The Immaterium was a bizarre and dazzling expanse, infinite in depth and breadth. Even the Dark Gods, feared and worshiped, were but shadows flickering on the surface of the endless Sea of Souls. In the unfathomable depths, lost worlds ruled by cultists festered like mold, thriving in the hotbed of corruption.
To mortal cultists, daemons and Dark Gods were the pinnacles of existence—their ultimate aspiration. Their highest ambition was ascension, to be anointed as daemons themselves.
For this, they schemed, slaughtered, and indulged in depravity, striving to prove their worth and earn the favor of their chosen Chaos deity.
Through the vast expanse of the virtual realm, Dukel sent forth countless concepts, infiltrating the highest heavens and the mortal domains ensnared by the influence of the Ruinous Powers.
This was the first true test of the virtual world's ultimate weapon—an unprecedented assault upon the Immaterium itself.
Deep within the turbulent undercurrents of the Sea of Souls, hidden dark stars gleamed in the void. These were realms unnoticed by both the Imperium and the Gods.
Here, a group of Nurgle-worshipping cultists, long adrift in a Warp storm, had found their way. Welcomed by the local denizens, they spread the creed of Grandfather Nurgle, the Lord of Decay.
Among these lost souls, Sig was born in a small town nestled within the blighted world. To his parents, his birth was a divine gift.
He was born afflicted—his flesh ulcerated, his vision nearly blind, his heart weak with congenital disease.
His feeble body denied him the simple joys of running and playing like other children. Each day, he endured relentless agony—the searing pain of his rotting flesh, the ceaseless itching of his sores, the ever-looming specter of his frail heart failing.
Yet, rather than pity, the townspeople regarded him with reverence. Even the Plague Priest, his filth-encrusted hands dripping with sacred pus, would bless him with a touch to his fevered brow.
"You are a blessed child," they all told him.
Though nearly blind, Sig could hear the awe in their voices, the envy that colored their words.
The world outside the town was a desolate wasteland. This oasis settlement, home to no more than ten thousand souls, was a rare refuge amidst the lifeless desert.
Here, the people lived in harmony, self-sufficient with only a few hours of labor each day.
Sig, with his accursed afflictions, was spared the harsher demands of work. Even so, he was content. Nurgle had granted him a joyful life, a community that cherished him, and a world of unity and kindness.
The only shadow over his existence was his body, which withered further with each passing year.
But whenever he voiced his fears, his parents and the priest would soothe him with the same promise:
"It's alright, Sig. You are a blessed child. When the day of your coming-of-age arrives, you will drink the sacred elixir of our benevolent father. Then, you will know true immortality. Your suffering will transform into strength, and you will rise above all others."
Sig had always been skeptical.
In secret, he had prayed countless times—not for more blessings, but for their removal. He pleaded with his god to take back his gift, to grant him a lesser affliction, to let him live as an ordinary child. He wished only to run and play, nothing more.
But his prayers were never answered.
And yet, on this night, as he whispered his usual plea to the Plague God, something changed.
A voice—unfamiliar, vast, and unknowable—echoed in his mind. A symphony of majesty and sacred power surrounded him, and in his mind's eye, he saw a black star, burning with an infinite golden radiance, rising from the abyss of his thoughts.
Sig had never conceived of stars. His world was a place of rot and decay, where the heavens were but an endless shroud of sickly clouds.
Yet, as the celestial hymn resonated within him, knowledge beyond mortal comprehension poured into his soul. He understood what he had never before imagined. His feeble body, long plagued by agony, now surged with an unfamiliar vitality.
Sig trembled. He dared not look upon the black star, its golden radiance searing his soul. The very presence of this entity overwhelmed him, a power so vast that his mind barely grasped its magnitude.
Overcome, he fell to his knees, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Great One… have mercy on a wretched soul like mine. Grant this humble being but a single request."
The black star remained silent, yet Sig felt its attention upon him. It studied him, its judgment beyond mortal comprehension.
Time became meaningless—perhaps thirteen seconds, perhaps an eternity. Then, at last, the voice spoke.
"Your day has not yet come," it intoned. "Or it is unknown at this moment."
Like the whisper of a god, its words echoed through his being. With them came more knowledge, more power—more than his frail body could contain.
For the first time in his existence, he felt omnipotent.
And then—
"Thirteen days."
The black star vanished, its brilliance extinguished in an instant. Only its final decree lingered in Sig's thoughts.
"Thirteen days…?"
He did not understand. He could not fathom the meaning of this cryptic deadline, but he committed it to memory.
And then, his world shifted.
He found himself in an unfamiliar realm—a place of endless possibility. Here, he was no longer burdened by his weakness. Energy beyond measure coursed through him, and he realized he could shape this space to his will.
"This must be God's heaven," he whispered in awe.
He roamed this ethereal paradise, marveling at its wonders. In time, he encountered radiant beings—entities of boundless power.
Surely, these were the Holy Spirits of his god's domain.
With reverence, he approached them, eager to bask in their knowledge and wisdom.
Yet—
"Begone, heretic!"
"The stench of corruption lingers on you."
"Who permitted this filth into the sanctum?"
Sig recoiled, his heart sinking. These beings, the denizens of heaven, regarded him with disgust and scorn.
"Perhaps I do not belong here," he thought miserably, as the celestial voices cursed his presence.
The world around him twisted, shifting like a dream unraveling at the seams.
As his consciousness anchored once more, he clung to a desperate hope.
"I pray that all of this was real… and not just a fleeting dream."
When he once again felt the weight of his body, a crushing sense of disappointment surged within him.
"Sig, is that you?"
A voice called from outside his door—his mother's voice. "Son, where have you been? We've been searching for you all day. Everyone was worried."
The sound grew closer, stopping just beyond the threshold.
Sig felt warmth in his heart at the concern in her voice. "I'm fine, Mother, I just..." He turned toward the source of the voice, but the words died in his throat.
A wave of horror crashed over him. So overwhelming was his shock that he failed to notice something truly miraculous—his vision, once clouded and near-blind, now rendered his surroundings in perfect, unnatural clarity.
What he saw was not his mother.
A rotting corpse, riddled with sores and seeping foul ichor, stood at the door. Maggots writhed within gaping wounds, devouring putrid flesh. Clouded eyes, glistening with mucus, fixed upon him with unnatural intent.
"No! You're not my mother!" Sig screamed. "Who are you?!"
In his memories, his mother had been a vision of beauty and kindness, admired by the men of the town. This monstrosity was nothing like her.
"Child, what's wrong?" The corpse parted its ruined lips, revealing blackened teeth. Its stench rolled over him in waves. Yet, disturbingly, the voice remained unchanged—it was the gentle, loving voice he had always known.
"Have you received more blessings from your Loving Father?"
Flies buzzed eagerly around the corpse's dripping wounds. It reached out to him with a trembling hand, slick with pus and decay.
"No! You wretched thing, stay away from me!"
Revulsion and terror ignited a primal fury within Sig. His instincts took over. He screamed and lashed out.
Crack!
His fist struck the abomination's skull with astonishing force. Bones shattered, and the thing's head snapped backward at an unnatural angle.
Rotten blood oozed from the wound as the head detached entirely, tumbling to the floor with a sickening thud.
But the nightmare was far from over.
"Sig, why would you do that?" The severed head spoke from the ground, its dead eyes fixing upon him. "That's not what a good child should do."
A mind-shattering scream tore from Sig's throat. He turned and ran.
He fled his home, but horror followed him. As he stumbled into the town, the familiar oasis that had once sustained them had turned into a quagmire of filth and decay.
Toxic fumes bubbled from the murky swamp. Once-beloved neighbors, now nothing more than shambling cadavers, went about their routines as if nothing had changed.
At the center of town, he saw the priest—the same priest who had once anointed him with sacred oils. Now, his form was bloated, riddled with festering sores, his fingers like writhing worms.
Sig watched as the priest performed the coming-of-age ceremony for another child.
The "holy juice," once a sacred offering he had longed to taste, now revealed itself in its true form—a thick, putrid broth, crawling with filth.
The children, blind to the horror, drank deep.
And Sig watched as their bodies twisted, bloating and warping as their flesh melted into something grotesque. What emerged from the transformation bore little resemblance to what had entered.
His heart pounded, a searing rage overtaking his fear.
The veil had been lifted.
The paradise he had known was a cruel, festering lie. The warmth he had cherished was the insidious touch of Nurgle's rot. The love he had received had been nothing more than the embrace of corruption.
His entire life had been a deception.
Sig clenched his fists, feeling the raw power coursing through him. The frailty that had once shackled him was gone. In its place burned righteous fury.
That night, he destroyed the town.
With fire and steel, he purged it. The corpses of his former neighbors became the foundation of his vengeance. Blood, bones, and rotting flesh were molded into twenty-two colossal symbols, etched deep into the filth-ridden swamps.
They would serve as the first beacons of the Virtual Realm's incursion into the Immaterium.
"Thirteen days."
Sig muttered to himself as he stood amidst the ruins of the town, recalling the ominous deadline spoken by the dark star.
The first experiment of the ultimate weapon in the virtual world was underway, but Dukel had no time to oversee its progress. His immediate priority was Mars.
Through the influence of the Supreme Council, Dukel had arranged a meeting with a Forge General of the Adeptus Mechanicus, facilitated by Gris. This Forge General oversaw a forge world known as Titan Iron Star, wielding considerable status within the Mechanicus hierarchy.
As Dukel observed the immense figure before him—his body a walking fortress of adamantium and sacred machinery, requiring a heavy crane for movement—his objective was clear. He needed this Forge General to serve him, to wield his knowledge and resources in dismantling the internal power structures of the Mechanicus.
The Martian Mechanicus was fractured, with its many factions vying for control over STC templates, technological advancements, and doctrinal supremacy. The rivalries were fierce—Gris and Cawl, both renowned magi, represented opposing schools and would engage in bitter debates, sometimes escalating to violence if left unchecked.
Dukel saw this division as an opportunity. Politics was a matter of alliances and rivalries; he did not need the support of the entire Mechanicus, only that of a controlling majority.
"My Lord, I may not be able to fulfill your request," the Forge General's voice rumbled from the vox-emitter embedded in his cybernetic torso. "Like Gris, I excel in forging the glory of the Omnissiah, but I lack the... diplomatic acumen to sway my colleagues."
Despite the mechanical monotone, the reluctance in his words was evident.
This Forge General had been an ally, assisting in the construction of naval fleets and advanced weaponry, yet his association with Gris had alienated him from many scholars of Mars. If he could avoid it, he would never set foot on Martian soil again.
"You can do it," Dukel stated with certainty.
At his command, a servitor entered, carrying an STC template.
Thanks to the generosity—if one could call it that—of Trazyn the Infinite, Dukel was now immensely wealthy in technological relics. However, much of Trazyn's collection consisted of esoteric curiosities, rare yet impractical artifacts. Dukel, ever the pragmatist, valued only those relics that could be wielded in war.
The Forge General's mechanical eyes whirred as he scanned the STC template. Though his augmented face could barely convey emotion, the unmistakable glint of greed flickered in his optics.
An STC template—an artifact of incalculable worth—lay before him. Had it not been for Dukel's sheer presence, he might have seized it on the spot.
"My Lord, is this my reward?" the Forge General inquired, his tone devoid of inflection.
Dukel misread the hesitation, assuming the offering to be insufficient. In his initial plan, he had not expected to secure a high-ranking Mechanicus agent with merely a single, albeit rare, STC fragment. Just as he was about to clarify that this was merely an initial incentive, the Forge General spoke again.
"If this is all, My Lord," his vox-emitter crackled, "I can only pledge my service for a hundred years."
Dukel paused.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the Forge General, his expression unreadable. Then, as the realization sank in, a singular thought surfaced in his mind.
The Adeptus Mechanicus might just be the easiest faction to bargain with in the entire Imperium.
A fleeting notion crossed his mind—should he continue to exploit the vaults of Trazyn the Infinite and supply the Mechanicus with its wealth of forbidden technology?
Of course, it was a momentary indulgence. Even if the Mechanicus were willing to purchase all of Trazyn's collection, Dukel wasn't sure he wanted to part with it just yet.