The Warp's aberration continued, but it displayed a bizarre polarization.
The enormous Cthulhu, like the embodiment of a nightmare, had fallen into an almost eternal silence after constructing the conceptual city of R'lyeh and the viscous "deep sea" domain surrounding it.
Like a sleeping shut-in, it merely unconsciously exuded dreams and whispers, slowly yet resolutely assimilating everything around it, with no intention of actively expanding or conquering.
This passive, almost plant-like nature made it profoundly unsettling, yet it did not immediately draw the attention of the highest-ranking entities.
Only those Daemon Lords whose territories bordered it or faced the direct threat of erosion frantically mobilized their forces, attempting to establish fragile defenses to stop that dim conceptual sea, which froze the mind, from continuing to spread.
To them, Cthulhu was more like an incomprehensible, incommunicable natural disaster.
The true source of chaos and turmoil, however, did not come from the slumbering Old One itself, but from the grimoires scattered everywhere in its wake, each recording forbidden knowledge.
At first, these books steeped in ominous auras were merely regarded by a handful of daemons as unusual trophies or objects containing dangerous knowledge.
Whether out of greed, curiosity, or a thirst for power, the daemons who acquired them read their contents.
Many daemons were immediately plunged into permanent madness, their consciousness overwhelmed by endless fear and a torrent of distorted knowledge.
Yet change quietly began.
The grimoires themselves seemed to be imbued with an infinitesimal amount of alien energy from the Abyss.
As their holders spent more time in contact with the grimoires, that energy began to continuously pollute and transform them like radiation.
Physical mutation was the most obvious sign.
Many daemons began to twist and melt, becoming squirming masses of monsters mixed with eyeballs, tentacles, scales, and indescribable organs.
Even