The Emperor’s Angel of Death

In the highest tower of Commorragh, a cold and wary figure paced among shards of mirrored glass. This was an immense hall, sparsely decorated, save for towering pillars and the faint glow cast by crystal-like mirrors floating in mid-air. Upon closer inspection, each shard displayed a scene from a corner of Commorragh, though some were blackened as if obscured by some power, most still emitted their eerie, phosphorescent light.

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Suddenly, the figure stopped before one such shard, displaying a scene of devastation: the lowest slums of the Dark City. Once, countless ramshackle hovels had been wedged between the spires and their foundational plinths, an area that housed as many inhabitants as a small nation, but now it was submerged.

Now, only a few isolated island-huts and crumbling ruins protruded from the suffocating black sea, revealing bloated corpses bobbing nauseatingly in the waves, forming a thick crust on the surface of the mire.

Occasionally, near-human shapes could be glimpsed moving through the black ocean, like predators of the deep, their bodies emitting an ominous, ghostly light.

"...Kandrakys remains an enigma. He seems to display ambition, yet his ambition feels as insubstantial as his shadow. What does he truly want? To consume all of Commorragh? I find it unlikely, but allowing him to continue unchecked… there's no telling what might happen. Still, this amusing game is worth observing."

Having finished his soliloquy with a chuckle, he turned and walked two paces, finally stopping before another crystal shard.

Through this lens, a fierce battle raged. A massive, shimmering archway endlessly vomited forth kaleidoscopic filth, amorphous monsters gestating from the fluid, quickly gaining claws, fangs, limbs, eyes, and tongues, a chaotic mockery of natural life. Yet they were swiftly torn apart by surging venom-crystals and black beams of energy. Kabalite Warriors fired upon the gate from afar, attempting to suppress the warp-spawn, but even with such ferocious firepower, they couldn't hold back all the daemons. Kabalite Warriors were constantly being dragged down by daemonic claws or fangs from unexpected angles.

Just as the daemons focused their attacks on the Kabalite Warriors, a group of heavily armored warriors wielding broadswords and paired blades suddenly burst forth, sweeping towards the archway like a whirlwind of blades. At their head was something as black as ink, yet shimmering like starlight, its blades as light as feathers, yet imbued with artistic cruelty. No daemon could stand in its path.

Finally, they reached the archway spewing forth daemons. The Nightmares, employing specialized equipment, temporarily sealed it.

Though only a temporary measure, they had indeed stemmed the tide.

The watcher nodded in satisfaction, resuming his soliloquy.

"This is the last gate. How much trouble that damned witch-bitch Yvraine has caused me! Those witless fools who worship a so-called god have no idea who is cleaning up the mess! It is I! While everyone else schemes to seize power and profit, who is protecting this city? It is still I! Yet they choose to believe a witch-bitch who nearly destroyed the city. What is that if not utter stupidity? Fortunately, Drazhar is at least a… reasonable man. He understands who is doing what is right. Though I know where he stands. He cares not who sits at the top… or perhaps he always believes he is at the top. I admire such confidence. Dealing with someone like that is far better than dealing with fools, but his position…"

For some reason, he didn't continue, merely humming twice before turning to the next shard.

The image showed a besieged stronghold, comprised of spires and fortifications, surrounded by barbed walls. Now, flames and venom-smoke coiled around the walls, riddled with breaches. Corpses hung from the barbs, and several of the spires it protected had already collapsed, their tips shattered on the ground, glowing hotly in the heat. High above, flocks of Hellions and Scourges darted like beasts besieging a rotting corpse. In response, the defenders below unleashed dense venom-crystal fire, shooting down any who strayed too close.

"...Those fools who believe that witch-bitch deserve to die. They are like a plague, constantly spreading their bizarre death-worship to others. They should have been insignificant, but…"

Suddenly, his voice became hoarse, as if grinding his teeth on something nonexistent.

Resentment and hatred emanated from him almost tangibly.

He moved to the next crystal, showing another battle scene, this time in a ruined area. Two groups of Kabalite Warriors were engaged, one clearly at an advantage.

But then, a few figures suddenly charged in from the side, led by a dwarf, brandishing a battle-axe, instantly felling a Dracon.

Next came a massive, fish-like creature, its weapon sweeping wildly, creating a storm of destruction across the battlefield. Then, a berserk, hairy giant clad in heavy armor charged in, swinging a flail, smashing a venom-crystal cannon to pieces with a single blow.

As they appeared, more warriors bearing the symbols of the Death Cult emerged, instantly turning the tide. The attackers could only flee in disarray.

As the battle drew to a close, a "graceful" figure emerged from the shadows. Of course, he would have appeared more graceful if he hadn't scratched his crotch as he appeared, gently waving a fan with somewhat disheveled feathers.

The figure outside the mirror stared intently at this figure.

"...It can't be him, it's impossible… He's dead, he's been dead for ages. He must… be dead."

"Oh? Are you so certain?"

Suddenly, a mocking voice came from the darkness. The face of the person illuminated by the dim light was sinister and agitated as he raised his head.

Asdrubael Vect, Supreme Overlord, Great Tyrant, Archon of Archons, Father of All Perfection, and countless other titles belonged to him. This was his private domain, which he would never allow outsiders to trespass upon, except for one person, the one person he could never afford to offend, who could appear here by invitation.

He turned to face the source of the voice, a figure cloaked in black robes, revealing only a face, a featureless, plaster-white face.

A flesh-construct, and one of that being's many avatars. Because he was lazy, rarely leaving his cavern, even to personally gather materials, instead sending those flesh-constructs, each possessing power no less than a Bloodbride Master.

Such was the terror of Urien Rakarth, the true terror of Commorragh.