Its mind cleared, purged of the dark seduction that had been Morgoth's lure, the insidious whispering corruption of the Lord of Angband. Its first thoughts shifted to spring. In the ancient days, when Arda was newly formed, it had embodied the spirit of spring and warmth. But then, the dark influence had arrived, weaving whispers and songs, tempting and luring its will into the shadows. It turned away from Eru, drawn into the abyss of malice that Melkor's promises offered. Its dreams became nothing more than visions of war, death, and blood, engulfed by an unending veil of shadow and fire. Spring and warmth, once familiar, became distant concepts, dreams it feared would never return. The power it once commanded was lost, its spirit forever diminished by the poison of malice.
Its mind cleared, a consequence of its spirit growing stronger, absorbing the pure essence of power that came from a realm of souls, just within reach. Its senses gradually returned, although the shadow and flame that enveloped it did not wane; both elements had become so deeply interwoven with its being that any alteration was now utterly impossible. It was, and forever would be, an entity of malice. Never again could it lay claim to be an aspect of spring and harvest and warmth. Nevertheless, without Morgoth's insidious influence, its will was now its own. Its weapons and power served only its own purpose; it had no master.
The Balrog roared, unleashing the fullness of its power upon the gnats that dared to assault its beautiful form. Smoke, shadow, and fire spewed out of its body in great waves, melting and burning the metal men in metal boxes, their dreadful structures and effigies burning to dust. Those caught in its power did not even have a moment to scream in pain as their flesh and souls alike were seared to ashes. The world shook around it. Mountains cracked apart and fell. And great and deep furrows were carved upon the very earth, from which spewed great founts of molted magma.
This wasn't Arda, it realized. This was an entirely different world, beyond the light of Eru, beyond the Valar, and its sibling Maiar; this was a world where it and only it can sing the song of creation, a world where it was unmatched.
Just as the thought passed its eldritch mind, the Balrog felt a flicker of power – one both familiar and alien all the same. It was a sliver, it knew, a sliver of the Flame Imperishable. The Balrog reared its head southward, somewhere in the vast distance, across a seemingly endless battlefield, unlike anything it'd ever seen before, and began marching. The world itself seemed to buckle and bend in its presence. It shrugged off the metal bits and puny weapons launched at it by the mortals around it, small ones and big ones in strange armors, and even ones upon big metal boxes. They were all insects, unfit to be in its presence, and so tiny that they simply no longer mattered. To destroy them was beneath its divine self.
And so, it sang them out of existence, erasing them so utterly and so completely that it was as though they never existed at all.
What power it lost in doing so, the Balrog simply recovered by drinking from the well of souls.
The Reaper Form was... incredible. It was more power than any I'd felt before. Not even the awesome biology of an Astartes could compare; I didn't think anything could. But there was a price and I did not want to pay it; I'd nearly lost myself in its tide, an endless storm of violence and death. It was only my faith in the Emperor that stayed my mind and kept me from falling into the abyss. It was too much power, untamed and uncontrolled, given the form of the Grim Reaper itself, the very personification of the end of all things. With the scythe, I carved through tanks and armies as easily I could cut down tall grasses in an open field; they were nothing – less than insects. I was invincible; none of their weapons affected me, including the ones that would've vaporized even Astartes.
The power it offered was addicting – dangerous. It made me want for more. It made me want to stay in the Reaper Form for as long as I could. The lesser part of me figured it was a good idea to absorb as many souls as I can, specifically so I could maintain the Reaper Form. The better part of me knew what became of those who succumbed to addiction and excess. I would not be one of them. Strangely, the Reaper Form did have the ability to absorb [Warp Energy] from each enemy it killed, which was why I was able to stay in that form for a while, but it burned through [Warp Energy] much faster than it could replenish it.
When I was certain that I'd fully destroyed the traitors and heretics, I immediately unequipped the [Mask of Death] and sent it right back into my [Inventory]. By then, it had absorbed more or less every last drop of [Warp Energy] I had, leaving only a scant few points.
Eh, no big deal; [Warp Energy] really wasn't of much use to me.
I found myself somewhere in the outskirts of the ruined city, a wasteland of death and carnage all around me, corpses and corpses and corpses, an entire field of them, the ground drenched in crimson. I stood up and found that all the blood had made the soil muddy, clinging to my boots. The mother and her child were nowhere to be seen. I hoped they escaped the carnage; I'd done all that for their sake, after all. Hopefully, they'd find somewhere to hide in until the Imperium came and retook Praxtor from the Heretics, who were honestly not doing a very good job of conquering the planet if I was being honest.
With all the immediate threats dead or dying, I figured it was time to move on and make my way to the Hive City, Kuresh. I had to be more careful this time, too; that was likely the last time in a very long time I'd be making use of the [Mask of Death]. Its allure was too strong; my faith was stronger, but I wasn't going to test it unnecessarily. The power it granted was amazing, but I'd rather not count on borrowed power if I could help it; I didn't want to be dependent, strengthening my flesh but weakening my soul. More than that, I didn't want to be seen by my allies with the [Mask of Death] still on; they'd shoot me, even if the power wasn't Daemonic in nature. Besides, the [Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist] was more than enough to handle most enemies; I just had to avoid roaming armies whenever possible.
The explosions in the distance told me I had to hurry. The Hive City's shields were holding, but they couldn't and likely wouldn't hold forever. There was... something else, too, a presence that seemed almost connected to me; it was far away, too far for me to even begin to guess where it was, but it was there. Was this the curse that came with the boon? I had no idea what Balrog was, but this was probably it. I wondered, briefly, if it would also inadvertently end up fighting the Heretic Forces. As I turned and jogged, I offered a quick prayer to the God Emperor for reinforcements – for salvation. This world needed it.
I found no other enemies or survivors as I jogged out of the ruins. There was nothing for me to salvage, either, as the Reaper Form destroyed just about everything that I would've been interested in taking for myself – a few extra grenades and charge packs never hurt, but I had no immediate need for them, either. Even the armored vehicles, which would've been somewhat useful as literal weights I could drop on the heads of my enemies – as I'd done with that Daemon – had been sliced to useless pieces.
My ears perked up, catching a very distant sound that I would've otherwise not noticed if I hadn't spliced Astartes senses with my own. I turned my head northward and my eyes widened. There were... things, blazing and roaring, dropping from the sky like meteorites. But I knew what they were; every single guardsman knew what they were.
Drop Pods.
Astartes Drop Pods.
There were hundreds of them, surging across the open skies like fiery teardrops.
I could only hope that these were from loyalist forces and not more heretics.
Regardless, none of the drop pods would land anywhere close to me. If I had to guess, the Astartes, traitorous or otherwise, were headed to where the fighting was thickest and bloodiest, the places where carnage reigned supreme. There were likely still plenty of battlefields across Praxtor, pockets of resistance and isolated battalions that refused to surrender to despair or turn to heresy. My heart bled for them; I wanted to go out there and join my brothers and sisters, but the STC had to be delivered to a Tech-Priest and its importance was of greater magnitude than everything else. After all, this wasn't about me; this was about humanity and the Imperium.
So, I trudged onward. The path ahead was muddy and barren, filled with rotting corpses and ruined vehicles. There were bodies lying about everywhere, including even the cadavers of Traitor Astartes, likely killed by precise artillery shots that cracked open their power armors. There was nothing for me to absorb or send to my [Inventory], unfortunately, everything around me was burnt out and ruined; there was nothing here, but death and decay. So, I moved on and made my way further onward. The city became clearer with every step, but so did the heretics' siege lines, rows upon rows of Earthshaker Cannons and tents and horrific effigies and symbols and all manner of ill-things I'd expected to find amdist the traitorous lot. The Traitor Astartes kept themselves away from the otherwise mundane heretics, gathering near what I assumed were armories and depots.
There were so many people there that blending in wouldn't be a problem. The heretics did not seem to maintain any semblance of order as they devolved into orgies and gruesome spectacles, while Astartes looked on in silence. And it helped that many of them wore flak armor, likely looted from the bodies of my fallen brethren; the very thought made my blood boil, but taking on hundreds of millions of heretics, no matter how tempting, was just plain suicide, even if I had full [Warp Energy] reserves to make use of the [Mask of Death].
The siege lines stretched on for miles and miles; getting to Kuresh itself would be a challenge as I'd have to cross an endlessly vast expanse of land, constantly bombarded by artillery shells and likely littered with minefields and other traps. Whatever the case, I'd need find a way in before the void shields went down and the traitors and heretics made their push; I had to.
I walked right into the heretic camp and strode in like I was one of them. And no one noticed. Not a single eye turned to me. Nothing. By the Emperor, this was idiotic. Not even the Traitor Astartes, distant they may have been, reacted; they stood there – menacingly.
Just as I took a step forward, the ground shook and the blood red sky darkened. The artillery fire halted and silence reigned supreme as the very world itself held its breath. Even the raucous noise of the traitors and heretics ceased. All eyes turned to the east, where a great shadow loomed, casting a great winged darkness upon the very clouds. There was something moving in the sky, I realized, something massive. The shaking of the ground intensified. I fell down. And my eyes widened as the distant mountains simply crumbled and cracked apart into dust. The Earthshaker Cannons turned and began firing into the great shadow, but not even a hundred thousand shells, all detonating at once, seemed to do anything to the behemoth that lumbered closer and closer.
The crimson of the sky receded around it, replaced by ash and smoke and fire.
It wasn't a Daemon. I felt nothing of the perverted malignance I felt from the Daemon whose essence I absorbed. This was different. Its power and presence was both pure and evil at once.
"You must be the Balrog..." So, this was the curse I got from the ring?