Chapter 106: Duelling a Rat?

Khârn touched his shattered pauldron in disbelief. This xenos had actually evaded his strike? The realization ignited a boundless conflagration of war-fury within his heart.

Khârn leveled Gorechild at Queek, his voice a distorted roar of rage. "Xenos! You have earned the right to die by the hand of Khârn, Chosen of Khorne! Speak your name! Let me howl it in prayer when I offer your skull to the Skull Throne!!"

Queek’s whiskers twitched. With a look of pure loathing, he crossed his Warp-power sword and power pick, grinding them together to send a shower of emerald sparks flying like a whetstone’s kiss. He glared at Khârn, his voice a manic, epileptic screech: "Khorne? Khorne?! No-no! Queek hates-loathes this… Great Horned Rat YES-YES, Khorne-thing NO-NO!!"

Queek truly detested Khorne. Though he was the most "Khornate" of all Skaven, as a child of the Rat he instinctively worshipped the Great Horned Rat, and he found the concept of "Blood for the Blood God, regardless of the source" repulsive. As a Skaven, Queek only wanted the enemy’s blood; spilling his own was simply bad business.

"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!!" The expression beneath Khârn’s helm grew more ferocious by the second. He swung both axes in unison, charging Queek like a runaway crimson locomotive.

This full-tilt charge put Queek under immediate pressure. Fortunately, having undergone Astartes augmentation, his speed and reflexes could now rival those of the transhuman giants, in fact, thanks to the Skaven’s hyper-accelerated metabolism, Queek’s twitch-reactions were arguably faster than Khârn’s.

Gorechild roared as it swept toward Queek’s face. The Warlord of Eight Peaks, possessing no sense of warrior’s pride, immediately performed a frantic "rat-roll" to dive under the arc of the axe.

"Queek! Kill you-you!!" Queek continued to tumble across the dirt, his twin weapons blurring in a frenzied whirl against Khârn’s shins and ankles, forcing the Chosen of Khorne to stumble back.

Khârn slammed his axes downward to pin Queek’s weapons, then delivered a brutal front kick. The sheer force dented Queek’s power armor and sent the Skaven flying a dozen meters. Queek hit the ground and lay there, whimpering and twitching, seemingly incapacitated.

Khârn closed in for the execution, his eyes fixed on Queek’s head. Even Lucius, watching from afar, thought Queek was finished; the Archmagos was already preparing to intervene personally.

But then, the prone Queek flashed a cunning, jagged grin. His tail snaked behind his back, plucking a Votann electromagnetic grenade from a pouch on his lower spine.

"YES! Die-die! No one beats Queek! NO ONE!!" With a frantic claw-flick, Queek hurled the EM grenade directly into Khârn’s face.

"What?!" Khârn was caught completely off guard. He had assumed Queek was a noble, if alien, berserker like himself, committed to a fight to the death. It seemed xenos were xenos after all, treacherous to the core.

The EM grenade detonated against Khârn’s helm. The high-tech Votann device sent a massive surge through Khârn’s systems, temporarily paralyzing the power cells of his armor. His movements seized as he was suddenly forced to carry the dead weight of several hundred kilos of ceramite and fiber-bundles.

Queek seized the opening. His arms blurred into a "windmill" of erratic, berserk strikes, raining a flurry of desperate blows upon Khârn. Seeing the danger, Khârn hurled one of his chainaxes at Queek, the heavy weapon striking the rat-man and knocking him back, halting the assault.

"Treacherous xenos, you will not escape!!" Khârn bellowed, straining against the locked joints of his dead armor as he forced himself upright through sheer, bloody-minded strength.

The sight terrified Queek. His beady eyes darted around, noting that his Red Guard were beginning to take casualties. He decided the math didn't add up. Springing into the air, he landed in the thick of the melee between the World Eaters and the Red Guard.

His power pick shattered several skulls in an instant. Queek shrieked: "Retreat-flee! Now! Queek does not do bad deals! Yes-yes!"

Ska Bloodtail swept his Warp-Lightning Glaive in a wide arc, knocking back a World Eater armed with a massive greataxe. He nodded to Queek; though silent, his loyalty was absolute.

The battle had reached a white-hot intensity. Led by Ska, the Stormvermin of the Red Guard began unleashing arcs of warp-lightning from their glaives to push back the ferocious Berzerkers.

When the lightning struck, neither the World Eaters’ rage, their mutated musculature, nor their power armor could protect them. The warp-energy left charred, weeping furrows in their flesh.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Queek screamed, leading the Red Guard as they turned tail and bolted.

Khârn watched the xenos flee with a murderous roar, desperate to order a pursuit, but his armor’s power had not yet reset. When the other World Eaters tried to give chase, they were met with a parting volley of warp-lightning.

Forced to take cover from the unnatural bolts, the World Eaters were reduced to firing their bolters in frustration as they watched the Red Guard vanish into the distance.

"Hahaha, truly entertaining. What a pathetic display," Typhus jeered from his vantage point.

Though he loathed xenos as much as any man, Typhus was Nurgle’s "favored son" who had dragged his entire Legion into damnation. In a "game" personally orchestrated by the Grandfather, he wouldn't dare slip up. Seeing Khârn humiliated by a rat-man filled him with glee; he immediately ordered the Death Guard to fortify their positions, intending to win through a war of attrition.

Mad as he was, Khârn was no fool. He pulled the World Eaters back to regroup and repair. Thus, the three-way skirmish between the "Rat-startes" and the Legions came to a temporary, panting halt.

Inside the Forge of Souls…

Lucius wore a look of smug satisfaction. Queek hadn't shamed him. Once this was over, he’d promote the rat to "Chosen" as a reward.

Slaanesh was even more delighted. Seeing Khorne’s most prized champion made to look a fool by a common rat-creature made the Dark Prince hum with joy. Slaanesh turned to Khorne, preening and swaying provocatively.

"Ooh~ I never expected the Lord of Skulls’ own Chosen to end up in such a state. How tragic, hahaha~ And if I’m not mistaken, our newcomer hasn’t even officially Chosen him yet. Oh, how very sad~"

Slaanesh’s repeated taunts finally snapped Khorne’s patience. The Blood God surged to his feet, eyes glowing like molten magma as he glared at Slaanesh and the Great Horned Rat.

Slaanesh, completely unbothered, draped a long, slender, silk-smooth arm around Lucius’s neck. A serpentine tongue flicked out from a rose-bud mouth, emitting a soft hiss.

"Don't be afraid, newcomer. With big brutes like this, you have to show them who's boss before they'll calm down~" Slaanesh teased, clearly trying to draw Lucius into a common front against the Blood God.

Just as Khorne looked ready to strike, Nurgle reached out and pulled him back. The Great Father spoke in a heavy, jovial rumble: "Now, now... don't be a spoilsport. It’s rare we all play together. Don’t ruin the fun for everyone."

Though he sounded like a peacemaker, Nurgle was clearly siding with Slaanesh and the Great Horned Rat, after all, Typhus hadn't embarrassed himself yet.

With three gods standing together and the Emperor watching coldly from the sidelines, Khorne knew he was outnumbered. He took the opening to sit back down, simmering in a cold rage.

"Giggle~ Well done, darling~" Slaanesh let out a bell-like laugh, licking Lucius’s cheek with a flick of the tongue as a reward.

Lucius glanced at the gods but said nothing. In his eyes, the Four were like four spoiled players with the power to unmake reality. But that suited him just fine.

"Let us continue," Lucius said. "The main course is about to be served."

Chapter 107: No Need for Chivalry, Everyone, Get Him!

Titus led the Ultramarines in a relentless purge of the lesser Skaven. These gaunt, diminutive, and loathsome xenos shrieked as they hurled themselves at the Astartes, only to be crushed under the sheer momentum of the Space Marines' armored charge.

The Angels of the Emperor didn’t even bother to pursue the fleeing ratmen; their escape speed was unnatural, and no matter how many were slaughtered, their swarming numbers never seemed to dwindle.

As they navigated the twisted corridors, the Purity Seals affixed to their shoulder guards and plastrons suddenly began to smolder. When the parchment bearing the Emperor’s holy words bursts into flame, it is a definitive sign of overwhelming Warp-taint and filth.

"Gadriel, proceed with caution!" Titus signaled, glancing at the charred remains of his Purity Seals.

"Understood, my Lord!" Gadriel nodded, raising his plasma incinerator and firing at a heavy iron grate ahead. The superheated matter melted the barrier instantly, clearing the path forward.

Bzzzzzz...

A cloud of flies, each the size of a man’s fist, suddenly swarmed the interlopers. Thick carpets of nauseating, yellow-green fungi choked every corner, and even the cold iron was encrusted with disgusting, rusted clusters of bacterial growth.

"Burn them!" Titus commanded without hesitation. Two heavy Astartes armed with flamers stepped forward, unleashing twin torrents of promethium flame.

Fwoosh—!

The intense heat spared not even the supernatural carrion-flies of Nurgle. The fist-sized insects fell in a cacophony of wet, popping explosions. The pyrotechnic specialists did not stop, advancing steadily to clear a path for their battle-brothers.

Witnessing this, Nurgle frowned. Patting his rotund belly, the Great Father muttered, "This is no good. So many lovely lives... humans truly are cruel, just like this one here, who scorched my garden."

Nurgle gestured toward the Emperor, grumbling and whispering curses. The Emperor remained impassive, his silence leaving Nurgle frustrated.

"Even I have grown weary," Nurgle announced, his tone shifting. "The games are over. Whosoever takes the head of this human shall be the victor. What say you? I shall use their skulls as compost bins to compensate for the tiny lives they have reaped!"

Nurgle’s tone was deadly serious. Having seen his garden burned and having felt the sting of holy fire himself, he had developed a deep loathing for flame-based attacks.

Khorne, still stinging from his earlier loss of face, saw this as an opportunity to reclaim his honor. Victory would settle all scores. He bellowed his agreement immediately.

"Heehee~ since that’s the case, the previous bouts don’t count. I demand to rejoin~" Slaanesh giggled, leaning against Lucius and pressing her perfectly shaped, teardrop breasts against him with wicked playfulness. "Don't be so stiff, darling~ it’s no fun if the rules are too rigid~"

Lucius, of course, was immune to Slaanesh’s temptations. He surveyed the expressions of the others; seeing no objections, he nodded. "Very well. Let it continue!"

"Heehee~ so considerate, darling~" Slaanesh laughed. With a wave of a hand, the resurrected Lucius and his scattered warband were swept up by a decadent gale and hurled back into the fray!

Nurgle grinned and issued a direct command to his favored son, Typhus.

Typhus, who had been wondering what the Plaguefather intended, felt the command flood his mind with terrifying clarity.

He knelt devoutly on one knee. "It shall be done. Victory shall be mine, for the glory of the Grandfather!"

Under Nurgle’s personal blessing, the region was instantly saturated with Typhus’s pestilent power. Violent warp energy surged through the area, forcing even the World Eaters to recoil.

"This is the foul sorcery of Nurgle… Ready the incendiaries and gas masks!" Metaurus shouted. As Titus’s former mentor, his experience was vast.

But before he could finish, a volley of bolt shells detonated at their feet.

Through a thick fog of spores, dozens of bloated, emerald-armored Astartes emerged like a living wall. At their head stood a figure whose single horn pierced his helmet, wielding a massive, terrifying manreaper.

"First the Emperor’s Children, and now the traitors of the Death Guard... where in the hell have we ended up?" Gadriel lamented, raising his plasma weapon to track the target.

"Hahaha, you shall be joyous offerings to the Grandfather. Be honored, lapdogs of the False Emperor," Typhus chuckled, his voice thick with phlegm. Without further ceremony, he raised his great scythe and charged.

A swarm of flies accompanied the heavy tread of the Death Guard. Moving like living trenches, they maintained a steady rhythm of fire from their rusted bolters, hurling plague bolts at the Ultramarines.

Titus reacted instantly, executing a tactical roll behind cover and returning fire. Their bolt rounds slammed into the corpulent bodies of the Death Guard, but they only blasted away chunks of necrotic flesh, failing to slow these heralds of Nurgle.

"Come... come into the Grandfather’s embrace!" Typhus roared, advancing while firing, intent on crushing the foolish followers of the False Emperor.

A targeting laser suddenly locked onto Typhus’s head. A split second later, a high-caliber round detonated, obliterating half of his skull.

Yet, Typhus did not fall. Myriads of daemonic flies swarmed the wound like bees building a hive, stitching his face and helmet back together in seconds.

"Dammit, it’s useless!" an Astartes scout cursed from his sniping position.

"Cover us! Gadriel, Metaurus, on me! Snipers and flamers, provide support!" Titus unsheathed his chainsword. Years of combat had taught him that only the righteous bite of cold steel could truly bring down such foes.

As the roar of the chainsword filled the air, Gadriel activated his power fist, and Metaurus raised his storm shield and power sword. The three of them lunged toward the Death Guard in unison.

They were joined by a dozen Ultramarines wielding bolters and chainswords.

Typhus swung his manreaper in a wide, sweeping arc. Titus parried the blow with a heavy two-handed block, realizing instantly that the Champion of Nurgle possessed monstrous strength.

"Such a sacrifice... has true value," Typhus hissed. He didn't believe he could lose, putting his weight into the scythe to force Titus's blade back.

The resilience of the Death Guard was beyond expectation. Titus resorted to a brutal maneuver, firing his bolt pistol point-blank into Typhus’s plastron. A spray of concentrated filth erupted, drenching Titus!

A sound like hissing sulfuric acid erupted, and a wave of unprecedented agony tore through both Titus’s body and soul. This bile, infused with Nurgle’s direct power, could normally reduce a transhuman warrior to a broken husk, forcing them to kneel in supplication to the Plague God.

But in that moment, the Emperor’s eyes flared with golden light. A surge of overwhelming psychic and divine power instantly purged Titus’s agony.

"You're cheating, you bastard!" Khorne roared in fury. "Then don't blame me! Khârn, take his head!"

"Heehee~ I can't miss out on this~ go, Lucius! Do not disappoint me again, or I shall have to issue a... small punishment~"

Lucius (the observer) saw that the three gods were determined to challenge the Emperor. He smiled nonchalantly, nodded to the Emperor, and then shouted: "Get back in there, Queek!"

Simultaneously, Khârn, Lucius (the Eternal), and Queek Headtaker received the direct mandates of their respective gods. They turned as one to hunt Titus. However, because each god demanded that their champion be the one to strike the killing blow, the four champions were incapable of anything resembling cooperation.

Chapter 108: The Four Gods Take the Field

The Ultramarines, locked in a grueling melee with the Death Guard, suddenly realized they were being beset by three new enemy hostiles from three different vectors.

One was undeniably the World Eaters. Another was the Emperor’s Children warband led by Lucius, whom they had only just put down. The third was the xenos swarm they had been slaughtering for hours, but these ratmen were different; they were not the cowering, gaunt wretches from before. Instead, they stood nearly three meters tall, encased in power armor that rivaled the bulk of an Astartes.

"Titus, orders?!" Metaurus shouted, bracing his storm shield against a heavy blow. He kicked a Death Guard marine back a few paces to regroup with Titus.

Titus fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Orders? There were now four distinct enemy factions, including the xenos. What was there to do but survive?

He parried a strike from Typhus and roared over the vox: "Prepare to fall back!"

"Hehehe... no one escapes the Grandfather’s grasp!" Typhus growled. He had no intention of letting the sacrifices his patron had personally marked for death slip away. From his mouth, his ears, and every weeping pore in his necrotic skin, a literal cloud of Destroyer Hives erupted.

These flies were the size of fists, their buzzing a cacophony of droning laughter emanating from tiny, rotting human faces.

The Ultramarines swung their chainswords frantically, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a spoon. Sensing his opening, Typhus ignited the power field of his Manreaper and swung the massive scythe directly at Titus's neck.

"You... are mine! You cannot flee the Grandfather’s rot!"

But a faster shadow intervened. A shimmering blade lashed out, parrying the Manreaper with contemptuous ease. It was Lucius the Eternal. A mocking, twisted grin split his scarred face as he glanced at Typhus before instantly turning his blade toward Titus.

The momentary distraction gave Titus the window he needed. He blocked Lucius’s sword and used his bolter like a mace, smashing it into the swordsman's unnaturally smooth, ecstatic face to create distance.

"No-no! He belongs to me-me!"

Queek Headtaker had stealthily led his Red Guard around the Ultramarines' rear. At his signal, a synchronized volley of warp-lightning erupted. Several Ultramarines, caught between the Death Guard and Emperor’s Children, were incinerated instantly alongside their enemies.

"Yes-yes! No one takes Queek’s trophies, NO ONE!" Queek cackled. Wielding his two signature weapons with terrifying proficiency, he leapt through the air at Titus.

Titus, having just repelled Lucius, was forced to pivot. Queek’s warp-forged blade bit into his chainsword while the Dwarf-Gouger power maul swung in a lethal arc toward his midsection!

Bang-bang-bang!

A series of precision bolt rounds slammed into Queek’s maul. The explosions numbed the rat-lord's paws—Gadriel’s marksman cover had arrived just in time.

Metaurus held the line with grim determination, his Relic Shield, inscribed with the bones of saints, shuddering under the onslaught. Two of his battle-brothers moved to screen Titus from Typhus and Lucius, while the remaining Ultramarines tightened their formation into a defensive circle, unleashing a wall of bolter fire.

They stood firm against the "Rat-startes" of the Red Guard. These vermin possessed the strength and reflexes of Primaris Space Marines, yet they lacked the millenia-honed tactical cohesion and discipline of the True Astartes. Even outnumbered, the Ultramarines held, the only real threats being the savage ferocity of Queek and Ska Bloodtail.

Queek’s frenzied assaults were parried by two Astartes working in perfect synchronicity. Realizing his direct approach was failing, the Headtaker dropped into a low, undignified crouch. He swung his power maul at an Astartes’ leg, the disruption field shearing through ceramite and gene-enhanced muscle alike.

"AGHHH!!"

The Ultramarine was dragged from the formation by the sheer force. Before he could recover, the Red Guard swarmed him, hacking him into bloody segments with their warp-lightning halberds.

Queek chattered in delight, realizing the Astartes were less agile in their lower carriage. The Headtaker began a "rolling" combat style; any Astartes who tried to stomp him would find their limb severed. Against the mining-grade power fields of the Votann and the destructive edge of warp-blades, ceramite offered no more protection than parchment.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!"

Khârn and his World Eaters had no interest in flanking or subtlety. Khorne had given them a target, and the Betrayer would deliver.

Khârn charged headlong into the center of the fray, right between the Emperor’s Children and the Death Guard. Though his ultimate objective was Titus, he viewed the two Chaos champions as exquisite secondary offerings. After all, Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows.

He was a whirlwind of carnage, his chainaxe Gorechild moving so fast it became a crimson blur. He tore into the space between Lucius and Typhus, while his World Eaters crashed into the ranks of the traitors like a living hammer, descending into a berserk frenzy where friend and foe were slaughtered alike.

Single-handedly, Khârn forced both Typhus and Lucius back. In the Forge of Souls, Khorne let out a triumphant roar, looking at Nurgle and Slaanesh with pure disdain.

"Now, that is how it is done," Khorne growled in a tone of rapturous fury.

Watching from his throne, Lucius (the observer) muttered to himself, "A fine display of 'curved loyalty' there."

But that loyalty, however twisted, was effective. Khârn’s monstrous martial prowess cleared a path through the minions of the other gods. Empowered by Khorne’s blessing, Khârn became immune even to the debilitating touch of Nurgle’s sorcery.

"You shall not pass!"

Metaurus raised his shield to intercept the Betrayer, but it was an exercise in futility. Khârn’s burning eyes locked onto him for a fraction of a second before his axes fell. The impact felt like tons of falling masonry; Metaurus cried out as he was kicked aside like a piece of refuse.

Titus was currently struggling against the combined assault of Queek and Ska Bloodtail. These xenos were deadlier than any he had ever faced. As he struggled to regain his footing, Khârn burst through the last of the Ultramarine defenders, his axe aimed straight for Titus’s throat.

The neck of the legendary veteran, the hero of Graia and Avarax, was already beginning to part under the chain-teeth. Decapitation seemed inevitable.

"HRAAAAGH!!"

Suddenly, Titus’s eyes erupted with blinding golden radiance. The wound on his neck sealed instantly amidst the holy light. An aura of divine majesty cascaded from his armor. The desperate, cornered warrior was gone; in his place stood a vessel of celestial power.

"No... this isn't just luck. This is divine intervention," Lucius remarked, watching the Emperor manifest his will through Titus.

"HAHAHA! You’ve finally stepped into the ring! Then I shall play with you myself!" Khorne roared. His consciousness surged through the Warp like a river of gore, flooding into Khârn’s body.

The Blood God had wanted a piece of the Emperor for an eternity, but "He on the Throne" usually played his cards too close to the chest. Seeing the Emperor manifest to save Titus, Khorne knew this was his chance.

Nurgle’s face twisted in rage. He still had a score to settle for the burning of his garden. He hauled his massive, flabby form up, struck his plague-bell, and poured his essence into Typhus.

The surrounding mortals were blasted back by the sheer pressure of the Warp. Seeing Titus favored by the Emperor a second time, Gadriel, Metaurus, and the surviving Ultramarines fell to their knees, shouting the Emperor’s name in religious ecstasy.

The Death Guard, Emperor’s Children, and World Eaters were blinded by the holy light. The rotting flesh of the Death Guard began to dissolve, unable to withstand the purity, until their leaders, Khârn and Typhus, erupted with their own dark, counter-vailing energies.

To the mortals, it looked like a clash of blessings. In reality, the three Gods were using mortal shells to stand face-to-face. Lucius (the Eternal) was the only one left out; the Emperor cast a single, dismissive glance at him, and the swordsman was instantly consumed by golden fire, vanishing with a shriek.

"Your ambitions end here," the Emperor spoke through Titus, his voice a calm, resonant thunder.

"You aren't going in?" Lucius (the observer) asked.

Slaanesh merely watched the Emperor incinerate her champion and let out a bored yawn. With a flick of her wrist, she plucked Lucius’s soul from the ashes and restored him elsewhere. "I’m not so uncouth. I prefer something more interesting than waving sticks and stones about~"

She ran her long, forked tongue across Lucius’s cheek; the barbed surface elicited a strange mixture of sharp pain and inexplicable pleasure.

"Your daemon is quite exquisite. Better to do something more... enjoyable... than these barbarians~"

Slaanesh was openly attempting to seduce him. Though her Warp-powers had little hold over him, she could still manipulate form to tempt.

Lucius, knowing Slaanesh’s "pleasures" were far from mild, turned his face away and stood up. "Queek, the Great Horned Rat has arrived!"

With a surge of intent, Lucius threw his power and consciousness into the body of Queek Headtaker, who had been about to turn tail and flee the divine spectacle in terror.

Chapter 109: Four Gods Descend | The Silence of the Fifth

If the Four Gods had previously been merely "chatting in a data-vault," they had now fully logged into a grand arena of carnage, ready to execute their foes with the most "intimate and friendly" of death-blows.

"Lord Titus... you?" Gadriel looked at Titus. Though the Captain’s physical form remained unchanged, a majesty and power that seared the very soul radiated from him, causing Gadriel's voice to tremble.

The veteran Metaurus, however, reacted instantly. He fell to both knees before the figure that was at once familiar and utterly alien. A look of transcendent revelation washed over his face as he whispered, "…My Lord... Our Emperor, Our Hope... Master of Mankind…"

Witnessing Metaurus’s display, the remaining Ultramarines, Gadriel included, stared in absolute astonishment. Then, as if a crushing weight had been lifted from their spirits, they knelt, casting aside their bolters and blades like devout cenobites entering prayer.

"Withdraw and fulfill your duties. When this matter is concluded, Titus shall return to you," the Emperor spoke. His voice carried a resonant echo… calm, yet brooking no defiance. Simultaneously, the labyrinthine, shifting terrain of the metal arena peeled away like soft clay, opening a direct path for extraction.

"…As You command, King of Kings." Metaurus was the first to find his feet, his eyes burning with renewed resolve. He felt his strength, and that of his brothers, restored to its absolute zenith.

The other Astartes reclaimed their weapons, saluting the Emperor one final time before retreating without hesitation, obeying His divine mandate. For them, this was a glory beyond measure; the memory of this moment alone would sustain them until the hour of their deaths.

Under the Emperor’s crushing psychic pressure, none dared bar their way.

The traitors, the Emperor’s Children, Death Guard, and World Eaters, did not move to intercept. Before that holy radiance, these oath-breakers recalled the vows they had long ago forsaken. They bowed their heads in a mixture of deep shame and primal terror, like children caught in a monstrous transgression.

As for the Red Guard, the Skaven were gripped by pure, unadulterated cowardice.

But suddenly, a surge of crimson, frenzied warp-energy erupted from Khârn. The Chosen of Khorne, who moments ago had been trembling with shame, was instantly filled with a malevolent aura that rivaled the Emperor's own.

Bolstered by this presence, the other World Eaters snapped back into a state of fearless, Butcher’s-Nail-induced rage, even baring their teeth at the Master of Mankind.

Khârn, now a vessel for Khorne, let out a sneering roar. His chainaxe, now seemingly forged from living, burning blood, pointed directly at the Emperor. "Come! In blood and iron, entertain me! Feed the Blood God!"

The World Eaters were no longer afraid, but the Death Guard fared worse. Caught between the Emperor’s soul-crushing light and Khorne’s aura of fury, they oscillated between repentance and mindless rage, until a power of bloated, twisted vitality descended upon Typhus.

The Death Guard were restored to their "glory." Their decaying forms, which had begun to crumble under the psychic pressure, solidified and surged with unnatural vigor.

Chittering Nurglings crawled from the ruptured plates of their armor, their shrill screams rising in a rhythmic chant: "Sevenfold plague, sevenfold curse! Sevenfold blessings!"

The ground beneath Typhus’s feet instantly rotted; metal turned to mold and sprouted weeping pustules. This domain of decay expanded rapidly until it collided with the crimson tides of Khorne and the golden light of the Emperor, stabilizing only when the three divine realms held each other in a stalemate.

"Haha... do not fear, my children. Embrace your change, embrace my gifts..." Nurgle’s jovial, tectonic laughter boomed, re-congealing the filthy faith of the Death Guard. They turned their gaze toward the Emperor, their eyes burning with horrific, blasphemous intent.

"No-no! Bad-bad! We go, run-flee!" Ska Bloodtail hissed urgently to Queek. The situation had spiraled beyond comprehension. These humans had suddenly become entities of such scale that the Skaven felt like tiny rats drowning in a galestorm.

The rest of the Red Guard were paralyzed, their legs shaking as they foamed at the mouth, whimpering prayers to the Great Horned Rat.

But as Queek turned to lead the rout, a twisting, invisible darkness manifested within him. The Headtaker’s twitching body suddenly snapped upright.

Queek rose, twirling his power-maul with practiced ease as if it were a mere toy. He walked unhurriedly into the fourth corner of the arena, a zone of ruin and chaos squeezed between the other three divine domains.

Lucius glanced at the other three and smirked. "Hope I’m not late, hehe~"

Across the entirety of Ironward III, every Skaven felt the sudden, suffocating presence of the Great Horned Rat.

Deep underground, Chief Grey Seer Pattriksh, mid-ritual, collapsed before the altar. He prayed fervently, his heart soaring with the delusion that this was a supreme omen of favor.

"The King of Many Tails!" Ska Bloodtail cried out. Sensing the terrifying aura radiating from his old friend and superior, he and the entire Red Guard prostrated themselves, pressing their snouts into the dirt. "The Horned Rat walks among us!"

The most pitiable of all were the Emperor’s Children. Their leader, Lucius the Eternal, had already been obliterated by the Emperor's initial psychic flare, and Slaanesh had no desire to crudely possess a nameless crowd of jesters.

Without a god to shield them, they were ravaged by the passive auras of the others. Mold and pox erupted across their "perfect" skin; mutated crimson muscle swelled, crushing their own bones; their faces elongated into muzzles sprouting filthy fur; and finally, golden flames ignited within them, incinerating their bodies and souls alike.

The Dark Gods didn't even notice them. They were merely collateral damage, the "static" of a divine conflict.

None of the gods cared for the "clowns." Their respective followers, save for the lone Emperor-Titus, stood fearlessly behind their masters.

"I GO FIRST!!" Khorne, ever the most impatient, roared. Controlling Khârn’s body, he lunged toward the Emperor like a crimson hurricane.

His speed was a blur even to the enhanced senses of the Astartes. Titus vanished a heartbeat later. In less than a billionth of a microsecond, a titanic explosion of sparks engulfed the arena.

The Emperor, wielding a blade of living fire, clashed with the twin axes of Khorne. They moved with a strength and velocity that defied the laws of physics, every strike laden with world-ending psychic force.

"Finally, a real fight with you! HAHAHA!!!" Khorne’s laughter was incessant. It seemed the "Blood-Father" was thoroughly enjoying the chance to step off his throne and spill blood personally.

"Haha, why don't we have a little practice ourselves? Don't worry, consider it a friendly discussion on the meaning of life," the Nurgle-possessed Typhus chuckled toward Lucius. He raised his Manreaper with a mask of grandfatherly kindness, though his face remained hidden behind his helm.

Lucius flexed Queek’s limbs. This body was far superior to any Skaven Warlord he had piloted before. He bared his yellowed teeth. "Come then. I stand as The Corruptor!"

The Great Horned Rat had many aspects: the King of Many Tails for the brutality of war, the Twisted Breeder for chaotic evolution, the Shadow Lord for treachery, and the Corruptor for plague and death. Today, Lucius chose to challenge Nurgle on his own putrid turf.

Nurgle looked upon him with a doting, yet mocking gaze. He intended to teach this "little brother" a lesson: life is precious, and one should not merely embrace destruction. Why not become a shut-in god who fosters life? After all, what could be more perfect than a Black Plague?

Chapter 110: The Twilight of the Divine War

Those present were possessed of a singular, terrible grace; they were the sole witnesses to a direct conflict between the four powers of Chaos, even if those powers manifested only by possessing mortal husks rather than spilling their full, reality-shattering Warp essence into the materium.

Thus, the destruction was not world-ending, but strangely contained, focused with lethal precision.

For instance, the duel between Khorne and the Emperor, who stood but a single step removed from becoming the Dark King, though far exceeding the capabilities of mortals or even Primarchs, remained within the realm of physical comprehension.

Khorne roared with a fury that shook the foundations of the arena. Under His direct control, the physiological potential of Khârn’s body was pushed to its absolute breaking point. The Bloody One, who had sat upon His brass throne for aeons beyond counting, finally found a vessel through which to vent His primordial rage!

In contrast, the Emperor remained devoid of sorrow or joy. With the same cold, analytical stoicism He applied to any foe, He parried the Blood God’s blows, His golden radiance surging with every strike.

"Truly, only You can give me satisfaction!"

Faced with Khorne’s thunderous roar, the Emperor calmly raised His chainsword. The weapon, wreathed in the fires of the Imperial Truth, met the twin brass axes with a force rivaling Roboute Guilliman’s own blade.

"Your destruction was foreseen long ago," the Emperor spoke flatly. "I find no interest in this struggle."

As the World Eaters surged forward to overwhelm Him, the Emperor simply flicked His wrist. In a gout of spectral flame, a contingent of the Legion of the Damned, matching the traitors man for man, manifested to meet the charge in a grinding melee of fire and bone.

Meanwhile, the clash between Lucius, inhabiting Queek Headtaker, and Nurgle, inhabiting Typhus, was far less ornate.

Typhus’s scythe swept down in a clumsy yet titanic arc. Queek ducked low, his movements far swifter than the Herald of Misery's. He closed the distance instantly, his dual weapons carving a frantic, blurring rhythm against Typhus’s bloated form.

The Manreaper was too cumbersome for such close quarters. Queek’s blades tore deep gashes into the traitor, exposing yellowed fat and geysers of greenish-white pus beneath the necrotic flesh.

"Hahaha!"

Nurgle let out a wet, booming laugh. With a flick of His hand, Typhus’s massive plastron split open like a living maw; the traveler’s belly became a cavern of filth-encrusted fangs, spewing a tide of corruption and maggots directly at Queek!

This effluent could rot any existence in the galaxy, as it was a toxin capable of poisoning even the Aeldari gods. Yet, it failed to harm the entity before Him, for the Great Horned Rat had scavenged the very domains of Death and Ruin that Nurgle had long ago cast aside.

Whether it was the daemonic maggots or the trillions of viruses within the sludge, everything withered the moment it touched Queek’s aura. Under the authority of the Great Corruptor, the vibrant, sickly colors of the contagion turned grey and brittle. The pathogens succumbed to their own mortality before they could infect, collapsing into a pool of inert, lifeless water.

"No... you mustn't. Life is precious!" Nurgle wailed, His voice thick with faux-grief for the trillions of tiny lives extinguished.

Queek vaulted backward, creating space. "A virus is a weapon," he hissed. "It brings only one thing, Death! Swift and merciless, like the Great Plague of the past!"

The memory of the Black Plague’s slaughter across the cosmos was so profound that it empowered the Great Horned Rat’s aspect of the Corruptor to a level rivaling the other gods' primary portfolios.

"I shall correct your error, fledgling," Nurgle said, His tone shifting to one of genuine paternal irritation. He struck his scythe against the ground. He did not grow faster, but his weight became absolute.

It was as if a mountain of rotting meat were collapsing toward him. Lucius, through Queek, used his agility to dance around the rot-giant while the Death Guard and Red Guard tore into each other nearby.

Warp-lightning clashed with plague-bolts. Under the aegis of their respective deities, this skirmish of fewer than a hundred warriors unleashed more raw destruction than the combined might of several Space Marine Chapters.

…

After an indeterminate span, the fighting between the Emperor and Khorne ceased first.

The warriors beneath them had been reduced to ash. Finally, under the cover of a self-detonating Legion of the Damned Astartes, Titus delivered a psychic-charged punch directly into Khârn’s face.

"Bastard, you treacherous bastard!!"

With Khorne’s enraged howl, the god’s consciousness was wrenched back into the Immaterium. Ignoring the Blood God’s departing curses, the Emperor turned His gaze to the other side of the field.

The battle between Lucius and Nurgle had become a stagnant war of attrition. Queek’s strikes were fast as the wind, but every wound he inflicted on Typhus was instantly overgrown by hyper-mutated tumors.

By now, Typhus had become a mountain of meat, his body choked with morbid growths. Every wound had transformed into a weeping maw, a sickly eyeball, or a thrashing tentacle. Queek, conversely, had swelled to nearly five meters in height, his muscular frame looming like a true Verminlord.

"Enough, this tedious game ends now," the Emperor commanded. His eyes erupted in golden fire as a sweep of His chainsword sent a wave of flame to separate the two.

Nurgle, who never truly sought a fight to the death, desisted. He had only wished to tutor His "straying" younger brother on why pathogens should serve the coexistence of life rather than the silence of the grave.

Lucius, seeing the stalemate, had no reason to continue.

Slowly, the bodies of Typhus and Queek began to revert to their original forms. The arena was a wasteland of corpses; the Red Guard, including Ska Bloodtail, lay dead.

Lucius, unwilling to lose his investment, gestured with a hand. Dozens of soul-sparks appeared in his palm—the essences of Clan Mors, Clan Verminus, and Clan Rictus commanders. With a casual flick, he returned these souls to their broken bodies. The dead gasped, their wounds knitting shut as they scrambled up, clawing at themselves in terror.

"No-no! I was dead... I live! By the Horned Rat!" Ska Bloodtail cried, his terror reaching a new peak. Seeing the familiar yet terrifying figure of Queek, he realized his god had granted him a second life and began to prostrate himself in frantic worship.

"A minor interlude, Emperor. Let us see if Titus can manifest his own miracle," Lucius remarked. He withdrew his consciousness from Queek and cast the Warlord and his Red Guard back to the heart of Clan Mors.

As a reward for Queek’s performance, Lucius issued a divine mandate: slaughter thirteen rival powers as a sacrifice, and he would be named the Exalted Chosen.

Nurgle likewise resurrected Typhus’s retainers, the few remaining assets of the Traveler’s personal guard, and banished them back to the Death Guard flagship.

As the divine presence faded back into the Warp, Titus awoke in a daze. He scrambled to his feet, scanning the area, but found no trace of his foes. The grand, shifting arena had collapsed into a jagged graveyard of rebar and promethium soot.

"Emperor preserve me..." Titus whispered a prayer. Detecting the signals of his battle-brothers on his auspex, he began to make his way toward them.

…

Deep within the rat-nest of Ironward III, at the foot of a sacrificial altar, the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, Sarthorael the Ever-Watcher, suddenly felt a titanic power return to the world.

"So soon... an unexpected development," Sarthorael muttered to himself, his voice a grating mix of disappointment and curiosity. He had hoped to siphon the Grey Seers' sacrifices while the Great Horned Rat was distracted by the "game."

With the return of the Horned Rat’s full attention, he knew his schemes might face their usual "complications." Yet, a glint of avian malice lit his eyes. If he could deceive a Chaos God during a ritual, his power would surge beyond even that of Kairos Fateweaver.

What deception could be grander than hoodwinking a god at his own altar?

"No matter... all is according to plan. Such is the Way of Change."