As the storm of war grew ever fiercer, those leading it—or rather, the group leading it—were facing another challenge.
An old enemy from the eternal Long Night launched a surprise assault on the Blood-Worship Cult's command center just as the Orks began their fierce offensive—the Wendigo Church had gathered its last strength for a desperate strike, attempting to seize their holy relic, the Eye of the Wendigo.
Yet this attack was destined to be futile, because the Blood-Worship Cult's patriarch had long since made ample preparations. Nearly all the remaining chosen lords were standing by in the command camp.
"My brother? It seems you've finally reached the end of the road. I was rather curious how long it would take you to get here."
Sila, patriarch of the Blood-Worship Cult, leaned both hands on his longsword and smiled at his brother.
"None of this ever needed to happen."
Hannibal smiled as well. Though he was already surrounded, with his subordinates falling one after another around him, he still charged straight toward the Blood-Worship Cult's patriarch.
"No, on the contrary, it was absolutely necessary. This is how we do things, isn't it? We'll do everything in our power to kill each other, so stop wasting time. Make your move."
"That's true enough."
Hannibal raised an arm, his palm aimed directly at Sila's cheek.
Then he focused, gathering his power until it burst forth and flooded the other man's mind.
They knew each other too well, and they both knew how to destroy the other.
Sila resisted. He was stubbornly tenacious, and Hannibal could feel an ocean of hatred churning within his mind, a boiling storm surging with fury.
He possessed the unbreakable conviction every fanatic had, a faith that would not yield and could not be erased.
But Sila's faith surpassed