Chapter 480: The Formless Lord's Psychological Siege
The communication initiated by Abaddon was a signal of finality.
The Despoiler had reached the limit of his patience. He sought to end this grinding war of attrition in the most decisive manner possible. While the transhuman champions of both sides traded verbal barbs to stall for time and cloud judgment, the mortal commanders deep within the Badab bastions had already recognized the precariousness of their situation. They were beginning the somber duty of transferring their responsibilities and their very lives to their successors.
"If you cannot restrain your bloodlust, then descend now!"
The Lord of Change shrieked, offering its counsel to Abaddon.
"They are unready! The strike will be absolute!"
"Tzeentch's hand, as expected," Ramesses muttered, his gaze chilling.
As the most mercurial patron of the Empyrean, Tzeentch was a spectator whose motives were a labyrinth of contradictions. Ramesses had always loathed dealing with the Architect of Fate. Even now, with Tzeentch seemingly favoring a Black Legion victory, the Formless Lord suspected a deeper, more malicious plot.
However—
Ramesses raised a hand, plunging his fingers into the churning currents of the Warp.
He could at least trip the daemon up. He didn't need to match the Lord of Change in a game of grand conspiracy; he only needed to manipulate the variables.
The center of this tactical decision was Abaddon. For all his arrogance, the Despoiler would not ignore the words of a Greater Daemon, but he would view them through a lens of deep suspicion.
"If you seek a swift death, then descend now!"
The Lord of Change spat another sentence, then immediately clamped its own beak shut in shock.
Cursed stars! It was no Oracle of Fate; how could it speak such a self-contradictory prophecy?
The great avian horror, sent as a pawn to be spent, began to scrutinize its own cognition. Its consciousness traversed its Warp-essence, only to find that its words had been supplemented by an external will.
"..."
Cold sweat—or the Warp-equivalent—trickled through its shifting, iridescent feathers.
"The second sentence was a lie!" it screeched in explanation, but the words felt hollow and desperate coming from a creature of Tzeentch.
Just as expected, the Warmaster's fury was met with a dousing of cold water.
Abaddon stared at the image of Huron, whose smile was growing increasingly insolent. He subconsciously began to wonder if this was another trap, another stage built by the Dark Gods for his humiliation.
The Architect of Fate was a lethal ally; he sabotaged his partners as often as his enemies. If Abaddon hadn't been reduced to a state of near-total isolation, he would never have deigned to treat with such creatures.
"What do you fear, Abaddon?"
The 'Huron' in the projection spread his arms in a gesture of blatant provocation.
"You claim you will not be a puppet of Chaos, yet you hesitate. Why let a daemon dictate your tactical reach?"
"He lies! That is not Huron!" the Lord of Change bellowed. "An Astartes cannot perceive me! Let alone hear my whispers!"
"I repeat: if you truly wish to slay him, do it now! I have secured the link! I have locked his coordinates! This is the opportunity I have won for you!"
The blue avian tried to sever the psychic link, but control had been wrested from it. An entity invisible even to the denizens of the Warp—the Formless Lord—had coiled around the connection.
"SILENCE!"
Abaddon roared, cutting off the daemon's screeching. He looked at his vibrant opponent, weighing the contradictory words in his mind, his irritation mounting.
"You waver again," 'Huron' pressed on. "What comes next? Another bout of hubris?"
"Will you listen to the whispers of Erebus again, as you did on Davin? Will you 'override' the counsel of your own brothers and ship Horus to the Serpent Lodge, ensuring your Father became a hollow shell for the Gods to inhabit?"
Inside the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, the high command of the Black Legion let out a collective gasp.
The secrets of the Heresy? Here?
Even among the Chaos hosts, the true history of the Great Betrayal was a fractured thing. Figures like Khayon, marginalized during the Siege, only knew fragments of the truth passed down through oral tradition.
They began to whisper among themselves. Some even reached out with sorcery, attempting to use the mention of the Serpent Lodge as a focus to glean more information.
The Lord of Change's expression shifted to one of pure terror.
It tried to stop them. It wasn't just the Ruinous Powers watching the Vengeful Spirit now. The deeper these warriors delved into the Warp to verify these claims, the more they exposed their coordinates to the more "dangerous" entities lurking in the dark.
But given the daemon's current "credibility" in the eyes of the Warmaster, its warnings were ignored.
"And what of Tarik Torgaddon after Isstvan?" 'Huron' continued, his voice dripping with venom. "Will you once more permit Erebus to take his flesh? Will you watch as his soul is stitched to Grael Noctua through sorcery, turning a noble brother into a mass of sentient filth, and then—in your infinite 'wisdom'—invite that thing back into the Mournival?"
"Warmaster?"
Falkus Kibre, the leader of the Bringers of Despair who had secured Horus's body at the end of the war, looked at his leader. Kibre had guarded the Vengeful Spirit for centuries within the Eye to prevent the desecration of the Primarch's remains. He was a veteran of the Legion, Abaddon's right hand.
His eyes were filled with shock and dawning doubt.
The events on Davin were a secret. Outside the inner circle of the Lupercal, no one knew the specifics. And the corruption of Torgaddon... anyone at the Siege of Terra could see the wrongness in the Mournival back then, but no one had dared speak it.
"..."
Abaddon remained silent.
He had sensed the shift the moment Huron began to speak. But now the words were out, and he couldn't move to silence them without appearing to confirm their truth.
"Lies," he hissed, his voice tight with forced composure.
"Is that so?" 'Huron' mocked.
"In my judgment, you are the only liar here."
"You claim you do not rely on the power of Chaos, yet you lean on it at every turn. You use it in every crisis, and you let that filth poison everyone around you!"
The veins on Abaddon's forehead pulsed with fury.
This was the true "clownishness" of Abaddon. No one denied his willpower. No one suggested he was nothing without the Warp. But he used the power while simultaneously denying it. It was like a man who spent every day lifting the "Nine-Dragon Coffin" for strength; no one denied his muscles were real, but everyone laughed when he claimed he was a "natural" athlete while visibly injecting Warp-roids.
And worst of all, he was making his subordinates "inject" the same poison.
Ramesses had a purpose here. He was testing the Gods' tolerance for his interference, and he was doing something more fundamental: breaking the lie Abaddon used to unify the Lost and the Damned.
For ten thousand years, Abaddon had used a singular myth to bind the warbands to his banner, launching crusade after crusade that bled Humanity dry. Now, Ramesses was tearing that myth to shreds.
To the modern human, who had forgotten history and turned it into myth, this was impossible. To Ramesses, it was a simple application of data.
"This is the real you, Abaddon: vacillating, ignorant, and bloated with self-importance."
The face of 'Huron' on the screen seemed to press directly against Abaddon's own.
"On Davin, your indecision cast Horus into the abyss. At Isstvan, your ignorance condemned your brothers."
"And at the Saturnine Gate? It was your hubris that led the Justaerin into a slaughterhouse. You turned Horus's three most elite companies into the foundations Dorn used to reinforce the Palace walls. You were kicked out of the Imperial Palace like a stray dog, dragging Fulgrim behind you in your wake."
Beside 'Huron,' the 'Emperor's Champion'—who had been seething at Abaddon's insults—broke into a grim smile.
"You tell yourself you did it all for Horus. Yet you did nothing but poison him, sacrifice his scions, and pile one lie upon another. Even when Horus died, it was Garviel Loken who stood at his side. Not you."
"You even let Erebus kill Loken, and you did nothing! Where was your mind then? Had you forgotten the oaths of the Mournival? What right do you have to call yourself a Son of Horus?"
The barrage of questions was followed by a low, buzzing murmur from the bridge crew.
The Black Legion was wavering. The daemons were snickering. Even the daemonhosts hanging from the ceiling, enduring eternal torture, manipulated their vessels into grotesque, mocking grins.
The warband leaders, whose loyalty to Abaddon was often a matter of convenience, relished the spectacle. They didn't care if the words were true; they only cared that their Warmaster was being humiliated.
"ENOUGH!" Abaddon bellowed.
"Look at me. Look into my eyes," 'Huron' challenged.
"Think carefully about which decisions are truly yours, and which are the whims of the Four Gods marinating your brain. Figure that out, and then try to kill me!"
The knife was out. The trap was sprung.
Abaddon knew the truth of those words better than anyone. They were all real.
Now, he was faced with a lethal choice: Admit he was a puppet and board the station as the daemon advised, or admit he was a fool who made those choices of his own free will.
Could he admit it?
He could not.
Huron!!!
The name of the Maelstrom Guardian echoed in his skull. Abaddon had never wanted to kill a man so badly. No matter who was behind that face, they would die in agony.
"I will kill you," the Warmaster of Chaos gritted out.
"I will mount your head behind my throne. Your soul will be held in my palm, enduring an eternity of torment."
"THEN COME!"
The voice of 'Huron' thundered through the bridge.
"Pray that you have the strength! Pray to the filth you serve, just as my wretched brothers once did! Fall to your knees like a groveling, twisted insect, and see what your masters can give you when we stand tall with the Great Ones, forging our convictions into blades to fight for a unified purpose—"
CRASH!
Abaddon smashed the communication array into scrap.
But the machine did not die until the last of Huron's words had echoed through the hall.
Abaddon glared at the Lord of Change.
The daemon looked like it was struggling not to laugh. The plan to deliver Abaddon to victory had been sabotaged by the Formless Lord, yet the sheer absurdity of the situation triggered its innate delight in chaos.
No wonder Tzeentch loves playing with this one.
"Phew—"
The Despoiler turned away in a cold fury.
He had sworn to crush Badab with his own hands. He would see it finished now.
"Abaddon!" the Lord of Change blocked his path.
Out of factional interest, it truly wanted Abaddon to win. The Dawnbreakers had been winning too much; even if it was just one turn in an infinite game, a continuous losing streak was bad for morale.
"You cannot go. It is too late."
Tzeentch rarely spoke the truth. It was a matter of whether the listener believed it.
But could Abaddon believe it now?
Dared he?
He swept his gaze around the room. His topknot whipped across the daemon's face in his violent motion.
He saw the shock in the eyes of his acolyte Khayon. He saw the suspicion in Kibre. He saw the disappointment in Haarken.
The Black Legion was fracturing.
SHING!
The blade blurred.
The head hit the deck.
the massive, iridescent body of the Lord of Change dissolved into ash, its expression carrying a hint of release.
Abaddon looked at his warriors, blood dripping from the tip of his daemon blade.
No one spoke. No one denied the Warmaster's martial dominance.
"Khayon."
"My Lord," the sorcerer replied after a half-second of hesitation, bowing low.
"Re-verify the coordinates."
"As you command, Warmaster."
"Kibre."
"..." The leader of the Bringers of Despair stepped to Abaddon's side. The Black Legion was their collective life's work; he would not let it be discarded.
"I will require an explanation," Kibre whispered, so only Abaddon could hear. "But not now."
"You shall have it," Abaddon nodded.
"Haarken!"
"Here, My Lord!" the World-claimer replied hurriedly.
"Continue the offensive."
"Yes, Warmaster!"
Click.
Ignoring Haarken's look of relief, Abaddon led his inner circle toward the Vengeful Spirit's teleportation anchors.
He would craft a plan of absolute precision. He would not rely on the Warp; he would rely on his own intellect. He would find the weakness, tear it open, and organize his troops with his own mind. He would stand before that talkative defender, tear out his tongue, and incinerate his soul.
This was his decision. A decision untainted by the Gods!
"Holy Throne..."
On the Star-Ring fragment, Huron returned to himself.
He and the surrounding Astartes exchanged bewildered glances, stunned by the secrets they had just overheard.
If everything Lord Ramesses said was true, how did Abaddon have the nerve to mock them with the glory of the Great Crusade every day? The current mess only existed because he was a fool!
The myth of the Despoiler had been thoroughly dismantled.
"Organize the defense. Recall units from other sectors to my coordinate," Huron said, wiping his face and struggling to maintain his composure.
Lord Ramesses had bought them precious time. Every warrior they could concentrate now meant more survivors when the victory was finally secured.
"Yes, My Lord!"
"Hahahaha—DONE!"
The radiance in his eyes did not dim. Emerging from his possession of Huron, showing no fatigue from the long-distance sorcery, Ramesses immediately began monitoring the Warp.
He had another "good deed" planned for Abaddon.
During the Shadow Crusade, the Astartes had learned a hard lesson: teleporting into a zone infested with Chaos sorcery led to "accidents."
Now, as one of the "Greatest Papas" of the Warp, Ramesses was preparing a special treat for Abaddon—the man who had been goaded into refusing Warp-aid to prove he was "natural."
The Greater Daemon was banished. Abaddon wouldn't trust a sorcerer. He was drafting his own boarding plan.
Poor Khayon stood no chance of countering Ramesses.
"Sigh, I wonder if we can salvage this Star-Ring fragment during reconstruction," Ramesses mused, organizing the Eldar Farseers to weave a collective spell. "We could ship it to Terra and use it as a foundation for the Palace."
Watching the whole scene, Guilliman wiped cold sweat from his brow.
Seeing Ramesses busy with his "mischief" and having no time for tutoring, Guilliman hesitated. Finally, he pushed aside the Codex Imperialis and returned to his Warp-notes.
At this moment, he felt that in the future, he must stay on this brother's very best side.
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