Kasara regretted it deeply. It should never have answered that worshipper's call.
It had only just emerged from the Warp rift, before it could stretch its immense body or unleash its power as it usually did.
First, it would release a wave of suffocating pressure, terrifying the ants before it out of their wits. Then it would turn those challengers who did not know their place into masses of twisted Warp flesh, savoring their agonized screams.
But who could have imagined that, the moment it stepped outside, before it could even strike a pose, it would see someone wielding a great sword and radiating an aura even more terrifying than its own charging straight toward it?
Golden flames burned all over that figure. Every step cracked the floor, every stride accompanied by a burst of psychic energy, like a meteor about to strike the ground.
As he ran, he shouted that he was Lorgar, the Emperor's seventeenth son, master of the Word Bearers, and that he had come to kill it.
Kasara immediately understood who it was facing.
Though it had never dealt with Lorgar directly, it had heard his name.
In the undercurrents of the Warp, amid whispers and rumors, that name had surfaced more than once: a figure renowned among the Primarchs for his faith and persistence, a ruthless individual who had ventured deep into the Warp, fought all manner of entities, and returned alive.
Kasara wanted to run, but it was already too late.
Lorgar's foot slammed down on Kasara's twisted, hideous face.
The sole of Lorgar's boot stamped on Kasara's slick-skinned face, covered in countless growths and protrusions. Every stomp produced a dull thud, like a heavy hammer striking rotten flesh.
Every stomp sent pain deep into Kasara's bones.
The golden flames burning beneath Lorgar's sole