What Exactly Is the Problem?

Why did he always feel so unsettled?

Where had something gone wrong?

What enemy had he failed to foresee?

Abaddon paced around the room. On the eve of the 13th Black Crusade, he felt tense and uneasy.

"What is it, Warmaster?" Carlos's voice drifted into the room. Judging by his tone, the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch merely wanted to enjoy the spectacle.

As for concern?

Abaddon would sooner discuss bathing with a Greater Daemon of Nurgle. He should count his blessings if these Greater Daemons of Tzeentch did not stab him in the back.

"I need a prophecy," Abaddon said slowly. Carlos appeared before him as well, the eyes of that future-seeing head gleaming.

"What will cause the 13th Black Crusade to fail?"

Abaddon's question left Carlos stunned for a moment. Every seeker of knowledge he had ever met asked how they would succeed. People like Abaddon, who thought in reverse, were few and far between.

Carlos gazed into the future and finally gave a name.

Roboute Guilliman.

A Primarch? That could indeed become a huge problem for the 13th Black Crusade.

They also had to prepare for an attack on the Ultramar sector. They had to kill that gene-primarch before Guilliman awakened from stasis.

"Do you have any other questions?" Carlos giggled, irritating Abaddon. A strange sense of being toyed with suddenly welled up within him, telling him that he had to call off the 13th Black Crusade.

But Abaddon would not stop. The warriors under his command would not allow him to stop, either. He had prepared for this for ten thousand years; he would never abandon it halfway over some trivial problem.

Besides, he had the support of allied forces...

Leaving the room, Abaddon strode across the bridge.

The Black Legion had assembled for Abaddon, arrayed along