Eden's sense of crisis grew stronger by the minute, yet he still could not identify what, exactly, he had overlooked.
He sighed.
"Fine. Leave the professional work to the professionals…"
He stopped obsessing over it. Instead, Eden recorded the premonition as a potential warning sign and forwarded it to his occult divination conclave.
After that, he issued an order to summon personnel from the Departmento Munitorum, bringing them into the emergency meeting for the Vigilus campaign.
…
Meanwhile, within the Warp.
A twisted, evil sky pressed down upon a barren plain. The dried earth was strewn with the dead and with dying, nonhuman constructs.
Most were grotesque hybrids of man and beast. Others were foul entities that violated the laws of matter and darkness alike.
They looked like failed products of cloning. Some even possessed a "holy," yet malformed, semblance.
Hrk—
A shattered head let out a pained groan, only to be crushed beneath a heavy ceramite boot, bursting into thick, reeking fluid.
"Throne-damn it. Why are there more and more of these things?"
A Word Bearers anointed warrior glanced down at the filth beneath his feet and spat in disgust.
Even among the fallen, few truly liked these fabricated blasphemies.
Yet he still had to obey orders, transporting materials to the experimental complex to create even more abominations.
That lord had been producing nonhuman constructs one after another through methods so strange they defied reason.
Some of them even involved legendary figures.
The anointed warrior turned and barked at the Word Bearers squad behind him.
"By the Holy Father, if you don't want that lord to peel your faces off, then move faster!"
The squad was escorting a special consignment: corrosion-rusted canisters filled with writhing chunks of flesh.
Those meat-masses were so vile they dripped black pus without ceasing.
It was enough to corrode the containers, and the seepage clung to the Word Bearers' armor, creeping and pulsing. Anyone could feel its hunger.
"Throne-damn it. It even wants to eat us. The World Eaters' remnants are far too stubborn."
The anointed warrior tore a lump of flesh from where it had crawled up onto his visor and stuffed it back into the canister.
He was uneasy.
This squad had only just managed to evade the Savior's reconnaissance and secretly acquire a batch of Angron's flesh and blood.
They had to return in time, or punishment would be severe.
More importantly, he had to deliver the cargo to the designated location before any other squad arrived.
With that in mind, the anointed warrior forced them onward at an even faster pace.
But they had not gone far when the wasteland filled with the rasping caw of ravens—more and more of it, louder and louder.
The instant he heard it, the anointed warrior's face changed. He snapped his head up.
In the warped sky above the plain, a flock of red-eyed ravens had appeared.
They were flying straight toward them. In mere seconds, they were overhead, circling like a storm-black cloud.
A lethal threat.
"Send a distress signal. We've been marked. How long is that monster going to keep hunting the Word Bearers?!"
The anointed warrior sounded close to despair. Within the Word Bearers there had long been whispers—stories of a blood-red raven flock.
Those monsters hunted Word Bearers within the Eye of Terror, within the Warp itself. Every victim was torn apart, warped, shredded into ruin.
They said the raven-monster came from a legend of old, driven by hatred for the Word Bearers and therefore never ceasing.
Now, they had run into the red-eyed flock.
"Damnable ravens. Die!"
The anointed warrior snatched a lunging red-eyed raven in his gauntlet—only for it to dissolve into black liquid that flowed through the seams of his armor and spilled to the ground.
He had no time to think. He raised his boltgun and opened fire into the flock. The other warriors did the same.
Dozens of ammunition belts poured into crossing lanes of fire, locking down the airspace.
These Word Bearers knew they could not outrun winged ravens on an open plain.
Yet every bolt round that struck the red-eyed ravens only blasted them into sprays of black fluid.
And slowly, the black fluid on the ground re-formed into ravens and took flight again.
Their numbers only seemed to increase.
"They're psychic life-forms! Where are our diabolists? Deal with these damned things!"
The anointed warrior reacted quickly, preparing to use warp-craft to purge the flock.
But the moment the Word Bearers' diabolists began to draw on the Warp, more ravens converged into binding shadows.
The shadows were like ropes, tying the diabolists up and yanking them into the air.
Amid screams, a brutal telekinetic force twisted them again and again, folding them into spirals, wrenching them into knots.
Clang—
When the anointed warrior saw what had dropped at his feet—one of their diabolists, folded into a deformed block along with his armor—he understood.
This squad was finished.
"By the Holy Father, the faithful shall be eternal in Chaos' glory!"
He roared a vow from their profane scripture and tried for one last, desperate charge.
But in the next heartbeat, a raven punched through his chest, leaving a gaping hole. Then it pierced his head.
The headless body collapsed.
Those red-eyed ravens could peck through power armor with ease. They could also turn into streaming black liquid, slipping through cracks in armor to attack the warrior inside.
The destructive power was absurd.
In only a few minutes, the Word Bearers squad—dozens strong—was slaughtered to the last.
The raven flock circled low like a black cloud, then gradually condensed into a tall humanoid silhouette that descended to the plain.
A figure in pitch-black armor, with a turbine-driven mechanical wingpack on his back, stepped onto the wasteland.
He drove lightning claws into the last Word Bearer's chest, ending his life.
In his final moment, the Word Bearer finally saw the face beneath that black helm.
Black hair fell long. Skin was deathly pale. A depressive, sorrow-laden presence clung to him.
He was identical to the figure carved in the Imperium's legendary reliefs.
The one before him was the Primarch of the XIX Legion, of the Raven Guard, the Deliverer, the Ravenlord—
Corvus Corax!
Corax reached down and tore the communications device from the dead warrior's body, then flung the corpse aside.
He was utterly silent, radiating a grief so heavy it was suffocating.
Long ago, the Primarch had exiled himself, embarking upon a long penitent journey, speaking almost never.
Once every enemy was dead, the ravens settled down across the plain and fell quiet as well, sinking into the same silence.
For a time, the only sound was the moaning of the nonhuman constructs' remains.
They had already died, yet their pain had not dispersed.
Corax looked over the twisted abominations scattered everywhere. He could see malformed limbs and grafted flesh, some fused with bestial traits.
Rage rose in him—an anger that could not be described.
The Ravenlord remembered his own sons, once. When their gene-seed had been tainted, the Raven Guard had suffered similar mutation and corruption, and it had produced tragedies beyond words.
In the end, he had personally executed them all.
Then he had exiled himself, to atone before the Imperium.
But across ten thousand years, he had never slackened. He hunted fallen traitors without end, protecting humanity's safety in another way.
"Dorn?"
Corax froze.
Among the corpses, he saw a twisted, aberrant body and reeled in shock.
It was the remains of his Primarch-brother, Rogal Dorn!
He could not believe he would see a brother here, and in such desecrated form.
But what followed was even harder to accept.
He saw warped, filthy wings on the plain—golden strands of hair still visible on the distorted corpse.
Sanguinius.
He had found another brother's defiled remains, the face still bearing an expression twisted by agony.
And then he found more.
"Cloned constructs. Chaos heretics have used abominable technology to create the Primarchs' bodies!"
Corax understood. His fury deepened.
Those Chaos wretches dared to humiliate the Emperor's sons.
Worse, they dared to fabricate new bodies to "replace" them.
What blasphemy was this?!
The Ravenlord was now certain: a Chaos cloning facility had been built in this region.
This Word Bearers squad had been transporting materials required for the cloning process.
As for the facility's master, it was highly likely to be Erebus—the traitor Corax had been pursuing, the one who had inflicted terrible harm upon the Imperium.
Fortunately, Corax had uncovered enough clues to locate the factory.
He was about to move when a new psychic message arrived, surprising him.
Because the sender was the Savior.
Not long ago, Corax had aided an Imperial force within the Warp. At the request of their Librarians, he had left behind a psychic imprint.
Perhaps that was how the Savior could now contact him.
Humm—
The psychic message unfolded, and the Savior's voice entered his mind.
"Hey, brother Corax. If you find that bastard Erebus, tell me immediately. I'll bring the brothers to back you up.
Also, the brothers and I really miss you. When you have time, come find us and let's get together. Drinks on me."
The Savior's tone was extremely familiar, and he kept talking.
He even attached a photo of himself with Lion and the others.
It was a candid group selfie taken during a gathering.
The Savior was grinning ear to ear, bright teeth bared, his face shoved right into the center of the frame. Off to the side, Guilliman sat upright and rigid, perfectly composed. Lion looked toward the lens, as if not quite used to it. The Khan had just downed a mouthful of alcohol, all swagger and boldness. In the corner, that prickly man Perturabo had his arms folded, seeming to instinctively avoid the camera.
Eden had taken the shot deliberately. In public he was imposing and full of majesty, but in private, with his brothers, he could still loosen up.
Supreme power and great causes could make people lose themselves and become cold.
He did not want to become like the Emperor—alone on a throne, isolated from all.
So maintaining good ties with his Primarch brothers still mattered.
More than that, most humans had limited lifespans. Over long years, they would gradually be worn away and depart from him one by one.
His Primarch brothers, however, would remain at his side for a very, very long time—conquering the stars, dominating the galaxy together.
"This man…"
Corax stared at the image transmitted by psychic means. The corners of his pale, gloomy face tugged upward into a faint smile.
Looking at the Savior and that scene, the heaviness in Corax's heart eased, just a little.
But when his gaze shifted to Perturabo, his brows knitted.
Why was that traitor there? What, exactly, had happened?
So much had changed. Perhaps he should consider meeting the Savior—and the brothers he had once known.
In his memory, the Primarchs had never looked this harmonious.
Corax retained the image.
Then he dissolved into a flock of ravens and surged toward the horizon of the plain.
He was fast—terrifyingly fast.
Not long after, he saw a mountain-like mass of flesh and machinery, radiating an aura so disgusting it made the Warp itself seem cleaner by comparison.
That had to be Erebus' experimental factory.
It was hidden deep within the Warp. If Corax did not possess a psychic nature—and if he had not intercepted Word Bearers intelligence—he might never have discovered this abominable place.
Now the factory was fully exposed before the ravens' eyes, and Corax could smell Erebus' stench.
Unhidden.
Unmasked.
Corax considered for a moment and began sending a psychic message to the Savior.
But in the next instant, a sorcerous projection struck from the factory.
In a heartbeat, an illusion bloomed inside the Ravenlord's consciousness—Erebus' favorite trick.
It was with methods like this that he had once flooded Horus with deceptive visions, corroding the Warmaster of the Imperium.
Within the illusion, Corax saw a dying woman in white robes, and a sharp pain pierced his heart.
Some part of him knew she was connected to him.
Yet he did not know who she was.
The projection came from the traitor.
Erebus.
Corax could endure no more.
He drove the raven flock into a dive toward the factory, intent on seizing the bastard and forcing out everything he knew.
Boom!
The factory's heavy alloy gate was crushed flat by psychic force, then hurled dozens of meters away.
Every malformed guard in its path was torn apart.
Corax stormed into a vast hall.
The master of this place was there.
The hall held not a single trace of light. It was empty.
Only a throne of gold stood within it.
Corax lifted his gaze.
A silhouette sat upon that throne.
His vision cut through the darkness, and he saw the figure clearly.
A Word Bearer—small and gaunt.
A face like crumpled parchment.
No skin.
Hideously ugly.
He was the master here.
Erebus.
"Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves."
Erebus looked upon the arrival of the Ravenlord without surprise and spoke on, unhurried, as if lecturing an audience.
"But we should be even more wary of those fools who call themselves heroes and saviors. They lack the intellect to understand the truth of the world.
Yes, I mean you—those creatures born with power, whether you call yourselves the Emperor or Primarchs.
Chaos was not born inevitable. It might never have existed at all.
It was you who shattered the once-tranquil Empyrean, who raised grand war upon grand war. You exterminated one peaceful people after another, you destroyed one good civilization after another.
You ruined everything. You tainted what was once a beautiful universe, and in doing so—"
Schk!
Erebus did not get to finish.
Corax appeared atop the throne in a blur. Two pairs of lightning claws drove into Erebus' ribs and lifted him from the seat.
The Ravenlord had no interest in heretical babble.
That was what traitors did—use words to twist right and wrong, to provoke, to divide.
"Hrk—
You are always so impatient. So quick to anger. So full of defects. You never let anyone finish speaking."
Blood spilled from Erebus' mouth. He stared at the Ravenlord, mockery in his eyes.
"I know what you want to ask. But I won't tell you. Never.
You will carry that doubt forever, hesitating and wandering, not knowing where you came from, nor where you are meant to go."
Corax remained silent, only twisting his claws slowly to deliver more pain.
Erebus' face visibly contorted.
And yet he still smiled.
"Fine. You win. I'll give you the answer. You will crave it…"
As he spoke, the so-called Hand of Destiny projected new information into Corax—directions to a box placed somewhere within a Chaos domain.
Inside was the answer Corax desired.
Everything suggested it was real.
That Erebus was not lying.
Yet Corax erased the sorcerous information without the slightest hesitation.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Your cheap tricks are useless. I won't be deceived the way Horus was."
For the first time, a flicker of astonishment crossed Erebus' face.
By his calculations, the Ravenlord should have gone to seek that answer—driven by an inner hunger—then collapsed into madness and corruption.
Erebus hesitated, understood something, and smiled again.
"The Savior warned you, didn't he? It seems he's the least foolish among a pile of fools.
He has just enough qualification to be my opponent."
Corax did not answer.
It was true. In that earlier psychic message, the Savior had warned him.
Do not believe a single word from that stinking bastard.
If you have questions—if you seek answers—come to me, and I will answer you.
Erebus was fading fast.
"Do you know why the Imperium failed? Because you beings born with power are too stupid, too arrogant.
You see yourselves as shepherds, interfering with everyone's fate at will, yet you ignore the fact that the galaxy does not belong to you.
It never did.
It belongs to all life. Even the Empyrean is the same."
His smile sharpened.
"Let me give you one last answer. This place is also a trap.
And I have selected the opponent most suited for you."
With that, Erebus' head fell forward. He died.
Then the hall began to fracture. Warp-storms surged in.
Within that storm, Corax caught sight of a new raven flock.
They came from…
Another him?!
Then the raging ravens drowned the Ravenlord completely, dragging him into the vortex of the Warp.
—
Elsewhere within the Warp, in another grand hall.
Its ceiling seemed infinitely high, piercing the heavens, while a sorcerous star-map floated above—one that encompassed the entire galaxy.
"My clone-shell is dead. Looks like Corax, that gloomy little wretch, has taken the bait."
Erebus floated in midair, entirely unsurprised.
He had many cloned bodies. Losing one meant nothing.
That technology had come from Fabius. Erebus had given the man the materials he craved, and secured a measure of cooperation.
As for threats from the Emperor or the Primarchs, Erebus felt no fear at all.
That false Emperor was nothing but a withered corpse upon a throne.
And the Primarchs? Merely fragments of essence plucked from the Empyrean by the Chaos Gods.
"Those fools have never truly faced the Empyrean. They do not understand her beauty."
That was what Erebus believed.
The Empyrean was selfless. Any life could receive her gifts—so long as you could cause enough impact upon reality.
Erebus despised the Primarchs. They were born with power, yet they did not use it correctly.
His own power, by contrast, had been earned step by step.
He had begun as a lowly street thug, changing his surroundings little by little—like a butterfly stirring a storm—until, in the end, he had influenced the entire galaxy.
"That influence is so delicious. The Empyrean rewarded me richly—enough to rival any Primarch, even the Savior…"
Erebus turned.
"Now even the Gods must seek my cooperation. A greater impact is about to occur…"
On the towering barrier behind him, four evil relief-figures radiated infinite might.
The Chaos Gods.
"So. What is your plan?" Khorne's blood-shadow seethed with boundless violence. His patience was thin.
"All of it."
Erebus swept his staff as if drawing back a curtain. Countless incubation vats appeared throughout the hall.
In the foremost vat, a body floated within the fluid.
A clone of Horus.
Not only him. There were more Primarch clones here—many more.
Erebus patted the vat holding Horus and smiled with satisfaction.
"The galaxy will burn again…
I have found a magnificent route, a path that will allow a lightning strike to shatter Holy Terra.
The hope of the Imperium of Man will be extinguished completely, and it will sink into darkness."
"Not enough. Meaningless." The Changer of Ways shifted in kaleidoscopic motion, offering his judgment.
Erebus seemed to have expected the response. His smile only grew.
"I know what you fear.
But what if I can erase that threat forever?"
(End of Chapter)
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