In the warp.
The majestic Queen's Glory-class battleship *Soul of Vengeance* drifted within the warp, having left its Gellar Field inactive. This negligence allowed warp entities to approach unhindered, and twisted, grotesque creatures lurked at every corner of the vessel.
The bridge was no exception.
Abaddon stood on the bridge, his gaze fixed on the sorcerer before him. Occasionally, a clawed daemon would leap between them, yet both paid it no mind—such occurrences were all too familiar.
"How fares the ritual?" Abaddon inquired, scrutinizing the sorcerer.
The sorcerer's appearance was ever-shifting, grotesque: his head placed between his legs, arms extending from atop his head, with feathers and pus-filled blisters sprouting from his flesh. If not for his remaining utility, Abaddon would have ended him long ago.
"Patience. We do not dwell in the material universe. Perhaps the ritual concluded before our conversation even began, or it may linger halfway," the sorcerer replied with a repulsive squawk that sickened Abaddon.
Suppressing his irritation, Abaddon acknowledged the truth: in the warp, time held no meaning.
"Be patient." The sorcerer began pacing the bridge, his fingers piercing his own blisters, using the oozing pus to inscribe incomprehensible symbols on the floor. Abaddon watched, feeling a sacrilege befall his *Soul of Vengeance*, but he endured it; the sorcerer's strange rites all contributed to the ritual.
Drawing arcane marks with his bile, the sorcerer occasionally tore out feathers to embed in the flooring, each quill sinking deep despite the reinforced decking—an eerie testament to the dark sorcery at work.
"When the ritual concludes, you will receive the Dark Gods' blessing," he murmured, half-entranced. "Your fleet will appear above Cadia, poised to slaughter those trembling ants…"
Abaddon had heard these promises countless times before, a litany of bloodlust and devotion.
"Nothing will halt you, nor the Gods themselves," the sorcerer chanted, sketching an eight-pointed star—a symbol that shimmered with a gleam defying its vile origin.
"Is it over?" Abaddon asked.
The sorcerer, silent, positioned himself at the star's center, his form gradually hardening to stone.
A grim thought crossed Abaddon's mind: could the ritual have failed?
For years, the ritual had progressed, turning nearly a hundred Imperial worlds in the Obscurus Sector into ritual nodes. The Black Legion had defended these at all costs, sacrificing billions, transforming eighty-nine Imperial worlds into daemon worlds—could this all have been in vain, with the sorcerer consumed by his own foul power?
But then, *Soul of Vengeance* was abruptly surrounded by a fleet of ships, including a cruiser of the Red Corsairs, previously locked in battle with the Tyran Navy. Then another warship, and yet another… a steadily growing armada materialized, as if pulled from reality into the warp itself, neatly arrayed around Abaddon's vessel.
With a portal before them fluctuating wildly in size, Abaddon realized the ritual had not failed—it had succeeded. This was the "gift" the sorcerer foretold from the Dark Gods: warships engaged across Obscurus Sector, now drawn together in the warp, prepared to pierce the portal and assault Cadia.
Every boon exacted a price; their cost would be a continuous assault northward, from Cadia to the Talon Sector, a gateway from the Eye of Terror into the wider galaxy. When Cadia fell, the Eye would expand exponentially, aiding repayment.
It was a price Abaddon was more than willing to pay.
—
One hour later.
Cadia High Command.
Panic engulfed the command center. Personnel scrambled to receive and collate intelligence from across the sector, urgently rushing reports to Creed.
As Creed reviewed data from orbital defense platforms, Cale entered, hauling a crate filled with files and setting it on the desk. Moments later, Kline burst into the office.
"My freighters are under attack!" Kline shouted, repeating his outrage, his voice a mantra of distress: the merchant vessels anchored in Cadia's orbit were under siege.
Creed barely glanced up, resuming his review of the incoming reports, which conveyed a dire message: a rift had opened near the Mandeville Point, from which a relentless influx of enemy warships was emerging.
Fortunately, Imperial Navy reinforcements already stationed in-system were buying precious time, though they would never withstand the enemy's sheer numbers for long.
"Calm yourself," Creed said, motioning for Kline to sit.
Kline, far from calm, desperately coordinated with his crew as his ships were drawn into the fray. Staring out the office window, Kline could see his freighter, a shielded vessel wrapped in radiant blue energy—a shield only visible under fire.
The sight of the fully encapsulated shield meant it was taking heavy fire, operating at maximum capacity, soon to overload.
"Isn't the Warp Engine ready yet?" Kline shouted, gaze still skyward, his eyes straining as the blinding glow from the Eye of Terror scalded them, blood trickling from his eyes and nose.
"It's ready!" The voice over the communicator spoke the words Kline had been waiting to hear.
In an instant, the blue sphere vanished—his freighter had left the system.
Relieved, Kline collapsed against the wall, bloodshot eyes meeting Creed's. "What now?"
Creed, unruffled, continued perusing the reports, a cigar hanging from his lips. Taking a deep drag, he muttered, "Hell's come to greet us."