On the Chaos Wastelands, molten lava surged alongside snowstorms. Twisted, grotesque plants grew across the barren land, and even the stones and mountains themselves had been warped by chaotic forces. The ancient portal of the Old Ones had cracked open many years ago, and the winds of chaos had been spilling into the mortal realm ever since.
The vast, desolate lands of the Chaos Wastelands border the savage lands of Norsca to the south, the dark lands to the southeast, the eastern steppes to the east, and the cold reaches of Naggaroth to the southwest. The Chaos Wastelands are not a natural phenomenon; this transformation began with the collapse of the portals created by the Old Ones, unleashing the tidal forces of chaos. This land is a manifestation of the endless overlap between the mortal world and the Realm of Chaos, a constant reminder of the cataclysm that awaits all should chaos consume the world.
Within these forsaken lands, countless barbarian tribes wage endless war, and no one knows the exact population of the chaos-worshipping hordes here. The elves and dwarfs have estimated that the northern Chaos Wastelands alone house at least tens of millions of chaos followers, including over half a million chaos warriors who require neither food nor rest.
Beyond the Wastelands, the Kurgan steppes hold over ten million Kurgan warriors, and Norsca's population exceeds five million. Even now, the Chaos Wastelands continue to expand, devouring the northern world, with Norsca and the northern steppes irrevocably altered by chaotic energy. For the Norscans, Kurgans, and Huns living in these desolate lands, mutations—rare in the south—are seen as divine gifts from the gods.
To the south, the South Pole Wastelands also harbor over ten million chaos tribes and countless beastmen and daemons. Fortunately, their isolation reduces their threat compared to the constant waves of trouble pouring from the northern Chaos Wastelands. High elves have established three fortresses near the South Pole—Dawn, Sunrise, and Dusk Fortresses—to contain the chaos tides.
Tzeentch's Champion, Hal-Eye of Eternity, an adept of prophecy, approached the new Everchosen, Black Iron Motkin, with a suggestion. "Lord Everchosen, the time is right. We should deploy our vanguard to ravage and weaken the southern lands, paving the way for our main force to bring about the world's end."
Through the cold, blue glow of his helm, Black Iron Motkin studied Hal, considering whether this advice was prudent or if Hal's head might serve better as an offering to Khorne.
Hal trembled, sensing the dark aura of Motkin, who had secured his power by binding the bloodthirsty Khorne daemon, Kag'hank, to his battle standard, subjugating any tribes that dared defy him.
"No, the time isn't right," Motkin finally said after a long silence. "Twelve hundred thousand is substantial, but not enough to conquer the south."
Khorne's daemon Kag'hank interrupted with a roar, swinging his axe and whip. "Enough talk—kill, butcher, slaughter! Blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne!"
Motkin answered by striking Kag'hank's face with a brutal punch, sending the daemon crashing into a blood pool. "Twelve hundred thousand is insufficient," he stated coldly. "It may be enough to pierce Kislev's northern defenses, but not to reach the heart of the Empire, where I plan to destroy Oleg von Zhukov and his family. We need a greater force."
Hal-Eye of Eternity, his face contorted with twisted horns, tried to hide a sneer. "Six more months at most, Lord. The legions of Tzeentch's Champion, Wulfrik the Wanderer, King of Norsca Valmir Aesling, Prince Sigvald's Glamour Legion, and Festus' Plaguebringers are all on their way."
"Not enough, not nearly enough," Motkin's voice was cold and filled with hate. "How many tribes are yet to join us?"
"Over a thousand more tribes are en route," Hal replied, bowing. "From the Kurgan steppes, at least another five hundred tribes are willing to join. We estimate a force of three hundred thousand."
Motkin rose, surveying his vast encampment. Before him, tens of thousands of tents stretched across the Wastelands, sheltering hundreds of thousands of barbarian warriors and chaos armies, their presence casting the sky in hues of red, purple, and green. The gods' power was palpable, their whispers echoing across the northern wastes.
Amid the sound of shields clanging and warriors chanting, the horde waited eagerly for the signal to march south.
But Motkin, looking down on his forces, shook his head.
Time and again, past Everchosen like Egil Red-Eye and Tamurkhan the Maggot Lord had marched south, only to meet both success and defeat. Each incursion left fields of skulls and rivers of blood, attracting the gods' favor but ultimately ending in retreat.
Motkin had pored over the campaigns of previous Everchosen, from Morkar the Uniter to the more recent Ascendant, Asavar Kul. Despite the vengeful fury burning within him, he remained clear-headed. The northern chaos tribes pledged loyalty only to a leader who displayed absolute power, and the moment that leader fell, their loyalty would shatter.
Conversely, the mortals of the south, divided though they were, would always set aside their differences in the face of chaos, uniting under the gods of Order to confront the northern horde. While Hal's suggestion of a swift advance could indeed shatter Kislev's initial defenses, the frozen terrain, Kislevite forts, and Empire's seasoned defenders would drain their strength, slowing their advance.
The Empire's armies would soon rally under their emperor, Karl Franz, and fortified castles and resolute troops would gradually erode the chaos army's numerical advantage.
A delayed campaign would also allow Bretonnia's chivalrous knights to ride to the Empire's aid, along with the high elves and dwarfs, whose numbers might be limited but whose quality was unmatched.
Motkin knew that a premature invasion would only lead to a spectacular defeat remembered across the Old World.
The forces needed to be stronger. They had to wait, allowing more chaos armies to arrive while lulling the mortals into complacency. Under his command, the armies of Norsca and the Wastelands would be held back.
Once the south grew quiet, their vigilance would wane, and the courtly bickering of the southerners would return. Kislev was, after all, a shadow of its former glory. While Tsarina Katarin was powerful, she lacked the legacy of the Red Tzar, Boris Bokha, who had briefly restored Kislev's greatness.
Information from Tzeentch's agents indicated that Katarin, while capable, was little more than an adept in power plays.
The Empire's situation was equally bleak, as explained by Tzeentch's Champion Tza-Zan'ech. The so-called Emperor Karl Franz held sway only over Reikland, with the rest of the Empire's provinces fractured and reluctant to unite. The Empire's nobility, still basking in their Norscan victory, would likely dismiss rumors of an impending invasion.
Tza-Zan'ech was certain that if they moved quickly, chaos might reach the Empire's heart before its rulers could even unite against the threat.
As for Bretonnia?
Studying the map, Motkin felt a rare sense of caution.
Bretonnia was not so easily dealt with.
Their new King, Ryan Macador, was not only renowned for his martial prowess but had united the previously divided knightly lords and forged a strong alliance with the Empire. If chaos marched south, Ryan would almost certainly come to their aid.
A united Bretonnia, with its Grail Knights and united nobility, would be a formidable force.
To fulfill his vengeance, Motkin knew he needed a strategy to keep Bretonnia from aiding the Empire.
Using his finger dipped in scalding blood, he traced his battle plan across the map.
The first line: Tzeentch's Champion, Wulfrik the Wanderer, would lead the World Walkers from Ice Dragon Fjord in Norsca, aiming directly at Bretonnia's capital, Couronne.
The second line: Valmir Aesling, the High King of Norsca, would march from the Aesling Assembly, leading his mountain army straight for Nordland and Ostland's port, Norden.
The third line: Sigvald the Magnificent and Festus the Plaguebringer would lead the chaos vanguard from the Wastelands, crossing the Mourning Mountains to crush Kislev's garrisons at Erengrad and Praag.
Finally, Motkin himself would lead the main army southward, crossing the Lynsk River, toward Ostland.
This time, the invasion would consist of over two hundred thousand barbarian warriors, thirty chaos legions, fifty thousand chaos cavalry, thousands of chariots, and hundreds of beast packs and monstrous creatures.
The target: Oleg von Zhukov's head and the ancestral mausoleum of the Elector family within Zhukov Castle.
"This will be an unprecedented invasion, the largest since the Great War. We will amass over three hundred thousand troops and bring true civilization to the south," Motkin announced. "Once the armies gather, we must remain silent. Let the southerners think peace has come. We can even feign diplomacy, pretend to negotiate."
"A brilliant plan," Tzeentch's
Champion, Tza-Zan'ech, nodded approvingly. "But we need a name for it, Lord Everchosen."
"A name? Pointless," Motkin replied icily.
"It's Tzeentch's will that we have a codename," Tza-Zan'ech insisted, his scarred face betraying a thirst for vengeance as he thought of certain Bretonnian sorceresses he planned to repay in kind.
Motkin thought back to an ancient name he had once seen in a tomb in the Troll Kingdoms.
"Very well, then. We'll call it... Operation Barbarossa."
---
Meanwhile, in the royal palace of Couronne, a few dukes waited for Francois' words.
"Gentlemen, we're undoubtedly noblemen of this kingdom. Our status, our honor, stems from our ancestors, the twelve honored first Grail Knights, correct?" Francois began.
The dukes all nodded; this was the foundation of their status and identity.
"All that we noblemen possess—our titles, honor, and lands—where do they originate?" Francois continued. "From those twelve battles and the Grail itself. No one disputes that here, right?"
The group nodded again. In Bretonnia, this was an unquestionable truth.
"So then, we noblemen live and die with the kingdom. Why can't you understand?" Francois sighed. "If the kingdom prospers, so do we. Only with a lasting, prosperous kingdom can we enjoy our status. Without Bretonnia, we'd lose all our rank and honor!"
"Is this why you support Ryan so steadfastly?" Bodrick asked, setting down his spoon.
"Because Ryan will make the kingdom better! Can't you see?" Francois laughed wryly. "If the kingdom thrives, so will we. Think about it: tax reductions, fortress construction, population growth—Ryan's doing this all for the kingdom!"
"But he's doing it at our expense!" Duke Hagen protested. "I know he's thinking of the kingdom, but…"
"Look beyond your immediate interests!" Francois stroked his beard. "For the kingdom's strength, we must sacrifice a little now. In five, ten, twenty years, we'll gain far more than we lose."
"I agree," Berchmond said, nodding. "Ryan deserves our trust. The current sacrifices are so he can act freely. Just look at how much Francois has gained from it."
"Bordeleaux will support the king," Bodrick added resolutely.
"But…" Duke Hagen hesitated.
"But what?" Francois sneered. "You think Ryan can't touch you if you resist? You're a Grail Knight and descendant of Beren, yes. But Ryan is the Lady's Champion, with the full support of the Green Knight and Morgiana! Oh, and did I mention he's my son-in-law?"
Hagen paled, shivering. He finally nodded, conceding, "Fine. Lowering taxes and encouraging population flow is reasonable, but building five massive fortresses at our expense? Isn't that excessive?"
"Even I think my son-in-law might be overdoing it here," Francois admitted. "Ryan's focused on defense, but it seems like he's preparing for a huge invasion. Are we really expecting a chaos horde of two or three hundred thousand to descend on us?"
"Exactly," Berchmond agreed. "The first to face such a horde would be Kislev and the Empire, not us. Let's table the fortress discussion until the king returns."
"Agreed. Building these fortresses will burden us with maintenance and staffing costs—wasteful if they go unused," Bodrick said with a laugh. "The barbarians don't have the strength for such a force."
"Come, let's eat!"
"Didn't the Empire just claim victory in the Norsca expedition?"
"I'll wager a bull tendon that chaos won't strike for years. Nothing to worry about!"
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