The Warp is my home; civilization depends on us all.
Alright, that last part is total grox-shit. In this little corner of the Immaterium, "civilization" is a concept long dead and buried.
But for Lucius the Great Horned Rat, who was now infinitely approaching the status of a True God of Chaos, standing almost as an equal to the Emperor rotting upon His Golden Throne, the claim that "the Warp is my home" was eighty percent literal truth.
This shifting, eldritch realm, dreaded by countless souls in the materium, was his ancestral hearth. He had turned his back on the Emperor's gilded seat and strode directly back into the tides of the Aether.
Countless souls and Warp-spawned horrors scattered in terror, like minnows sensing an apex predator in the deep. The Great Horned Rat paid them no mind, treading a direct path toward his own divine domain, the Realm of Ruin.
Ordinarily, the Warp is a place devoid of time and space, let alone stable landmasses. But a god's domain is different.
Much like the Palace of Slaanesh, the Brass Throne of Khorne, the Garden of Nurgle, or the Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch, the Realm of Ruin drifted within the infinite Warp. It was a sprawling, urban nightmare, a city composed of the jagged shards and skeletal remains of every lost civilization in history.
It was a landscape defined by filth, gnawed by vermin, and choked with refuse. Precious artifacts stolen from the physical universe by daemonic rats were tossed carelessly into heaps of gutter-slush and rotting bone.
STC fragments, sacred treasures of the Adeptus Mechanicus, lay discarded; Spirit Stones of fallen Aeldari heroes were piled like pebbles; Dark Relics craved by Chaos warbands and terrifying weapons from the Dark Age of Technology served as mere chew-toys for the vermin that scurried through the muck.
To let holy filth and squalor smother the "disgusting" order of the high-born—this was the blasphemy the Skaven relished. They delighted in trampling what others held dear. This was the essence of the Realm of Ruin.
Sensing their master's return, swarms of chattering daemon-rats, some the size of Terran felines, scrambled from their burrows. They watched with avaricious eyes, hoping their god might deign to cast a sidelong glance their way, granting them the cunning and form to indulge their most wicked desires.
The Vermin Herders, lithe and slender entities birthed from the twisted faith and desires of the various clans, stood with heads bowed. They momentarily ceased their internal backstabbing and slandering to welcome the Great Horned Rat home.
The Warp buckled and twisted. A colossal, horned silhouette stepped over the crumbling walls of the Realm of Ruin. With total indifference to the swarms he crushed beneath his tread, Lucius ascended the Black Spire, climbing toward his throne beneath the Great Bell.
"Ah... home at last!"
The Great Horned Rat stretched luxuriously upon his throne. At his will, the throne of wreckage shifted into a recliner, accommodating the Ruinous Power's massive frame.
Below, an uncountable number of Verminlords sang his praises with oily flattery, simultaneously hurling veiled insults at their daemonic rivals.
At first, Lucius had found it amusing. These daemons were like highly intelligent pet hamsters, putting on clumsy performances to earn a single sunflower seed of favor.
But now, he had more interesting business to attend to.
With a flick of his hand, Lucius warped the fabric of reality. Fabius Bile appeared in a swirl of vertigo.
"I'm starting to think the previous rat's nest was better," Bile remarked, glancing around at a den that might have thrilled a mutant-fetishist, but did nothing for him.
"Begin your work, Bile. Do not disappoint me."
Bile straightened his coat and gave an elegant, practiced bow. "Naturally. I never disappoint when it comes to my craft."
This haul had been bountiful. Eager for fresh breakthroughs, the Spider of Chemos set to work immediately.
Fortunately, he was not working alone. Though their research philosophies differed wildly, the Moulder Vermin Herders were capable assistants, even if Bile had to constantly watch his back to ensure these rat-daemons, with their lithe Aeldari-esque forms and furry heads, didn't steal Primarch tissue samples for their own twisted ends.
In the Warp, progress moved at a fever pitch. Using Warpstone solution as a medium, Omegon's severed hands were rapidly cloned into a dozen nascent forms.
Lucius was not one for waste. He had forced Bile into an "extravagant" deal: clone every Primarch sample he possessed.
Bile was resentful, but knowing he was at the mercy of a god, he yielded. Using his samples of the Alpha Primus, he produced twenty Primarch clones, including the legendary lost Second and Eleventh.
Most of these, however, were monstrous things, stunted by severe genetic degradation.
"You may take your pick. They are among my finest works," Bile said, gesturing proudly toward dozens of Warp-stasis pods containing clones of Omegon.
"Perfect," Lucius praised, inspecting the vats.
He knew, however, that cloned Primarchs were notoriously, almost pathologically loyal, as seen with clones of Horus and Fulgrim. He wasn't foolish enough to simply let them out and expect them to work for him.
Mimicking the process the Four Gods used to corrupt Horus, Lucius poured his divine authority into the Omegon clones.
The once-still bodies began to thrash. Their faces contorted in agony, sorrow, and occasionally, a twisted sense of relief. Within a trillion layered illusions, these clones relived the Horus Heresy, but a version orchestrated by the Great Horned Rat. They were tested, broken, and brainwashed over and over.
Finally, the clone with the most resilient will, the one who had fully succumbed to the Great Horned Rat's silver-tongued lies, opened his eyes. At that exact moment, Lucius smiled and cast the true essence of Omegon into the vessel.
BONG!
An invisible shockwave thundered through the realm. Just as when Omegon had been "slain," the Warp-essence of the Primarch fused with the flesh, returning to the state the Emperor had intended at their creation.
Moments later, Omegon's mysterious gaze cleared. He shattered the glass of the incubation pod with a single strike.
"Cough... hah...!"
The pale, bald giant knelt on the ground, his muscles rippling as he gasped for air. He looked at his hands, then looked up at the towering, horned shadow above him. He muttered:
"This is the necessary price for human survival... even a filthy existence is better than silent extinction."
The giant looked at the Great Horned Rat and declared, "I... I accept. I accept your 'grace'—so long as my sons and humanity endure!"
The moment Omegon swore his oath, his newly integrated Warp-essence dissolved, transforming into pure power that flowed into Lucius.
Lucius finally understood why the gods demanded a Primarch's self-sacrifice rather than just devouring them: it saved the effort of "digesting" the power of a sub-god.
Simultaneously, a surge of darker power flooded back into Omegon. The Great Horned Rat's influence triggered a violent metamorphosis.
A pair of massive, recurved horns erupted from his brow. From his spine sprouted a razor-sharp rat's tail that split into three lashing segments. His legs buckled and reformed into a powerful, digitigrade structure.
"Good. From this moment on, you are my Daemon Primarch: Omegon. I shall grant your wish. Go, summon your Legion. Reclaim your Pale Spear."
Lucius spoke with the pride of a hobbyist who had just finished painting a centerpiece model.
Now a Verminlord Primarch, Omegon rose. Hundreds of Vermin Herders scrambled forward with fawning reverence to clothe him in the Pythian Scales, the signature plate of Alpharius and Omegon, now reforged and "blessed" by the Great Horned Rat.
"I knew it, our 'rat-style' is just more photogenic," Lucius chuckled. "Put a Primarch in Power Armor, and he's already handsomer than any human."
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