Earth Time, Year 16,554 CE.
With the power of the sublight engine, humanity had, over the span of a thousand years, greatly expanded its dominion.
After centuries of trial and error in planetary exploration, human civilization had moved past its age of uncertainty.
Now they could rely on advanced algorithms and complex calculations, charting planetary orbits and stellar environments to predict which worlds might be suitable for terraforming.
These candidate worlds shone like scattered pearls across the endless sands of the cosmic shore, drawing explorers to them without end.
Eager to find unclaimed planets and secure their fortunes, many pioneers abandoned nearby, overcrowded regions and ventured farther afield.
But distance and primitive communications often forced them to develop in isolation once they arrived.
In some cases, just reaching a suitable planet required centuries of travel.
And after arrival, generations upon generations had to labor before a barren rock became a habitable colony.
In this way, humanity scattered like spilled ink across the galaxy.
No one could say how many planets now hosted humans, or how many colonies had truly taken root.
They were like sailors of Earth's great Age of Sail — marooned across scattered islands, each settlement's fate determined by equal parts luck and effort.
What they did not know, however, was that Orsaga, bound by his Abyssal Pact with Ra, had to clear obstacles from their path.
Thus, when humanity expanded into territories of certain peaceful alien civilizations, those unfortunate races and their worlds were casually tossed into the Warp by Orsaga — becoming raw material for his Eldrazi to fashion new spawn.
To him, it was nothing. A thought, a gesture, and the deed was done.
Meanwhile, information gleaned from the Star God shard had, over millennia of refinement, enabled Orsaga to wield five percent of his true power within the Prime Universe.
To him it was little — yet far more freedom than any other Chaos God enjoyed.
Even without a medium, he could restart the Prime Universe at will.
But for his own purposes, he concealed this fact.
Already, the mere existence of his Eldrazi legions within the Prime Universe had drawn endless probes from the other gods — tens of thousands of tests, each prying at his strength.
---
Elsewhere in the galaxy, the Aeldari remained lost in their glory.
For nearly two millennia, they had ruled unchallenged.
With the galaxy's finest resources in their grasp, their power only grew — as did their arrogance.
Under the patrols of their countless fleets, the galaxy bent to their will.
Only two forces defied them:
the Warp's twisted entities, forever rampaging like locusts, destroying worlds and slaughtering species at whim;
and the green-skinned orks — brutish, dim-witted creations of the Old Ones, as brainless as they were violent.
Beyond these, the galaxy followed the Aeldari's command.
In regions steeped with Warp energy, their mightiest psykers could ignite a star as though lighting a candle, then snuff it out as casually as blowing one.
Faced with such power, the stars and the myriad races of the galaxy could only kneel.
The title of Children of the Old Ones resounded across the galaxy.
Glory and renown converged upon them.
---
The Warp — a shadowed domain.
In a special region, the four Chaos Gods gathered.
Yet instead of scheming, they sat in silence, simply watching the Aeldari grow ever more bloated with pride.
After all, as beings at the peak of the food chain, destroying lesser races was effortless for them — even if the Prime Universe limited their power.
The only question was whether they cared enough to expend the effort.
In the murky depths of that space, Nurgle stirred a massive cauldron, his bloated body leaking pus as he added ingredients from countless jars.
Each handful he tossed in was a planet or a race — their very essence plucked from the Prime or lesser universes and cast into the stew.
No one knew how long the cooking had gone on.
At last, Nurgle tasted it, nodded in satisfaction, and ladled out a bowl of bubbling green broth with a skull. Smiling warmly, he offered it to his peers:
"Would anyone like some?"
Khorne and Tzeentch declined with disinterest.
Orsaga, however, accepted without hesitation and drank deeply.
To mortals it was unspeakable filth, but as an Abyssal Demon, he had tasted far worse. In the depths of the Abyss he had consumed things far stranger — things that would drive ordinary men mad at a glance.
He sipped, savoring the flavor, and then spoke with professional seriousness:
"Contains 6,747,174,795 strains of bacteria. Distinct texture, highly nutritious."
Nurgle beamed with delight.
But Orsaga continued:
"However, the taste is lacking. As a bacterial concoction, it is excellent. But if you aim for culinary mastery… there is still room to improve."
The smile vanished from Nurgle's swollen face. His ladle stilled.
As the Warp's self-proclaimed master chef, he felt his expertise had been challenged.
Without concern, Orsaga reached into a secondary universe, seized half a species, crushed them to powder, and sprinkled some into his own bowl — tossing the rest into Nurgle's cauldron.
The moment Nurgle tasted the thickened broth, his massive frame shuddered.
A surge of vibrant flavors exploded across his tongue.
At once, he set aside his pride. Humbly, he turned to Orsaga — eager to learn the art of cooking.
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