Chapter 491: The Despoiler's Disgrace Becomes the Warp's Most Viral Subject
"You pathetic, ignorant turncoats! As a scion of Humanity, I condemn your treachery!"
"You hypocritical beast, serving the Ruinous Powers under a false banner of 'liberation,' bringing nothing but ruin to countless lives! The wounds you have carved into the species will be remembered for eternity, and your name shall be nailed to history's pillar of shame to be spat upon by every human soul until the stars go cold."
Even for a "Sanctioned Xenos" who had lived through sixty million years of history, the thought of Abaddon's betrayal triggered an instinctive, righteous scorn.
BEEP—
A piercing alarm shrieked across the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit. Steam hissed from the pressure-relief valves as the flagship's systems, already groaning under the strain of continuous conflict, began to vent.
The sound mirrored the collective mood of the bridge crew.
Shut it off. Throne, shut it off.
They could not allow these xenos to continue their diatribe.
"Warmaster, we must—"
An adjutant, disregarding the mutations visibly rippling across his flesh, stepped forward to urge a tactical retreat.
CRACK!
The Talon of Horus snuffed out the officer's life in a blur of motion.
Servitors immediately dragged the fresh corpse away. Abaddon's savage gaze swept the room, and every head bowed in terror.
He knew the situation.
The surface campaign was a shambles. The beheading strike had been a farce where he was the punchline. The Blackstone Fortresses had been seized. The very ideology of the "Long War" had been torn to shreds. What did he have left?
I know what you know, but your advice is sound—don't say it again or you'll join the servitors.
At this moment, the majesty of the Warmaster was the only thing holding the Legion together.
Veins pulsed on his forehead. Abaddon's body twitched as if a phantom "Butcher's Nail" had been driven into his brain. He raised a mutated hand, attempting to cut the comms.
The link held.
In a sense, the moment he had engaged the transmission, he had forfeited control of the conversation.
Just as he had forfeited his soul when he accepted the "investment" of the Four.
"My Lord!"
As the psychic avatar of Ramesses strode along the thoroughfare of the Blackstone Fortress, Eldrad Ulthran and twelve seers of the Formless Cult dropped to one knee.
They stood in a tiered formation before the colossal central console, forming a semi-circular "Ring of the Corona." Radiant gold psychic energy flowed through the blackstone conduits, lighting the jagged geometry of the station.
Outside the fortress, brilliant clouds of Warp-fog, carrying the acrid stench of the Empyrean, drifted past the ravaged veil of realspace. An eight-pointed star rotated in the distance like a pair of Chaos-eyes, watching the shattered remains of the traitor fleet as it attempted to flee.
"The faithful find rebirth in the twilight of the Formless Sky, while the spirit of the enemy rots in fear and doubt," Ramesses intoned.
The Blackstone Fortress was nearing full ignition. It was his first time operating the "Talisman of Vaul," and he intended to imbue the act with proper ritual significance.
He understood that the struggle for Abaddon was a petty contest of wills between the Gods. The Four would sabotage each other's chosen champions—which was why Mortarion had been left to hold the bag for Nurgle—but Abaddon was different. He was the prize.
It mattered not.
Pressure is not something you release just because the enemy flinches. "Mercy for the routed" was a concept for peers.
Abaddon was not a peer.
The Dawnstar's objective remained absolute: to maximize the attrition of the Gods' claws. If the Four intended to preserve their champion's pride, they would have to pay a higher price in essence.
Ramesses was not a picky eater. Between the various races of the galaxy—especially Humanity—the Dawnstar could always produce a bigger, better "relic." Chaos, however, relied on the same handful of aces in realspace.
Of course, using Abaddon as a literal foundation-stone for the Imperial Palace was still the preferred outcome.
"Let us complete this work, my companions. The Despoiler accuses us of heresy, and we shall not test his patience. He craves an outlet for his rage; I shall provide one... in my own fashion."
"Let judgment descend."
Eldrad stepped forward.
"The Corona rises," the Farseer declared.
The others rose in unison, turning toward the distant Black Legion fleet. Their eyes blazed with the light of a miniature sun.
At every critical node of the psionic network, Eldar Warlock-cadres ascended the shattered ridges of the interior. Their cloaks and robes whipped in the howling gale of the Warp-venting.
One hundred, five hundred, thirteen hundred warriors stood along the asteroid-like silhouette of the fortress. They bowed their heads, murmuring a soft prayer—an ancient canticle gifted by the Old Ones.
Drip.
Rain began to fall from the ceiling of the fortress, which was vast enough to maintain its own ecosystem.
Clatter.
The droplets froze into shards of ice. As the psionic field expanded, the rain transformed into a biting sleet.
HUMMM—
Through the gaps in the fortress walls, the churning Warp ahead became a source of blinding light. Countless photons leaped and danced within the void.
The light itself began to churn, coiling into a singular mass as if gaining sentience. Under the direction of the Blackstone Fortress, the power the Formless Lord had gathered within the Empyrean was extracted. It manifested as something fundamentally different from Warp-energy, a phenomenon so pure that none could perceive its true nature.
CLANG!
"Now," Ramesses said, spreading his arms as he struck his staff against the deck.
The Blackstone Fortress, now glowing like a celestial eye, unleashed its stored potential.
"FALL!"
SCREECH—!!!
A piercing shriek tore through the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit.
It was so loud, so sharp, that the steel bulkheads buckled and pulverized themselves. Consoles short-circuited in a spray of sparks. Holographic panels shattered into shards before being crushed into paper-thin, dark slivers by the sudden gravitational shear.
The Black Legionnaires who had merged with daemons or mastered the black arts fared slightly better; the supernatural energies within them reacted automatically, shielding them from the worst of the impact. But those who lacked the direct scrutiny of the Gods suffered a gruesome fate.
Their bodies vanished from sight in a heartbeat, deleted like non-essential data in a purge.
Some erupted in a spray of internal gore, looking down with mutated eyes to find that every inch of their frames—armor and weapons included—had been flattened into two-dimensional sheets of metal and meat.
It was as if an invisible hydraulic press had slammed down from the heavens, transforming the crew into abstract masterpieces of red and black etched into the deck.
The shriek lasted for thirteen seconds. When it ended, everything in the command center had been reduced to a layer of compressed dust and shrapnel, paving the floor of a bridge that was now thirteen meters lower than it had been.
It wasn't just the men.
It was the ships.
The escort vessels screening the Black Legion's retreat buckled. Formations that had been tight and disciplined were torn open. Starships with weaker machine-spirits were flattened into iron pancakes by the focused radiance.
Abaddon felt a chill that transcended his transhuman conditioning. He looked at the two golden Blackstone Fortresses that had manifested above and below his fleet, pinning them in a pincer of divine light.
He was no rookie. He had survived trials that would have broken any other Astartes. His will was iron.
But he could not understand why he felt so... diminished. He watched his fleet disintegrate, ships abandoning their posts to flee toward the Warp-rifts behind them.
The vox was a chorus of agony and static.
"RESTRAIN THEM! HAARKEN! HOLD THE LINE!" he bellowed.
Haarken World-claimer lay prone on the deck, blood leaking from the gaps in his armor. He could not find the breath to speak.
"MAINTAIN DISCIPLINE! SECURE THE EXTRACTION OF THE VENGEFUL SPIRIT!" Abaddon roared, turning to Khayon.
BOOM!
A secondary shockwave slammed into the ship.
The aegis-arrays atop the flagship failed. The void-shields were torn aside like silk. In that heartbeat, the power of the Empyrean channeled through the Blackstone Fortress lanced into the hull. The light struck the steel, sending pulses of sentience rippling through the corridors and ramparts.
Crew and debris were swept into the air by the venting flames, turning into "paper" the moment they lost the ship's internal protection. A lance beam from a nearby loyalist vessel, compressed into a flat ribbon of light, tore through a gun-battery, erasing it from existence.
"KEEP THE FLEET OPERATIONAL! WITHDRAW!"
Abaddon screamed his orders, but no one could hear him.
The air shrieked. Khayon watched in agony as his sister, Izara—the entity merged with the Vengeful Spirit—clutched her head and wailed. Blood sprayed from her eyes and ears, staining the primary nutrient-tank crimson.
Abaddon was paralyzed. He didn't know how to command a ship whose control surfaces had been flattened into a featureless plane.
The approaching Blackstone Fortresses spanned a diameter far exceeding that of a planet. Everything within that radius was being methodically crushed, shattered, and unmade.
But that was no longer the primary concern.
Storms of lightning and fire erupted around Abaddon.
Nine Lords of Change manifested from the shifting crystals of the Warp. They cursed the names of Tzeentch and Ramesses in a dual-toned shriek—wondering why they, the Greater Daemons, had to pay the price for the games of their masters—as they threw themselves into a final struggle for survival.
At their head stood a monster of mountainous proportions, a Lord of Change whose presence was a beacon even in the deep void.
Any scholar of the malefic would have known his name instantly.
Aetios Rau Keres, the Soul-Butcher. The most frenzied of Tzeentch's host. In a legion of sorcerers and liars, he was known for raw strength and unmitigated rage. It was whispered that Khorne and Tzeentch had swapped a daemon at birth.
This Great Daemon had been driven to the brink of insanity by the Architect of Fate; he was the manifestation of Tzeentch's most chaotic, disordered aspects.
Under this titan's lead, the Lords of Change wove a desperate weave. Thousands of azure flaming arms reached out from the Warp, seizing the golden light and channeling the power of Tzeentch to stall the convergence of the two Blackstone Fortresses.
Sparks fell, forming flat pools of light on the deck. Abaddon gripped his weapon, forcing his broken frame to stand.
"POWER RESTORED!"
Slaakshia's voice cut through the din.
The spider-like Magos dragged her massive chassis to a flattened console, plunging her interface-digits directly into the deck plating.
"WITHDRAW!" Abaddon screamed at her.
"Hmph. Not enough," Ramesses whispered.
The giant blue eye of the Warp-vortex shattered in an instant. The thousand grasping hands were torn away. The nine Greater Daemons, led by the roaring Keres, were extinguished.
Ramesses turned his palm over, manifesting a cluster of shards in his hand.
He clenched his fist. The final echoes of Tzeentch's extension vanished from the field.
With the path clear, Ramesses turned his focus back to the Vengeful Spirit.
He could feel the power. The Blackstone Fortress, guided by the Eldar and anchored by a "Lesser God," was outputting a level of destruction that bordered on the primordial.
Such was the strength of the ancient races. Pity they could no longer wield it alone.
Eldar. A God. A safe Warp-environment. You need all three.
The light converged on the Vengeful Spirit. Infinite pressure focused on a single point. Amidst Izara's final, harrowing scream, the steel failed. A ribbon of materialized light tore the ancient flagship into thirteen distinct segments.
Abaddon's voice died in his throat as a sequence of explosions consumed his position.
A furious roar echoed from the Empyrean. A chaotic storm kicked aside Slaanesh—who had been leisurely sorting through Eldar souls—and reached into reality. A massive, spectral claw slammed into the Blackstone Fortress, momentarily stalling the super-weapon's movement.
"WARMASTER!"
Khayon's cry rang out across the broken bridge.
The power of Tzeentch surged through the Thousand Son, shielding the broken form of Abaddon from the direct glare of the beam.
BOOM!!!
A series of sonic booms swept the deck like thunder. Rifts of darkness, like open bags of void, snapped open across the platforms. Figures tumbled through the gaps amidst a cacophony of distorted noise.
Under the protection of the Chaos Gods, a handful of their most precious "exhibits" vanished into the Warp. The rifts behind them puckered and closed like the petals of a dying black rose, fading into smoke until only a monotonous, haunting hymn remained.
"The Despoiler's humiliating defeat at Badab has become the most trending topic within the Chaos warbands of the Warp."
"Countless warbands are debating the Warmaster's performance in the campaign."
"The Phoenician, Fulgrim, has offered his assessment—"
"The Black Legion has spent ten millennia lying to themselves under the banner of the 'Long War.' They belong nowhere and serve no one. Now the mask is off, and they've been outperformed by xenos. They have no face left. However, I sincerely hope Abaddon becomes my court jester. His mere existence brings me infinite joy... and Arthur... oh, my Arthur..."
Cough.
Inside the emergency medicae-bay of the Vengeful Spirit, Abaddon coughed up a clot of dark blood.
He spat it out and wiped his mouth.
"Warmaster, you are awake?"
Iliaster Fayle, one of the Ezkarion and a former son of the Death Guard. During the contest for the title of Warmaster, he had helped Abaddon eliminate his greatest rival, Thagus Daravek.
Fayle was the Legion's Chief Apothecary, responsible for the Black Legion's expansion and biological maintenance. He usually avoided the direct combat of the Crusades, making him an enigma in both Imperial and Chaos records.
For Fayle, this was simply how he survived.
Everyone knew serving the Warmaster was hazardous. Over ten millennia, the Ezkarion had been gutted—warriors died, survivors went into hiding. Only Kibre and Khayon were robust enough to maintain their stations.
Oh wait, Kibre is dead now too.
He examined Abaddon—now transformed into something that almost rivaled Horus in sheer physical presence—and allowed a small smile.
The dream of the "Long War" had always been a lie to comfort the veterans who had rebelled for no reason and fell into Chaos by accident. They hated the Imperium, yet clung to their old honors. They needed a spiritual crutch.
Abaddon gave them a way out.
"We aren't traitors; the Imperium is."
"We don't serve Chaos; we use it."
"Our mutations aren't rot; they're gains from the gym!"
Traitors loved that logic. It was like those ancient Terran athletes who injected chemicals and insisted they were "all natural."
But the lie was dead now.
The intervention of the Gods, Abaddon's own visible mutations, the sight of him being kicked around like a ball, and a sequence of tactical blunders had been laid bare for all to see.
Fayle didn't care. He was just a doctor.
He maintained his respectful posture, curious to see what the Warmaster would do next.
"Fayle," Abaddon rasped.
His face twitched uncontrollably. His hand shook as his muscles rippled, as if something within were fighting him for control.
The Warmaster recalled the battle, analyzing the ruins of his plans. His shattered head throbbed with the effort of thought.
"I—"
Then he heard it. The "Voice of the Empyrean" broadcast.
"How many Black Crusades has it been? Twelve? Thirteen? What was the point? All those brothers dead for what?"
"The XVI had something to say back in the day. We were led by Horus, by Perturabo..."
"What is an Abaddon? How is he supposed to lead us...?"
The whispers of the daemonhosts echoed in the medicae-bay.
Abaddon's blood pressure spiked.
"WHAT IS THIS?!"
His head throbbed. He turned a savage glare on Fayle.
"WHAT IS THAT NOISE?!"
He leaned into Fayle's space. The Apothecary could see the drool leaking from the Warmaster's mouth; Abaddon's nostrils flared with every surge of emotion.
"It is not my doing," Fayle explained quickly, his eyes on the Talon of Horus inches from his face.
Ramesses' investment in the propaganda war was equal to his investment in the physical one. Since Abaddon's defeat, the "Voice of the Warp" had been everywhere, part of a saturation broadcast. It featured the reactions of the Fallen Primarchs and a thousand jokes at Abaddon's expense. Even the maggots in the Garden of Nurgle now knew the truth of the "Despoiler."
It could be stopped, provided they didn't use daemonhosts.
But...
Fayle looked at Abaddon's ruins.
Honestly, without the daemonhosts, he couldn't have saved him. Astartes biology was complex; Chaos-Astartes biology was a nightmare. The medicine he learned in the Legion was useless here.
You've sold your soul to Chaos; you don't get to opt out of the signal.
Thus, the news spread through the very creatures the Black Legion relied on.
Except for Fulgrim (who had ascended to a state of total slacker-dom) and Angron (who was too mad to care), most of the Traitor elite were feeling a subtle shift in their perception of the Warmaster.
"That is the extent of my knowledge, My Lord," Fayle said, falling into a tactical silence.
The daemonhosts, however, did not wait for the Warmaster's permission. They didn't fear his authority.
Compared to the Formless Lord, the current Warmaster had zero deterrence.
"What is the Black Legion now? A handful of survivors. Can an Abaddon truly be Warmaster?"
"Can he?"
"He cannot. He lacks the 'Vision', don't you know!"
Abaddon's face turned a violent shade of red. He coughed up another spray of blood.
Hiss.
The steel door slid open.
Khayon and Haarken, alerted by Fayle, stepped through the mangled doorway.
"Is he awake?" Khayon asked, the sorcerer looking like he had lost his own soul.
"He is," Fayle replied.
He looked back at Abaddon, who lay motionless on the slab.
"Oh."
Fayle let out a sigh of mock disappointment. He turned back to Khayon.
"He's passed out again."
"Sigh..."
Khayon sighed too. He cast a complex glance at the bloated body taking up the entire bed and signaled Haarken to leave.
Only the "Voice of the Warp" remained, echoing through the silence.
"Next, he'll lose to the mortals!"
"Played like a ball by the Primarchs. After losing to the Astartes, he'll lose to the Guard. Then to the abhumans."
"There's nowhere left to fall!"
"He has no face left!"
"Pfft... My deepest apologies, My Lord—"
On the surface of Badab, the Maelstrom Guardian, the Tyrant of Badab, the Great Son of Guilliman—Lord Huron—was halfway through his status report when he finally broke. He stopped, offered a formal apology, and took exactly one second to regain his composure.
It was a solemn moment.
He was reporting his success. He was swearing fealty to his Gene-father. He was preparing to march along the glorious path they had laid out.
But—
Huron kept smoothing his expression, trying to return to his most dignified state.
Why in the name of the Throne is it so hard to stop laughing?
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