Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor
Chapter 388 - 389 – Abaddon: The Dark Crusade Is Already Doomed Before It Begins!

Inside the regent's sanctum, on the observation deck—

"Abaddon arrived at just the right moment. Perhaps this is fate's gift…"

Guilliman stood gazing at the Chaos fleet across the void. Though a trace of surprise and disbelief lingered in his heart, a stronger emotion stirred—delight.

His stern face couldn't help but show a faint smile.

He had ordered all scout fleets to search the Dimmed Stars region for nearly a month with no results. Now, the enemy they had desperately been seeking had practically delivered themselves to his doorstep—like a tender lamb wandering into a den of wolves.

Of course, this was a lamb chosen by all four Chaos Gods—hardly an easy meal.

That massive, jet-black warship—far larger than even a standard battleship—was grotesque and menacing. It immediately raised Guilliman's guard.

He could sense that the Warmaster of Chaos, Abaddon himself, was aboard.

"My lord, the fire-order has been issued. The command center is prepared—you may take over command of the war at any time!" Felix approached and reported, standing straighter with anticipation. This was finally the moment he could contribute.

The adjutant couldn't help but smile as well.

Abaddon and his Chaos fleet had stormed into the Darrowa System with no warning, barreling straight into the heart of the Indomitable Crusade's deployment zone—and into a perfect trap.

There wasn't even a need to set formation. Even blindfolded, they could hit the target.

"To the command chamber. Let's see if we can keep that son of Horus here," Guilliman said gravely, turning and marching away.

This was no time for feints. The plan he had coordinated with Eden might need to change. A decisive battle was now more cost-effective.

If Abaddon could be buried here, it would be a fine outcome indeed.

Out in the void before the observation deck—

The black, brutal warship's ferocious gunports dimmed one by one—just like the rest of the Chaos fleet that had charged in boldly but now suddenly fell eerily silent.

...

Aboard Planet Killer—

The bridge fell deathly quiet. The Chaos warriors, frozen mid-celebration, held their cheers in their throats.

They stared at the sight before them, dread surfacing in their eyes.

"Wasn't the Imperial Regent supposed to be at Baal? Why is he here?!"

Abaddon's crimson eyes widened in horror, his gravelly voice trembling.

Before him, the Imperial fleet stretched across the stars, their countless lights burning blindingly bright.

The number of ships under the Imperial Regent's command was nearly nine times that of his own Chaos fleet!

Abaddon's massive form quivered.

It didn't matter how Guilliman had arrived—whether through the Webway or some deceitful Warp trick—intelligence failures had brought catastrophe.

The Black Legion was completely encircled.

Fear clawed at even the most savage of monsters—how much more so when faced with a legendary hunter like Roboute Guilliman, the Emperor's son, the Imperial Regent, the brother of his gene-father Horus himself?

"Damn that false Emperor's lapdog! The corpse-worshippers got lucky!"

Abaddon was infuriated.

Fate was supposed to be on the side of the Despoiler!

He had just declared the start of the Fourteenth Black Crusade to the Chaos legions and the forces within the Eye of Terror—proclaiming it with unstoppable grandeur and ambition.

And yet, the very first step had already collapsed. The campaign was teetering on the edge of ruin.

His life now hung in the balance.

If the plan failed entirely, Abaddon's reputation as Warmaster of Chaos would be shattered. He would become a laughingstock.

In that moment, Abaddon's heart was filled with despair. He even considered negotiating with Guilliman, the Ultramarine Primarch and Imperial Regent.

Perhaps he could cede certain interests of Chaos to earn safe passage out of here.

The Despoiler's infamous Talon of Horus had been used to tear through the Imperium—it could just as easily strike at those manipulating gods in the Warp.

Surely the shrewd Guilliman would see reason and make a choice that favored the Imperium.

But Abaddon dismissed that thought.

As Warmaster, as Despoiler, he could not grovel.

Even when he had faced a grotesquely cloned Horus—created by Fabius Bile using the Primarch's corpse and dark rituals—he had not bowed.

He had led the Justaerin to destroy the clone, and drove his lightning claw through its heart.

"I am not the fool Horus was. I know what I'm doing. The Despoiler's grand crusade won't end here…"

Abaddon lifted the Talon of Horus, gazing at the bloodstained claws—once tainted with a Primarch's ichor.

A gleam of vicious intent lit up his shadowed face.

One day, perhaps Guilliman's blood would also stain this weapon.

Hum—

A red glow began to shine behind him.

Abaddon turned and walked into the Blood Well chamber—a sealed shrine at the center of the bridge, lined with glyph-engraved chains meant to suppress rogue energies.

It reeked of decay and rot. The room was dim save for the crimson eight-pointed star etched across the floor.

Pulsing red light illuminated the room, revealing chains hung with bloodied charms and grotesque symbols. They bound robed, writhing bodies—seers of prophecy—nailed to iron spikes.

Each whispered with voices like wind from a furnace, their spiritual forms saturated with Warp energy. Even the most hardened warriors would shudder.

But not Abaddon.

He approached coldly. "Do not play deaf. I don't have time. You know what I want. Show me."

He wanted an answer:

Could he, with the aid of Chaos, find a weakness in the Imperial blockade and break through—to survive and continue the war?

He knew his worth. The Chaos Gods would not abandon him or the Black Legion.

The black-robed sorcerer obeyed, chanting forbidden spells. His eyes turned pure black.

Blood-colored glyphs flickered around the chamber, chains clinking as they trembled. The rotting prophets twitched, and within their bodies, faintly visible faces surfaced—moaning out cryptic phrases.

The eight-pointed star contorted and reformed—into visions.

Galaxies burned.

Chaos fleets fell in fire.

Bodies littered the stars.

Twin-headed eagles shredded the darkness.

Faceless soldiers marched in unison toward a shadowy figure.

A golden sword pierced the black figure's heart, reducing it to ashes.

Abaddon stared expressionless.

He raised his talon and crushed the image of the golden sword.

"That is not the fate of the Despoiler."

His voice was cold. "Chaos manipulators, your threats are empty. Give me a real answer—before I change my mind."

Immediately, the visions collapsed and reformed—into a celestial map of the Darrowa System.

A storm vortex appeared in one region.

That was the Chaos Gods' answer—the place where they would extend their aid.

Nakmund, within the Dimmed Stars, a place riddled with void scars.

A Warp-bleeding region. There, their power would flow strongest.

Abaddon received his answer and turned to leave.

The war called to him. He had no time to listen to whispering corpses and muttering seers.

BOOM!!!

As he exited the chamber, the bridge shook violently. Alarms blared. Explosions bloomed across the void above the dome.

Under the command of Macragge's Honor, the Imperial fleet unleashed a hellstorm—ship after ship in the Chaos fleet was annihilated.

Warp-infested hulls burned in fire.

Just one volley—and the Chaos fleet had lost a tenth of its ships.

They could barely respond.

This was no battle. It was a slaughter.

Yet Abaddon stood tall, unmoved by the shaking deck beneath him.

"All units—BREAK THROUGH!"

Abaddon barked out a string of commands.

He ordered every Chaos vessel to shield the Planet Killer at any cost, covering its breakout toward the region foretold by the Chaos Gods.

The Chaos fleet quickly adjusted formation.

All offensive actions were abandoned. Instead, they formed a tightly packed defensive wall to protect the Despoiler's flagship.

Then, the entire fleet surged toward the designated coordinates at full speed.

The Imperium's bombardment never ceased.

With every second, more Chaos ships were shattered—reduced to drifting wreckage and rotting meat.

"You false son of the Corpse-Emperor… you've earned my wrath…"

Abaddon watched the carnage unfold. Each ship destroyed was a blade to his heart—and the hatred he held for the Imperial Regent only deepened.

This fleet, these warriors, were the elite he had built over millennia—his personal Black Legion armada.

And now, they were being fed into the flames one wave at a time.

Still, the Chaos fleet inched closer to the foretold location.

Guilliman seemed to have noticed this.

Macragge's Honor and its elite battle group surged forward, launching an even more brutal assault.

The battle escalated to a fever pitch. The Chaos defensive lines began to crumble.

Abaddon's gaze never left the star map. The fleet had yet to reach the marked area.

Could he hold out long enough?

Time dragged forward.

Under roaring bombardment, Planet Killer led the shattered remnants of just a few dozen ships to the designated coordinates.

From a fleet once mighty, barely a hundredth survived. They were on the edge of annihilation.

But… nothing happened.

Abaddon's face darkened.

Had the Chaos Gods forsaken him?

Of course they had no honor, no true loyalty. Why would they?

And there, rushing closer with each breath, was Macragge's Honor.

He unsheathed his daemon blade, its grey-black surface wailing with the howls of bound daemons.

His hoarse voice rang out:

"Justaerin! Prepare to board! We will RIP the Corpse-Emperor's brat limb from limb!"

If this was the end, he would go down swinging.

If he could slay the Imperial Regent and seize Macragge's Honor, perhaps there was still hope.

Abaddon—Warmaster of Chaos—feared no duel. He considered himself no less than a Primarch.

Spurred by his fury, Chaos warriors roared and raised their weapons. Their twisted bodies writhed more violently, ready to tear reality itself.

As if answering their determination—

Space behind Planet Killer began to warp and rupture, as if an unseen hand stirred the void.

A miniature Warp storm burst into being—just in time—cutting off Macragge's Honor's path and slowing the Imperial fleet.

All firepower directed at Planet Killer was swallowed or redirected into some nightmarish place.

This storm was the combined will of the Chaos Gods bending realspace. A massive outpouring of warp energy had been required.

But it had worked.

The Warp storm shielded Abaddon from annihilation.

He exhaled sharply and sneered.

This storm had bought him time.

He recalled his own words:

"The beings of the Warp are not allies or masters. They are dangerous—like their ever-shifting realms. To the weak who kneel, they are damnation. But to the strong, they are nothing more than tools."

Submission brings slavery. But power to fight back? That changes everything.

This was the eternal truth.

"Justaerin! The time for retribution is now! The Corpse-Emperor's spawn will PAY for this!"

Abaddon's raspy bellow echoed with fury.

He would summon more forces.

He would crush the Indomitable Crusade's ambitions in the Dimmed Stars.

Through the dark purple swirl of the Warp storm, Abaddon stared at the warped silhouette of Macragge's Honor.

He knew Guilliman was staring right back.

Hum—

A thread of dark power lashed out, carrying Abaddon's message:

"False Emperor's whelp… your precious ambush has FAILED. Chaos still reigns in the Dimmed Stars. Your fleet will be DESTROYED by the Despoiler…"

Abaddon could almost see Guilliman's face twist in frustration.

No one could endure losing a victory so close at hand.

"My lord!"

Suddenly, a black-robed sorcerer rushed to his side, clearly alarmed.

His pupils were reduced to pinpoints as he stammered, "New omens have emerged! We must abandon everything and return to the Eye of Terror—"

"Silence!"

Abaddon nearly exploded. His icy stare could have cut steel.

For a moment, it looked as if the Talon of Horus would punch a hole through the sorcerer's chest.

Why now?

Every move he made was opposed. Every attempt twisted against him.

He had barely begun the Fourteenth Black Crusade, launched an assault on Darrowa—only to charge into the Imperium's trap.

Now, just when he had survived and begun a counterattack, the sorcerer urged him to flee again?

Was some hidden hand meddling with his fate?

"Perhaps that ever-shifting schemer is behind this… Tzeentch," Abaddon thought coldly.

"I saw the threads of fate! Returning to the Eye is the wisest course—" the sorcerer insisted.

But before he could finish—

Abaddon seized him, lifting him by the throat.

"I'm DONE with your riddles. Fate will NOT break the Despoiler."

His growl carried finality.

"Speak again out of turn—and you know what will happen."

Then, he threw the sorcerer aside like garbage.

The Black Crusade had begun. He would NOT let it end in disgrace.

Back at the Eye of Terror, on the Black Legion's forge bastions, vast fleets and daemon-tech monstrosities remained—gifts left behind by Vashtorr, still hidden.

Abaddon would unleash them all.

"Go. Summon the fleet. The new war begins."

He hoped the Imperial Regent would keep chasing him—

So that he could crush him with the full might of the Black Legion.

Aboard Macragge's Honor, on the bridge—

"…Your precious ambush has failed… your fleet will be annihilated by the Despoiler's might!"

Abaddon's taunt rang out.

But the atmosphere remained light. In fact, Guilliman and his staff were smiling.

"My lord, I suspect Abaddon is about to rally more troops…" Felix said, looking forward to it.

Guilliman nodded, pleased with how things were unfolding.

He hadn't truly expected to kill Abaddon. This had been a test, an opportunity.

And as his brother Eden had once quipped:

"Abaddon's not easy to kill. The Chaos Gods protect him—and revive him. Honestly, given how often he screws up, letting him live might be the best thing for the Imperium.

If he dies, the Chaos Gods might pick someone competent—like they did after Horus died."

Guilliman gave a small sigh.

If only I had recorded that speech. It would've made a fine insult.

Though Abaddon had escaped, the battle was still a victory.

The First Fleet had wiped out a massive Chaos force with minimal losses.

It was one of the most significant victories in the Indomitable Crusade.

And it might help advance another plan.

Guilliman turned to Felix.

"Send word to the Savior. Tell him to monitor the Eye of Terror. I'll support his plan and buy him as much time as possible."

The message was swiftly sent from the sanctum, crossing the Dimmed Stars—heading straight for the Savior's watchpost under the Eye's shadow.

In orbit near the Eye of Terror—

Aboard Dreamweaver's bridge—

Eden slouched lazily on the couch, dozing. He had been stationed here for over a month, and boredom had long since settled in.

The thick Chaos presence in the area had worsened his condition—Slaanesh's whispers constantly gnawed at his mind and body, leaving him weak and irritable.

Suddenly—alarms blared.

Eden sat up sharply, instinctively looking toward the Eye.

"…What the hell?!"

His eyes widened.

From the gaping maw of the Eye emerged a monstrous object, wreathed in chaotic clouds and flickering with shadowy tendrils.

It was over a hundred kilometers long—far larger than a Leviathan Hive Ship—and at least ten times the size of the Dreamweaver.

(End of Chapter)

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