Chaos threat: 90%
━━━━━━━ ༺𓆩Ω𓆪༻ ━━━━━━━
"It's him!!"
Eva gasped, her mouth falling open at the sight of the man before her.
A slaughter had taken place here. Bodies of both the innocent and the damned littered the camp, sprawled across the dirt in twisted, unnatural positions. Blood soaked into the ground, mixing with ash and debris, the air heavy with the stench of death.
And there, laid out on the ground amid the carnage, was a very familiar masked man.
Guardsman-38912-K lay unconscious and bloodied, his armor scarred and cracked, dried gore over its surface. Yet despite his condition, his slow, rhythmic breathing was a clear sign that he was stable.
Eva's mind snapped together a single truth.
He was vulnerable.
"You decaying dog…" she hissed, taking a shaky step closer to the guardsman. Her voice trembled with venom and barely restrained hysteria. "You made me beg for this miserable life."
Her hand reached down, fingers closing around a small blade lying beside one of the corpses. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated as her grip tightened. Her fingers trembled violently.
"Because of you, I'm in this place!"
There was no doubt what she intended to do with that blade.
"Don't do that, miss…"
The voice was small and frail.
Leah stood there, the little girl's body shaking, eye twitching uncontrollably—as if she were seeing things Eva could not. Her voice lacked the panic one would expect from a little girl.
"He wouldn't like it."
"He."
The guiding hand.
The unseen presence that had led them here to this camp, to this body, to the man who had saved Leah when all this madness first began.
But Eva knew none of that. She did not know about him, the pull, the instinctive direction they had been receiving without understanding why.
"Don't tell me what I should do!" Eva snapped.
The former guild employee had lost what little restraint she had left. This was her chance to inflict even a fraction of revenge for her ruined life, her shattered career, her stolen future.
"I will have my justice!" she screamed.
She raised the blade high, ready to deliver her own twisted form of judgment.
Then—
The air shifted.
Eva shuddered violently and collapsed to the ground, the blade slipping from her grasp. Pain exploded through her body as if the weight of the entire world had been dropped onto her shoulders.
Her vision blurred.
Her stomach churned.
She felt nauseous, unwell in a way she had never experienced before. A moment later, she vomited violently, her body convulsing as if she had committed some unforgivable sin and the universe itself was punishing her for it.
"Ghaa…"
Eva weakly lifted her head, her vision swimming, and saw Leah standing over the unconscious guardsman.
"We need to help him," Leah said.
There was no emotion in her voice.
"It's why we were led here."
"What bullshit are you spitting, brat!?" Eva snarled, forcing herself upright. She could barely comprehend the idea of helping the very man who had nearly killed her. "I ain't helping this monster!"
She stormed away, not caring whether Leah followed or stayed behind.
One step.
Then another.
By the third step, the nausea returned tenfold.
A headache of unimaginable magnitude slammed into her skull. Eva screamed, clutching her head as the pain threatened to split her apart. But there was no relief or escape.
She stumbled backward instead, and with each step closer to the monster she despised, the pain began to fade.
"It's not a choice," Leah muttered quietly, delivering the reality of their situation.
Eva's body shook with fear.
She didn't understand who was doing this to her. Or how. But the message was unmistakably clear.
Her gaze fell once more upon the terrifying mask.
And the nightmare returned.
The helplessness.
The pain.
The fear.
It surged back all at once, nearly overwhelming her.
"Damn it!" Eva snapped at last.
She lunged forward and roughly pulled the mask from the man's face.
Beneath it was a surprisingly young face.
A Human face that was almost… ordinary.
"Damn it all!" she gritted her teeth.
Stuck with her would-have-been killer. Forced to help him.
What a cosmic joke.
"Miss…" Leah called softly.
Eva looked up, following the girl's gaze toward the camp entrance.
"You two! Are you well!? Is anyone else alive!?"
Before Eva could snap back, a voice broke through the suffocating air. A small group of adventurers had entered the camp, weapons drawn. Some had begun searching bodies, stripping valuables that could be used to survive what was coming.
Eva clenched her teeth in frustration.
She really did not want that headache again.
So, swallowing her pride—and her shame—she decided to play along.
"Adventurer!" she cried out, forcing desperation into her voice. "Please help my husband! He's unconscious!"
Oh, how shameful.
━━━━━━━ ༺𓆩Ω𓆪༻ ━━━━━━━
Saint Fulland's Cathedral was a historic building built by the legendary Hero Fulland, the Cathedral is said to have existed since before the Age of Gods.
It was a holy site of utmost importance to the ancient peoples of Orario, having been constructed around the same era when the young labyrinth city was still little more than a fortress, built to keep the Dungeon's monsters at bay for the continued survival of mankind.
Many times in the past, the city's defenses had been overwhelmed by the relentless waves of monsters, forcing the ancient warriors to retreat and convert the cathedral into a stronghold.
As was frequently the case, the ancient builders had designed the cathedral with dual-purpose architecture, serving both its sacred duties and its rapid conversion into a final line of defense when desperation demanded it.
The cathedral possessed three main gates. Its walls were high and thick, built to endure prolonged sieges, and towers for scouting and defense had been constructed along them.
But now, the need for the cathedral had diminished greatly ever since the gods began walking openly among men. There was no longer a need for a place of worship.
It had been left in ruin.
Its walls and interior were falling apart. Its once-beautiful fountains and gardens had been turned into dumping grounds, filled with rusted blades and discarded materials, rotting wood and broken furniture, spoiled food, and occasional expired potions, alongside countless other forms of trash.
It was a sorry sight to behold—such a holy and historic building reduced to a dumpster, stripped of meaning and purpose.
But in these times, it had gained purpose once again.
"Pull! Pull!"
At the southern entrance, Shakti Varma barked orders from atop one of the walls. Below her, men and women strained with all their might, pulling on thick ropes as a ruined wall that had long been claimed by gravity slowly rose back into place.
"Now!"
She shouted as the wall steadied just enough. Smiths and workers, both adventurers and civilians alike, rushed toward the foundation.
The smiths hastily placed makeshift steel beams made from scrapped trash along both sides of the wall to stabilize it, while others poured whatever building materials they could gather into the weakened base, hoping it would be enough to keep the wall standing against future attacks.
"Rest up and gather your energy!" she ordered, giving them room to breathe. The whole cathedral was starving just like the rest of the city.
From her vantage point, Shakti overlooked the entire cathedral.
The ruined walls were slowly being raised and repaired once more thanks to the few members of the Goibniu Familia, and the civilian volunteers also proved themselves essential in reinforcing the structure at such an urgent pace.
The captain of the Ganesha Familia had been forced to remain within this improvised cathedral stronghold rather than her own headquarters due to a series of complications.
For once, the attacks were getting out of hand even for her.
The cultists had grown stronger and more resilient, while they were growing exhausted and fewer by the hour.
While attempting to return to the Ganesha Familia headquarters, Shakti had been caught in an ambush by cultist mages—tough scum, she had to admit.
Though she survived, she did not escape unscathed. Her path back to headquarters had been completely cut off.
She had thought it was the end.
There was no escape without risking being overwhelmed by superior numbers of ranged enemies.
But she was not one to back down.
Just as she had resolved to risk everything, Shakti felt something strange—
A pulse.
It directed her to the northwest. An area with no visible enemy presence. Free from dangerous maneuvers and lethal lines of fire.
She did not know why, but she felt an overwhelming need to go there.
With no better option than death, she followed that feeling.
It led her to the old cathedral.
There, she was shocked to find refugees sheltering within, praying in blind faith and desperation to whoever might be listening. Adventurers were present as well, from various Familias, but without proper leadership or coordination.
She noticed some people… painting the cathedral walls, muttering frantic whispers as they worked.
One finished painting depicted a golden giant silhouette of a man, holding together smaller silhouettes of people, as a parent would hold their children in a protective embrace.
It was all rubbish, if she was being honest.
Some kind of religious delusion born from desperation and bordering on madness.
She ignored it.
What mattered was survival.
"Raise it up! We need this place finished before the enemy realizes we're right under their noses! You lot will handle trap placement near the entrances and along the walls, Me and the rest will reinforce the towers and secure the gates!"
Her orders rang out sharp and professional, her voice firm and without hesitation.
Morale was acceptable, but it was delusional to believe they could repel a major offensive with only a few dozen adventurers, the best being a single high Level Three, paired with insufficient defenses made up of Level Ones and Twos.
This dump was far from the safe stronghold they wished it to be.
Thankfully, they had enough materials to partially fix that.
━━━━━━━ ༺𓆩Ω𓆪༻ ━━━━━━━
The whole tower shook violently, thrall wizards who were present in the command halls all fell onto their backs, unable to maintain their balance.
"WARNING: GRAVITATIONAL ANOMALY DETECTED. CONTAINMENT FAILURE. PROPULSION OFFLINE. SHIELDS OFFLINE. PLANETARY IMPACT IMMINENT!"
The diagnostics were all red. Entire sections had gone dark in an instant, with no sign of life, as if the gate they had crossed had closed on them midway through their passage.
"ALERT: WARP ENERGY FLUX TERMINATED. REALITY STABILIZERS CRITICAL!"
"Masters, what fate is befalling us!?" a thrall wizard cried out in panicked confusion, clawing at the floor as the tower lurched again.
Standing like unshakable walls, the sorcerers and a handful of Rubricae clad in arcanum-rich Astartes armor remained steady, unmoved and unconcerned with what was to come.
"WARNING: MULTIPLE BREACHES CONFIRMED. INITIATING FLOOD PROTOCOLS!"
No individual could maintain their balance now. Even the sorcerers' feet slipped lightly, forcing some to seize consoles or pillars to steady themselves.
The same could not be said for the mortals.
Many were hurled violently toward the walls by the sudden force, bones shattering on impact. Some died instantly, their bodies crumpling without so much as a scream.
What remained of the tower shook to such a degree that it felt as though it would shatter under its own weight.
Then it stopped.
Everything slowly calmed, the violent tremors fading into groans of metal and settling stone before stopping completely.
"ESTIMATED SURVIVOR COUNT: TWENTY PERCENT. ACCEPTABLE LOSSES!"
The sorcerers all looked up toward the deck above them.
There, a hulking Astartes sat enthroned amid the ruin, his form encased in luxurious, otherworldly golden relics and arcane augmentations, his face hidden behind an ancient helmet from the olden days. Only lenses as red as those of a daemon stared at the command deck.
This was Iskha'nd-Ra, better known by his title, "The Amalgamator," the exalted sorcerer-leader of the World Mergers.
Iskha'nd-Ra showed no acknowledgment of the brutal landing; his posture was unbroken and dominant. Deep in concentration, he held a great staff in his grasp, its crystalline heart pulsing faintly with inner light.
"We have arrived, my lord," a sorcerer by the name of Orison called out to his master, barely containing his eagerness to unleash hell upon the foolish natives of this realm.
Their ancient lord hummed to himself in a scholarly manner. "As the tether whispers to me." His voice was deeper than the pits of Sortiarius, his presence as heavy as a Lord of Change.
He rose to his full height. The Thousand Sons Legion was never known for being short even before the Heresy, but Iskha'nd-Ra was considered a tall Astartes even by other Legions' standards, his height easily exceeding typical Astartes.
The heart crystal in his staff ignited with warped luminescence, dark geometry spiraling around it with each movement.
His visor lingered upon the system diagnostics projected before him.
"A reduction to twenty percent viability, a margin that exceeds tolerance," he said, his tone indifferent. "It remains acceptable." His voice remained calm and controlled.
Iskha'nd-Ra's gaze swept across the occupants of the command center, studying their reactions to the losses, tasting their emotions through the Warp, sensing pent-up frustration over his leadership and carefully suppressed hesitation.
"My tower is in ruins because the pawn was incompetent." The indifference in his voice almost made one believe that he did not care.
He raised his staff, and with it unleashed an all-out telepathic command that echoed through every remaining deck, chamber, and corridor.
"Take over the surroundings of the tower. Consolidate your grip over the inner tunnels beneath us. Establish command over the auxiliary cultists of this world."
Three orders for three objectives.
One was to ensure the tower was safe from outside meddling by the natives.
Two referred to the network of tunnels Iskha'nd-Ra was sensing beneath the tower. Despite the depth the tower had sunk into, the network went even further.
Three was merely taking what was already theirs; the toy was useless now that they had arrived.
His orders were heard by all remaining forces, including what was left of the confined daemon engines.
"I will call upon you when I need you," the warlord finished, lowering his staff and severing the psychic transmission.
This was not an invasion, but that did not mean the natives should think it was not.
"I will be away retrieving the incompetent toy. You are permitted to begin the foundation," Iskha'nd-Ra informed his commanders.
Before anyone could object, the exalted sorcerer vanished in a flash of blue radiance, taking some of the Rubricae with him, leaving only empty space where they had stood.
With their lord gone, the sorcerers immediately rushed to their duties. The aspiring sorcerers departed to join their Rubricae squads, ready to lead them into battle, while the true sorcerers began the construction of a new ritual ground amid the wreckage.
━━━━━━━ ༺𓆩Ω𓆪༻ ━━━━━━━
The gods upon Babel Tower were lucky to have front-row seats to the spectacle unfolding.
Each and every one of them bore witness to something far more common in this conflict: one of their own being forcibly sent back to Heaven, at the very same moment a cloud of terror tore itself open and spat a structure down upon Orario.
A fortress, falling from the sky.
They had held vague ideas about what was happening in this war against evil. At first, it had been simple fear of losing the Great Game because of the rogue Evilus deities who had dared to raise their blades against fellow gods.
That alone had terrified them.
Every god present was concerned for their own status. None of them wished to return to the boredom-infested Heaven, stripped of influence, condemned to do nothing for the remainder of the Great Game.
It was hard, but there was still hope that heroism would overcome the darkness. That a new era of heroes would be born, as it always had been before.
But something changed.
After all the death. After all the suffering.
They began to feel… distant from their sealed arcanum.
They could still access it easily, but the difference was undeniable.
That alone was an immediate red flag.
What could possibly possess enough power to even slightly interfere with omnipotent entities bound only by rules they themselves forged?
The answer they arrived at was both simple and impossible in their minds.
Aliens had invaded their realm.
Literal. Full-fledged. Aliens.
They could feel them lurking in the shadows clearly now that the thread of reality stretched thin and fragile.
They were everywhere.
Whispering.
Growing stronger by the minute.
Carving paths where none should exist. Carving minds where it should have been the gravest crime.
These were not creations of the gods. Nor were they born of the Dungeon.
They were uninvited parasites of unknown origin, more alien than even the Dungeon itself.
And those parasites had finally taken root.
In the form of a gigantic fortress.
The fortress, cut in half somehow, fell from the heavens like a nuclear strike, shaking the entire city in a blast that erased Daedalus Street from existence.
"I demand a vote on one-shotting this thing now!" a god shouted, mirroring many deities' thoughts.
"What do you think you're doing?" another snapped back. "Without Ouranos' approval, no shit gets done and no arcanum is released!"
"Besides, what gives us the guarantee that the dark ones wouldn't just undo our pest control?" another rationalized.
It was a tough decision that required the approval of all divine parties.
Loki exhaled through her nose, her crimson eyes narrowing as she began piecing together a way to convince Ouranos to root this thing out before it grew into a problem rivaling the Dungeon itself.
Her gaze drifted downward toward the streetsz focusing on the mind-controlled civilians still being butchered by her own Familia members.
Her jaw clenched.
The parasites had easily managed to sink their claws into her children's minds.
They seemed to have flipped the table on Erebus by taking over his organization in almost no time at all.
Anyone with a functioning brain could see the threat for what it was—
"SKRAGHHHH!!!"
A thunderous, ear-splitting shriek, metal grinding against metal, fused with something disturbingly vocal, invaded Loki's ears.
Her eyes snapped upward.
Three massive metallic, winged beasts tore free from the ruins of Daedalus Street, their bodies wreathed in white-hot fire as they surged into the skies above Orario.
They roared in unison.
Then split apart.
Each descended toward a different district of the city.
One of them shot straight toward Babel Tower.
Loki barely had time to comprehend the revolting yet horrifyingly intriguing sight.
A metal dragon.
"SKREEEGGHHH!"
The Heldrake, a daemon engine infamous for hunting Imperial Navy vessels, had detected life signs within the tower.
Its maw yawned open and Warp-flame roared forth.
The torrent of unnatural fire screamed straight toward the gods' floor.
Loki's breath hitched.
Is this it?
An undignified end at the jaws of an abomination?
"REAGHHH!"
A spear tore through the air with superhuman precision, it struck the Heldrake directly in its left eye, ruining it.
The beast veered violently.
Its flames missed their intended target, crashing into the floor below instead, incinerating everything there down to slag.
The Heldrake shrieked, clawing against Babel's walls, searching.
Its remaining eye locked onto a single figure.
A blonde mortal.
Finn's expression hardened instantly.
The metallic monster roared directly at him.
Finn's gaze flicked briefly toward the fallen alien fortress in the distance and the fading radiance of a golden tower that had moments ago sent a god back to Heaven.
The shape of the alien architecture filled him with an anxiety beyond anything he had prepared for.
This was outside every contingency.
The same dread rippled through those beside him.
Asfi felt pure, instinctive terror.
Every survival instinct screamed at her to flee or hide.
The chill crawling up her spine from the sight of the structure felt like the chill she experienced at her first time entering the Dungeon, terrified of the unknown.
Fels wasn't spared either.
His skeletal body stiffened as corrupted magic battered his senses. The sheer density of filth radiating from both the winged creature and the fortress made him feel as though he was choking, despite having no lungs.
It was an abomination of corruption, even surpassing the Dungeon in that moment.
Even Ottar felt it.
The strongest adventurer in Orario grew cautious.
Unforeseen enemies were emerging by the hour.
He needed to locate his lady immediately.
"RAGGHEEEEE!!!"
The screech shattered the moment.
The Heldrake descended from the clouds, gravity and thrusters accelerating its fall to lethal speeds.
Its target was clear.
Finn. Asfi. Fels.
Specifically Finn.
The pallum saw the hatred burning in its single remaining eye.
"Stay focused, you two!" Finn shouted. "I'll draw it in and when it commits, flank it!"
"RAGHH!"
Unfortunately, the beast was not mindless enough to walk into an open trap.
The Heldrake pulled up like a jet, hovering just outside their reach.
Its maw opened again.
Huge Warp-fire erupted wide, scorching everything it could consume.
Entire streets were bathed in flame.
Nearby cultists and adventurers were caught in the inferno, reduced to ash in seconds.
"So hot—!" Asfi gasped, her Talaria boots barely keeping her and Fels clear of the blaze.
Finn escaped as well, his eyes never leaving the monster.
This was no dungeon dragon.
This thing fought like an aerial siege engine, maintaining distance.
High-damage, wide-area attacks.
Perfect for attrition and annihilation.
"REAGHHH!"
The Heldrake circled Babel Tower, claiming the skies with absolute dominance.
Finn's grip tightened around his weapon. Aerial supremacy would be the final nail in their already forming coffin.
This one had to die. If it kept the skies, it was over for them.
Meanwhile, Ottar began marching forward, his posture one of cold indifference.
His steps were steady, each one cracking stone beneath his boots as he advanced toward the dumbstruck Olivas and the trembling daemon beside him. His intention was simple: finish the matter with a single, decisive swing of his greatsword, then resume his search for his goddess, Freya.
The daemon did not tremble at the sight of Ottar.
The fear twisting its borrowed flesh was not of the overwhelming opponent approaching to claim its vessel, but of what its lord would do to it for failing to keep the rift open.
"He's coming for us!" Olivas screamed, panic shattering what little composure he had left. "That's the warlord, goddammit! What plan do you or your gods have against him!?"
Dread flooded Olivas's chest, cold and suffocating, eerily similar to the night he had once faced Zald. That night when he had been measured not as a fighter, but as a maggot.
And now…
He truly felt like one.
Ottar inhaled deeply.
His stance shifted, weight flowing from one foot to the other, muscles coiling with lethal intent. His grip tightened around the greatsword's hilt, preparing a single, devastating strike—
—!
His instincts screamed.
A barrage of flames erupted from across the battlefield, streaking toward him far too fast to evade completely.
Ottar could not identify the source, but he felt the impact regardless.
His skin blistered as each shot struck. These flames were unlike any magic he had ever faced before, both in speed and effect.
He stomped the ground with tremendous force, kicking up a suffocating shroud of dust that disrupted the unseen attackers' precision.
And with the opening—
Ottar surged forward in a blur of motion, weaving through the remaining fire, his sole focus Olivas and Wisla. He would not allow them a moment to recover.
The Boaz could almost smell Olivas's terror as his greatsword arced toward him—
"How intriguing."
The voice came from behind.
Ottar's eyes widened in alarm.
He twisted instantly, redirecting his swing toward the unseen speaker—
"What—!?"
The dust and wind from his strike settled, and his blade had cut nothing.
No flesh nor armor.
"Are you some sort of… trans-human super mutant?"
The voice spoke again.
This time from his left.
Ottar swung.
Again—nothing.
"Such speed is admirable," the voice mused. "Almost surpassing an Astartes."
"Ghh—!" Ottar ground his teeth together, senses flaring. He could feel the presence pressing against him, yet his eyes found nothing.
"I can feel it, warrior," the voice continued. "Your strength is granted to you, not birthed. You are but a worm leeching off a greater being."
Mad laughter echoed from all directions, trapping Ottar in a box of mockery.
"If you think so," Ottar roared, fury breaking through his discipline, "then come face my blade, coward!"
His strength wasn't his!?
It was his bones that had shattered and healed again and again.
His blood that had soaked the ground.
His dreams that had been crushed before being reforged.
His body was iron, and he was the smith who had shaped it.
A being destined to bring down the Glutton of Zeus and bring glory to his goddess's name.
"I have been here beside you from the very start, Ottar."
The voice spoke his name.
Ottar turned instantly.
This time—he saw him.
An imposing figure stood ahead, clad in full blue and gold adorned armor, broader than Ottar himself and taller. In his grasp was a pulsing staff, its core glowing ominously. Cruel red visors stared at him through an ancient helm.
He was not alone.
Similarly hulking warriors in blue and gold armor surrounded Ottar from all sides, appearing in an instant as if they had emerged from thin air.
"Aaahhh—!" Ottar swung forward!
His reflexes were a blur, his greatsword moving faster than the eye could see.
The blade tore through the staff-wielder's armor, sparks exploding outward as metal split.
Ottar felt the resistance of flesh, the crack of bone and with a final surge, the blade bisected the stranger cleanly.
Then he shifted toward the others, surging forward, cutting down two more before the remaining figures responded.
Raising strange, musket-like weapons, projectiles tore into him at point-blank range, detonating into bursts of magical flame across his skin. The pain was immense, but not enough to stop him.
He recovered instantly.
His arms tightened around his sword, preparing himself to take on every remaining enemy—
"The minds of the worms are not exaggerating. You are strong."
The voice spoke again.
Alive.
Ottar blinked.
And suddenly, everything was as before.
He was surrounded once more at the center, the warriors he had cut down standing unscathed.
The bisected sorcerer was whole.
"What…?"
"Confused?" the man asked calmly. "Do not be. The mind of a brute is easy to deceive."
Iskha'nd-Ra's voice carried mockery as a dome of warped arcanum revealed itself around them, cursed symbols floating in the air like living thoughts.
"Let us witness one last action by you, Ottar."
"Play all the tricks you want, mage," Ottar growled, planting his feet. "Your trickery will only save you for so long."
He would not surrender.
He was meant to become the strongest.
And no illusion would break him.
With all his might, he launched himself again, warlord against evil with speed no Astartes could match and strength enough to shake a god-engine.
"Foolish mutant," Iskha'nd-Ra said in a disappointed voice.
Ottar didn't understand what happened afterward.
The world slowed down for him. His body grew heavy and unresponsive, as if he were drowning in a mud bath.
Finn and his two companions were caught in this dimensional pocket, the soldiers and controlled civilians as well.
"What? Did someone turn the play speed down?" a deity said atop Babel, everyone was watching the display below with crossed fingers, hoping the strongest of Orario would deal with this new threat.
Loki's eyes widened as she caught the energy buildup around the massive blue-armored stranger's staff. She had a good idea what was about to happen.
Iskha'nd-Ra's staff glowed purple and blue, forming an artificial gravitational core, compressed to impossible density at such a size. Mana and Warp fused into a singularity that screamed against reality itself.
He felt like he was holding an entire city in one hand, nowhere near enough to topple him, but it was all the psychic might he could muster at the current diluted supply.
"Take this revelation, mutant. No mortal can stand against a world calamity."
He proclaimed.
Then the artificial core collapsed.
The implosion pulled light, air, and sound inward for a heartbeat—
Before the rebound tore outward in a blinding shockwave of warped arcanum and psychic fire.
With strength even surpassing Ottar's, the dark shockwave blasted the Adventurers and the civilians away like scattered dust in a disastrous surge of energy that spared no soul, no cobblestone, and no standing structure.
The blast hit Ottar hard enough that the Boaz felt as if he were struck by Zald a thousand times in an instant.
The Boaz had no time to recover, nor to even understand what strange attack had hit him.
He was sent flying toward Babel Tower, so high and fast that when he collided with the ancient, shaking structure, he tore straight through it.
But he didn't stop.
He kept going through walls until he finally burst free of the tower and came to a halt at the edge of the Central Park, out of Iskha'nd-Ra's sight.
"What is that!?"
Asfi cried as she and Fels tried to hold their ground.
The earth beneath them shattered, stealing their footing and hurling them away in the violent, scorching wind.
Finn plunged his spear into the ground, desperately trying to hold on. The gods were at Babel, it was a matter of life and death not to let them be captured by the enemy!
"Raghhh!!!!!"
Unfortunately for the pallum, the iron dragon returned, completely unaffected by the blast.
The monster descended at full speed.
Its maw opened wide, ready to burn Finn to cinders!
The pallum had two choices.
Stay his ground and risk grave injury or worse.
Or let go and be carried away by the wind, with a higher chance of survival.
"You bucket of bolts!!!"
He gritted his teeth and leapt toward the heldrake with a roar of his own!
His hatred resurfaced, eyes turning red as his instincts went berserk!
The pallum collided with the Heldrake, his spear plunging deep and striking a critical thruster regulator, causing the beast to lose control of its engines.
"Raghhh!!!!!"
Both were sent flying away, the violent wind hurling them northwest, toward the Guild Headquarters.
The wind began to die down.
The dust settled.
The Central Park was left as nothing more than broken earth and shattered stone, with only Babel still standing.
The deities above witnessed the extraordinary feat with caution, fear for their familias and children, and some even with excitement over what a mortal was capable of.
With the pest dealt with and the battlefield cleared, Iskha'nd-Ra slowly turned his head toward the last standing figure.
The daemon.
"There you are."
━━━━━━━ ༺𓆩Ω𓆪༻ ━━━━━━━
"Go, go, go!"
The adventurer ordered while waving his arm forward, signaling for the civilians to rush toward what little remained of a safe route. His eyes never left the street behind, peeled wide as he watched the approaching horde of undead abominations getting closer through the smoke and ruin.
At the front of the civilians, Astrea acted as a guide for a portion of them, the people trusting her to lead them through the chaos safely.
The undead menace attacked indiscriminately. Rotting hands tore away at anything that moved, and even she herself was not spared.
Astrea could not risk being sent to Heaven. Not while her girls were still out there, fighting, bleeding, and relying on her blessing.
At her side, Naaza and Armid moved with the goddess. With the dead rising and overrunning all possible infrastructure, there was no better option left without risking immediate death or injury; the two had chosen to stay close to the Goddess of Justice.
"Goddess… what was that building from the skies?" Naaza asked despite the danger, her voice strained as they maneuvered through shattered districts and burning streets.
Astrea had no answer.
She was in the dark just as much as the mortals were.
Even so, she had felt an alien oddity just like the other gods had, lurking beneath the chaos like a presence watching from behind reality itself.
"Ahhh!!!"
Before the Goddess of Justice could answer Naaza's question, people ahead of them cried out in pain and terror.
"Enemy!" adventurers shouted from the front. Some of those guarding the rear rushed forward to reinforce their peers.
FWOSH!
A rain of angry, blue-hot flames tore through their ranks.
Civilians and adventurers alike were struck down in an instant, burned to cinders where they stood. The scorching heat came so close that it nearly brushed Astrea's cheek.
"This way, Goddess!" Armid shouted, grabbing Astrea's arm and pulling her toward a tight alleyway where many civilians had already pressed themselves into cover. They barely escaped the barrage of blue, fiery death.
"What is that? Who is attacking!?" Naaza tried to peek out toward the clash where adventurers were engaging the attackers, but Astrea pulled her back immediately.
"Stay hidden!" Astrea urged, pointing sharply toward the closing army of the dead. The stench of their rotting carcasses mixed horribly with the freshly burned remains of the fallen.
"L-let's run!" a man cried out in terror, breaking away and fleeing blindly into whatever alley was in sight.
Astrea fought the urge to follow. Instead, she wanted to stay and try to help those who had been caught in the crossfire.
"Goddess…"
A weak voice called out to her.
Astrea turned and recognized the woman immediately.
The same one she had tended to back at the camp. Her voice was frail, her body still injured and trembling, but the flame of survival had not yet been extinguished. She was waiting. Waiting for her to save them.
The men.
The women.
The children, like Naaza and Armid.
All of them looked at Astrea.
She was a goddess. Their better. Their only hope now that the adventurers were occupied elsewhere.
"Monster!!!"
An adventurer's scream echoed from the entrance of the alley.
A hulking, armored warrior flashed past the opening, his heavy steps shaking the ground. Thankfully, he did not notice them.
The civilians panicked immediately. Whispers turned to noise, noise threatened to become screams, and Astrea was forced to hush them quickly before they were exposed.
Outside, the armored giant battled the adventurer, wielding a massive blade. The two clashed violently, one moved with desperate precision, the other with cold, calculated efficiency.
The giant's movements flowed like an angry river, his strikes swift as a shadow but hard as a mountain despite his size.
A single, final swing.
The adventurer was split cleanly in half. Blood and guts painted the pavement, horrifying the civilians.
Naaza's and Armid's breaths hitched as they grabbed Astrea's hand tightly, seeking comfort at the sight.
Astrea decided she had seen enough. The poor adventurer's fate was what awaited them if they stayed any longer.
With a heavy heart bound by justice, she made her decision. She would fulfill the role the people expected of her.
"Follow me, quickly," she hushed them firmly. She steeled herself, then began to move, leading them head-on into a tangled network of alleys in hopes of losing their pursuers.
The Rubricae had sensed the fleeing group from the start but had received orders not to give chase or harm them, but to let them pass.
The order was issued by the aspiring sorcerer, who had received a vision. A vision to vanquish the false champion and these mortals would lead his squad there.
With Astrea at the front, the path soon became confusing. Fog, smoke, and debris choked the streets. No straight road or turn led to anything recognizable, and the destroyed roads only made navigation worse.
She stopped at a split in the path, desperately trying to decide which route was safer.
"Goddess, we should go that way."
It was Armid, pointing firmly to the left.
"Are you sure?" Astrea asked. "Do you know this part of town?"
"No," Armid admitted. Her face twisted with confusion. "But I have a… feeling."
"I can feel it too," Naaza added, just as puzzled.
"Let's go left."
"Yeah! I think I remember being here once, left is safe!"
"Are you crazy!? That leads to Central Park! It's a warzone!"
"No it doesn't, you liar!"
"Wanna bet, you stupid cunt!? Be my guest and die there!"
"I say we go right. Right makes right, does it not?"
The civilians began to argue among themselves, each adding their own opinion, their voices rising as panic set in.
Astrea did not notice one detail—
Those who favored the left were not elves.
Those who favored the right were all elves.
"Enough!" Astrea shouted, cutting through the petty arguments. "We go left, since the majority favors it."
Those who chose right were clearly displeased, but no one dared argue further.
They resumed their march, occasionally stopping to argue and vote again whenever another fork appeared.
At last, they emerged from the maze of alleys.
A massive, ancient structure came into view.
Saint Fulland's Cathedral.
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"Daemon husk," Iskha'nd-Ra called as he approached the unresponsive Wisla.
"Your incompetence has obscured the Architect's schemes," Iskha'nd-Ra said calmly. Were it not for the terrifying presence he radiated and the hulking bodyguards who were themselves dwarfed by him one might have mistaken his demeanor for mercy.
"Therefore, I sentence you to be banished for your incompetence—" Iskha'nd-Ra's menacing gauntlet moved to seize Wisla, to lift him up and cast him away.
Wisla's body abruptly jerked in resistance, but Iskha'nd-Ra was far faster.
With strength befitting an Astartes, a sickening crunch echoed as Wisla's skull shattered within the gauntlet. A scream of agony rang across the silent battlefield.
"Treacherous worm," Iskha'nd-Ra almost spat, realizing too late what had occurred.
"Ahhh!" the supposed daemon cried, its voice broken, pain beyond comprehension tearing through it.
In his grasp was not the daemon.
It was the owner of the body.
Wisla, the manipulated elven Guild employee had regained his mind, and the first thing he is experiencing is death.
The daemon had slipped away, abandoning its host to whatever fate awaited him.
"How irritating," Iskha'nd-Ra muttered. "Fear not, mortal. Your life has one final purpose before it is extinguished." He ignored Wisla's agonized screams.
Thousand Sons sorcery manifested around his gauntlet. The air grew heavy, reality itself distorting as Wisla's screams intensified further, flames of time and space eating away at his very mind.
Iskha'nd-Ra let out a satisfied hum. "Ah, yes." His mood lifted as his understanding of this world expanded by the second.
"Rejoice, Eldar. Your memories have granted me invaluable insight." His grip tightened but did not yet crush.
"I grant you the ultimate reward for a mortal: to become a scale upon my armor."
The staff in his hand flared with brilliant light as a translucent spectral form tore free from Wisla's body.
Wisla's screams were spent upon monsters given flesh. No mercy awaited the mortal.
Suddenly, the screams ceased.
With them, his body fell limp as his soul was torn free, visible to all who bore witness to the spectacle.
The soul lashed violently before being seized by Iskha'nd-Ra's cruel grasp, slowly drawn into his armor and vanishing beneath it completely.
"Different," Iskha'nd-Ra mused. "But functional."
He released the lifeless elven husk, tasting the soul as it merged with him, noting the differences between these beings and those of his home dimension.
Iskha'nd-Ra issued a telepathic command to the Rubricae, ordering them to move swiftly and secure the… beings within the tower. Strict orders were given: do not kill.
Wisla's memories had revealed many mysteries and answered many questions.
One such revelation concerned the true nature of these so-called gods who bore the names of ancient Terran deities. The implication unsettled him: these beings may have had contact with Terra in the distant past.
Another revelation explained the collapse of the warp gate. One of these beings had been "killed," releasing a massive disruptive energy that briefly severed the Warp itself. If enough were slain at once, the collective release might be sufficient to seal the gate entirely.
An outcome Iskha'nd-Ra could not allow.
Without the Warp, he would be nothing more than a mere Astartes.
But one thing made his unholy existence tremble with anticipation.
The Dungeon.
A living, potentially world-sized construct. An entity hosting entire ecosystems within itself. It birthed both weak and immensely powerful monstrous beings that had terrorized this world since the dawn of man.
It burrowed deep into the earth, its routes twisted and incomprehensible.
It reminded him of the semi-living spawn pits of Sortiarius, yet this dungeon was no prison for victims of the Flesh Change.
This was something else entirely.
A Warp-free, self-sustaining metaphysical entity, forming armies and resources within hours, requiring no gods and no Warp to function.
Beneath his helm, Iskha'nd-Ra smiled.
An old ambition stirred once more.
An ascension without submission. A replenishable army without grotesque offerings.
A clean, stable source of power requiring no begging from petty gods.
"You cannot reach me, can you?" Iskha'nd-Ra murmured. "Otherwise, I would have tasted your punishment for this heresy, oh great Changer of Ways."
He nearly laughed, believing he had found a path to freedom and power.
With his heretical scheme underway, Iskha'nd-Ra planted his staff, its influence spreading across the central park in its entirety.
Debris and buildings began to shift as arcanum suffocated the area, poisoning the air itself.
A clear path formed, linking what remained of the Silver Tower to the central park, serving as a bridge. The distance posed no obstacle to a sorcerer of Iskha'nd-Ra's caliber.
Then—
With a full swing of his staff, he began weaving strange gestures, muttering dark tones without distraction.
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The End
This is the lore for the Thousand Sons warband I've been cooking
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Warband Name: The World Mergers
Warband main focus: (Rubric-heavy, sorcerer-led)
Warband Leader: Iskha'nd-Ra the Amalgamator
The World Mergers:
Individual Composition:
Leader is NOT Rubric—He survived the Rubric of Ahriman intact and is an Exalted Sorcerer
Rubric Marines
Scarab Occult Terminator Marines
Sorcerers: serve the warband leader, act as lieutenants, and can command Scarab Occult Terminator Marines
Aspiring Sorcerers: lead Rubric squads
Tzaangor Shamans: Psyker beastmen fodder
Cultists and Thrall Wizards: from Orario and the world beyond
Helbrute: 4 (cuz why not)
Heldrake: 3 (cuz why not)
Mutalith Vortex Beast: 2 (cuz why not)
In a typical invasion scenario (such as the Siege of the Fenris System), the Silver Towers hover in the upper atmosphere, serving as a staging point for Rubric Marines, Scarab Occult Terminators, and these various Daemon Engines to be dropped or summoned directly into the thick of battle (but since the tower is down, all forces will be deployed at once)
Doctrine:
They do not care about casualties among the lesser troops, combat is secondary to ontological dominance
Their specialization is reality binding, shattering, and rebuilding
Their key objectives are not resources or enemy high command, but locations such as:
Entire planets or even small cities, any location with a natural or constructed metaphysical object (like the Dungeon), so they can reshape the battlefield to their liking, deeming resistance irrelevant
WARBAND NAME: World Mergers
Not officially taken by a major canon Thousand Sons warband, so it is unique
Thematically correct as well
Not generic, since I researched a lot about names
THE SORCERER: Iskha'nd-Ra the Amalgamator
HIS BACKSTORY
Pre-Heresy:
He specialized in ontological warfare, reality layering, spatial recursion, and Warp–realspace convergence for his legion's war effort
He always sought beyond everyone else, wanting to understand the fabric of reality and rebuild it to his preference
He was one of the foremost theorists of the Pavoni Cult. He believed flesh, space, and soul were all just different expressions of the same existence
He conducted forbidden experiments, layering multiple objects and various entities over the same physical space, driving the resulting abomination mad with overlapping personalities and shapes that lived inside and outside the plane of existence
During the Rubric:
As Ahriman's spell washed over the legion, Iskha'nd-Ra anchored his soul in a crystalline fractal he'd grown in his sanctum: The Amalgam Heart
The Rubric shredded his brothers apart, but he pulled their essence into the Heart, weaving them into a multilayered ward around his soul, gathering enough willpower and resistance to overcome the change of the Rubric, becoming even more powerful in his arts
He survived, but now carries the silent screams of hundreds of brothers as a constant psychic whip only he can hear
The Changer of Ways found this act deliciously ironic
Using his legion brothers as armor against a spell meant to save those same brothers
Tzeentch granted him greater insight into convergence and change as a gift for the amusing show
Goals: He seeks to ascend without surrendering to the Changer of Ways. He believes the Dungeon might hold the key to his ascension
To him, the DanMachi world is a blank canvas awaiting an artist to draw its rules
The absence of ambient Warp energy might be a severe weakness to him, but it's an opportunity as well.
The Dungeon is a self-sustaining metaphysical Daemon Engine that creates matter, space, and life without drawing on the Immaterium or other sources
He wants to introduce controlled Immaterium bleed. Then he will be able to bind the Dungeon completely to a new, bigger, stronger Amalgam Heart, independent of Tzeentch's strings, creating a stable, perpetual Warp-free engine, shielding him almost completely from the fate of becoming a toy of Tzeentch.
("Perpetual Warp-free engine" would mean stable, self-sustaining alterations to Warp energy that don't constantly sip from the domains of the Chaos Gods and other Warp regions, completely eliminating the need for Tzeentch's power and the risk of paying a great price)
Signature Feat: A century-long ritual merging three daemon moons into a single planetary mass for the Changer of Ways.
The resulting abomination, known as Tryptych, is a planet with three fused cores, where time flows backward on one continent and normally on another, with odd Chaos Spawn being born there
Current Status:
Considered a favored toy, not a Daemon Prince
Still mortal enough to act freely without the complete control of Tzeentch
Powerful enough to warp entire systems, but weakened in the DanMachi world because there is no Warp to begin with
WARBAND OFFICIAL SYMBOL:
(Here)
I made it myself, hope it's okay
I made this little meme too
(Here)
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Writing a Thousand Sons warband from scratch is hard as fuck ngl
I'm playing Space Marine 1 and will start Space Marine 2, so I will be basing their attacks and arsenal off those games (fun games ngl)
I wanted to make this into one gigantic chapter, but decided that if it's that long, the readers will lose excitement. It needs balance and time to comprehend what is happening
With that said, one reader suggested that I should add the Legion of the Damned
Good idea, thanks. I'll see if I will add them or not, but remember this is supposed to be Krieger's story, and he should be the hero and center
I also noticed some readers (probably bots, since they don't even comment on late chapters but only the first ones) who always say:
"Nooo! The Emperor is Admin in r/atheism! He doesn't want worship and will kill all these fanatics!!"
One guy also said:
"Author is retarded, Emperor will never present himself as a god."
Bruh, are you guys retarded?
I am perfectly aware that the Emperor is neither a god nor wants to be one.
But let's not forget that he weaponizes faith even if he doesn't want to. Trillions of people believe in him as a god, and all that belief manifests into his psychic presence in the Warp, which gives him immense power and influence across the Warp and realspace
So how will he be able to connect himself to a whole new realm completely out of his reach and the Warp?
Faith, of course
Although he is technically not revealing himself as a god, it's just a side effect of being so godly-looking, maybe?
He's subtly making an army, as you saw, the cathedral is his unofficial domain
Anyway, you might be asking:
"Why was that guy painting him like a god if he's not presenting himself as one!?"
That's not a normal guy—that's a proto-psyker who is seeing visions and the Emperor's leaking presence. He's still a blur and just a silhouette
(I think that's a good excuse)
Anyway, cya