When Abaddon led two thousand Justaerin Terminator down in a landing craft to land on Planet Five, scorched earth met his eyes.
Smoke billowed across the surface, and the battlefield was filled with the scorching smell of sulfur.
On the black carbonized layer, the varying footprints of Space Marines trampled out distinct and mottled patterns.
On the outskirts of the continental-scale city's core ring, all alien buildings had been pushed over and crushed to pieces, without the slightest mercy or soft-heartedness.
Leading his Legion brothers, he saw the Legion garrison standing tall upon the scorched earth.
The brother Legion, adept at siege warfare, was equally skilled in construction.
Ten kilometers away from the city, the Iron Warriors had built a temporary base to serve as a forward springboard for their offensive.
At the rear gate of the base, the alloy gates slowly half-opened, and a black banner embroidered with an off-white iron helmet fluttered in the scorching wind.
Abaddon narrowed his eyes, gazing at those Space Marines clad in the original steel color of Power Armor, with black and yellow hazard warning stripes painted on their greaves and shoulder guards.
The Fourth Legion.
After the Primarch Perturabo returned, he named it the Iron Warriors.
"Please follow me."
The Legion emissary stood before Abaddon with a heavy voice, having to look up to gaze at the visitor.
Due to the characteristics of their gene seed, the Iron Warriors Legion Warriors were not as tall and burly as their cousins.
Their builds were stout and powerful, naturally suited for trench warfare and even more brutal battlefields.
Abaddon kept up with the guide, waving a hand to signal his Legion brothers to follow him.
Two thousand Justaerin Terminator stepped with heavy paces, walking into the forward base under the silent and icy gazes of the Iron Warriors.
"We don't seem to be welcome."
Inside the comms of the Justaerin Terminator, a Luna Wolves warrior said with extra care, "There is a hint of covert hostility in our cousins' eyes."
"Say no more."
A Legion brother whispered, "Our arrival was inherently unwelcome, snatching away the glory that originally belonged to the Iron Warriors."
"This is the joint decision of the two Primarchs."
The warrior's tone was deep and full of disdain, "We will not defy Wolf-God, nor can they oppose the Lord of Iron."
"Might as well convert the hostility toward our allies into fury against the xenos."
"If not for the Iron Warriors failing to take the city after a long siege, we wouldn't have come to help them."
"Watch your words!"
The final captain's low roar silenced the chatter within the comms channel.
Abaddon heard the entire conversation yet did not stop it, quietly following behind the guide.
Under the gaze of hostile eyes, he quietly puffed out his chest, not feeling that his battle-brother's words were inappropriate.
Ezekiel Abaddon came from the gangs of Cthonia.
Although he had been a Space Marine for many years, his bandit habits were a brand he could never erase.
The capable rise, the mediocre step aside, the incompetent fall, and the inferior are eliminated!
This was the survival rule of Cthonia.
Since the Iron Warriors could not take the city after a long siege, then let the Luna Wolves come, and let the boots of the Justaerin trample the xenos!
The Terminator' queue halted, and Abaddon walked into the field command room alone, seeing the person in charge of ground operations.
As it happened, that person also turned back to look at him.
Abaddon saw that the Legion Warrior before the command console was clad in heavy Terminator armor, covered entirely in chisel marks left by campaigns.
His facial features were sharp and angular, like an ancient rock face eroded by wind and frost.
A sharp glint flashed in his grayish-green eyes, exuding a chilling calculation and bitterness, and the corners of his mouth were tightly pursed out of habit, as if constantly on guard against danger.
From the Power Armor's shoulder guard markings, Abaddon learned that he was a Legion First Captain.
"Kydomor Forrix."
The Terminator stepped forward, greeting the reinforcing allies, "First Captain of the Iron Warriors Legion, from Olympia, having not been a Space Marine for very long."
"Ezekiel Abaddon."
Abaddon nodded in acknowledgment, seeing the lingering greenness on Forrix's face, and knew his cousin was not lying.
There were no surgical scars at his throat, his gene seed storage glands were not yet mature, and his gene seed was still developing.
Seeing the young warrior in a high position, Abaddon kept his expression normal, carrying courtesy and politeness, yet inwardly held a bit of contempt for Forrix.
Having just completed augmentation surgery and hailing from the Primarch's homeworld, it seemed he only served as First Captain due to the Primarch's pity.
No wonder they couldn't take the alien capital after a long siege; it turned out to be a lack of capability.
Thinking of this, Abaddon's tone grew a bit more rigid: "I have come by the Primarch's order to help you take the city."
"I have already received the Primarch's order."
Forrix nodded, a barely perceptible gleam flashing in the depths of his eyes.
Although he was still young, he was no fool.
He sensed that the Legion cousin before him, with his spiked topknot and brazen braided crest, was growing increasingly dismissive in his attitude toward him.
"Please look at these."
Suppressing the disdain in his heart, he raised a hand to guide Abaddon to the command console.
Faced with such an attitude from the allies, Forrix no longer held any psychological burden regarding the Primarch's plans.
Let the haughty Luna Wolves go meet those unimaginable xenos.
Abaddon strode over, completely unaware of the mockery quickly concealed in the depths of Forrix's eyes when the latter lowered his head.
Time ticked by second by second.
Behind the base, artillery fire shook the heavens, continuously bombarding the xenos city's shields with heavy fire suppression.
The field command room was bustling with activity.
Various intelligence reports were compiled, continuously appearing on the holographic projection, meticulously handing over information.
Abaddon looked very carefully, using a Space Marine's meticulous thinking to analyze every detail of the intelligence.
Although arrogant, he knew he bore the Legion's mission and needed to uphold the Legion's honor, so he was exceptionally earnest.
"What is this?"
Suddenly, he pointed at the holographic projection, inquiring about an anomalous piece of data.
"Seismic echo detector."
Forrix's pupils shrank slightly as he began to explain in detail, "We installed detectors that emit continuous vibration waves, using waveform feedback to construct a model of the city wall."
"Beside the city wall gate, a hollow echo appears inside the city wall. According to our analysis, there should be an engineering maintenance tunnel section there."
While earnestly explaining, he stole glances out of the corner of his eye at Abaddon, observing the latter's subtle expression of focused pleasant surprise.
A sharp glint flashed in Abaddon's eyes as he pursed his lips and asked, "Why not attack here?"
"It's a trap."
Forrix spoke the truth, "The Legion discovered the anomaly long ago. Through calculation and evaluation, I determined it is a trap left by the enemy."
"A trap?"
Abaddon looked at the childish face, the corners of his mouth curling into a sneer as he asked an unrelated question, "How many wars have you experienced?"
Ah~
Forrix sighed inwardly, answering helplessly, "I once lived on Olympia, and followed the King of Olympia to liberate that world."
He spoke very implicitly, both indicating his past experiences and explaining that he had never participated in interstellar warfare.
But he did not say that he was deeply trusted by Perturabo.
Because there was no need to explain.
The moment Abaddon despised the Iron Warriors, despising his brothers and the blood-related Legion, his conceit was beyond saving.
"I have followed Horus, serving in the Luna Wolves for over a century."
Abaddon nodded slightly, looking down condescendingly at the young warrior: "Having experienced countless wars, countless times breaking through schemes and plots, leading the Legion to glorious victories."
He stared sharply at Forrix: "Are your calculations and evaluations worthy of trust?"
"On a perilous battlefield, any slight opportunity is the critical point that decides victory or defeat."
Abaddon's declaration-like words were exceptionally heavy, stirring echoes within the command room and prompting the Iron Warriors to glare at him angrily, fires of fury burning in their eyes.
The Legion Warriors had anticipated that conflicts would arise in this joint operation, but Abaddon's contempt still angered them.
The outsider insulted the First Captain's warfare knowledge and further ignored the majesty of the Lord of Iron.
Forrix raised a hand, suppressing the anger of his Legion brothers, and forced a smile at Abaddon: "So what do you want to do?"
He would definitely not state that the crisis prediction was made by the Primarch himself, nor would he tell Abaddon that the Primarch had deleted a portion of the city wall data.
In fact, the First Captain and the Primarch had a wager.
Perturabo had said that upon seeing this inadvertent data, Abaddon would definitely make a big fuss out of it, and might even ignore advice and use the underground tunnel to attack.
Forrix had not believed it at first, thinking that a clumsy trap seen through at a glance would not catch anyone.
Yet precisely someone was going to fall for it.
And it was one of the Luna Wolves' renowned Four Lords.
Good words cannot persuade a damn ghost, especially when his arrogance was repulsive.
Abaddon lowered his voice, solemnly stating: "I am going to conduct a deep probe, construct channel graphics, and set up a surprise attack operation."
"I can provide help."
Forrix nodded in response, then shook his head in refusal, "However, if you determine that the conditions for a surprise attack are met, the Iron Warriors will not accompany you."
"I still maintain that it is a crisis, not 'danger and opportunity coexisting' as you think. I still maintain: the underground tunnel is a trap laid by the xenos, waiting to ambush us."
As the words fell, the field command room fell into silence.
The air gradually solidified, as if even data communication entered a silent mode.
The two Legions that should have advanced hand-in-hand had already produced a major conflict before their specific actions were even determined.
"Very well!"
Long after, Abaddon's rough voice pierced the stillness, his face darkening: "The Iron Warriors do not have to participate, but————"
His gaze swept past Forrix, looking around at the stout Legion Warriors left and right: "Regarding the initial assault to breach the xenos city wall, it has nothing to do with the Iron Warriors."
Forrix's tightly pursed lips relaxed as he spat out two words: "Very well."
He quietly watched Abaddon, one of the Mournival of the Luna Wolves, a highly renowned warrior of the Great Crusade.
The Legion's dazzling honors had grown heavy over the passing years.
Cast from the blood of the Astartes and revered by the people of the Imperium, it was once a symbol of pride.
Now, however, it had become a shackle, a source of arrogance; binding those who could not let it go, blinding the eyes that should discern danger.
Abaddon stood in the interplay of light and shadow, pride etched on his face. It wasn't that he hadn't sensed the danger, but he chose to ignore it.
The shackles of the Luna Wolves' honor did not permit the Legion to retreat, driving him forward like a curse.
Moreover, he still harbored a sliver of hope.
If, by some miracle, the tunnel beneath the wall truly was a defensive blind spot overlooked by the xenos, the surprise attack launched by the Luna Wolves would achieve a new, legendary feat.
"I will not have my Legion launch an attack," Forrix said. He knew he couldn't dissuade him, but he didn't want to wash his hands of it completely either.
Pointing to the heavy artillery positions behind the field camp on the holographic map, he said, "The Iron Warriors will increase the frequency of our bombardment. We will use the tremors of the artillery fire to mask the noise of your underground excavators."
"Consider it a courtesy to our reinforcements." Forrix met Abaddon's wary gaze and sighed softly. "The name of the Iron Warriors will not appear on the ledger of merit because of these shells."
Forrix was careful to distance himself and his Legion from the assault, avoiding any entanglement with the Luna Wolves.
The Justaerin's assault was doomed to fail; it was a trap of no return.
Having secured the promise of the Iron Warriors' First Captain, Abaddon nodded solemnly, a smile playing on his face which closely resembled the Primarch's. "I will go down to mobilize the men. We launch the assault in half an hour."
"You should prepare as well," he promised, patting his chest. "Once the Justaerin appear on the wall, tear down the xenos banners, and seize control of the city gates, we will let the main force of the Iron Warriors in."
"I will make preparations," Forrix nodded solemnly, saying no more to avoid further complications.
Privately, he would indeed make those arrangements.
On a rapidly shifting battlefield, nothing was set in stone.
The Justaerin Terminators possessed formidable combat power, being the elite of the elite. Perhaps they could break through the xenos trap and fight their way through the underground tunnels.
The probability was minuscule, but it was not entirely impossible.
Therefore, Forrix had to be prepared—whether to cover a retreating defeated force or to launch a general assault to breach the city.
"I will go down to arrange the assault." With the agreement made, Abaddon turned to leave.
"Wait."
Forrix's voice rang out clearly, stopping Abaddon as he was about to depart.
"Oh?" Abaddon didn't turn around, letting out a contemptuous grunt. "Have you regretted it?"
"Did you regret your decision the moment I turned my back, wishing to join the assault and march into a battle of honor alongside the Luna Wolves?"
"Not at all." Looking at the Terminator's massive back, Forrix suppressed his internal sneer and said calmly, "Take this."
With a casual toss, a teleportation beacon traced an elegant arc through the air, landing precisely in front of Abaddon.
"What is the meaning of this?" Abaddon caught it, his voice laced with sudden anger. "Are you insulting me and my Legion?"
The Terminator whipped around, his massive frame casting a heavy shadow. His hostile tone caused the nearby Iron Warriors to slightly raise their weapons.
"Do you think the mission will fail?" He held the teleportation beacon in one hand, his grip tightening as if to crush it. "And you intend to humiliate me with this?"
Abaddon's repeated insolence made Forrix's eyes turn cold. "I think you should keep it safe."
"Once your operation succeeds, you can throw it in my face and mock me for my short-sightedness and cowardice."
"Of course," he pointed at the beacon, a contemptuous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "if you use it to flee back here, I want you to remember that it was I who saved your life."
With those words, the pretense of civility was completely shattered.
The First Captains of the two Legions clashed head-on, casting a suffocating tension over the field command room.
The Justaerin accompanying Abaddon raised their arms slightly, their eyes sweeping across the command hall, fingers resting on the safety catches of their Bolters.
The Iron Warriors refused to back down. For the honor and dignity of their Legion, they raised their barrels a fraction higher, and some reached for the hilts of their power swords.
The air in the command room was suffocating. A single command would spark an immediate clash between the two Legions!
"Ha! Ha! Ha!"
The tense, explosive atmosphere was broken by a cruel, grim laugh.
Abaddon savagely grinned, hanging the beacon from his waist with a vicious tug, his voice as cold as frost: "I will take it."
With a subtle wave of his hand, he signaled his Legion brothers to lower their guard. "Once the assault is over, everything will be clear."
"Will this beacon be proof of my pathetic failure? Or the shame of your short-sightedness?"
"Either way, it has already become an indelible proof of shame between our two Legions."
"We shall see." Abaddon gave Forrix a deep, lingering look, then shifted his gaze to the towering walls projected on the holographic map. "Whether the walls crumble and you kneel to apologize to me, or I return defeated and repent my impulsiveness."
Forrix merely raised his hand in a silent gesture to show him out, saying nothing.
"Hmph!"
Heavy boots stomped against the steel floorplates, ringing with sharp metallic clangs as the Justaerin vented their inner fury with gruff, irritable grunts.
"Prepare yourselves," Forrix sneered coldly, watching the Terminators depart. "Intensify the artillery bombardment to cover the Luna Wolves' assault."
If not for the Primarch's specific instructions, he would never have given them the teleportation beacon.
After this brief interaction, Forrix felt that with Abaddon's temperament, it would be better if he died beneath the walls, sparing the galaxy from his future menace.
Unfortunately, the Primarch wanted to see exactly how Horus's most favored son would throw away the Luna Wolves' finest elite.
Once Abaddon had vanished through the doorway, several high-ranking officers who knew the truth gathered around the command console. One of them asked in a low voice, "Is it really alright to do this?"
"I do not know," Forrix shook his head. "We should not speculate on the conflicts between Primarchs."
"Will he regret it?"
someone asked softly, their voice hissing through their respirator grille.
"No!"
This time, Forrix gave a definitive answer: "He comes from Cthonia, a planet ruled by gangs."
"Gangs possess a strong gambler's nature. They love taking risks, engaging in high-risk, high-reward endeavors in exchange for a chance to strike it rich overnight."
"Ezekiel Abaddon," Forrix chuckled coldly. "He is a Space Marine draped in honor, yet he cannot wash away his gang roots."
"Beating in his chest is still the heart of a gambler looking to win big with a small stake. He has never truly changed."
"In the past, the Luna Wolves' campaigns were personally deployed and commanded by the Wolf-God. Abaddon only needed to play the role of the hot-headed vanguard; violence and impulsiveness were his sharp blades."
"Now," he paused, speaking after a brief moment of thought, "with no one to watch over him or cover his back, he has quickly reverted to his true nature."
"As a commander, impulsiveness and rage are highly undesirable traits. Those gang characteristics woven into his very soul are the driving force that will lead his Legion's elite to their graves."
"Regret?" Forrix countered dismissively. "Do gangers ever feel regret?"
"They simply lost a high-stakes gamble, and will scurry back to the gutters with their tails between their legs, waiting for the next chance to rise."
Having said this, Forrix's gaze hardened, and he added with utmost gravity, "Furthermore, I dare assert that what happened today may be the first time, but it will certainly not be the last."
"A gambler never believes they will lose, simply chalking it up to bad luck. He will not learn his lesson. Given another opportunity, he will still strike without hesitation, betting once more on a chance at victory."
As his explanation concluded, the Legion officers before the command console shook their heads.
Most of them hailed from the city-states of Olympia and had received elite educations, handpicked as outstanding talents when their Primarch returned to Terra.
Due to the vast disparity in their backgrounds, there were times when they simply could not understand the composition of other Legions.
Though they did not understand, they respected it.
"Then—"
After a brief silence, someone looked left and right before speaking up cautiously, "Will plotting against a brother Legion bring trouble? After all, we could be suspected of undermining them."
"Watch your words!"
A low growl rumbled, shaking dust from the ceiling of the field command room.
"Primarch above!" The Legion Warriors dropped to their knees in unison, offering their deepest respect.
The warrior who had questioned the Legion's actions trembled as he knelt, keeping his head bowed very low.
He had never expected his confusion to draw the attention of the Primarch, and moreover—it seemed—to have angered him.
"Did we not warn them of the danger?" a voice asked from the empty air.
"We did," the warrior replied, sweating profusely.
"Did we explain that it was a xenos trap?"
"We did."
"Then do you have any other questions?"
"No."
"Ezekiel Abaddon."
"He ignored our warnings, insisted on leading the Legion Warriors to launch a surprise attack, and is willing to bear the consequences and risks."
"Is there any problem with saying this?"
Perturabo's voice echoed through the audio-array system of the field command post, shaking the steel crevices and rattling down wisps of sand and dust.
"No problem."
"Everything is of his own doing." Kneeling on one knee, the Legion Warrior lowered his head and answered the Gene-Father:
"We have fulfilled our duty of reminding and taken our bonds into consideration. It is the Luna Wolves themselves who lack awe in the face of danger."
"Very well." A trace of mysterious amusement was wrapped in the Primarch's words, which then vanished.
Inside the command post, the Legion Warriors knelt for a long time, and only slowly stood up after realizing that the Primarch's will had departed.
They worked with lowered heads, beginning to mobilize troops into a standby state, waiting for the Justaerin to succeed in the surprise attack.
At the field base parade ground, the Terminators of the Luna Wolves were very quiet, silently preparing for the surprise operation.
The hot wind carrying grit battered against the dark bronze-colored armor, making a fine and crisp sound, adding a few more parts of solemn murderous intent to the silence.
Legion attendants bustled back and forth, checking the Power Armor servo-systems for the Legion Warriors, making final preparations before departure.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The heavy artillery fire suddenly intensified, slamming into the city shield, splashing flames and shrapnel everywhere, kicking up ripples of energy.
Abaddon nodded silently.
Despite some unpleasant conflicts between the two sides, the Iron Warriors did not break their promise; they increased the density of artillery bombardment, covering the underground surprise attack with dense artillery fire.
"My Lord." The Tech-Priest walked up and submitted a data slate to Abaddon: "We are ready."
Behind the priest, dozens of gigantic machines were neatly lined up.
The machines resembled slender metallic fish, with a huge three-layer composite drill bit at the front, their bodies covered in heavy Ceramite armor, and twin Bolters mounted on top. As a whole, they were like a low-slung, crouching steel behemoth, ready at any moment to drill through the city wall.
Termite drill. An engineering masterpiece from the Adeptus Mechanicus.
They were born for underground operations, equipped with tunneling drills to open underground passages and bypass enemy defenses.
Abaddon took the data slate, his gaze sweeping over the preparation data, a hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth, as if he had already seen the victory within easy reach through the slate.
He had never thought of failure; two thousand Justaerin Terminators were enough to trample any xenos enemy.
What if they were ambushed?
It would merely be another legendary feat of the Luna Wolves tearing apart heavy encirclements with Bolters and blades.
Returning the data slate, Abaddon's gaze swept past the camp's high walls and across the blazing semi-circular shield, raising his right hand and shouting: "Board the vehicles!"
"For Horus Lupercal!"
The Terminators raised their heavy arms, expressing their determination with the Legion warcry.
Two thousand Justaerin Terminators, divided into dozens of queues, boarded the Termite tunneling vehicles.
"Move out." The Tech-Priest's voice sounded coldly as he brought along Servitors and boarded the vehicle.
To demonstrate friendship with the Adeptus Mechanicus, most of the war machinery of the Luna Wolves Legion was operated by Adeptus Mechanicus personnel, making the two appear inseparable.
The Termite drill started up, driving in from the pre-excavated entrance and advancing toward the xenos high wall.
"Hmph!" Abaddon glanced at the command post, touched the teleport beacon at his waist, and boarded the second Termite.
He engraved this humiliation in his heart, eager to use practical actions to make Gidimor Felix kneel before him and apologize!
The Iron Warriors?
The Legion warcry "Iron Within, Iron Without"?
They were merely a group of overly cautious cowards, hesitant and indecisive, executing standard siege tactics and destined to achieve nothing.
War required a spirit of adventure!
Dozens of Termites drilled underground, leaving dark, gloomy holes behind as they drove further away with the roaring of engines.
On the surface, the artillery fire of the Iron Warriors became even denser, with ammunition usage exceeding three times that of daily bombings.
On the xenos's three-hundred-meter-high wall, the patrols of the Rangdan and the Worm-men became more frequent, and Madam Clara's figure flickered in and out of sight.
Seeing the human Legion massing outside the base and as the artillery fire intensified, they thought humans were about to launch a siege battle.
The Iron Warriors were unhurried, deploying assault formations, allocating armored forces, and quietly waiting for the final battle results from the Luna Wolves.
Deep underground, one Termite drill after another crawled through the darkness.
The Tech-Priest linked his mind to the machine, operating it cautiously so that the Termite's excavation frequency and speed achieved resonance with the surface artillery fire, evading the detection of vibration probes.
In the darkness, no one spoke, and all radios maintained silence.
Any trace of change would trigger abnormal vibration waves and be detected by those sensitive detectors.
The Terminators stood inside the Termite cabins, and even the pressure clamps that secured their bodies were wrapped in soft cloth to prevent mechanical friction sounds.
The Termites stopped and went; the distance of more than ten kilometers took a full five hours to travel.
[Approaching destination]
Cold characters appeared inside the Power Armor helmet, and the Tech-Priest replaced language with thought, materializing what he thought in his mind.
Inside the cabin of the second vehicle, Abaddon had long since put on his helmet, his thoughts converting into electronic signals: [Prepare to disembark]
Hum. Deep within the underground cave, the Termite drill just probed out of the calcium carbonate wall and immediately stopped rotating.
The giant treads all over its body exerted force, forcibly squeezing out from the hard stone wall and slowly entering the underground space.
There was no light in the cave; it was completely occupied by darkness.
The darkness shook slightly, accompanied by the rustling sounds of crawling and dripping water, which were especially clear in the dead silence.
The Termite did not turn on its lights, slowly opening its hatch to release its deadly passengers.
The pitch-black darkness had no effect on the Legion Warriors. The tactical helmets provided starlight vision, coupled with visual control organ adjustments, making the images received by their brains bright and clear.
"There are proximity mines and traps."
The Legion Warrior pointed into the distance, issuing a warning command with hand signals.
Abaddon looked in the direction pointed by his brother, and instead of being alarmed, he was delighted, the depths of his eyes tinged with the color of victory.
At the other edge of the cave, the foundation of the city wall stood there, with a square passage leading to the interior, densely covered with infrared lines and other sensors.
Seeing the sensory traps, he firmly believed that more than half of his plan had succeeded.
If there were nothing here, Abaddon would hesitate and seriously consider whether there was really an ambush.
Now, he felt somewhat fortunate instead.
The existence of proximity mines and traps proved instead that the xenos knew about this loophole and had set up a large number of early warning measures.
His early days as a gang member taught Abaddon a principle: the more heavily guarded a place was, the easier it was to be overlooked.
Because they knew there were warning devices, most of the time no one would come to patrol or conduct regular inspections.
"Tech-Priest, disable the early warnings."
"Release the servo-skulls to assist in reconnaissance."
After the pleasant surprise, Abaddon's thoughts leaped, issuing commands accompanied by hand gestures.
The assault force immediately went into action, beginning to deploy guards. The Techmarine stepped forward to help the Tech-Priest crack the sensory traps.
In the underground space, everyone entered a silent yet heated state of busyness.
The Legion Warriors stood guard around, vigilant against enemies that might appear at any time; the Tech-Priest extended his mechanical tentacles, physically connecting to the sensor warning devices, and transmitted virus codes to paralyze the security data.
They did not know that in the dark and gloomy corners of the cave, black worms were hiding in the rock crevices, staring at the sensory passage with tiny eyes.
The worms' tentacles shook regularly, silently watching everything.
[Hacking complete!]
Digital language came across; the tiny red light of the proximity mines turned green, and the infrared rays also turned green.
Abaddon scanned with the multiple visions of his tactical eyepiece, and after confirming safety, strode into the interior passage.
Sure enough, the green light did not trigger any alarms.
"Keep up!!" He raised his hand, using multiple gestures to express his inner excitement.
The Justaerin Terminators poured into the passage, little knowing that they had fallen into a terminal dead end!
The Legion Warriors moved forward slowly, the green rays brushing past the black Ceramite like gentle and harmless hands.
They walked deeper and deeper, the square passage like the giant mouth of an abyss, swallowing the neat queue bit by bit.
Abaddon was at the front of the formation, slightly raising his arm. The twin Bolters under the arm of the Cataphractii Terminator were already loaded.
The dark and quiet environment made him uneasy.
Darkness.
Inside the square corridor, it was pitch black.
In the completely pitch-black environment, green rays of light formed an intricate web as two thousand Justaerin Terminators slowly advanced.
In the quiet and eerie corridor, seepage dripped down drop by drop, accompanied by the low hum of Power Armor servo systems.
In such an oppressively extreme environment, a mortal would have long since trembled and suffered a mental breakdown.
Only Astartes, with their superhuman bodies and minds sculpted by the Emperor, could overcome humanity's fragile instincts and face the darkness with intrepid courage.
But even for Astartes, in this dark, silent, and cramped environment where they could hear their own two hearts beating, their bodies and minds still faced massive challenges.
"Something's wrong!"
At the front of the formation, the Librarian holding a psychic staff stopped in his tracks, ignoring the silence protocol to warn over the comms channel: "Everyone stop!"
The Justaerin Terminators all halted, and the dark corridor plunged into silence once more.
"You better have a good reason."
Abaddon wore an ugly expression, his hand gestures also revealing anger: "To convince me."
The Librarian gently shook his head, the sharp helmet of his Tartaros Terminator gear swaying, revealing unease with the movement: "I feel danger."
His fingers moved in rapid mudras, slightly faster than usual spell-casting, betraying his inner anxiety: "A sense of danger stemming from the depths of the soul, unique to divination-type Psykers."
Seeing the Librarian's explanation, inside his Cataphractii Terminator helmet, Abaddon's brows knitted together.
Psychic powers.
He neither liked nor trusted this transcendent power. Yet it truly existed, unfathomable and mysterious, an advantage war could not part with.
Divination Librarians were chosen from thousands to hold important posts, peering into the future from the present to point the Legion toward victory.
Out of caution, Abaddon gestured: "What did you see?"
The Librarian said no more, quietly standing in place with both hands supporting his staff before him.
Seeing his brother's action, everything went without saying.
Abaddon signaled his Legion brothers to step forward and protect the Librarian while he conducted the divination, simultaneously issuing an order to remain on guard.
The formation instantly quieted, entering defensive mode as they awaited the psychic divination to glimpse the future.
The Psyker's abnormal perception also caused several Tech-Priests to frown; as their minds whirred, they calculated future probabilities using data.
The black-armored warriors lay in wait, while bursts of chilling wind engulfed all the warriors from the front of the formation.
The temperature plummeted rapidly, white frost spreading across the ceiling of the corridor; water droplets fell and struck the Power Armor, turning into crisp cracking sounds of ice.
A trace of restlessness spread, and the warriors' calm breathing grew somewhat heavier.
A mere two minutes felt as though a long time had passed before the supernatural cold finally dissipated.
"What did you see?" Abaddon asked silently.
The gaps between the fingers of his left hand were splayed, the Terminator lightning claws gleaming with lethal edge, ready to execute the psychic Librarian at any moment.
The other Legion Warriors tacitly dispersed around the Librarian, barrels slightly raised, brimming with vigilance.
To the brotherhood of the Legion, such an act of distrust was undoubtedly a massive blow.
But vigilance was necessary, a step that could neither be omitted nor ignored.
Psychic powers were mysterious and uncontrollable; when Psykers cast psychic spells or divinations, phenomena of psychic backlash could occur.
The best course of action—kill the Psyker!
The Librarian lowered his head in silence, waiting for the purple glow in his armor gaps and eyes to dissipate, then raised his hands to sign: "Pitch blackness and nothingness."
Abaddon turned his head to look at the Librarian without speaking, his movements conveying doubt and dissatisfaction.
"There is no future in the divination; all that meets the eye is darkness."
"There is no failure or victory there, only a terrifying black hole."
"I don't understand." The Librarian's fingers folded rapidly, trembling slightly, his gestures fraught with hurried anxiety: "How could the future vanish?"
"I cannot see anything pertaining to us."
"But—" He suddenly stopped signing and tapped his chest a few times: "Here, it is spasming madly, telling me ahead lies extreme danger."
His arms lowered, and the front of the formation fell into a brief silence.
Abaddon irritably looked into the distance of the corridor; there was nothing there.
Yet he could not afford to disregard the Librarian's prophecy and warning.
Divination Psykers typically possessed powerful instincts, boasting an unimaginably keen sensitivity to crises.
With numerous brothers watching him, Abaddon pressed his lips tightly together, his fingers twitching anxiously.
In the oppressive and quiet corridor came the vibrations of ground artillery shaking the earth, along with the sound of Abaddon's gauntlets rubbing together.
As a Legion Commander, he had to make a decision.
Whether advancing or retreating, stepping into the unknown or turning away, Abaddon needed to give the Legion confidence.
After a few seconds, Abaddon no longer heeded the silence protocol, pointing deep into the corridor and saying: "Advance!"
With that, he drove his heavy Cataphractii Terminator armor forward, crushing the unmelted thin ice beneath his feet.
"Keep up." The Legion Warriors followed, and the two thousand elites set off once more.
They walked deeper and deeper, the maintenance corridor seeming endless, with no other branch roads.
"I have a very bad feeling about this." Up ahead, a Captain noticed something was amiss and looked over at Abaddon, saying: "We are like ignorant victims entering a behemoth's throat bit by bit."
Abaddon retorted: "Perhaps it is the darkness before the dawn?"
No one could answer this question.
The formation continued forward, venturing deeper still as cold, chilling auras assaulted them in waves, the temperature having plummeted below zero, with spherical ice beads condensing on the walls.
Not to mention the sensitive Psyker, even Abaddon sensed something was wrong.
"Stop." He ordered the formation to halt, his inner anxiety no longer suppressible.
"Rear guard becomes the vanguard, we are leaving here." After an internal struggle, Abaddon chose to lead his Legion brothers away.
He did not want to disregard two thousand fighting brothers for the sake of face and dignity, letting the Legion's elite be swallowed by the darkness.
These two thousand sets of Terminator armor were armaments the Primarch had prioritized from Mars through countless negotiations and deals.
If he buried them here due to recklessness and pride, he would not know how to face the Wolf-God.
Clatter~
At the command of the Justaerin lord, the Terminators immediately stopped and turned around, their movements like a spreading wave.
"We are leaving—"
As Abaddon breathed a secret sigh of relief and ordered the Legion to leave, a sudden anomaly occurred!
"Stay!" Twisted words filled with malice interrupted him.
"Madam Clara!" The Legion Warriors reacted extremely quickly, instantly identifying who the enemy was through the voice.
In an instant, the maintenance tunnel was as bright as day.
The Terminators lit up their chest and helmet lamps, the searing heat of the searchlights replacing the chilling darkness as they rapidly locked onto the enemy's position.
"Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Without any nonsense, the Terminators' formidable individual firepower tore apart the sickening laughter, leaving an endless echo of bolter rounds in the tunnel.
"Go!"
Without hesitation, taking advantage of the barrage's detonation, Abaddon decisively ordered a retreat.
Although impulsive and hot-tempered, he was not stupid.
The enemy had set a trap and could now manifest, indicating they had made thorough preparations.
"I said—"
The ethereal voice echoed within the tunnel, seeming ubiquitous, using a disdainful tone to detain those wanting to leave: "You can't leave anymore!"
Hum~
As the distorted voice fell, at the very rear of the Justaerin formation, a purple magic array suddenly lit up on the tunnel ceiling.
"Watch out!" The Librarian roared, raising his staff and concentrating his mind, wanting to disrupt the xenos' psychic sorcery.
But the change came too fast; he was powerless to stop it.
The hundred-meter-long psychic array blazed brilliantly in an instant, purple radiance engulfing everything and twisting reality into unimaginable shapes.
The sorcery was like a cleaver, severing physical connections.
The masonry at the top of the tunnel crashed down, completely blocking the retreat route without a single gap.
"Activate the transmission beacon, have the ship pull us back."
Faced with the sudden enclosure, Abaddon did not panic, calmly issuing combat instructions: "Rear is secure, the formation pays attention to the front, prevent the xenos from launching a surprise attack."
The well-trained Space Marines immediately deployed into combat formation, calmly stepping into battle positions to lay down suppressive fire against the enemy signals deep within the tunnel.
Several Librarians retreated into heavy protection, forming a magic array facing one another, using psychic powers to send a message to the warship and activate the teleporter to pull the Legion away.
The psychic fluctuations were intense, and the Librarians, in this critical juncture, cared little for preserving their own minds.
They had to make sacrifices to contact the orbital warship and initiate the teleportation.
"I said, you can't leave!"
Amidst the chaotic explosions of bolter rounds, that malicious voice remained crystal clear, like a maggot on tarsal bones.
Its owner was hidden in the shadows, manipulating the battlefield with psychic power.
Bang!
As the words fell, a muffled explosion rang out within the heavy protection; a Librarian's chest suddenly burst open, supernatural organs and flesh spraying out, his blood staining the psychic array red as he fell.
The psychic array instantly lost equilibrium, the other Librarians suffering backlash, blood seeping from the respirator grilles of their helmets.
"No!"
The Chief Librarian roared, looking up toward the tunnel ceiling, his hoarse voice filled with unwillingness.
The Librarian roared with reluctance, sounding like the wail of a snuffed-out hope.
At the vault of the tunnel, a dark purple began to spread, gradually outlining a massive rune circle.
The Space Marine abruptly raised his head, only to realize that if the dark parts of the irregularly crawling moss were removed, they formed an intricately arranged array.
"They have cut off the psychic signal, we can no longer connect to the outside world!"
The Justaerin Chief Librarian took off his helmet, blood foam staining his face red. He was already bleeding from all seven orifices and was mentally listless.
After issuing their final warning, several Librarians closed their eyes, gathering their shattered mental strength to raise a psychic shield.
Protecting their battle-brothers was the only thing they could do now.
What now?
Abaddon's chest heaved violently, a chill tightly gripping his heart. Cold sweat slid down his forehead into his eye sockets, stinging him with a sour pain.
Retreat cut off! Path ahead blocked! Complete system failure!
Various adverse factors came one after another, and the situation took a sharp turn for the worse.
Two thousand Justaerin elites, trapped in this cramped space, had already become fish in a barrel.
Behind them was a hundred-meter-thick city wall blocking the way, which current firepower could not dig through.
Although communications were cut off, with such a commotion, the backup forces should notice very soon and then take rescue measures.
But that was under ideal conditions.
The aliens had laid a trap, and the backup forces were likely unable to protect themselves.
"Forward!" Abaddon gritted his teeth and roared, pointing to the psychic shield a thousand meters away, "We only have one choice—break through the alien encirclement!"
"Our retreat is cut off, and the path ahead is our lifeline!"
"For Lupercal!" the Legion Warrior let out a roar.
Abaddon was right; the only lifeline was to break through the enemy's direction and leave the psychic blockade zone.
Rumble. Two thousand Terminators charged like a torrent of steel, their boots stepping out heavy drumbeats as they rushed toward the alien psychic barrier.
The path of the charge was accompanied by the glow of shields and death.
Iron-Rider Terminators took turns at the front, using heavy armor and deflection shields to bear the firepower, their steps not wavering in the slightest.
Their enemy was right ahead!
Three hundred Madam Claras, along with many Rangdan and Worm-men.
The aliens united to form a composite defense line, attempting to block the Legion to death in the tunnel.
Plasma pierced through the deflection shields, melting the Ceramite armor and adamantium skeletons, instantly vaporizing the Space Marines' bodies.
Bio-rays were omnipresent, penetrating the interior along armor gaps, shutting down superhuman organs and eroding muscles.
Most terrifying of all were Madam Clara's flintlocks; Warp shards carved out conspicuous purple glows, hitting the shields and bursting into instantaneous Warp rifts.
Requiring only a few shard bullets, the formidable Terminators would be torn apart like waste paper.
Legion brothers fell one by one by his side, Abaddon's eyes splitting with rage.
"Watch your step."
The bantering voice came again. Five hundred meters away, Madam Clara extended a finger, signaling the human soldiers to watch their step.
"Get down!" the Tech-Priest screamed, hitting the ground at top speed, his remaining biological eye trembling with horror, "The code for the mines and trap devices has been overwritten, they deliberately left loopholes."
As the words fell, the green passable markers instantly turned into a glaring red.
"Get down!"
"Get down!"
Cries of sorrow rang out one after another in the communication channel. Under the wave after wave of attacks, the Legion Warriors experienced repeated message transmissions.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The mines in alert status were triggered, and violent explosions swept over!
Fire flared everywhere in the tunnel and smoke soared into the sky. The explosion impact rolled wantonly, with extreme shockwaves crushing against each other.
Detonating mines in such a cramped space was not most lethally about shrapnel, but the shockwave pressure abruptly confined and repeatedly crushed by the rock walls.
On the ground, Abaddon lay prone in a sorry state. In his ears were the rapid alarms of the Iron-Rider Terminators' armor, and his limbs were locked firmly to the ground by immense pressure.
He bit through his gums, tears of blood mixed with regret streaming from his crimson eyes.
He hated his own impulsiveness for burying the Legion's elites, and regretted not heeding the advice of the Iron Warriors.
In this tragic wave of explosions, eight hundred battle-brothers lost their life signals.
Only a very small number of them were blown to death, and more were crushed to death alive inside their Power Armor by the pressure.
The Power Armor that should have protected them became iron coffins burying them!
"Get up!" Abaddon roared in grief and anger, driving his Power Armor to stand up from the ground, "Keep charging, smash the enemy while taking advantage of the smoke and chaos."
"Break through the aliens' direction and avenge our Legion brothers!"
"Avenge the Legion brothers!" the warriors shouted, quickly forming up and rushing toward the purple mist in the smoke.
"Heh~ Heh~"
A chuckle sounded from the smoke and dust, followed by heart-wrenching words: "How laughable."
"This clumsy trap was originally meant only to lure and kill your scouts, yet I never expected it to net a group of human elites."
"Your invincible Primarch actually couldn't see through this trap?"
Abaddon's face flushed red, and the Justaerin felt deeply humiliated.
The aliens were not only shattering flesh, but also wearing down the Space Marines' spirits with malicious prophecies.
Yet they could not refute it.
"Let's add some more flavor for you!" The sneering stopped, replaced by even more unbridled mockery: "Treat our guests well."
"Careful." The Librarian weakly gave a hint: "I sense a psychic burst."
Psychic brilliance burst in the smoke and dust, and several portals tore reality right above the Terminators' formation, as over two hundred ferocious Madam Claras roared and swooped down.
Their wings were spread wide, and four arms moved simultaneously as they dived toward the human soldiers.
Psychic spells, high-frequency oscillating blades, and shard flintlocks—multiple weapons struck in concert.
The strength possessed by Madam Clara was far from being matched by Space Marines.
Moreover, in the cramped environment, the Terminator formation could not deploy, unable to leverage the advantage of ranged firepower.
The slaughter had begun!
The proud reaction speed of the Space Marines could not keep up with Madam Clara, and aiming could not predict their trajectory.
The heavy Terminator Power Armor, having lost ranged firepower and defense advantages, were just sluggish iron coffins.
Flesh and blood flew everywhere, and Legion Warriors were cut in half at the waist in rows, their upper bodies still stubbornly firing.
Blood flowed like rivers, set after set of superhuman organs shut down, and the plasma splashed into the smoke and dust even caused the dust to begin settling.
Madam Clara came and went traceless in the dust, suddenly attacking like a phantom, stirring up a storm of slaughter, and then leaving behind mockery as they departed.
The arrogant Space Marines were like helpless lambs in the fog, waiting for the monsters to come and slaughter them.
"Forward! Forward!"
Abaddon was covered in tears, watching helplessly as the battle-brothers on the formation icons dimmed and withered one by one.
His mind was torn by remorse and guilt, and the dying screams and wails of his brothers were like demonic sounds entering his ears, flaying his soul inch by inch.
With foolish wrong decisions compounded by a battle of pride, he buried thousands of Justaerin elites.
But now, Abaddon could only move forward, continuously moving forward!
Aside from advancing, he could find no other lifeline: to lead his Legion brothers away from this premeditated slaughterhouse.
"Let's add some more flavor for you!"
Madam Clara's frantic laughter came over, venting the resentment of being besieged, the distorted voice extremely joyful: "With your deaths, avenge The Primordial!"
Through covert means, Madam Clara knew what had happened on the third planet.
The Primordial being captured by humans was a supreme humiliation for Madam Clara's race.
Unable to take direct revenge, they could only slaughter human soldiers with cruel methods to regain some comfort and face.
Along with the clamor of the Madam Clara old one, portals opened once more, and grayish-black fluid poured down.
"It's shaping cement!" a Legion Warrior shouted, his tactical helmet analyzing the fluid composition.
"Space Marines!" Madam Clara screamed excitedly, clapping her arms happily: "Die with full of reluctance and humiliation!"
Having said that, its appendages gripped psychic brilliance and thrust upwards fiercely, a huge stone wall blocking out all sight.
Madam Clara's malice exceeded ordinary imagination.
Warriors who should have died on the charge path were submerged and trapped to death by cement—this was the most cruel slaughter!
They wanted to use a humiliating death to fiercely humiliate the Space Marines.
"My lord!" The mud had submerged to calf level. After the rampaging Madam Clara opened a portal and left, the Librarians rushed in front of Abaddon.
"What have I done?"
Perhaps foreseeing inevitable death, Abaddon knelt to the ground in dismay, taking off his helmet to reveal a weeping face.
He could only watch helplessly as the Legion brothers still clinging to life were submerged by the turbid cement until they lost their vitality.
Legion Warriors struggled in the mud, their Bolters and Chainswords appearing pale and powerless at this moment.
"We have a way to send you away from here."
The Chief Librarian remained calm, pondering how to send people away: "But we can only send a few people away."
Abaddon did not respond, staring blankly as the cement swallowed past his thighs.
Remorse for his foolish actions and guilt for the deaths of his brothers washed away his mental defense line, leaving a shattered wasteland behind.
He almost dared not receive outside information, fearing to witness the ongoing tragedy.
Slap! The sound of the slap was especially crisp. Abaddon's side face whipped out a mouthful of fresh blood, and several teeth fell onto the surface of the cement slurry.
"Ezekiel Abaddon!"
"Listen to me!" The Chief Librarian lifted him up and grabbed him in front of himself, looking into those dim eyes and saying: "We will send you and a few other warriors away!"
Another Librarian stepped forward, groping in the cement slurry to tear off the psychic beacon from Abaddon's waist.
"With a dedicated psychic beacon, plus the built-in teleporters of a few Terminators, we can anchor the coordinates."
"Burning our souls to release psychic power, we can briefly tear open the psychic blockade and send you away from here!"
The gauntlet carried the coldness of Ceramite, striking the cheek so hard it swelled high, leaving the imprint of the palm's lines.
Whether this slap scattered his sense of loss or beat back the hope of survival, Abaddon's eyes instantly cleared as he swept his gaze across the entire area.
The mud had risen to his lower abdomen.
Those brothers who had just been cut in half yet still clung to their last breath were now either completely submerged or barely being held up by other brothers.
But without exception, the armor on their bodies could not contain the overflowing helplessness.
There was no hope here; ashen death was harvesting lives.
Abaddon felt as if his heart were being twisted by a knife. If possible, the Legion brothers would rather have been fiercely killed by the enemy than humiliated and buried alive.
"Send us away!"
He saw the despair and knew in his heart that the defeat was irreversible.
There was no time for hesitation now; only by escaping this dead end could he once again lead the Legion's massive army back to exact revenge for his fallen brothers.
Therefore, he had to leave, breaking free from this rising, turbid hell.
"Thirteen people." The chief Librarian was concise, stating how many people could be sent away.
His duty was to protect the Master of the Justaerin, to protect the Legion, and to protect more people.
"Send us away! Send us away!"
Abaddon struggled in the quagmire of death, and several brothers likewise trapped in the viscous mud grabbed him, repeating over and over, "Send us away!"
It was as if he had been wounded by the cruel reality, choking as he repeated over and over: "Send us away."
His voice was already growing hoarse, his parched throat uttering grief while he was forced to face the humiliation and pain of abandoning his Legion brothers and escaping alone.
Regret, pain, and humiliation intertwined, eventually turning into cowardice.
Abaddon did not dare and was unwilling to believe that two thousand Justaerin Terminators would just die such a stifled and obscure death.
This cowardly thought almost devoured him, but his survival instinct and the wills of others pushed him into action.
In a daze, twelve Terminators surrounded Abaddon in the center, while the Librarians stood firm on the outer perimeter, chanting incantations for their Legion brothers.
The chief Librarian tightly grasped the psychic beacon gifted by Forrix, upon which fine white psychic lightning burst forth with dazzling brilliance.
Cement had risen to his chest armor. His gaze shifted from the beacon to Abaddon's face; there was no fear of death in his eyes, but rather a kind of pity.
The dead are dead.
What about those who survived the disaster?
For a very long time in his life, Abaddon would live within this nightmare, and no amount of merits could wash away the hatred of this day.
Psychic incantations flowed from his mouth, condensing into tangible runes that flickered with a bizarre radiance.
On the bodies of the seven accompanying Librarians, cold, bizarre purple fires ignited, their eyes glowing as they gathered formidable power.
The Legion Warrior turned his face away, not daring to look at this tragic and heroic scene.
The Librarians lifted their psychic protection, burning their lives and souls, heading towards a true death of total annihilation.
They burned everything to ashes, solely to send hope away.
Powerful psychic energy erupted, and Madam Clara's formation sensed it, shooting out purple shackles from thin air to wrap around the Librarians' hands and necks.
Madam Clara in the shadows was trying to disrupt the teleportation consciousness!
"Go!"
The chief Librarian let out a low roar, raising a hand to point at Madam Clara's psychic formation, as a scorching sword of light burning with soul flames shot out from the center of his brow.
"Right now." The remaining Librarians quickly followed, pouring their soul power into the light sword, which burst forth with dazzling brilliance.
Having contributed the power of their burning souls, their bodies collapsed like sand, their helmets falling, leaving only a patch of ash remaining inside their armor.
The soul light sword pierced straight into the firmament, its scorching soul tearing a gap in the foul formation to reveal a misty starry sky.
"Teleport!"
Ignoring Madam Clara's scream echoing from the void, the chief Librarian injected the final ounce of psychic power into the teleportation beacon before his body completely collapsed.
Cement had risen to his neck. He raised his head high and said to the collapsing Abaddon, "Leave this place, and when you return, avenge us!"
The latter's body trembled, sending ripples across the mud, and suppressing the heavy pain filling his eyes, he nodded in promise: "I will surely return for revenge!"
Amid Madam Clara's unwilling howls, a white radiance lit up, and the thirteen people vanished within the teleportation light.
The passage returned to tranquility; the shaping cement drowned out all sounds, occasionally bubbling up a few times.
The cement rapidly solidified, burying the Luna Wolves' most elite warriors.
They died in humiliation——
In the Iron Warriors field command room, the teleporter suddenly lit up, and thirteen figures heavily slammed onto the teleportation array deck.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Heavy landing sounds echoed as the Iron Warriors guards rushed over with weapons raised—this teleportation was not on the registration list.
"It is us." A weak voice stated its identity, "The First Captain of the Luna Wolves Legion, Abaddon—"
"We have failed—"
As the teleportation light dissipated, the Iron Warriors could clearly see the wretched scene inside the teleportation array.
Silence.
They offered no taunts or sarcasm, gently lowering their muzzle and using silence to mourn the tragic failure of their cousin Legion.
Two thousand elite Terminators, regardless of which Legion they belonged to, were an unacceptable and painful loss.
If it were the Doom Slayer, it would mean direct total annihilation.
Forrix pushed aside the Legion brothers, and upon seeing the filth-covered Abaddon, he instantly understood what they had encountered.
Burial alive!
He secretly sighed, offering a moment of silent grief for the humiliation suffered by the glorious warriors.
Several Iron Warriors walked over to support them, but were silently pushed away by Abaddon and the others.
Supporting each other, they stood up without a word, standing there like lifeless statues for a long time in silence.
Forrix gently waved his hand, signaling the Legion Warriors to leave.
Such a thoroughly wretched scene was an unspeakable and profound humiliation for the Astartes Legion.
He stepped back amicably a few steps, making a gesture of "please".
Abaddon stared at Forrix for a long time. Standing within the teleportation array, he raised his arm to operate his tactical terminal, saying in a hoarse voice: "Take us back to the warship."
The teleportation light lit up once more, and the thirteen figures vanished from the command room.
As the Luna Wolves warriors left, the oppressive atmosphere in the field command room instantly turned into restlessness.
The warriors whispered among themselves, exchanging private communications and guesses about what on earth those two thousand Terminators had encountered.
Although they had their suspicions and roughly knew how tragic their cousins' fate was, the Legion Warriors were still curious about the facts.
Forrix picked up the teleportation beacon, walked back to the command console in a few strides, and shook his head helplessly as he stared fixedly at the star map.
This tragedy should never have happened.
The invisible contest between the Primarchs, Ezekiel Abaddon's arrogance—multiple causes intertwined, ultimately brewing this tragedy.
If the Primarchs had communicated more, if Abaddon——
"There are not that many ifs." Forrix muttered to himself, placing the beacon beside the command console.
From the star map, he saw the deployment of several fleets.
It seemed ordinary, yet it was fraught with deep meaning.
The fleet disposition constructed a single intent: Defense!
Defending against whom? Naturally, the Luna Wolves.
The Primarch had long anticipated this day; he mobilized the fleet to prevent the Luna Wolves from becoming desperate and indiscriminately opening fire on the Iron Warriors.
The void was cold.
Abaddon's heart was colder and emptier than the void.
Gloom accompanied the cruiser as it cut through the void, leaving the southern hemisphere of the galaxy and entering the Luna Wolves war zone.
Finally, they saw the Vengeful Spirit.
It floated among the fleet of voidships, its unadorned hull shimmering with the cold, steely light of pig-iron, the crescent moon and wolf emblems painted on its port side.
"Ah!!!"
The feeling of "going home" surged up, and the tense string in his mind loosened!
Abaddon wailed and stumbled to his knees, bracing himself with both hands; this strong, hot-tempered man cried like a helpless child.
His battle-brothers were buried alive, yet he survived by clinging to life.
For a Space Marine, nothing was more humiliating and sorrowful than surviving alone!
Endless pain surged up, gnawing at his heart bit by bit; Abaddon convulsed and rolled on the steel floor, the un-dried cement on his body splashing everywhere.
His body had left the swamp, but his soul remained there.
The warriors remained silent, and no one went up to pull him up or comfort him.
The disheveled Lord of the Justaerin was carried onto a shuttle by several Legion Warriors, heading toward the Vengeful Spirit.
Inside the reception room of the Vengeful Spirit, Horus wore a smile, chatting happily with Perturabo.
The two great Primarchs sat opposite each other; one was poised and calm, sitting at the end of the huge reception table with a gentle, warm smile on his face.
The other sat upon an anti-gravity hovering throne, looking solemn and ruthless, yet with a chilling smile lingering at the corners of his eyes.
From their respective neural links, they had long since learned that Abaddon's force was nearly wiped out, with only thirteen men returning in disgrace.
The two Primarchs faced each other, but did not bring it up.
Ever since Abaddon entered the underground, Perturabo had come to guest aboard the Vengeful Spirit under the guise of a visit.
In truth, he simply wanted to see at the very first moment how the Luna Wolves would clean up this wretched mess.
At the end of the solemn granite table, Horus wore a smile, his hands under the table clenching and loosening repeatedly to ease his inner anxiety.
How could he not know that his brother had come specifically to watch a joke, using this to mock the incompetence of himself and his Legion.
Yet the fact that Abaddon had squandered two thousand elites was an undeniable truth.
Ezekiel's impulsiveness had ruined the Justaerin Terminators and brought shame upon the Luna Wolves.
This incident had become the heaviest loss for the Luna Wolves Legion since stepping into the Great Crusade.
It was an indelible stain on the Legion!
"He is back." Perturabo kept a straight face with a rigid expression, but the mockery in his tone overflowed: "Carrying disgrace and pain."
Horus shook his head slightly, saying with heartbreaking grief: "This is a profound lesson, a punishment for impulsiveness."
"Impulsiveness?"
Perturabo let out a cold snort, narrowing his eyes at the end of the stone table, sizing up his brother who was attempting to downplay the impact and shield his gene-son.
Without mercy, he ripped open the bloody truth: "I'd call it stupidity, wouldn't you?"
He pulled out a projector and tossed it onto the table, where it slid precisely in front of Horus.
The hologram lit up, displaying the truth behind that "impulsiveness".
Warnings from various risk indicators, Forrix's repeated advice, and the psychic beacon that allowed Abaddon to keep his life.
Seeing what the projection displayed, Horus's smile gradually faded, and a gloomy expression surfaced on his glorious face.
In the conference room, the sound of a compression crack rang out; Horus's hand under the table clenched fiercely, his knuckles turning white.
He could not refute the facts; the Iron Warriors' warnings were real, and the brother Legion had done everything to try and prevent the foolish act from happening.
It was Ezekiel Abaddon's arrogance that caused the irreversible tragedy.
"Sigh—"
Perturabo let out a sigh, and for the first time, a change of expression appeared on his iron-rigid face.
Horus frowned as he looked at his brother, his intuition telling him that what happened next would be a bloody execution by a thousand cuts!
"So—"
Perturabo's right mouth corner tilted up slightly, his entire face leaning as he revealed a terrifying, mocking smile: "Without the Grey Claws paving over the danger, the Luna Wolves are so foolish and feeble."
Bang!
A loud noise roared as Horus angrily stood up and slammed his fist onto the granite table!
"You!" He pointed angrily at Perturabo, his nostrils flaring slightly as he panted with angry, heavy breaths.
The Grey Claws.
The taboo that Horus and the Luna Wolves were most reluctant to touch in their hearts.
Ever since they were caught by Russ and Blazkowicz, the Legion had long stopped deploying Grey Claws warriors, instead demanding that they earn honor through their own efforts.
That was the Legion's ugly scar, and just as it was about to be forgotten, it was brought up once again by another brother.
"It is none of your concern." Horus roared, the skin around his eye sockets staining red.
"None of my concern?" Perturabo low-roared, refusing to show weakness. Looking at the cracks spreading across the stone table to right in front of him, he angrily pressed the mechanism on his throne's armrest: "Do you dare say it has nothing to do with me?"
Beep~ Beep~
The holographic projection lit up, projecting top-secret data from the Terra database into the reception room through data and imagery.
"To reform the Legion, I reviewed all the materials, including the battle records documenting the Fourth Legion across our own Legion, other Legions, and the Imperium's database."
The Iron Master's voice was cold and ruthless, transforming into a sharp blade that stripped away the color from the Wolf-God's face: "My Gene-sons cooperated with the Luna Wolves in the early days of the Great Crusade."
"Tell me!" He rose from the throne, stretching his neck to stare at his brother, angrily calling him by his full name: "Horus Lupercal!"
"Why is it that whenever we fought in joint operations with the Luna Wolves, the casualty rate of the Fourth Legion remained stubbornly high?"
"Do not tell me the battles were different!"
Standing upon his hovering throne in Power Armor, Perturabo's massive figure resembled a fortress of war, radiating an intensely chilling sense of oppression.
He pointed to his own temple: "Throughout the entire Imperium, my data-processing ability is stronger than anyone else's."
"From that vast sea of information, from the erased honors and records, I pieced together the truth and caught the Luna Wolves red-handed!"
"My brother." Perturabo stood on his throne, pointing into the distance at the pale Horus, "Please tell me, how much darkness was buried in the thirty years before Blazkowicz returned?"
"Especially the XIX Legion, which practically became a company under your command!"
He looked at Horus with burning eyes: "Blazkowicz and Russ spared your brotherhood's face and did not expose you."
"However, that does not mean I and the other brothers will care or disregard the lives of our Gene-sons, letting them be trampled upon by others."
Horus's complexion was iron-blue as he slowly stood up from his stone chair, his breathing rapid and his state of mind disordered like never before.
He finally understood where that vague, intangible hostility had come from since the meeting with his brother began.
Some debts had been dug up by someone, and firmly etched into their heart.
He stared at his brother on the other end of the stone table, finally figuring out everything.
Perturabo had long calculated the outcome, foreseeing what foolish deeds Abaddon would commit and how he would flee in a disgraceful, scrambling panic.
His brother had waited at the finish line, then used this as an excuse to settle old scores and brutally humiliate him to his face!
Yet Horus could not refute it, because such were the facts. Perturabo had planned for this moment for a long time, standing on the moral high ground of justice and truth.
He could only stiffen his neck and say rigidly: "You issued that cruel order."
Perturabo of course knew what Horus was talking about.
Decimation. The order he demanded for his Legion to kill each other when he returned to the Imperium, in order to gain the Emperor's attention.
"I do not deny it." Perturabo nodded, generously admitting, "That was my mistake: making a self-centered, 'taken-for-granted' decision."
He sighed, and a hint of relief actually appeared on his cold face: "Fortunately, the decimation was not carried out."
"Ever since then, I have seen through many things. Therefore, I came to understand the Legion even more thoroughly, digging deep into the covered-up past."
"And then—" He looked at Horus, his eyes slowly narrowing, flashing with a look of disdain, "By chance, I discovered what you had done."
"What do you want?" Horus turned pale as death, sitting back down in dejection.
He greatly appreciated Perturabo's talent and had wanted to grow close to him, laying down a foundation of friendship through battle.
Unfortunately, the causes of the past had brought about the fruits of today.
Since many things had been done, when others brought them up, they became un-stitchable fractures.
"I want compensation." Perturabo did not shrink back, speaking with absolute righteousness: "It is a fact that the Iron Warriors traded their lives to win back many honors for the Luna Wolves."
Hearing this, Horus nodded in silence.
"You have a good relationship with the Adeptus Mechanicus." Perturabo had laid the groundwork for a long time before finally baring his fangs: "The Iron Warriors will adopt the doctrine of fire superiority, becoming a heavy-firepower Legion."
"I want you to lobby Mars to manufacture various types of artillery for me."
"You laid out this scheme for so long, just for this?" Horus realized that this was his brother's ultimate goal.
"No." Perturabo shook his head: "It is not that I laid out a scheme for long; this is a debt the Luna Wolves owe the Iron Warriors."
"If you can resurrect the Legion Warriors who died from the 'Grey Claws', we can also call it even."
Resurrection?
Reversing life and death—that was a miracle even Father could not achieve.
Hearing his brother utter such an absurd request, Horus knew he had no choice.
He lowered his gaze, stroked the cracks on the granite table, and said in a deep voice, "I agree to your request."
The fissure of trust had already torn apart their brotherhood, and he needed to compromise once again as he had always done, to prevent this rift from expanding to an irredeemable point.
"Why don't you go find Guilliman, or Blazkowicz?"
Nodding to agree to the request, Horus asked doubtfully, "The two of them possess many Forge Worlds and factories."
"I have placed orders," Perturabo replied, "but I need more."
"The Iron Warriors will carry out the doctrine of firepower supremacy, measuring the galaxy with artillery fire and payload, blasting a path of resurgence for humanity!"
The voice resonated with conviction, an attitude more resolute than iron.
Realizing this was an ideal, Horus's pupils suddenly contracted; he did not feel that his brother was exaggerating, but rather stating a fact.
Stating a matter that must be done, stating a grand engineering project beyond imagination.
Perturabo—he would use artillery fire to blast open a future for humanity and the Imperium!
His grand ambition to realize the future might require three massive manufacturing plants to support it, providing an endless supply of shells.
Catching a glimpse of this tip of the iceberg, Horus would not question the ideal and motivation, and offered his heartfelt blessing, "May your ideal come true."
His brother possessed extraordinary rationality and rigorous logical thinking, and his words were certainly not baseless.
Perhaps in his heart, within a mindset built on data and logic, there was already a set of effective plans being realized bit by bit.
"Of course it will be realized." Sitting upright on his levitating throne, Perturabo straightened his back, his cold visage revealing a trace of gentleness. "That is a great undertaking; one must hold determination and patience."
"Coincidentally," he said with an arrogant expression, "I lack neither."
Horus nodded, never doubting the talents of his Primarch brothers, nor ever stingy with praise.
Lion's decisiveness, Fulgrim's fatal elegance, Russ's unrestrained wildness, Dorn's tenacity, Ferrus's creativity, the Angel's extraordinary charm, Blazkowicz's absolute power——
There were too many.
Each of them was as brilliant as the stars, possessing distinct personal charms.
Thinking of this, Horus felt for the first time that he wasn't all that special. Or to put it another way: not so extraordinary as to defy normalcy.
He was merely the relatively ordinary one among the many special brothers.
Now, the ambition displayed by Perturabo seemed even more grandiose and extraordinary; he wanted to accomplish a major feat.
"I should leave."
Having achieved his purpose, Perturabo bade farewell, controlled his anti-gravity throne to turn, and floated toward the reception hall's doors.
Horus stood up and asked playfully, "Do you not wish to know how I will handle Ezekiel Abaddon?"
"That is the matter of the Luna Wolves and you." Perturabo did not look back, his heavy voice entirely without fluctuation, "It has nothing to do with me."
Ruthless, efficient.
Hearing Perturabo's reply, Horus mentally attached the corresponding label to his brother.
This was his habit, customizing interaction styles according to personality to facilitate bonding with his brothers and maintaining their blood ties.
A rumbling mechanical roar echoed as levers and hydraulics drove mechanical joints, pulling open the reception hall's massive adamantium doors.
Outside the door, the Legion Warriors of the Luna Wolves wore expressions of astonishment, dropping to their knees in a clatter and crying out in unison, "The Primarch is above!"
They saw that as the doors slowly opened, a massive throne hovered in the air, upon which sat the Lord of Iron.
The Primarch was like an iron fortress: tranquil, heavy, carrying a cold, sharp, bone-chilling frostiness.
The Legion Warriors knelt on one knee, heads lowered, not daring to look up at this ultimate-serious Primarch.
From the beginning of recorded data, the Lord of Iron seemed to have never smiled, nor ever spoken in a friendly manner.
The Primarch's face was always so stiff, as if poured from molten iron, forever wearing the same expression and exuding an inexplicable hostility of "strangers stay away".
Within the crowd, Abaddon's gaze traveled from the Primarch's greaves all the way down, finally lowering his head to look at the ground, hatred flashing briefly in his eyes.
Having learned of the Lord of Iron's visit and the secret talks between the Primarchs, with a Space Marine's information processing capability, he naturally associated it with his own raid operation.
That was a trap.
The Lord of Iron had long seen through the truth, leaving it there with no intention of dealing with it.
And he was that ultimate fool who thought he had discovered some remarkable loophole.
Then, carrying excitement, he jumped down without hesitation.
Two thousand elite Legion Warriors had all perished, and his battle-brothers' pre-death wails still lingered in his ears; how could Abaddon not hate? How could he not resent?
They died because of the Primarch's indifference!
The aloof Lord of Iron just watched like that, coldly observing his Legion brothers marching toward death——
The hostility flashed and vanished, but as a Primarch, Perturabo still felt it.
Sitting upon his levitating throne, he nodded and cast down an indifferent gaze, "Men must always take responsibility for their own choices."
The Primarch's voice echoed through the warship's corridors, and no one dared to respond to him.
Perturabo's gaze left the disheveled Abaddon, swept across the Luna Wolves, and his lips curled slightly into an imperceptible sneer.
Ezekiel Abaddon, Tarik Torgaddon, Horus Aximand.
These hero-like Legion Warriors, three of the Mournival of the Luna Wolves, suppressed a raging fire of anger burning deep within their hearts.
From the Legion Warriors, he felt an unspeakable anger directed at himself.
Did they think he was the one who killed those warriors?
Perturabo swept his gaze across them, feeling only a sense of absurdity to the extreme.
"No one will provide unlimited safety nets for you."
From atop the throne came an inexplicable remark, followed by the buzzing of energy from the anti-gravity chassis.
The massive throne slowly moved forward, and the Legion Warriors shuffled their bodies on their knees, clearing a path for the Primarch's throne.
Perturabo felt he was wasting time, trying to understand a group of artificially nurtured dependents.
Horus pointed the direction for the Luna Wolves, while other Legions laid the foundation for victory with bone and blood.
When they lost someone they could rely on to cover for them, they attributed their failures to others instead of reflecting on their own faults.
"Horus."
The throne suddenly stopped.
Inside the reception hall, Horus turned his head, looking at the mechanical patterns on the back of the throne.
"We possess extraordinary power." Looking down the deep corridor, remembering the wind of the Hive City spires on Terra, Perturabo said, "We can change everything."
His voice was hoarse, as if he had given up something, "Do not obsess over certain illusory things."
"The galaxy is vast, and humanity's living space is limited; there are many, many things we must do."
With that, Perturabo drove his throne, floating past the ranks of Space Marines.
He did not directly pierce his brother's obsession with their father, the Emperor: some things required one to comprehend them personally to truly understand.
Within the crowd, Garviel Loken raised his head, looking toward the retreating back of the throne, his blue eyes thoughtful.
Garviel Loken.
Within the ranks of the Luna Wolves, he was the man who least resembled Horus Lupercal, whether in appearance or in spirit.
Because of this very difference, Horus sought fresh, contrasting perspectives and had entrusted him with immense responsibility, appointing him Captain of the Tenth Company.
Loken had read a deep, complex gravity into Primarch Perturabo's earlier words. Though he did not yet fully understand it, he felt the weight of a profound, heavy resolve.
Loken looked up, suppressing the emotion in his eyes as he watched the hovering throne bearing the Lord of Iron slowly drift away and disappear down the end of the corridor.
"Come in."
After what felt like a long silence, a summons echoed from within the grand chamber, laced with a rare trace of fatigue.
The Luna Wolves rose, respectfully entering the reception hall, and dropped to one knee before their Primarch and father.
Upon his throne, the Primarch still radiated overwhelming majesty, his countenance composed and gentle, though a touch of sorrow and confusion now clouded his brow.
The warriors caught sight of the cracked granite table and the shattered stone debris strewn across the floor, quickly lowering their heads and daring not to utter a word.
A conflict erupt0ing during a private conference between Primarchs was not something Space Marines were meant to pry into.
The Lupercal leaned back into his throne, closing his tired eyes.
Everything that had just transpired, along with the demand Perturabo had made, left him feeling a subtle wave of exhaustion.
Without looking down at his filth-covered gene-sons who had returned in defeat, he delivered his judgment in a low, resonant voice: "Ezekyle Abaddon."
Clank.
Beside the throne, Abaddon no longer remained on one knee; he dropped both knees to the floor like a condemned sinner, awaiting his Primarch's punishment.
"Your impulsiveness and recklessness have proven that you are not a good commander."
Horus remained on his throne with his eyes closed, weighing how best to punish Abaddon's grave blunder.
In that moment, another face drifted into his mind. "Where is Sejanus?"
Horus Aximand—Captain of the Fifth Company, occupant of the "Half-Moon" seat among the Mournival, and nicknamed "Little Horus"—spoke up to answer: "The Fourth Captain is currently commanding the fleet."
Horus nodded.
Of course he knew what Sejanus was doing, yet in this moment, he could not help but think of that son.
Ezekyle Abaddon and Hastur Sejanus—two entirely different sons whom Horus constantly compared.
The former was his most trusted, heavily relied upon, and most visually alike son—the legion's most brutal weapon, the sharpest blade of the Luna Wolves. Abaddon's savagery and ferocity were enough to conquer anyone and crush any species that dared resist humanity. Horus acknowledged that Abaddon had inherited his savagery, ambition, and predatory nature; he was Horus at his truest, rawest self.
The latter—Hastur Sejanus.
Horus loved him above all others—his most cherished, trusted, and proudest gene-son. Sejanus inherited his inner nobility, his ideals, and the beloved side of his character.
Almost every single time he saw Sejanus or Abaddon individually, Horus would invariably compare them, seeing two completely different sides of himself.
Now, as Abaddon faced punishment, Sejanus came to mind once more. If Sejanus had been in command, perhaps two thousand Justaerin Terminators would not have met their demise at the hands of the xenos slaughter.
"Ezekyle Abaddon," Horus called his son's name once more, slowly opening his eyes. His gaze traced along the length of the ruined stone table, as if Perturabo were still standing there watching him.
Abaddon remained kneeling, hands pressed against the floor, his head bowed in overwhelming shame as he softly replied, "I am here." He hardly dared to imagine what punishment could possibly atone for such a catastrophic failure.
"You are stripped of the title 'Master of the Justaerin' and relieved of command over the Terminator units. Two thousand elite warriors died because of your folly; I must give them a proper accounting."
Hearing the Primarch deliver his verdict, Abaddon lowered his head even further until his forehead nearly touched the ground, offering no resistance. It was the punishment he deserved.
"However, changing commanders mid-battle is ill-advised. Abaddon shall remain Captain of the First Company."
As the words fell, a dead silence settled over the chamber.
The Primarch had lifted Abaddon high only to set him down gently, stirring quiet discontent among many present.
The other twelve warriors who had miraculously survived felt their breathing grow agitated, their hearts burning with hidden resentment toward the Primarch's verdict. They had witnessed that agonizing, hopeless death of being buried under concrete, yet the architect of that tragedy was merely stripped of unit leadership while retaining his position as First Captain.
"Do not be hasty," Horus sighed helplessly. When had it begun? His gene-sons were becoming increasingly impulsive and complacent.
"Ezekyle Abaddon shall be reassigned to the Vanguard Assault Force."
"His life continues only because of the selfless sacrifice of the Librarians. He owes a debt, and he will use his own body as a shield against blades and gunfire to save his battle-brothers."
"As for the active command of the First Company—"
Horus paused intentionally, his eyes casually sweeping across the faces of his gene-sons.
He saw greed, ambition, and suppressed desire.
The First Company of the Legion—the best-equipped, most lethal Company in existence. To assume command of the First Company was nothing short of stepping straight to the heavens: standing constantly at the Primarch's side and wielding the ultimate power of the Legion.
Seeing his sons' unmasked ambition, Horus felt neither blame nor disgust. Instead, a barely perceptible smile touched his lips, filling his heart with deep gratification.
The Sons of Horus were like him to their core—driven by ambition and the desire for conquest. As the source of that bloodline, how could Horus reproach them? In truth, he preferred this unvarnished, direct longing for power.
Yet, his eyes caught one man—Garviel Loken.
Loken knelt quietly on the floor without saying a word, displaying neither impulse nor ambition. Judging by the subtle crease between his brows, he was deep in thought.
This detached calm and grounded composure set him apart from the rest, giving Horus pause.
"Garviel Loken," the Primarch called out, surprising everyone present.
"My Lord," Loken replied softly, his voice clear and even, lacking the boisterous gravity typical of the Sons of Horus.
Horus asked in a low, warm tone, "Would you be willing to serve as Abaddon's second-in-command and take operational control of the First Company?"
The kneeling warriors went rigid, unable to believe the Primarch would extend such trust to a gene-son who looked and acted so unlike him.
Upon undergoing transformation, Space Marines of the Luna Wolves usually inherited facial traits that mirrored their Primarch to varying degrees. The Legion took great pride in this, viewing it as a mark of proximity to their progenitor. Chief among them was "Little Horus" Aximand, whose face was a striking image of the Primarch himself—a fact that fueled Aximand's arrogant demeanor, prompting him to look down on everyone else from his place of physical resemblance.
Garviel Loken was the absolute opposite.
In both personality and appearance, Loken looked nothing like Horus Lupercal, making him a rare outlier in the Legion. Many brothers maliciously speculated that Loken was no true son of Horus, but an outcast who had accidentally slipped in during gene-seed allocation.
Yet genetic sequencing repeatedly disproved these rumors. Garviel Loken was indeed a true son of Horus, with the blood of the Lupercal running through his veins.
"No," Loken's clear voice replied, neither humble nor haughty. He declined the Primarch's offer and gave his reason: "The fighting style of the First Company is savage and intensely aggressive."
"I..." He hesitated for a brief second before stating rationally, "...do not know how to master such a force."
Boom.
Despite being right beneath the Primarch's throne, the dozens of mid-to-high-ranking Legion officers erupted into commotion. They snapped their heads up, their eyes locked on the speaker—the man who, for the first time since the founding of the Luna Wolves, had turned down the Primarch.
Abaddon was similarly struck, his eyes wide with disbelief. As company commander, he knew better than anyone the prestige and symbolic weight of the First Company, yet Loken had turned down a position of supreme authority with eerie calm.
Even the proud Aximand turned his head to look, a flicker of genuine respect flashing deep within his eyes.
Surrounded by dozens of piercing stares, Loken remained completely unfazed. He had simply spoken the truth and declined command of the First Company. He reasoned logically that his stern, deliberate command style was fundamentally incompatible with the bloodthirsty savagery of the First, and accepting it would only compromise the Legion's combat effectiveness.
"Very good!" Horus did not take offense at the rejection; instead, a smile glinted in his eyes. "You are an exceptionally precise thinker."
"In that case," the Primarch's gaze swept over the room, and except for Loken and Abaddon, every warrior straightened their back, eyes filled with intense expectation, "the actual command of the First Company shall temporarily rest with me."
The crowd's anticipation froze. The command of the First Company had been taken back directly by the Primarch.
No one questioned this ruling; the authority of the Primarch was absolute.
"Dismissed." His judgment delivered, Horus leaned back into his throne and closed his eyes once more.
The rustling sound of power armor friction echoed softly as his gene-sons carefully retreated from the hall.
He was a Primarch; he needed to balance the strength and willpower of his Legion.
The First Company was too unique. Abaddon was sidelined for now, Loken admitted he was unfit, and Horus could not immediately find another suitable candidate to bear such a heavy mantle. Assigning command to another Captain was unwise, as controlling two full Companies simultaneously would disrupt the balance of power, sparking internal factional struggles and political jockeying within the Legion.
Weighing the options, taking back the power himself was the best course. In truth, it sent a clear message to the warriors: a high position sat vacant, and it was time for them to step up and claim the unclaimed power.
Silence returned to the reception hall. Clad in his pearl-white power armor, Horus sat alone on his throne, lost in thought.
Until a rapid series of chimes broke his reverie.
Beep~ Beep~
A message flashed through his neural interface as an observer reported in urgent tones: "By the Lupercal! The Nuer Fleet has arrived—they are translating back into realspace!"
The Nuer Fleet!!??
Horus's eyes snapped open. He bolted upright from his throne, the servomotors of his power armor whining loudly from the violent, sudden motion.
Reinforcements from the Nuer Fleet were neither part of the Imperium's operational plans nor included in the intelligence Perturabo had provided.
"Damn it!" Cursing under his breath, Horus strode out of the reception hall. Looking through the long corridor's observation windows, he saw the realspace outside the star system warping violently.
"Perturabo!!" he roared, shouting his brother's name as the Lupercal's furious curse echoed through the entire corridor: "You set me up!"