It was over. The war, the bloodshed, the endless march of violence that had shaped his existence. Immora, the first city in creation, lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
The first was an absence, hollow and unyielding. Where once the air had trembled with the clash of battle, now there was nothing. No distant roars of the damned, no shrieks of dying demons. The great forges of the once-immortal city lay cold, their molten rivers set to stone. Even the wind, thick with the scent of blood and sulfur, dared not disturb the stillness. If there had been an army left to fight, it would have filled the silence with the war cries of the doomed. If there had been gods left to rule, their voices would have carried across the ruins in lament or fury. But there were none. And so the silence remained.
The second silence was heavier, weighted by something more than absence. It lay in the corpse of Davoth, the true creator of the multiverse, his form broken, his dominion unmade. Once, his will had bent the very fabric of reality, shaping creation to his whims. Now he was nothing. His lifeless body sprawled upon the blackened stone, a hollow mockery of the power he had wielded. There would be no resurrection, no return. He had forged the laws of existence to ensure that only he could shape the universe—and in death, he had condemned himself to oblivion. His silence was not one of mourning, nor of suffering. It was the silence of permanence.
The third silence was the Doom Slayer's. It was not a silence of peace, nor of rest. It was the silence of a weapon without a war, of a blade held in an unshaking hand with nothing left to cut. It was the silence of something that had never stopped moving, now standing still. It was not the silence of completion, nor of surrender, but of something waiting—endless and unrelenting, because it did not know how to be anything else.
These three silences filled Immora, wrapping around each other in a tangled knot of finality. And at their center stood the Slayer.
Now before the Doom Slayer, in a seemingly impossible state of tiredness, stood the Father, the being many called God, his once-immense power now reduced to a flicker. His presence felt gaunt, his divine radiance a pale imitation of its former glory. The destruction of the his Life Sphere at Slayer's hands had taken his ability to have a proper physical form. It also meant that he will now never truly die.
"Ⲩⲟⲩ ⲛⲁⲞⲉ ⲇⲟⲛⲉ ⲩⲏⲁⲧ ⲛⲟⲛⲉ ⲕⲟⲩⲗⲇ ⲏⲁⲳⲉ ⲫⲟⲣⲉⲥⲉⲉⲛ. 𝕄ⲩ ⲥⲣⲉⲁⲧⲟⲣ ⲉⲥ ⲛⲟ ⲙⲟⲣⲉ. 𝕐ⲟⲩ ⲏⲁⲳⲉ ⲩⲛⲙⲁⲇⲉ ⲧⲏⲉ Ⲇⲁⲣⲕ Ⲅⲟⲇ."
(You have done what none could have foreseen. My creator is no more. You have unmade the Dark God)
The Doom Slayer stood silent. His battered green Praetor suit bore the scars of his final battle, the once-imposing armor dented and burned. His dark visor gleamed faintly in the dim light, but behind it, his eyes were hollow. The unrelenting fury that had driven him forward for so long was gone, leaving behind only emptiness.
The Maykrs' voices echoed, layered and melodic. "The war is over, Doom Slayer. You have vanquished what could not be conquered. Your purpose here is fulfilled."
He gave no answer, his silence a quiet rebellion against their proclamation. He knew they were right—the mission that had consumed him, defined him, was over. But the finality of it clawed at his soul like a blade turned inward.
The Father watched as the Maykrs descended toward the Slayer, their glowing hands outstretched. He did not resist as they guided him forward, their golden light dimming the harsh edges of his ruined armor. They led him to the sarcophagus prepared long ago, its rune-inscribed surface thrumming faintly with power.
But as he neared the tomb, something stirred within him. Not anger. Not hesitation. But memory.
VEGA. The AI had sacrificed itself to power the portal to Hell, allowing him to strike at the heart of the invasion. A machine with no soul, yet it had spoken to him as a companion. At the last moment, before deletion, VEGA had left a fragment of itself behind. Now that AI was the formless God again.
Samuel Hayden. A manipulator, a liar, but in the end, a man who had fought for humanity in his own way. The moment the Slayer had torn the Divinity Machine from his chest, ending the Seraphim's last gambit, Hayden had fallen. His fate uncertain. Another casualty in the endless war.
Universe Assiah. The world he had bled for, fought for. The world he had saved, only to leave behind. Was it thriving now, free from the horrors that had once consumed it? Or had humanity simply found another way to destroy itself?
His fists clenched at the memories, fingers twitching unconsciously. Even now, his hands expected to still be gripping his weapons. The fight had ended, but his body refused to believe it.
The Father spoke again, his voice heavy with resignation. ".....ⲏⲁⲛⲇⲥ, ⲁⲗⲗ ⲧⲏⲓⲛⲅⲥ ⲩⲉⲣⲉ ⲣⲉⲙⲁⲇⲉ—ⲉⲩⲉⲛ ⲩⲟⲩ. Ⲩⲟⲩ ⲣⲓⲡⲡⲉⲇ, ⲩⲟⲩ ⲧⲟⲣⲉ… ⲩⲛⲧⲓⲗ ⲓⲧ ⲩⲁⲥ ⲇⲟⲛⲉ. Ⲁⲛⲇ ⲛⲟⲩ ⲓⲧ ⲓⲥ ⲇⲟⲛⲉ."
(By his hands, all things were made—even you. You ripped, you tore… until it was done. And now it is done.)
The Slayer hesitated.
Not out of fear, nor regret. But because, for the first time in eons, he had no path forward. No demons left to kill. No war left to fight. Only silence.
With deliberate movements, he lowered himself into the dark confines of the sarcophagus. His armor hissed as it locked into place, his form now motionless. The Maykrs hovered above, their light casting long, mournful shadows as they began sealing the tomb.
"The Doom Slayer has fulfilled his duty. His war has ended. Now must his rest begin."
As the sarcophagus sealed shut, darkness enveloped the Slayer. The Fortress of Doom, a monolithic vessel of bloodstained history and countless weapons, became his eternal resting place. The Maykrs cast it adrift into the Argent Sea, a realm beyond the multiverse, beyond even the makings of the Dark God.
But eternity is never certain.
101.M41
The Deathwatch, the Emperor's elite xenos-hunting Space Marine force, were the first to report sightings of the Fortress floating in the empty vacuum of space. At first, it was suspected to be a xenos artifact like the famous Blackstone Fortresses. Then, the Mechanicus of Mars intervened, declaring it to be archaeotech of human origin, predating even the Imperium of Man itself. Many attempted to study it, but the Fortress remained elusive, slipping between realspace and the Warp unpredictably, its arcane systems baffling even the Mechanicus' most advanced sensors.
150.M41
The Aeldari, with their heightened psychic senses, detected a presence within the alien structure. Their Farseers warned that it was ancient and slumbering, far beyond mortal comprehension. They called the being inside the "Slumbering God" and urged their kind—and, grudgingly, even others—to avoid it at all costs.
But whispers of potential catastrophe spread unease. Some Craftworlds dared to suggest the Fortress might be a weapon against Chaos, though they feared the consequences of waking whatever dwelled inside.
226.M41
A rogue trader spoke of an encounter with an Ork warband attempting to seize the Fortress. Believing it to be a treasure trove of powerful technology, the greenskins rushed to board it.
They did not survive.
The Fortress obliterated the Orks the moment they drew near. No weapons were fired, and no explosions lit the void—just silence, followed by the sudden absence of life.
[ Time Unidentified ]
Even Chaos warbands could not resist the lure of the Fortress during its stay within the Immaterium. Daemons and heretics alike sought to corrupt and claim it, lured by dark visions of power.
None returned.
405.M41
The Deathwatch observed a Tyranid Hive Fleet crossing paths with the Fortress. Designated Hive Fleet Xy'athul, its bio-ships surged forward with the intent to consume everything. But as they neared the structure, they were destroyed.
The Hive Fleet vanished in an instant, obliterated by forces beyond comprehension. Void-camera recordings showed no energy signatures, no weapon fire—only the aftermath: nothing. The Inquisition classified the event as "anomalous," and the Fortress disappeared into the Warp once again.
444.M41
On the blood-drenched Hive World of Armageddon in the Segmentum Solar, unknown to most of the Imperium, there was a titanic clash between the forces of Chaos and the defenders of Man. A culmination of years of preparation by Angron, the favored Champion of Khorne, the battle was meant to unify his World Eaters space marines.
No one expected the massive space hulk known as the Devourer of Stars to descend upon Armageddon Primus. Carrying hordes of Chaos Space Marines, mutants, heretics, and daemonic war machines, it was a war unlike any the Planetary Defense Forces had ever faced.
Armageddon was already on the brink. The defenders were being crushed under the weight of the endless tide. The skies burned red, the ground split with warp-borne corruption. Desperation clawed at every last soldier still standing.
Then, without warning, the Fortress of Doom returned.
The moment it materialized above the battlefield, reality itself seemed to shudder. Every psyker within range screamed as an overwhelming presence stirred within the ancient vessel. The sarcophagus, undisturbed for millennia, unlocked. The seals broke.
The Doom Slayer opened his eyes.