Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos, the "Timely Rain" of the Great Rift, fell into a rare silence upon receiving the intelligence from his subordinates. He was forced to acknowledge the burgeoning threat posed by the xenos species known as the Skaven.
Since the events on Wyrmwood, Abaddon had not paused for a single moment, immediately pivoting his campaign toward the Nachmund Gauntlet. As the only "lone bridge" connecting the Imperium to the Imperium Nihilus, its strategic value was absolute. If Abaddon could sever the Gauntlet and isolate half of the Emperor's domain, the Imperium's strength would be snapped like a spine.
Then, he, the true son of Horus, would fulfill half of his father's dying wish: to become the Emperor of the Dark Side. From there, it would be a matter of time before he devoured the remaining half of the realm, finally toppling the False Emperor.
Yet, while Abaddon was willing to treat with xenos and daemons to further his Great Game, he remained a creature of fierce pride. Following the 13th Black Crusade, he had sworn to the denizens of the Dark Side that his path was merely a means to overthrow a tyrant. Once the "Corpse-God" fell, he intended to purge the xenos, sever ties with the Warp, and wage war against the Daemons to make humanity great once more.
Abaddon believed this, as did many of the Traitor Legions; they saw themselves as the true saviors of the human race.
The Chaos Gods were well aware of the Warmaster's ambitions. Deep within the inscrutable Immaterium, even Lucius the Great Horned Rat watched with predatory clarity. Lucius understood exactly what was haunting the Despoiler's mind: Abaddon was beginning to feel the cold prickle of fear regarding the Skaven.
It was not without cause. From the world of Wyrmwood to the Vigilus System, he had witnessed a rate of expansion that mirrored the vermin of ancient Terran myth. Only years prior, these planets, be they Imperial or Chaos-aligned, showed no signs of infestation. Now, rumors of "upright rats" surfaced with terrifying synchronicity across the stars.
Most unsettling was the realization that until he had personally discovered them, his own commanders remained blissfully unaware of the horrors skittering beneath their boots. Seeing the Skaven swarming across Vigilus like a plague, Abaddon grew tense. He was no longer certain if seizing Vigilus would grant him a stable empire or condemn him to an eternal war of attrition against these verminous xenos.
"No matter. We shall slaughter the lapdogs of the False Emperor first," Abaddon muttered. "It is not yet time to break faith with the xenos' dark god. He is but one more debt to be settled later."
…
On Neo‑vellum, the moon of Vigilus, an industrial hub once vital to the system's tithes, Abaddon's strategic genius had already borne bitter fruit. The world had been subverted, its manufactorums now churning out the fused metal and meat of Daemon Engines.
"This time, Vigilus must fall. Destroy the Blackstone pylons of those metallic xenos, snuff out the last flicker of hope in the False Emperor's hands!" Abaddon commanded from his throne aboard the Vengeful Spirit.
"Your will shall be done, My Lord!"
The speaker was Haarken Worldclaimer, Herald of the Apocalypse and a notorious Chaos Lord of the Black Legion.
As Clan Rictus launched suicidal human-wave assaults against the Dirge Mast district and the East Thoria Hive, the theater of war descended into utter madness. The Pestilens rat-men had incited the fury of the Purge warband by kidnapping several Blight Lords and Sorcerers of Nurgle. While the two rot-focused factions tore at each other, the Death Guard joined the fray, launching a systematic purge of these "vermin"—creatures that looked like children of Nurgle yet felt fundamentally, disgustingly different.
Amidst this cacophony of slaughter, Haarken Worldclaimer descended from the Black Legion fleet. He led a massive host of Chaos Raptors and metallic Heldrakes, striking directly at the clouds-piercing spires of the Hive's upper reaches.
A master of psychological warfare, Haarken plunged his Helspear into the deck upon landing, a ritualistic declaration of the doom he had brought. Immediately, the jump-pack equipped Raptors fell like screaming meteors into the Imperial command and vox-relay centers.
Inside the command sanctum, elite Tempestus Scions and Adepta Sororitas had no time to form a perimeter before the transhuman bulk of the Raptors shattered the reinforced plasteel viewing bays like falling boulders.
"Your destruction is at hand, lapdogs of the Corpse-God!"
With the clinical precision of a thousand years of war, the Raptors assessed their targets in a heartbeat. They leveled their bolt pistols and squeezed.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Muzzle flashes erupted from corrupted barrels. Each mass-reactive shell found its mark, detonating the heads of mortal soldiers or tearing gaping craters through their torsos.
Surviving Battle Sisters, their power armor scarred but intact, ignited their chainswords and charged the heretics with righteous fury. The Raptors merely sneered. Their sheer size was an unstoppable force; they parried the chainswords with casual contempt before plunging lightning claws into the Sisters' chests.
"You are dead, slaves of the False Emperor," one hissed in a vox-distorted growl.
Coughing blood, a Sister of Battle glared at the Traitor Astartes with defiant eyes. "Our souls return to the Golden Throne... while you... go nowhere."
The Raptor's face twisted behind his helm before he crushed her skull with a gauntleted hand.
In less than twenty minutes, all resistance was silenced. It was a predictable outcome; no one expected a vertical insertion from the hive's highest peaks. Furthermore, with Marneus Calgar having consolidated planetary command elsewhere, this specific node was no longer the heart of the defense.
However, the Vox-Broadcast Array was vital. The Imperial Preachers relied on it to broadcast the Lectitio Divinitatus, bolstering the morale of the defenders. Now, in Haarken's hands, the holy words were replaced by the cacophonous roar of the Warp. The chaotic gibberish and terrifying howls began to drive the already-pushed mortal soldiers to the brink of insanity.
Naturally, there were those who remained unimpressed.
Deep within the Stygian Spires, the heart of Clan Rictus's territory, Kratch Doomclaw listened to the bestial whispers of Chaos and curled his lip in disgust. It was common for Skaven to intercept enemy transmissions, but even the rats were bored of the Imperial broadcasts, which they found light on intel and heavy on "For the Emperor" shouting.
Listening to the new Chaos-tainted filth, Kratch turned to Tretch Craventail, who was currently trying his best to look like a loyal, law-abiding underling.
"Strange-weird theories," Kratch spat. "Mouth-talk full of farts."
Tretch wouldn't dare contradict him. He squeezed his rat-face into a frantic nod of agreement. "Great-wise insights, Clan-lord!"
Satisfied with the sycophancy, Kratch nodded. "Order the under-rats to pull back-retreat. The Pestilens-things have sabotaged-cheated us long enough! If they break-betray the deal again, I will get-take revenge! Yes-yes!!"
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