In the past, "Dark Truth" had another name, served different purposes, and followed different paths. After the Chaos Space Marine captured the ship, much changed. The vessel spent almost all its time in the warp, occasionally surfacing near rare worlds in the Ocean of Terror. The ship had been to places whose names the citizens of the Imperium dared not speak aloud.
The journeys left their marks, with dozens of scars and marks on the hull, but the worst damage the ship received was from within. Constant sorcery from Amon and the leaking Geller field turned the vessel into a haven for corruption. While relative order prevailed on the upper decks, aside from the ominous whispers and sudden temperature shifts, the lower levels were where the warp showed its true nature.
The walls were overgrown with flesh, covered in a viscous slime. Eyes, following every motion with a cloudy gaze, and wailing mouths occasionally pierced through the flesh. It pulsed in a jagged, hypnotic rhythm, transforming the corridors into a nightmarish mockery of intestines. From the ceiling hung living chains with razor-sharp bone hooks that snatched the unwary and tore them to pieces.
The flickering lamps did little to dispel the sticky darkness, only emphasizing it. At times, they would flare brightly, blinding visitors, only to dim again, plunging the deck into even thicker darkness. Occasionally, a person who entered here would mistake the blinking lights for lamps, realizing their mistake only when a toothy maw opened beneath them.
The crew, whether they were horned mutants, ordinary deserters, or slaves, never descended without urgent need. Besides Amon, few dared enter the warp-tainted area, and even fewer returned from it.
Ominous shadows, darker than darkness itself, danced on the walls. Hoarse breathing and the clopping of hooves echoed from dead ends and narrow service rooms. Foul vapors rose from air vents and grilles, taking the form of transparent figures. An unprepared person could survive here for no more than a minute, devoured by predatory bulkheads or insatiable lesser demons.
But the sorcerer was perfectly fine with it. His perverse mind relished the corruption. The stale air, filled with demonic filth, offered visions of future glory. In the black veins of the flesh, the sorcerer could read the webs of fate, both of mortals and entire worlds. He could stand before particularly interesting tangles for hours, contemplating the wisdom of the warp and predicting the coming events through the flow of viscous blood.
The mysterious voices that echoed from everywhere often carried important information, about both unreliable allies and hated enemies. More than once, this had saved the sorcerer's life. During the defense of Nihilius, Amon managed to predict the defeat of the Putrid Armada in time and switched sides. An unexpected warp surge scattered the Nurgle worshippers' fleet, ensuring an easy victory for the sleek ships of the Children of the Emperor.
Before landing on Zarenzeb, where he had been invited by a former legionary of the Thousand Sons, supposedly to plan a joint raid, the sorcerer listened intently to the incoherent words uttered by slobbering mouths.
Eventually, he ordered a retreat, leaving the demonic realm at maximum speed. And he was right. His comrade turned out to be the host for a great demon of Tzeentch, who consumed the souls of the most powerful psykers. By changing his mind about landing, Amon saved himself from a fate far worse than death.
A few years ago, he had inhaled the foul smoke and sacrificed dozens of slaves, after which he was able to discern the frantic screams coming from the southern end of the lower decks. The Segmentum Avantis was under attack by an unstoppable Waaagh! of Ghazghkull Thraka, and Imperial forces were rushing to the area, exposing entire star systems. Amon bypassed the Imperial defenses and single-handedly ravaged several planets. The souls of the humans were claimed by the Thousand Faces, and Amon earned himself a portion of new mutations.
The sorcerer knew the importance of the lower decks couldn't be overstated. There was another important reason why Amon spent so much time here. In this cursed place, magic gained unique power, and it was here that the sorcerer had built his sanctuary. Micro-cracks in reality allowed the immaterium to seep through, acting as a peculiar fuel for forbidden rituals and unholy incantations.
And although the sorcery slowly decayed the ship, spreading like rot, Amon was unconcerned. He generously spent the warp's power on his own needs, without thinking about the consequences, unaware that his irresponsibility would soon play a cruel trick on him.