The Immaterium churned like a living nightmare. Where time forgot itself and thought twisted into shape, the thrones of the Ruinous Powers loomed in discordant majesty.
Tzeentch, the Architect of Fate, perched atop a fractal dais made of screaming equations. His presence shimmered in forms that refused to agree with each other — a thousand eyes blinking across his ever-changing plumage, tongues whispering prophecy in languages that had not been invented yet.
"My siblings," Tzeentch crooned, his voice both silken and sharp, "the jester amuses me… but a game with one player is no game at all. We should summon others. More souls. More pieces on the board."
A rumble of disgust issued from the bloated, pulsing throne of Nurgle. Surrounded by endless gardens of rot, where flies sang lullabies and pestilence was poetry, the Grandfather stirred.
"Always changing, always scheming. Must you break what already festers so nicely?" Nurgle grunted, belching forth a cloud of decay. "We have our champion. Let him rot into his purpose."
But Slaanesh, reclining on a throne of shifting desire and whispered sins, merely laughed. The laugh was music, flesh, memory. "Oh, but imagine the drama, dear Nurgle. Rivals. Temptation. Tragedy. Let us offer more souls the chance to dance — and let us see who bleeds for our favor."
In the far dark, a single beat echoed — a drum of bone, a growl beneath reality. Khorne sat in silence. His brass throne bled rivers. His warriors howled in his honor. And though he did not speak, the silence itself was approval.
Tzeentch raised his claw, weaving threads of fate into the aether. "So it is done. Let the Warp reach beyond itself. Let it pull the strongest, most broken, most dangerous souls — champions of paradox, malice, and power. Let them face the Joker... and perhaps destroy him."
Meanwhile...
Joker stood atop a floating shard of obsidian, adrift in the Warp like a splinter of unreality. The previous trials — of Slaanesh, then Khorne — had left cracks in his psyche. Not damage… more like renovations.
He felt different now. Not mortal, but not god. His veins were whispering riddles. His laughter had changed pitch. He could see… glimpses.
Below him, through a Warp-fissure like a mirror of smoke, the physical universe shimmered — planets, ships, empires of gold and decay.
He saw a hulking figure in black armor carve through hundreds with a red saber. Another soul, scarred and masked, ruled an empire of brutality with a war hammer wreathed in souls. He saw a pale king, draped in shadow and silence, guiding legions of the dead. A fallen knight in white wings, burning with a destiny not his own. A clown-faced killer who danced amid death and pleasure. A man in a lab coat, writing diseases into life.
Joker grinned wide. "Well now… they don't look like good company. Better make myself at home."
In truth, he had no idea the Gods had already reached across dimensions to draw these champions in. He assumed — wrongly — that he was the only "foreigner" in this damned realm.
His plan? Simple. He would serve Chaos, yes. For the fun. For the fire. For the freedom. But serve them his way. And then? Maybe rule them. After all, why so serious, even in the Warp?
In the Realm of Tzeentch
Tzeentch watched Joker with a thousand smiles.
"He believes he is playing the gods," the Changer of Ways whispered to his familiars — sentient books stitched from fate. "But he does not yet see that we are writing him into the prophecy… until he writes back."
Tzeentch's claws glowed. With each motion, they tore souls from their realms.
Each of them, a paradox. Each, a potential champion. Each, a test.
Back in the Garden
Nurgle frowned. Flies scattered from his folds.
"These are not children of rot," he muttered. "They are ambition. Fury. Hunger. Not the slow beauty of inevitable decay."
Yet, he did not stop it.
Even the Plague God was curious.
Even the rot wondered how this would fester.
Joker's Vision Expands
Leaning over the rift between realms, Joker giggled.
The physical universe was insane. Empires stretched across stars. Entire planets were devoted to war or pleasure or rot. And one little whisper, one clown with the right toxin or joke, could make it all unravel.
He saw a legion called Luna Wolves, proud and bold — their Primarch Horus, yet unbroken, yet unaware. Joker tilted his head.
"Oh, you'll be fun."
He saw the Custodes, shining giants. The Sisters of Silence, silent warriors. The Primarchs, gods among men. So many pieces… so many to break.
He could feel it now. Power in him. Magic. Gifts. Laughter that cut. Pleasure that bled. Visions that warped.
"Maybe it's time I started a little joke," he whispered. "A virus. A whisper. A twist. Let the punchline be Chaos."
He did not yet see that Tzeentch planned the rivals not only to challenge him… but to change him.
He did not see that Nurgle's silence was a seed, watching whether Joker would wither or bloom.
He did not see that Slaanesh saw him not as a champion, but a mirror — a creature of sensation, unchained.
He did not see that Khorne simply wanted to test his spine.