The sky over Terra burns with unnatural light. A tear opens in the heavens, jagged and shimmering, twisting the stars into impossible patterns. Enki steps forward first, his presence radiating authority that bends the air around him. Beside him, Elizabeth holds her blades, one black, one white, the edges catching the warped sunlight of the rift. She feels the pulse of the Warp bleeding through the tear, every heartbeat echoing with the cries of worlds yet to be born—or destroyed.
From the rift, the first whispers come: a hum of energy so deep that even Enki flinches, though his face remains calm. This is no ordinary rift. This is the portal between universes, and through it, the remnants of Enki's family and the fleeing refugees will come. But chaos follows in its wake. Already, the energy of the corrupted Primarchs stirs, the Warp screaming in protest as Order moves to pull them back from their tainted paths.
Above the Imperial Palace, a tremor shakes the sky. Legion banners flap without wind, their metallic edges clanging. The Imperium's defenders hesitate, unaware whether this is invasion or salvation. Enki steps forward, reaching into the Warp with his mind. His awareness touches the minds of the Primarchs, scattered across the galaxy, some slumped in despair, others roaring with the fury of corruption.
"Elizabeth," he says, voice calm but resonant. "We begin."
She nods, feeling the duality of her blades thrumming with energy. The black blade pulses with the rage of her own spirit, echoing the despair of those lost to Chaos. The white blade hums softly with Order, a gift from their grandfather, capable of stabilizing what the Warp has warped. She moves first, descending in a graceful arc toward the nearest corrupted Primarch.
Ungran is the first to meet her. His nails, jagged and blackened by Chaos, scrape the stone of the palace as he thrashes, a scream tearing from his throat. Elizabeth steps closer, white blade leading, cutting through the residue of corruption clinging to his body. The black blade follows, absorbing his fury, shaping it into a conduit that Order can grasp. With a scream that echoes across the city, his nails fall away, shattered remnants of his torment clattering to the ground. He collapses, breathing heavily, alive—but scarred.
Enki touches the Warp again. Other Primarchs respond: Terran, Harkon, and a dozen more. Each is caught between despair and relief as Order's influence draws them back. They resist at first, instincts honed in the Warp making them lash out, but the pressure of Order is unyielding. Slowly, the corrupted shells of the Emperor's greatest sons begin to stabilize.
But nothing is free. As the last Primarch returns to consciousness, a scream shatters the air. The energy expelled by their salvation twists and condenses in the sky. The Warp crystallizes into shapes, and from it, hybrid demons emerge. They are horrific parodies of the Primarchs themselves, each fused with the monstrous essence of the Chaos gods that once bound them. Tiamat's influence bends flesh into chimeric offspring; Afri's corruptive embrace twists sinew and bone; Samael's nihilistic shadow oozes despair into the minds of soldiers; Distro's monstrous mutability makes them ever-shifting, unpredictable threats.
Elizabeth spins, black blade slicing through the nearest demon's elongated arm before it can tear through a squad of Space Marines. Sparks of energy flare as the white blade stabilizes a fractured area of reality, sealing a rift fragment that threatens to expand further. Her golden apples hover, glowing faintly, ready to heal or stabilize as needed.
Hawks descends from the rift above, his crimson wings cutting the sky. His legion of two and a half million Astaris fan out, dropping from orbit to engage smaller daemonic skirmishes. Feathers sharpened into blades pierce through limbs and armor alike, each strike precise and deadly. Hawks' eyes track movements across the battlefield, coordinating attacks with the efficiency of a predator striking a dozen prey at once.
Ban appears next, flaming sword drawn. He moves like lightning, his Astaris cutting a path through greater demons that adapt to others' attacks. With every swing, souls shudder, some caught in his blade, some freed from the lingering corruption. He is surgical, precise, lethal.
From orbit, Gilgamesh rains a hail of golden weaponry across the city, each piece of his arsenal exploding with devastating force. Odinson follows, his Space Marines dropping in waves. When casualties occur, he rebuilds them instantly, their armor mending and souls returning—though the cost of rebuilding gnaws at them like a shadow in their minds.
Karnor's spear ignites, solar fire cascading across streets and walls, disintegrating hybrid abominations before they can reach Imperial forces. Hella raises the fallen as undead soldiers, adding numbers that should not exist, yet fight with uncanny synchronization.
Even Atsa's legion glows with runic energy, empowering the blades and armor of the deployed Legions. Zeke coordinates logistical support, deploying siege weapons, armored transports, and emergency field hospitals in tandem with Elizabeth's healing. Hercules charges through the chaos, his form nearly impervious, forcing even greater demons to devote their attention to him alone.
Artoria's assassin squads infiltrate enemy ranks, removing high-value targets with surgical precision. Atalanta's crystal shield absorbs blasts, storing the energy to release against advancing hybrid horrors. Every sibling moves in concert, a symphony of destruction and salvation.
Above all, Enki watches, omniscient, guiding the battle through subtle manipulations of the Warp and battlefield awareness. The first rift stabilizes but remains jagged—a reminder that more will come. Already, distant tremors hint at another rift forming elsewhere in the galaxy, unpredictable, dangerous, perhaps leading to allies… or new Chaos incursions.
Elizabeth lowers her blades for a brief moment, eyes scanning the horizon. The Primarchs breathe, some still trembling, some staring at the sky with awe and fear. Ungran limps, fingernails gone but spirit intact. Terran, having undergone months of therapy before working with her, moves beside her, ready to act, calm and precise.
Enki speaks softly, almost to himself: "This is only the beginning."
The Warp pulses. The city smolders. The first rift over Terra has closed, but its consequences ripple outward. Greater demons have been unleashed. Hybrid abominations roam the battlefield. Legions number in the millions. The Imperium's defenders now understand that salvation comes at a cost. And somewhere, across the galaxy, the next rift begins to stir, random and unbound, carrying with it the promise of heroes… or horrors.