The son of the God-Emperor in Warhammer Fantasy

An unending storm ravaged the corrupted land. If the Kurgan steppes ever had a glorious history, it was now a thing of the past. What remained was a desolate land scarred by Chaos corruption. The steppes were still steppes, but now they were ablaze with war. All tribes devoted to Chaos were madly fighting each other.

Now, in front of a Chaos rune stone, the Norscans, Mongols, and Kurgans were preparing for a grand battle to attract the gaze of the dark gods. At this moment, the Chaos moon Morrslieb hung high in the sky, heralding a new surge of Chaos power.

This was the best time to win the attention of the True Gods!

The traveler listened to the Kurgan rider's tale and burst into a sharp laugh, his entire body shaking with mirth. There was a strange emotion in his laughter: "I know, I know where that is. It's Kadatha, where a Daemon Prince ascended."

The Chaos rune stone marked the spot where a Daemon Prince ascended, recording its grand and legendary story. Ascension was the highest reward the Chaos gods bestowed upon their followers.

But the traveler seemed uninterested in this reward: "A bunch of fools misled by power. Once they ascend, they lose themselves forever. Their lives and souls become mere playthings for the gods. These idiots think they've gained much, but they've lost far more."

"Heh heh heh," the traveler spoke with a disdainful tone, showing his contempt for the highest reward of ascension.

This angered the Kurgan rider. The two camps, initially wary allies, instantly became enemies. The Kurgan knight drew his long sword. Though his overly muscular and swollen body was not very fast, it was immensely strong. He cursed the traveler: "You know nothing, fool! This is blasphemy! You don't understand the True God's mercy and love. Die! For the love of the Grandfather!"

"For the love of the Grandfather!" Nearly a thousand Kurgan riders instantly entered battle mode. Their faces were filled with fanaticism and bloodlust as they swung their axes and swords at the traveler's followers without hesitation.

"...Indeed, this is simpler," the traveler said, grasping his long sword at his waist. "Requiem of Kings!"

The sword, blazing with Chaos fire, was drawn. Its blade was stained with the blood of more than twenty human kings.

Five minutes later.

Nearly a thousand Kurgan riders lay dead on the steppes. Their broken faces still bore deep fear. If their lives had been dedicated to seeking the favor and blessings of the Chaos gods, they had succeeded. The thrilling battle had caught the dark gods' fleeting attention. In the fierce winds of the Kurgan steppes, the gods' satisfied laughter echoed.

They got what they wished for, at the cost of their lives.

The once-arrogant Kurgan rider now knelt before the traveler, the burning Chaos fire on the Requiem of Kings searing his body and soul. The heavy blade pressed on his shoulder, filling him with extreme fear and suffocation. His words came out haltingly: "I... you... no, don't kill me! No!"

"Submit or die," the traveler's words were equally halting, as his attention was not entirely on the man before him.

He sensed it—the unending storm, the world of energy known as the Realm of Chaos, was expanding greedily. The entire northern land shuddered and shifted in a mournful wail, like a sleeper tormented by nightmares. Graves left by war spewed restless dead from the soil, and all females and human women bore fetuses blessed by Chaos's filthy but potent gifts. Everyone understood that this foretold a great transformation.

The dark gods were calling. The stage was set, and a grand performance was about to begin.

"No, you can't kill me! You don't dare kill me!" The Kurgan rider still struggled, seeming to grasp at something. He tore open his clothes, shouting: "Look at this! This is the proof of the Grandfather's love, the great, supreme Lord of Plagues! Nurgle! He..."

His words were cut short as the Requiem of Kings thrust forward, severing his head.

As the Kurgan rider uttered the name of the dark god, the traveler immediately focused on him, his fiery red eyes flashing with extreme hatred and malice. Without hesitation, he ended the rider's life with a swift thrust of his sword.

The Kurgan rider had decent strength, and had he not invoked the blessing of the dark god to plead for his life, the traveler might have spared him.

But his foolishness cost him the traveler's interest.

"Stupid Kurgan," the traveler sheathed the Requiem of Kings, sneering: "Love?"

The dark gods never loved any mortal.

This was the truth the traveler had realized after a century. The four Chaos gods never pitied any mortal. To them, the mortal world was merely an amusing toy.

The traveler hated the four Chaos gods as much as he despised all mortal deities. He hated everything. From the moment he accepted his cruel fate, he was filled with loathing for the entire world. His hatred extended to mortal gods and Chaos gods alike.

But the dark gods didn't care. They were indifferent to whether the traveler loved, worshiped, or hated them. As long as he demonstrated his worth, they watched him with interest, eagerly anticipating his next move.

Hatred is a far deeper force than love.

This is Chaos!

When the traveler arrived near Kadatha, a battle had already begun.

Kadatha, the cursed grand plateau, had opened its gates to welcome any Chaos warriors daring enough to climb its razor-sharp cliffs. At its summit awaited the ancient ruins of Zanbaijin, an arena for the dark gods. There, their mortal followers battled for the gods' favor.

The traveler and his followers did not join the fray, having witnessed countless such battles over the past century. Instead, they stood at a distance, observing the battle with the traveler's fiery red eyes.

Before him, three Chaos armies clashed within the ruins, fighting not just for victory but to reach the Chaos rune stone. Like children demanding candy, they clamored for the gods' favor, shouting, "Give me! Give me!"

The first force, led by the Khorne champion Hakka from the Norscan Aesling tribe, charged ahead. Behind him were hordes of marauders, Chaos warhounds, and a dozen Chaos Spawn, all chanting the Blood God's name.

From the east came Sargath the Hollow, leading a cavalry of Slaanesh followers. These elegant warriors, mounted on richly adorned steeds, dazzled even under the eerie light of Morrslieb. Sargath, a Slaanesh champion, had long lost all sense of normalcy, his soul empty, seeking only to fulfill his endless wicked desires.

From the south came the sorceress Urgatha the Soul Destroyer of the Ulrak tribe, followed by Tzeentchian sorcerers and zealots. Despite their small numbers, their Chaos magic made them a formidable force.

The fierce battle began among the ruins, with spells and swords, fangs and flaming claws, claiming lives in an instant. The gods smiled at the endless bloodshed. As each side neared the Chaos rune stone, the others would join forces to push them back, making the battle a chaotic stalemate.

Hour after hour, the battle raged on, with Khorne's brass warriors, Slaanesh's cavalry, and Tzeentchian sorcerers locked in relentless combat.

No one noticed the new army appearing on the horizon.

A putrid green stench spread over the land, heralding the arrival of a nightmarish force. Like a filthy mudslide, Nurgle's chosen warriors, the bloated and rotting, approached. The army included giant hungry trolls and twisted humanoid creatures, oozing decay.

At the front of this pestilent force, the traveler spotted their leader.

A corpse, yet miraculously alive, rode a giant, rotting toad dragon. This massive beast carried Nurgle's champion, Tamu Khan, the self-proclaimed rightful heir of Kurgan the Conqueror.

The traveler's eyes locked onto Tamu Khan's bloated, decaying form. He saw the divine mark that set Tamu Khan apart, the radiant glory bestowed by his master. Nurgle's pestilent storm enveloped him, the Father of Plagues' blessings evident.

He was Nurgle's chosen champion!

The Chaos tribes battling in the ruins were quickly overwhelmed by Tamu Khan's army. It was a massacre. Soon, the remaining Chaos warbands were shattered by the plague-ridden horde. Three Chaos tribes realized the balance had shifted.

The first to falter were the Tzeentchian sorcerers. Urgatha the Soul Destroyer swiftly retreated with her sorcerers, leaving the Tzeentchian zealots to cover their escape. Within minutes, the last zealot was consumed by Nurgle's rot.

"For the Grandfather's love!" Tamu Khan's rotting mouth spewed putrid flesh as he raised his battle axe. "Forward!"

"For the Grandfather!"

"Praise Nurgle!"

The foul green tide surged onto the battlefield. Those too weak or cowardly fled, their pitiful retreat amusing the dark gods. The battlefield rang with the Chaos gods' delighted laughter.

Now, only Sargath the Hollow and his Slaaneshi cavalry, along with Hakka and his Khorne brass warriors, stood in Tamu Khan's way.

A torrential downpour began, lightning flashing and thunder roaring. T

amu Khan led his army into battle atop his toad dragon.

"It's almost time to see the outcome," the traveler and his followers remained silent, observing the battle, waiting for the result.

...

Meanwhile, in the Old World, Brittany, Chalon Forest.

Naturally, Ryan was unaware of the events unfolding on the Kurgan steppes thousands of miles away.

After arranging personnel and garrisons, Ryan led over three thousand men from Mousillon, heading back to his territory.

It was late July, and Sulia was eight months pregnant. Ryan needed to return home.

Fortunately, Sulia understood Ryan's dedication to his cause, and with the Lady of the Lake and his dark elf maid Olica by her side, her spirits remained stable. Despite this, Sulia was somewhat resentful, urging Ryan to return from Mousillon quickly.

Ryan, knowing there was no reasoning with a pregnant woman, surrendered and wrote back, promising to return immediately. He left the slowly retreating, disbanding chivalric army and, with Francois, Gerold, and a few Holy Grail knights from the Quenelles Champion Knights Brotherhood, hurried home.

In the forest, the knights pressed on, nearing Angron's outpost—the Woodland Cabin.

The knights stopped to rest briefly.

As Ryan dismounted, he found Angron feeding his griffon, Nucaleia. Despite his anxiety, Ryan approached with a smile: "Brother, feeding him?"

"Yes, Nucaleia has had a hard journey," Angron said, stuffing large chunks of roast pork into the griffon's mouth. The griffon seemed to enjoy it, spreading its wings and devouring the food.

"Journey?" Ryan asked curiously. "Brother, did you go somewhere?"

"You fought well in this war, brother," Angron said, not directly answering Ryan's question. He grinned: "When I was thirty-four, I didn't have your strength. I was still fighting in the arena, battling for no apparent reason."

"You heard about me?" Ryan asked casually.

Angron shook his head.

"...You followed me?" Ryan quickly realized.

Angron shook his head again, handing Ryan a letter.

"That fop Fulgrim and his Ash Legion are coming to the Old World to recruit new soldiers."

"They will arrive soon."

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