Chapter 698: The Pocket in the Eternal Well

A black sun rose from Ahriman’s neck; within the armor, there was no flesh or blood left—only a screaming void, a black star, and a wisp of ash.

Threads of solidified ash radiated outward from Ahriman, stretching to every Thousand Sons, every scarab, every Red Word, weaving a vast psychic network.

Ash, ash, ash.

The same emotion surged from every Thousand Son’s heart—even the Red Words bound within the armor let out similar wails.

The mutations that consumed their bodies, the judgment of the Nicene Council, the sharp discrimination, the ravaging wolves, the Burning of Prospero, the twisted flames of the Wizard Star, the shrieks of Red Word spells, the failure of the Second Red Word.

Ash, dust, destruction.

They were the wizards of Prospero, cursed by fate, whose destiny had painted them the bleakest ending—turning to ash and dust in blood.

“No.”

Ahriman’s voice traveled through the Red Word network to every Thousand Son’s ear.

“To endure one’s fate may be noble, but I would rather defy it.”

Wails turned to roars, sorrow to hatred; the ash that could no longer burn ignited once more, dust sparkled into starlight, scattering.

The entire psychic energy of the Thousand Sons—from past to future, from the galaxy’s edge to the depths of the Warp, across all time and space—flowed and burned toward Ahriman.

The black star burned with hatred as its fire, with the most extreme change of fate as its fuel, spewing destruction as ash—so bright, so blinding, so terrifying.

From Ahriman, a ring of black fire spread; wherever the flames touched, crystals shattered, demons dissolved, storms vanished, psychic energy collapsed—leaving only scorched earth.

The Soul Butcher, Aetos ‘Lau’ Karys let out a mad scream, extending arms wreathed in blue and red flames toward Ahriman.

The instant its fingers touched the ring of fire around Ahriman, they ignited with black, brilliant flame and instantly turned to ash and vanished.

Karys recoiled in terror, but before it could retreat even a few steps, its body was washed away by the black radiance radiating from Ahriman, turning to ash and dissolving into the air.

The demons screamed in horror—they had realized that Aetos ‘Lau’ Karys had just met utter death, utterly burned away, as if slain by the flame of the cursed.

The Warp churned violently; a secondary divine seat was beginning to shimmer into existence upon Ahriman.

At that moment, Ahriman slowly lifted his head—the black star burning where his face should be—gazing upward into the Crystal Labyrinth, toward the Changer of Ways.

“Do I just need to jump into this?” Magnus asked the Chaos God coiled behind him, staring at the deep, dark well before him.

The Changer of Ways smiled and nodded.

The Eternal Well was a portion severed from Chaos, yet Chaos himself could not reclaim it.

Chaos’s domain is Change—a domain far vaster than War, vaster than Corruption, vaster than Decay, vaster than Art; only Destruction, embodied by the Dark King, could rival it.

But Change resides in contradiction—contradiction is one of Chaos’s inner essences; his domain endlessly subdivides and contradicts itself, and he himself has undergone multiple schisms and weakenings.

Whether the shattering of the Scepter or the severing of the Eternal Well, both were results of Chaos’s self-splitting.

To harness the powers he had severed, Chaos had to create or employ certain individuals to bear fragments of his divided authority.

The Blue Codex bore the “Magic” represented by the shattered Scepter; Carlos bore the “Fate” represented by the Eternal Well; the Soul Butcher, Aetos ‘Lau’ Karys, bore “Madness.”

But most of these individuals were far too weak, able to bear only a minuscule fraction of power.

But Magnus was different; if he entered the Eternal Well, he would inevitably draw forth immense power and become its host.

“Hmm?” The Changer of Ways, adjusting the waves within the Eternal Well, suddenly turned back toward his domain—he sensed something being born, something rising.

He turned his head; his eyes reflected the black star—bright, scorching, lifeless.

Ahriman slowly turned his head; the black star replacing his face reflected one face, one soul, one scream after another of the Thousand Sons.

Chaos’s body recoiled violently; a piercing wail erupted from his mouth, echoing throughout the Warp.

Both gods and lesser beings were drawn by that wail, turning their gaze toward the Changer of Ways’s domain.

Blinding black starlight erupted from one of Chaos’s ninety million eyes; Ahriman’s shadow, illuminated by the black starlight, stretched impossibly long—a black cone piercing Chaos’s eye, driving through his body.

In the material universe, countless followers of Chaos screamed, clutching one of their eyes.

The Changer of Ways’s gift of foresight shattered in them; their eyes showed no future—only a burning black star, a world of ash, a shattered fate.

The scorching star burned at Chaos’s very existence; ash rained from his body; even the future before Chaos’s eyes grew blurred, chaotic, incomplete.

The Thousand Sons’ fierce self-destructive impulse forged hatred against unjust fate, driving Ahriman and the secondary divine seat he was ascending toward Chaos, tearing a fissure into Chaos’s being; behind Ahriman, faintly, the power of the Corrupting Destruction domain pulsed.

But after his wail, Chaos let out a mad laugh.

From his body, twisted crystals thrust outward around Ahriman, refracting his image—each one reflecting a moment of Ahriman’s life, from childhood to now: all his fears and arrogance, pain and hope, dreams and demons, truth and illusion, madness and confusion mirrored within.

As if Ahriman’s existence had been dismantled, torn apart, and sealed within separate crystals.

The Raven-Body cackled; every Ahriman reflected in the crystals seemed to come alive, living out their own lives within the crystals, each veering toward a fate of either joy or suffering. Ahriman felt stretched, stretched, stretched—his sense of time twisted, his thoughts spiraling, his body immobilized.

Chaos was capturing Ahriman with his own body; he was ecstatic—never had he expected such a great harvest today.

The secondary divine seat Ahriman had claimed lay between Corrupting Destruction and Hellstorm, symbolizing the cruelest face of Fate.

What is possessed shall be lost; what is good shall turn bad; the Tower of Valhalla shall collapse; what is great shall become dust.

This was the darkest change, the inevitable end toward which Fate must turn.

Chaos had long sought this divine seat to expand his domain; Ahriman was the tool he had chosen to seize it.

Among all the Astartes, only Fabius and Ahriman possessed the potential to become secondary entities in the Warp, to reach the Primarchs’ level.

A single mortal could never bear the power of a Warp divine seat.

Fabius relied on his creations—the so-called New Humans, bound together by faith, lifting him into the position of the Deformed Father, symbolizing bodily corruption and distortion, a secondary realm between vile artifice and greedy dissolution.

Ahriman relied on the Red Word network: all Thousand Sons—past, present, and future—centered on Ahriman, linked by the Red Words, forming a web; their destruction, hatred, self-destructive tendencies, and revulsion toward fate merged together, lifting Ahriman onto that divine seat.

Whether Ahriman’s own tragic fate or the Thousand Sons’ tragedy, all had been secretly orchestrated by Chaos—to make Ahriman ascend by sacrificing all Thousand Sons—but it had never succeeded.

Yet now, at this very moment, success had come unexpectedly: Ahriman had ascended on his own, without Chaos’s manipulation.

The divine seat he had seized was named Ahriman; in humanity’s older myths, this seat was also called Angra Mainyu—the God of Ten Winters and Two Springs, the god opposite to happiness, turning beauty into ugliness, health into sickness, life into death, water into salt, flame into dimness, until even he himself was destined to fall into endless darkness.