This is the bonus chapter for reaching 500 Powerstones.
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Deep within the Warp.
The labyrinth forged of crystal existed in a state of ceaseless, eternal mutation. Every single shard reflected billions of unrealized future possibilities. Blue, purple, and pink flames surged continuously within the crystals, resembling frozen, liquefied fate.
This was the domain of Tzeentch, the fountainhead of every conspiracy across the galaxy.
In the deepest reaches of the labyrinth, the Impossible Fortress hovered within a zero-gravity void.
The laws of physics here had long since been utterly warped by Warp energy. Walls erupted with interlacing blue and pink flames, the fires whispering forgotten truths and buried lies.
Aetaos navigated through the labyrinthine corridors.
As a Lord of Change, he was an elite among the Greater Daemons of Tzeentch, unparalleled in executing clandestine schemes and weaving the threads of fate.
His physical form perfectly embodied the aesthetics of the God of Knowledge: a scavenger-bird-like head covered in blue-purple plumage, with glowing Warp runes entwined around his slender neck.
Every rune recorded a segment of falsified history or a successfully realized conspiracy. Six arms covered in fine scales were poised in varying gestures. The uppermost pair wove the seals of Tzeentchian sorcery, liquefied precognitive energy dripping from their fingertips.
The middle pair clutched the Staff of the Trickster, the eyeball embedded in its head swiveling madly, peering into the possibilities of every timeline.
The lowest pair hung naturally by his sides, their nails as long and sharp as scalpels, capable of carving through the very fabric of reality.
With every beat of his kaleidoscopic wings, a fine dusting of ectoplasmic stardust showered down. It was the solidified essence of the Warp; every single mote contained all the unmade choices in a mortal's lifetime.
His strides appeared steady, but in truth, he was constantly adjusting his direction in tandem with the labyrinth's mutations.
When a corridor twisted sharply to the left, he stepped onto a newly manifested crystal platform to the right.
When a spire dissolved downward, he beat his wings and vaulted toward a reconstituting structure above.
Only the most powerful Lords of Change could avoid losing their way within the primordial domain of Tzeentch.
Because here, every path was correct, and every path was a trap.
"After so long, I have finally arrived," Aetaos said, stopping before the entrance to the fortress.
Two massive doors, formed from billions of constantly opening and closing book pages, slid apart automatically. Each page was inscribed with a different version of history.
Some recorded the Emperor falling during the Unification Wars, some depicted Horus remaining forever loyal, and some even documented that humanity had never left Holy Terra...
In the heart of the fortress, the figure of Tzeentch hovered above a woven throne.
He possessed no fixed form—or rather, all forms were His truth.
As Aetaos bowed in reverence, the entity on the throne simultaneously manifested three distinct states.
On the left, a waterfall of billions of ever-shifting faces flowed downward, every visage whispering different prophecies and lies. All the voices intertwined into a maddening, polyphonic choir.
On the right, He coalesced into a humanoid phantom wreathed in flowing blue and pink flames, surrounded by a constantly reconstituting storm of runes.
And in the center, He was a pure amalgamation of concepts: the ravenous hunger for knowledge, the restless agitation of change, the absolute loathing of certainty, and the fanatical worship of chance...
"My servant," all the faces turned toward Aetaos simultaneously, billions of voices braiding together with an all-knowing mockery. "I am already aware of the tidings you bring from the mortal realm."
An old man's face magnified, occupying a prominent position on the throne.
It was the face of Sacken Alar's great-grandfather, exactly as it had looked mere moments before it was blown apart by a bolter shell eighty years ago.
At this moment, the face curled into a grotesque smile. "That particular thread of fate is twisting precisely in the direction I foresaw."
Aetaos opened and closed his beak, emitting a shrieking report wrapped in the hum of the Warp and millions of echoes. "Changer of Ways, Your foresight has never erred."
He spread all six of his arms simultaneously, and a holographic projection of Aurelian IV manifested in his palms.
The image fractured into multiple perspectives:
In the grand hall of the Conmo Dynasty in the City of the Holy Anthem, over five hundred psykers were mutating and falling to corruption.
Inside the Governor's Palace of Kent Hive, Sanguinius was listening to the Cogboy's report.
In orbit aboard the Red Tear, the Blood Angels fleet had begun scanning the planet's surface...
"Sacken Alar has thrown himself into the embrace of Chaos. His ritual of corruption was utterly flawless," Aetaos said, his voice carrying a suppressed excitement—not for the success of the mission, but for the impending reward. In the realm of Tzeentch, knowledge was currency, and secrets were power. "Not only did he fall himself, but he used the truth as a blade and vengeance as fire to ignite the resentment of five hundred and twenty-seven psykers. The eighty-year-old false mask of the Conmo Dynasty has been torn away, and the Mechanicus's self-righteous manipulations have now backfired upon them entirely."
The projection zoomed in on Sacken. This former Gamma-tier psyker's skin had now completely transformed into a pale purple carapace.
The old scar on his left cheek had split wide open, fine purple tendrils spilling out to weave new, blasphemous runes.
It was a Mark of Tzeentch, personally carved by Aetaos, signifying that this believer had earned the right to pray directly to the Changer of Ways.
"More importantly," Aetaos added, the eyeball atop the Staff of the Trickster rolling madly, "Sacken's fall was not driven solely by blind emotion. He understands exactly what he is doing. He understands that this will drag the entire planet into Chaos. He understands that this will draw Sanguinius's purging wrath. He even understands that he will very likely become a mere expendable pawn... Yet, he chose this path regardless."
Upon the throne, all the faces simultaneously broke into smiles of approval.
"Because he thirsts for knowledge," a scholar's face said. "Because he embraces change," a child's face chimed in. "Because he seeks revenge," the old man's face added. This visage, belonging to the ancestor of House Alar, now rejoiced in the damnation of his own descendant. "What a flawless chain of motivation. Every single link is utterly unbreakable."
Tzeentch's voice abruptly solidified.
The cacophony from the billions of faces began to synchronize, all the vocal cords overlapping into a single, grandiose voice radiating unquestionable majesty. It was the manifestation of the Changer of Ways being truly serious. "You have done exceedingly well, Aetaos."
Surrounding the throne, the blue and pink flames violently surged.
The fires coalesced into tangible scrolls, tomes, and data-slates...
Countless vessels of knowledge rained down, only to dissolve into streams of pure information right before touching Aetaos, flooding directly into his consciousness.
"This is your reward."
Aetaos's body trembled violently.
The runes on every single feather refreshed, the field of vision for every single eye expanded, and he even felt his precision in manipulating the threads of fate increase by at least three orders of magnitude.
"I thank you for your blessing, Changer of Ways." Aetaos bowed deeply, crossing his six arms across his chest in the highest gesture of reverence known to the Cult of Tzeentch.
"But the work is not yet finished." Tzeentch's voice shifted once more, this time carrying a certain... calculated amusement.
The flames upon the throne began to reassemble, sketching out an entirely new picture. It was Aurelian IV, but not as it currently was.
In the vision,
the City of the Holy Anthem had been completely engulfed by the purple psychic energy of Tzeentch. Buildings twisted into impossible, non-Euclidean geometries, and the citizens went utterly mad from information overload.
Kent Hive, meanwhile, struggled within a blood-red psychic storm, the Blood Angels locked in brutal combat with some putrid, green force.
And in planetary orbit, the Iron Hands fleet had long since departed, leaving only the Red Tear hanging in the lonely void...
"Sacken's fall is merely the prologue." Tzeentch's voice lowered into a guiding, inquisitive tone. "My servant, do you know... how the most exquisite patterns in the Tapestry of the Changer of Ways are born?"
Aetaos answered cautiously, "Through precise calculation, predetermining the trajectory of all variables, ensuring every single thread is woven exactly according to plan?"
"Wrong."
A face that had never appeared before surfaced. It was the face of a Magos of the Mechanicus, his head half-mechanized, a sickly thirst for knowledge flashing in his bionic eyes. "The most exquisite patterns are born from the convergence of the unexpected."
In the vision, the blue representing Tzeentch began to intertwine with another, filthy green.
This green was viscous and putrid, overflowing with the grotesque fecundity of both life and death.
It surged from the fissures in the planet's surface, spread through rotting conduits, and festered within the wounds of the dead...
"Nurgle," Aetaos recognized the power immediately.
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Goal = 250 Powerstones.
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