This Is Our Warhammer Journey

The sorcerer remembered his voice. Back when they burned Calth, the man’s fury had left a bit of an impression.

It was a good blade.

“What did you see?”

The sorcerer asked.

“An Angel, an Angel of Wrath!”

But that voice wasn’t full of rage anymore. It came out panicked instead.

Then the squad leader went silent.

He was dead.

“What the hell is going on?”

The other boarding torpedoes carrying Chaos Space Marines were supposed to charge the warship under his direction, then regroup with him via teleportation rituals.

Why is no one responding now? Why don’t I even know how they died?

And that Angel of Wrath.

The sorcerer fell silent.

Those of them who had seen through the lies of the False Emperor wouldn’t call His lapdogs angels.

Hmm...

His heart began to race.

Something’s missing.

An answer. I need an answer.

He stared at the mirror surfaces, seeing only heretics stumbling blindly.

These vast numbers of lowly creatures couldn’t bear his holy will. That’s why he knew nothing of what was really happening.

This was supposed to be the path of hope granted to me by the Changer of Ways. The fact I boarded this ship alive should be proof enough.

Wait, what about the future after boarding?

The nine eyes began to tremble.

The sorcerer suddenly realized the prophecy had never revealed what awaited him after boarding the cruiser—it only told him he’d survive long enough to get on.

And then what? What happens after that?

The Changer of Ways didn’t say.

He recognized the look of followers instantly killed in a hail of gunfire, the gaping rents bolter rounds tore through ceramite armor.

Add in the Angel of Wrath, and this battlefield shrouded in mist took on a suffocating, pitch-black hue.

Beads of cold sweat formed beneath the faceplate of the sorcerer’s helm.

After embracing a new master, these once-unshackled warriors had rediscovered something.

Fear.

The kind that rises from the soul when the power they traded their soul, honor, and conscience for spins out of their control—

True fear.

Bzzzz!

The air suddenly froze. A buzzing roar pressed down from the ceiling.

The sorcerer looked up. A brilliant surge of lightning was bearing down on him.

BOOM!

Blue-white cracks exploded from Ramses’ fingertips. The chanting of incantations reverberated in the air as a low-frequency hum, finally merging into a scream that tore reality apart.

The sealed ceiling blasted open, unleashing a waterfall of thunder.

BOOM!

The first thirteen arcs of lightning fell like hammers of creation, melting the cultists in the front into blackened silhouettes.

The sorcerer reacted fast and threw up a psychic barrier, but true annihilation came just a fraction of a second later.

The lightning didn’t dissipate as it jumped between mirror surfaces—instead, it multiplied wildly with each rebound.

Each bolt split into thirteen new branches mid-flight.

Superheated gaseous plasma, tens of thousands of degrees in temperature, wove a deadly web down the corridor, and the enemy might as well have been thrown into a divine lightning forge.

Armor melted into molten iron that poured down their bodies. Grenades on their belts exploded into chains of fireballs. Heavily armored soldiers convulsed madly as electromagnetic forces pinned them to the iron deck.

Nine Chaos Astartes not covered in time by the psychic barrier met the full judgment of lightning and were fused into molten metal that wrapped them like poisonous vines, sealing their screams into boiling throats.

Even the cultists in the mirror world couldn’t escape.

Their bodies and skulls burst in sequence under the intense light, and the flying chunks of flesh vaporized into glassy dust before even hitting the floor.

When the last syllable of the spell faded, only nine hundred crystallized corpses remained between mirror and real world.

Their bones had become glowing blue quartz from the superconductive effect, like insects frozen in lightning-amber for eternity.

“?”

The sorcerer, still holding his psychic shield, recoiled in horror, kicking aside an MK4 tactical helmet that had turned to ash.

Wait, could his spell even do that?

CLANG!

With a sharp sound that tore through the air, a black knight attacked from behind the mirror, pouncing on the surviving Chaos Space Marines.

When Arthur’s blade sliced through the first mirror, the shards poured like rain.

Before the first sorcerer’s apprentice could turn a page in his grimoire, a knee strike shattered his chest plate, and shards of mithril armor ignited midair into blue ghost-fire.

When the Word Bearer sorcerer turned, he saw the second warrior—along with his raised weapon—cleaved in two by a power sword.

“Who are you?!”

The sorcerer screamed, flames igniting in his hand.

“You weren’t in my mirrors.”

CRACK!

The knight said nothing. Two enemies fell midair, his raised greaves crushed the third warrior’s neck guard. The cracking of bones and shattering mirror combined into a cruel duet.

When the fourth warrior’s Chaos halberd thrust forward, the knight dodged the disintegration field’s swing with skill, raised his shield and bashed forward, using the rebound to tear the attacker’s grip apart.

The blue fireball unleashed by the Word Bearer scorched the floor in front of Arthur but didn’t even scratch him—instead, it incinerated both the halberd wielder and the fifth warrior beside him.

Why isn’t your spell working anymore, huh?

“Thousand Sons!”

The sorcerer roared, eyes locked on the cognition unit hovering in the air above the room, recalling the days of studying on Prospero.

Only these f***ers would dare steal the Changer of Ways’ favor from him.

He could feel the power of the High Heavens pulling away. His prized sorcerer staff had been severed from its connection to the Changer and began to frost over.

As frost began to spread over the sorcerer's staff, the sixth warrior had his throat and spine crushed by a shield edge, sending a shockwave that kicked up unfallen glass shards.

The seventh warrior’s face got shredded into a bloody mess by the shard storm, and then a blade stabbed straight through his skull.

When the ninth warrior’s flamer spewed cobalt-blue fire, the knight was already holding up the eighth warrior’s corpse as a shield on his sword tip.

The knight spun, slicing through the ninth warrior’s knees. The falling giant crushed nine enchanted mirrors beneath him.

The knight’s swordplay embodied the pinnacle of this classical technique.

Each slash naturally guided his shield into defensive gaps. Each thrust carried lingering force, and his armor joints subtly adjusted to dissipate energy.

Balanced offense and defense. No flair. No emotion. Just the art of killing, pure and perfect.

“Dark Angels!”

The sorcerer shouted again. That figure overlapped with the black knight who hunted him down across the Five Hundred Worlds ten millennia ago.

This time, his voice was trembling.

The sorcerer had always looked down on these younger generations who fought for the False Emperor.

They shouted about fighting for the Imperium, yet had never seen its true face.

They never stood on those grand battlefields. All they knew was blind fervor and shallow faith bestowed by outside forces.

They didn’t even know what the False Emperor and the Primarchs looked like. They had no idea what the Great Crusade had truly meant.

But now—

Staring at the black knight charging at him with sword in hand, seeing the Thousand Sons cognition unit dominate the psychic field—

There was no outrage at corrupted faith, no fervor to purge traitors.

Only cold disdain.

Like he was just looking at some filth that had turned its back on humanity. A bunch of pig-headed fools who’d burned all bridges.

Just like those who saw the truth about the False Emperor and the Imperium... and still chose to fight for them.

By the Changer of Ways, what kind of timeline have I jumped into this time?

Heretics kept falling.

Now, only one man still stood.

Why.

The sorcerer didn’t understand.

Why are these long-buried memories attacking me all over again?