——Your day has not yet come, or perhaps it remains hidden.
Sig was born on a forsaken world, one long since fallen under the sway of Nurgle's rot and corruption. But with the emergence of the Black Star, he pierced the veil of deception and saw the truth of his grim reality.
He destroyed it all—plague-ridden blessings, festering kin, and neighbors turned into shambling corpses. In their place, he brought flame and fury, using the power he had carried from the virtual realm. Those children untouched by the Plague Father's embrace—he saved them. Through his eyes blazed unrelenting fire. Before the strength of his will and spirit, the foulness of the Warp faltered. The rotted, the damned, the despicable—none could withstand him.
Yet Sig knew, as all warriors do, that power never comes without a price.
In the beginning, he believed it was a price they could pay—or avoid. But when the end came...
He learned that some prices consume all.
They cost everything.
It happened in a single moment—so fast, so final, that none could resist. Where once there was hope and light, only ruin and shadow remained.
Golden flame poured from the sky like molten ichor. Sig's veins burned, his body wracked by a heat that was both divine and deadly. He had once believed the being above was a savior—granting him sanctuary in a promised heaven. But now, as the reckoning fell, Sig saw the truth.
This was no salvation. This was judgment.
Betrayal had long been anticipated. Sig now understood: he had never truly revered this god. His faith had been born of desperation, not devotion.
And now destruction swept across the land like a tide of ash.
Blood tainted his lips. The air reeked of iron. In his mind, memories surfaced—long years spent beneath the shroud of the Long Night. Flickering lights cut the darkness. The once-holy glow of artificial lumens now danced like specters on broken streets. Children huddled in silence, their eyes wide with horror.
All their dreams, hopes, and ideals—shattered illusions.
Hope had died.
And all that remained was a golden spear and the memory of a world turned to dust.
High above, in the unreachable void, a black-gold halo of fire—a burning crown of thorns—watched over the world's annihilation.
A golden eagle plunged from the heavens.
The vision of the world's end burned in Sig's soul. He screamed, and the sound was lost in the roaring abyss.
Death had come—absolute and final.
But Sig's tragedy was not unique. It was but a single echo among the thousands of Long Night Worlds touched by the Astronomican's cruel light.
The Imperium's ultimate weapon—the wrath of the Warp's reflection—now burned into the Empyrean.
Even the daemons of the Warp, those abominable creatures who had never known fear, recoiled. For a heartbeat, panic flickered in their eyes.
"Dukel!"
The roar split the sky, filled with rage and bloodlust.
Angron, wrapped in bloodfire, charged.
But Dukel stood undeterred. "Your fury is meaningless, Lord of the Red Sands. From this moment, the tide turns. No longer will you harvest the souls of mankind unchecked."
Burning swords met cleaving axes. The symphony of battle began, steel screaming against steel.
Not even the Blood God's chosen could halt Dukel's advance. Though Angron stood as the Blood God's avatar, a being of demi-divine strength, the physical realm demanded more. To triumph here, Khorne would need to wager more.
And with every offering, the risk grew greater.
"If this is all your strength amounts to," Dukel said grimly, "then you've already lost."
He parried a downward swing of the Gorefather and countered with brutal precision. His fist struck Angron's chest, and even the Daemon Primarch's barbed armor shattered beneath the force. Bone snapped. Blasphemous blood sprayed—but was held at bay by Dukel's energy field.
Angron bellowed and struck again, axe tearing at air and earth alike.
Dukel vanished in a swirl of red fire—then reappeared behind the Primarch, his iron hand seizing the writhing Butcher's Nails.
Power surged through him. The Nails, twisted beyond recognition by the Warp, screamed as he gripped them.
"I warned you. You can't win—not like this."
He slammed his arm downward. Angron's massive form collapsed with the impact, the ground buckling beneath him. Dukel stepped atop his chest and ripped the Nails free.
"No—!"
Angron's voice split the void. The Nails. The echoes of Khorne. The blood-soaked shadows—all shrieked in unison.
But not even a god could stop Dukel's judgment in the material realm.
With a sickening snap, the Nails were torn loose. Blood fountained from Angron's shattered skull. The implants, once fused to his very essence, now writhed like living parasites in Dukel's grip—until they were consumed in red flame, their existence erased.
In ages past, Angron could have returned—his essence reformed in the Immaterium.
But not this time. Not under Dukel's hand.
A whisper of corrupted essence flowed into Dukel. He felt it: the origin of the Nails, the cruelty forged into their design.
He looked down at the broken form of the once-proud Primarch—Angron, the slave-lord, the beast, the brother. Now little more than a bloodied wreck sprawled in defeat.
And yet, Dukel did not smile.
The Blood God's silence was deafening. No vengeance, no fury, no retribution.
The war's end, it seemed, would be meager.
Dukel had expected more from Khorne. More defiance. More wrath. Even Angron's essence should have crumbled under this weight.
But then—
Angron moved.
From ruin, he rose—shaking, barely holding together.
Dukel watched, not alarmed, but intrigued. There was no battle stance, no rage-fueled scream. The Primarch, broken beyond measure, posed no threat.
Then—
Plop.
Angron knelt.
His head, broken and bleeding, rose to meet Dukel's eyes. And in that moment—his gaze was clear. No longer twisted by fury. No longer lost in the Nails' madness. No longer a pawn of Khorne.
His voice was raw. Unmasked.
"Dukel... my brother... end me. Give me mercy."
At last, he spoke for himself.
But the Lord of Destruction, known even among the Magos and Fabricator General for his iron mercy, gave none.
"Angron," Dukel said, cold and resolute, "perhaps one day you'll face judgment for your sins. But not today."
"Now, return to your master."
As he spoke, Dukel raised his massive iron foot to stomp Angron back into the Warp.
But just as the boot came down—
"ROAR!!!——"
A monstrous howl split the heavens, a sound not merely heard, but felt—a primal cry of hatred that tore through the veil separating reality from the Immaterium.
The sheer fury given form didn't just block Dukel's strike—it hurled him bodily through the air.
He twisted mid-fall, landing hard on the scorched ground. The explosion of wrath had left his right leg numb, its power unlike anything he'd felt before.
And that wasn't the worst of it.
From the skies above, a deluge of blood and brass-colored sand poured down—the mark of Khorne's domain breaching into reality. The celestial glow of the Destiny Sky Eagle Battle Flag, which once bathed the stars in holy light, was now smothered. The sky turned crimson, drenched in the hue of slaughter.
Even ordinary mortals—blind to the Warp—could now see it: the God of Rage Himself. Sitting atop His Brass Throne, presiding over a hellscape of blood, skulls, and eternal war, straddling reality and the Warp like a tyrant of all slaughter.
Within seconds, Terra—the Throneworld—was drowning in visions of carnage. Rivers of blood flowed through parched canyons, skulls buried entire mountain ranges. Miracles of slaughter rippled across the planet, each one a hymn to the Blood God's might.
Bloodlust swelled. Sanity frayed. Violence became gospel.
And yet, Terra did not fall.
For millions of Adepta Astra Telepathica psykers, and billions of Ecclesiarchal priests, linked their minds in defiance. Their collective will became a shield vast enough to cover the entire world. Without it, the mere glimpse of Khorne's true form would've reduced the planet to a charnel pit—a paradise for the Blood God.
Then it sounded—the deep, guttural blare of a brass war horn.
Khorne's followers erupted into madness, howling like beasts as blood and sand stormed across the land. And amidst that hellish gale, Angron rose.
The Betrayer, son of the Emperor, twisted now beyond recognition.
His eyes were pits of blood. His broken armor repaired by brass. His flesh reborn in pain and rage. And atop his neck, a head—once human—morphed into the snarl of a Warp-hound.
He screamed like a feral creature and raised his chain-axe high. Power, raw and primordial, poured into it. Rage incarnate. A force to sunder planets.
As the axe drew in the Warp's essence, Angron grew, towering like a daemon-prince. His body eclipsed the sky, his bulk rivaling Terra's tallest peaks.
And yet—one man stood tall.
Dukel.
He alone remained unmoved.
The winds howled. His cloak whipped violently behind him.
Yet his eyes—sharp, burning, unshaken—stared down the fury of a god.
He was the fire of humanity's resolve, the blade forged by mankind's stubborn will.
Even before a god's wrath, the fire in Dukel's gaze refused to die. It blazed like a wildfire—eternal, defiant, unrelenting.
"Dukel, have you any forbidden weapons left?"
The voice echoed in his mind—majestic, commanding, divine.
The Emperor.
He spoke with calm intent, laying out his hidden gambit: to let Khorne act first, in ignorance of the Emperor's recovery… and strike Him down.
A god knows little of doubt. Even less of restraint. Khorne believed Terra's spiritual weight would suppress the Emperor's ability to strike—believing Him a hedgehog: bristling, but ultimately harmless.
And so the Blood God came with vengeance, thinking the Emperor shackled by faith.
But even gods miscalculate.
The Emperor, newly restored, bided His time. His strength hidden, His trap laid.
He didn't need cooperation.
Not from His sons.
Not even from the Primarchs.
Because at the highest level of divine war, there are no lies—only the unknown. Schemes mean little. It is ignorance that kills gods.
But now, Dukel had returned. And with him came chaos beyond prediction.
Haodaer had already torn open the Empyrean skies without warning—and even yanked out Angron's Butcher's Nails.
That alone had driven Khorne into a frenzy.
Now, the Blood God had descended upon Terra, ready to destroy all—just to kill Dukel.
But even in the face of that doom...
Dukel remained composed.
This wasn't the Emperor's plan anymore.
Now the Emperor must follow his.
Humanity had never brought so much theatre to a god war before.
"Your Majesty," Dukel said aloud, eyes locked on the rising divine axe. "If that weapon falls on Terra... do you know what happens next?"
A pause.
"What happens?" the Emperor asked, a spark of curiosity in His tone.
"I die. Terra dies. The entire Sol System may shatter."
There was silence.
Then came the Emperor's retort—
"Fk! You should've said that sooner! You sounded like you had it under control!"**
The Emperor's pretense shattered, replaced by raw exasperation.
And with that burst of divine will, a thousand golden swords of light tore across the sky.
In an instant, the blood-red heavens were cleaved.
The Immaterium parted.
Golden brilliance—unyielding and righteous—pierced into Khorne's realm, striking deep into His throneworld.
"BOOM!"
The Warp convulsed.
A rift split open across the blood-drenched wastelands. And from it, the cold and merciless sun of the Emperor rose.
That unpitying light disintegrated all filth. Even the daemons of Khorne—the apex predators of war—boiled and screamed under that divine sun.
Within the radiant breach, a host emerged.
Armored. Armed. Unflinching.
The Cursed Legion.
Forged from vengeance. Built from the souls of humanity's greatest warriors—heroes, martyrs, champions.
And they were ready.
Bathed in the cold brilliance of the Emperor's divine light, they marched—gold-armored titans forged in faith and fury. From the depths of the Immaterium, they emerged—not as revenants, but as avenging sons. Each footfall upon the brass-red sands of Khorne's domain echoed with vengeance.
They were the Emperor's wrath made manifest.
These were warriors who had died for the Imperium countless times across ten thousand years of war—now returned to the battlefield, clad in gilded flame and sanctified plate. Their arrival turned the barren, blood-soaked desert into a blazing inferno of righteous judgment.
Golden fire erupted from their forms, and holy hymns resounded in perfect harmony—each note a declaration of loyalty to the Master of Mankind.
Blood and brass hissed beneath the Emperor's light, the sacred radiance searing even the mightiest daemons. Screams echoed across the desert wastes as the spawn of Khorne writhed, burned, and were banished back into the warp-storm.
He was the sun of mankind's last hope—the blade that sunders gods.
"I am the Emperor's will incarnate, forged by the suffering of my race across uncountable wars. Abominations of the Warp, I stand before you as herald of your extinction!"
The voice of the Emperor thundered through the rift in the Warp, amplified by celestial power. It was more than a proclamation—it was a verdict, carried upon a divine wind that swept across the skies of Khorne's realm. It ignited a storm of annihilation.
"The destiny of Humanity stands above all corruption. Ours is the only future."
This radiant figure—a divine entity of unimaginable power—was not content to merely repel the Blood God's invasion. He launched an all-out assault on Khorne's domain, tearing apart the very foundations of the Brass Citadel.
He dared to declare war upon all darkness within the Immaterium.
This was no longer just a defense.
This was a divine crusade.
Humanity, the rising power of the galaxy, refused to accept annihilation. Just as their ancestors stood against the Long Night, now they rose to claim dominion over the stars—and even over the realms of gods.
The pieces were placed.
The game had begun.
And none could say who would triumph.
"ROAR!!!"
The monstrous form of Khorne—incarnate over Terra—screamed with inhuman rage. His wrath shook the skies, but his divine weapon, once poised to strike, shattered mid-swing.
He had been robbed of his dominion, and now, his strength faltered.
Perhaps Khorne had anticipated retaliation from the Emperor. But what he hadn't expected… was this brazen audacity—a counteroffensive so sudden, so overwhelming, that it bypassed all resistance and struck at the heart of his throne world, carried along the very conduit through which he had tried to invade.
Now the Blood God's throne, his sanctum, and even his divine will, were shrinking—diminished by the golden storm tearing through his domain.
Compared to the devastation inflicted upon his realm, the invasion of Terra had become a trivial skirmish.
But what was worse...
In the fathomless depths of the Warp—he was not alone.
There were three others.
The Great Game—the eternal war of the Chaos Gods—ensured they were allies only in theory.
When Khorne's realm was breached, the other gods did not come to his aid.
No—they came to feed.
They smiled in their wretched heavens, watching the Blood God stumble.
In the Plague Garden, Nurgle stirred. The Grandfather of Decay crooned a low, gurgling dirge—a song of rot and rebirth. Though he had often clashed with the Emperor and the Primarchs, he felt no kinship with the Blood God.
In truth, he welcomed Khorne's suffering.
A horn sounded—a plague trumpet.
Its blast summoned legions of bloated horrors, plaguebearers, and pestilent monstrosities. Bearing triple curses and seven divine afflictions, they marched upon the Brass Wastes, intent on carving out their own fetid dominion in Khorne's crumbling empire.
In the Crystal Labyrinth, deep within the hidden sanctum of Tzeentch, there were no stars, no suns—only shifting reflections of endless possibility. Forbidden glyphs and arcane runes danced across every surface.
The Changer of Ways laughed, a sound that echoed through past and future alike.
He cast aside his fate-cards and scattered his deck.
And from a hundred fractured realities, his daemons surged forth—bearing crystalline constructs never before seen, channeling infinite Warp sorcery.
They poured into Khorne's realm, remaking the land in impossible geometries—shards of madness erupting like tumors of fate.
In the Palace of Ecstasy, swathed in silks and screams, the Prince of Pleasure unfurled his sinuous tongue and licked his lips, flushed with delight.
Buildings of obscene beauty sprang into existence. Around the six-ringed heart of his palace, legions gathered—perfect, perverse, and profoundly deadly.
Their armor shimmered like lust itself, and their weapons were crafted for agony as much as for war.
They cheered and howled as they descended upon Khorne's territory—driven by boundless desire, exalting in the chance to violate the Blood God's purity of purpose.
They would not just invade.
They would defile.
Thus began a war within a war.
While the Emperor's divine host lit the skies ablaze, the Great Game fractured.
The Blood God, once mighty and wrathful, now found his empire crumbling—not merely by the Emperor's hand, but by those he once called allies.
And through it all, Dukel stood firm, the fire of mankind's unyielding will.