"You dare to seize the throne of the Eternal Dragon?!" Tzeentch's roar echoed alongside the ever-shifting, eerie cries of birds. The surrounding void instantly manifested thousands of different permutations; the threads of fate grew turbulent, chaotic, and disordered. Yet, the single strand concerning Alexander's ascension remained resolute and unmoving, as if forged from steel, standing amidst the torrent of fate without shifting an inch.
"Why wouldn't I dare?"
Billions of Tyranid lifeforms streaked through the void like ribbons of flesh and blood, spiraling around Alexander before converging into the Four-Dimensional Pocket on his stomach. "Isn't this all part of your plan?" Alexander questioned the Lord of Change.
Rituals and sacrifices were underway. Shadows began to drape over Alexander—the distant hunger carried by the Tyranid Hive Mind. The hunger of the survivors of the War in Heaven from beyond the galaxy converged upon the Tyranids. Individually, they were incredibly weak; the War in Heaven had practically scorched the regions outside the galaxy to ash.
The races that survived on that wasteland were far inferior to humans, many even lesser than the Tau. But together, as the Tyranid swarm, they became a race no less formidable than any hegemon within the Milky Way. They would be the sacrifice for Alexander's ascension.
Infuriated by Alexander's words, the Lord of Change emitted a ceaseless, babbling murmur. Countless crystal shards emerged around Tzeentch, each etched with a complex incantation. These shards drifted together to form a shattered, fragmented staff. Most of the staff was hollow and missing, like a toy set with many lost pieces. Even so, the moment Tzeentch gripped the broken scepter, his power surged. For a brief second, his hazy, ever-shifting realm became clear.
However, Tzeentch's thousands of faces betrayed expressions of bitterness and contradiction—as if he himself desired to shatter the scepter in his hand, much like a human standing at the edge of a cliff feels the sudden urge to jump.
Tzeentch suppressed the impulse and swung the shattered crystal scepter. A storm of blue lightning, red flames, green arrows, blinding sparks, and twisted crystals erupted from his hand. Mutations bloomed around the storm—tentacles and beaks, slime and tumors, overgrown organs and twitching growths. Tzeentch swung the broken crystal scepter, pressing that hellish storm toward reality, toward the Tiamat system and the stars beyond.
DONG!!!
A dull bell toll resounded. A massive, decaying bell—covered in green rust and mold—blocked the path of Tzeentch's storm. The myriad changes and billions of mutations within the storm seemed to hit a pause button in the Warp.
They rapidly rotted, decayed, and vanished before the bell. The silhouette of the Plague Father, the Lord of Decay, manifested within the bell. His greasy, foul, divine form was larger than a galaxy, looming like a mountain supporting the four corners of the universe. Within every fold of Nurgle's body, countless worlds decayed and were reborn, reborn and decayed, repeating the cycle of rot and life.
"Fatty! You're helping him?! Are you not afraid of the birth of the Dark King?" Tzeentch shrieked. Currently, Nurgle's power was greatly bolstered, while Tzeentch had suffered multiple weakenings. Even after bringing out all the crystal scepter fragments he had reclaimed over the eons and using them all at once, Tzeentch was now only a match for Nurgle.
Nurgle clutched his belly, a jovial expression on his face: "I believe in the resilience of life."
Tzeentch did not panic. Alexander was ascending, and the Emperor was resisting the pressure from the domain of Greedy Dissolution. This meant Nurgle would be forced to face Tzeentch, Khorne, and Slaanesh alone.
Hungry laughter echoed from the Six Circles as Slaanesh rose from His domain. Translucent veils soaked in slime clung to a glamorous body that was part fish, part snake, and part worm. Slaanesh glanced at the clashing Nurgle and Tzeentch, and without a moment's hesitation... turned and bolted straight for Nurgle's Garden. Since Tzeentch was stalling Nurgle, Slaanesh intended to take this chance to seize Isha, who was hiding in the Garden.
"Slaanesh!"
A roar laced with the scent of sulfur rang out.
Slaanesh ignored Khorne's war cry, His mind entirely focused on consuming Isha...
"Slaanesh!" Khorne called out again. "Look behind you!"
Slaanesh's body froze. He felt a dense aura of blood churning and surging behind Him, accompanied by a murderous intent so thick it was hard to breathe...
His body trembled as He turned His head in disbelief toward the domain of Khorne. The Blood God had risen from His throne and pulled out a slender spear. The spear was covered in Aeldari patterns, and its tip resembled a hybrid of a scorpion's tail and a finger. Khorne brandished the spear—one born when Khorne shattered Khaine, a concept seized from the Aeldari, from Slaanesh, and from Khaine. It was born from the War of Separation between the two Aeldari ancestors, Eldanesh and Ulthanesh, and their joint war against the Bloody-Handed Khaine.
Khorne was going to return that spear to Slaanesh now—but not in a way Slaanesh would enjoy. It was clear that Khorne harbored murderous intent toward Slaanesh.
"Are you insane?" Slaanesh shrieked. "You hit me when I was allied with Alexander, and now that I'm his enemy, you're still hitting me?"
The God of Blood let out a booming, thunderous laugh, as if rejoicing in the coming of a great war. "For a war where blood flows," He roared.
"Who asked you?!" Slaanesh screamed, just as Khorne violently hurled the spear.
The overwhelming stench of blood rushed toward Slaanesh. The scorpion-tail-like tip aimed directly for Slaanesh's head. Slaanesh groaned as 66 trillion Obscene Mirrors emerged around Him. In an instant, the beings within the mirrors engaged in a thousand forms of depravity, ten thousand fetishes interweaving, and a myriad of instruments began to play. Guitars roared like tides, pianos fell like meteors, singing boomed like thunder, and the bass sounded like a delivery being picked up.
These mirrors layered together, forming shields to block Khorne's lethal strike. Silver mirrors shattered one by one; obscene banquets were drowned in blood. Slaanesh shrieked, channeling the power of His domain and squeezing the souls of countless Aeldari within His body, putting everything into resisting this deadly spear. For a moment, He and Khorne were locked in a stalemate.
"Khorne!!" Tzeentch shouted as he swung his crystal scepter, releasing bizarre spells that collided with the swarms of flies erupting from Nurgle. He stared fixedly at Khorne.
The "honest and straightforward" Khorne had actually defected. The situation had turned into a two-on-two stalemate. Didn't this mean Alexander could ascend without interference?
Alexander looked down into the Four-Dimensional Pocket on his stomach. Inside, Chestnut Manju, Dorayaki, and Roasted Sweet Potatoes were self-replicating every five minutes under the effect of the "Doubling Liquid."
They had already formed a massive nebula floating in the void of the pocket. By now, the entire Tiamat system—or rather, every living Tyranid organism—had entered the pocket and been consumed by Alexander. The Tyranids converged like a tide, circling and devouring the Chestnut Manju nebula.
The Manju were rapidly converted into biomass, which flowed into the Hive Ships to produce even more Tyranids. With a thought, Alexander sold a portion of the Tyranid swarm to the 22nd Century Department Store.
Alexander had tested it: the store wouldn't accept items replicated by the Doubling Liquid, but Tyranids created by eating the Manju could be sold. The Manju self-replicated, the Tyranids ate the Manju, and Alexander sold the Tyranids to maintain balance. The three looped endlessly, like an Ouroboros—an Eternal Dragon consuming itself.
It was done!
The moment the cycle was established, countless phantoms appeared around Alexander. Starving beasts crawled through the snow; colossal monsters from the deep void tried to devour planets; hungry workers collapsed in hive city alleys.
Chestnut Manju floated like clouds, roasted sweet potatoes steamed, and the scent of red bean from Dorayaki wafted. All of this transformed into a series of steps, lifting Alexander toward the Empyrean. Alexander looked up and saw that the Empyrean was a sea inverted above the dimension of reality.
The sea was chaotic and vast, like a bronze mirror covered in scratches, reflecting, distorting, and extracting everything from reality. And in that sea, a domain of ravenous hunger—a realm where there was only eating and being eaten—emerged amidst the tides of the Warp, flickering into view and rising at extreme speed.
Greedy Dissolution. The Aeldari described this domain as containing only all-encompassing hatred, without reason or logic—self-consuming and devouring all things.
But that was due to the Aeldari's narrow perspective. They indulged too much, were too arrogant, and Isha had pampered them, granting them endless life until they forgot the true nature of the living. There was no hatred in Greedy Dissolution. To eat is the privilege of the living; to be eaten is the duty of the living.
The living fill their bellies with others, and are eventually used to fill the bellies of other living beings. The cycle repeats, self-consuming and self-generating. One eats because of hunger and is eaten because of the hunger of another. There is no hatred, no anger, no loathing, and no pleasure—only hunger.
Alexander reached out to touch that domain. A liquid as thick as shadow covered his fingertips. Instantly, a gentle ripple swept across the entire Warp.
The Warp went silent. Every entity within held its breath, watching as the ripple swept past them toward the depths of the Empyrean, toward the black sun hanging on the horizon of the Sea of Souls...
The black sun shuddered violently. Scorching solar flares destroyed everything around it. The momentum from Greedy Dissolution and the birth of the Eternal Dragon pressed down upon it. The Dark King yearned to be born, the Omnissiah yearned to be born, and the Eternal Dragon yearned to be born.
All these yearnings and trends weighed upon a single person. As above, so below; to rise is to fall, and to fall is to rise. Sunrise is sunset, and sunset is sunrise. Through this, destruction and erosion were fulfilled—appearing as if rising from the Warp to be born into the world, yet also as if falling from the Empyrean to destroy it.
Upon the Golden Throne, in the empty Throne Room, the Master of Mankind gently opened His mouth. He took a soft breath in and let a soft breath out—completing His first breath in ten thousand years.
The Palace vanished.
In the distance, atop a spire reaching into the stratosphere of a Hive City, Trajann Valoris gazed at the Himalayas amidst the raging winds. The Palace had vanished in the blink of an eye. But as the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, Trajann had seen how the Palace was destroyed in that final moment: a black sun, twisted shadows, a burning god, bones, death, skulls, and the Master of Mankind...
In that split second—an interval so short it barely existed—the Emperor had risen just a tiny bit. In that brief moment, the Dark King had descended. Just a fraction was enough for the Imperial Palace, built by Rogal Dorn and standing firm even through the Horus Heresy, to simply cease to exist. Fortunately, at the last moment, the Master of Mankind regained control, reversed causality, reset time, and sent Himself back to the Golden Throne. Now, the entire Palace was gone; only the Sanctum Sanctorum, where the Golden Throne sat, remained radiant.
Fortunately, the Palace had already been evacuated.
Trajann knew their time was running out. The Custodes, the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Astra Militarum, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Church of Doraemon were all in motion, evacuating the residents of Terra. If they were allowed to die under the leaking power of the Dark King from the Emperor, their hatred, resentment, and despair would flow into the Emperor, pushing Him closer to the Dark King.
This could not be allowed. Only the most resilient, most loyal souls—those who could face death calmly and remain hopeful even while bathed in the fires of the Dark King—could remain on Terra to watch over the Master of Mankind until the end. These souls would fight for the Emperor in the world of the dead.
"The Custodes shall bear the responsibility of guarding the Emperor; even death will not be the end." Trajann closed his eyes slightly. For some reason, he thought of the first Captain-General, Constantin Valdor. How would he judge this moment?
Would such a sacrifice be enough to atone for the Custodes' ten thousand years of self-imposed isolation? Could they, at the moment of their death, claim they had not failed their duty?
Trajann shook his head slightly. There was still work to be done; now was not the time for such thoughts.
He turned and walked into the spire palace behind him. In a corner of this palace sat a villa that was not considered large by the standards of high-level Imperial bureaucrats. The guards for the villa and the entire palace had been sent away, but the owner of this villa had not left.
Trajann pushed open the door and entered. In the living room, an old man in heavy robes sat in a chair. An equally elderly woman leaned against the man's leg. The old man looked up, his aged, wrinkled, shrewd yet not unpleasant face meeting Trajann's gaze.
"Trajann, old friend. It is good to see you at a time like this." Tieron, the former Chancellor of the Estate, smiled at Trajann.