Chapter 732: Offerings Delivered, Signed by Selene

“…Sacrifice!”

Grinding his teeth, Lorgar’s eyes blazed with uncontrollable fury—like a dying beast on the verge of lashing out.

For the great Word Bearer who regarded faith and religion as the breath of life itself—who saw preaching, martyrdom, and the pursuit of truth as his sacred duty—there was no word more insulting than this.

Sacrifice.

How cutting. How degrading.

You could insult his character, slander him, deceive him, mock him, despise him, even kill him—and he would not care.

For to die gloriously would be a sweet death to Lorgar.

Now, in a sense, Lorgar had achieved the fulfillment of his mission and dream.

Ironically, everything he once envisioned for the Imperial faith had come true:

The very religious doctrines for which he had been condemned—the holy Lectitio Divinitatus—was now the most sacred treasure of the Imperial Church. Trillions of soldiers and citizens prayed daily to the Emperor with it in hand. The word “God” was everywhere. The Grey Knights used faith to shield themselves from corruption. The Adepta Sororitas healed through prayer. And the Ecclesiarchy, Living Saints, and the Penitent Legions—once destined for the pyre—now thrived.

His tyrant father had even been forced to cooperate with the Chaos God Finality. The Human Imperium and Ultramar had begun to worship Chaos directly, offering mass prayers and devotions to the Ruinous Powers. Hahaha…

Everything had come to pass as he had foreseen.

Only he had foreseen it. Only he had been right. Only he had remained true.

He would be the martyr of Truth!

Even in death—even nailed within a coffin—he would mock his tyrant father and foolish brothers with the eternal laughter of a decayed corpse.

But Curze’s words struck him like a basin of cold water, dousing his manic triumph.

To be offered as a sacrifice—the idea itself was a disgrace he had never imagined would apply to him.

Once, on Isstvan V, he had gloriously offered up loyal fools as sacrifices. On Calth, he had joyfully turned the unsuspecting Ultramarines welcoming him into sacrifices. On Nuceria…

And now, he would become the sacrifice.

A sacrifice—filthy, foolish, sinful, a thing offered to please the gods yet utterly devoid of its own will or purpose.

“No—!”

Overcome by fear, shame, rage, and despair, Lorgar let out a shrill, maddened scream.

On the Eye of Terror, the world closest to the Warp, a storm of raw energy roared to life, shaking the ground beneath him. The plain split open, forming a vast, pulsating vortex.

“Down!”

Before Curze could act, Corvus Corax stepped forward, his expression dark.

In an instant, Corax stomped the ground—his form dissolving into pure shadow, red mist spilling from him like blood. From the heavens above, billions of ravens descended as one, merging into a black tide that swirled around the steel-black wings at his back. Their shrieks tore the sky apart.

With a resounding crash, Lorgar, who had just lifted his upper body, was slammed into the earth. The wasteland cracked open, ripped apart for kilometers like a field plowed by a monstrous beast.

The ground split into canyons stretching for miles, bottomless and seething. The collision of Primarch-born Warp essence tore the land asunder; unfinished temples at the wasteland’s edge collapsed in fire.

Mountains and hills sank into the ground, molten currents burst upward, and the wasteland became an ocean of burning magma.

The countless slaves and victims sacrificed by the Word Bearers—their corpses stacked high across the plain—were reduced to ash.

At last—crushed.

Flesh and bone fragments splattered outward under the overwhelming force, the thunderous sound of the earth’s shattering fading to silence.

A massive black steel boot pressed down upon Lorgar’s head, pinning the Daemon Primarch beneath it. No matter how he struggled, how his flesh twisted and healed, he could not escape the furious restraint of the Lord of Ravens.

“You need not glare at me like that, nor put on that innocent face, Lorgar of Colchis.”

The Daemon Primarch lying on the ground kicked and thrashed, his tendons and veins severed like by a surgeon’s scalpel. His eyebrows arched upward, veins bulging across his face as he glared with murderous fury at the approaching Curze, letting out an ear-splitting shriek.

“To become the sacrifice is your honor. You shall be the key to the new era.” The tone—the phrasing—was one Lorgar knew too well.

“No! You… hhhsss…!”

Curze crouched before him, staring at Lorgar’s rapidly regenerating, beast-like mutated face. With five razor-sharp claws, he gripped Lorgar’s forehead, nearly crushing the skull beneath his touch. Without a word, he inscribed a series of imaginary-space coordinates directly into his body.

The anchor for the offering.

“Insulting people has always been something you silver-tongued types excel at,” came a rough voice beside him.

Completely unaffected by the residual energy of the battle, the Wolf King of Fenris crouched down next to Curze, watching him inject something into Lorgar’s body. With a sigh, as though in reluctant admiration, he muttered, “Huh… So even you have a purpose.”

“Hm?”

Schrrk!—

The shining Raven’s Talons slid free from the Word Bearer’s chestplate. White bone fragments splintered from the wound as blood gushed like a fountain. Emerging from the shadows, Corvus Corax looked briefly at Russ, one brow raised.

“Russ, you’re capable of thought now? Reflection, even?”

“Or maybe,” Corax added with a faint smirk, “you’re one of those brothers from the Father’s… new side?”

Before he could finish, the Wolf King erupted: “Go to hell with your golden toilet nonsense!”

“What the hell do you mean by that, Corax…” he grumbled, but then seemed to remember his own headstrong recklessness during the Great Crusade. With a disgruntled snort, he lifted his axe and kicked the fallen Word Bearer. “People change.” The way he muttered it sounded eerily like a wandering khan’s proverb.

Corax returned a faint smile, turning toward Curze, who was busily working over Lorgar’s body with grim precision. “Sacrifice,” he said quietly. “You truly intend to offer Lorgar as one?”

“This is a great catch—a fat bait. There are too many secrets buried in him. The Emperor requires them.”

Curze shook his head as he rose slowly, extending one hand, his voice deep and meaningful. “You and the others—Primarchs—your importance to this universe is beyond your comprehension.”

He looked upward, continuing softly, “When only half of the recoverable remain, we must recycle perfectly. The rest… just prepare the lampshades and enjoy the show.”

A faint violet-red radiance shone through the fractured void, casting mottled light upon him, bathing his figure in shifting colors. At that moment, Curze extended his clawed hand, projecting a holographic image from his gauntlet.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “The traitorous Seventeenth Primarch is secured.”

…

On the Plague Planet, the Whispering Tower—once the lair of the fallen Fourteenth Primarch Mortarion—had collapsed into ruins. Darkness blanketed the shattered landscape, littered with decayed bones and blackened obsidian.

Twisted, tumor-ridden bones in hues of yellow, green, and white lay strewn among the rubble. Their immense size, reinforced ribcages, and fragments of black armor still clinging to them clearly told of what they once were.

They spoke of a battle long past.

The enormous impact craters scattered across the terrain made it obvious—these were from lance bombardments.

The swollen, bloated figure of the Fourteenth Primarch lay sprawled in the center of a crater tens of kilometers wide. Half of his respirator mask had been torn away, and his decayed, bloated mouth gulped down the toxic air in great heaves. His flabby, aged face was slick with sweat.

“Report: the traitorous Fourteenth Primarch has been captured.”

Beside him stood his massive scythe, its blade driven deep into the ground. Beneath a nanometal cloak of white and black patterns, Mortarion’s voice rose from the silence, filled with restrained fury.

He seemed deeply displeased with the twisted reflection of himself.

…

On Harmony—

Within the shattered fortress-city of the corrupted Emperor’s Children, Hymn City.

What once gleamed with grandeur was now warped and obscene, filled with depraved, grotesque art torn to shreds. The mosaics on the ceilings were riddled with shell holes; the face of the Serpent God, the Purple Phoenix, had been obliterated.

“Forward! Cut down these serpentine, shrieking degenerates!”

Chainsword axes were raised high—these were Selene’s warhounds, roaring in fury.

…

On Medrengard, the Daemon World home of the traitorous IV Legion.

Riding the grand celestial war engine Khaos, the Iron Lord of Selene—Perturabo—spoke solemnly of Emperor Selene’s regard for him: the gift of the god-machine, the blessing of the Divine Key, the trust of countless colony worlds…

And the recognition of his glory.

Every word was a blade piercing the demi-god of Chaos-forged iron, cutting deep into the wounds of his past and prying them open anew.

…

On the Planet of the Sorcerers, homeworld of the traitorous XV Legion—the Thousand Sons.

The city of wisdom built from white pyramids and silver spires trembled under storm and shadow. The sky was choked in darkness; no clouds, no stars—only the blazing flashes of blue-white lightning illuminating the void.

“Thunder Prison!”

…

In the Warp.

For the moment, the turbulence of the material universe was set aside.

Amid the Blood God’s roars, the Prince of Pleasure’s shrieks, the Changer of Ways’ raptor cries, and the cold-burning fire of the Lord of Mankind, Selene waited—for an answer.

What exactly was the so-called essence of the Primarchs—the Warp essence the Emperor had stolen from beneath the Chaos Gods’ very gaze?

As is well known:

Eternal One’s gene + another Eternal’s embryonic matrix + fragment of the Emperor’s soul + genetic biotechnologies from the Human Federation’s Golden Age + a small amount of Warp essence absolutely forbidden by the Inquisition + a diverse array of environmental factors—equals one unique Primarch, the demi-gods of mankind.

But among all these elements, what truly made each Primarch unique?

Was it the union of two of the mightiest Eternals? The forbidden sciences of the Golden Age? The environment of their upbringing?

Clearly, all of these could be replicated by both the Emperor and the Chaos Gods alike. Only the irreplicable Warp Essence Spark—the primordial seed—was the true reason for their singularity.

The Astartes, born from the Primarchs’ gene-seed, were, in a sense, demons wrapped in human flesh.

Though perhaps crude, it was accurate enough: Primarchs and Astartes alike were beings of the Warp. The Warp was their true home.

That was why, compared to any other intelligent race in the galaxy, once they fell to Chaos, their corruption became irreversible.

Their modified bodies resonated perfectly with the powers of Chaos. When granted the blessings of the Warp, their strength surpassed all others.

As if the Primarchs—and the Astartes forged from their genes—were specifically crafted as flesh vessels for the daemons of the Warp.

What, then, was this mysterious substance?

Selene searched the dark veil of the Immaterium for the answer.

To do so, she had—through violent trespass and “generous” bribery—registered herself as a local deity within the pantheon of the Chaos God Finality. Since then, the Warp had been turned upside down.

She burned Nurgle’s Garden to cinders; she split open Khorne’s Fortress of the Brass Ladder with a single swing; she smashed Slaanesh’s Palace of Excess with her fists and boots; and as for Tzeentch’s Labyrinth of Lies—she dismantled it entirely, then called in others to scour it down to the bedrock.

She didn’t stop there. Even the countless lesser Chaos Gods—those petty deities skulking in the fringes of the Sea of Souls—were not spared.

Countless divine realms, pocket worlds, and parallel fragments of time and space that depended on the Warp for existence were ground into dust beneath her hand.

And yet—nothing.

Even in the spoils she had taken from the fallen Nurgle, she found no trace of the Emperor’s twenty-one stolen Warp Essences.

The Sparks had long been taken.

Hm. Perfectly in line with the Emperor’s character.

Never leaves empty-handed. Digs until there’s nothing left.

A thief of divine fire—if he was to steal, he would steal it all.

To call it theft was too mild. It had been an unspoken accord—Chaos and Emperor alike never intended to honor the bargain.

In the end, the ruinous powers of the Immaterium ignored the Emperor’s theft, and he obtained the most critical material for his Primarch Project.

Selene had long suspected as much.

Now—it was time to prove it.

Because her offering had arrived.

—

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