At that very moment, beneath the shroud of night over the northern lands, the air was thick with the stench of blood and killing intent. Even the freezing gales could not disperse the suffocating aura of slaughter.
"Hmph!"
Archaon hurled the corpse in his hands aside with a snarl. He rose to his feet, three blazing eyes seething with endless fury. The surrounding daemons dared not even breathe under the oppressive wrath of the great Everchosen.
For Archaon, this was a humiliation he had never foreseen. Just yesterday, he had been certain of victory, convinced that the Allied Army's resistance was nothing more than a meaningless struggle. Yet within a single day, the situation had collapsed completely—his face felt as though it had been slapped hard by fate itself, burning with rage and shame.
All of the Chaos Champions—his chosen, blessed by the Gods themselves—were dead. Not one survived. His vanguard army was annihilated. To Archaon, such a defeat was unacceptable!
But whether he accepted it or not, the result would not change.
Archaon was furious. Something about this did not fit what he had envisioned. He sought answers from the Chaos Gods—he wanted to know who had ruined his grand design. Yet the response from the Dark Gods was vague, cryptic, as though they had no intention of telling him the truth.
But Archaon understood. This was the trial he was destined to face—the final and greatest obstacle on the path of the Everchosen, the Lord of the End Times. If he could not destroy the one who stood in his way, he too would fail—and his fate would be no different from that of the sixteen Everchosen who came before him… perhaps even worse.
He could not allow those bastards to win.
Archaon clenched his fists tightly. The so-called chosen of the Chaos Gods did not revere them—in truth, he loathed them. It was their vile curses and deceit that had driven him into damnation.
Indeed, Archaon's origins were rather peculiar.
Once, he had been a knight of Sigmar—faithful, devout, and righteous. He had spent his life purging evil in the name of Sigmar. Until one day, he met a young Sister who was escorting a sacred text to the cathedral—a book that contained a heretical prophecy about the destruction of the world and the coming of the Everchosen. As a loyal knight of the Empire and servant of Sigmar, Archaon naturally volunteered to escort her safely.
And that was how he ended up being arrested by his own order.
At the time, he had no idea how he was connected to any doomsday prophecy. He had even planned to clear his name alongside his comrades. But before he could, a band of Chaos Knights suddenly appeared, shouting oaths of allegiance to him while attacking the Imperial Knights.
The Imperial Knights, stunned by the assault, immediately assumed Archaon had turned to Chaos. But Archaon himself was utterly bewildered. When the battle ended, both sides lay dead, and he was left wondering—why had the Chaos Knights sworn loyalty to him? Why had he been branded a heretic?
Desperate for answers, Archaon went to the Grand Cathedral and knelt before the statue of Sigmar, praying and begging his god for guidance.
But… whether Sigmar was drunk that night or simply asleep, no answer came. Not even a whisper.
That silence shattered Archaon's faith. If even his god had abandoned him, then what meaning did devotion hold?
If Duanmu Huai had heard this story, he would've laughed and sighed that the irony was astonishing—it was almost identical to the Imperial civil wars. In fact, among the Inquisitors, there was a running joke: "If the Emperor had just spent an hour alone with any of his sons, the Horus Heresy would never have happened."
It seemed that both the Emperor and Sigmar were equally terrible at parenting.
Deprived of his god's response, Archaon snapped. He slaughtered the cathedral guards and stormed into the Archbishop's chamber, demanding to know why he was condemned as a heretic. After all, Archaon had always been an exemplary knight—disciplined, faithful, and pure of heart. He had never once committed blasphemy. Why, then, did the Church of Sigmar claim he was the prophesied Everchosen who would bring about the world's end?
The Archbishop's answer left him dumbstruck: they weren't sure if he was the Everchosen. But to be safe, they had searched the entire Empire for anyone resembling the description in the prophecy. And most importantly—the prophecy stated that the true Everchosen would come to the cathedral and ask exactly the same question Archaon was asking now.
A self-fulfilling prophecy, plain and simple.
Such things were common in RPGs. The Demon King hears of a prophecy foretelling a hero who would destroy him, so he sends his minions to kill that hero. The hero miraculously survives, seeks revenge, embarks on a grand quest, grows stronger, and in the end—kills the Demon King.
Had the Demon King simply ignored the prophecy, he'd still be alive.
The same principle applied here—the Empire had become the Demon King, and Archaon, the so-called hero.
What followed was as predictable as any RPG tale. Archaon escaped the Empire's pursuit and set out on a journey. Like a hero, he gathered the six relics of the Chaos Gods and became the prophesied Everchosen—the one destined to destroy the world. But his true aim was not submission. He had accepted the Chaos Gods' trials to bring an end to everything—to destroy the world itself, thus stripping the Chaos Gods of their power and ending the cycle forever.
If Duanmu Huai had heard that plan, he would have laughed out loud at the man's naivety. Archaon truly believed that by destroying this planet, he could make the Dark Gods perish with it. But this world was nothing more than one of their playgrounds.
One of many.
There were thousands of such worlds across the galaxy. Even if Archaon burned this one to ashes, the Chaos Gods would simply move on—to continue their eternal amusement elsewhere.
Archaon didn't know that. He didn't realize that no matter how noble his conviction, his crusade was nothing more than a brief, entertaining diversion for the gods who toyed with mortal souls.
Petty, ignorant, impulsive souls—perfect playthings for daemons.
Even if he succeeded in destroying the world, the Chaos Gods would not die. On the contrary—they might even show him the vastness of the universe, letting him see for himself how insignificant everything he loved truly was. His struggle, his hatred, his destruction—it would all be as meaningless as an ant trying to topple a mountain.
And when that moment came, would he crumble in despair—or devote himself to an eternal war against existence itself? That would be another story.
But Duanmu Huai had no intention of letting it come to that.
"Prepare my steed!"
Archaon strode out of his war tent, his command booming through the camp.
This time, he would act personally—he would destroy the enemy who dared to defy him!
In the darkest moment before dawn, the Chaos host began to march once more. At the same time, the Allied Army—having received their signals—moved swiftly, reforming their battle lines.
Duanmu Huai stood at the forefront, wielding his warhammer and mounted atop the Metal Secret Dragon. Teclis's body had already been reduced to ash by his black flames, leaving only the head as tribute for Ulric. The White Wolf God had been furious at Teclis's blasphemy, declaring that once this battle ended, he would pay Asuryan and Lileath a personal visit—and if they failed to give him a satisfactory answer, he might just bite the throats off those elven bastards himself.
But for now, repelling the Chaos Legion took priority.
Soon, through the darkness, the Chaos Army appeared.
At the front stood Duanmu Huai, while opposite him was Archaon. Both armies understood clearly—the outcome of their clash would decide the fate of this day's battle.
If Duanmu Huai killed Archaon, then the prophesied apocalypse would remain a fantasy—and the world would live on.
If Archaon slew Duanmu Huai, then the Everchosen would truly shatter the world's final hope.
The Chaos host, like the vanguard before, was led by four Chaos Champions—each serving one of the Dark Gods.
There was Abar the Undefeated, Lord of Khorne, a towering brute astride a Flesh Hound.
Dysara the Betrayer, a High Elf turned Daemon Princess of Slaanesh, a six-armed serpent of desire.
Vanir the Ripper, son of plague, soul-harvester, bearer of the meteor hammer.
And Yggrim the Dragonbinder, once a Bright Wizard of the Empire, now a sorcerer of Tzeentch, riding a two-headed dragon.
At the very front, of course, was Archaon himself—the Everchosen. He wore the scarred armor of the first Everchosen, Morkar; wielded the daemonblade Slayer of Kings, within which the daemon U'zhul was sealed; rode the black steed of apocalypse; bore the Crown of Domination, capable of commanding all Chaos creatures; and upon his brow burned the sigil of Chaos—a mark bearing the ultimate blessing of all four gods.
To most, the sight of that black knight upon his dark warhorse, his flaming sword in hand, was enough to crush the soul. His mere presence radiated an aura of annihilation, an oppressive dread that seemed to smother all life.
Any ordinary man would have despaired before him.
But his opponent was no ordinary man.
Duanmu Huai sat tall upon the Metal Secret Dragon, thunder warhammer in hand. From the black skull helm, his eyes glowed a deep, menacing crimson. Across his chest gleamed the sigil of the double-headed eagle, wings spread in defiance, while the golden skulls adorning his armor shimmered ominously—as though in the next heartbeat, he might reduce the entire world to ash.
Seriously… who's the real Everchosen here?
Even Archaon hesitated for a moment when he saw him. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps this intruder had come to steal his title—because that armor, that aura… he didn't look like a "good guy" at all.
And why the hell is his skull bigger than mine?!
That fleeting thought vanished as Archaon raised his greatsword and bellowed toward the enemy lines.
"Tremble before me, mortals! For I am the Anointed, the Chosen of Chaos, the Scourge of this world! Behind me stand the legions of the gods! By my will and by my blade, your feeble nations shall know eternal ruin!"
His voice thundered across the battlefield, and even the bravest soldiers quivered with fear and unease.
Then another voice answered him—cold, resonant, unshaken.
"A meaningless struggle, Archaon."
Duanmu Huai glared at him from atop the Metal Secret Dragon.
"You call that power? All I see in you is corruption and servitude. Tell me—what made you kneel so shamelessly before those monsters? Arrogance… such pathetic arrogance. You pride yourself on borrowed strength and think we'll crumble before your so-called gods. But you have no idea—none—how vast the wrath and will of the Inquisition truly are. Your fury and fear are nothing but fragile whispers before our judgment."
His words were not shouted, yet every daemon shuddered. It was as if he was simply stating a fact—an inevitable truth of annihilation.
Then Duanmu Huai raised his warhammer.
"Fight! Destroy! Repeat! And repeat again! Until not a single living creature dares defy us! Everything else is illusion!"
His roar split the heavens like thunder. Even the daemons trembled in terror, eyes wide with dread, while the Allied Army roared back, their spirits ignited.
"Kill them all!!"
In the next instant, Duanmu Huai leapt from the Metal Secret Dragon, warhammer raised high, crashing down toward Archaon.
"In the name of the Inquisition, I shall annihilate your wretched flesh and filthy soul!"
(End of Chapter)