Warhammer: Empire Reboot

The holographic projection of the primary star is marked in red, indicating enemy-occupied territory.

The main planet, the stronghold of Governor Khorne.

The location of the Mechanicus Data Temple, and the storage place for the STC decryption protocol key.

Along with a Trojan horse unit consisting of thirty non-combatant suicide soldiers, they are traveling on a frozen meat transport ship toward the red planet.

Then he turned and walked down the terrace.

The information flow of swarm intelligence continued to operate in his mind.

Progress reports from the three thousand suicide soldiers learning warship technology in the dock continued to come in: 67% mastery of weapon systems, 73% of engine systems, 58% of navigation systems, 81% of communication systems, and 49% of shield systems.

Based on the current learning speed and the fusion efficiency of swarm intelligence, it is estimated that soon all three thousand suicide soldiers will reach the level of being able to independently operate the Empire's standard warships.

At that time, he will have warships, crew members, and a fleet.

Every piece in this game is moving to its proper place.

Just as the real universe is turbulent, so too is the subspace.

There is no time in subspace.

Or rather, time here is a churned river, with the past, present, and future like three colors of paint poured into the same bucket, turning into a murky mess.

The human brain cannot comprehend this state of being; a mere glance is enough to shatter even the most resilient mind into dust.

But for Sal Kolax, this is home.

It sits atop the highest point of its divine realm, a spire built of solidified lies and stolen knowledge.

Each brick of the spire is a deceived soul, and each window is an eye peering into the real universe.

Millions of fate lines crisscross the spire from all sides, some as thin as spider silk, others as thick as chains, each representing the trajectory of a life in the real universe.

Thrall Corax, the Fateweaver, gently manipulated these threads of fate with its nine claws formed from pure warp energy.

Its form is indescribable to mortals.

A constantly changing geometric structure, each face is a different face, and each face tells a different lie.

It is observing the fate line of the Obulus galaxy.

To be precise, it is observing the area where the line of fate once existed.

That place is now nothingness.

A large number of the fate lines belonging to the Khorne demons, thick lines pulsating with dark red light, were all severed at a certain point in time.

There were no remaining fragments of soul at the break point, nor any ripples of subspace energy.

The lines simply vanished, as if they had never existed.

This is impossible in the underlying logic of subspace.

When a demon is destroyed, its soul shatters, and the fragments flow back to the realm of the corresponding deity, where they are reassembled after a long period of recombination.

This is a fundamental law of subspace, as inviolable as the conservation of energy in the real universe.

The soul can be torn apart, devoured, twisted, and corrupted, but it will not disappear into thin air.

Unless something completely devours them.

The Weaver of Fate's nine fingers stopped.

It focused its gaze on the center of that void. There, at the focal point where all the severed lines of fate converged, was a tiny, almost imperceptible black dot.

That dot is swallowing the light.

No, it is devouring everything: light, information, causality itself.

The Weaver of Fate tried to touch the dot with his senses, but his senses were immediately drawn into it, like a drop of water being thrown into a bottomless abyss.

The Weaver of Fate withdrew its sensory tentacles.

The black dot disappeared abruptly and could no longer be perceived.

"interesting."

Its voice echoed through the divine realm, but the echoes constantly distorted as they traveled, each bounce transforming into a new sentence, a new meaning.

This is how Tzeentch speaks; every sentence contains nine layers of meaning.

The Weaver of Fate had already confirmed this from the demise of Vespera's soul.

A month ago, when Vespera's soul was completely intercepted and purified in the real universe, the Weaver of Fate perceived the entire process through feedback from the soul contract.

Now, the Fate Weaver is combining the demonic demise on the wrecked spaceship with the Vespera incident on Planet Obolos III for analysis.

The conclusion is as clear as a knife.

The executioner on the wrecked spaceship and the Astartes on Planet Three wearing ancient power armor belong to the same faction.

The Weaver of Fate's multifaceted form slowly rotated once.

It is not angry; anger is a specialty of Khorne, the emotion of those lowly thugs who only know how to hack and slash.

The Weaver of Fate felt a sense of curiosity.

An existence capable of completely devouring souls and breaking the underlying laws of the warp is far more valuable than a mere Vespera or a group of low-level demons.

If we could figure out how this ability works, if we could replicate, modify, and weaponize it…

What reward will Tzeentch bestow upon it for this?

All it needs is a tool.

A tool that is stupid enough, powerful enough, and easy enough to manipulate.

The Weaver of Fate's gaze pierced the boundaries of his divine realm, casting it upon the distant, eternally boiling crimson horizon.

That is the realm of terror.

A desolate wasteland of scorched bones.

This is a buffer zone between the realms of the Weaver of Fate and Skragag.

The ground is paved with the bones of souls burned by the flames of the warp millions of years ago, and each bone fragment is engraved with a forgotten name.

The projection of the Weaver of Fate descended upon the wasteland.

It chose a relatively low-key form, a ball of blue flame, suspended three meters above the ground.

At the heart of the flames, one can vaguely see a constantly changing face, but its features can never be clearly discerned.

It is waiting.

The edge of the sea of ​​blood is two hundred kilometers away.

It was an ocean of congealed blood, its surface churning with countless distorted faces—the souls of those who died in the violence of Khorne, forever adrift in the sea of ​​blood, forever screaming.

The water level in the Blood Sea is slowly rising.

This means Skaragh is getting close.

The earth began to shake.

On the scorched wasteland, the skeletal remains collided with each other amidst the tremors, producing the sound of millions of dead wailing simultaneously.

This sound would rupture the eardrums and liquefy the brain of any mortal.

The surface of the sea of ​​blood cracked open.

A giant brass-colored hand emerged from the depths of the sea of ​​blood, grasping its edge and lifting it upwards.

Skrag rose from his sea of ​​blood.

Khorne, a high-ranking archdeacon, the Bloodborne Tyrant, and the mastermind behind the scenes of Planet Obrolus I.

Its form is the embodiment of all violence.

The 30-meter-tall body was cast from brass, coagulated blood, and shattered skull.

Its head was a huge bull skull, with dozens of blood-dripping human heads piercing through its two curved horns.

Its arms are asymmetrical; its right arm is unusually thick and holds a three-meter-long brass axe, while its left arm splits into three strips at the elbow, each ending in a clenched fist.

Its eye sockets burned with a cold, red flame.

"A bird with mixed feathers."

"You fucking stand on my border, do you want me to tear your projection to shreds and feed it to my hounds?"

The blue flames of the Weaver of Fate remained motionless.

“Scaragh, you’re still the same as ever.”

The Weaver of Fate mocked, "A hundred years have passed, and your vocabulary still consists of only three words: tear, cut, and crush. You truly are a good dog of Khorne."

Skragh’s massive brass axe came crashing down.

The speed was so fast that even the causal laws of subspace couldn't react in time.

The axe blade sliced ​​through the space where the Weaver of Fate's projection was located, splitting that small piece of void in two.

But the axe blade only sliced ​​through a blue afterimage.

The true projection of the Weaver of Fate has appeared behind Skrager.

"What's the rush?" the Weaver of Fate said. "I've come here to give you a gift."

"I don't want anything from you."

Skrag turned around, his red eyes fixed on the blue flame: "The gifts of the Tzeentch bastards are always traps. Speak your bullshit and get lost."

"Then I'll tell you."

The Weaver of Fate's flame form slowly rotated, and its ever-changing face finally froze for a moment, revealing a crescent-shaped smile.

"Your vanguard on the wrecked spaceship, they're dead."

"Your demons did not return to the sea of ​​blood; they were annihilated. Utterly, completely, irreversibly annihilated—souls, memories, existence itself—all reduced to zero. As if they had never been created."

"it is good!"

Skragh roared, raising his massive brass axe high above his head: "Very well! Tell me, who is it? What can completely wipe out Khorne's demons? The Eldar wizards of Aldari? The soulless machines of the undead? Or that rotting corpse sitting on the golden toilet?"