Psychic storm

Bona walked toward the enormous steel construct.

The cyborgs charged at Bona, but their movements soon slowed until they were crushed into pulp, reduced to a mixture of bone and flesh.

The Nordics realized something was wrong and opened fire on Bona.

But lasers, bullets, and plasma all seemed to move in slow motion, until they stopped before Bona.

The surrounding temperature plunged at a bizarre, frantic pace, freezing even the soil a hundred meters below ground. Then it soared again. The ground seemed to boil, sending up waves of heat that even set the distant vegetation alight.

The result was the strange sight of fierce flames blazing across ice.

Have you ever heard the world cry out?

I listen to the wind's cries, the breathing of this world.

I feel the world's pulse. The mountains are the earth's veins.

The earth applauds me, and the sky cheers for me.

The world is me, and I am the world.

And now, I want them dead.

Bona gently raised a hand. Lightning descended like divine punishment, blasting the hapless infantry into charcoal. Even the mighty cyborgs lasted only a second longer.

He heard the general roaring inside the war fortress as an enormous shell was fed into the breech by an autoloader.

Mere ants.

Bona gave a gentle wave, and the war fortress's gun barrel groaned.

His use of Psyker Power was crude, like trying to water a single flower by throwing an entire basin of water at it from a distance.

His brutal handling tore up even the ground, spilling out scalding magma. The entire continent shook violently.

Hills collapsed, and peaks thrust upward.

Magma formed rivers, and glaciers covered the earth.

Amid the agonized groaning of steel, the gun barrel was finally twisted into a corkscrew.

Bona panted heavily, his eyes fixed on the enormous war fortress.

Its secondary guns were still firing wildly, but the war fortress fled in panic like a crab with its claws torn off.

Bona raised both hands.

The war fortress began to tremble. Then sparks and electrical arcs erupted as its six limbs were brutally ripped off.

His hands shook as he raised them high. The severed limbs rose overhead like six swords of Damocles, aimed at the war fortress below, now stripped down to a disc.

The Nordics howled as they tried to escape, but...

The enormous limbs plunged deep into the war fortress. A flash of light followed.

Like a volcanic eruption, the command tower atop the war fortress shot into the clouds as though riding a rocket. The terrifying chain detonation blasted away everything within twenty kilometers.

It was as though a giant had slammed a warhammer into the earth. Even people a thousand kilometers away felt the tremors from the immense explosion.

Looking at the vanished war fortress, Bona smiled in satisfaction.

But exhaustion surged over him like a flood. His legs gave way, and he began to collapse.

He fell into golden light, into his father's arms.

"Rest, child."

Those were the last words Bona heard before falling asleep.

The Imperium's war against the Nordics went very smoothly.

The cunning Nordics' scheme had been a success in its own right. They had deliberately fed the Emperor false intelligence, then deployed a devastating weapon left over from the Dark Age of Technology to crush the Imperium in one stroke.

In every respect, it had worked. Even the Emperor had been held up for a time.

But they had failed to account for Bona. It had never occurred to them that the Imperium could field a Psyker of that caliber.

The massive explosion had killed almost everything nearby. Of the eighteen Adeptus Custodes, only four survived, while the Astartes recruits and Thunder Warriors were almost completely wiped out.

Apparently, that company had belonged to the Ninth Legion. Those warriors would be grieving for quite some time.

Bona slept for an entire month. After waking, he returned to Grandpa Malcador's side.

The Emperor had grown increasingly busy of late. He stayed beside Bona for only a few days before returning to the front.

"Grandpa Malcador, it hurts so much. I can feel them so clearly. I can feel what they felt before they died..."

"It's all right, child. It's over now."

The old man gently stroked Bona's head as he lay in bed, looking every bit the kindly elder.

"Grandpa Malcador, then... what was that power?" Bona asked curiously.

"Child, that power... you'd best leave it alone."

Bona nodded.

If Grandpa Malcador says to leave it alone, then I will.

"Of course, using it in simple ways isn't necessarily a bad thing. I can teach you how to control it."

Malcador ultimately decided to teach Bona how to use his Psyker Power. After all, Bona's Psyker Power could no longer be suppressed.

He had already discussed the matter with the Emperor.

"My lord, I'm afraid we cannot go on like this."

The Emperor glanced at Bona, who was still unconscious, and gently stroked his head.

His forehead was a little feverish.

"I have decided to infuse him with a portion of my power."

Malcador said nothing, merely nodding quietly.

It was their only option.

The violent Psyker Power still reverberated through the Warp.

It was like a stone thrown into a lake, sending ripples across its entire surface.

The immense psychic disturbance had nearly dragged Terra into the Warp. Almost every Psyker on Terra had abruptly dropped dead.

And amid the layers of abstract, bizarre, indescribable phenomena within the Warp lay a red sanctuary.

Eight straight avenues formed a city layout resembling a hash mark. Pilgrims of every race gathered here, from elegant, beautiful Aeldari to savage, ill-tempered Orks.

That they could stand amicably together without fighting was entirely thanks to the being upon the Brass Throne.

Countless buildings surrounded eight magnificent arenas, each capable of hosting eight thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight glorious duels at once.

The eight arenas encircled the Blood Fortress like stars. Blood as hot and seething as magma flowed down the fortress and poured into its moat.

Upon the Brass Throne sat one of the oldest gods in the universe.

Khorne.

He had been born long ago, at the time of the universe's very first battle.

He sat upon the Brass Throne, watching the battles and brutalities of the mortal realm. Every spilled drop of blood pleased this great being.

He never cared for whom mortals shed their blood, nor whose neck their Warblades struck. So long as there was battle, he was more than willing to grant them power.

Even if you took up a blade and struck at him yourself, he would be delighted. After all, raising a blade against the ancient god of war required unsurpassed courage.

Provided, of course, that you did not strike from behind.

A glimmer of clarity suddenly appeared in the ancient god's eyes. He looked into the distance, somewhat startled.

This intense urge to slaughter, born of pure rage.

Oh, and a powerful psychic being at that. It brought him a pleasure he had not felt in ages.

Though it had lasted only an instant, he had still caught enough details.

Such a pure being... should not be here. He could feel that rage from the deepest reaches of the soul, that desire to tear the enemy apart.

He wanted more.

But...

His face darkened as he looked toward the neighboring Pink Sanctuary, filled with decadent music, then the flourishing Green Sanctuary, and the Blue Crystal Labyrinth over there that looked as though it had been stuffed with LED lights.

He could feel their gazes too.

Fuck.

"My heavens, what a kind child. How loving he is. I can feel his heart aching. He would surely be the finest member of our family," came a warm, good-natured voice.

"No, no, no. Such extraordinary, innate intelligence, and he can even control his own psychic storm. He ought to become the cleverest mage," another voice said, though it sounded like millions of voices mingled together, impossible to pin down.

"Oh~~~~~, such an adorably innocent little fool. Hands off, all of you. He's mine!" came another, seductive voice.

This might have been the only thing the four had agreed on in ages: snatching the "Traceless One" from the hands of the "Cursed One."

Khorne suppressed his urge to roar and picked up a brass horn.

He quietly summoned the most warlike Greater Daemon under his command.

"Ang'grath, take everyone who can move and smash their lairs."

"As you command, my master."

In the material world, the Khorne Cultists embroiled in infighting ceased their attacks on one another. Those attacking humans, Orks, Aeldari, and Necrons all turned around and left the front.

Then they charged headlong at the followers of the other three.