Within the distorted boundary where time and space overlapped, a chaotic panorama unfolded—jagged, interlocking, surreal images that blurred at the edges, merging dream and madness into one.
Layer upon layer of ever-flowing, unending storms of psychic energy formed the backdrop here.
It resembled a suffocating high-dimensional painting, as though countless deranged artists had poured their souls into it, weaving the most fantastical and impossible strokes together—beautiful, hideous, and intertwined beyond reason.
Abstract expressionism, cubism, surrealism, pop art, minimalism...
Every conceivable style known to realspace existed here, depicting grotesque visions of pain, torment, and primal savagery—all splashed upon the mottled canvas known as the Warp.
Dazzling, bizarre, terrifying, and wondrous.
"I shall not let thee succeed! My child is steadfast and unyielding—!"
The furious roar, a sound that would drive any mortal who heard it instantly insane and rotten, reverberated endlessly through the Warp. It carried the stench of bile and decay, the mark of the Plague Lord's equal 'love' for all living beings. Yet the voice was suddenly shattered—crack!—
In that instant of breaking, a crimson-gold sun flared within the rotting waves of the twisted nebulae.
That terrible radiance and heat swept away the dark mirror of pestilence and corruption, reversing decay and inverting the very concept of disease and contagion, so that the blazing crimson-gold sun forever shone above the pestilent void.
The sickly green light—tinged with yellow and white—belonged to the newborn Chaos God, Finality. Its divine "share" poured down like torrential rain. Rivers of violet-red spilled backward, devouring the portion of Nurgle's essence within the Warp's primordial core.
The crystalline forest of thorns expanded at a rate that defied all measurement by realspace standards, devouring the territories of the rotting garden.
The rise of one god, the decline of another.
This was the eternal struggle among the Chaos Gods.
Then, from the depths of a dazzling, abyssal cave of light, came a voice—sweet, amused, and faintly mocking.
"Some say Tzeentch is merely a mischievous trickster, and the young Slaanesh but a wandering libertine. Khorne, a brutish beast, too narrow-minded and wrathful to be worth speaking of. But you... Nurgle."
"The so-called 'Father of All'—thy art the only true artist among them. Those were the words of your beloved child, the Plague Space Marine Lord, Champion of Nurgle—The Raven."
Amidst the hazy brilliance of collapsing particles, Selene's eyes burned fiercely. She tilted her head slightly, the golden diamond-cross pupils of her dual irises glowing with crimson mist as she met the primordial gaze of Nurgle himself, her words laced with mocking praise.
"Unfortunately, you could not even protect your own child. Not even resurrect him... your art is powerless."
Selene smiled.
Her fingertips continued their soft, whispering harvest of realspace souls, prayers, offerings—even the devout worship of sacrifice itself.
Among them, one grotesque and bloated spirit—bearing a single triangular eye, a forked tongue, and a single horn—was crushed in her grasp.
Its essence was absorbed by Selene, refined, and cast into the sea of souls, feeding the ever-expanding crystalline forest of thorns.
Selene, of course, knew the truth: so-called "champions" of gods were nothing special. They were disposable pawns—unlike the fallen Primarchs, who truly mattered. Toying with their deaths served no purpose beyond provoking Nurgle's temper. It had little effect on the other three gods... and probably not much on Nurgle himself.
But Selene would dance upon his nerves regardless.
"Ah... such touching words. Such fatherly devotion—so much so that mortals must tell lies on his behalf, to deceive his flock in the name of their helpless god."
And one by one, the foul souls of Nurgle's champions and plague-ridden followers she had harvested from realspace were crushed into oblivion.
In truth, Selene was already doing what any Chaos God would—harvesting the pitiful, detestable souls of the material realm.
Across the blurred frontier of the Eye of Terror's widening breach, throughout the Imperial systems and the sectors shrouded by the Sacred Selene Empire's expeditionary crusades under Budo, every life slain—whether human or otherwise—had its soul reaped by Selene.
The kills of Selene's Astartes warriors naturally belonged to her. But as for the kills made by the warriors of the Imperium of Man—well, Selene claimed a portion of those too.
Some Astra Militarum soldiers, in the moment of death, thought of her statue on Cadia—and their souls drifted to Selene. This...
Even the souls of heretics, the lost, opportunistic xenos, and even Chaos Space Marines—all these howling spirits, so varied and grotesque—left Selene in awe.
Meanwhile, the massive influx of Dark Eldar souls brought Selene an entirely new experience.
Tsk... The taste was terrible. Murky, cruel, and bitter.
Yet what surprised her most was that across the entire galaxy, scattered warbands of Chaos Space Marines were rampaging through the stars, slaughtering entire populations—T'au, Eldar tribes, humans—countless species and sacrificial offerings. Among them were cultists and even Chaos worshippers themselves... and the object of their prayers and rituals was unmistakably—Selene.
Uh...
Selene didn't pay them any attention, nor did she intend to recruit followers. She remained aloof, distant, exuding the cold arrogance of one far above mortal concern.
But that only seemed to excite them more. Their zeal grew even fiercer, shouting praises like: "Glory to the Mistress of Destruction and Collapse! Glory to the Lady of Dominion! Glory to the Queen of Order! Glory to the Goddess of Finality!"
After witnessing the sheer might of Finality's birth cry—how it had torn across the galaxy—these zealots were filled with awe and fury, seizing their weapons and turning against the Plague God's domain in open war. The spectacle drew followers like moths to flame.
Especially among the Chaos Space Marines, who worshiped power above all else.
Renegade warbands from the Iron Warriors, Alpha Legion, and countless other traitor chapters joined in. The most fervent of all were the Word Bearers, whose rituals of sacrifice shook entire sectors.
The colder and more indifferent Selene acted, the more they adored her—utterly enthralled, as if stricken by some cosmic Stockholm syndrome.
Most of these supplicants belonged to unaffiliated Chaos warbands, though a few were converts from other factions.
How amusing, she thought, that these beings prayed and begged for her blessing.
Then again, it made perfect sense.
The Warp, in many ways, was a reflection of reality.
Likewise, realspace was constantly influenced by echoes from the Warp—especially now that the balance had been shattered.
Whenever a new Chaos God was born, word of it always spread. Such things could never be hidden. Even though Selene's manifestation in the Warp appeared modest—'born weak,' so to speak—her 'upbringing' was exceptional. She had come with resources, bearing three full systems: one in realspace, one in the Imaginary Space, and another—still forming—beyond.
Unflinching, she met the rotting yellow eyes burning with rage and hatred before her. A cold smile curved upon her lips as she flicked a finger.
"Rotting disease. Filthy thing. You have no courage, no wisdom, no beauty—unworthy of mention."
BOOM—!
As if in answer to Selene's words, a low, thunderous roar echoed from the highest heavens—like a colossal fist striking the heart of the void. The shockwaves spread outward, growing more violent until they became a roaring crimson tsunami.
Countless lesser psykers and daemons who dared to glimpse the scene were annihilated, their souls consumed by the bloodflame of a higher power—the embodiment of valor and wrath, of blood and skulls.
Across boiling rivers of blood, erupting volcanoes, fields soaked in gore, and mountains of skulls, upon the brass and crimson fortress of terror stood the immeasurable Brass Throne. From it, the Blood God's blazing sulfurous gaze fell upon the warring gods.
In the Warp, what mortals considered distance might as well be infinite, but for the gods, space and time were meaningless jokes.
"Thou art... impressive."
The Blood God muttered, his voice like molten iron from the forges of hell—metallic, searing, suffocating.
Though he roared and raged with every passing Terran year, this time... his fury seemed tempered.
Finality had claimed much of the symbolic essence that once belonged to him—and Khorne knew it well.
Had Finality not already declared war on Nurgle—that slothful, indolent, green-skinned blob of decay—then Khorne would have gladly done so himself. He wouldn't have minded testing his might against this upstart as he once did with Slaanesh, to see who truly deserved to be called the God of Destruction.
But since Finality and Nurgle were already locked in battle, so be it. He would wait until they were finished.
Khorne despised ambushes and deceit, scorning such cowardice with every fiber of his being. His plans were always simple—there was only one step: beat the enemy until nothing remained but blood and ruin. That was all.
"Hmm..."
Like a stern, incorruptible judge whose sense of fairness was as unbearable as it was absolute, the blood-soaked shadow upon the Brass Throne merely cast a glance toward the crystalline labyrinth at the heart of the Warp—a maze formed from endless towers of glass, mountains of crystal, curtains of light, and countless other glittering structures.
At its center shimmered a shifting, multicolored mist. One moment it was a white serpent slithering endlessly in place; the next, a blue genie without a neck, its skin covered in countless faces all repeating the same words in different voices; and then, an eagle... before finally taking the shape of a twisted, azure harpy.
It chirped and cackled, fluttering madly.
"How boring... the strings of fate are turning once again. Change... yes, just as planned... always as planned... mehahahahahaha—oh my!"
"Fascinating, fascinating... Let's hope our rotting old friend doesn't cough himself apart before this little crisis passes... oh-ho-ho-ho-ho!"
Meanwhile, in that unspeakable citadel—a place whose very existence defined indulgence and depravity—came the sounds of pleasure and ecstasy, echoing through the halls like music. Reclining upon shimmering, sinuous furniture, a graceful yet grotesque silhouette twisted and writhed, releasing waves of violet mist that coiled and rolled across the air.
"Savage brute... ugly beast... mmm~"
A sudden moan of delight rippled through the air. "...My sweet forbidden toy... I wonder where you've hidden yourself... Let us hope our new sister proves at least somewhat entertaining~"
"Hmph."
As if issuing a warning—or simply expressing the ancient disdain he had always held—Khorne growled deeply, then faded away amidst the upheaval of reality and the roaring tides of passion.
Selene observed all of this in silence, her expression unreadable. But her hands never ceased their motion. With effortless grace, she lifted her weapon of the Warp once more and unleashed it upon the bloated god of decay before her.
In an instant, the vast crimson-gold sun above swelled to titanic proportions.
In the material universe, the Sacred Selene Empire's armies were already expanding outward from the Cadian Gate, the heart of the Obscurus Sector. Their first act upon seizing each world was to improve local medical and sanitation systems. Countless 'Ash of Purification' bactericidal bombs were deployed on a planetary scale.
No flair, no subtlety—just a direct strike at the source of Nurgle's power. A war of sterilization and plague eradication.
Among the Chaos Gods, Nurgle's strength was the most unstable of all.
His power peaked during plagues, economic collapse, stagnation, and despair—when mortals abandoned ambition. Yet in times of progress, renewal, and aspiration—when plagues were cured and people pursued achievement—his influence waned.
A galaxy-wide pandemic and an age of stagnation could make him the strongest god of Chaos, but once the crisis ended, his strength inevitably subsided, returning to its proper level.
In a sense, Nurgle was the easiest Chaos God to manipulate.
At least for Selene.
If Khorne represented sheer power—raw, unrelenting, the embodiment of war, violence, bloodshed, conflict, and courage—then Nurgle was its grotesque antithesis, the very incarnation of filth and revulsion.
In a galaxy steeped in war, terror, and madness, the target was obvious. Tzeentch and Slaanesh embodied human desire—they were inevitable, necessary.
Too bad the 'Panacea' wasn't yet in production. Otherwise, Nurgle would already be in despair, his strength fading faster still.
The storm of pestilence was firmly losing ground.
No rush. Selene knew Nurgle had his countermeasures—but it mattered little. So long as the Daemon Primarch and his festering legions remained trapped within the Eye of Terror, the smaller warbands were beneath concern.
And then...
With a subtle motion, Selene cast her subspace lance toward the smallest and purest domain within the Warp's uppermost veil.
There, a cold sun burned with pale white fire.
"It's your turn, Emperor."
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