It was poisoned bait.
The gates of hell had opened...
From beneath the 'sweet and delicious' shell, the demon sealed within was released.
Like a tsunami swallowing the world, dense Honkai Energy particles erupted as they fused from the Outer Realm into the inner wall of the Warhammer universe.
If one were to describe it anthropomorphically—it was as if countless universes themselves willingly plunged inward. The sensation was like being struck by a mighty fist—so overwhelming that the Warhammer world's own nascent consciousness was stunned into numbness.
Perhaps it had once possessed a faint sense of self.
Small threats it endured. Greater ones, it fled.
The instinct to seek benefit and avoid harm—a universal rule among sentient beings—applied even to worlds that existed only upon the most primitive level of will.
Though imprecise, this simple law explained much.
It could tolerate the entry of the minor merchant and wanderer fleets of the Sacred Selene Empire. It could even withstand the passage of Imperial Navy main fleets that used clever manipulation and subspace gateways. But what it could never permit—was Selene herself entering.
Even a single divine fragment—one capable of bearing the authority of a Chaos God within the Warp—had already stretched the limits of its endurance.
Yet all of that changed once Selene claimed the Chaos Gods' domains—especially after she seized the unreplicable Spark of the Warp, the very fragments of Primarch essence once stolen by the Emperor.
Its recognition parameters remained the same—but Selene, and the power of the Honkai, were now on the whitelist.
And for 'one of its own,' the checks were lax—nonexistent.
...
Meanwhile, around the Eye of Terror, across the edges of the warzone veiled by the Honkai Void Shield arrays—
Within the secured sector designated by the Sacred Selene Empire's Second Astartes Legion, the Punishers—
"This will be the Twilight of the Gods."
The polished, intricate emblem inlaid upon the floor gleamed beneath the light of countless hololithic projections depicting naval battles, ground assaults, decapitation strikes, and siege warfare.
A beautiful yet cold Eldar woman stood before the display, its reflections painting her features in sharp light and shadow.
By human standards, she was exquisite—her figure graceful and her posture mesmerizingly fluid.
Her long hair shimmered with alternating strands of silver and gold, gathered into an enormous, high ponytail adorned with ornate feathers—like the plumage of an extinct sacred bird—spreading fanlike behind her head.
Tall and lithe, her limbs moved with feline grace. Like all Eldar, she bore the characteristic pointed ears and almond-shaped eyes, sharp and commanding. A smoky hue ringed her eyes, accentuated by faint gold eyeliner, lending an air of wild, untamed beauty to her elegance.
Her slim frame was wrapped in a layered, form-fitting armor-dress that combined mobility with regal poise. Every step flowed like dance—fluid, sensual, predatory.
What made her more unusual, however, was the blend of features—both Commorrite and Craftworld Eldar.
The Commorrite and Craftworld kin might share a name, but they despised one another. To embody both—and stand here, on the flagship of the Punishers Legion—could mean only one thing.
Yvraine.
Once a Craftworld dancer, battle-seer, and avenging banshee. Later a rogue corsair, then a dominatrix within the gladiatorial arenas of Commorragh. Now—the leader of the Ynnari, the newly risen Reborn Eldar, and one of the few enlightened minds of her dying race.
Having discarded the shackles of old rivalries, she united followers from Craftworlds, Dark Eldar, and even the Harlequins under the faith of Ynnead, the Death God—and went further still, seeking reconciliation with humanity itself to fight against the encroaching Chaos.
"Alas, Visarch," Yvraine said softly, turning to her old friend clad in crimson bishop's armor. "Our people have lost their seat at the table of the gods. To them, we are naught but fodder... sacrifices for the heavens above."
Her gaze fell toward the shimmering heavens—the veiled vault where the highest realms had begun to twist. From every gap between stars, luminous streams of violet-red energy bled into being.
And Yvraine remembered—the fall of her people, long ago.
"It's an utterly unequal struggle. This isn't a personal feud, nor a war of races..."
Ordinary life was simply too fragile. All they could do now was die and be buried here.
The Aeldari had no other choice. Before the cataclysmic might of the Dark Gods, even their once six-million-year dominion over the galaxy now seemed helplessly insignificant.
In the distant ancient days of Terra, when storms rose and raged, sailors could only cower within seaside temples, trembling as they prayed before statues of the sea gods for mercy. During humanity's Golden Age under the Federal galaxy, when the storms of the dark dimension swept the stars, the voidfarers could only gaze toward the distant starlight and sigh in silence.
Between mankind and the Aeldari, there seemed to exist a strange kinship of fate.
The only difference—when the darkness began to envelop the world, humanity still had the Emperor. That eternal being who willingly offered all of Himself for the sake of His species.
Humanity still had a seat at the galactic chessboard—still capable of bargaining, still capable of choice.
But the Aeldari... no one remained to rekindle their light.
"We still have the War God, the Laughing God, the Mother Goddess, and the God of the Dead..."
After a long silence, Visarch spoke at last.
"Our gods? Do you actually believe that?"
Yvraine's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile.
The surviving Aeldari deities were but three. The War God, Kaela Mensha Khaine, was spiritually dead and physically shattered into countless fragments. Many Craftworlds preserved shards of Khaine's form, calling upon them to summon his avatars in times of dire need.
The Mother Goddess Isha had become the private captive of Nurgle, the Plague God. Now, with Nurgle's slumber deepening and his domain unraveling amid the chaotic infighting of the Dark Gods, her fate was uncertain at best.
As for the Laughing God, Cegorach—best not even mention him. Elusive, erratic, eternally playing His games, seeking amusement in cosmic tragedy. Perhaps He had grand designs and ambitions of His own, and perhaps his Harlequin troupes still pursued their mysterious plans—but as Yvraine gazed upon the burning remnants of worlds and the dying light of collapsing suns, she knew one thing for certain.
Cegorach lacked the power.
And the God of the Dead, Ynnead? Merely a fragment, an unfulfilled promise. The very reason the Ynnari existed was to awaken him—hoping he might deliver the Aeldari from the eternal hunt of the Dark Prince and Her daemonic spawn.
But now—what good was Death?
A new Chaos God had arisen—bloodier, crueler, and infinitely more cunning than any before.
She had allied herself with the human sorcerer-king of Terra—Selene and that ancient lich of sorcery—and together they had annihilated Commorragh, sacrificing nearly the entire population of the Dark Eldar.
Not that Yvraine mourned Commorragh's fall; she bore them no love. Yet even she understood the truth—when the lips are gone, the teeth soon grow cold. If Commorragh could fall, what hope had the rest of their race? Who would not fear being next in Finality's path?
"The glory of the Aeldari is gone," Yvraine said softly. "Humanity are the players now, the ones who hold the pieces. It's almost absurd—have you heard? Even the Necrons have stirred from their tombs and appeared on Cadia, pledging allegiance to Finality before any of us could even act."
A Dark Eldar woman clad in the provocative garb of a dominatrix let out a sardonic laugh. "They say he even received a personal audience with the Goddess of Finality Herself—and was granted the blessing that our kind pursued for millions of years and never obtained."
"And what did we receive? Nothing but silence."
"The Sacred Selene Empire's Empress... the Sovereign of All Races—that's Her title," a seer murmured. "If we were to submit..."
"Hard to say," replied a warrior in emerald chainmail, his armor styled after the Craftworld hosts. "If the humans of Terra were to request the annihilation of all xenos, what do you think She would do?"
"None of us are strangers to humanity's extremism—or their hatred of all that is alien."
"Then what remains—war, or peace?"
As her kin debated, Yvraine's gaze lingered on the golden statue before her. She knew it for what it was—the image of the Goddess of Finality herself. And as she stared, lost in thought about the future of her people, wondering if all that remained was to wait in silence—
Bzzzzzzzzzz!
Across the star-sea, platinum light blazed—so hot, so pure, so absolute—that nothing impure could survive beneath it. Every trace of corruption, every unholy thing it touched, was purged as though burned from existence.
The infinite ocean of light bathed the universe, flooding all of realspace.
"Your Majesty!"
"Our God!"
"Divine Empress!"
...
The chants rose from every corner of the fleets—even the reinforced soundproofing of the reception decks could not suppress the solemn, thunderous hymns of the countless Imperial warriors aboard.
"Ynnari... you seem rather eager to meet Me?"
The voice—soft, distant, and immeasurably vast—echoed through the void. Yvraine froze, instinctively glancing around, but every face reflected the same shock. All could hear it. The voice defied distance and time, resonating directly within their minds.
Her lips parted. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
Through the ship's viewport, she saw the impossible.
The violet-red veil of the Eye of Terror was visibly receding. The supernatural realm of the Warp was retreating—faster than ever before. The great galactic rift, that wound splitting the stars, was closing—healing as if time itself ran backward.
And then—she saw it.
A colossal figure of stellar radiance was stepping into realspace.
It carried the authority to unmake all things—wherever it walked, the laws of physics, of time, and of existence themselves collapsed into nothingness.
...
The Warp was still the Warp. Realspace was still realspace. But to Selene, this world was no longer the same.
"Hahaha... I must admit, I find your charm rather endearing."
Before her, the Emperor and the three Chaos Gods weakened, their divine auras fading. Selene laughed joyously, her voice echoing like music. Inwardly, she mused: Truly, a delightful day.
Those words had been Khorne's once. But exhaustion—oh, that was certain.
After all, she had diluted their power at its source—siphoning strength away by endlessly pouring barren worlds into the Warp, saturating it with new, foreign energy.
Defeating such abstract, immaterial beings—Khorne, Tzeentch, Slaanesh—within their own domain was nearly impossible. But what if she kept adding to the pool—more and more water into their stagnant pond?
And with the Emperor's help—his infiltration, his hidden allegiance—she now had clearance. She was on the whitelist.
The Honkai Energy flowed freely into the Warp, diluting its essence, reshaping and corrupting it in turn.
Now, it was ready—ready to receive visitors from beyond.
Not all at once. But enough.
"Farewell. On behalf of my true self, I bid you all a pleasant game."
Before the last word faded—Crack!Crack!Crack!—
The void split open, rending into colossal fissures that tore through space and time. Beyond the shattered walls of this multidimensional realm, a new sky glimmered—a cosmic canvas of boundless color and shifting light.
Hummmmmm—
A titanic hand emerged from beyond, descending through the void. Compared to that hand, the boundless firmament of the Warp—the very heavens of higher dimensions—was but dust upon an ocean. A single grasp could crush eternity itself.
ROAR!
For the first time, Tzeentch's eyes widened in shock. A shriek tore from His throat, rattling souls across all existence.
He could feel it. The hand was reaching for him first.
Countless tendrils burst forth, clawing at the fabric of the Warp. The domain around Him shattered—another vast rift tore open. His form twisted, shifting from avian to serpentine as He darted toward the breach, slithering like a snake fleeing into its hole.
But—
A golden blade of light cleaved downward, piercing illusion and nightmare alike. It struck true, impaling his tendrils and halting his escape.
That instant's hesitation was fatal. The Changer of Ways twisted His form and screamed an eternal curse toward the Emperor:
"Lord of Mankind—thou shalt never have thy desire fulfilled!"
ROOOAR——!!
Flee? Hide? Not Khorne's way. Axe in hand, He charged straight in—mad laughter booming like thunder. To die in battle? Perfect! He had long awaited such an end!
Gulp...
Slaanesh could only stare as the entire multidimensional plane collapsed like a sinking ship. The two maniacs were seized—grasped by the invading force. And as the structure of the world still held for but an instant, it swept away countless daemon fortresses—taking Her as well—dragging them all into the Outer Beyond.
In a flash, they were gone.
Only the echo remained—the universe trembling, groaning from the violent contraction following its brief, impossible expansion.
The fragments that remained were scattered across the infinite void—countless reflections in the cosmic mirror, forming a spiral of broken worlds, a narrow staircase leading toward the Other Side.
Crunch... snap... squelch...
—
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