Half an hour ago.
Deep within the Webway.
Yvraine stood before the altar, staring at the five Croneswords laid out in sequence according to ancient ritual by the Aspect Warriors. She took a deep, heavy breath.
A emotion beyond description surged within her chest.
The goal she had longed to achieve for so long was finally within reach. The mission carved into the depths of her soul since the very first time she heard the whispers of the God of Death was now floating quietly before her, well within her grasp.
Though earlier, after a certain Aeldari Farseer had handed over the Cronesword he found, he had vanished without a trace. That had left a faint seed of unease in Yvraine's heart, but she pushed it to the back of her mind for the time being.
As long as the resurrection of Ynnead was completed, everything would turn out fine!
The Aeldari would once again stand tall among the stars, securing a firm footing in the chaotic storms to come. Slaanesh—the She-Who-Thirsts, who had been devouring their souls endlessly since the Fall—would be reduced to ash before the God of Death.
All dreams, all restoration, and every future hung on this single moment.
She only needed to finish the ritual.
"Calm yourself."
A voice spoke from the shadows beside her.
Visarch stood there, practically merged with the darkness. The Dark Aeldari assassin from Commorragh was a master of shadowcraft, and silence was his default state. Despite standing so close, Yvraine hadn't realized he had been there the entire time until he spoke.
Yvraine inhaled deeply, forcibly suppressing the rush of heat in her chest to refocus her will. By Aeldari standards, she was indeed still young.
"I know," her voice sounded slightly steadier than before. "It is just... overwhelming. Not even in my wildest dreams did I ever foresee a moment like this."
"Even so, you must remain calm. This is your duty," Visarch's voice was as cold as ever, yet bore a strange sense of reliability. "We still have to perform the final ritual. Until then, everything else is nothing more than castles in the air."
"Yes, you are right." The corners of her mouth curved upward slightly. "I will complete my duty."
---
Returning to the present.
"In the name of the God of Death!" Yvraine chanted aloud.
Her voice sounded as if it were being squeezed out of a raspy throat, yet it carried the distinctive, soaring cadence unique to the Aeldari—a complex style of vocalization no human vocal cords could ever replicate.
Behind her, dozens of followers of the Ynnari joined in unison, their layered chants echoing throughout the hall.
"He is the End."
"He is Death."
"He is Hope."
"Awaken from that endless dream."
"You promised—to sever the eternal curse placed upon us by She-Who-Thirsts!"
As the chanting progressed, a brilliant light ignited across all five Croneswords simultaneously.
The space around the altar began to warp. Even here, deep within the Webway—an Old One creation built to block the Warp—endless tides of energy burst forth from the blades.
Surges of Warp power roared against the boundaries of the Webway, and an instinctive sensation of death spread outward, gripping the throats of every Aeldari present.
It was a feeling that defied description. Cold, yet serene.
Yet, facing their potential demise, the Aeldari present showed no fear. Someone began to whisper, a sound that quickly dissolved into wild laughter.
A peaceful, serene death?
Was this not the ultimate grace bestowed upon them by their god?
You've told us the reward, so where is the downside?
The chanting reached a fever pitch.
At that moment, countless cracks surfaced on the faces of the five Croneswords. Like ancient pottery gently crushed by an invisible hand, the fractures spread from tip to hilt, covering every inch of the blades in a matter of seconds.
Then, they shattered in unison.
From those fragments, finger bones woven from pure psychic power and divinity materialized. They were the finger bones of Morai-Heg, the remains of the goddess of souls and fate in Aeldari myth.
Then, they began to intertwine, weave, and coalesce.
Everything shattered.
Death descended.
In that exact moment, Yvraine's body suddenly swayed. Her eyes slowly closed, and a tranquility never before seen on her face surfaced. The Emissary of Ynnead collapsed backward with a thud, drifting to the ground like a falling leaf.
Beside her, Visarch collapsed as well.
The chanting Farseers collapsed one after another, their breathing slowing to a crawl as they fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Death.
It was a cool summer night, offering a worry-free slumber.
---
A colossal tide of Warp energy erupted from the five shattered blades like a bursting dam.
The walls of the Webway could not withstand such power and began to fracture. The ancient construction materials of the Old Ones disintegrated into twisting, scattering debris amidst a chorus of wails, and this section of the Webway snapped apart unwitnessed by any mortal eye.
The psychic wave, like a raging storm imprisoned for billions of years, finally found an outlet and expanded outward frantically.
At that moment, every Aeldari across the galaxy felt the tremor simultaneously.
In the dark city of Commorragh, the Drukhari indulging in their most debauched pleasures froze, dropping their blades and goblets as they looked up into the void toward an unseeable direction.
Craftworld Aeldari traveling through the vast sea of stars paused, realizing what was happening.
Exodites residing on the surfaces of remote worlds suddenly trembled, clueless as to where the trembling originated.
And deeper within a branch of the Webway, members of a Harlequin troupe returning from a long pursuit halted their erratic steps, exchanging bewildered glances.
Every Aeldari perceived the exact same thing:
Their fate had changed forever.
---
Deep within the Warp.
Ynnead, the God of Death, felt himself ascending.
It was an endless sensation of being lifted up. The power drawn from death swept him upward like a warm, irresistible tide. Every dimension he passed through trembled, as if shaking at the return of an entity absent for tens of millions of years.
Power.
With every inch he ascended, more Warp power flooded his body.
The longing for true death harbored by countless Aeldari since the Great Fall had gathered to form the foundation of his strength. Now, those desires had finally found their deity.
Thus, the God of Death felt omnipotent.
Then, amid the endless waves of the Warp, coming from a region enveloped by another section of the Webway, Ynnead felt a gaze upon him.
The gaze was cowering and fearful, laced with an indescribable complexity.
Ynnead cast a cold glance in that direction, his vision piercing through infinite illusions and treacherous mists. Beneath layers of Chaos interference, he faintly recognized a figure.
A pathetic, tragic clown.
Ynnead withdrew his gaze. He remained silent for a moment, shaking his head slightly in his mind. Considering how this figure had spent the last twenty thousand years secretly protecting the surviving bloodlines of the Aeldari, he would spare him for now and refrain from turning him into a sacrifice.
Perhaps next time.
With that, he refocused his attention on his ascension.
It was getting closer and closer.
He breached the final veil, bringing every entity in the Warp into his perception.
The endless, deceptive Crystal Labyrinth.
The boundless desert covered in brass and blood.
The Golden Throne enveloped by a pitch-black sun.
The vibrant yet utterly decayed Garden of Nurgle.
The master of every gaze sensed the arrival of this newborn god.
They were watching.
They were waiting.
And his target: the six-ringed palace that constantly shifted and morphed.
That ravenous, greedy beast; that abyssal maw that had devoured countless Aeldari souls. Slaanesh, the Dark Prince, She-Who-Thirsts, the Youngest God...
It, too, cast its gaze.
Hahaha, then bring it on!
Ynnead gathered his strength, drawing more energy from the Warp with every breath. His power climbed at a staggering speed—rising, rising, and rising higher.
Wait... no.
He noticed something off.
Among the gazes cast upon him, particularly the one from Slaanesh, there was no anger or fear, nor was there the expected desire for slaughter when facing a sworn enemy.
Quite the opposite.
It was joy.
An eager, impatient, long-awaited joy—like someone waiting for a feast that had finally arrived!
Ynnead's upward momentum suddenly stalled.
"...What's going on?"
He felt bewildered, yet on high alert.
Before Ynnead could process the situation, however, things took a subtle turn.
From the depths of the Crystal Labyrinth came nine hundred and ninety-nine gasps, each carrying a different meaning. It was as though a change not even Tzeentch could foresee had suddenly transpired.
Within the Garden of the Plague God, that murky, heavy gaze slowly withdrew.
Roars erupted across the brass battlefield. Eight hundred and eighty-eight thundering roars merged together, shaking the entire Warp. The Lord of the Skull Throne was venting his displeasure in the purest way possible.
On the other side, from the Golden Throne beneath the black sun, a calm gaze was cast forth—unmoved, as if entirely un-surprised.
And the reaction was strongest, naturally, at the six-ringed palace shrouded in endless perfume. Six hundred and sixty-six unbelievable shrieks burst forth from every veil of the palace simultaneously.
It was the shock of a hunter whose carefully prepared prey had suddenly slipped from the trap.
The cooked duck... just flew away?
"NO!!!"
A immense force, carrying a mountain-crushing fury, reached out from the core depths of the six-ringed palace. A hand tore through the waves of the Warp, grabbing violently at the ascending Ynnead.
Its rage was so white-hot, like that of a predator played for a fool.
"No... this is impossible!"
Ynnead finally realized the source of the change.
His upward momentum had ground to a complete halt—and not by his own choice.
This process of continuously drawing Warp energy to ascend the divine throne by instinct was supposed to be irreversible once initiated.
Ten thousand years ago, a certain dried-up sorcerer meatball had tried the same thing. Before the battle of fatherly love and filial piety, the Emperor had tried drawing Warp energy to gain the upper hand against Horus, who had been empowered by all four Chaos Gods.
Of course, doing so was well within the predictions of the Chaos Gods, and precisely what they wanted to see.
If he drew Warp energy, the ascension ritual would trigger instantly, and nothing could stop the Emperor from becoming the Dark King.
If he didn't, the Emperor would have no chance of defeating Horus.
It was a total dead end.
If the original Warmaster, Ollanius Persson, hadn't stopped the Emperor at the final moment, humanity would have been pushed into an inescapable abyss.
Ynnead, however, didn't have such a need. The "good friend" who could have stopped him at a moment like this did not exist.
He should have taken the throne unopposed. That was his greatest leverage for completing his ascension before the Chaos Gods and initiating the final divine war.
But now—why?
Ynnead's face was filled with utter disbelief.
He could feel his power draining rapidly. The energy that had just flooded into his body was flowing backward at an alarming rate.
Like a bursting dam. Like a punctured balloon.
His ascension reversed completely. He began to fall, faster and faster, as if pushed hard off the steps of the throne by an invisible hand, plunging back toward the mortal realm.
Falling.
Suddenly, he remembered this feeling.
This was just like... the Croneswords hadn't been gathered at all, and the ritual had never truly been valid from the very beginning.
"No... but how is that possible?!"
Ynnead could not fathom what was happening.
Yet he had no time to ponder it. He could only watch helplessly as the thrones of the Immaterium receded rapidly from his view.
He didn't even have time to pity a certain trembling clown anymore.
He struggled desperately—trying to grab onto something, anything, even a single straw that might let him regain his footing—but found nothing.
There was nothing.
He was simply falling, falling, and falling further.
In the end, everything was altered.
---
Deep within the Webway.
Yvraine opened her eyes, utterly dazed.
She dragged herself up from the cold floor. Fragments of the wraithbone altar lay scattered around her feet, and resting intact among them were the five Croneswords, as though nothing had happened at all.
Around her, the Aeldari of the Ynnari cult scrambled to their feet one by one, looking at each other with confusion filling their eyes.
"What happened?"
No one could answer the question.
Didn't we just die? How are we back in these physical shells?
Is death some kind of game you can just quit whenever you feel like it?
---
Meanwhile, on Terra.
Inside the Office of the Imperial Regent.
The worldview of a certain Aeldari Farseer had completely shattered into pieces.
His mouth hung wide open, his eyes bulging as he stared in absolute disbelief at the "Human God" and the object held nonchalantly in his hand.
It was a Cronesword.
"A Cronesword?! Impossible! When did you get your hands on that?!" Ulthran cried out, his voice reduced to sheer chaos.
Adam shrugged, choosing not to answer immediately.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze piercing through the layers of the Warp's veils to glance at the God of Death currently plummeting from the high heavens to a anticlimactic end, confirming that everything had played out as expected.
A certain Warp sub-god had successfully cosplayed a helicopter and, predictably, crashed.
Only then did Adam finally breathe a sigh of relief, turning back to address Ulthran's question.
"Oh, this?"
Adam glanced down at the blade. "This is a brand-new Cronesword I generated with a single click just now."
He shrugged, meeting Ulthran's increasingly horrified gaze.
"As everyone knows, there are five members in the Four Celestials of your pantheon. So isn't it perfectly reasonable and normal for there to be six Croneswords among the five?"