Warhammer: Empire Reboot

The six tracks on the star chart deflected simultaneously, like six ribs that had been removed from his design.

"You haven't even driven back the undead yet, and you're already in a hurry to empty my defenses?"

Vashtor's projection unfolded on the other side of the star map, his gears and iron wings illuminated by the dark red furnace fire.

"The coordinates of the key are lit up; it won't stand still and wait for us."

“Saim-Han is not an imperial border post that can be easily crossed.”

Abaddon looked at the gap left by the six tracks: "You took six arks with you, who will fill the gap?"

"YOU!"

This word tightened the thin veil of cooperation between the two by an inch.

Abaddon tapped his finger on the edge of the star map and looked up.

"The Eldar of the Ark aren't crops planted in the ground. Before your ship even gets close, they've already vanished using the net."

"So I'm encircling the shipping lanes."

Vashtor's voice was like the meshing of gears: "That Ark world is too big. No matter how fast you run, you can't outrun the chains I've laid out."

Abaddon was concerned about something else.

"Are you sure the fragments are in their hands?"

"The fluctuation is at that coordinate, whether it's inside the Ark or in some Ranger's pocket."

Vashtor paused for a moment: "Or it could be hidden in a network node."

"It could also be bait deliberately thrown into a mousetrap by some jerk who particularly enjoys fishing."

This statement did not name names, but both of them knew that there was a particularly annoying enemy in the galaxy.

“If the echo is real, I’ll crush it, even the mousetrap.”

Abaddon stared at the projection for three seconds.

This demonic demigod almost never showed any urgency.

It always substitutes emotion for calculation and efficiency, disguising all decisions as logical chains.

But this time, before the undead fleet had even left the battlefield, it split its forces.

Either Vashtor has some undisclosed plans in the Saim-Han direction.

"Do you need me to send the Black Legion to cover for you?"

"Six arks are enough to crush them."

Vashtor replied flawlessly: "Warlord, you deal with your necromancers. I don't need anyone else to share the flesh of Saim-Han."

The war commander withdrew his hand from the edge of the star map.

In the chaos of war, every ally conceals their own blade. As long as that blade is still aimed at the common enemy, questioning it will only make one appear anxious.

Vashtor's projection went out.

Six fleets tore open the rift in the subspace, and hundreds of Chaos warships rushed toward the star system where Saim-Han was located, following the tracks marked by the tracking furnace.

But what Vashtor didn't tell Abaddon was that it had already completed another deal before the fleet set sail.

The transaction took place neither in the real universe nor in ordinary warp space.

It was a sensory theater floating in a purple sea of ​​mist.

The curtain is woven from the nerves of a psionic being, and each strand is still transmitting pain.

The floor was polished into a mirror from fragments of Eldar Soulstone, reflecting the human heads hanging from the ceiling.

Those heads are still singing, their pitches tuned to a level that could drive mortals mad.

When Vashtor's projection entered the theater, its gears and iron wings were reflected on the mirrored floor, like a piece of industrial scrap metal thrown into a jewelry box.

Applause erupted from all directions.

Mocking, drawn-out, each beat landing on an unsettling rhythm.

At the center of the stage, the throne is made of Elven bones and golden threads.

The thing sitting on it has four arms.

Sarasien Thousand Strings.

Its body is somewhere between a sculpture and a living creature, and its face is beautiful to the point of violence.

That kind of beauty is not attractive, but offensive, making the viewer realize that they are experiencing aesthetic pleasure, and also realize that this pleasure itself is depravity.

With each blink, its face changes to the expression of another victim on the verge of death.

One hand gripped a curved longsword, another dragged a whip woven from strands of soul light, a third held a bone flute, and a fourth held a soul orb. A mouth within the orb screamed silently.

"The great Creator."

Salasian's voice was like a harp string sliding across a blade: "So you've finally discovered that some delicate locks can't be pried open with your rusty gears?"

Vashtor's mechanical wings unfurled slightly, and the furnace fire at the tips of the iron feathers baked the purple mist, giving it a burnt smell.

"Stop talking nonsense. Name your price. I want your fleet to enter the fray."

“Want?” Salasian savored the word. “What kind of junk are you planning to use to buy the Thirsty Lady’s hounds?”

“Saim-Han, the soul of the entire Ark.”

The Great Demon adjusted the angle of all four arms simultaneously.

The longsword was raised half an inch, the bone flute was brought to a horizontal position, and the whip rope was slowly tightened.

For the Eldar of the Ark, any military order is more effective than any military command.

There are plenty of soul stones, young riders, bloodline memories passed down through generations, and proud souls that never bow to the thirsty lady.

The more arrogant something is, the more beautiful its weeping.

“That’s an admission ticket, not a reward.” Salasion tapped the armrest of the throne with his bone flute.

"You are permitted to join the hunt. All the souls you pluck are yours. After breaking the Soul Stone Vault, I will close my eyes and let you feast."

"part?"

"As long as you don't touch the area where the key vibrates."

Sarasien laughed. The more casually Vashtor spoke of his parts, the more it revealed how nervous he was about the key.

"Those few broken bones of yours, I wouldn't even want to chew on them even if they were given to me for free."

The Great Demon held up the Soul Orb: "But this scrap is only fit to watch the show."

Tell us your appetite.

"I need a clear passage so I can just stick my face right up to the Eldar shield."

Salasion raised a second finger: "Also, hand over the three Slaanesh engines you've been hoarding. Using my fellow countrymen as batteries is disgustingly crude."

Vashtor's projection paused.

The three demon engines are from the forge's inventory.

Handing it over to another Chaos faction is tantamount to letting the Slaanesh tie another thread in its system.

But it was clear to it that without the Slaanesh joining them, the Eldar fleet would maintain its speed advantage.

Six arks can block the waterway, but they may not be able to control the Eldar's nerves.

Sexual energy.

Slaanesh is the only thing in the galaxy that makes the Eldar fear life more than death.

"Deal. Stay away from the key, don't touch my Ark, and don't even think about getting horny with my tech priest."

"Don't take your bunch of metal lumps too seriously."

Salathion rose to his feet, and the Eldar skeletons on the throne groaned softly: "Their souls taste like rusty screws, nauseating."

A pact composed of human skin, musical notes, and purple flames emerges between the two.

Purple flames and black gears fell simultaneously.

The transaction is complete.

Salasion watched as Vashtor's projection faded, then sat back on the Bone Throne and brought the bone flute to his lips.

The flute music was very soft, like lulling an unborn child to sleep.

Its entourage has already set sail deep into the purple mist.

Saim-Han Ark World, Council Hall of the Twelve Clans.

The holographic star map under the Spirit Bone Dome lit up.

Six points of light approached the Ark from different directions, each trailing a swarm of escort ships behind it.

Further away, signals are forming in the subspace tides, like the shadows of fish swimming in black water.

The chief prophet Ilanther stood directly beneath the dome, his soulstone glowing faintly, the tip of his staff connected to the spiritual veins of the ark's core.

She has attempted to observe three times since she stood here.

The results were all poor.

The thread of fate is obscured by a gray fog. Within the fog, there are the sounds of mechanical gears meshing, the afterimages of purple desire, the light of chaotic artillery fire, and a fragment that is constantly deforming.

The source of the fragments was unclear, as if someone had deliberately placed a mirror in that spot to let her gaze slip past them.

"Prophet," Kellach's voice came from the left, "Has the loom of fate gone blind at the crucial moment?"

Ilanser did not look at him.

"The future has been welded shut. Chaotic mechanical code, subspace storms, and an alien object stuck in the thread of fate have all been turned into a stagnant mess."

Horace stood at the edge of the star map, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Speak in a way that we can understand."

Ilanser turned to look at him.

In layman's terms, I am blind now and can't see anything.