Galactic Conflict: I Restore the Glory of Humanity

"That idiot Fulgrim! He rushed forward without even telling us!" Abaddon's angry voice echoed in the battleship's command room, and his fist slammed heavily on the metal table, making a dull sound.

His black power armor was inlaid with scarlet chaos runes, and the golden eagle emblem on the shoulder armor had long since been twisted into an eight-pointed star symbolizing chaos.

At this moment, his face was gloomy and his eyes were burning with anger.

The interior of the battleship that Abaddon was on had already been completely distorted by the power of chaos.

The walls inside the battleship were covered with wriggling flesh and blood, as if the entire battleship had become a living creature.

Countless tentacles hung from the ceiling, with sticky liquid dripping from the ends of the tentacles, emitting a disgusting stench.

The floor is covered with a thick layer of fungal carpet, which makes a sticky sound when you step on it.

A low humming sound permeated the air filled with the power of the warp, as if countless invisible beings were whispering.

Standing beside Abaddon were several Daemon Primarchs, whose presence filled the entire space with oppressive chaotic energy.

Lorgar Aurelion, once the leader of the Word Bearers, has now completely fallen and become the embodiment of Chaos.

His body was tall and twisted, and his skin was a sickly pale color, as if eroded by some indescribable force.

His eyes were as deep as the abyss, and his pupils flickered with a strange purple light.

His armor was covered in blasphemous runes and twisted scripture, and every pattern seemed to whisper the truth of chaos.

In his hands he held a heavy chaos tome, the pages moving without wind and emitting an unsettling whispering sound.

"Abaddon, my Warmaster,"

Lorgar's voice was low and full of sarcasm. The corners of his mouth rose slightly, revealing a sarcastic smile. "You are always so angry, as if everything is beyond your control. Isn't Fulgrim's impulsiveness the essence of Chaos? Or do you still miss the orderly past, the Empire you once served?"

Abaddon turned around suddenly, the anger in his eyes almost bursting out.

"Luo Jia, are you questioning my loyalty?" His voice was low and dangerous, and the magic sword in his hand trembled slightly, as if ready to be unsheathed at any time.

Lorgar chuckled and gently ran his fingers over the pages of the Chaos Codex. The runes on the pages glowed faintly as he touched them.

"Question? No, I'm just reminding you that the power of chaos comes from disorder and madness. The more you try to control everything, the more you deviate from the true meaning of chaos. What's more -"

His voice paused, and a trace of contempt flashed in his eyes. "You are only the Warmaster of Chaos, Abaddon, not the Primarch. Your authority is nothing more than a temporary compromise for us."

Abaddon's expression darkened, but he did not respond immediately, instead turning his gaze to Angron.

Angron, once the leader of the World Eaters, has now completely degenerated into a bloodthirsty Daemon Prince.

His body was larger than before, his muscles were knotty, and his skin was dark red, as if soaked in blood.

He still wore the butcher's nail on his head, a symbol of slavery, but now the nail had merged with his flesh and blood, emitting a disgusting stench.

There was only endless anger and desire to kill in his eyes, and a ferocious smile hung on the corners of his mouth, as if he was ready to start a war at any time.

In his hands he held two massive chainsaw axes, the blades stained with dried blood, and they roared with every swing.

However, Angron's mind had long been eroded by the Butcher's Nails and was shattered. His eyes were sometimes frantic, sometimes empty, as if he was constantly wandering between reality and illusion.

His lips trembled slightly and a low growl came out, but there was no meaning in the sound, only pure anger and pain.

His body swayed slightly, as if he would fall down at any time, but after each sway, he would burst out with even more violent power.

"Angron," Abaddon whispered, trying to awaken the powerful Primarch, "we need your strength."

A brief moment of clarity flashed across Angron's eyes, but it was quickly drowned out by endless anger.

He let out a bestial roar, the roar of the chainsaw axe even harsher.

"Kill...kill them all..." His voice was hoarse and broken, as if it came from the depths of hell.

Magnus, leader of the Thousand Sons, has now fully transformed into a powerful demonic sorcerer.

His figure was tall and graceful, his skin a deep red, as if it had been burned by flames.

His single eye gleamed with wisdom and madness, as if it could see through the mist of time.

His armor is inlaid with countless gems, each of which contains powerful magical energy.

In his hand he held a crystal-inlaid staff, the tip of which emitted a frightening purple light.

His presence warped the air around him, as if reality itself trembled under his power.

"Abaddon,"

Magnus' voice was calm and deep. "Anger will only make you lose your mind. We must remain calm in order to win this battle. Failure is the mother of victory, but this time there is a little more maternal love."

Abaddon took a deep breath and tried to suppress the anger in his heart.

He knew that Magnus was right, but he still could not completely get over his anger towards Fulgrim.

At this moment, the door of the command room was suddenly pushed open by a foul smell, and a tall figure walked in accompanied by heavy footsteps.

That was Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard.

His body was wrapped in heavy plague armor, which was covered with pus and marks of decay, and emitted a disgusting stench.

He held a huge sickle in his hand, and green poison was dripping from the blade of the sickle. Every drop that fell on the ground would corrode a deep pit.

"Mortarion?" There was a hint of surprise in Abaddon's voice. "Why are you here?"

Mortarion's voice was low and hoarse, as if squeezed from a rotten throat.

"I feel the call of Chaos, Abaddon. The Death Guard will not be absent from this battle."

His eyes swept across everyone in the command room, finally stopping on Abaddon.

"You are only the Warmaster, however, not the Primarch. Interesting, a servant of the powers of Chaos is unworthy to command us."

Abaddon's face turned pale in an instant, and his hand tightly grasped the hilt of the magic sword, his knuckles turning white from the force.

He knew that Mortarion's presence would only complicate the situation.

The Primarchs never truly served him, they only temporarily submitted to the will of the Chaos Gods, and Abaddon's authority was nothing more than a joke in their eyes.

The corners of Luo Jia's mouth rose again, and a gleam of gloating flashed in his eyes.

"It seems that our Warmaster needs more support," he whispered, his voice full of sarcasm. "Perhaps you should pray to the gods for more blessings, Abaddon."

Abaddon did not respond, knowing that arguing at this point would only make the situation more confusing.

He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. "No matter how you see me, winning this battle is the most important thing. Fulgrim's recklessness has put us in a passive position. We must act immediately."

Mortarion let out a deep laugh, like rotting wind blowing through dry bones.

"Action? Of course, Abaddon. But remember, we do not fight for you, but for the will of Chaos."

Outside the command room, in the corridor of the battleship, the soldiers from the three legions were confronting each other with swords drawn.

The warriors of the Word Bearers whispered the words of Chaos, their armour covered in blasphemous runes, their eyes gleaming with fanaticism.

The World Eaters' warriors roared like bestial beasts, their chainsaw axes and chainswords made a sharp roar, as if they were ready to pounce on the enemy at any time.

The Thousand Sons warriors stood quietly, their armor inlaid with countless gems, magical light flashing in their eyes, and the staffs in their hands emitting heart-pounding energy fluctuations.

The air was filled with tension, as if a spark could detonate the entire battleship.

The warriors of the Word Bearers stared at the warriors of the World Eaters and the Thousand Sons with hostility, while the warriors of the World Eaters stared back with eyes full of murderous desire.

The warriors of the Thousand Sons watched all this coldly, as if ready to use magic to turn the enemy into ashes at any time.