The months-long victory celebration on Baal was still in full swing.
Meanwhile...
Holy Terra, Imperial Palace Square.
The towering, kilometers-high holy statue of the Primarch of Hope shone brilliantly, adorned with adamantium and gold—a sight so striking it outshone all the previous Primarch statues in grandeur and sanctity.
Even the statue of the Lord Commander of the Imperium looked dim in comparison.
Clearly, this was... problematic.
This outcome was the result of a series of overlapping accidents.
Originally, the Primarch of Hope's statue was to be built to the same specifications as the other Primarchs.
But due to the enthusiastic involvement of the Ecclesiarch, the Fabricator-General of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the Supreme Commander of the Astra Militarum, the project became a collaborative effort fraught with contention.
Each faction insisted on adding elements representing their own institutions to the statue for political leverage.
The Ecclesiarchy added a crown of adamantium, a holy sunburst halo, and sacred inscriptions on the armor—imbuing it with divine significance.
The Adeptus Mechanicus built internal gearworks and a mechanical pedestal, allowing the statue to move subtly in response to sunlight and wind.
They even secretly embedded high-tier weaponry inside it, designed to activate in emergencies.
As for the ever-struggling Astra Militarum, they gritted their teeth and offered some decorative materials to give the statue a more imposing look.
Through the clashes, a begrudging harmony was reached, and construction moved forward steadily.
Then, as the statue neared completion, someone noticed a serious problem:
It was far larger than any of the others—towering above them, almost condescendingly.
Fortunately, it wasn't taller than the Emperor's own statue—otherwise, it would have been outright heresy.
Even so, the disparity was grave—it suggested blasphemy and disrespect.
Did they really think the Primarch of Hope was greater than the Emperor's other sons—or even the Lord Commander?
The realization stunned all parties involved. But who would take it down?
The Ecclesiarchy? The Mechanicus? The Astra Militarum? None of them wanted the blame.
The Custodes? Even less likely.
It was the Custodes who had initially proposed the statue in the first place—and they'd already been scolded with a vision from the Emperor Himself, leading to their former Captain-General stepping down.
Now, with the new Captain-General away on Baal celebrating with the Primarch of Hope, tearing the statue down would be... sacrilege.
And it was too late to rebuild.
With no one willing to bear the consequences, they all pretended not to see the issue. Silence was consent.
Thus, under a shared unspoken understanding, construction proceeded.
On the day of the celebration...
BOOM BOOM BOOM—!
Salutes fired into the sky. Countless airships showered the plaza with confetti and banners of honor.
High Lords, nobles, officials, priests, and Imperial citizens flooded the square for the grand unveiling ceremony.
Choirs and priests chanted hymns praising the Emperor and the Primarch of Hope, their voices echoing from airborne sermon-casters.
All eyes were lifted upward, yearning to see the visage of that magnificent being.
Dozens of airships drew back a colossal curtain.
The statue of the Primarch of Hope slowly emerged before the masses.
In that moment, everyone was in awe—awed by his divinity and might.
High above, the High Lords of Terra watched from their platform, expressions mixed as their eyes drifted toward the officials responsible for the statue.
They'd all noticed—it was clearly oversized.
Yet no one said a word. No one wanted to be the one to spark the controversy.
The Supreme Commander of the Astra Militarum gave a sheepish chuckle."This statue truly captures the majestic bearing of the Primarch of Hope."
"Flawless," he added.
The Ecclesiarch nodded reverently."By the Emperor's grace, the Primarch of Hope is the radiant embodiment of His will, a miracle made manifest..."
Meanwhile, the Fabricator-General casually uploaded photos and specs of the statue to the Mechanicum forums.
After all, it was her masterpiece.
The High Lords and nobles continued to observe, holding their noses while murmuring words of praise.
But none of them could shake the unease—the sight of that taller-than-any-other statue lingered like a bitter aftertaste.
When the statue ceremony finally ended, the true revelry began.
The Victory Celebration.
Massive projectors broadcasted scenes from Baal—starship flybys, the appearances of the Primarch of Hope and the Lord Commander, and the grand parade.
It was all breathtaking.
Even Holy Terra hadn't seen such grandeur in ages—not since Guilliman's return.
But Baal's celebration dwarfed that.
Two Primarchs present. The Custodes. Countless Adeptus Astartes Chapters.
And the centerpiece—the corpse of a Leviathan Hive Fleet bioship, over thirty kilometers long, dragged to the site by a dozen Imperial warships.
The Savior had arranged for it to be displayed as a trophy.
Draped in the banners of every participating unit, the void-beast's corpse stood as a testament to their victory.
Even better, the Savior had stationed artists on its back to perform dramatizations of the war.
Praising the heroes.
Some nobles, officials, and citizens even had the chance to board sightseeing ships for a close-up look at the monstrous Tyranid remains.
Though dead, its lingering aura of terror made many tremble—some even collapsed.
Fortunately, the Savior also arranged for shooting galleries.
Civilians could fire shells at the carcass.
With just a pull of the trigger, they could strike the hated enemy of mankind.
That act alone dissolved much of their fear.
The celebration stretched across the Baal System, with multiple venues and events lasting for months—billions would take part.
It was an unforgettable moment in history.
A mark of eternal glory.
A chance to stand above the shattered corpse of a monster that had once haunted humanity's nightmares.
These images reached Holy Terra too.
Despite the time delay and long-distance relays—
Even with help from the Savior's territories and hundreds of transmissions—
The footage arrived slightly distorted.
Still, it was enough to shake the people of Terra.
They watched with awe and a hint of envy, wishing they could join the festival.
To bask in that joy.
The Victory Celebration had dispelled the fear and dread of the Dark Imperium era.
It offered humanity a glimpse of hope.
But high on the platform, the High Lords and nobles watching the feed felt uneasy.
Holy Terra—the throneworld—had been sidelined.
This kind of celebration should have been held here.
They should've been the focus.
But it was Baal that took the spotlight.
Some High Lords were deeply displeased.
Others—especially those closely aligned with the Savior—grinned in delight.
Particularly the Supreme Commander of the Astra Militarum.
Now that the Guard was collaborating with the Primarch of Hope and the Savior, their partnership was flourishing.
The Savior had promised them massive supplies—at extremely low prices.
Including brand-new canned meat.
It would ease their logistical burden greatly.
And there would be more: weapons, vehicles—all available for a handful of raw ores.
Practically at giveaway prices.
As for transporting the goods, the Savior had promised to build a massive logistics hub in the Webway.
The problems would soon be solved.
The Commander stared at the statue and sighed in reverence."By the Emperor... the Savior is generosity incarnate!"
...
In the Warp. Deep within the Palace of Pleasure…
"DAMN IT!"
A shrill, venomous shriek echoed through the extravagant, tentacle-filled palace.
Mutated Chaos Daemons covered in breasts and twisted organs cowered outside. Fulgrim, the Fallen Phoenix, had once again gone into a frenzy and smashed his surroundings to pieces.
"You will all fall, every last one of you!"
Fulgrim's serpentine body coiled in a corner. A single theatrical tear slid down his cheek, his persona shattered—he was seething with jealousy.
He stared into the last surviving mirror, admiring his twisted beauty even while raging.
He was furious. Bitter. Humiliated.
Watching the Savior and Guilliman, his old rival and defeated peer, bask in glory during Baal's grand celebration had wounded him more deeply than any blade.
Never had he, Fulgrim, even at the height of his loyalty to the Imperium, received such reverence and spectacle.
And now, to be outshined in vanity and performance? That cut worse than betrayal.
Even worse, Slaanesh's gaze had drifted away—from Fulgrim, to those two rivals.
The Prince of Pleasure pulsed with overwhelming joy, flooding the palace with warped lust and moisture, lashing ecstatic pleasure across the backs of those fortunate enough to serve.
Even the cries of Lucius and N'kari echoed into Fulgrim's hall.
But not his own.
He was, once again, left out.
Fulgrim had once again lost favor.
"This is all Eden and Guilliman's fault!" he hissed.
Caressing his warped yet still delicate face, Fulgrim's heart festered with venom.
"Just wait... I'll craft the most perfect, most divine trap… then I'll destroy you both. I'll tear your beauty apart and make you ugly."
He nearly burst from rage imagining Eden's flawless face.
But then he remembered… the virtual recordings the Savior still possessed.
Those humiliating videos of his defeat.
Fulgrim's body trembled. His breath caught. That shame had never left him.
If those recordings were ever leaked—he'd become the laughingstock of the Eye of Terror.
He couldn't bear that thought.
After a long, painful silence, Fulgrim took a breath to calm his nerves.
"I'll deal with Guilliman first..." he muttered hatefully.
The Fallen Phoenix whispered with burning malice.
...
The Fungal Abyss.
Everything was covered in writhing black mycelium.
This was the Fungal Abyss—Mortarion, the Death Lord and fallen Primarch's domain—usually nested within his Chamber of Clocks.
That eerie chamber shifted locations frequently: sometimes within the Black Citadel of the Plague Planet, sometimes deep in the Rot Nest of Corpse Hollow, and occasionally, it would even manifest within the Warp itself.
At the heart of the abyss, a giant pendulum clock had stopped swinging. Mortarion stood solemnly, one hand resting on the pendulum-weapon known as the Silent Blade, conducting some arcane ritual.
Above the pendulum, within the bell of the clock, the moaning specter of his mutated adoptive father stared outward.
"By the Lord of Plagues... this victory is absurd..."
Mortarion glared into the cauldron of rot before him, thick with disease and memory, as images of the Baal celebration shimmered in its depths. His breathing apparatus hissed sharply.
He doubted the validity of the victory.
No matter how skilled the Savior was, it was inconceivable that he could have secured such a swift and decisive win over the Tyranids—especially alone.
Even under Guilliman's guidance, this level of success was... unnatural.
The Chaos Gods did not deny the Savior's power—but this victory was unprecedented, nearly inconceivable.
They struggled to accept it.
As such, the entities of Chaos had begun their investigations.
If the Savior truly was that powerful…
Then he was potentially a greater threat than the Lord Commander. And if that was the case, certain long-laid plans would need to be revised—or perhaps the Savior would need to be eliminated first, before Humanity could be properly broken.
However, due to the massive psychic interference from the Tyranid Hive Mind, both the Warp and realspace had been disrupted.
It was nearly impossible to directly observe what had actually transpired in the war.
Mortarion had dispatched swarms of fungal plague flies across the Warp and scattered systems, hunting for fragments of truth.
Using Warp residue and whispers of the dead, he pieced together a tentative version of events.
It pointed to a terrifying possibility—Ka'Bandha, Khorne's favored daemon and greatest blood-crazed warrior, had launched an assault on Baal.
And according to whispered rumors...
Ka'Bandha had clashed violently with the Tyranids.
The Savior had even praised the sheer brutality of the daemon army under Ka'Bandha's command.
Were it not for the bloodthirsty onslaught of that Chaos host mowing down swarms of Tyranids, the Savior could never have achieved victory so swiftly.
Allegedly, a duel between Ka'Bandha and the Savior had been interrupted by the Tyranid assault.
This scattered information painted a plausible picture: Ka'Bandha had attacked Baal, was intercepted by the Hive Fleet, and an all-out battle ensued.
The daemon lord crippled the Tyranids—and the Savior seized that opportunity to win.
It made sense.
The blood-mad legions of Khorne didn't care about friend or foe—they attacked all without hesitation, including themselves.
Thus, this theory was far easier for the other Chaos Lords to accept.
Without Ka'Bandha's help, Humanity had no hope of defeating the Tyranids alone.
Mortarion believed the same.
Even so, he did not underestimate the Savior.
Though not yet as threatening as Guilliman, the Primarch of Hope had begun to display a sharp edge.
He was not to be ignored.
"…Father Nurgle's instructions may need some adjustment," Mortarion rasped through cracked, whispering breaths.
He sent a psychic summons—to Ku'gath, the Plaguefather's most cherished Great Unclean One, devourer of the mightiest disease ever concocted.
A mass of tangled mycelial roots formed into the bloated, decaying frame of Ku'gath's temporary body.
"What is it, Mortarion?" Ku'gath grumbled with characteristic gloom. "I have far too many disease samples to catalog..."
His eternally depressed voice clashed jarringly with the typical mirth of Nurgle's demons.
He hated laughter and celebratory music.
Yet in Nurgle's realm, such cheer was inescapable, only deepening his misery—an eternally emo beast of burden.
Mortarion instructed Ku'gath:
Aside from preparing a god-killing divine plague for Guilliman, he would now also need to create a new plague specifically for the Savior.
This made things significantly harder.
"Ah… how awful..." Ku'gath visibly slumped, voice thick with resentment.
"That means I'll have to spend seven Warp-years, seven months, seven hours, seven minutes, and seven seconds just to find seventy-seven more diseases..."
"You still have time," Mortarion replied coolly.
"The Scourged Stars campaign is still in preparation. Father Nurgle's great work is only now awakening. Don't you want to contribute more to His cause?"
"Remember—you devoured the Father's most perfect plague…"
Ku'gath, once a mere nurgling, had fallen into the Grand Cauldron of Plagues and accidentally consumed the greatest disease Nurgle had ever created.
It transformed him into the most powerful Great Unclean One alive.
Nurgle had been devastated—He would never again be able to replicate that masterpiece.
And yet, He did not punish Ku'gath.
He loved him even more, not wanting to sadden his most treasured creation.
This only made Ku'gath more guilty, more melancholic.
Now, with Mortarion's reminder, Ku'gath felt deeply manipulated.
"You've torn open my wounds again," he sighed. "Fine. I'll gather the ingredients…"
With deep sorrow, the First Favorite of Nurgle vanished from the Fungal Abyss.
Mortarion cast a final look into the cauldron's images—then extinguished them.
The joy of the Imperium was fleeting.
Soon, Father Nurgle's love would return. His plague-flies would flood system after system.
But first, he would wait. He would prepare.
The Death Lord turned and descended deeper into the Fungal Abyss.
The Scourged Stars would be the beachhead for Nurgle's grand invasion.
...
Khorne's Realm – The Brass Citadel.
Upon the Brass Throne, a hulking red figure sat in silence.
Khorne's wrathful flame burned without end.
It had been a long time since Ka'Bandha led his army to Baal.
And even as humanity now celebrated victory—there was still no sign of him.
No one knew where he'd gone.
Inside the hall…
Khorne's greater daemons whispered among themselves.
Since Ka'Bandha's failed invasion, his reputation had collapsed.
No longer did the daemons fear him—many even prepared to challenge him.
Some declared outright: Ka'Bandha had failed as the First Favorite. He should be punished.
Others pointed out that Ka'Bandha hadn't won a single major battle in years.
The mockery grew louder.
Some daemons, still angry at their losses, demanded compensation.
They had lent Ka'Bandha entire legions—and now, they were all gone.
Among them, Angrath, the former First Favorite, stayed quiet… but cold amusement glittered in his gaze.
Ka'Bandha's time was up.
And when he fell, Angrath would reclaim his throne.
Upon the Brass Throne, Khorne said nothing.
But His fury brewed beneath the silence.
Even He seemed displeased.
Khorne could sense that Ka'Bandha remained somewhere in the galaxy…
But not where.
Not doing what.
As a Warp God, even He struggled to pierce the barriers between realities.
So He exerted His power to contact Ka'Bandha directly.
The result?
Ka'Bandha hung up on Him.
BOOM—!!
Khorne's rage erupted, flooding the entire realm in searing, blood-colored fire.
But still, no one knew where Ka'Bandha was—or what he was doing.
...
Vigilus System.
War raged without end.
Across the stars, on every surface, endless battles raged between Imperial forces, Chaos legions, and alien races.
This was the most brutal battlefield in the entire galaxy.
VMMMM—
Abaddon the Despoiler's flagship, the Planet Killer, hovered above.
Its massive weapons fired—blasting an enemy battleship to pieces.
Within the bridge...
Abaddon stood tall, encased in black armor. Only his blood-red eyes shone through.
But his thoughts weren't on Vigilus.
He was focused far away—on Baal.
The Warmaster of Chaos didn't care for celebrations.
He only cared where Guilliman's fleets were.
Now that Guilliman was in the Baal system…
That meant the Indomitus Crusade's First Fleet would be slow to respond to any threats in the Dark Veil.
If it responded at all.
Abaddon's eyes burned brighter.
He made his decision.
He would now commit the fleets once reserved to counter Guilliman directly into the war in the Dark Veil.
And more.
He would send everything.
To end this fast.
"…Perhaps it's time to begin the Fourteenth Black Crusade," he thought.
(End of Chapter)
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