"No Chaos God could take just a handful of souls and create so many real objects. If they could, those restless bastards would have already started mass-producing dung to throw into realspace."
Ramses said this with certainty.
Many people misunderstand the Four Gods, but once you really grasp Warhammer 40k's worldview, you realize they're not as invincible or omnipotent as they seem.
What truly crushes hope is the systemic rot of every civilization: the stench of the Imperium, the insanity of countless extremist factions, and those four Warp agitators.
In fact, before the Great Rift tore open, the Chaos Gods' ways of interfering in realspace were limited: nurturing cults to sacrifice and open portals for daemon incursions, and relying on Abaddon to herd the scattered Chaos traitors into yet another "Every Time a Victory" Black Crusade.
Even as the chosen of all Four Gods, Abaddon needed countless years of raids, plus unequal pacts with the Dark Mechanicum, just to cobble together the Planet Killer. Tossing out auramite and adamantium with a few souls? Far beyond their budget.
If this ability demanded horrifying costs, baiting them like fish—save souls, receive promises of power—that would scream Chaos trap.
But the cost was too low. So low it was beyond the reach of the Four.
"So, we're all clear on what our ability is now?"
The group nodded.
In simple terms, they were walking STCs, except their raw material was psychic energy.
"And the raw material? In theory, killing any soul-bearing entity works."
Sure, killing people worked, but indiscriminate slaughter was off the table.
Ramses opened a daemon portal. A greedy, blue Tzeentch horror leapt through—only to be blasted into shards by psychic lightning.
"My current idea is to summon daemons for slaughter. With my psychic signature, I'm bright enough in the Warp already."
So basically, a mob farm.
"Isn't that dangerous?"
Arthur frowned. Baiting daemons with yourself smelled like suicide.
"They can only see the psychic projection, not me."
Ramses explained:
"Our use of psychic power is like a man using a tool. Daemons can see the tool, not the user."
Reckless? Yes. But that recklessness gave Ramses far deeper insight into their power than the others had.
Arthur, cautious to the bone, would never risk that kind of experiment. And so he'd never have uncovered the mechanics.
"There's another way," Romulus interjected.
"Our direct interference in certain fixed events can yield vast psychic harvests—far more than killing individual entities."
"Such as?" Ramses perked up.
"When Arthur and I retook the Geller field generator, we disrupted a Khorne Chaos Space Marine sacrificial ritual against the Deathwatch. After killing them, we gained an enormous surge of psychic energy."
That windfall was why Romulus could spawn dozens of Astartes avatars at once to reinforce critical nodes.
"I see."
Ramses rubbed his chin, enlightenment dawning.
"So that's where those random floods of psychic energy came from."
He continued:
"In fact, every action we take generates a trickle of psychic energy. But why you and Arthur got so much—that needs more cases to study."
"Agreed." Romulus nodded, ending the topic.
"For now, that's the extent of our grasp. Which brings us to the real question—"
He laced his fingers under his chin, red eyes sweeping the circle. Even Karna, who'd been pretending not to exist, sat up straight.
"What do we do in the future? Stay hidden in a corner, or intervene?"
The four of them would likely remain in the 40k universe until death. They needed a plan.
"If I were just a normal Fallen Angel, I'd hide on a garden world. Survive one more day, and it's a win."
Arthur spoke first.
"But—"
Romulus smirked at his childhood friend, offering him a step down.
"But with you guys here, and with this strange power, I don't think we're destined to lay low."
Arthur nodded. He knew the truth. Even if he doubted the source, this soul-to-matter power had given them a new option.
An option they couldn't ignore.
"To step into great events. To probe the essence of our ability. To slay the enemies that offend our very values. We must pursue power. Because in this universe—"
His gaze met each of theirs in turn.
"Only strength is truth!"
In this alien galaxy, the Imperium, Chaos, xenos—all were threats.
Weakness meant death.
Now a clear road to power lay open.
None of them wanted to someday be crushed in the collateral damage of an Imperial war and regret never using their gift, never harvesting power from the cracks of history.
They had to chase strength, to find ever-more efficient ways to grow.
And if they wanted strength, they could never remain bystanders.
And beyond that…
Their eyes met. Alongside agreement, there was a fragile hope.
A hope to reshape this galaxy of filth into the familiar world they remembered.
"My lord!"
A voice interrupted the moment of intensity.
It was Sister Arabella.
Ramses swept away the anachronistic items. Romulus operated the servitor to open the door.
"Sister Arabella."
Romulus invited her inside.
"What is it?"
"It's about the Broken Sword warriors. Their mutations are… severe."
She spoke, not even sure why she had come at that moment. But something compelled her, whispering that the Angels had to know.
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