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."