Torment, pain, a longing for death that could not be granted.
It seemed that every sentient being, in the first second of possessing wisdom and consciousness, would conjure such dark imaginings: they would involuntarily picture, fear, and ponder the most horrific tortures they could conceive. And in some darker corner of their minds, they would secretly anticipate, hoping it would befall other beings, eliciting screams and wails.
In the dead of night, when rage and malice danced freely, they would do so.
But even the most terrifying and darkest delusions within every living being could never truly imagine how painful true eternity could be.
Merely entering the Fate Engine was the most tormenting challenge existence could offer in the mortal world. Even the God of the Forge, who single-handedly built this eternal prison, probably wouldn't know how many tyrannical souls, cruelly slaughtered and dead in endless resentment and fury, were imprisoned here.
To forge this unprecedented weapon of ultimate war, the entire Northern Galaxy was purged by the Randan's blade, leaving nine out of ten regions desolate. Dozens to hundreds of star sectors transformed from prosperous hive worlds into utter deathscapes.
Even the total casualties suffered by the Imperium of Man since launching its Great Crusade paled in comparison to the immense number of souls confined within the Fate Engine.
And now, the Randan Emperor stood within this eternal prison: now, this was its cage.
A sea of vengeful spirits, enough to drown everything, completely tore apart its skin and flesh the moment it stepped inside. Innumerable demons and monsters, with piercing shrieks of vengeance, vied to leap at its body and soul.
Every inch of bone was gnawed away bit by bit, every wisp of soul shredded thread by thread, as if tens of millions of carnivorous insects slowly devoured a living being, leaving pain and struggle as the only memory and sensation before death.
Revenge, malevolence, curses, or perhaps outright madness.
Driven by such emotions, countless souls inflicted unimaginable atrocities upon the Xenos Emperor: they burrowed into its eyelids and the corners of its lips, wantonly gnawing at the delicate nerves behind its eyeballs and teeth;
they drilled into its flesh, transforming invisible cold winds into bone-scraping steel blades, flaying its bones and sinews repeatedly; in its heart, in its brain, at every fingertip and every inch of skin, even on every piece of pure land within its soul, malevolent spirits were ubiquitous, like a sky-darkening swarm of locusts.
And such torment was merely what happened in the very first instant, utterly trivial compared to the madness that followed.
They tried to devour it alive, and yet they also tried to keep it alive, to break it down in endless resentment and torment.
No living being, whether it be an ordinary human, a mighty Astartes, an arrogant Randan Overlord, a warlike Skinner, or the most ancient and malevolent Commorragh noble, would find any difference in this scene.
The minds of such individuals would shatter completely in the first breath; what they saw would be enough to kill them, and they wouldn't even feel pain, for their minds would have died long before they were thoroughly shredded. For any ordinary life, this place was a death trap.
But for the Xenos Emperor, this place was eternity.
It was in the midst of the most terrifying torture machine currently in the entire galaxy, a machine so vast and insane that even the deepest gazes from the Warp couldn't help but briefly turn their attention here, witnessing how it operated and unleashed its most brutal and exquisite art.
The Randan Emperor died. In the very first second of its entry, its mortal flesh had already perished. Its skin and flesh were violently torn from its bones by a furious hurricane and shredded. Its bones, internal organs, and nerves were devoured in the next instant. Before it could feel more pain, it was already a dead being.
But in the next moment, before its heart could beat a second time, it came back to life, right in the heart of the torment.
A powerful life force and an even stronger will supported its body. Its flesh and bones stubbornly grew back, only to be flayed away by increasingly numerous souls with icy cold winds.
Grow, flay, grow, flay...
Every second was the most agonizing torment between life and death.
Every second, such torment might repeat countless times.
But this, this physical torment and pain, was less than one ten-thousandth of the spiritual agony.
Souls, malevolent souls, all souls, they surged into the Randan Emperor's Sea of Souls, eager to destroy it. But this, and only this, was the last realm that the Xenos Emperor could not abandon even an inch of.
Its psychic vision had to be maintained, its rationality and thought had to exist, its soul had to live, even if it was just clinging to life like the most pathetic dry bone. It had to remain alive, not for itself, but so that this mighty and chaotic power would not indiscriminately descend upon its subjects.
Thus, it struggled, it resisted.
It wailed.
No one could hear its most painful and mournful wails, for they did not echo in the real universe, but churned ceaselessly within the Sea of Souls, stirring up layer upon layer of unending bloody storms.
The souls were enraged, their wills, already driven mad by the deprivation of life, tormented every inch of its nerves and will with increasingly twisted postures, loudly demanding its submission and downfall. Their battle could not cease for a moment, and their torment would never fade.
Heart-piercing and bone-gnawing, everywhere present, the fury of anger and vengeance transformed into the most ravenous and gluttonous beasts. Should it even slightly attempt to escape the most terrible torment in the world, everything it cherished would crumble in an instant.
It even heard laughter, an equally endless laughter amidst countless roars and curses: they came from the realm of the King of the Real Universe, from the eternal kingdom belonging to chaos and desire, from those most blasphemous wills and their loyal servants. They adorned themselves, they stood ready, and with fervent attitudes, they cheered for this rare performance.
Applause, mockery, whispers, and endless promises mingled with the pain, assailing its mind and will, forcing it to resist them with all its might, to resist the most enticing pacts in the galaxy: every one of them was what it desired most: future, beauty, hope...
And liberation.
But it could not.
It could not do so.
It raised its head and wailed.
It could only wail.
It wailed, commanding itself to resist all erosion, commanding its body to persist in futile rebirth and existence amidst the endless erosion of life and death.
Until it could endure all of this.
Until it could resist all of this.
Until it could accept them, accept these wild souls, allowing them all to adhere to its body, greedily devouring and replacing its flesh, using its will and rationality as a beautiful sustenance.
Until it had the strength, enough strength and savagery, to maintain all of this.
To maintain the hope of its race.
It had to do this, it had to enter and become the Fate Engine, grasping the ultimate destiny of its race in its own hands.
It had time to do so, for within the Fate Engine, the flow of time was so slow and sluggish that perhaps an insignificant instant in the outside world was ten thousand years here.
Ten thousand years.
Ten thousand years.
And another ten thousand years.
——————
It didn't care.
——————
The Imperium of Man was retreating.
The Randan were advancing.
Victory was being unveiled.
But Skanderbeg, cared nothing for it.
The second-most important figure of the entire Randan Empire stood faithfully beside the Fate Engine, like the most ordinary and lowly servant, awaiting the return of its sovereign.
It didn't know how long it would wait; it simply let time flow, let the war progress, let the end of all things come.
After an unknown number of brutal clashes, the human fleet finally began its slow withdrawal. This was an absolutely desperate measure: even though the Randan rearguard fleet had dismissed many under its command, the remaining grand army was still sufficient to overwhelm the few remaining Imperial fleets.
Defensive lines were breached, strongholds seized, once-critical nodes where countless lives had been shed and not an inch yielded, were now discarded like useless refuse. No one cared for them. The Xenos fleet once again arrived at the orbit of Tacus V, once again deployed vast landing armies, and once again ignited the fires of war in every corner.
This time, they were unstoppable.
The most severely damaged Imperial fleets had silently vanished from the battlefield. The intact mortal auxiliary army had, at some unknown point, boarded transport ships and begun their retreat under the cover of the Salamanders.
Perhaps millions of Imperial warriors were still entangled by the Xenos hordes, unwillingly abandoned, but many more heroes and hopes had been preserved, becoming the new backbone of the Imperium of Man.
But all of this, all the victory, honor, and loss it represented, Skanderbeg cared nothing for. It closed its eyes, abandoning all military affairs to the marshals and admirals who had survived the war, while it itself stood motionless, like a cast-iron statue devoid of aesthetic beauty.
And by its side, and behind it and in the distance, stretching to the horizon in darkness and dim light, stood figures performing the same actions.
They stood, they were silent, they waited for their sole master's return, no matter how long they had to wait.
These beings, these warriors, these ruthless killing machines reverently called the Randan Custodian Guard by the Imperial soldiers, numbered in the tens of thousands. Against the backdrop of their pure black, emotionless helmets, was the never-ending crimson glow of the Fate Engine.
They waited thus.
For an unknown duration.
Until the Emperor returned.
Or the end of all things.
——————
How long had it been?
It didn't know, it couldn't know.
Its will, its spirit, every inch of its once proud rationality and noble emotions, had vanished, completely worn away, no longer existing in what might have been countless years of torture and torment.
No... there was still a little bit left.
Still... still...
It gritted its teeth, its long-devoured teeth, fantasizing about its persistence and pain, and used that as its resolve.
Just a little bit more!
It must endure!
Randan!
It thought of this word.
This word held power, the power to make it stand up again.
Randan!
It raised its head, and it saw.
It could see everything. Amidst the bone-chilling wind that no one could endure, shattered fragments, like broken mirror shards, pierced into its non-existent eye sockets, bringing back its memories and vision.
It could see.
It could see the starry sky, the light of the stars piercing through the thick clouds, like tears of the gods sprinkling upon black sands, transforming into the most exquisite pearls. It saw, it saw that day, that unforgettable day: it stood beneath the stars, upon a cliff, the indifferent light from ten thousand li away enveloping its body, casting its shadow upon every leaf in the forest.
The starry sky.
At that moment, it thought so.
Then, it knew, it knew everything about itself: its mission, its persistence, its belief.
The starry sky, the beautiful starry sky.
The starry sky that should belong to Randan.
It should belong to them, to its kin and race. It was only right.
At that moment, it knew, and it also "awakened."
It once had its own name, its own family and story, but before this starry sky, they were insignificant.
That day, beneath the starry sky, an ordinary life passed away.
An "Emperor" appeared.
The Randan Emperor.
It witnessed, it felt non-existent tears slowly dripping from its non-existent eye sockets, eliciting arrogant laughter from the countless unbegotten in the Warp.
Did it cry? Perhaps not.
It was merely screaming, wailing.
It saw.
It saw its footsteps, its figure. A thousand years ago, its shadow dragged its armor and robes, accentuating its stride, on every inch of land, across every desolate expanse of the Randan homeworld, without a moment's pause, it began its work.
It gained some companions.
It gained some trust.
It gained some armies.
It gained some followers.
It gained some victories.
It lost some dear friends.
It lost some friendships.
It gained some titles.
It lost some smiles.
...
Destiny was like a flood, and in the blink of an eye, years passed.
It saw its youthful vigor, its boundless ambition. It saw countless statues and temples rise amidst cheers. It saw the first battleship of its race traverse the distances of time and space, sending back its message.
It saw, it saw the death of an empire, and a chaotic galaxy.
That was an opportunity, that was danger, that was their era.
It thought.
So, it drew its sword, pointed it at the starry sky above, and the flames of war began to burn.
It was time.
To make the starry sky theirs.
It thought.
——————
And so.
It awoke.
——————
It was more dazzling and terrifying than a thousand blazing stars, more absurd and profound than ten thousand dead worlds.
As it stepped forth, its shattered mind thought so.
It emerged. It didn't know how much time had passed. It emerged from the Fate Engine.
No, rather.
It became the Fate Engine.
——————
It saw its companion, its last companion. It saw the loyal Skanderbeg, hero of the Randan, its left and right hand.
The second-in-command of the Randan Empire looked up. It saw its sovereign, saw its true form, saw what kind of being it had become at this very moment.
With just one glance, endless madness and disorder assailed its brain. A thousand years of conquest and struggle, and the will accumulated from it, almost disintegrated before this "Existence."
It lowered its head. In an instant, countless beads of sweat appeared on its forehead, more than all that had appeared in the past thousand years combined.
No, persist.
Skanderbeg told itself.
That was Randan, the Emperor of the Randan Empire, its sovereign, its only master.
It gritted its teeth, and once again raised its head, witnessing everything before it, using its tenacity to resist all madness.
It would follow it, no matter what happened, no matter what it became.
Then, it heard cheers.
Countless cheers, they came from the Randan Custodian Guard, from countless Randan legions and fleets, from every Randan Overlord and warrior, from every Randan soldier.
They cheered for their sovereign, even though they could not truly see its form. Endless crimson light now completely enveloped the Xenos Emperor, and no one could see its true state.
But just by looking at the light, which was taller and mightier than the Imperium of Man's most powerful Titans, no one doubted that their Emperor had become stronger, just like every miracle that had happened before, just like all the stories they had grown up hearing.
The Emperor was alive.
It would create miracles.
It would bring victory and the future.
Cheers erupted, continued, rising spontaneously from the chest of every Randan soldier, needing no words or encouragement. When that god-like light appeared on every Randan battleship, conveyed through direct sight and countless projectors, all despondency and discouragement vanished, and boundless courage and sacred will once again filled everyone's hearts.
The Randan launched another attack.
A decisive attack.
This time.
They won.
——————
Won.
No more embellishments needed, just the simplest: won.
The Xenos warships, clad in black flails, mercilessly crushed the last star-forts and defensive arrays loyal to the Imperium of Man. On the barren surface of Tacus V, one void shield after another fell under the surging second assault. Countless impregnable fortresses were exposed to the Xenos warships' bombardment, unable to withstand even the first attack.
Defensive lines shattered, worlds fell, all pride and persistence transformed into undeniable defeat, flooding the hearts of every Imperial warrior. But this did not plunge them into madness and rage.
Most of the surviving human warships had already orderly retreated to the pre-designated jump points. The Imperial Guard Auxiliaries and Space Wolves were the first to withdraw;
due to their role in the war, the sons of Leman Russ had suffered unimaginable casualties and costs. When the Wolf Lord next reviewed his forces, he would have to promote at least eight new Wolf Lords at once.
Following them were the strongest and most agile fleets of the Dark Angels, and the Salamanders Legion, who voluntarily stayed behind to cover the retreat. The Lord of the Firedrakes and his sons were emboldened by the spirits of every comrade who had fought there. They deeply knew that every act of resistance and sacrifice allowed more mortal heroes to retreat safely to the rear.
The mighty Unbending Truth and Flaming Forge became the last and most absolute core. Around them were the more agile warships, and beyond these fast ships were countless warships already destroyed and boarded, with innumerable Xenos warriors swarming over them, cheering their hard-won victory.
This was the final act of the Tacus Campaign, the last moment in the countless clashes between humanity and the Randan.
Blood and tears flowed, the bitterness of defeat and the long laughter of victory echoed continuously under the same sky. Worlds were crumbling, stars were dying, and the Warp, drawn in by countless impacts and collisions, seemed to become the sole victor, wantonly devouring this world amidst endless laughter.
Until that crimson light, the almost unconquerable Randan Emperor, casually dispatched a small portion of its power. After the Randan army retreated, it tore Tacus V into fragments, letting crumbling vortices and lava consume everything that once was.
The war was declared over.
Randan had won its victory.
——————
But was everything truly so?
On the shattered warships, in the burning fortresses, the banners of Randan flew high and unbridled, yet they could never obscure the crimson light of the plasma guns firing.
On every shattered human battleship seized by the Xenos; on every dying fortress trampled by the iron cavalry; and even on the fragments of those shattered worlds, countless flashes of fire, countless gunshots, countless war cries. Though unnoticed by all, they nonetheless truly existed.
The war was over.
The Xenos had won.
But the resistance was far from finished.
Still, Xenos fell, still blood flowed, and still indomitable war cries echoed in every battleship and fortress that could no longer retreat.
There would always be someone who resisted.
There would always be someone who defied death.
There would always be someone who, even as the world shattered and burned before their eyes, even as the will of end and death stirred within their hearts, would tightly grip their steel gun and unleash their roar at this universe, this world, that had never been merciful.
——————
End, and death.
And a roar.
A roar.
It heard a roar.
How familiar it was.
Pain invaded its thoughts, twisting and gnawing at its body, but it could still hear.
Could see.
Could feel.
It walked, no longer needing any battleship or vehicle. It was enveloped in pure pain and torment, unable to find even the most basic respite for a moment. It hid within a most dazzling light, like a brazen star, traversing the void.
It could hear, could hear those arrogant laughs. They watched it, lured it with the most mocking attitudes, awaiting its death and humiliation to bring a fleeting pleasure to their boring eternal lives.
...Let them.
It thought, advancing, fighting.
Fighting—it couldn't even call it true fighting. It had forgotten so much. The moment it stepped out of the Fate Engine, it had forgotten many things. It had cast aside many things, much wisdom and pride, to preserve what was most important.
But it still knew how to fight, though it was merely a casual outpouring of the countless souls wrapped beneath its body.
It had won. It had crushed the long-unconquered world. It had repelled those who tried to stop it: they blocked its path at the Mandeville Point, hoping to create their own miracle. It knew them; it knew they were the Primarchs of humanity.
What powerful and beautiful beings.
Perhaps it should also create some; it should have created some long ago. Perhaps then, its chances of victory would have been greater.
No... it would not do that. It would not, like that human, arrogantly steal those fleeting flames. That was drinking poison to quench thirst; he could not control them forever, and he would eventually be consumed by the fire.
It thought so, and it even remembered another person, another Primarch, that cold-blooded monster whose name it had forgotten. Even the most insane and ruthless Randan warrior was more like a living being than that monster. He was so cruel and ruthless that it had remembered him deeply.
It remembered their bargain: though there had been no direct communication between them, though they had been locked in an inseparable struggle across the galaxy for years, they had still reached a bargain, a tacit agreement.
It remembered how that cold-blooded one had swaggered away with everything he needed and his puppets, heading into the deepest stars of the Northern Galaxy.
That was its price. It had guaranteed his unobstructed passage, and its reward in return was...
That legion, that ignorant Astartes legion, that legion abandoned by their father. They unknowingly became pawns, sacrifices, branded with the label of "incompetent," wantonly ravaged and massacred by its legions, ultimately dissolving into a mist of blood on the worlds they had once sworn to defend.
It remembered this scene, and as it remembered, it was facing some inconsequential resistance.
The resistance came from those Primarchs, and the treasures accompanying them, treasures enough to make it envious.
They had stopped on a battleship packed with explosives, hoping to halt its advance and will. It had to admit, they indeed had that confidence.
That Soul Drinker, that terrifying being mentioned with fearful words by its subjects, how exquisite her power was! Although so weak, she truly caused it trouble, stirring everything it tried to control, until it used an unavoidable attack to force her to temporarily withdraw from this uneven battle.
That golden-haired warrior, he commanded those bloodless, tearless war machines, delaying its steps. It could even clearly hear every word and command of his. Though it was wailing ceaselessly, it could discern that he was an excellent military master; the wisdom contained in his every command was a height unattainable by its most outstanding subjects.
And that pure black evil dragon, that crimson-eyed monster, his great hammer swung with the force of a whirlwind. When it heavily struck its non-existent leg, it even felt a false pang of pain. He was a God of War, an unconquerable being. He could easily tear apart any of its subjects without a shred of doubt.
It thought of Skanderbeg, but then it immediately negated the thought: Skanderbeg was far inferior to them, not even by a fraction.
Not to mention, its other subjects.
...
...
...Is this humanity?
Is this its opponent?
Is this the enemy of its race and its dreams?
Is this the humanity it once longed to defeat, and truly planned how to defeat?
That humanity which once shone brilliantly, once rose, once dominated the four seas, letting its will and greed plunder the entire galaxy, letting countless xenos and civilizations rise and fall with their whims and sorrows?
Even though they had been enemies for so long, at this moment, it truly began to ponder this question.
It was silent, it wailed. It felt a desperate stillness take root and sprout in its mind, instantly growing into a towering tree whose roots, laden with countless pains, deeply pierced into its soul. Even the never-ending torment from the Fate Engine was less than one ten-thousandth of this pain.
Humanity...
It attacked, it roared, like a terrifying giant dragon whose mind had been completely twisted by madness, it charged wildly among these most powerful Primarchs.
It defeated them.
Without a doubt.
Without a doubt...
It stood there, having destroyed those merciless war machines. It watched as the one named Soul Drinker struggled back onto the battlefield, pulling her two dying companions who lay on the ground, and then conjured a dagger in her palm.
Her face was twisted, a picture of pure fury.
She cut her own throat, leaving a small scar, allowing a drop of blood to flow from her pale white neck. With this insignificant drop of blood, her entire being seemed to dim in an instant.
It did not halt its attack.
Before the fatal strike could land, that drop of blood began to burn and roar.
A hurricane, a hurricane strong enough to disrupt its attack, appeared before it. When it furiously shattered this hurricane, its front was empty.
The Primarchs, the machines, those last fleets and humans, had vanished without a trace.
It stood silently there, making no move, allowing itself to struggle in endless pain.
——————
Continue forward.
In a trance, Skanderbeg seemed to hear this command: it was shattered, it was distorted, it was chanted together by countless hoarse throats in ceaseless curses.
And this command was executed.
——————
End, and death.
And... humanity.
Before its cheering subjects reached the next star system, in its dwindling sanity, it struggled to ponder the meaning of these words.
It thought of its race, its beloved Randan, and every Randan soldier it had casually squandered.
It thought of them, of their rise and glory, of how they gnawed at the remnants of humanity, rising in this great galaxy at a speed they could never have anticipated.
Then came ambition, expansion, war.
And destruction.
Destruction from the galaxy.
The silent Imperium of Man once again began its roar, reorganizing its legions, reclaiming its territories, crushing all opponents under absolute power.
It once thought itself one step away from its dream. It once believed the only things to worry about were the terrifying beings in the Warp, until the overlord it thought dead once again stood up and walked before its race.
They wanted their lives.
They sought nothing but destruction.
And so, war erupted.
Then, they lost.
Without any suspense, they lost.
Finally, the last remnants of the Tacus system had been completely devoured by the increasingly rampant Warp. Storms and vortices had claimed the region, forcing the Randan fleet to abandon this boiling hot land.
In endless pain, the Xenos Emperor cast a final glance at the battlefield where it had poured everything it had.
It had achieved victory, defeating three human legions. But it knew that humanity had sixteen more such legions.
They possessed even greater power, more fleets, and a more terrifying ambition and confidence to continue the war.
It had merely poured everything it had into repelling one of humanity's hands, and not even a full-strength hand at that.
It closed its eyes.
Allowing itself to be submerged in pain.
Compared to conscious reality, pain ironically brought it a sense of liberation.
——————
Until.
It felt something.
Light.
It was light.
It opened its eyes and felt the light, a cold light.
He was waiting for it, at their next destination, the next star system, that obscure, nameless place, the most inconspicuous corner of the galaxy.
A good place to end a story, isn't it?
It thought, it watched, it allowed its fleet, its subjects, and its power to slowly surge towards that place, towards that cold sun, those golden, merciless legions.
They were waiting for it.
They were preparing everything.
They were preparing for the end.
It seemed that if it just defeated them, it could have everything it desired.
When its mind was filled with this absurd thought, when it gazed upon that cold sun and the metal dragons circling it, it would think thus.
It could feel it.
——————
End, and death.
It thought of all this again.
Then, in endless pain, in never-fading torment, amidst the most distant and twisted ecstasy of the gods.
The Xenos Emperor smiled.
🚨 Note: Consider supporting this story on Patreon.com/Flokixy to access 400+ advance chapters and 2 new chapters daily! (Full story bundles also available without a subscription).