Warhammer: Empire Reboot

The one that Lawson burned with the Imperial Golden Fire was not a general.

It is a piece of flesh forcibly carved out from the body of a god.

But that piece of meat never came back.

It did not turn into maggots, did not return to the river, and did not bloom into new rotten flesh flowers in the garden.

It disappeared.

Gone forever.

A stench of decay wafted from the depths of the manor, sweeping across the plague fleet assembled in the warp.

The End.

Typhons, the Chosen of Nurgle and commander of the Death Guard's First Company, stood on the command deck. Within his bulky Terminator armor, countless swarms of Destroyers were stirring restlessly, with insects constantly crawling out from the cracks in the armor, only to be melted into liquid by the poisonous mist emanating from his body.

He heard a divine oracle from deep within the garden.

It wasn't the usual gentle, fatherly murmur.

It's not, "Child, go and spread my gift."

This time it was very short.

"Take it back."

Typhons adjusted his helmet.

All the Death Guards on the deck looked at him.

A moment later, the second divine decree was issued.

"Don't kill him."

“Bring that mortal named Lawson back to the garden alive.”

“Bring it to the Father’s cauldron.”

A glint of poisonous light flashed beneath Typhon's tattered helmet as he turned toward the Plague Priest behind him.

"Stop traveling to the Altrama sector."

The priest hesitated for a moment: "But the corruption ritual over there has already..."

Typhons glanced at him.

The swarm of worms inside the priest's chest suddenly erupted, gnawing him through from the inside. He knelt on the ground, collapsing into a heap of still-wriggling rotten flesh within seconds.

Typhons stepped over the pile of meat.

"Notify all Plague Captains."

"Target changed."

"Agrippina".

"Prepare the Stasis Capture Net. The highest level Soul Shackles."

"A loving father must live."

……

Another place that cannot be described using physical dimensions.

There is no up, down, left, right, no distance, high, or low; only crystals, spectra, inverted doors, endless staircases, and a thousand futures that occur simultaneously and negate each other.

In the labyrinth of the Lord of Change, a colossal crystal clock tower hangs suspended in the void.

At the top of the clock tower, a giant demon with two bird heads perched in front of the astrolabe, its blue feathers unfolding layer by layer like burning cold fire.

The Weaver of Fate sees the past on the left and the future on the right.

Now, however, it will always be a hole torn open in its eyes.

At that moment, both bird heads were staring at the fate line representing Agrippina on the astrolabe.

The fate of the Milky Way here is usually a line.

Red war, green plague, gold faith, black betrayal.

But there's no thread there in Agrippina's area.

It was a pure black spot.

It's as if someone burned a hole through the fabric of fate.

The Weaver of Fate screamed from the left side: "No record! This phenomenon has never occurred before! Souls don't return, demons don't regenerate, cause and effect are broken..."

The man on the right chuckled softly: "The future is unclear. All the threads will be swallowed up when they reach there. The Blood God's mad dogs will go, the Father's fleet will go, and even more fire will go."

It pecked its right head once with its left head.

"why are you laughing?"

It pecked back with its right head.

"Aren't you laughing too?"

The Weaver of Fate reached out its claws toward the astrolabe, gently stirring a few threads of subspace currents.

The storms that had raged at the edge of the Eye of Fear were calmed down a little by it.

Just a little bit.

The fleets of Khorne and Nurgle were 30% faster than expected.

It also deflected the navigation signals of several lost Red Pirates warships by a few degrees.

not much.

They'll just run right into Agrippina's outer defensive line.

"Go."

Both heads finally laughed at the same time.

"Go, everyone."

"Let me see if your little black hole that swallows everything can still hold onto the edge of reality when all the flames of chaos are burning you."

It stared at the black spot, its tone almost gentle.

"Agrippina will be the most beautiful experimental platform in the entire galaxy."

……

Thirty light-years away on the outer edge of the Agrippina galaxy lies a chaotic asteroid belt.

The Orc Waaagh fleet was anchored there, like a pile of space junk forcibly glued together with green paint, sheet metal, and violence.

The largest warship is called the Bonebreaker.

I just changed the name yesterday.

Two days ago it was called Big Tooth, because the big tooth on the bow of the ship smashed a pirate ship and the tooth fell out, so Gerka thought the name was unlucky, and casually threw the paintman into the fuel furnace.

On the bridge, the orc warlord "Gorkha the Fang," who is nearly four meters tall, is hacking at the command platform with a power-operated machete taller than an adult.

He listened intently when that human broadcast came through the broken loudspeaker.

Especially that line:

"Anyone who's not afraid of dying, get the hell over here!"

The meaning of translating it as "Ouk" is very clear:

Here is the loudest, most popular, and most intense battle in the entire galaxy.

You'll be full.

In his excitement, Gerka cleaved the command platform in two with a single stroke.

"Waaagh!!!"

He roared with his head thrown back.

The hundreds of orc lads on the bridge didn't know what was going on, but when their leader yelled, they yelled too.

"Waaagh!!!"

Gelka brandished his machete, pointing it at the chaotic starry sky outside the bridge.

"Did you hear that, you guys! That bastard who's yelling like that says he's at that... ah... ah something!"

A young man next to him whispered a reminder: "Boss, it's Agrippy—"

Gelka punched him backhand, sending him flying into the wall.

"I know!"

He looked at the orcs again.

"That shrimp said he chopped down a spiky tin can and smashed a big guy who could breathe fire! He said he was a great fighter! He said he was tough!"

Gelka kicked over an orc leader who was standing too close.

"I'm asking you, who's the toughest?"

The orcs on the bridge raised all their weapons: guns, wrenches, machetes, and pipes that had been salvaged from somewhere.

"We're the toughest! Orcs are the toughest!"

"Full fleet, turn course!"

"Gelka roared."

"Turn the engine up to full power! Stuff a few more farts into the hose! Anyone who says it's not powerful enough, I'll shove him in too!"

Several young mechanics immediately cheered and rushed towards the engine area.

Gelka turned his head and looked at the navigator, a rascal in a tattered robe, in the corner of the bridge.

The fart is trying to shrink himself into an empty ammunition box.

It didn't work.

"you!"