The tarot cards were lightly flicked. The prison of Fenris had long since utterly collapsed. The certainty of all things had given way to uncertainty, and everything unable to validate its own existence temporarily sank into a deeper realm.
Yet, Azhek Ahriman still endured here. No, it could not be said that he endured; Ahriman understood that he lacked the power to validate his own presence or complete a causal loop within himself. What endured here now was the divinity born from within his form at the very instant everything vanished—the divinity he was destined to become, the entity known as Ahriman.
The cause of this divinity's birth was the plunge of all things into the abyss of uncertainty and Ahriman's own dissolution. This causality was a new loop generated after the fracturing of the universe's original design.
Free from the burden of proving his own existence, Ahriman continued to drift through the void of the material universe in his guise as Ahriman. He was a divinity presaging the worst aspect of fate: the destiny that all is dust. If the Dark King was a divinity driven to seek vengeance upon all things and reduce everything to ruin, then Ahriman's divinity was the finality after everything buckled, dissolved, and turned to dust—the bitterness of facing that inevitable end.
Ahriman had once read a line from ancient Terran texts that perfectly described his current inner divinity: "And when the white snow covers the vast earth, what a clean and pristine sight remains."
Though bitter, Ahriman could clearly sense his own power. He was stronger than he had ever been at any point in his past. He even believed he might possess the strength to challenge Slaanesh as she stood now. His divinity reflected the fate of all turning to dust; what better validation of his divinity could there be than the universe itself crumbling into ash?
Now that the universe held nothing and all things had sunk into the abyss of uncertainty, Ahriman's divinity naturally swelled. Yet, this was only half the reason for his current strength. The other half lay before him. Looking at the tarot cards, he saw seven cards. Only seven shifts in destiny remained for this world. Only seven rotations of the sun and moon. Only seven days left.
One of the tarot cards caught fire and burned. Ahriman stared at it. "The Great Vessel."
The pattern manifesting upon it was a fusion of the Vengeful Spirit and the Macragge's Honour. A single card displayed a dual destiny.
"Six days," Ahriman murmured.
Only six days remained for this galaxy. This was the defining trait of Ahriman's divinity: the closer the universe drew to its end, the more powerful his godhood became.
Ahriman could not help but look up toward the primordial Four still presiding over the high heavens of the Warp. His gaze fell upon Tzeentch. Hatred flickered across his consciousness for an instant, but he quickly calmed himself; he was still no match for Tzeentch.
Thus, he shifted his gaze, looking toward...
Slaanesh...
Her own causality was inherently flawed, making her the divinity most severely wounded during the recent grand collapse.
As Ahriman's divinity waxed and Slaanesh's waned, a mad thought surfaced in his mind. The positions of the Chaos Star had never changed since their dawn, but...
Now that the world hovered on the brink of destruction and Ahriman's divinity had surged to such heights, if he were to strike while she was vulnerable, he might be able to consume Slaanesh. He could consign her to the Rubric, burning her to ash. By nourishing his own divinity with the ash of a god, perhaps—just perhaps—Ahriman could supplant Slaanesh and claim a point of the eight-fold star.
When that time came, he would finally possess the potential to take his vengeance upon Tzeentch.
This mad thought sprouted like a karmic fire within Ahriman's heart, but he firmly suppressed the urge. It was not secure enough. He had to wait a little longer, just a few more days...
He withdrew his gaze from Slaanesh and looked back down at the tarot cards before him. Ahriman flicked the cards in his hands, destiny shifting and revealing its forms with every movement. He divined in a hundred different ways, utilizing a thousand different arrangements, yet destiny acted like a miserly, solitary lamp, casting only a sliver of light toward him: "The Fractured World"...
Naturally so. What could be more fractured than the world as it stood?
But what was the power that had shattered the world, and where did that power reside now?
"The Dark King"...
Was it the Dark King that had caused all this fracturing?
But why would it be so?
Had the Dark King achieved victory?
No, he had not...
Ahriman stared at the tarot in his hands in astonishment. "The Dark King" actually branched into two entirely contradictory destinies. The first was one Ahriman had long known: "The Emperor." Upon the card, the Master of Mankind sat upon the Golden Throne, his body entirely consumed by fire...
The other card was...
When he clearly saw that card, Ahriman nearly cried out in shock.
"The Avenging Son."
What the hell?
Ahriman's first instinct was to wonder if something had gone wrong with his divination techniques. But as he looked closer, he caught faint traces of a pattern. The tarot in his hands shuddered, and a card he could scarcely fathom tumbled out.
It was a single arrowhead...
Eight points all shattered, leaving only one...
Ahriman suddenly understood what the Gods had done.
They had actually cultivated an apocrypha—a heretical timeline where Guilliman became the Dark King.
Then, by some means, they had forced that apocrypha to become reality, punching straight through original history. Ahriman did not know how the Gods had achieved this, but it undoubtedly bore the hallmarks of Saint Doraemon's methods. Consequently, the black sun and the Lord Regent of Chaos were locked in a mutual slaughter, competing for the path of ascension. The two Dark Kings fought to the very fringes of the Warp, eroding even each other's causality.
What was the situation now?
What purpose did the Vengeful Spirit and the Macragge's Honour serve within the web of fate?
Ahriman began to flick the cards once more. Truth be told, he loved this feeling; he was utterly enthralled by it. It was like a complex game of deciphering secrets, where the reward for victory was a truth no one else yet knew—and truth was ever a source of delight. He couldn't help but laugh aloud. Ten thousand years ago, when the Siege of Terra had reached its most perilous hour and the Emperor had boarded the Vengeful Spirit, Ahriman had been doing the exact same thing. Only that time, the reward he received brought nothing but terror.
His original intention had simply been to enter the libraries of Terra to salvage precious knowledge and texts. But there he had encountered... Kyril Sindermann, the Remembrancer. From that man's mouth, Ahriman had heard a term: the Dark King. Ahriman knew the meaning behind those words, but at least back then... it was not a name frequently spoken.
Sindermann claimed that based on the information they possessed—according to the deductions of the Aeldari, the Cabal, and numerous diviners—Horus was anointed to become the Dark King.
This development had indeed slightly exceeded Ahriman's expectations. He had certainly worried that Horus might grow as powerful as a god, but he believed the primordial Four would simply bestow their power upon him, elevating him to a divine status... though he would ultimately remain a mere tool.
But the Dark King was different. If Horus were permitted by the Gods to ascend to godhood through his own power, it would indeed be far more troublesome. Even so, Ahriman still possessed a means of escape...
Yet, back then, Ahriman always felt that something was amiss. His heart had hammered wildly, warning him of something...
Then, Ahriman began his divination, ultimately arriving at a terrifying result entirely distinct from all other seers. He heard the rising tide of the Dark King's birth; he heard the sounds of finality and death. But when he finally flipped the tarot, the face reflected upon the visage of the Dark King was not Horus—it was the Human Emperor.
The Emperor had been the Dark King from the very beginning. If He so desired, He could ascend as the Dark King and reduce all things to ruin...
At that moment, Ahriman felt as though every single insurgent, including himself, had suddenly grown a clown's red nose upon their face.
Rebellion? You'd have to be mad to rebel!
If anyone upset the Emperor's mood enough to drive Him to absolute despair, and a black sun rose from Terra, they had better pray that raising their hands and shouting loyalty would still be of some use.
Ahriman let out a soft laugh. At this very moment, it truly felt like a replay of that past event...
A replay?
Ahriman seemed to experience a sudden realization. He stared at the tarot cards in his hands, looking at the scenes manifested upon them, and finally understood.
Now, at this moment, the manifested Vengeful Spirit and Macragge's Honour were a reenactment. Replayed upon the Vengeful Spirit was the past of the Emperor slaying Horus, thereby recreating the causality of the Emperor becoming the Dark King. Replayed upon the Macragge's Honour was the past of Guilliman slaying the Emperor, thereby recreating the causality of Guilliman becoming the Dark King.
Whichever side completed its reenactment first would become the true Dark King...
Ahriman's throat moved slightly. He seemed to comprehend Alexander's purpose. Though these two vessels held reenactments of the past, the final outcomes did not necessarily have to mirror history. These were two ascension rituals that had yet to claim their masters. The candidate for the Dark King was simultaneously the sacrifice for the Dark King; whoever ultimately slew the sacrifice—whoever killed the one destined to become the Dark King—would become the true Dark King.
He wanted to become the Dark King!
Ahriman looked toward the sixth tarot card. The card had already manifested its form: "The Moon" and "The Sinner."
The form displayed by "The Moon" was a Luna Wolf beneath the moonlight, his face clearly that of Garviel Loken. "The Sinner," on the other hand... was an Ultramarine bathed in blood, wearing a crimson helmet.
"Are you...?" Aeonid Thiel, one of the few Ultramarines who still maintained his loyalty, looked at the figure before him in total disbelief.
It was a Primarch—towering in stature, firm of countenance, clad in unadorned power armor...
Beyond any doubt, he was the Primarch of the Luna Wolves, the Wolf Lord Horus Lupercal...
Though the armor he wore was different, and though the weapon he held had changed from Worldbreaker to a bizarre longsword, Aeonid Thiel was certain that this was Horus Lupercal. He was the very same Horus Lupercal who had recently cut down several Titans upon the battlefield and ultimately slain the Khornate Daemon Primarch, Lion El'Jonson. Thiel had seen that terrifying Daemon Primarch with his own eyes; the silhouette—looking very much like the Calibanite lion of the same name mentioned by Zahariel—had left a profound impression upon him. Those blood-drenched leonine eyes had caused countless mortals to be overwhelmed by madness with a single glance, yet that Daemon Primarch had ultimately fallen beneath Horus's warhammer—the Primarch as white and pristine as moonlight...
But... but Horus Lupercal was supposed to be dead.
He had died beneath the blade of Lord Regent Guilliman, cut cleanly into fragments. The aftershocks caused by his death had surged into the mind of every Luna Wolf. Thiel still remembered how blood-tears had flowed from Captain Loken's eyes, and how he had plunged into a dark frenzy of anger and hatred.
Yet now, Horus stood before him entirely unharmed, so abruptly...
Just moments ago, everyone else had suddenly vanished. Foes and allies alike had disappeared, and they were unable to establish contact with Constantin or Perturabo. The entirety of the Macragge's Honour seemed to contain only himself and... the Human Emperor.
The Emperor seemed to have sensed something. He had led Thiel through corridor after empty corridor until, upon turning a corner, the deceased Primarch Horus Lupercal appeared just like that.
Thiel's Ultramarine mind was entirely unable to process this situation.
"Father." Horus Lupercal took a step forward. His face, possessing the majesty of a demigod, trembled slightly, exposing the bitter sorrow belonging to a son.
To Thiel's astonishment, the Sovereign of Mankind did not respond to Horus's poignant call.
The figure enveloped in brilliant light—the golden Sovereign—merely looked toward the blade in Horus's hand.
"Drach'nyen," the Human Emperor spoke the name of the sword softly.
His gaze lingered for a moment before shifting to the somewhat short mortal standing beside Horus.
Those eyes, flashing with golden light, seemed to pierce through illusion, seeing the reality hidden beneath the surface. He saw a dragon—a world-coiling dragon. The great dragon possessed scales formed from the Tyranid swarm and chestnut buns, biting its own tail in an infinite loop, constantly feeding, both eating and being eaten...
That was genuine divinity.
A distinct look of shock flashed across the Emperor's eyes. He slowly opened his mouth, speaking the name of the divinity within Alexander's form: "The Eternal Dragon."
"The Machine God."
The Emperor, standing beside Loken, looked at the short mortal standing beside Sanguinius, softly uttering this title.
The Emperor saw what lay beneath that mortal shell. All the Necrons were singing praises of his name; souls surged within mechanical frames, and creativity and inspiration flowed like blood. The triple divinities of the Machine God, the Omnissiah, and the Prime Mover had converged into one...
That was genuine divinity—the fifth godhood of the Warp.
"What are you?"
The demand tore from the Emperor's mouth.
Thiel had never seen the Master of Mankind bear such a solemn countenance. The Emperor's sword burned brilliantly, its light casting a harsh glare upon Loken's face.
"The Dark King has yet to be born."
The Emperor advanced step by step toward Alexander. "How did you claim the seat of the Eternal Dragon?"
"How did you claim the seat of the Machine God?"
"No... you are merely infinitely close; you have not truly ascended."
The Emperor's gaze swept past Sanguinius, landing upon Horus Lupercal. "And why have you taken my deceased son?"
The Emperor slowly dropped to one knee, his eyes reflecting Alexander's silhouette.
"Who exactly are you...?"
Facing the Emperor's demands, Alexander slowly revealed a smile.
"Emperor Nobita."
"I really can't do anything with you."
"I'm Doraemon, and I've come to help you."