M37.003
The psychic static began subtly, a low hum beneath the usual cacophony of galactic woes. It wasn't the roar of the Warp, nor the cold dread of the void. It was something far stranger, more insidious: the faint, echoing sound of laughter.
Across a thousand disparate worlds, species and cultures felt it simultaneously. The Ripple had begun—not the origin of the madness, but its grand resurgence, an escalation decades in the making. Dreams became canvases for grotesque slapstick and nonsensical terror. A hive ganger in the underbelly of Necromunda woke screaming, not from a nightmare of gangers or mutants, but from the vision of his arms turning into flailing rubber chickens. A High Lord on Terra found his carefully curated garden had bloomed overnight with flowers that shrieked punchlines in defunct dialects.
Cults sprang up like noxious fungi. Not the usual death-worshipping or daemon-summoning sects, but cults of absurdity. The Order of the Floppy Shoe, whose members communicated solely through exaggerated pratfalls. The Congregation of the Pie in the Face, who believed enlightenment came from spontaneous, public humiliation. Their rituals involved synchronized nonsense, culminating in bursts of uncontrollable, hysterical laughter that echoed through cathedral spires and industrial hab-blocks.
Most disturbingly, the madness propagated through digital networks and vox channels. Propaganda feeds devolved into surrealist comedy routines. Official decrees were interrupted by unsettling jingles. Data-slates displayed crude animations of impossible feats ending in giggles and confetti. These memes of laughter weren't just jokes—they were viral vectors of unreason, bypassing logic and drilling into the limbic system.
The galaxy—accustomed to structured brutality—began to wobble. This was no Warp storm, no daemonic invasion. It was a cosmic joke, delivered in silent wavelengths and decoded in the deepest parts of the soul.
Far from the laughter-stricken worlds, within the shimmering veils of the Craftworlds, the Eldar Farseers trembled. The paths ahead, once tangled but navigable, fractured into kaleidoscopes of non-sequiturs and paradox. They saw potential endings: worlds cracking like eggshells, stars dying in ironic anti-climax. But worse than destruction was what lay beneath it: the cessation of meaning itself. The Great Cycles, the Ancient Hatreds, the desperate struggles—all rendered irrelevant by a final, mocking jape. They gave it a name in hushed, terrified whispers: The Final Joke.
It was not merely a force of chaos, but one of conceptual inversion. And in M37.003, the Masquerade entered a new phase—not of infiltration, but of saturation.
Elsewhere… the Champions stir.
Aboard the Executor, the Iron Will Trembles
The Super Star Destroyer cut through the void like a blade, its presence a nightmare of symmetry. Darth Vader stood upon the bridge, shrouded in shadow, his mechanical breathing a metronome of control. Yet even he, once unshakable, felt it now.
The Force, vast and subtle, was writhing. But this was no ordinary disturbance—it was a crack in the very foundation of meaning. It mocked the duality of dark and light. It was chaos, yes, but not rage or ambition—it was parody, infecting reality like rot in marble.
Vader clenched his gloved fist. He had seen worlds fall, empires crumble, but never before had the rules of cause and effect themselves bent to mockery. It felt... personal. Somewhere out there, a force was laughing at the galaxy. And Vader—he who once defied fate—felt compelled to answer that laugh with fire.
Within the Tyranid Black Galleries, the Performer Twists
Hisoka Morow danced among his creations in the dark. Tyranids—once instruments of brute devourment—now moved like dancers in a grotesque masquerade. Under Hisoka's guidance, their bioforms had become alien art: translucent carapaces, symmetrical mandibles shaped like violins, acidic blood laced with perfume.
The Ripple sang to him. It was a promise, a thrill, a new aesthetic. His latest masterpiece—a Lictor mutated to laugh instead of scream—bowed before him with impossible elegance.
"Oh my," Hisoka cooed, caressing the creature's face. "A new act has begun... and I have front-row seats."
The Ripple wasn't chaos to him—it was the perfect opening. The next symphony in his ever-expanding play of death and delight
On the Iron Thrones of Armageddon, the Kahn Roars
Shao Kahn, now called The Iron Kahn, ruled a horde of subdued Orks. Not crushed, not slaughtered—subjugated. Waaagh! energy, once aimless fury, was now focused into brutal purpose. Orkish arenas blazed across the Armageddon sector, hosting combat spectacles where Shao Kahn reigned supreme.
He felt the Ripple as a challenge. A galactic tournament of madness, and he had no intention of being a side act.
"Komplete Domination," he bellowed across the warbands, his voice cracking the sky. "The galaxy is my arena!"
Even the Orks—savage, chaotic by nature—paused as the madness around them began to outpace even their lunacy.
In the Gilded Corridors of Terra, the White Hawk Ascends
Griffith—now called Femto by his followers—moved through the halls of the Imperium's elite like a living dream. Nobles and Cardinals bent their will not from fear, but reverence. He offered clarity amidst the growing absurdity, visions of an Empire beyond decay.
To the weak, he offered salvation. To the ambitious, transcendence. Where laughter reigned outside, within his shadow, people found purpose. But not truth—only obedience.
He understood the Ripple. It created a hunger for sense, and Griffith fed that hunger with divine lies. The chaos outside made him seem a messiah.
His gaze turned skyward. He knew the final act was coming.
Among the Ruins of the Aeldari, the Shadow Beckons
The Witch-king of Angmar glided through the remnants of Aeldari civilization. His whispers infected their psychic dream-ways. He did not offer power or even truth—he offered release.
To the weary and the broken, he gave ecstasy. To the devout, he gave liberation from their paths. Exodites carved obscene runes into the skins of their living mounts. Craftworld rituals collapsed into orgiastic hallucinations.
The Ripple made it easier. The more the universe broke, the more the Aeldari sought to feel. And he fed on that need. Not for conquest—but for annihilation through pleasure.
The maniac on progress
In somewhere in eye of terror Dr Henry wu think how broke Emperor psyker power to protecting Primarch in warp because he see new material to make something more hideous to combine other gene from all Xenos, imagine Xenos with Geneseed.
While he can ask from the traitor Legion but they Geneseed has corrupt by chaos so, It is just another power from Ruinous power and he don't want power from, he want create something that he Will control himself.
The Architect Remains Unseen
All of this—the laughter, the fall, the unmaking—was by design. The sixth did not rule. He orchestrated. He whispered jokes that killed and riddles that rewrote history. His influence was not presence but momentum.
They called him many things: Thief of Laugh, The Architect of the Final Joke, The second Laughing God of a Broken Joke.
None knew his face. Not anymore.
But they all felt his approach.
And as the Ripple became a wave, the galaxy began to sway—not in battle, but in rhythm. A rhythm leading toward the punchline.
The Masquerade was no longer a covert performance.
It had become the galaxy's final stage.