The rifts are not confined to Terra. They shimmer across the stars like veins of bleeding light, appearing unpredictably in distant sectors, in forgotten worlds, and over Imperial systems long untouched by the Emperor's gaze. Warp energy pulses outward, a ripple that touches every sentient mind sensitive enough to feel it.
Enki, Elizabeth, and the freed Primarchs sense it immediately. Their awareness spans light-years. Each ripple is a potential threat, each opening a corridor for alien horror, for Orc invasions, for new demons spawned from the chaos of corrupted reality. The galaxy groans under the weight of shifting powers.
On the industrial world of Armageddon, the Orc warboss Ghazkull Thrak snarls as a rift opens above the planet's skies. From it pour streams of monstrous entities—hybrids born from Chaos Beasts and the Seven Chaos Gods of Sin. The Orks, sensing a challenge greater than their usual conquests, roar in delight and begin massing for attack. Their fleets swarm the Warp-spawned invaders, and for the first time, they encounter forces that are neither fully mortal nor fully divine. Massive clashes erupt in the atmosphere. Energy blasts, psychic screams, and explosions light the skies for miles.
In the distant world of Cadia—though shattered and reduced to fragments—the remnants of the Astra Militarum notice strange distortions in the stars. Psychic tremors, residual of the rifts, ripple across the sector. Commanders issue orders, but communication falters as space itself shudders. Platoons brace for incursions they cannot yet see, feeling only the pull of the Warp and the weight of the galaxy's chaos.
Meanwhile, in the far reaches of the Segmentum Obscurus, alien civilizations take note. The Eldar of Craftworld Iyanden sense ripples in the Webway, subtle distortions that hint at an unnatural influx of chaotic energies. Farseers speak of new gods and demons, unnatural even by the standards of the Warp. They prepare psychic wards, divinations, and contingency plans, knowing that sooner or later, the rifts will reach them.
The freed Primarchs hold Terra as their anchor. Angron stands atop a cratered wall, fists smoking with residual rage channeled into precise action. Fulgrim maneuvers his forces elegantly, predicting where hybrid demons will strike next. Magnus weaves psychic shields not just over Terra but subtly across nearby systems, stabilizing the small threads of reality threatened by the ripple effect of the rifts. Mortarion manipulates localized plagues, toxins, and suppressive effects to control hybrid incursions on worlds in the fringe sectors. Perturabo orchestrates orbital bombardments and fortifications, anticipating rifts before they fully manifest.
Elizabeth and Enki remain the guiding force. Elizabeth moves like a shadow across the battlefield, black blade absorbing chaos residues, white blade repairing reality, golden apples floating to stabilize or heal where necessary. Enki, omniscient and calm, reaches outward with his awareness, observing not just physical space but potential timelines, trying to coordinate a galaxy-wide response even as unpredictable rifts and new enemies appear.
On worlds far from Terra, local governors, Space Marine chapters, and civilian populations feel the changes. They do not understand why Orc fleets suddenly clash with demons spawned from nowhere, why psychic storms ripple across systems, why distant rifts shimmer with dangerous light. Yet instinctively, they prepare, mobilizing fleets, constructing fortifications, and calling for reinforcements. Rumors spread of the Primarchs' return, their redemption whispered as both hope and warning.
Even the Chaos pantheons watch from the Warp. Khorne snarls at the growing influence of the freed Primarchs. "They were mine! Their fury was meant for slaughter, and now they walk free!" Slaanesh hisses in frustration, feeling Fulgrim's beauty and precision slip from her grasp. Nurgle grumbles, his joy in decay threatened by Mortarion's newfound autonomy. Tzeentch folds in on himself, calculating hundreds of possible timelines, all altered by the reclamation of the Emperor's sons.
The Chaos Beasts and the Seven Gods of Sin stir. Their energies ripple outward, warping nearby star systems, testing the galaxy's defenses. Tiamat's chimeric offspring devour anything they can reach. Afri envelops entire battle fleets in her obsessive embrace. Samael flickers through systems, bringing desolation in moments. Distro reshapes planets into monstrous landscapes, consuming all that is not his. Yet, even these alien gods sense a balance shifting. The Primarchs' freedom, the Emperor's guidance, Enki's oversight—they are forces beyond mere destruction, and the galaxy begins to take note.
On Terra, Angron clenches his fists. "The galaxy feels it," he says. "Every system, every world—chaos spreads, yes, but so do we. We are the line between ruin and salvation."
Fulgrim smiles faintly, eyes glinting with renewed clarity. "We must move, not wait. If the Orcs, the hybrid demons, or the Sin Gods reach these worlds unopposed, there is no coming back."
Magnus nods. "Observation first, intervention second. Every system has its thread. If we break it wrong, we risk more than we save."
Mortarion exhales, lungs burning as always. "Yet hesitation kills. The galaxy does not pause for councils or deliberations. It moves. And so must we."
Perturabo folds his arms, calculating orbital bombardments, potential siege points, and Warp-stabilization zones across nearby star systems. "Preparation is essential," he says. "Our strategy must consider not just the immediate battle, but the cascade of consequences across light-years."
Elizabeth lifts her gaze toward distant stars. "Every rift we stabilize, every world we defend, it is only a temporary measure. The next rift could appear anywhere, bringing more horrors, more challenges."
Enki's presence reaches them, subtle but undeniable. "Then we move as one," he says, his omniscient mind touching theirs. "The galaxy is vast, the threats many. But your unity, your clarity, your freedom from the old gods' chains… it is the anchor that will tip the scales."
And so the galaxy awakens. Orc fleets clash with hybrid demons on distant worlds. Alien civilizations brace against the subtle incursions of Warp-born horrors. Imperial governors rally fleets and armies, knowing the Primarchs are returning, but uncertain of what shape salvation will take. The Chaos pantheons mutter, clash, and plot, sensing that their dominion over the galaxy is no longer unchallenged.
The first ripple has passed, but many remain. Rifts flare unpredictably across systems. Hybrid demons multiply. Orc hordes press forward. And somewhere in the vast expanse, the Emperor's presence threads through the minds of his sons, patient, sorrowful, and guiding.
The galaxy teeters between ruin and redemption. And the Primarchs—freed from Khorne, Slaanesh, Tzeentch, and Nurgle—step forward, ready to reclaim the universe that was theirs, and that belongs to humanity.