In ancient times, before the world was divided, all was shrouded in mist. The landscape was dominated by rocks, colossal trees, and immortal dragons.
Then, one day, the Old Ones descended upon the mortal world. They constructed twin portals at the poles, ushering in change. New races, new civilizations emerged. The Old Ones reshaped the world according to their designs. While the dragons remained powerful, they no longer ruled supreme. Differences began to take root.
The noble elves, the stubborn dwarves, and the adaptable humans.
Cold and heat. Life and death. Light and dark.
Mortals, in their naivety, chose to trust the forces of order. Under the guidance of the Old Ones, they developed their own cultures. The elves learned magic from the Old Ones' servants. The dwarves mastered forging and metallurgy.
And humans? They inherited the Old Ones' duplicity and adaptability.
What folly.
Eventually, true gods emerged from the Warp, bringing their own "civilization" to the world.
The servants of the Four Chaos Gods descended, destroying the Old Ones' gates. An unending tide of daemons flooded into the world.
The true gods nearly achieved dominion over the mortal realm. But they encountered unexpected resistance.
Aenarion, the first Phoenix King, wielded the Sword of Khaine and led the elves to create the Great Vortex.
Grimnir, one of the dwarven trinity, ventured into the Chaos Wastes, thwarting a daemon prince's ascension and ensuring that Chaos could no longer birth new gods.
Finally, Emperor Sigmar, in his last great campaign, defeated Morkar the Unifier, the first Everchosen of Chaos, establishing the Empire's grand dominion.
Thus began the Age of Man.
But all flames must one day extinguish. When that day comes, only darkness will remain.
Late February, Imperial Year 2515
Near the ruins of von Zhukov Castle, Ostland Chaos Occupation Zone
A cacophony of guttural moans and howls echoed through the air. Hellfire swords and black iron axes sliced through flesh as a hapless Ostland peasant screamed in agony. His pleas for mercy went unanswered. The executioner continued methodically, stripping the man's flesh until only bones remained. With a final kick, the skeleton was sent tumbling down a slope.
The slope led to a massive pit, as large as two or three castles, brimming with a chaotic jumble of bones. The pit housed tens of thousands of corpses.
Archaon, clad in his black Chaos-forged armor, lowered his hellfire sword and black iron axe. Behind his dark mask, his ice-blue eyes closed briefly, savoring the moment.
Revenge was sweet.
The destruction of von Zhukov Castle had momentarily revitalized the Everchosen. Standing atop a pile of over 400,000 corpses, he felt a grim satisfaction.
"This is the price you pay for slaughtering my homeland, Ostlanders," Archaon said. Yet his voice was no longer his own. Instead of the deep Gothic of Norsca, demonic tones emerged—distorted, resonant with echoes from the Warp.
Even so, his followers understood him. They always did, though none could explain why. It was as if his words transcended language, etched directly into the mind.
Oleg von Zhukov must die.
The once-glorious von Zhukov Castle, brimming with historical relics and art, was now a smoldering ruin. Archaon had ordered three waves of slaughter. First, when the outer defenses fell. Second, when the main gates were breached. Finally, when defenders sought refuge in underground passages.
Now the castle was gone, obliterated by hellfire axes and swords. Over 400,000 lives snuffed out.
The thought of von Zhukov searching for remnants of his home among the ashes almost made Archaon laugh.
"This is justice. This is what you deserve, Oleg."
Archaon's thirst for vengeance was all-consuming. He had ordered the desecration of the von Zhukov family tombs, scattering the ashes of their ancestors and burning everything to the ground.
His personal guard, the Crimson Reapers—blessed by all Four Chaos Gods—stood silently by. They had sworn loyalty to Archaon until the end of the world.
For a brief moment, Archaon laughed—a guttural, feral sound. Revenge was his sole purpose now.
Yet beneath the laughter, the Everchosen's soul trembled. The blessings of the Chaos Gods were also curses. Even with his immense strength, he felt the insidious corruption gnawing away at his humanity.
"Power demands a price," the Black Iron Avenger murmured, raising a gauntleted hand. "And the flame is fading."
Revenge had kept him burning, shielding him from Chaos' grasp. But with half his vengeance fulfilled, the fire was waning. Without rage, how could he resist the insidious whispers of Chaos?
If this continued, Archaon feared he would become a mere puppet—a mindless tool for destruction, leading his army southward into endless war and eternal darkness.
Deep within, Archaon yearned for a different fate. He believed Norscans and Imperials could coexist. They were once kin, after all, despite their divergent paths.
But such hopes had long been crushed. His pact with Chaos had sealed his destiny.
Nearby, tens of thousands of Chaos troops gathered. Warriors, sorcerers, shamans, and champions awaited Archaon's command. His war banner, emblazoned with the sigil of Khorne, fluttered above them.
Over seventy thousand soldiers clad in black iron stood ready, bolstered by demonic legions eager to feast on mortal souls.
A massive Chaos dragon, Skulex the Great, circled ominously in the sky.
Archaon surveyed his forces, a deep sense of guilt gnawing at him.
The Chaos invasion had begun with such promise. Divided into three prongs, it had aimed to crush the Empire before it could react. But Archaon's obsession with von Zhukov had derailed everything.
The siege of von Zhukov Castle alone had cost Chaos over 100,000 troops. The disastrous battles at Bekafen and the three kings' campaign had claimed another 150,000.
In total, nearly 300,000 Chaos warriors had perished since the invasion began.
"You fool, Archaon!" the Everchosen cursed himself. "How many souls have you sacrificed for your petty vengeance?"
But the gods were pleased. To them, the bloodshed and suffering were delightful diversions.
Archaon's remaining forces numbered just 100,000, far fewer than the Empire's estimated 200,000. Though reinforcements were gathering in the northern Wastes, they would not arrive in time.
To claim von Zhukov's head and seize Wolfenburg, Archaon knew he had to act swiftly.
Amid the charred ruins of von Zhukov Castle, Archaon rose from a throne crafted from the bones of his enemies. His crimson aura pulsed with chaotic energy, marking him as the gods' chosen.
"This is my revenge," Archaon said, his voice resolute. "I cannot ask you to die for me."
The Crimson Reapers, sensing their king's determination, stood silent. Without hesitation, they raised their weapons and struck their breastplates in salute—the highest honor among northern tribes.
Archaon's ice-blue eyes glowed with chaotic light as he turned to his gathered warriors.
"Our target is Oleg von Zhukov's head!"
"For Chaos! For Archaon the Black Iron!"
"March!"
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