"Indeed, the Plague Father," Tzeentch's voice was laced with playful mockery. "His sluggish, unimaginative domain, capable of nothing but repetitive procreation and rot... it should be utterly incompatible with my exquisite realm of endless change and infinite possibilities. But do you know?" Billions of faces simultaneously curled into a grotesque smile. "On Aurelian IV, at this very moment, our interests... temporarily align."
The vision zoomed in on a wasteland in the planet's northern hemisphere.
It was the subterranean depths beneath what used to be the Aru Industrial Zone—the area where Sector 7 had plummeted after the Iron Hands' orbital bombardment eighty years ago.
Deep at the bottom of the crater, a microscopic Warp rift had yet to fully close.
The Mechanicus had been working to repair it, but the sealing rituals were incomplete.
More importantly...
"That rift does not connect to the pure, turbulent currents of the Warp."
The vision plunged deep into the rift. It was not the endless void within, but rather a... garden.
A putrid, flourishing garden, where every single leaf was simultaneously rotting away and stubbornly growing anew.
"It has pierced the very edge of Nurgle's domain. And the Plague Father has recently been preparing a celebration for his newest favorite."
The scene shifted, revealing the depths of Nurgle's realm. Colossal pustules swelled like mountain ranges, yellow-green miasma choked the skies, and countless Plaguebearers dragged their rotting forms across carpets of festering fungal bloom.
In the center of the garden, a boiling cauldron was stewing something—a completely new plague creation that combined Nurgle's boundless love with sheer destructive potential.
"He requires more materials, more sustenance, to perfect his new toy." Tzeentch's voice carried the shrewdness of a merchant negotiating a deal. "And Aurelian IV... possesses a population of nearly thirty billion souls."
From the moment Aetaos accepted this task, from his very first contact with Sacken to guide his fall... he had vaguely perceived the larger picture.
But now, the Changer of Ways had personally unveiled the grand design.
"So Sacken's ritual..." he asked tentatively.
"Is bait," Tzeentch admitted openly. "Sanguinius will see the Chaos corruption in the City of the Holy Anthem and descend personally to purge it. But just as he focuses entirely on extinguishing the purple flames of Tzeentch... Nurgle's green tide will surge from the rift."
The vision simulated the calculated outcome: Sanguinius leading the main force of the Blood Angels into the City of the Holy Anthem, locked in a bloody war of attrition against Sacken's army of corrupted psykers.
Right at the climax of the battle, the rift in Sector 7 would erupt, spilling tens of thousands of Nurgle daemons and Plague Marines into reality.
The hive's defense grid would be caught in a pincer attack, forcing the Blood Angels into a devastating two-front war...
"And right at that moment," Tzeentch's voice was so joyous it was almost singing, "the Iron Warriors—the company of the Fourth Legion originally scheduled to garrison Aurelian but unexpectedly reassigned—will have just concluded their campaign in a neighboring sector. They will receive the distress signal and rush in to reinforce."
The vision displayed a fleet bearing the hazard-stripe livery of yellow and black, translating from the Warp and setting a course for Aurelian.
"Their Primarch, Perturabo, has always looked down on Ferrus," Tzeentch chuckled softly. "If he discovers Sanguinius bogged down in a bitter war on a planet Ferrus once managed... what do you think the Iron Warriors, with their notoriously rigorous and uncompromising methods, will do?"
Aetaos almost wanted to cheer.
It was too brilliant.
Tzeentch sows chaos, Nurgle escalates the war, the Iron Warriors are unexpectedly dragged in, and the Blood Angels are bogged down in a quagmire...
And the ultimate result of all this?
"Aurelian IV will become a breeding ground for Chaos," Aetaos concluded. "Sanguinius will either be forced to retreat in disgrace, costing the Imperium a crucial mining world, or he will be trapped here, forced to beg for reinforcements from other Legions to purge the planet. As long as this place draws the Imperium's attention and pins down their gaze, it will greatly benefit our subsequent preparations."
"Preparations for what?" Tzeentch abruptly cut him off. Billions of faces simultaneously raised a finger to their lips in a 'shush' gesture.
Aetaos immediately snapped his beak shut.
Some things, even a Greater Daemon was forbidden to speak aloud.
"You only need to know," Tzeentch said, returning to a calm tone, "that this is a transaction beneficial to us both. Nurgle gains his believers and corruption, and I gain my nexus of fate and schemes."
The Changer of Ways paused, and all the faces simultaneously revealed a tacit, knowing smile.
Aetaos bowed to accept the command, the ectoplasmic stardust on his wings flashing violently with excitement.
The scale of this mission far exceeded his expectations. If successful, his standing within the Realm of Tzeentch would skyrocket, perhaps even earning him the title of Fateweaver.
As he turned to leave, Tzeentch's voice echoed one last time:
"There is one more thing."
"Your command," Aetaos replied.
"That Crimson Dawn," Tzeentch said. "Those mortals claiming to be archeotech excavators, that Governor named Cage, and the... other things that may exist behind them."
The vision displayed a real-time image of Kent Hive. Sanguinius was touring the hive city, accompanied by the Cogboy providing explanations. Everything appeared normal, orderly, even exemplary.
"They are too clean," Tzeentch observed. "So clean that it resembles a meticulously arranged stage. Sanguinius's precognition has been interfered with, and my scrying has also encountered a barrier..."
Billions of faces frowned simultaneously—a rare expression of absolute seriousness.
"During the execution of the plan, keep an eye on them," the Changer of Ways commanded. "If it is merely the facade of mortal bureaucrats, ignore them. But if..."
He did not finish the sentence.
But Aetaos understood the unspoken words. If other entities stood behind those mortals...
If their cleanliness was not a facade but some higher-dimensional cover, if they too were placing pieces on this grand chessboard...
"I shall monitor them, Changer of Ways."
"Go."
Aetaos turned around, spreading his six arms and beating his wings.
The instant he stepped out of the fortress, the crystal labyrinth behind him had already reconstituted. Old corridors dissolved, new spires shot up from the ground, and billions of futures refreshed within the crystals.
Within the Impossible Fortress, Tzeentch reverted into countless faces, whispering, bickering, and debating amidst the blue and pink flames.
He had long since foreseen every possible trajectory of this transaction, calculating Nurgle's reaction, Sanguinius's decisions, the Iron Warriors' operational patterns...
All variables had been incorporated into His models; every contingency had a countermeasure.
But Crimson Dawn was the sole exception.
The sole exception was that faint, almost imperceptible shield on those mortals—a shield that belonged to none of the four Chaos Gods...
"Fascinating," a child's face whispered softly.
"A variable," an old man's face said solemnly.
"An opportunity," a scholar's face whispered excitedly.
Ultimately, all the faces merged and coalesced into the Changer of Ways' most genuine emotion at this moment:
Anticipation.
It had been far too long since He had encountered a true unknown.
In His omniscient vision that pierced through all possibilities, the fate of the galaxy should have been as clear as an open book: the rise of the Emperor, the splendor of the Great Crusade, the glory of the Primarchs, and the impending... Fall.
But those mortals, that organization, that barrier...
"Let me see," Tzeentch's voice echoed through the empty fortress, carrying the delight of a chess player encountering a worthy opponent, "who exactly you are. Or perhaps..."
All the faces of the Changer of Ways simultaneously revealed an unfathomable smile.
"...you have absolutely no idea what role you are playing."
--
Meanwhile, in Nurgle's Garden.
There were no crystal labyrinths here, only eternal putrefaction and rebirth.
Rivers of pus flowed sluggishly, their banks overgrown with groaning mushrooms and weeping flowers.
The sky was a jaundiced yellow-green, perpetually drizzling a warm rain that reeked of cloying rot.
The ground was a soft carpet of fleshy fungal bloom; every step produced a squelching sound as milky-white fluids oozed out.
Deep within the garden, the Plague Father himself crouched before a boiling cauldron.
His corpulent body was as massive as a mountain. Writhing maggots and palpitating organs were visible beneath his festering skin, and his grandfatherly face perpetually wore a satisfied, benevolent smile.
At this moment, he was stirring the thick stew within the cauldron with a gigantic bone ladle. Rolling within the broth were countless half-formed plague creations. Some resembled multi-limbed infants.
Some looked like mounds of flesh covered in eyes, while others were simply writhing masses of constantly mutating protoplasm.
"Ah... my little darlings are almost ripe," Nurgle said, his voice sounding like a kindly old grandfather, carrying a doting quaver. "They just need a tiny bit of... extra nourishment."
He raised his head and looked toward the edge of the garden. There, a microscopic rift was slowly tearing open.
Through the rift came the image of an industrial world: a grayish-yellow sky and towering hive spires.
And... nearly thirty billion vibrant, fragile, and highly infectious lives.
"The Changer of Ways is always so thoughtful," Nurgle chuckled hoarsely. He tore a chunk of rotting flesh from his own festering belly and tossed it into the cauldron.
The instant the corrupted flesh hit the broth, all the plague creations simultaneously let out joyous roars, their maturation accelerating rapidly.
"Knowing that Grandfather needed ingredients, he delivered an entire planet as a feast."
He clapped his hands.
All across the garden, countless Plaguebearers, Nurglings, and even the mighty Great Unclean Ones stopped their work and looked up at their loving Father in unison.
"My children," Nurgle's voice echoed throughout the entirety of his domain. "Prepare for... a grand feast."