Ahriman's staff shrieked with a piercing hum as it vibrated, psychic lightning bursting from its tip, constantly exploding. The void before him was like fragile glass, torn open by shimmering purple cracks.
His eyes had completely transformed into deep psychic vortices. Through these inhuman eyes, the boundary between the Warp and the real world was clearly visible.
Fine beads of sweat had barely seeped from his pale forehead before they were evaporated into tiny charged particles by the surrounding violent psychic field, forming an eerie blue halo in the air.
The other Supreme Psyker's robes flapped wildly in the raging energy storm. The runes, woven with ancient techniques, flickered on and off at a dazzling frequency, as if narrating some forbidden truth.
His face remained with transcendent calm, as if he were a still pool of water at the center of a storm.
However, the edges of his robes had begun to carbonize, tiny ashes constantly flaking off, turning into specks of Mars dust that shimmered faintly in the psychic maelstrom, looking from afar like he was surrounded by a nebula.
Alex's hands were as steady as a rock that had endured thousands of years of wind and frost. The psychic threads dancing between his fingers wove a spatial network so precise it was suffocating.
Every minute adjustment he made triggered a chain reaction—with a slight tremor of his fingertips, the surrounding space rippled visibly, the fundamental properties of matter were briefly rewritten, and fundamental forces like gravity and electromagnetism were twisted and reorganized under his will.
At the center of the triangular magic array formed by the three Supreme Psykers, a violent torrent of energy was forming a perfect Klein bottle structure.
Psychic lightning circulated between the three, each complete energy cycle increasing the spell's intensity exponentially.
The air at the edge of the array was already twisted and deformed, refracting an eerie halo.
The spatial structure groaned under the strain, fine cracks spreading like a spiderweb in all directions.
Purple Warp energy seeped from these cracks, twisting and writhing in the void like living things.
The shattered rocks and metal fragments on the ground defied gravity, hovering and slowly rotating within the psychic field, tracing intricate Fibonacci spiral trajectories.
The entire battlefield trembled violently, the metal ground rippling and undulating like the surface of a stormy sea.
The air was thick with the smell of ozone, and all exposed metal surfaces erupted with dazzling blue electrical sparks.
This dimension-tearing storm was already brewing, but Alex maintained astonishing restraint—his gaze was fixed on the distant Daemon Prince's battlefield, waiting for that most crucial moment: when the victor tore open a path back to Khorne's demonic realm, that would be the perfect time to launch the final strike.
At the center of the battlefield, the struggle between the two Daemon Princes had already transformed into a terrifying anomaly.
Muswag's body continuously expanded under the infusion of chaotic energy, finally reaching a horrifying height of over ten meters, like a mobile fortress of flesh and blood.
The profane runes on his dark red armor erupted with dazzling blood-red light; these runes writhed like living things, each flicker releasing a suffocating pressure.
Each swing of his twin-bladed battle-axe tore through the air, emitting deafening sonic booms. Where the axe blade passed, blood-red cracks lingered in space, as if reality itself had been wounded by this profane weapon.
When the battle-axe collided with the ground, the shockwave warped and lifted the metal deck for a hundred meters around. The heavy armor plates were torn like thin paper, their fragments spinning and flying in the energy storm.
Tzanazte's incomplete half-body continuously writhed, black-red flesh regenerating at a visible rate. Newly formed muscle fibers twisted wildly like maggots, only to be destroyed again and again by the residual spatial annihilation energy.
His sole remaining bone claw released distorted evil energy ripples with each swing. Where these ripples passed, metal corroded into rust, and air solidified into purple-black crystals.
His tattered membrane wings barely spread, spewing corrosive black mist. Countless painful, twisted faces emerged within this mist, attempting to obscure Muswag's vision.
Whenever the black mist touched a metal surface, it immediately emitted a "sizzling" corrosive sound, and heavy armor plates were eaten through in a few seconds.
Each collision between the two triggered a localized spatial tremor, with shockwaves spreading in a ring, directly shaking nearby Orks into blood mist.
Those unlucky greenskins didn't even have time to scream before their bodies burst under the invisible pressure.
Tzanazte suddenly opened his gaping maw, his lower jaw splitting at an unnatural angle, spewing a torrent of filthy blood mixed with bone fragments.
Countless wailing souls surged within this blood waterfall, and even the air groaned in pain where it passed.
Muswag did not dodge, but instead horizontally swung his battle-axe, splitting the blood waterfall in two.
The cleaved blood waves splashed around, each drop corroding deep pits in the metal ground, and a pungent sulfurous smoke rose.
At the edge of the battlefield, dozens of Ork Bosses charged madly, their minds completely filled with the desire for battle.
These greenskins wielded crude weapons, emitting earth-shattering "Waaagh!" cries, eager to fight the two formidable big lads in front of them.
However, upon stepping within a hundred meters of the combat zone, their bodies suddenly spontaneously combusted. Their green skin carbonized and peeled off in the invisible energy, and their muscle tissue melted like candles.
They turned to ash amidst screams, leaving only charred skeletons still in a charging posture.
The energy turbulence generated by the two Demon Princes' struggle had already formed a death zone; any mortal stepping into it would be instantly annihilated.
The boundary of this zone was clearly visible—the inside was twisted and deformed reality, while the outside was a relatively normal battlefield, forming an invisible line between life and death.
The spatial blockade on the Ork Battle Moon had long been broken, and Tzanazte once again began to summon Khorne's demonic legions.
Although the previous sacrifices had been exhausted, the mountains of Ork and Necron corpses piled on the battlefield became perfect substitutes.
Even more terrifying, living greenskins were surging from all directions—Warbosses with their super-heavy honor guards, Ork Bosses wielding exaggerated weapons, and ordinary Boys emitting deafening "Waaagh!" roars.
The Human forces wisely retreated to the edge of the battlefield, constructing sturdy defensive lines.
The Astartes silently checked their weapons and ammunition, while the Sisters of Battle quietly chanted prayers.
Everyone understood that their mission was to buy precious time for the three Supreme Psykers.
And the Orks, as expected, focused their attention entirely on the two Demon Princes—after all, nothing was more "Waaagh!" than two giant Khorne Demon Princes.
Muswag skillfully used the killing energy on the battlefield to strengthen himself; every fallen body increased his power.
Tzanazte, on the other hand, tried to use this energy to repair his incomplete body and summon more of Khorne's demonic legions to buy time.
The two chaotic forces continuously clashed on the battlefield, but neither could achieve victory for a long time.
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