As the lightning strike arrived, the Lord of Change paid it no mind at all. Opening its bright-yellow avian beak, it swallowed the lightning whole into its belly right before the horrified eyes of the sorcerer.
"Ah!"
It spread its arms wide, letting out a long, regretful sigh: "My brothers, I love Prospero..."
"Silence!" A harsh shout drowned out the feral roars of the walking dead, cutting off the Daemon Lord's lament.
Ahriman angrily raised his staff, pointing it from afar at the deformed monster atop the city wall. "You are unworthy to utter our name, and even less worthy to love Prospero."
"Coming from your twisted mouth, 'love' becomes a filth, thoroughly repulsiveness incarnate."
"I truly do love this place." Ignoring the bitter condemnation, the Lord of Change tilted its neck back and laughed, its cast shadow stretching in eerie contortions. "In a realm where psychic energy flourishes, even the wind carries the scent of arcane mysteries."
It narrowed its eyes and sniffed lightly, an expression of sheer ecstasy gracing its face as it breathed in the ashes of burning souls: "In the cold psychic winds, my power grows without restraint."
The Lord of Change stood up with dark grace, its sharp bird talons scraping against the stone to strike sparks that tumbled downward. Resting its fingers against its forehead, it performed a ritual gesture of Prosperine wisdom: "This place is practically half my home turf."
"Sacrilege!" the Sekhmet Guard roared. In the blink of an eye, they swung their blades in several sweeping arcs, cleaving down the fanatical walking dead, yet they could not free their hands to strike at the twisted entity above.
As the Primarch's personal honor guard, seeing Prospero disgraced was a direct consequence of their own failure in duty.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
"My dear friend." Its slender throat twitched as the Lord of Change pointed a finger at Ahriman, its high-pitched, shrill voice dripping with mockery: "What are you waiting for? Are you waiting for reinforcements?"
Ahriman offered no response, but the face beneath his helmet tightened nervously.
"How pitiful." The twisted entity shook its head with a sigh that drowned out the clamor echoing across the battlefield: "They aren't coming!"
The Lord of Change's voice suddenly spiked in volume. It held its magic wand horizontally, resting it against the thumbs of its clasped hands as it sat cross-legged in midair, chanting arcane incantations beyond mortal comprehension.
Ahriman and the others fell into another moment of confusion; that lore was far too obscure, rendering them completely unable to grasp its meaning.
Furthermore, as the monster moved, they felt a massive surge of warp energy descend upon the field, bringing a wave of deep apprehension along with it.
That apprehension was well-founded.
When the ninth syllable fell and the magic wand spun nine full rotations in the Lord of Change's grasp, it used its razor-sharp claws to tear open its own chest, spilling out filthy, dark-blue blood.
"I am waiting for the psychic tide. What are you waiting for?"
It inquired with cold contempt, flicking nine drops of dark-blue foul blood from its fingertips to fall directly into the crowd beneath the city walls. "You are waiting to die!"
"Ahriman, did you truly think I was unaware of your little tricks?"
The moment those venomous words fell, an appalling mutation erupted!
As the Lord of Change's foul blood struck the ground, it ignited the blood of the rebels slaughtered by the Space Marines, coalescing into chains of murky gore.
Like venomous serpents, the blood-chains whipped up from the pools of gore on the ground, effortlessly piercing through the Dreadnought's psychic shield right before the disbelieving eyes of the Space Marines.
"Ah!"
Simulating a roar of rage through its vox-array, the Dreadnought machine rotated its upper torso, attempting to break free from the blood-red chains woven of flesh and bone.
Reaching fast with sharp reflexes, a nearby Terminator swung his force blade downward, striking the blood-chains and sending warp flames spreading along the severed flesh.
Yet the scene that followed forced the Sekhmet to leap back in shock.
The instant the warp flames touched the blood-chains, they caught like dry wood before a raging fire, igniting immediately and seeping along the blood into the Dreadnought's psychic runes, burrowing straight into the interior of the sarcophagus.
The synthetic womb shuddered violently—a clear sign that the mute, broken body within was enduring agony beyond imagination.
"Useless!" the Lord of Change cackled loudly. "The chains are saturated with the pain and resentment of mortals. So long as hatred remains, the chains will never break."
"Warp fire cannot purify anger and hatred; instead, it ignites the hatred, allowing it to spread."
It giggled as it pointed at the Dreadnought: "Your brother cannot hold out much longer."
With the two Dreadnought chassis tangled in blood-chains, the Sekhmet Terminators made a split-second decision, raising their force tulwars toward the Dreadnoughts to grant their broken battle-brothers release from their torment.
"Don't even think about it!"
Seeing through the Thousand Sons' resolve, the Lord of Change sneered once more. Firing two beams of light from its fingertips, the energy seeped through the narrow viewports straight into the interior of the sarcophagi.
The iron frames of the Dreadnoughts trembled violently under the entanglement of the chains, as though even cold steel could feel pain and spasm in agony.
Then, the brilliance of their runes dimmed, and the Dreadnoughts instantly turned dull and lifeless.
The horrific shift escalated even faster. As the blood-red chains dragged with a raspy sound, supernatural spasms wracked the bodies of the Dreadnoughts.
"Retreat!" Ahriman cried out in alarm, stumbling backward in near-panic as he ordered the Sekhmet Guard to fall back.
Realizing what was happening, the Thousand Sons sorcerers withdrew with equal speed. The Cataphractii Terminators held the rear line while the Tartaros units pulled out first, swapping positions within half a second as they hurriedly abandoned the mortal garrison to pull back.
"Such fragile, pathetic endurance."
Atop the city wall, the Lord of Change continued to mock them, casting a spell from on high. Runes of magical script woven into a net intercepted the incoming volley of support missiles in midair.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The missiles detonated high above. The missile strike Ahriman had held out so desperately for dissolved into bursts of orange fire, completely failing to reach the breach in the wall.
"How is this possible?!" Ahriman's emotions surged wildly, causing his predictive foresight to fail entirely. Deprived of prophetic guidance, even the steps of the Terminators stumbled.
This was not how it was supposed to end!
Once the purge operation had spun out of control, he had used his psychic foresight to confirm that three thousand Thousand Sons legionaries would be more than enough to hold off the rebel siege and endure until the Gene-Primarch returned to pass judgment.
Yet now, the prophecy had strayed completely off course—and two Dreadnoughts had even been ensnared in a death trap.
The Sekhmet and the Dreadnoughts had entered the fray for a single minute purely to buy time for supporting fire.
Yet that blue bird monster had not only breached the wall with ease, but had also proceeded with calculated precision, effortlessly intercepting the support missiles coming from behind the battle lines while holding off the Legion's counter-push.
Furthermore, its attacks came wave after wave, continuously breaking down the Legion's resolve.
"Oh~"
Perched atop the battlements, the Lord of Change tilted its bird head, resting its cheek against a slender hand as it greeted Ahriman in a casual, flippant tone: "My poor Chief Librarian, is the current situation exceeding your expectations?"
"Prophecy promised you would endure until victory, yet it never specified how you were supposed to survive until the end."
Lowering its posture in a rare gesture, it raised a finger to point toward the void above: "The end lies up there."
"Or perhaps you could lower the shields and let the orbital defense platforms bombard the rebel army, wiping all trace of this rebellion away forever."
"Yet do you have the heart to do it? How could you ever issue an order for macro-cannons to shell the holy sanctuary of sorcerers, bringing eternal shame upon Prospero?"
Ahriman remained silent, an icy aura radiating from his body as he withdrew rapidly under the protection of his guards.
Every single word of the monster's triumphant rant drove into his proud heart like a steel nail, leaving behind bleeding voids.
It was speaking the truth.
Regardless of the reason, Ahriman would never order the warships to bombard Prospero.
Furthermore, because the prophecy had not reached its conclusion, he had no way of telling whether the final outcome had truly changed.
There were far too many unanswered questions. It was as though the bird monster had foreseen everything, possessing a clear view of the entire journey from the perspective of the final outcome.
"That is why I love this place." Spreading its arms wide, the Lord of Change interrupted his thoughts with its bizarre voice, as if embracing the world once more. "This marvelous world... it makes me feel utterly delightful all over."
Its tone suddenly turned viciously dark as it flashed a sinister smile at the retreating Ahriman: "And I also love showing you a few little surprises."
The venomous voice bit into the Thousand Sons sorcerer's heart like a viper.
As the words fell, the frames of the Dreadnoughts contorted unnaturally. Their steel chassis creaked with groans of strain while unhuman roars of excruciating torment erupted from within the sarcophagi.
"How dare you do this?!"
Abandoning his refined composure, Ahriman's icy demeanor shattered as he demanded an answer from the monster with a voice full of raging fury.
"How dare YOU?!"
In absolute disbelief as he witnessed the tragic state of the Dreadnoughts, Ahriman realized in an instant what this cackling, foul entity had been plotting all along.
"Why wouldn't I dare?"
Hearing the enraged demand, the Lord of Change remained smiling, its laughter growing ever more triumphant. It tilted its avian head, fixing a single eye squarely on Ahriman: "Because I am a born villain."
"Did you truly expect me to be anything else?"
"Oh?"
A sharp glint flashed in the depths of the Lord of Change's eyes. Clearing its throat, it spoke with mock enlightenment: "Have I never introduced my true origins?"
The retreating Thousand Sons warriors behind Ahriman slowed their steps in unison, pricking up their ears as they waited for an answer.
The assault had struck with terrifying swiftness—from the betrayal of the Tutelaries to the flames of war engulfing the whole of Prospero, every element had been calculated long in advance.
Had it not been premeditated, the chaos could never have spread so rapidly.
By the time both sides stood at a bloody standoff beneath the city walls, Ahriman had already deduced that true masterminds were lurking beneath the hides of the Tutelaries.
They had infiltrated Prospero, embedding themselves deep within the populace and the Legion—clearly a plot hatched over a long period.
Furthermore, as these Tutelaries shared near-identical forms and characteristics, they were undeniably foul entities born from the very same race.
If the enemy was willing to expose its own house, they would etch this humiliation into memory.
When the day of their Primarch's return arrived, the combined might of the Legion would surely wash away this grand disgrace.
"I am no mere piece of foul scum."
Atop the city wall, the ebb and flow of warp energy grew violent alongside its resonant declaration. Warp power flooded into the Lord of Change, its body swelling in size to reveal a ferocious terrifying aspect beneath its mysterious veil.
"I am the treasonous whispers at the ear of kings, the instigator of broken heroic bonds, the enemy of eternal pacts!"
Before Ahriman's horrified gaze, the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch expanded to a height of nine meters. A stench-ridden tongue slithered out from its avian beak as it proclaimed its name in a booming voice: "I am Viridis! The foul corruptor, the eternal voice in the shadows, known throughout the Immaterium!"
Cunning as any daemon of Tzeentch, its words still held back key truths.
Viridis declared its name, yet omitted its true origin, concealing the reality of the Dark Gods and daemons.
The daemon proclaimed its name in the mortal realm, its eyes brimming with sly trickery.
It had merely announced its name—as for the Great Plan of the Architect of Fate, it revealed not a single shred.
Even as it declared its name, the daemon seamlessly picked up the incantation syllables, fully activating the curse embedded within the Dreadnought chassis.
Before the Thousand Sons sorcerers could grasp the true meaning behind Viridis's name, a agonizing howl cut through the air, interwoven with the horrific tearing of metal.
"No!!!"
Ahriman wailed in anguish, reaching out a trembling hand toward the Dreadnoughts, his voice laced with pure agony.
The surfaces of the blood-red chains squirmed, manifesting rust-like runes before transforming into slithering vipers that burrowed straight into the Dreadnought sarcophagi.
The violently struggling Dreadnoughts froze abruptly, their mechanical chassis groaning as they shook uncontrollably!
The machines thrashed desperately, attempting to tear free from the curse's shackles.
Yet the Dreadnoughts that had once dominated battlefields collapsed, crashing into the mounds of fleshy corpses. Their mechanical limbs twitched neurotically as they allowed the walking dead to trample over their frames.
Retch—
An abnormal retching sound rang out, cutting through the chaos of footsteps with sharp clarity—a sound the Space Marines caught instantly.
Boom!
Purplish-red tentacles burst through the ceramite plating, tearing free from inside the Dreadnought sarcophagus to whip wildly in the hazy smoke.
Though the tentacles seemed frail as they drifted in the wind, they effortlessly shredded the heavy ceramite armor.
As the horror crawled out from the sarcophagus, the mortal garrison lost their sanity instantly, collapsing to their knees in wailing despair, discarding their rifles to scratch frantically at their own eyes.
Amidst the screams and terror, that deformed, swollen lump of flesh finally revealed its complete form.
It was a pure amalgamation of mutated flesh—a mass of dark-purple cancerous growth hovering in midair while twitching continuously.
Across the surface of the tumor were not only writhing veins and arteries, but also over a hundred floating eyes, blinking and opening as it hung suspended, gazing upon the world with absolute malice.
"Destroy them!"
The moment those two masses of flesh manifested, Ahriman and the Sekhmet went mad with fury, their eyes wide with rage as they released an endless tide of killing intent.
That was the Thousand Sons' most deeply buried sin—the Flesh Change.
The gene-seed of the Thousand Sons was extraordinarily unstable. Upon implantation, while subjects became Astartes, they also unlocked immense psychic potential.
This warp power bolstered the Legion's strength immensely; even with few numbers, their power could not be underestimated.
Yet every gift of fate carries a hidden price tag.
Hand in hand with their psychic gift came the completely unpredictable Flesh Change.
Rooted deep within their genetic bloodline, the exact cause of the Flesh Change remained unknown. It hovered like a persistent curse passed down alongside the gene-seed, embedded in the very foundation of the Thousand Sons Legion.
The great Magnus harbored immense guilt over this, scouring the galaxy and laboring tirelessly for the Legion's future, all to find a cure for the Flesh Change.
The mutation could erupt at any moment, reducing noble Legionaries into writhing masses of mutated flesh.
Even with the Gene-Primarch exhausting his vast intellect, a cure remained undiscovered.
Fearing the Emperor's punishment for the mutation, the Primarch dared not report it to the Imperium, leaving it as the Legion's most closely guarded secret.
Now, through Viridis's sinister methods, the Flesh Change had been exposed in broad daylight.
An icy chill gripped Ahriman's heart.
He urged the Sekhmet to channel their warp power, preparing to personally end the lives of their former battle-brothers who had succumbed to the mutation.
If the King of Warriors witnessed this mutation, the Thousand Sons Legion would face absolute, utter destruction.
Only now did Ahriman realize that among the cascade of crises brought on by the abuse of psychic power lay such terrifying horrors.
The Tutelaries had shared mind-links with the Legionaries, learning countless secrets that were now turned back as the sharpest blades aimed at the Thousand Sons' hearts.
He finally understood that the landmine of psychic abuse had been planted within the Legion long ago—
When the King of Warriors had arrived in orbit above Prospero—with a Primarch's supreme wisdom, he had likely perceived this looming crisis at very first glance.
With effortless subtlety, that Primarch had orchestrated both the purge and the rebellion.
Everything unfolding now had likely been foreseen by that great entity from the start.
Yet in this moment, there was no time for Ahriman to ponder further. Silently gathering warp power, he launched an attack against the maddened masses of flesh to cleanse the stain upon his Legion.
Having torn themselves free from their neural cables, the two fleshy spheres possessed no remaining sanity. The eyes dotting their surfaces flared with purple warp light as they unleashed indiscriminate attacks on everyone in sight.
"Thunder!"
Ahriman roared as his Legion brothers poured their warp energy into his body, intending to kill their mutated brothers in a single blow.
His fingertips trembled slightly.
The tragedy of purging mutated brothers had played out far too many times, and every single instance felt like a dagger to the heart.
Yet for the purity and honor of the Legion, it had to be done.
Infused with vast warp power, a surge of psychic lightning erupted from his hands, transforming into a snarling dragon of lightning that tore apart the walking dead in its path as it struck toward the floating spheres of flesh.
"Heh!"
A sneer drifted down. The Lord of Change had no intention of letting Ahriman have his way; placing this dark history on center stage was meant to humiliate the Thousand Sons to the absolute fullest.
With the drama far from over, how could it easily allow Ahriman to succeed?
"Mirror Teleport."
Viridis uttered nine syllables in a flash, a resonant echo spilling from the corners of its beak as its fingers woven a warp spell, guiding the lightning strike off course.