CHAOS PRIME THE BLOOD DEAMON

He was mortal once. A warlord of the outer marches - a man who led armored columns through pacification campaigns so brutal that his own commissariat stopped filing reports. Because the details made the censors sick. Twelve worlds fell under his command. Twelve worlds of compliant, subjugated silence. And every night he knelt on the blood-wet ground and felt something watching him from inside the quiet. It spoke in pulse. In the rhythmic crash of a heartbeat that was not his own. It did not promise him power - it promised him completion. The armor he wore began to fuse to his ribs. His officers noticed but said nothing. His skin cracked along lines that looked deliberate, like something underneath was being measured for a new shape. When the chains appeared - growing from the shoulder plates, link by link, each one ending in a skull that had not been there the night before - his command staff finally understood what they were serving alongside. The ascension came on the thirteenth wo