Time flew by.
Several centuries, or several days—who knew?
Both, and neither.
The battle between gods not only warped space, but at one point even affected time. All physical laws crumbled beneath that utterly irrational impact.
The pitch-black, oil-like ground near the center of the battlefield heaved in violent waves, as if an invisible storm were churning beneath it.
The Ork guards and Court Guards crossed the battlefield, treading through the surging foam toward the Avatar of Khaine, intending to support the Gorkanaut in their hearts.
Yet the Avatar of Khaine merely waved a hand, and the advancing, howling Orks immediately let out screams of agonizing pain—the once-solid ground suddenly turned into acid, scorching steel armor and corroding flesh and bone into gelatinous sludge.
Then a heavy downpour capable of drowning the world came crashing down. The earth became a foul swamp, and twisting shapes like grasping hands emerged from it.
They were alluring forms with purple skin, clawed limbs, and tentacles for hands.
Giggling monstrously, they crawled out of the mud and dragged the nearby Orks into the mire.
The Boyz struggled against enemies that had appeared from nowhere, unable to stop themselves from being dragged into death. Yet they did not abandon the fight, instead hacking and slashing with choppas and battle-axes in an even madder frenzy.
Those haloed creatures could tear apart the slender monsters just as easily, and the battle quickly became a simple game of attrition.
From a broader perspective, however, the entire world seemed to be falling apart.
The veil between planes gradually cracked open. The maddening babble and shrieks of the Vast Ocean's inhabitants made mortal creatures fall to their knees in terror, their every sense assaulted.
Even Batka could barely keep his footing amid the gale sweeping across the land.
Concrete peeled