A Tear in the Veil
Hisoka wasn't supposed to die.
Not there, not then, not to a petty trick by a fading world's dying hero. But die he did, with a grin on his face and laughter still bubbling in his throat. And as his soul slid sideways through the membrane of reality, leaving the shell of his existence behind, he entered something new.
The Warp.
A place where desire became form, thought became weapon, and will was law. A place that tasted him, savored his flavor.
Two great presences noticed instantly.
Slaanesh, whose hunger for exquisite excess found something impossibly rich in Hisoka's chaotic urges.
Khorne, who watched with curiosity as this mortal didn't seek war, didn't rage—but still loved the kill.
They whispered.
Not in commands. Not in declarations.
In promises.
He would be tested.
And Hisoka, naked in soul and mind, licked his lips.
The Carnival of Flesh
He awoke in a forest that breathed, its trees made of pulsing veins and perfumed nerves. Birds screamed like violins being torn apart, and the sky shifted in time with his heartbeat.
Hisoka stretched.
No pain. No hunger. No exhaustion. Just infinite potential.
"Where am I?" he murmured, not truly expecting an answer.
But the Warp always answered.
A voice, honeyed and sharp like silk-draped razors, slithered through the trees.
"You are in the Weeping Grove, child of conflict and carnality. And you are called."
A daemon stepped forward. Slender, sensual, and armed with eyes that saw through desire. A servant of Slaanesh.
"Why me?" Hisoka asked, grinning.
"Because even here, in this infinite madness… you are entertaining."
The First Trial: Slaanesh
The grove bloomed open, revealing an amphitheater of nerve and silk. Thousands of watchers gathered—daemons, souls, living colors with hungering eyes.
Slaanesh did not appear in form. But through the daemon, the god spoke.
"You kill not for justice. Not for glory. You kill because it feels good. You crave the high note of tension before death, the exquisite pause before a strike lands."
Hisoka chuckled. "Flattery won't get you everywhere… but it's a nice start."
A mirror appeared before him, tall and fluid.
"You will face yourself," the voice cooed.
From the mirror stepped Hisoka. Same face, same voice—but older. Wiser. Crueler. The version of himself who never died. The version who won every game.
They fought.
A ballet of blood and breath, blows that cracked the air, gum snapping in mid-motion, laughter and agony in tandem.
The mirror-Hisoka was perfect.
And that was his weakness.
Because perfect things bore Hisoka.
With a hiss of amusement, the real Hisoka used a trick—fake defeat, a flicker of weakness, and then snap—the mirror shattered under his Bungee Gum, tearing his reflection limb from limb.
The Second Trial: Khorne
He was flung into a new domain—a wasteland of ash and bone, where blood fell like rain. Axes stood buried in hills made of skulls. Roars filled the air like thunder.
A figure emerged—twenty feet tall, clad in brass and fury. A Bloodthirster of Khorne.
"You laugh too much," it growled. "There is no humor in slaughter."
Hisoka bowed mockingly. "There's nothing funnier than someone who takes war too seriously."
It charged.
No games. No tricks. Just hate, fury, and endless strength.
Hisoka danced between strikes, each one flattening the earth, tearing mountains from the ground.
But he couldn't win.
So he didn't try to.
He entertained.
He kept moving, forcing the daemon to roar, bellow, rage at being unable to touch him. Hisoka turned the fight into performance—dodging, leaping, teasing.
Until the Bloodthirster, maddened by insult, drove its axe into the earth—
—and Hisoka chained the handle with Bungee Gum, pulling it into the air.
The weapon fell on its wielder.
Not fatal.
But enough.
The daemon stared down at the mortal.
"You're no warrior."
"I never claimed to be," Hisoka smiled.
"You fight like a clown."
"Now you're getting it!"
Blessed by Two
Later, in a shrine of writhing metal and pulsing glass, Hisoka stood as Slaanesh's daemon and Khorne's avatar circled him.
"You are not devout," the Slaaneshi voice said.
"You are not loyal," Khorne's beast growled.
"But you are useful," they both finished.
Two brands burned into Hisoka's body:
On his tongue, the symbol of Slaanesh, curling with temptation.
On his back, carved with heat, the mark of Khorne, always bleeding.
He gasped in pleasure.
And then he laughed.
"Oh, this is going to be delightful."
A Name in the Warp
He began walking his new domain—an ever-changing fairground where pain, beauty, and death danced in circles.
But one name followed him.
One whisper that refused to die.
"The Joker."
He first heard it on the tongue of a dying daemon.
Then from a crystal ball held by a blind harlequin.
And finally, scrawled in the laughter of a planet being devoured.
"Joker," Hisoka repeated.
A clown.
A killer.
A fellow artist.
"This Joker," he whispered, eyes gleaming, "I must meet him."