At the same time, the Planetary Supreme Council Hall, City of the Holy Anthem.
The atmosphere was even more suffocating than it had been five days ago.
Achil Hysman's eyes were bloodshot to the point of looking completely red; he hadn't slept a wink in five days.
Greave Atens's face was as dark as the bottom of a wok, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles popped.
Garrison Conmo... remained silent, but a bizarre, unnatural light flickered in the depths of his eyes.
Magos Occus Kane's single mechanical eye flashed furiously with red light.
Cascades of data streamed across his visual interface.
"Thirteen hive cities," Occus's voice was freezing cold. "Sycamore, Moulton, Holmes, Marcus, Kelbor, Loren, Salva, Cannisa, Arshi, Robert, Oliver, Dylan, and Bovakna. All completely ransacked. Total assessed losses: two hundred million tons of raw promethium ore, twenty-three million tons of refined plasteel, three million tons of rare metals, seventy-four thousand industrial machines, and countless spare parts."
He paused, a rare surge of genuine emotion bleeding into his synthesized voice. He was utterly furious.
"Estimated total value: over fifty-eight billion Aquila Thrones. That kind of money is enough to buy three Lunar-class cruisers!"
BANG!
Greave slammed his fist onto the conference table, cracking the solid wood. "Fifty-eight billion! That is our entire planetary yield for the year! Without those resources, how the hell are we supposed to pay the Tithe?! You all know what happens when a world fails to pay the Tithe! The Vindicare Assassins of the Officio Assassinorum on Holy Terra will gladly teach us the meaning of consequence!"
Occus's icy voice cut through the panic. "I asked Lord Sanguinius directly! He told me personally that the Ninth Legion received absolutely no orders regarding a supply requisition operation on Aurelian IV! I even had a contact on Mars query the Departmento Munitorum. The response was that no such archive classification exists! Those so-called Imperial Champions, those notice plates screaming 'Glory to the Emperor'... it was all a fucking lie! Someone impersonated the Legions! Someone robbed us blind!"
Achil, unable to control his trembling hands, asked furiously, "The question is, who the hell was it?! Who has the capability to perfectly mimic eight Astartes from entirely different Legions?! Who has the power to sweep through thirteen hive cities in five days and butcher over one hundred and fifty thousand garrison troops?! Who has the logistics... to haul away fifty-eight billion Thrones' worth of supplies without leaving a single trace?!"
A deathly silence fell over the conference room.
After a long while, Garrison Conmo finally spoke.
His voice was soft, laced with a bizarre calmness. "Could it be... another faction framing them? Like, say, those rats that just crawled out of the wasteland ruins?"
Achil scoffed in derision. "Crimson Dawn? Those illiterate dirt-grubbers? They haven't even finished organizing their own PDF yet! What are they supposed to use to impersonate Astartes?! Besides, Kent Hive was hit too. Their reports show that their losses were just as severe as ours."
Occus nodded. "I reviewed Kent Hive's damage reports. There are unmistakable signs of heavy combat, and their warehouses were completely emptied. Even though I have a lingering feeling that something is off... the evidence clearly shows that they are victims as well."
Greave scratched his head in sheer frustration. "Then who in the Emperor's name was it?!"
No one could answer. The conference ended in this suffocating atmosphere.
The leaders of the four major factions departed, their faces so dark they looked like thunderclouds ready to burst.
What they didn't know was that the damage report from Kent Hive had been meticulously forged by Schrödinger Bro and over eight hundred players who had pulled three consecutive all-nighters.
The battle damage was real. They genuinely blew up a few warehouses and engaged in actual firefights with the "attackers."
The only catch was that both sides of the firefight belonged to Crimson Dawn.
The warehouses were genuinely emptied out as well, only the supplies weren't stolen—they were converted directly into Imperial Coins.
--
Inside a secret chamber on the top floor of the Conmo Psyker Dynasty's compound in the City of the Holy Anthem.
Sacken stood before a full-length mirror.
Reflected in the glass was the pale, gloomy face of Garrison Conmo.
But Sacken knew that was not his true self. He slowly raised his hand, his fingertips touching the glass.
Pale purple psychic energy, thrumming with an insatiable thirst for knowledge and the restless agitation of change, surged from his fingertips.
Ripples cascaded across the mirror's surface, and the reflection began to twist and reconstitute.
A few seconds later, the figure in the mirror was no longer Garrison.
Instead, it was a young man with black hair, grey eyes, and a shallow scar on the left side of his face.
This was Sacken's true appearance.
"Aetaos," Sacken whispered to the mirror.
The mirror rippled once more.
The phantom projection of a massive, deep blue avian creature materialized. It possessed wings covered in both scales and feathers, an avian head, a humanoid torso, razor-sharp talons, and a psychic staff clutched in its grasp.
A Greater Daemon of Tzeentch, a Lord of Change—Aetaos'rau'keres.
"Sacken," the Greater Daemon's voice echoed directly within Sacken's mind, laced with the knowledge-laden, seductive whispers unique to the Changer of Ways. "You seek me out... Are you finally ready to embrace the Changer of Ways?"
Sacken's mouth twitched. "Those Imperial Champions robbing the hive cities... is that your handiwork? What is the Changer of Ways... plotting this time?"
Aetaos'rau'keres let out a string of bizarre laughter, a sound like thousands of sentient beings whispering all at once. "What you see is but a single thread in the grand tapestry. All things are within the calculations of the Changer of Ways. Past, present, future... all possibilities, all variables..."
Sacken's psychic energy suddenly erupted. "Speak plainly!"
The mirror trembled violently, on the verge of shattering.
Aetaos's laughter ceased.
The Greater Daemon tilted its avian head, as if deep in thought. "This matter... was not orchestrated by the Changer of Ways. Nor is it the work of the Warp. Perhaps... it truly is just the sordid filth of the human Imperium itself. After all, Sacken, you know the sins of the Imperium better than I. They destroyed your family, sent your kin onto the Black Ships, and reduced your homeland to a wasteland brimming with resentment..."
Sacken's fingernails dug deeply into his palms until blood seeped out.
"Abandon your stubbornness," Aetaos's voice turned gentle, dripping with temptation. "Join us. It was the Changer of Ways who granted you a second life, allowing you to conceal your identity within the Conmo Psyker Dynasty, to gain power, to gain... the hope of revenge. Join us, Sacken. You will receive true knowledge—knowledge concerning the fundamental nature of psychic power, the secrets of the Warp, and how... to make those who destroyed your family pay the ultimate price."
Sacken's body began to tremble.
Deep within his pupils, the pale purple light grew brighter and brighter.
In the mirror, Aetaos gradually revealed a smile—the sinister, chilling smile of a successful scheme.
It would be soon.
Though it could forcibly drag this soul into the embrace of the Changer of Ways...
It knew that if this Gamma-tier psyker willingly surrendered himself to the Changer of Ways...
The rewards it would reap from the Changer of Ways would far exceed what could be gained through coercion.
This soul... was on the verge of belonging to the Changer of Ways.
"Everything is within our grasp. It always has been."
--
Bridge of the Red Tear.
Sanguinius stood before the observation port, his pristine white wings resting naturally.
His brow was tightly furrowed. His precognitive sight had been constantly issuing warnings for the past few days.
But the warnings were agonizingly vague. He only saw fragmented visions:
Eight towering figures clad in the power armor of different Legions, their helmets crowned with resplendent laurels.
They slaughtered and pillaged their way through hive cities.
They nailed metal notice plates to walls.
They shouted, 'Glory to the Holy Emperor.'
Yet, whenever Sanguinius attempted to discern their faces or trace their origins...
Fog. Thick, impenetrable fog.
"Father," Azkaellon stepped up behind him and reported in a low voice. "The investigation teams have transmitted their preliminary reports. The combat traces in the thirteen ransacked hive cities truly do match Astartes tactical doctrines. The bolt casings left at the scenes, the scorch marks from energy weapons, the power armor footprints... all of them are standard-issue. As for the Departmento Munitorum archive classifications on those notice plates, verification through the Adeptus Astra Telepathica confirms... they genuinely exist."
Sanguinius turned around, starlight swirling deep within his amber-gold slit pupils. "That they exist does not mean this operation is legitimate. What did the Munitorum have to say?"
Azkaellon pulled up a data-slate. "The reply stated that the classification corresponds to a supply requisition order issued three years ago for a world in the Segmentum Obscurus. It has absolutely nothing to do with Aurelian IV."
"???"
Sanguinius fell into absolute silence.
--
Goal = 250 Powerstones.
Wanna read ahead?! Join Patreon.com/AHumanMadeMOFO to read 20+ chapters ahead and support me if you wish.