Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 624 Fugen's Bewitchment (Bonus Chapter for the Military Parade)
As the ground battlefield descends into a brutal stalemate of bloodshed and fire, another, more insidious and soul-searching war is simultaneously spreading invisibly. This is not an enemy that explosives can crush, nor an offensive that high walls can withstand; rather, it is a poison that seeps into the marrow and corrodes the will, quietly infiltrating the central nervous system of the Medusa defense system.

The private communication lines of Ferrus Manus, located at the rear command node, and several high-ranking officers at the front were successively breached by a series of signals of unknown origin, highly encrypted, yet deliberately imprinted with the psionic mark of the Son of the Emperor. These messages, like poisoned blades wrapped in velvet, bypassed public tactical links and directly pierced the auditory and visual sensors of the command layer. The very manner in which they appeared carried a certain blasphemous ritualistic quality—as if the intruders were not only provoking militarily but also carrying out a sophisticated and arrogant humiliation on a technological level.

The deciphered content is far from ordinary tactical interference or brutal threats; it is a series of bizarre and meticulously crafted images and whispers designed to severely disrupt the viewer's mind. Its sophistication and malicious intent far exceed the scope of typical psychological warfare; it is more like a series of depraved works of art tailored to a specific target.

In the footage, captured Iron Hand warriors and Medusa civilians are subjected to blasphemous transformation and torture in the name of "art." Their bodies are twisted into desperate living sculptures, fused together with the cold ruins of war, creating images that blend extreme pain with morbid beauty. A meticulously choreographed symphony of noise flows in the background, mixing the screams of victims, the roar of weapons, and frenzied melodies to create a form of spiritual pollution that directly assaults the boundaries of perception. Each frame is deliberately composed and manipulated with light and shadow, emphasizing the bizarre fusion of pain and so-called "beauty," attempting to drag the viewer's moral compass and aesthetic intuition into a distorted abyss.

Accompanying the video was a message directly addressed to Feralus Manus, saturated with twisted love and temptation. The voice was languid and magnetic, yet carried a serpentine coldness and stickiness, like a lover's whisper, but permeated with undeniably deadly venom. This voice was not merely a recording; it seemed to contain faint psychic fluctuations, capable of bypassing the barrier of reason and directly stirring the deepest strings of the listener's emotions.

“My dear Felus… my cold Gorgon sisters…” the voice began, with an almost nostalgic sigh, “Look at all this, do you recall the days when we pursued ‘perfection’ together in the workshops and on the battlefield? Back then, you held the forging hammer, your eyes focused, how dazzling your thirst for the ultimate and pure was… We explored together the ultimate form, the boundaries of power, that burning passion, have you completely forgotten it?”

The whispers did not stop; they continued to spread, like venomous snakes coiling around the mind: "Your warriors are indeed resilient, their silence is the most moving note in this symphonic poem... But why did you make them suffer all this? How... imperfect it is. Their steel bodies could have been the foundation of a greater art, instead of shattering into fragments in this futile resistance. This is a waste of 'beauty,' my dear sister."

The temptation followed, weaving a distorted vision of the future: "Come back to me, my dear sister. Behold the feast I have prepared for you, this magnificent performance! This is the ultimate experience, a 'sublimation' that transcends the mortal body! You and I, we can stand side by side and bestow this perfection upon the entire galaxy... Imagine a realm where there are no more limitations, only eternal joy and ultimate sensations, created by your own hands. What a magnificent masterpiece that would be."

Even the deepest betrayal was transformed into a fateful romance: "Istvan... Ah, it was just a regrettable misunderstanding, a hasty farewell... a painful choice forced upon us by our father's narrow vision. But look, fate has brought us together again! What a divine revelation! Embrace it, embrace me... We will surely transcend the past and forge a new, eternal life that belongs to you and me."

These messages, without exception, originated from Forgrim—or rather, from the Slaanesh who possessed his form. He was not in a hurry to seek a direct confrontation, but rather, like a cat toying with its prey, he patiently savored the process. He attempted to use these cruel "works of art" and sugar-coated curses to precisely pierce the painful memories and unhealed wounds that Feralas might still have in her heart, to shake her self-proclaimed iron will, and to lure her into the abyss of depravity.

He even deliberately mixed in a few irrelevant and ambiguous tactical fragments with the mental pollution, vaguely hinting at the Emperor's son's next move. This was both an arrogant display of his control over all aspects and a deeper form of poison, attempting to plunge Feralas's strategic judgment into endless suspicion and hesitation, undermining the certainty of his decision-making.

Inside the command center, the atmosphere was heavy and unyielding. The technical priests worked frantically, their data beads clicking rapidly, attempting to track and block these ubiquitous signals. However, their source was cleverly concealed by the surging, foul energy of the warp, fluctuating and elusive, like a persistent, insidious infection, difficult to eradicate completely. Each brief success in blocking was quickly followed by a new, more cunning intrusion, as if a merciless mockery of mortal technology. Feralus Manus stood before the main tactical hologram, expressionless as she watched the incoming messages and images. Her silver-grey eyes, like the icy depths of winter, remained unmoved, as if scrutinizing a clumsy drama unrelated to her own life. The officers and technicians around her held their breath, both from the horrifying content of the messages and from the Primarch's suffocating silence. When a particularly lengthy message, filled with hypocritical reminiscences of past "friendships" and frantic fantasies of future "pleasures," finally finished playing, she simply and silently raised her right arm, covered by "Gorgon Skin."

The liquid metal flowed, hardened, and deformed in an instant—no longer a hand, but transformed into a heavy, cold forging hammer, gleaming with the chilling light of inorganic matter.

boom!
A terrifying explosion erupted in the deathly silent command center. She smashed the communications terminal, which had been relentlessly playing blasphemous images and blaring noises, with a single punch shattering it. Shards and searing sparks flew in all directions, like the eruption of a cold, furious flame. The nauseating noise ceased abruptly, replaced by a deathly silence and the lingering smell of ozone and metallic fragments in the air.

“Pathetic, twisted remnants.” Her voice followed, cold enough to freeze every particle in the air, filled with undisguised hatred and utter contempt. “Your very existence is the most vile desecration of ‘perfection.’ Is this all that’s left? The ‘perfection’ you pursue rotted into the ugliest stain in the galaxy in that betrayal ten thousand years ago.”

She turned to the pale-faced communications officer, her command firm and decisive, each word like a hammer blow from a furnace: "Record all information signatures, archive them, and submit them to the Tech Priest for in-depth analysis, attempting to trace their warp origins. All other information is to be ignored and not reported. Inform all commanders: immediately raise psionic protection to the highest level. All personnel must remain at their posts, undisturbed. Any further similar signal intrusions must be immediately followed by the purification protocol, without confirmation."

Despite her outwardly cold and hardened exterior, the words spoken about Istvan, the past, and Fugen were like countless tiny, icy thorns, attempting to pierce the deepest cracks of her soul. The excruciating pain of being beheaded, the rage and despair of being betrayed by her trusted brother, were scars etched deep into her genes and soul, never truly healed. But with unwavering will, she forcefully suppressed her surging emotions, sealing them away completely with an icy wall of absolute rationality. At this moment, she was the guardian of Medusa, the commander of the Iron Legion; individual emotions had to give way to duty and the survival of the whole. Her will was both the last and the most unbreakable line of defense.

However, Fugen's whispers did not cease, like a corrupting noise permeating the background, relentless and insidious, adding a sinister and eerie dimension to this bloody physical battle. He knew every weakness of Feralas and was adept at tormenting, teasing, and seducing her. This brutal struggle, rooted in brotherhood from ten thousand years ago and now mired in extreme darkness and absolute resolve, had only just begun—its danger far exceeding the smoke-filled battlefield before them.

Above ground, the clash of steel and blood continues, the flashes of explosions and the roar of chainsaws forming a brutal symphony of war. The arrival of the Ash Knights has temporarily stabilized the faltering front lines, bringing new tactical possibilities. But the Emperor's Sons' main force remains vast and overwhelming, and an even more frenzied, darker, and more determined offensive to drag the entire world into a decadent feast is undoubtedly still brewing in the shadows. The psychological and physical battle lines are simultaneously taut, testing the nerves and souls of every guardian of Medusa.

(End of this chapter)