[500 P.S = 1 Bonus Chap]
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Warmaster of Chaos. Grand Despoiler. Lord of the Black Legion. These fearsome titles—once whispered in dread—are now but hollow crowns, gathered like trinkets by Abaddon the Despoiler on his long, bloody path of conquest.
Within the Imperium, few names are more reviled than his.
From the moment he rose to First Captain of the Luna Wolves, Abaddon was known for his brutal efficiency and unmatched ferocity. Now, as the undisputed master of the Traitor Legions, he commands the allegiance of Daemon Primarchs and the favor of the Chaos Gods themselves. His authority is absolute, his legacy written in the blood-drenched legends of the Long War.
From the shadows, Abaddon emerged—his form colossal, clad in brass-trimmed Terminator armor, a floating crystal orb orbiting before him. Within the orb, thousands of prophetic images danced—each one showing the same result: his inevitable triumph.
Victory, it seemed, was already decided. All that remained was to seize it.
"For the Primarch and the Emperor!" bellowed Azrael, his voice filled with righteous fury. With Doom at his side, he surged forward.
Dark Angels and Slayers carved a path through the Black Legion, their blades reaping heretics in swathes as the two commanders advanced toward the despoiler himself.
Abaddon did not flinch. Rage and bloodlust twisted his features as he faced their charge. But then he glanced at the crystal orb—and smiled.
Cunning as ever, the Despoiler stepped back into the darkness cast by the Spirit of Vengeance. His titanic form vanished from sight, leaving only shadows and dread.
He was no fool. Even after their grueling battle, Abaddon did not underestimate these warriors. Instead, he slipped away into the labyrinthine corridors of the battle barge he knew intimately—having dwelled aboard it for ten millennia.
But he wasn't the only one who had learned the layout swiftly.
As Abaddon moved through the dimly-lit corridors, the orb before him shimmered with sudden warning.
He halted.
From the edge of his vision, Xi'rus burst forth.
The ambush should have struck true. Xi'rus's blade—glimmering in the dark—drove for Abaddon's throat. But the narrowest of distances, just inches, became the line between death and survival.
The dagger passed just shy of its mark.
Abaddon's shark-like grin returned.
With monstrous force, he brought down the infamous Claw of Horus. It smashed into Azrael's chest, the claws screeching across his armor. For a moment, it seemed the Grand Master would fall.
But his armor erupted in brilliant light—an ancient, secret defense. Devices forbidden by Imperial Creed, perhaps even xenos or heretek in origin, flared with power.
To an Inquisitor, this would be blasphemy.
But at that moment, heresy preserved his life.
The daemonic claws scraped off his armor, though Warp-taint still surged through the strike, battering his body from within. Yet the King of the Dark Angels did not falter.
Thrown back, Azrael's body reeled, but his discipline held. With the fluid motion of a master, he spun midair, absorbed the momentum, and counterattacked.
His dagger flickered with phase energy—its blade alive with lethal potential. He drove it forward, serpent-like and precise.
It struck home.
The blade pierced Abaddon's gut, slicing through ceramite and daemonic reinforcement alike. Black ichor and tendrils of Warp-essence spilled from the wound.
Phase weapons cared nothing for armor.
Azrael pressed the assault, determined to end the traitor once and for all.
But the daemon-armor screamed.
The sound wasn't physical. It struck Azrael's soul like a thunderclap. His limbs seized. He froze.
Abaddon capitalized. The Claw of Horus crashed down, shattering his opponent's defenses. Azrael collapsed in a crimson heap upon the deck of the Spirit of Vengeance.
Above him loomed the Despoiler, wreathed in darkness, drawing forth the ancient daemon blade Drach'nyen. The sentient weapon quivered with anticipation—eager to consume another noble soul.
Time slowed.
Victory—sure, final—belonged to Abaddon.
The deck beneath his feet blackened and rotted from his mere presence. He raised the blade high, black lightning crawling along its edge.
"A decent victory," he sneered. "Killing you... It brings me pleasure. Not immense—but enough."
Azrael, choking on blood, rasped out, "Heretic… it's far too early to celebrate."
The daemon blade descended.
A thunderous crash shook the chamber.
The wall beside them exploded in a torrent of fire. From within the inferno, a beam of searing psychic energy—Doom's mindblade—lashed out, intercepting Drach'nyen mid-swing.
"Demon," a voice rumbled from the fire, deep and cold, "your time is over."
Doom emerged, armor scorched and gleaming dark green beneath the flames.
Azrael stirred, drawing himself up with great effort.
Abaddon's eyes narrowed. He glanced at the floating orb. It flickered. This moment was never shown.
"This... this isn't what fate promised!" he snarled, stepping back.
The orb had not foreseen Doom's return.
And Doom... Doom was the greater threat.
Younger than Azrael, perhaps—but older in the forge of war.
Doom had fought beneath the banners of the Lion himself, following the Second Primarch into the heart of the galaxy's wars. His legend was forged when he shattered a Great Unclean One of Nurgle with his bare hands—and since then, he had left a trail of corpses and daemons behind him in service to the Imperium.
Now, with fury in his eyes and death in his hands, he had come to end the Warmaster of Chaos.
After that, Doom followed his Primarch through countless campaigns: driving back Hive Fleet Leviathan, storming the Tau homeworld, and even setting foot in the Garden of Nurgle itself.
In recent years, he acted in the name of the Lord of Destruction, suppressing rebellions and asserting Imperial dominance across the stars. His victories were legendary, his glories sung from the bastions of the Segmentum Solar to the outposts of the Eastern Fringe. Even within the Immaterium, the whispers of Chaos now bore his name—spoken in fear and fury alike. Daemons and traitors hesitated at his coming.
A hero of terrible renown.
Abaddon, for all his pride, did not take such an opponent lightly. He feared no one—but he understood Doom's threat. And so, the Warmaster of Chaos chose caution.
Again, he tried to slip away. Slowly, deliberately, he backed into the shadows—seeking to re-engage on his terms, relying on guerrilla strikes and ambushes. Azrael was wounded and would not harry him this time. The odds still favored him—or so he believed.
Even as he glanced at the crystal sphere floating beside him—its prophetic glow no longer so certain—he felt victory near. He relished the anticipation.
Then the unexpected happened.
The daemon sword Drach'nyen, his so-called ally and weapon, began to hiss and writhe—dragged by its own insatiable hunger toward Azrael's wounded form. Its lust for the soul of the Dark Angels' Grand Master was overwhelming, tugging at Abaddon's very grip, pulling him unwillingly forward.
Abaddon: "..."
Doom: "..."
Azrael: "..."
A moment of pure, awkward silence descended on the battlefield.
"You taught me to laugh," Doom said at last, breaking the stillness. His voice was deep, cold, devoid of humor. "Perhaps the Warp chose you as Warmaster because even it requires a clown."
Abaddon coughed—whether in pain or rage was unclear—and fell silent once more.
But Doom, ever attuned through his psychic senses, could feel the mounting hatred boiling beneath the Warmaster's armor. It was... satisfying.
The contempt radiating from Doom ignited a wildfire of fury in Abaddon.
He gritted his teeth and tried to rein in the unruly daemon blade. It was not the first time the weapon had slipped his control—but never had its betrayal come at such a crucial moment.
Roaring in frustration, Abaddon raised the Claw of Horus. The ancient Talon, now fused with a built-in kinetic weapon system, fired in a thunderous burst toward Doom.
Doom didn't flinch.
A shimmering force field materialized, absorbing the impact. The explosion licked at the shield with flame and shrapnel—harmless.
"That's it?" Doom said, voice heavy with disdain. "This is the might your masters gifted you with? Pathetic."
"I am not their servant!" Abaddon snarled. "I use their power!"
"That so?" Doom cocked his head slightly. "Funny. I heard the last man who said that was named Horus. Remind me—how'd that work out for him?"
Abaddon lost what little restraint he had left.
"You dare!" he roared. The Warp howled around him. His grip tightened as Drach'nyen surged, its blade vomiting tendrils of shadow and corruption. The Claw of Horus crackled with raw, cursed power.
With a scream of hatred, the Warmaster unleashed his full strength in a single, devastating strike.
The blade tore through Doom's shield. The force field shattered like glass, the flames parting.
But Abaddon's triumph was short-lived.
Because now, the flames revealed what lay beyond them—the twin barrels of Doom's combat shotgun, raised and ready. The muzzle was massive, its void-black steel humming with barely-contained power.
"DooM," came the Slayer's voice. His Argent energy pack lit up with psychic resonance, an ominous red glow flashing across the display.
And then came the blast.
From the twin barrels, a torrent of explosive shells and purifying flame erupted, point-blank. Red fire engulfed Abaddon before he could react—his daemon armor buckling under the barrage. Metal shattered. Flesh tore. Bones cracked. The raw kinetic force hurled him backward like a broken doll.
He slammed into the deck of the Spirit of Vengeance, skidding across the blood-slick floor.
For a moment, everything went black.
Then came pain. Agonizing, all-consuming pain. He vomited blood—thick and black, chunks of flesh rising in the bile. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rise.
Only to have his head driven back down.
Doom's armored boot slammed atop his skull, grinding the Warmaster's face into the gore-smeared steel.
"Is that all?" Doom asked, voice unreadable.
Then, as if making a genuine observation, he added:
"This level of quality... would only be considered acceptable in a Mechanicus production line."
Abaddon could not fully grasp what the Slayer meant by "quality"—but it didn't matter. The humiliation burned all the same.
He roared in fury, the sound echoing like a daemon's wail through the blood-stained corridor. Yet Doom's massive, ceramite-encased boot remained unmoved—like an immovable obelisk of ancient judgment—pinning the Warmaster of Chaos to the deck of the Spirit of Vengeance.
"No one defeats me, Doom! Not even you!" Abaddon's voice bled hatred.
"Shut up, you bastard," Doom growled. "You disappoint me."
But then, the Spirit of Vengeance trembled violently.
Unseen by Doom, unseen even by Azrael, deep within the corrupted heart of the battleship—in a blasphemous sanctum of twisted metal and cursed scripture—the old altar convulsed. There, six braziers flared violently, seven vials of forbidden toxins shattered, and eight skulls—each a relic of sacrifice—exploded in a cacophony of Warp energy.
Three great shadows emerged—violet, crimson, and putrid green—each representing a patron of the Ruinous Powers. And in that moment, time itself bent and broke.
Abaddon knew Chaos. Truly knew it.
He had watched his father—Horus Lupercal, the favored son of the Emperor—descend from a demigod of vision and resolve to a hollow puppet, a broken tool of the Warp. He had learned from that fall. He remembered.
He had never trusted the gods.
Though they had given him strength, he refused to wield it directly. Instead, he locked their gifts within sanctified altars aboard his flagship—contained behind layers of ritual, heresy, and sacrifice. Mortals were bled to preserve the power, to keep it quiescent.
He had sworn never to call upon it.
But now, in the face of Doom, he shattered not one, but three of the altars.
Warp-light bathed him—blood-red, sickly green, and soul-wrenching purple. The power of Khorne, Nurgle, and Slaanesh surged into his broken flesh.
The ruin wrought by the double-barreled shotgun was devoured by decay and mutation. His body blistered with abscesses. Tentacles of virulent energy burst from beneath his armor. The atmosphere cracked and thickened around him until even the air collapsed, forming a concussive blast wave that surged outward like the fury of a dying star.
Doom staggered under the force, driven back several paces as the deck groaned and split.
Abaddon rose.
Taller. More monstrous. Less man than he had ever been.
The whispers of the gods coiled in the corridors, promising pain and glory, domination and eternal damnation.
Abaddon basked in it.
For the first time, he truly tasted the nectar of their favor. And it was divine.
"So this… this is what it means to be chosen," he thought. The sensation eclipsed every victory, every pleasure, every conquest he had ever known.
He flexed his fingers. Drach'nyen trembled—wailed—in his grasp, utterly subjugated by his will. The daemon within bowed to the Warmaster.
He looked down at the figure before him—Doom, ever unmoving, ever defiant.
Abaddon smiled. It was not a smile of triumph, but of savage ecstasy.
"Let us begin our second round," he declared, voice twisted with eldritch resonance. "I will break you. Tear you apart piece by piece. Then I shall slay all those who call you ally, reduce your worlds to ash, and set the stars themselves alight."
His voice was a hymn of madness, a sermon for the End Times.
"I will offer it all to the gods. Everything."
...
TN:
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