College student Lucius calmly fired off this salvo and sent it to the video "Warhammer Has Nothing to Do with the Space King," produced by the master UP, "I Am Not God."
Buzz—
A blinding white light burst from the screen, instantly engulfing the entire dormitory. Lucius's body was completely enveloped in the light and vanished from the room without a trace the next second.
Warp Space — the reflection of the material universe; the ocean of the consciousness and emotions of all living beings. Lucius now floated within this alien realm.
Ordinary men would suffer mutation and death the moment they set foot in the Warp, yet Lucius was cloaked in a warm, golden radiance. Before him, a brilliant golden sun rose slowly, dispersing the surrounding chaos.
A majestic figure in compassionate, golden armour spread its wings and hovered silently before Lucius. Gazing upon this august form, Lucius's eyes widened in disbelief.
"The... Space King?"
He was certain the golden light before him was not the Emperor — after all, he had just finished watching an animation of the Space King.
Space King: this fan-made animation, unrecognised by official Warhammer GW, depicted in its lore the Space King... or an isotope of the Emperor. One who accomplished what even the Emperor himself could not: unifying the entire galaxy, before quietly vanishing into the depths of the universe.
And now, this super-entity, whose power rivalled the Emperor's, was gradually merging with Lucius. He felt every cell in his body transform; power surged through him like a tidal wave, even as his physical form began to shrink.
[Save this universe, lad!]
Within the embryonic chamber, a newborn opened his eyes and beheld a being radiating golden light.
"Number Eleven... The Outsider — a new hope. Let you change their uncertain..."
The Emperor... change what?
Faint whispers of the Emperor echoed in Nyx's mind. But the very next moment, an unprecedented Warp-storm erupted within the laboratory, a rift tearing open beside the Emperor's workstation.
Though the Emperor strove with all his might to halt it, under the interference of Erda and the Four Gods of Chaos, all the Primarchs were ultimately swept into the rift and scattered across the far corners of the galaxy.
Nostramo, a mining world in the Eastern Fringe.
A Warp rift bloomed above the planet. Two embryonic capsules, bearing different numbers, pierced the thick, toxic clouds and descended towards Mining Sector 1 and Hive City 5 respectively.
Carlyle Nyx, the Eleventh Primarch created by the Emperor of Mankind — one who should have been utterly expunged from official history. Yet now, this body housed an extradimensional soul from the 2nd Millennium.
...He had transmigrated. And this was his favourite fictional universe. So why was he not the least bit happy?
A week had passed since his decanting from the embryonic chamber. Nostramo's perpetual night provided the perfect cover for Nyx's arrival.
Possessing clear self-awareness, Nyx grew from infant to adolescent in an astonishingly short span. The dual blessing of the Primarch body and the Space King accelerated his development at a phenomenal rate.
During that week, Nyx survived by hiding within the mining zone. To stave off starvation, he occasionally pilfered food from the workers. As for the taste... well, only those who had sampled it could truly understand.
Truly worthy of the corporation that invented the Great British Stargazy Pie.
Nyx did not linger long in Sector 1. The Emperor's final message — he could roughly grasp its meaning.
Wasn't it simply: Go and 'correct' your 'brothers'?
If not for the chromatic horrors infesting the Warhammer universe, Nyx would have gladly made the Emperor experience what it meant to "raise children" — albeit in this case, the Father created the sons, and Nyx was raised like a daughter.
Relying on the faint psychic resonance between Primarchs, Nyx roamed the mines for several days before swiftly making his way towards Nostramo Quintus.
The blond youth, clad in garments stolen from a mining overseer, moved silently through the territory of an underhive gang. Intermittently, his ears caught the screams of men in agony.
On Nostramo, sin had long become the planet's backdrop. Ninety percent of its populace were born miners, toiling their entire lives in darkness. The vast majority of the world's wealth was monopolised by the aristocracy — a mere one percent of the population.
To escape the fate of a miner, joining one of the noble-controlled syndicates was the sole option. This lent Nostramo an atmosphere akin to Gotham, magnified many times over — and I do mean manytimes.
So why hurl me into this hellish pit?!
Nyx's resentment towards "Old Man Yellow" deepened further.
Clang!
The razor-sharp blade of an axe struck the ground. Into Nyx's view stepped a burly, musclebound bald man. Even from a distance, the stench of blood clung heavily to him.
... a cultist?
A red X-shaped mark on his skin glowed ominously. The bald man clearly venerated the Blood God. The instant he spotted Nyx, a sanguinary grin split the cultist's face.
"Eight...!"
Eight — the number sacred to Khorne. It was also the final head the cultist required to complete his sacrifice. Should he claim Nyx's head, he could offer fresh tribute to the God of Blood.
A vile wind lashed Nyx's face. The cultist hefted a massive battle-axe, swinging it directly at Nyx's throat.
Clang!
The sound of metal striking metal rang out. The anticipated scene — the boy's head flying, blood spraying — did not occur.
Nyx had caught the axe-blade in one hand. No matter how the frothing cultist strained, he could not push it a single inch further.
"How amusing it would be, for a Primarch to fall at the hands of a cultist..."
Crack!
The youth tightened his grip. The axe-blade shattered with a sharp report. While the cultist yet reeled in shock, Nyx's fist — wreathed in golden lightning — had already struck.
"Rotate the magnetic field, boy!"
A clean, decisive blow. The cultist's head burst like a ruptured melon. The golden lightning coruscating around Nyx's hand gradually faded.
This power stemmed from the Space King. An Emperor of another universe, the Space King possessed strength comparable to the God-Emperor himself — yet its essence was not psychic might, but dominion over the laws of the physical cosmos.
At present, Nyx could already exert rudimentary control over weak electromagnetic fields.
Since the Warp already housed one Emperor, surely it would not be amiss for the material universe to host another "Magnetic Field Tyrant" — one who commanded the Four Fundamental Forces?
Gazing at the charred corpse upon the ground, Nyx felt remarkably calm. There was no panic attendant upon his first kill.
Whether this serenity stemmed from the Emperor's modification into a Primarch's form, or because he simply did not regard cultists as the same species — he could not say.
Yet he distinctly sensed a malevolent gaze rapidly approaching this location. The blood pooled on the ground began to writhe of its own accord, congealing into the Mark of Khorne.
My apologies, but I have no intention of becoming a 'wise' man who fears the Second Founding.
(Angron and Skarbrand: Who are you calling—!)
A golden torrent once again scoured the ground, utterly vaporising the blood. Nyx vaguely heard an enraged roar echo from the immaterium.
The adolescent's form once more dissolved into the darkness. The cultist's ambush had sharpened Nyx's wariness. As a "Nostraman," he had believed this world merely the landing site of Curze — he had not anticipated the presence of Chaos worshippers, absent from the official records.
Was this the butterfly effect...
Nyx could not foresee where his existence might steer humanity's future. But for now, his paramount objective remained unchanged:
Curze — your loving brother is coming!