The Trial of Khorne
The void ripped apart like torn sinew.
From velvet and pleasure, the Warp howled, twisted, and bled. Everything became sharp—metal and bone, flame and fury. There was no color now but red. The scent of iron drowned the air. The taste of ash burned his throat.
The Joker stepped forward into the Crucible.
A vast battlefield stretched to every horizon. A wasteland of skulls piled high into crude altars. Rivers of blood ran through craters like veins in a dead god's skin. The sky thundered with war cries and drums forged from hollowed torsos.
No music. No masks. No madness.
Only the rhythm of murder.
"Finally," Joker muttered, eyes wide. "A place where people take their anger issues seriously."
A figure stepped forward.
Twice the size of a Dreadnought. Armor forged of brass, decorated in gore and chain-links. Axe the size of a shuttle. Two burning eyes beneath a horned helm.
"You stand before the wrath of Khorne," it bellowed.
Joker gave a theatrical bow. "Tell Mr. Blood God I'm thrilled to be here. Lovely décor, very rustic slaughterhouse chic."
The figure didn't flinch.
"You mock the trial."
"Good."
"If your spine breaks in arrogance, you were never worthy."
A portal opened in the air behind the brass giant. From it, daemons surged—Bloodletters, snarling and screaming. Clawed feet stomped the ground. Their eyes locked onto Joker like hounds scenting prey.
The trial had begun.
Arena of Carnage
Joker turned just as the first blade swung down.
He ducked—not with grace, but with the spastic, chaotic movement of a marionette on fire. The blade cut a chunk from his coat as he rolled into a puddle of blood, laughing all the way.
"You guys really commit to the bit!"
Another daemon charged. He ducked again, but this time he reached into his coat and threw a pie.
It exploded on impact—releasing a cloud of Warp-infused laughter gas, twisted with pink and violet arcs from Slaanesh's brand.
The Bloodletter gagged, stumbled, and fell to its knees—laughing, though it had no mouth.
Joker kicked it over with a chuckle.
"You're killing me, Smalls."
More came. Too many.
He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't meant to be.
But chaos itself bent around him. The Warp obeyed his madness, just enough.
He conjured a giant mallet out of thin air—inscribed with runes of Tzeentch. With each swing, it turned foes into confetti, their bodies unraveling into birds, ink, or flames.
He danced through the battlefield, painted in blood, laughing, twirling.
And yet...
He was getting tired.
Khorne's Judgment
The battlefield froze.
Time buckled. The air cracked.
From the sky descended a colossal form: a Greater Daemon of Khorne. A Bloodthirster.
Thirty feet tall. Wings of molten iron. Axe that burned with the names of every warrior it had slain.
It landed before Joker, cracking the earth with its presence.
"You are a coward," it snarled. "A trickster. A thing of filth and deception. You wear no honor. You are no killer."
"And yet…" it leaned forward. "You fight."
Joker wiped blood from his mouth.
"I prefer 'chaotic pacifist,' actually. But hey—I adapt."
The Bloodthirster pointed the axe at him.
"Then face me. Not with tricks. Not with Warp. With weapon. Flesh to flesh."
A sword materialized in Joker's hand—rusted, dented, mismatched. A mockery of the Daemon's own.
Joker sighed.
"Fine. Let's dance, red riding hood."
The Duel
The first blow nearly ended him.
He blocked with the sword, but the force knocked him through three skull-piles. Bones snapped. Blood sprayed. His ribs cracked audibly.
He stood up, coughing, grinning.
"You hit like an angry dad. Did I forget your birthday or something?"
The daemon roared, charging again.
Joker ducked, rolled, slashed. His blade barely nicked the thing's knee.
The Bloodthirster laughed.
"You are weak."
"You are nothing."
"You are a joke."
Joker spat a tooth. Then he smiled.
"Yeah. But here's the punchline…"
He held up a mirror—a tiny shard pulled from Slaanesh's garden.
It caught the Bloodthirster's reflection—not of strength, but of rage consuming itself. Of endless war against nothing.
The daemon paused.
Just for a second.
And Joker drove his sword into its foot.
The thing roared in pain, grabbed him by the throat—and lifted him high.
"I should end you."
"Do it," Joker wheezed. "But ask yourself something first…"
"If I'm so weak… why haven't you already?"
The daemon froze.
That moment—doubt, in a creature of Khorne—was blasphemy.
It dropped him.
Not from mercy.
From confusion.
Verdict of the Blood God
Flames erupted.
A voice thundered across the battlefield—not from the daemon, but from beyond the veil.
From Khorne himself.
"You are not a warrior."
"You spill blood without purpose."
"But you fought. You endured. You refused to kneel."
"You are not worthy of my blessing…"
Joker shrugged. "No surprise there."
"But you may speak in my name, when war is mockery, and rage becomes farce."
"You are a herald of ruin."
"Let the galaxy bleed with laughter."
Chains of blood coiled around his arms, burning temporary runes into his skin. They faded—not blessings, but scars.
Trophies.
Joker lay on the battlefield, grinning up at the storm-red sky.
Three gods had tested him.
Only one had granted a gift.
The other two had marked him with their recognition, if not their power.
He chuckled, curling his fingers.
"One more to go…"
"Let's see what the rotting grandpa has in store."