Deep within the Maelstrom, the boundary between reality and illusion had long since blurred.
This was a festering wound on the physical universe, where purple nebulae churned like necrotic flesh, and warp energy relentlessly eroded solid matter. Within this void, where even the laws of physics twisted and shrieked, a massive space fortress forcibly pieced together from countless derelict starship hulls floated silently.
This was the temporary staging ground for several Chaos warbands.
Inside the dim council hall, the air was thick with a sickening stench—a mix of engine oil, stale blood, rot, and a sweet, hallucinogenic incense. Seated around the long table were several giants of varying forms, each radiating a terrifying aura. They had once been the Emperor's angels, but were now the most detestable nightmares in the galaxy.
"This war of attrition cannot continue!"
The speaker was an Iron Warriors warband leader clad in iron-grey power armor—Warsmith Grendel. His face, covered in bionics and cybernetic implants, was a mask of anxiety and rage, his mechanical eye flashing red in the gloom.
"Huron, that cunning bastard, is fighting us to the death using the most despicable piece-trading tactics!" Grendel slammed his massive, power-clawed fist onto the stone table, causing the skulls and unidentified metal containers used as cups to clatter violently. "Who knows how many batches of crudely gene-bulked Ogryn brutes he has penned up!
"Those simpletons, with minds containing nothing but muscle and appetite, are armed basic weapons and driven onto the battlefield like cattle. Armed with heavy bolters and power mauls, they rush forward in a pure torrent of flesh just to trade lives!
Trading ten or twenty Ogryns for one of our precious Astartes means absolutely nothing to his nouveau-riche supply lines; he might even be turning a profit! But what about us?!"
He threw his hands out sharply, trying to make the other warband leaders present understand the cold mathematics. "Us! It takes decades, even centuries, and we still might not successfully cultivate, implant, and train a single qualified Space Marine with a stable, pure gene-seed! If we keep getting ground down by his endless, cheap meat grinder like this, in less than ten years—no, maybe five! Anyone in the Maelstrom who can still be called a warband will be ground into ash by his ragtag Ogryn army!"
Grendel scanned the room, trying to find a glimmer of urgency in the eyes of his so-called allies. "We must unite! While we still have enough capital ships and Terminator squads, we need to gather all our forces and launch a direct raid on Badab to decapitate Huron! This is our only way out!"
However, the only response he received was an awkward silence, accompanied by various bizarre noises.
Seated across from him was a massive bulk whose power armor was overgrown with fungi and rust. Festus, a Plague Marine champion from the Death Guard, was boredly picking at a split opening on his stomach, squeezing out a few fat maggots to play with.
"Unite—or not unite—" Festus's voice sounded as if it were squeezed from a throat full of thick phlegm, carrying a wet echo. "Grandfather does not care. If you want to launch an attack, we can join—it is always good to spread blessings. If you do not want to fight, it matters not to us either—rot takes time, and we have plenty of patience to wait for Huron to rot on his own—"
"Cowards! All of you are cowards!"
A furious roar cut off the Nurgle champion's muttering. A World Eaters Khorne Berzerker clad in brass power armor surged to his feet, the Butcher's Nails on his helmet twitching frantically, causing his entire body to spasm uncontrollably.
"Why wait?! Why discuss?! Go now! Kill him! Take Huron's head! Blood for the Blood God! I will rip out his spine and use it as a whip! Roar—!!!"
As he roared, he even tried to draw his chainaxe to hack the table in front of him, but luckily, several World Eaters who had followed him held him back with a firm grip.
Grendel felt a headache coming on, and he turned his head to the other side. Seated there was a Slaaneshi warband lord from the Emperor's Children.
This lord's power armor was painted a glaring bright pink, draped in various exquisite ornaments crafted from human skin. From the start of the meeting until now, he hadn't uttered a single word, though his body would periodically shudder violently as if struck by electricity, letting out spine-chilling, ambiguous groans.
"Ah—oh—right there—hiss—"
The sound was sweet, agonizing, and filled with extreme ecstasy.
Everyone knew this guy had undoubtedly stuffed some indescribable heretical torture device or live parasite inside his power armor targeting sensitive areas.
"By the Lord of Iron—can you turn that damned thing off first?!" Grendel couldn't help but curse.
The Slaaneshi lord rolled his eyes, wearing an expression of unfulfilled longing and disgust at being disturbed by a philistine, before letting out a long, trembling sigh.
In the end, Grendel could only pin his hopes on the final ally—a Sorcerer from the Thousand Sons, Izkar. The Sorcerer wore magnificent blue robes, and behind him stood two statue-like Rubric Marines. He was the only person here whose intelligence seemed online.
"Izkar, what do you think?" Grendel asked. "We need your psychic power and strategy."
The Thousand Sons Sorcerer let out a contemptuous chuckle, the sound seeming to echo directly in everyone's minds.
"Grendel, your anxiety stems from your short-sightedness," Izkar said deliberately, his fingers gently rubbing the staff in his hand. "What is there to fear? Huron has indeed won some victories, but this is precisely the beginning of his downfall."
"Things have gone too smoothly for him. Continuous victories have made him arrogant. And arrogance is the favorite bait of the Weaver of Destinies."
The Sorcerer stood up, a strange blue light flashing in his eyes. "I have already glimpsed the threads of fate. There is no need for any clumsy, full-scale assault. I have already set a board, a trap tailored specifically for his insufferable pride. Huron fancies himself the hunter, unaware that he has long since stepped into the labyrinth of the Changer of Ways."
"As for so-called unity?" Izkar swept his gaze across the grotesque collection of allies around him and sneered. "Whether you unite or not does not affect the success of my plan. If you are willing to contribute, perhaps it will make this play a bit more exciting; if you are not, it simply means I will expend a fraction more effort. Lufgt Huron will surely suffer a crushing defeat."
Looking at this group of "allies"—a pile of rotten meat who only wanted to sleep, a mad dog who only wanted to hack people, a deviant obsessed with self-gratification, and a riddling zealot.
Iron Warriors Warsmith Grendel took a deep breath of the foul, stench-filled air, only feeling that his heart was exhausted to the absolute limit.
"I truly miss the days when Lord Perturabo was still in command—" he thought in sheer despair. "Even the Decimation would be a hundred times better than holding a meeting with these lunatics."