Chapter 402: Vashtorr: I Want Caliban! I Want the Three Artifacts!
The universe was churning.
The galaxy was boiling.
Amidst the increasingly lively galaxy as various heroes began to move, under the massive wound hidden behind the veil of reality, Vashtorr the Arkifane looked at the burning Garden of Nurgle in the distance with lingering fear.
At this moment, the master of the Forge of Souls felt a sense of unreality about everything before him.
From sneaking around at the beginning to leading a human army into the domain of the Gods, the changes in the material universe brought about by the Dawnbreakers in less than a century were hard for anyone to accept.
The opponent was no longer satisfied with relying on their own power to compete with the Gods.
Thinking of this, Vashtorr withdrew the various 'Techno-viruses' he had secretly applied to the war machines of the Dawnstar Sector.
Caution, heavily nurtured by Ramesses over a long period, saved him. At least he had only been harassing the Dawnstar Sector with 'Techno-viruses' and hadn't thought of taking shortcuts to cause greater destruction by infecting humans.
Let Nurgle worry about the rest; it wasn't his garden that was burned anyway.
The warp was never united, especially since Nurgle himself was secretly planning other conspiracies. The Gods didn't mind giving this sluggish god something to do, at least not letting the probe invade their daemon realms.
After all, locking onto a target from realspace and raiding their home was too harsh, and there was a super thug like Corax. If a secondary god were slower to run, they would probably die on the spot.
Vashtorr shivered uncontrollably on the spot, withdrawing all information from the forge, and breathed a sigh of relief only after confirming there were no ravens or shadows.
Damn it!
Suppressing the suspicion in his heart, Vashtorr cursed inwardly.
He, the dignified Arkifane, the sixth great existence about to step onto the card table, now had to worry about his own survival!
This couldn't go on.
Gripping the scepter in his hand, on this ship controlled by AI with which he had reached an agreement, Vashtorr felt no sense of security at all.
From pushing his plans for desire in the past to striving for survival now, perhaps this was why all beings in the galaxy suddenly became exceptionally competitive, unwilling even to wait for the destined moment, but unanimously paying the price to advance the process.
"I don't want to keep disturbing you, Arkifane."
A voice reached Vashtorr's ears.
A foul stench accompanied by the flow of gas began to invade Vashtorr's olfactory sensors.
"But now, you need to move."
"I know. I have been facilitating the spatial overlap of the three Key Fragments, but obviously, I still need your help."
Vashtorr glared at the two Astartes in front of him.
The Warmaster of Chaos, Abaddon.
He had recovered from the trauma thirty years ago. Although the Legion era was long gone, relying on sufficient prestige, he could still gather a considerable number of Astartes.
Nurgle's Chosen, Typhus.
First Captain of the Death Guard, directly ruling the forces including the entire First Company, and even leaving considerable influence in other companies due to Primarch Mortarion's long neglect of his own sons.
He was sent to assist Vashtorr's plot, facilitating the unification of the 'three artifacts', thereby giving this secondary god greater power. This also completely removed Typhus from the plans being advanced by Mortarion and Ku'gath.
And now, this favorite of Nurgle was obviously holding a grudge against the Grandfather's arrangement.
"We have been helping, Vashtorr."
Typhus leaned on his scythe, the strong stench making even Abaddon keep a distance from him, causing his voice to sound blurred with the wriggling of rotten organs.
"And now, obeying the Grandfather's will, I don't want to be driven by you to attack those meaningless Forge Worlds anymore."
Obviously, the Dawnbreakers had annoyed Nurgle, and now He was using Typhus as a mouthpiece.
Currently, Nurgle hoped some guys planning to fish in troubled waters would play a role, at least delaying the Dawnbreakers' march to Ultramar.
And he was not allowed to refuse.
Such an attitude obviously enraged the self-proclaimed extraordinary Vashtorr.
Damn Typhus! Damn Nurgle! Damn Ramesses!!!
Looking at the plague fleet surrounding him and his ships in the warp, Vashtorr cursed inwardly.
What do you take me for?
I am Vashtorr, the Arkifane, the sixth player at the table, not a subordinate and slave for you to order around freely.
"You need to attract the Rock under the Dark Angels here."
Vashtorr opened his hand, and the galaxy map unfolded before the two.
One marker was particularly conspicuous.
"Is that all?"
Abaddon, who had been silent, asked.
During the process of assisting Vashtorr, he had focused on preserving strength, carefully commanding his troops, screening members worth using, and eliminating the troublemakers among them at the right time to bring them completely under control.
Because he was almost abandoned by the Four Gods.
The sorcerer's prophecy indeed came true. The Dawnbreakers hurt the warp. The death of a Primarch and the heavy losses suffered by several Legions shocked the Four Gods, urgently needing actions that could change the status quo.
Then the Four Gods left him, the 'Chosen of the Four', to play by himself.
Not exactly abandoned, after all, he still controlled the largest Legion and fleet. Various Primarchs were vying for his help, but there was more or less distrust in his personal status, preferring to let the Warmaster do the coordination work.
After all, no matter how loudly he was touted, even if the clone of Horus's head still hung on his back, he was just an Astartes.
He was not a Primarch.
And now it was the era of Primarchs!
The Warmaster's face was gloomy, fists clenched.
He had sat in this position for thousands of years, only to be discarded by the Four Gods like a rag, like an actor who lost his value. The appearance of new characters forced the Four Gods to bring more 'heavyweight' characters onto the stage early.
The divestment of the Four Gods was unacceptable to Abaddon.
The layout of the Long War was just a little bit short. He had completely destroyed the Blackstone arrays around Cadia, and even gained control of all Blackstone Fortresses. The next battlefield plan was clear: as long as Cadia was breached, the entire galaxy would fall into turmoil.
As a result, all this ended suddenly, as if everything he had done before became a bubble.
He certainly knew that the current Cadia was impregnable, and the Dawnbreakers attached unprecedented importance to that fortress, but that didn't mean he couldn't change the target.
Abaddon's gaze fell on the Maelstrom, heavily surrounded by Orks, Tyranids, and Chaos.
Cadia was indeed a choke point, but that didn't mean Cadia was the only area blocking the warp invasion of reality. The huge wound left by the War in Heaven in the galaxy was not something this thin reality, which could be pierced with a poke, could withstand.
Stupid gods, greedy gods, they could have held the entire galaxy in their hands, but let it slip through their fingers.
Recalling the prophecy given to him by the sorcerer, those weak areas in the Maelstrom Zone, Abaddon roared in his heart.
If none of you can complete this great cause.
Then let me do it.
He would lead new troops to put unprecedented pressure on the already weak Maelstrom, forcing reality to tear open a brand new wound, and the main force of the Black Legion would go to those areas isolated by the rift and take them into their pockets.
Thus, mastering these sectors, he would truly have the capital to confront the Dawnstar Sector and the Imperium, and mastering these systems, he would also have the qualifications to negotiate with the Four Gods.
Bursts of laughter came from the warp.
"That is all."
Unaware of Abaddon's inner drama, Vashtorr stared into the void at a floating broken sphere.
That was the fragment of Caliban he had collected over ten thousand years.
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