It is a well-known truth that within the Warp, the concepts of space and time do not exist. This is precisely why the Ruinous Powers of Chaos, wielding near-absolute authority therein, appear across all timelines—past, present, and future—the very moment they manifest within the Immaterium.
Though he did not yet equal the Four Great Powers, no soul, mortal or divine, could now doubt the fact: the Great Horned Rat would take his seat upon the Formless Distortion, claiming his place as a point upon the eight-pointed Star of Chaos.
Thus, it was with ease that Lucius traversed the Warp, returning to a Solar System of over ten thousand years past, an era of burgeoning vitality and relentless ambition.
M31.010.
The closing stages of the Horus Heresy. The Phalanx, the colossal flagship of the Imperial Fists, led by the Primarch Rogal Dorn, utilized a gravity-slingshot maneuver to hurtle directly toward the true objective of the Alpha Legion's infiltration: Hydra, the fortress moon orbiting Pluto.
Amidst a dizzying tremor, Fabius Bile steadied himself. He looked out upon the furthest reaches of the Throneworld's system, a place both alien and hauntingly familiar.
"This... this is real? Unbelievable... I have actually returned?" Bile watched the inferno of war raging in the black void above Pluto. The Imperial Fists fleet, spearheaded by the Phalanx, was locked in a ferocious ship-to-ship duel with the Lernaean fleet.
Below them, Rogal Dorn and his huscarls had already teleported into the locked vaults of Hydra. There, they were engaged in a death-struggle with Omegon, the one calling himself Alpharius, and his guard of Lernaean Terminators.
"Heh, now is hardly the time for sentimentality."
A voice drifted from behind him. It belonged to a young man clad in black robes. He appeared remarkably youthful, possessing no outward traits that would typically inspire terror.
Yet, Bile could sense the sheer horror radiating from him. It felt as though his ten thousand years of combat experience and genetic mastery were as fragile as a weed attempting to halt a landslide.
"To business. If you wish to indulge in nostalgia, I may let you serve as a guide later," the youth chuckled.
For Lucius, the moment he encountered the "Chief Apothecary," he knew Fabius Bile, the galaxy's premiere master of gene-alchemy, was a perfect fit. Bile's expertise in twisting and reshaping the genome fell directly under the purview of the Formless Distortion. In Lucius's presence, Bile was as disadvantaged as the Adeptus Mechanicus facing the ascended Vashtorr.
Ignorant of this, the ten-millennium-old apothecary simply nodded, his posture stiffening with professional discipline. He followed Lucius with practiced deference, trailing a few paces behind the man in black as they descended toward the Hydra fortress.
Then, Lucius witnessed the raw might of the Heresy era. Drop Pods rained incessantly from the Imperial Fists' fleet onto the surface of Hydra. The stone-yellow warriors of the VII Legion and their Terminators were deployed on a scale that dwarfed the skirmishes of later millennia. These warriors seized every bastion with blistering bolter fire and the roar of chainswords. The mortal auxiliaries seduced into betrayal by the Alpha Legion found no mercy; they were suppressed with iron-blooded finality.
Lucius led Fabius Bile to the reinforced plaststeel gates of the primary vault. A squad of Imperial Fists Astartes rounded the corner, their heavy tread echoing.
"Traitors!!"
The moment they caught sight of the Emperor's Children heraldry on Bile's armor, they opened fire in a fury. A hail of bolt shells and plasma bolts shrieked toward them.
Bile instinctively reached for his refractor shield, but the projectiles abruptly lost all kinetic energy meters away from Lucius. They tumbled to the floor, transforming instantly into squeaking, hairless, mutated rats.
"What?!"
The squad of fifty Astartes realized they faced a formidable foe. Just as they prepared to signal for reinforcements, the robed youth struck his staff against the deck. A terrifying surge of psychic power instantly paralyzed them, rendering the transhuman demigods as motionless as wooden puppets.
"Your graves are not here. There is no need to rush toward death," Lucius said, eyeing the Astartes. "Stay here for ten minutes."
Lucius could have snuffed them out without blinking, but he dared not over-alter the threads of causality. To do so would invite the backlash of the Warp. While killing these foot soldiers likely carried little risk, there was no need to tempt fate.
Behind him, the chirurgeon-tools and mechanical chirurgeons on Bile's back twitched with ill-concealed anticipation.
"Ten minutes? Oh, that is plenty. Would you permit me to perform a few... minor procedures?" Bile asked with refined politeness, looking for all the world like a gentleman in a ballroom.
Lucius knew exactly what he intended. He waved a hand dismissively. "Only the Progenoid Glands."
"Naturally, I understand~" Granted permission, Bile stepped forward with a predatory grin. Under the burning, helpless glares of the Imperial Fists, the "Spider" began to expertly harvest the pure, untainted gene-seed from their chests and necks.
Fifty Astartes. Stripping armor, cutting flesh, extracting the glands, suturing, and reassembling… Bile completed the entire cycle within ten minutes. He had secured a hundred sets of pure, Great Crusade-era gene-seed. A monumental haul.
As he finished with his final "patient," Bile offered a deep, mockingly sympathetic bow. Looking at these warriors who would likely not survive the day, he whispered, "May this tragedy, at last, find its end."
Lucius, meanwhile, considered the scene. Being stripped bare and having one's "seed" harvested before the eyes of one's battle-brothers... was there a more profound humiliation in the galaxy?
Lucius decided there was.
"I shall make millions of copies of this recording and send them to the citizens of the Empire, and your Primarch, Rogal Dorn, for their viewing pleasure!"
Lucius cackled and led the satisfied Bile into the heart of the Hydra vault. Since Bile did not know the exact location of the duel, Lucius closed his eyes to sense the Warp. He immediately felt the clashing auras of two entities akin to minor Chaos deities.
"Let us go," Lucius whispered. With a flick of his wrist, the god and the apothecary teleported into the inner sanctum.
They arrived just in time to witness a duel lost to Imperial history. The chainsword Storm's Teeth and the Pale Spear of Omegon blurred in a dance of death far beyond mortal sight. For a moment, Omegon seemed to hold the upper hand.
Between the two demigods lay the broken form of Archamus. Though mortally wounded, the loyal huscarl watched the tide of battle. Seeing the Pale Spear poised for a killing blow against Dorn, Archamus lunged upward in a desperate intervention.
His strike was futile, glancing harmlessly off the Pale Spear. But Rogal Dorn had anticipated the opening. He took the blow on his shoulder, seized the spear, and with a roar, used Storm's Teeth to sever both of Omegon's hands.
Dorn then impaled Omegon with his own spear, pinning him to the deck before bringing the chainsword down to cleave the Primarch's skull.
With a thunderous psychic boom, Omegon's Warp-essence tore free from his physical shell. Because time is a loop in the Empyrean, his soul fled directly toward the Ruinous Realms.
Lucius seized the moment, snatching up the severed arms of Omegon.
"Who goes there?!"
Rogal Dorn roared. Having just slain his brother, he turned like a monolith of living fury toward the robed figure and the Traitor of the III Legion.
"We are but simple peddlers, recovering lost goods. Pay us no mind," Lucius chuckled softly. Even under the gaze of an incensed Primarch, he remained as unbothered as if a kitten were hissing at him. Turning to the shocked Alpha Legionnaires, he added, "Oh, and your Primarch is dead. You should probably retreat now. Heh heh heh..."
Their Primarch was indeed dead, but the Alpha Legion felt a strange, lingering resonance from this stranger, as if their future was already irrevocably entwined with his. Obeying their standing orders, they began their withdrawal.
As Dorn and the Imperial Fists prepared to charge, Lucius recalled that history demanded the Alpha Legion's escape. To ensure his "oath" was kept, he raised a hand and broadcast the recording of Bile's "surgery" directly into the minds of everyone present, including the stubborn, stone-like mind of Rogal Dorn.
By the time the Praetorian of Terra and his warriors recovered from their blinding, mountain-shattering rage, the robed man, the Emperor's Child, the Alpha Legionnaires, and the body of the fallen Primarch had all vanished without a trace.
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