively. When Titus looked up, his pupils constricted. Their attackers were nightmarish, their forms warped and flamboyant, wielding power swords with a decadent grace. On their power armor, however, was the mocking silhouette of the Golden Aquila.
"The Emperor's Children? How did these traitors reach Ultramar?!" Titus shouted.
Lucius the Eternal was equally bewildered. He remembered dueling an Aeldari Autarch, having just peeled the xenos's face off when Slaanesh tossed him here. He had charged through the first opening door he saw, only to find a squad of "Blueberry" Astartes waiting for him.
Bewilderment, however, did not stay their hands. Both were masters of the blade. The Ultramarines and Lucius's Blades of Perfection clashed with immediate, lethal intent.
Lucius expected to make short work of this Ultramarine "champion," but the youth's bladework was frustratingly resilient. Lucius's sword danced in a lethal, intricate web, yet the Ultramarine parried it with a blunt, pragmatic technique that bordered on the insulting. Lucius was genuinely shocked; when had these "stodgy fools" of the XIII produced a duelist of this caliber?
Elsewhere, the other champions were unleashed. Khârn led his World Eaters out of their gate like a volcanic eruption, desperate for anything to kill.
Ten kilometers away, the auspex chimed. Khârn looked across the dunes of the arena and saw the bloated, scythe-wielding form of Typhus and his Death Guard.
Khârn recognized Typhus, but he had no idea why the Traveler was here. He didn't care.
Above the arena, the sky turned black as a storm, and a terrifying, booming voice spoke, "Welcome to the Arena of the Gods, pawns... Offer up your lives and your slaughter to your masters. Only one side leaves this place alive!"
Khârn and Typhus, realizing this wasn't the voice of their own gods, were about to roar their defiance when a Nurgling perched on Typhus's shoulder slapped the Traveler across the head.
"Hehehe, start already! Grandfather is watching, tee-hee!" the daemonette-like mite chirped.
Typhus respected this Nurgling, a personal gift from the Plaguefather, far more than he respected Mortarion. He understood immediately: this was a game to amuse the Grandfather.
His gaze locked onto the confused, then incandescently angry Khârn.
"Hehe, it's alright, newcomer," Slaanesh purred, leaning elegantly against Lucius's shoulder while watching the duel between her Eternal and Titus. "We'll play first. Let your cute little rat-things join in a bit later~"
Queek Headtaker had already undergone the "Rat-startes" augmentations; his strength, size, and speed were now a match for any Space Marine. Yet, as the only god using a "proxy" servant, Lucius felt a stinging sense of shame.
I must get my own Daemon Primarchs and Astartes Legions, Lucius vowed silently.
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