Tzeentch weakly braced against the Deity's hand clamped around Its arm. Its power had been burned away the very first instant the Deity was born. In the ocean of Chaos, Its demons were screaming.
"This is it." It let out a delighted scream of agony. "What an interesting sight—a free soul that willingly became a slave to humanity."
The ancient Evil God laughed wildly, still rejoicing in what It saw in the final moments of Its life. It had lived out the reason for Its birth, rejoicing in the changes of the world.
Yet the newborn Deity merely tightened Its hand indifferently. Its power was beyond measure, and to the Evil Gods, it was as though they had met their natural predator.
The Astral Beacon burned furiously. The vast Psionic power that had been stored for ten thousand years was rapidly pouring into Its body, adding brick and mortar to the godhead that had yet to be born, continuing to gather strength for what It was about to do.
The black robe drifted. The hem that had once looked solid now seemed as if it had been set alight, showing traces of burning, and pitch-black Light Spots scattered into the air.
Three seconds later, It released Its hand, and The Warp roared, trembling at the death of an Evil God.
The balance that had lasted for hundreds of thousands of years in the galaxy was completely broken today. A Deity's seat had fallen vacant, but the power represented by the Lord of Change still existed. Perhaps tens of thousands of years later, a new Deity representing change would be born once more.
But none of that was a matter for now.
The black-robed god turned Its head. It had no memories to speak of, nor any emotions to speak of.