The shadows of the Ruinous Powers descended.
Warp-spawned energy flooded into realspace, twisting the Materium under the burden of their presence. Reality trembled, and tendrils of godlike force coiled around the Spirit of Vengeance, echoing like death-thunder from the depths of the Immaterium.
Etheric storms surged from the empyrean. Waves of raw Warp force crashed against the veil of the physical universe, distorting space and time in a tide no mortal soul could fully comprehend.
And then came the moment: Abaddon accepted the full benediction of the Dark Gods.
Across the star system, Astropaths screamed in agony.
The Warp howled with his ascension. Even the aftermath—the mere ripple of it—was a psychic tempest too catastrophic for unshielded human minds. Many Imperial seers fled into the Void or embraced death to avoid corruption.
Their final visions, borne from madness and prophecy, all aligned.
The Warmaster of Chaos had accepted the Crown of Damnation. An era-ending cataclysm was about to unfold.
On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, a final wall stood between Abaddon and dominion over the stars: Doom.
Abaddon believed—no, he knew—that if he could break the warrior before him, the galaxy would kneel.
"Die beneath my blade."
Shrouded in phantasms of red, green, and violet, Abaddon raised Drach'nyen. "You'll be just another name among the billions crushed by my will."
The daemon sword shrieked, its edge wreathed in venomous light, slithering like a predator made flesh. The force within was too much—even the blade's surface fractured, forming vertical, reptilian pupils as though it had become a living beast.
Blood dripped down Abaddon's brass-black armor. Sores erupted into clouds of pestilence. Violet tendrils licked his wounds. Beneath all of it, the Warmaster's might swelled with dark power.
And then he struck.
His blow was apocalyptic—powered by the unholy might of the Four. The blade cleaved through the fabric of space and time, impossible to block or evade.
Abaddon disdained tricks or cunning.
This duel would be decided by brute power alone.
And the Doom Slayer, son of Dukel, responded in kind. He ignited his weapon in flame—the crimson fire of unyielding defiance—and met the Warmaster's charge without flinching.
He too, refused to fight with anything less than naked force.
Watching from afar, Azrael, Master of the Dark Angels, lay wounded—his chest shattered by the Talon of Horus. But even in agony, the duel's sheer fury arrested his focus.
Fire and void energy collided. Thunderous waves of power knocked Azrael backward, smashing him to the deck. He was left stunned—not from pain, but from the sheer weight of the power unleashed.
The duel was unlike anything he had ever witnessed.
For centuries, Azrael had waded through blood and shadow in the name of the Emperor. Yet nothing had prepared him for this.
He stared, wide-eyed, at the two titans locked in combat. The pain in his body forgotten.
On the deck of the Spirit of Vengeance, the two warriors were like twin stars gone supernova.
Flame wreathed the Doom Slayer, whirling into a storm of light that obscured all else. His body burned with power, eyes glowing white-hot beneath a fractured helm. A vaporous psychic fog rose from his armor, and the magnetic field of his being became a storm of thunderous energy.
Abaddon stood amidst the shadows of the gods. Blood-red sigils flowed across his armor. His form swelled, bloated by the favor of the Pantheon. Dozens of Warp-born tendrils writhed from his back, clawing at Doom's every move.
The backlash of their battle shattered corridors, tore down steel bulkheads, and reduced entire decks to fire and ruin.
And then came the blow that made Azrael's blood run cold.
The Warmaster swung with all his might. Drach'nyen screamed with daemon fury and collided against Doom's burning sword.
The impact was cataclysmic.
Warp filth surged forth, clashing with flame. The explosion of power vaporized entire sections of the battlecruiser. The Spirit of Vengeance groaned as its ancient hull buckled.
Azrael rose, rubble falling from his shoulders. His eyes darted to the battlefield.
The firestorm cleared—revealing a terrible sight.
The Doom Slayer's blade bore a hairline crack.
Time seemed to slow.
Azrael saw it. The fracture widened, splitting along the edge of the weapon forged by the lost Second Legion.
"KRAK!"
The sword shattered.
Fragments—millions of them—burst outward in a cascade of white-hot fury. Like splinters of lightning, they tore through the battlefield.
Doom turned aside, dodging the worst. But even so, the shrapnel ripped through his helmet, revealing half his face—marble pale, stone-cut and silent.
"Look out!" Azrael shouted.
He hurled grenades—flashbangs, stunners, smoke shells—everything in his warplate to blind the Warmaster.
Amid the chaos, he lunged forward and found the Slayer.
"Abaddon's gone too far. He's absorbed too much. We have to fall back!" he rasped.
But the Doom Slayer didn't move.
Azrael grabbed him, trying to drag him away.
Nothing.
The Slayer might as well have been a statue fused to the deck.
Then—the light vanished.
A massive shadow loomed over them both.
Abaddon stepped through the smoke, completely unfazed by Azrael's tricks.
"None of you are leaving," he said, voice soaked in contempt. "Fate has already claimed you both. You will serve as sacrifices to herald my rebirth."
He raised his arms. Dozens of daemonic tentacles writhed around him like serpents dancing in the dark.
The Warmaster grinned. Victory was within reach, and he knew it.
The joy was almost holy in its clarity.
But then—Doom spoke.
Even with his blade destroyed, even with death before him, he stepped forward.
Voice flat. Eyes white. Fire still coiling around him.
"Do you think you've won?"
The shadows of the gods descended, and the Warp spewed forth endless streams of corrupting energy. The material realm trembled beneath the heavy burden as the essence of supreme power coiled around the Spirit of Vengeance, a crackling thunder of death from the very depths of Hell.
The violent surge of ether from the bizarre subspace slammed against the barrier of the material universe, causing time and space itself to quiver under the strain. The storm of primordial power was an unstoppable force, pushing and pulling in a way that no mortal or spirit could comprehend.
This was the moment Abaddon accepted the gift of the gods.
Across the star field, astropaths wailed in despair. The dark energies emanating from the Chaos Warmaster were overwhelming. Even the mere aftermath was beyond what humanity could endure.
To shield themselves from the corruption of unclean forces, the Empire's astropaths fled into the void. Their minds had been gripped by maddening visions, countless premonitions of doom, all pointing to the same dreadful truth: Abaddon, Warmaster of Chaos, had accepted the crown bestowed upon him by the gods. The universe was about to be torn asunder by an unprecedented calamity.
And on the Vengeful Spirit, Doom stood as the last barrier between Abaddon and total domination.
Abaddon was certain. If he could kill this warrior before him, the galaxy would be his.
"Die by my sword."
Abaddon was enveloped by swirling phantoms of red, purple, and green as he swung Drachanian, the magic sword, and declared, "You will become just another in the billions who fall before me!"
The sword hissed and shrieked, the very air around it trembling as it unleashed poisonous light, splitting the fabric of reality itself. The force of the blow was so great that the brass of Abaddon's armor began to crack, with poisonous mist pouring out as green and purple tentacles lashed at the wound. Yet, beneath this grotesque display, his power only grew.
He swung his sword with the full might of the gods, determined to end this confrontation in a single stroke.
But Doom, the Doom Slayer, did not flinch. Red flames ignited on his weapon, his resolve hardening. He was the son of Dukel, and like his father, he scorned anything but a direct confrontation. Victory through deception or trickery was beneath him.
Azrael, the King of the Dark Angels, had witnessed countless battles. He had long since become desensitized to bloodshed. Yet, as he watched the clash unfold before him, he could not help but be shaken.
The sight of the two warriors—the Chaos Warmaster and the Doom Slayer—locked in battle filled him with a sense of awe and fear. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the power they unleashed. Even Azrael, a son of the Lion, was unsettled.
The two combatants were locked in a cosmic struggle. As their weapons clashed, the shockwaves reverberated through the Spirit of Vengeance, tearing apart the walls of the vessel and causing the very foundation to crack.
Doom's flames swirled into a storm, his body consumed by fire as he became a living inferno. His eyes blazed pure white, and his very presence felt like an unrelenting storm, every movement accompanied by the roar of the magnetic field he generated.
Abaddon, meanwhile, was shrouded in the influence of the gods, blood-like lines flowing across his brass armor. His body began to grow and twist, tentacles twisting around him, deflecting Doom's assault.
The aftermath of their battle shattered the deck beneath them, sending both warriors plummeting to the next level of the ship.
Azrael raced to the edge, staring down at the wreckage below.
When the smoke cleared, the sight was catastrophic. Abaddon was barely standing. His right shoulder had collapsed, and his demon sword hung limply in his grasp. His armor, once radiant with the runes of the gods, was now battered and dimmed.
Doom, on the other hand, was unrelenting. His fists, still burning with the intensity of the fight, struck again and again. Each blow was a brutal, thunderous crash, sending shockwaves through the very air. Abaddon's attempts to fight back with Drachanian were futile, his arms shattered, the sword's power waning with every strike.
The Spirit of Vengeance itself groaned under the weight of their conflict, and with a deafening boom, the deck collapsed beneath them, sending both warriors into the depths of the ship.
Azrael quickly approached the gap, anxiously watching as the smoke began to clear.
The two combatants were battered but still alive. Abaddon's body was shattered, his demon sword now little more than a twisted relic of its former self. Doom Slayer's rage showed no sign of slowing, his fists continuing to hammer away at the broken Warmaster.
But then, chaos erupted. The Fallen Space Marines, led by their cursed bolters and plasma rifles, opened fire. Explosions rocked the battlefield as Doom was battered from all sides.
Abaddon seized the opportunity to draw a symbol in his own blood, a twisted "nine" marking the deck. In the heart of the Spirit of Vengeance, a crystal creation exploded, and an unnatural Warp storm consumed the battlefield.
The strange laughter of the Lord of Destiny echoed in every soul present as the Vengeful Spirit and all aboard it vanished from reality.
The Dark Angels and Doom Slayer were left floating in the cold, dark void of space.
The Imperial beacon, however, appeared on every soldier's armor, pulling them back to their respective vessels. Doom Slayer found himself aboard the Wrath of Destruction, his fury still burning bright.
He roared in frustration. The meal he had been so close to devouring had slipped through his fingers.
Meanwhile, Abaddon, who had once been so arrogantly sure of his victory, now fled back into the Warp in a panic, his confidence shattered.
Abaddon, Chaos Warmaster, did not feel the elation he had hoped for with his escape. Tzeentch's divine gift, while powerful, was a tool he loathed to use. His connection to the Lord of Change had granted him a fleeting reprieve, but at a price. He knew all too well that such gifts were never without consequence, and the cost would surely come in time.
Though weary and wounded, Abaddon found himself unbowed. Failure on the battlefield was not new to him. He had fallen countless times, only to return stronger and more terrifying with each resurgence. He believed this defeat would be no different.
Still, the whispers of Tzeentch lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of the price he had paid for survival. He staggered to his throne, his body battered and broken, the echoes of the Warp clawing at his thoughts. His mind was filled with the strange allure of the power he had temporarily wielded, an intoxicating sensation of mastery over fate itself.
Abaddon had escaped, but at what cost?
The loss of his command left the Black Crusade in disarray. The war in the Alert Galaxy raged on, but without their Warmaster, the demons' efforts were faltering. The Imperial fleet, led by the mighty Calgar and Dante, had begun its relentless advance. Chaos ships were obliterated one after another, leaving only the smoldering remains of their former strength drifting through the cold void of space.
Far from the battlefield, at the heart of the Imperium, Dukel and Guilliman, two Primarchs bound by blood and duty, observed the unfolding events. Virtual communication kept them attuned to the war in real-time, their vigilant eyes scanning the shifting tides of battle.
"Victory is within our grasp," Guilliman remarked, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "The virtual world system has proven its effectiveness in actual combat."
Dukel, ever the pragmatist, remained calm. His gaze was fixed on the battlefield as he analyzed the situation. "Victory? Perhaps," he said, his tone measured. "But the war is far from over."
Guilliman raised an eyebrow, confusion clouding his features. "But Abaddon has already retreated. The enemy's forces are in disarray. We cannot be far from securing the victory."
Dukel shook his head slowly, his expression resolute. "Abaddon is no longer the threat. But the Chaos forces are still entrenched. We must not underestimate them."
He adjusted the parameters on his holographic display, zooming in on the battlefield over Vigilance. "Look here, brother. The forces still arrayed on the ground—World Purifiers, Death Guard, Iron Warriors, and those treacherous Word Bearers—are far from insignificant. These are the targets we must focus on."
Guilliman followed Dukel's finger as it traced the markers on the map. The Space Marine Legions, those forces of Chaos, were poised in a final stand. They were commanded by Daemon Primarchs—each capable of destroying entire stars.
"Are you suggesting a greater threat lies ahead?" Guilliman's voice hardened with concern. He had faced countless enemies in his time, but the thought of the Daemon Primarchs still looming was enough to make any warrior pause.
Dukel's eyes narrowed. "Horus has returned," he said, his voice low but heavy with meaning. "Abaddon is but a pawn in a larger game. The gods will discard him in time. But the real danger, the true threat, is yet to come."
He turned his attention to a different screen, where the movements of Leon and Sanguinius were being tracked. "I hope they find the clues they seek about Horus," Dukel continued. "We all miss our brother dearly. His return could change everything."
His gaze turned back to Guilliman, the fire of determination blazing in his eyes. "The stage is set, brother. We must be ready. The real war has not even begun."
Guilliman studied the data before him, his face once again stoic. The joy of their victory was fleeting, overshadowed by the gravity of Dukel's words. Slowly, he nodded, a silent understanding passing between the two Primarchs.
Dukel was right. The war had just begun.