The King of the Northlands, the Black Iron Reaver, King of Norsca, Commander of the Legion of Destruction, Son of the Blood-Red Sky, the peerless warrior who defeated the Blood God's wife, and the one blessed by the Four Chaos Gods—his name was Black Iron Morkar.
Standing at an imposing height of nearly 2.8 meters, he was a giant of a man, his face hidden behind a deep helmet, revealing only a pair of piercing blue eyes. His menacing bull-horned helm pointed toward the blood-red Chaos sky. His entire body was encased in pitch-black, Chaos-blessed armor adorned with strange patterns, while multicolored Chaos energy swirled around him, each of his movements causing the distance between the Warp and reality to tear and collapse.
Tzeentch's chosen champion, Tsar Zan'ek, stood in the vast and empty Court of the North, gazing at Morkar. Even he, the champion of the Changer of Ways, couldn't fully comprehend what this King of the North was thinking.
To the left of the throne, over thirty Chaos champions sat in silence. They hailed from every corner of the Chaos Wastes, now all serving Morkar.
To the right, Morkar's chief magical advisor, the Tzeentch-blessed Archmage Hal, known as the Eternal Eye, commanded an array of Chaos demons and twisted beings, waiting for Morkar's orders.
Zan'ek still didn't fully understand why the Eternal Watcher, Sarthorael, had sent him here. He carefully studied Morkar's body language, seeking some clue to the king's thoughts.
Soon, he noticed it—Morkar's body was trembling.
Chaos energy leaked from him, spilling into the air.
Upon hearing the news of his homeland's destruction, the King of the North slowly closed his eyes.
His home was gone.
Dragonhold, with its thousand-year history, had stood resilient through countless invasions and internal strife. Now, those accursed southerners had destroyed it. His ancestors' tombs were desecrated, and their halls burned in flames.
Was he sad?
In Norscan culture, what was there to mourn? Since the moment he had chosen the warrior's path, pledging his faith to the Dark Gods, wasn't this the inevitable outcome? A warrior's life was one of endless battle, rising through the ranks, venturing to the far north in search of glory, to either die in battle, become a Chaos spawn, or ascend to the highest honor of daemonhood as a Daemon Prince. What was there to grieve?
The southern shores of the Chaos Wastes were lined with thirty or more Chaos rune stones, each telling the story of a Chaos Champion's ascension to daemonhood, a tale of endless glory and the highest reward for mortals.
A Norscan's life was all for this, wasn't it?
Yet hot tears ran down Morkar's face, and the King of the North could not find peace. He raised a hand, his thick, mutated fingers now distorted by Chaos corruption, and wiped away the blue tears.
No, these were not tears of sorrow—they were tears of rage. This was his failure. His homeland was destroyed, and he had sat idle in his throne room, unable to stop the Empire's invasion, unable to protect the land of the dragon ships.
The flames of revenge ignited within him.
He, Black Iron Morkar, King of the North, was a conqueror—a true leader. He had sought nothing but glory and power, and for over a century, he had fought in the Realm of Chaos, overcoming every challenge. He had been stripped of most of his humanity, showered in blessings from the Dark Gods, revered by his followers, and even offered the highest honor of daemonhood by the Chaos Gods.
But Morkar had refused. He knew that once he ascended, he would lose all remaining traces of his humanity, becoming nothing more than a puppet for the Chaos Gods, devoid of self. That was not what he wanted. His life's goal was to win endless glory and then die an honorable death, returning to his ancestors' halls, to rest with his father, grandfather, and forefathers. Indeed, Chaos had blessed him, but Morkar had grown weary and disillusioned. He knew that one more step would doom his soul forever.
But the news delivered by Zan'ek shook him to his core.
Dragonhold was destroyed. His homeland was gone. His ancestors' tombs were desecrated. The very thing he had fought for all his life had been obliterated by the southerners—destroyed!
The Black Iron Reaver gripped his throne, his voice trembling but calm. "Is this news true, messenger of the Changer of Ways?"
"I swear in the name of Tzeentch, it is true. Surely, you've heard of the Empire's Norscan Great Expedition? Its final destination was Dragonhold," Zan'ek replied playfully. "I bring you this message on the orders of the Changer of Ways."
"Oleg von Zhukov?" Morkar could feel his blood and fury returning after many years of cold indifference.
"Oleg von Zhukov, heir to the Elector Count of Ostland," Zan'ek confirmed, holding a staff in one hand and a sword in the other, while his remaining two hands scribbled furiously in a small notebook.
"OLEG VON ZHUKOV!" Morkar repeated the name, his stiff movements giving way to fierce determination. His voice, initially weak and faltering, grew strong and resolute. His words shot out like arrows from his clenched teeth. "The southerners will suffer as I have! I will make him understand! I will raze his land, desecrate his ancestors' graves, and teach him the meaning of true vengeance!"
With that, the King of the North dismissed Zan'ek and retreated to the deepest part of his court.
There, in the Black Iron Chamber—a room built of Chaos-forged black iron—Morkar unleashed his fury. The Chaos star glowed with five-colored light as he roared, raged, and vented his anger. He screamed out the names of his ancestors until his throat was hoarse, calling upon the memory of his homeland, until everything in the chamber was reduced to rubble.
"I will destroy those cowardly southerners! I will obliterate the Empire! I will drown the world in Chaos! I will have my revenge! True Gods, hear my call! Grant me power!"
As Morkar's anger consumed him, Chaos energy surged from the eight-pointed star, flooding the entire chamber. Morkar was enveloped in Chaos energy, and deep within his consciousness, the four supreme beings responded to his prayer.
"Destruction! Yes! Blood! Yes! Destroy the Empire! Excellent!" a voice filled with rage echoed in response, resonating with Morkar's fury and his thirst for blood and skulls. "Your power will receive my blessing! My Great Daemon Kargalak and his Khorne legions will answer your call!"
"Bring destruction to the south, bring glory to the north, bring the tides of change to the world, bring despair and annihilation to those who refuse true civilization. You have nine futures, and each will lead to nine outcomes. Your wisdom will open the path ahead. Make your choice, Morkar—time is running out!" a cunning, twisted voice warned seriously. "The future is full of challenges, but I have faith in you. The Tzeentch legions and my chosen champion, Zan'ek, will follow your command!"
"Life and death, the cycle, never-ending. We, in life and death, cycle through, in plague and decay, eternal and everlasting. The truth lies within," a slow, fatherly voice offered its care. "Child, you've finally seen the light. It's alright—Father loves you. My chosen champion, the Plague Priest Festus, and my daemon army will heed your call!"
"Killing is an art. Destruction is an art. Revenge is also an art. We will explore every sin, challenge every taboo. We will experience every thrill, savor every pleasure. Welcome to our ranks, Morkar. May the passion of excess and the frenzy of flesh and spirit keep you forever young and strong." A seductive, twisted voice writhed with excitement. "It's time for my chosen champion, Sigvald, to lead my armies into battle. My prince and my daemon legions will serve you!"
The Four Chaos Gods had answered Morkar's prayers. Morkar, ever impartial, had always worshipped all four, favoring none. As a favored and watched one of the Four Chaos Gods, they had now reached a consensus.
"Morkar, offer everything you have, and we will give you equal power in return."
"Your path of revenge will be fraught with challenges, but it must be unwavering. We will grant you the ultimate victory!"
"Now, open your arms and receive our blessings!"
"In Ostland, there is a powerful being from beyond the stars. He will be your fated adversary and the greatest obstacle in your march south. But we will grant you power equal to his, so that you may fulfill your vengeance!"
Morkar nodded. The King of the North closed his eyes and spread his arms, awaiting the gifts of the Dark Gods.
"I, Slaanesh, grant you the most graceful dance, swift speed, and supreme combat skills!"
"I, Tzeentch, grant you devastating spells, supreme magic resistance, and the sharpest foresight!"
"I, Nurgle, grant you the highest defense, mutated organs, and the strongest regeneration!"
"And finally, I, Khorne, grant you the power to destroy everything!!!"
"The day
of destruction is already destined. Go, and bring the end to the world!"
"You are the new Everchosen!"
The four Chaos blessings were etched into Morkar's being.
On this day, Morkar entered the realm of the gods.
On this day, another Everchosen of Chaos was born.
His furious roar echoed from the Court of the North, spreading throughout the Chaos Wastes, until the Warp itself answered his rage.
"REVENGE!!!"
From that day forward, Morkar left his court. He would unite the Chaos Wastes and the Norscan tribes and march south to bring vengeance upon the southern lands.
Another Everchosen had begun preparations for the great invasion, and soon, the world would once again taste the tides of destruction.
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