The Plague Overlord, Nurgle, bore no malice toward Qin Xian.
Then again, Nurgle bore no malice toward anyone—not even the countless civilizations his plague legions had overrun and consumed.
To Nurgle, there was no greater kindness than infection. No higher form of existence than the virus. A parasite that could survive firestorms, frozen wastelands, and even the vacuum of space—was that not superior to fragile, decaying flesh?
In his view, to transform entire worlds into plague-ridden cradles of disease was not destruction, but salvation.
He considered it a gift.
The native species of these conquered worlds simply failed to understand. But that was of no consequence to Nurgle. He didn’t need their understanding—only their compliance.
His mission was simple and absolute: spread the rot to all corners of the cosmos until everything became one—united, still, and infected. In that final state, there would be no war, no hate, no fear. Only the peace of decomposition.
As for Qin Xian, Nurgle looked upon him with a gentle kind of admiration, as a senior might gaze upon a promising descendant.
Though Tzeentch had warned that Qin Xian’s presence would destabilize the balance between the Sovereign Courts, Nurgle had no objection. He welcomed growth. He welcomed mutation. And most of all, he welcomed the rise of a new Void Overlord.
To Nurgle, Qin Xian was kin.
Of course, he had no intention of infecting him. A Void Overlord was a peer, not a patient. His “gifts” were reserved for the unenlightened—those primitive creatures who still clung to life as they knew it. But for Qin Xian, if trouble ever came, the Second Court would stand beside the First.
A twisted, dreadful logic—but one that made perfect sense to him.
The Empress of Stillness turned to him, eyes emotionless. She gave a small, imperceptible nod. “Then let us begin.”
Among all the gathered Overlords, there was only one whose existence gave her pause. Only one she acknowledged as a potential threat—Nurgle.
She moved forward in silence, and the other Overlords followed. Seven towering figures stood beneath the fractured sky, and even the Void seemed to tremble at their presence. Their power, ancient and absolute, radiated across the stars like an unstoppable tide.
Before each of them, a sigil appeared.
These were no mere symbols—they were keys. The seven seals required to unlock the Feast of Endings. No Court could be absent. No sigil could be missing. That was why, despite their discontent, none of the Courts had objected when the Empress delayed the feast for twenty years. They had no choice.
Now, at last, all seven were present.
The moment the sigils aligned, the massive black hole at the center of the void began to churn. It rotated slowly at first, then faster—spiraling into a vortex that screamed with apocalyptic agony. Echoes rang through the void, voices twisted by time and death. The cries of civilizations dying, of gods falling, of worlds reduced to ash.
This black hole was more than a gravitational collapse—it was a cosmic grave. Every ounce of pain, every moment of despair, every death that had fed the Void… all of it was here. Condensed into a singularity of power.
The feast’s true delicacy was not just power—it was emotion. The terror of dying worlds, the sorrow of fallen souls, the rage of forgotten gods.
It was food for the Void.
Finally, the seal cracked—only slightly—but that was enough.
A flood of raw, chaotic energy spilled forth. The Void creatures watching from afar—billions of them—went berserk. Maddened by the scent of pure power, they charged toward the black hole in a frenzy.
Only to be devoured.
One after another, they were pulled into the abyss, shredded into dust by pressure alone, their essence consumed to fuel the banquet. There was no glory in it. Only obliteration.
The Empress of Eternal Abyss returned to Qin Xian’s side, her cold gaze softening just enough to betray something rare—gentleness.
“You’ve never entered the Feast before,” she said quietly. “Stay close.”
“Yes, Mother.” Qin Xian gave a slight bow, smiling faintly.
Together, they began their descent into the swirling depths.
Only a handful of First Court elites accompanied them—Delkuth, Alwyn, and a few others. Only beings of the highest rank were permitted to join the Feast.
The other Courts, however, were not so fortunate.
Their representatives had to fight for the privilege.
Far behind, atop the blood-soaked battlements of the Third Court, a golden-haired man stood in silence, clad in crimson armor. His eyes burned with a fire that had never gone out.
Gorath, Champion of Slaughter.
Once a hero in a dying world, chosen by fate to lead, he had instead chosen submission—becoming one of Khorne’s God-Chosen. After years of trials and brutal conquests, he had risen to stand at the apex.
Now, selected through a ruthless tournament of death, he had earned the right to attend the Feast.
He stared into the abyss, his fists clenched, his soul brimming with hunger. This time… he would seize what was his.
Power. Glory. Ascendancy. An perhaps… something more.
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