บท 14: 14. The Waking of the Herald
===Kharath===
The void was silent, as it always was—silent, vast, and cold. But within that stillness, within the unbroken expanse of stars and darkness, he was not alone. Kharath, once a nameless aspirant from a forgotten world, stood before the mighty altar of Tzeentch, a simple figure bathed in the shifting glow of the Warp. His armor, adorned with shifting sigils and runes that danced like flickering flames, pulsed with arcane energy. His hand rested lightly on the edge of the black stone that formed the altar's surface, feeling the vibrations of the Warp.
The sky above him was filled with strange constellations, stars that seemed to whisper secrets, shifting as if alive. His mind, honed by years of service to the Changer of Ways, sought the deeper currents of reality, reaching out toward the form of his god.
His breath quickened as he felt the presence, vast and eternal, like an infinite maze of possibilities—Tzeentch, ever-changing, ever-guiding.
"Kharath," the voice spoke, not with sound, but with thought, with understanding. It slithered into his mind, threading itself around his consciousness. It was a thousand voices, a thousand whispers, yet all one. The voice was as warm as the fire, and as cold as the night.
"You have come far, my servant. But your path is not yet complete. You have claimed the gifts of the Warp, you have bent the fate of many to your will, and you have conquered the minds of men, but your true test awaits."
A shudder ran through Kharath's armored frame, his breath halting in his chest. The anticipation gnawed at him. He had proven himself. He had murdered, manipulated, and twisted his way across countless worlds. He had brought cities to ruin with little more than a thought, crushed entire armies beneath the weight of his sorceries, but this... this felt different.
"My lord," Kharath spoke, his voice rasping beneath his helmet, "I serve. I shall bring more to the fold. I—"
"No," Tzeentch interrupted, the voice growing more layered, more convoluted, as if a thousand paths converged in the space of a heartbeat. "You will do more than that, Kharath. You will reshape this galaxy. Alone."
The words hit like a hammer. Alone? The thought clawed at his mind. His gaze flickered to the endless, star-filled sky, and he felt something shift within him—a flicker of doubt, quickly crushed. The thought was fleeting, but potent.
"Alone?" he whispered, barely daring to believe what he was hearing. "How?"
"Through change. Through subtlety, through destruction. You will weave a web of influence across the stars, a path that no one can follow, a fate so entwined with the future of that galaxy that it will be impossible to undo." The voice swirled around him, becoming a kaleidoscope of thoughts and visions. "I have gifted you with the power to bend reality to your will. Your every step will leave ripples that alter the course of history. Your name will become a shadow that consumes entire empires. I shall give you my blessing—two others will follow your every command, but you will lead them, not as their master, but as their herald."
The fabric of the universe seemed to stretch, twisting and bending in impossible ways. Kharath felt the weight of his god's power coursing through him. His thoughts raced as the sheer magnitude of the task began to sink in. An entire galaxy… just waiting for him.
"How will I know... which path to take?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and dread. "How will I know where to strike?"
Tzeentch's voice coiled through his mind like a serpent. "You will feel it, Kharath. I will guide you in ways you cannot yet comprehend. The change is already set in motion. You will be the spark, the catalyst. Follow the signs, the shifting winds of the Warp, and the future will unfold before you. Find the one known as Sidious, and teach him of true power. You are the architect of this age's destruction, the harbinger of its rebirth. The galaxy will bend to your will. You will conquer it through the thousands of little actions, the whispered commands, and the subtle manipulation of its fate."
Kharath's heart pounded in his chest. His every muscle tensed. The weight of his god's command threatened to crush him, but within that weight, he felt a spark of something else—a seething hunger. A yearning. For power. For dominance. For the throne of this new galaxy itself.
"I will not fail you, my lord," he swore, the words tearing free from his lips.
"You already know this, Kharath," Tzeentch's voice hummed, his power wrapping around the Marine like a warm, cold, suffocating, freeing embrace. "You have already succeeded."
The vision of Kharath's future swelled before his eyes: he saw himself, not as a mere servant, but as a new Daemon Prince—ruling over countless worlds, bending their rulers to his will. He saw empires rise and fall before him, their fates determined by his hand. And through it all, Tzeentch's eyes watched, silently approving yet mocking.
With a violent lurch, Kharath returned to himself. His heart thundered in his chest, and his every instinct screamed for action. He was no longer a mere pawn. He was the instrument of change. He would carve his name across the stars, and no force—no matter how great—would stand in his way.
He turned from the altar, his armor glowing with the light of the Warp. His eyes, hidden beneath the depths of his helm, shone with fierce determination. The path ahead was not clear—but that was the very nature of the path laid out for him. Uncertain, twisting, ever-changing.
And it would lead to the galaxy's destruction. And to his ascension.
"To the stars," he whispered. "I shall ascend."
===
Kharath's booted feet crunched against the soft, damp earth, the sound sharp in the eerie quiet that surrounded them. The air was thick with the scent of wet foliage, unfamiliar to him, rank with the smell of life that twisted and thrived in every corner of this vibrant world. It was a world brimming with green—lush, suffocating, alive—but to Kharath, it was nothing more than a festering wound. A mockery of the desolation he had been raised in, and of the universe that had been his crucible.
The portal closed with a soft, final whisper behind them, and the three Chaos Space Marines stood in silence. Kharath, the first to emerge, was a hulking silhouette in his war-torn power armor, his face hidden behind a mask of pulsing runes and shifting colors. His two companions were identical in form—silent warriors, each clad in the same blue and gold, shifting armor of Tzeentch's chosen. They had no names. No identities beyond their service. Yet they stood with a quiet confidence, radiating the promise of destruction.
"Just three of us," Kharath muttered aloud, his voice distant, calculating. "To take over this Galaxy and present it as a gift to our God."
The words felt strange, like a hollow proclamation echoing in an empty room. And yet, they held weight. Tzeentch had spoken to him directly, whispered promises of glory and power through the Warp. This was but the beginning, a single footstep onto the vast and uncharted soil of a new universe. His task was clear. The gift of a galaxy could only be given through the unraveling of its worlds, the breaking of its spirit.
His gaze turned upward, taking in the sky above—a bright expanse with a sun that hung low, casting an unnatural light over the land. Everything here felt... wrong. Yet, Kharath knew there was power to be harnessed in this strange new universe. The galaxy was ripe for change. It needed change. And he was the instrument to bring it.
"We will go to the nearest city," Kharath spoke again, this time with a colder edge. His voice was as sharp as the blade sheathed at his side. "And we will take it by force. Kill them all except for their leader."
He drew the sword slowly from his left hip, the weapon glowing faintly with the sorcerous energies that flowed through his veins. The edge seemed to hum with anticipation, the blade a part of him—an extension of his will.
His companions—his silent acolytes—responded only with movement, stepping into formation behind him, their footfalls heavy but purposeful. They were loyal. They were tools of destruction. Nothing more.
Kharath turned on his heel and began marching forward, cutting through the dense underbrush. His mind raced. He could feel it, the warp resonating in this place, though the feeling was weak. The galaxy was not as it appeared. His thoughts stretched out like fingers, searching for signs of psychic energy, hints of power. But there was nothing. It was as if this world, this universe, had not yet been touched by the true power of the Warp. It felt... innocent. Weak.
The distant hum of life, of civilization, reached his ears after hours of walking. The faintest ripple of mortal activity, buzzing beneath the thick canopy of trees. It was a settlement, a city of some sort. Perfect.
Kharath's lips curled into a smile beneath his helmet. The first step. The city would fall in a matter of hours, a perfect crucible to test his new strength. It would be a warning to all who lived in this universe—there were no more sanctuaries and there would be no more mercy.
As they neared the city, the air grew colder. Shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally, pooling at the edges of buildings like a slow-moving tide. The streets were lined with crude, cobbled stone and unfamiliar banners fluttered weakly in the breeze. Life pulsed here, unaware of the slaughter that approached.
"We are the storm," Kharath muttered under his breath.
As they entered the city, he could feel the faint tremors of psychic energy rippling beneath the surface. But it was weak. The people here had no knowledge of what truly waited for them. Kharath would be the hammer to break their world in two.
He raised his sword, its blade wreathed in fiery, eldritch light. The first civilian to see them froze, eyes wide with terror. The man, dressed in simple cloth, stood paralyzed as Kharath's gaze locked onto him.
"Run," Kharath whispered to the man.
The human didn't need further instruction. He screamed and bolted, but Kharath was faster. With a single motion, the blade slashed forward, tearing through the air. The sword's edge cut through the man with a crackling sound, cleaving his body in half as though he were nothing but paper. The man's scream gurgled as he collapsed into a heap, his blood splattering across the cobblestones.
Without hesitation, Kharath turned, gesturing to his two companions.
"Burn it all," he commanded before letting loose a torrent of crackling warp energy into the people and buildings in front of him. The lightning ripped through everything, incinerating those it touched.
The two figures stepped forward without question, their weapons raised. One unleashed a blast of raw Warp energy, the air around it crackling with unstable energy before the bolt exploded in a flash, reducing a nearby house to ash in an instant. The second let out a torrent of flames its burst of fire licking up the streets, consuming everything in its path.
The city was in chaos. Screams echoed from every corner as people ran in all directions, desperate for escape. But it was too late. They were caught. Kharath could already feel the shifting tides of fate, the Warp stirring in ways that were almost palpable. Every scream, every dying breath fed the power he had been granted.
"This is only the beginning," Kharath said, his voice cold and distant. "The galaxy will fall, one planet at a time. And when it is broken, we will rebuild it in Tzeentch's image."
===
If you enjoyed this chapter, maybe consider leaving me with a couple of your power stones? I promise I'll take good care of them:)
สถานะพลังงานรายสัปดาห์
-- การจัดอันดับด้วยพลัง 
-- หินพลัง