[Cooldown Time: 244 Hours]
[Would you like to consume Cooldown Reduction time?]
Nolan's eyes were fixed on the glowing numerals of the simulator screen, specifically the 244 hours of remaining cooldown time. A muscle twitched in his jaw as his gaze slid over to the much larger number beneath it: 1,009 hours of cooldown reduction time still banked.
Without a moment of further consideration, he reached out and initiated the consumption of the resource time. The number representing the cooldown instantly blinked out, replaced by a simple "Ready."
He didn't rush to start, though. Instead, he took a slow, deep breath, letting the anticipation settle. The sole remaining Space Wolves was his focus now—the survivor. He completed his customary silent prayer, the habit a grounding anchor, before finally touching the screen to reopen the simulator.
[Simulation Initiating...]
[Current Available Identity: Space Wolf Blood Claw (Warp)]
[Please choose your identity.]
[If refused, a random identity will be assigned.]
[Chosen identity: Space Wolf Blood Claw]
[Simulation Initiating...]
[You have once again descended into the Warhammer Universe.]
[Time: Unknown]
[Location: Unknown]
[You have arrived in the Warp for the first time.]
[Warp currents hurl you into an uncharted realm.]
[You are gravely wounded.]
[You are on the brink of death.]
[You are in a state of suspended animation.]
[Yet, you do not perish.]
[An immensely powerful psychic force envelops your nearly shattered Astartes body.]
[It floods you with boundless vitality, rekindling the dying embers of your soul.]
[You abruptly open your glowing cyan wolf eyes.]
[Your fangs glint slightly as you gasp for air, the sound a ragged, strained wheeze against the psychic roar of the Warp.]
[Instinctively, you tighten your grip on the haft of your power axe, Frost fang.]
[Your vision, still hazy and reeling from the impact of the sudden life-surge, scans your surroundings.]
[Before you lies a shifting expanse of multicolored clouds, interwoven with ethereal, flowing streams of energy that seem almost alive, like luminous, slow-moving rivers of pure thought.]
[Your nose twitches subconsciously, a primal reaction.]
[Your enhanced senses detect no scent—only the deafening, immaterial pressure of raw emotion and belief.]
[You struggle upright, your master-crafted power armor battered, scored, and dented but miraculously functional.]
[Your cyan wolf eyes narrow warily, scanning the surreal environment where reality is merely a suggestion.]
[Everywhere you look, shifting mirages flicker like illusions: blood-red volcanoes, lush gardens, ornate ringed palaces, and towering crystalline spires—all forming and dissolving in the blink of an eye.]
[You take a deep, useless breath of the non-air.]
[You realize that only the five-meter void beneath your boots offers any tangible footing, a small, stubborn patch of black, psychic solidity.]
[You gradually accept the reality before you, forcing your battle-honed mind to process the impossible.]
[Planting Frost Fang into the ground, its head biting into the unstable footing, you kneel and offer a devout prayer to the Emperor, the ritual a desperate plea for sanity in the realm of madness.]
["The Emperor protects..." you whisper, your voice thin in the overwhelming stillness.]
[At that moment, the misty phantoms before you begin to part, tearing like a veil, revealing a dim, gray passage stretching out into the impossible distance.]
[You catch a glimpse of a towering figure walking ahead, his stride purposeful.]
[He wears an ancient, worn Aegis-pattern Terminator armor, its silver gleam dulled by countless battles.]
[In his left hand, he carries an immense, scarred storm shield, held ready.]
[On his right shoulder rests a gleaming Nemesis Force Sword. His storm bolter sways rhythmically at his waist, heavy and comforting.]
[Above his power pack, a crimson banner flutters against the silent wind, bearing the distinct sigil of an unknown warband—a stark contrast to his otherwise pristine armor.]
[You hear him occasionally hum an ancient hymn, the low, steady sound a single point of order in the chaos of the Warp.]
[You believe this is the Emperor's guidance, a sign sent to the very edge of your survival.]
[Without hesitation, you charge into the passage, your heavy boots thudding softly on the immaterial ground.]
[The towering agent senses your presence; the low hum cuts off.]
[He halts, turning slightly, his massive form a wall of ceramite and faith.]
[You see his aged, silver-bearded face, a landscape of deep scars. His deep eyes, twin points of ancient wisdom, shine like twin stars in the gloom.]
["Hmm...?" He blinks once, his confusion palpable even from a distance.]
[But just as you attempt to speak, a warning forming on your lips...]
[The gray passage trembles violently, shuddering as if struck by a massive psychic blow.]
[The Astartes warrior frowns, a deep furrow in his brow, and dashes toward you with surprising speed, his heavy armor thudding with urgency.]
[But he is too late.]
[In an instant, the scene before you fractures and collapses into chaos, a blinding, soul-searing surge of color and sound.]
[When your vision stabilizes, the ethereal colors of the Warp have been replaced. You find yourself in a nightmarish, material land.]
[The sky burns with a dull, sickening crimson light, casting everything in shades of blood and shadow. The ground is cracked open, revealing veins of molten lava, and towering, active volcanoes spew endless fire and toxic smoke.]
[You narrow your cyan wolf eyes, adjusting to the sudden, physical heat.]
[You inhale deeply, the air thick with sulfur and the metallic stench of daemons, a stark, vile reality after the scentless Warp.]
[Your grip tightens around Frost Fang, the power axe cold and heavy in your hands, a reassurance.]
[After a brief, calculating pause, you step forward, beginning your exploration with a predator's caution.]
[Leaping over a churning river of molten rock, your boots sink immediately into knee-deep, shifting volcanic ash.]
[Fragments of ceramite plating crack and flake off your battle-worn armor, singed and weakened by the heat, vanishing into the glowing lava below.]
[You pay no mind; the armor is a tool, and you are the weapon.]
[Stepping onto a jagged obsidian boulder that juts out from the ash, you suddenly spot a group of newborn Bloodletters forging crude Hellblades in the heat of the lava.]
[Your unexpected presence draws their ravenous eyes, their faces twisting into expressions of pure, murderous hunger.]
[Abandoning their unfinished weapons, they charge at you in a screeching wave, wielding crude tools and unsharpened, barely-formed blades.]
[You bare your fangs in a silent snarl of challenge.]
[With a roar that is half-wolf, half-Astartes, you swing Frost Fang and leap into the fray, a counter-charge of silver and cold iron.]
[For the first time, the power axe drinks deep of daemon blood, the force field around the blade tearing through flesh and bone, unleashing its true, terrifying potential.]
[In mere seconds, nearly thirty Bloodletters are hewn apart, their wounds laced with creeping frost, the icy power of Frost Fang burning their immaterial forms.]
[This is Frost Fang's unique power—the cold kiss of death.]
[You exhale, the breath ragged, and wipe a splatter of steaming daemon blood from your cheek with the back of your armored hand.]
[But suddenly, a scorching, violent force surges within you, originating from the tainted gore on your armor.]
[It courses through every fiber of your being, a physical, hateful violation.]
[Your cyan wolf eyes widen in shock as the intrusive energy attempts to seize control of your will.]
[A fleeting whisper of praise—Khorne's terrible favor—echoes in your mind, a seductive, deadly promise of power.]
[Your jaws clench so hard you feel your teeth grind as your will is pushed to its absolute limits, fighting the invasion.]
[The flame of your soul flickers, pushed to the verge of extinguishing by the sheer malevolence of the Blood God's taint.]
[Then, without warning... your psychic reserves react.]
[A surge of Warp fire, fueled by your own latent psychic strength, erupts from the depths of your soul, violently expelling the invading force from your body.]
[That malevolent energy is forcefully siphoned into Frost Fang, the only outlet available.]
[You regain control, the oppressive heat receding from your core.]
[Breathing heavily, you kneel, panting, the immense mental effort draining.]
[Your gaze falls upon your weapon, drawn by a dreadful sense of dread.]
[Frost Fang has changed.]
[The once ice-blue gem at its core, a relic of its Space Wolf heritage, now pulses with a deep, sickening blood-red glow.]
[The runes across its blade, have twisted and warped into X-shaped, unholy symbols that throb with dark energy.]
[You understand their meaning in an instant, a flash of forbidden knowledge seared into your mind.]
[They represent an eternal, inescapable truth, a horrifying embrace of the deepest malevolence...]
[Khorne.]