There was no sense of falling. No gravity pulling him down, no rushing air to bite at his fur, no sense of direction at all. It was as though he had been swallowed whole by the Warp, the chaos of the battlefield replaced with an endless expanse of color and noise that defied all reason.

  The void around him pulsed and shifted, alive in ways that made his stomach churn. Rivers of liquid light flowed across a sky that couldn’t possibly exist, splitting apart into jagged streams of raw energy before knitting themselves back together in patterns that defied comprehension. Stars screamed in the distance—horrible, agonized wails that pierced his ears and echoed in his mind. Planets collapsed and reformed in the span of seconds. Every law of the universe he’d ever known was twisted, broken, and mocked in this place.

  For a brief, flickering moment, Servius wondered if he was dead. If this was what came after life, some perverse afterlife shaped by the capricious gods he’d spent so long fighting against. The thought made his claws twitch.

  No. Not dead. Not yet.

  The Cat closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, forcing himself to think, to feel, to ground himself in the fleeting sense of his own body. His ears twitched at the distant, alien whispers that licked at the edges of his mind. They were faint but insidious, their tones sweet yet venomous, tempting him to let go, to drift.

  "Focus, damn it," he growled to himself, his voice raw and guttural. It sounded wrong in the air—too loud, as if the very atmosphere was amplifying it for its own amusement. His tail lashed instinctively, seeking balance even though there was no ground beneath him, no air, no sense of up or down.

  And then the falling began.

  It started as a slow tug, as though the Warp itself had decided to drag him somewhere specific. The tug grew stronger, became a pull, and then a force so overwhelming it felt like his body was being torn apart and reassembled mid-flight. The swirling colors and lights around him intensified, shapes emerging from the madness: clawed hands, shifting faces, writhing tentacles, and things that defied categorization. They reached for him, their forms flickering in and out of existence, their intentions clear: they wanted him.

  Servius twisted midair—or whatever passed for air in this place—his arms extending instinctively. One of the shapes lunged toward him, a mass of mouths and limbs that oozed with translucent ichor. He lashed out with his claws, the mechanical ones of his right arm slicing through the creature with a satisfying hiss. The thing screeched, collapsing into a puddle of liquid light before being absorbed back into the void.

  The Cat snarled, his power knife drawn now, its faint hum comforting even as the blade trembled in his grip. More shapes swarmed toward him, their gibbering whispers filling his ears as they clawed and writhed. His tail lashed again as he twisted and slashed, carving a desperate path through the madness.

  But no matter how many he struck down, there were always more.

  With a sudden, bone-shaking jolt, Servius hit something solid. Pain exploded through his body as he skidded across a surface that felt like broken glass and wet stone, his armor scraping loudly against it. He came to a halt on his side, gasping for breath as his vision swam with colors that didn’t belong.

  For a moment, he simply lay there, his chest heaving as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. His rifle was still slung across his back, the familiar weight reassuring against the unsteady rhythm of his heart. His twin bolt pistols were still holstered, and his power knife was clenched tightly in his hand. The tactile reality of his weapons grounded him, even as everything else felt utterly wrong.

  Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his knees. His sharp eyes scanned the landscape—or what passed for one.

  The ground beneath him was black and slick, glistening as if coated in oil. It shifted slightly under his weight, almost like it was breathing. In the distance, jagged spires of bone jutted upward into a sky that churned with violent hues of green and purple. Rivers of molten light carved erratic paths through the landscape, their surfaces bubbling and hissing.

  The air tasted bitter, metallic, and heavy. Every breath felt like it weighed him down, as though the atmosphere itself was trying to crush him.

  "Where... in the Throne’s name... am I?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

  He already knew the answer. This was the Warp. Not some fleeting manifestation of it spilling into the Materium, but the true, unfiltered heart of it. He’d been thrown into the very belly of the beast.

  The sky rippled, and the whispers began again. They were louder now, no longer distant, no longer content to linger at the edges of his mind. They came from everywhere and nowhere, overlapping voices that spoke in languages he couldn’t understand—and yet somehow did.

  “Servius...” one whispered, its tone honeyed and cruel.

  “Poor little cat,” another hissed, its voice like the scraping of claws on metal.

  “Alone. Forgotten. Abandoned.”

  He snarled, shaking his head violently as though the motion could dislodge the voices. “Silence,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous. “I don’t have time for this.”

  The whispers laughed. It wasn’t a sound, not really—it was a sensation that crawled under his skin, a vibration in his skull.

  “You have all the time in the galaxy, Felinid,” one said, its tone mocking. “Time flows differently here. Or does it flow at all?”

  Servius clenched his fists, his claws scraping against his palms. He forced himself to stand, his tail lashing behind him as he turned in a slow circle, scanning for threats. The whispers continued, but he ignored them, focusing instead on his surroundings.

  The landscape was vast and empty, but he could feel it watching him. Every shadow, every jagged spire, every bubbling river of light—it all seemed alive, pulsing with a malevolent awareness. He was being observed, studied.

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  "Good," he muttered, his voice a quiet snarl. "Let them watch. They shall see what I can complete."

  With no clear direction, Servius began to walk. The ground squelched beneath his boots, the oily surface clinging to his soles with every step. He kept his rifle slung across his back, his power knife held low but ready in his hand. His slitted eyes scanned the horizon, watching for movement.

  He had no map, no plan, no idea where he was going. But standing still wasn’t an option. If he was going to survive this place, he needed to move. To find shelter. To find answers.

  The whispers continued, growing softer but never truly fading. The landscape shifted subtly as he walked, the spires of bone seeming to bend and twist toward him as if drawn to his presence. The rivers of light bubbled louder, their surfaces rippling as though something swam beneath them.

  Time. Time didn’t exist here.

  Servius had walked for what could have been hours, or days, or maybe mere moments. The concept was slippery, elusive, and every attempt to grasp it slipped through his claws like water. His augmetic forearm’s internal chronometer was useless; it stuttered and blinked, its readings shifting at random, as if mocking the very idea of measurement.

  "Great," the Cat muttered under his breath, his tail flicking irritably behind him. "Even the machine spirits hate this place."

  The landscape was relentless in its cruelty. Spires of jagged bone loomed ever closer, their warped shapes seeming to twist and writhe when he wasn’t looking. The rivers of molten light reflected the impossible sky above—an endless swirl of green and violet that churned like a stormy ocean. Every step brought new sights, new horrors: writhing figures trapped beneath the surface of the rivers, screaming silently as their forms melted into the current; clouds that bled crimson rain, their shapes resembling faces locked in eternal torment; and distant, incomprehensible structures that seemed to shift in and out of existence, never solid, never reachable.

  Servius’s boots squelched against the oily ground, and he glanced down at the viscous substance clinging to his soles. It was thick and dark, with the consistency of tar, yet it shimmered faintly, reflecting colors that didn’t exist. He crouched, dipping a single gloved finger into the substance, only for it to ripple and pull away from his touch. It recoiled as though alive, retreating from his presence before settling back into its usual stagnant form.

  "Not worth figuring out," he muttered, standing up and moving on. "That way lies madness."

  The whispers had quieted, for now. The silence that replaced them was somehow worse.

  Every sound Servius made felt magnified. The scrape of his boots against the ground, the faint hum of his power knife, the soft, involuntary flick of his tail—it all echoed unnaturally, as though the Warp itself was amplifying his presence. The absence of other noises—no wind, no rustling, no life—pressed down on him like a physical weight.

  He tried to keep his thoughts focused. Survival was a practical matter, and practical problems had practical solutions. Shelter, food, water—these were his priorities. But as he trudged through the ever-shifting landscape, it became painfully clear that none of those things existed here in any conventional sense.

  The concept of thirst tickled the back of his throat, though he hadn’t actually consumed anything since arriving. His body didn’t seem to need sustenance—not yet, at least—but the absence of it gnawed at his psyche. He could almost feel the weight of an empty canteen on his hip, even though he knew it was full.

  He caught himself staring at the rivers of molten light for longer than he should have. The way the liquid swirled and pulsed was almost hypnotic, its glow flickering with an unspoken promise. Drink, it seemed to whisper. Drink, and be free.

  "Yeah, that’s not happening," Servius muttered, turning away sharply. His tail lashed once, a sharp gesture of irritation and self-discipline. He wouldn’t fall for it. Not yet.

  It wasn’t just the sky that changed. The ground itself seemed alive, responding to his movements in ways that defied logic. At one point, he stumbled into what appeared to be a barren, rocky wasteland. The ground was firm beneath his boots, the jagged rocks crunching underfoot. But after only a few minutes of walking, he noticed the rocks were no longer rocks—they were teeth, massive and yellowed, jutting up from the ground like the jaws of some ancient, forgotten predator.

  "Of course," he muttered dryly, his voice laced with bitterness. "Why wouldn’t the ground be trying to eat me?"

  He veered sharply to the left, putting distance between himself and the unsettling terrain. But the moment he turned, the landscape shifted again. What should have been a flat expanse of oily black morphed into a chasm, the edges crumbling away beneath his boots. He stumbled back, his claws instinctively extending as he scrambled for balance. The chasm yawned wide, its depths glowing faintly with a sickly green light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

  Servius didn’t wait to see what might emerge from the depths. He turned and ran, his boots slipping against the unstable ground as the chasm chased him, its edges expanding with every step. It was only when he reached a jagged outcropping of bone that the chasm stopped, retreating back into the earth as though it had never existed.

  He doubled over, panting, his claws gripping the bone for support. His ears twitched, scanning for sounds, but the landscape had gone silent again. The chasm was gone, the teeth were gone, and the ground beneath him had returned to its oily, shifting state.

  "Calm," he muttered to himself, his voice low and deliberate. "It wants you to panic. Don’t give it the satisfaction."

  As he continued walking, Servius began to notice something strange—or stranger than usual, at least. The rivers of molten light weren’t just reflecting the sky above. They were reflecting… him.

  At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. But the more he looked, the more he realized the figures in the reflection weren’t mirroring his movements. They were acting independently, as though they were living things, separate from him but shaped like him.

  One of the reflections looked up at him, its feline eyes glowing faintly in the molten current. It tilted its head, mimicking a gesture he’d made hours ago. Then it smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that exposed too many teeth.

  Servius sighed, stepping back from the edge of the river. "Alright. Not looking at that again."

  But he couldn’t stop glancing at the reflections as he walked. They followed him, their movements out of sync but always watching. They whispered to him in voices he couldn’t hear, their mouths moving silently as they grinned and shifted in the molten flow.

  The Warp wasn’t just a place. It was alive. It was watching him, reacting to him, testing him. Every step he took, every decision he made—it all fed into the landscape, shaping it, twisting it.

  The realization made his fur bristle. The Cat paused, staring out at the horizon where the bone spires jutted up like jagged teeth. He tightened his grip on his blade, claws scraping against the hilt.

  "Trying to break me?," he asked aloud, his voice steady but edged with defiance. The air around him rippled in response, the landscape shifting subtly. The spires seemed to lean toward him, as though drawn to his voice.

  "Good luck with that," he growled.

  But even as he spoke the words, he felt the weight of the place pressing down on him. The Warp didn’t need to rush. It had all the time in existence, and it would wear him down piece by piece, moment by moment.

  Servius clenched his fists, his tail flicking behind him. He wouldn’t give in. Not to this place, not to the whispers, not to the warped reflections that mocked him. He would survive.

  He didn’t know how, or for how long. But he would.