Chapter 71: Echoes of Istvaan III
Tarvitz, the 10th Company Captain who had remained steadfast even in the most perilous moments, raised his bolt pistol, pointing it at Fulgrim.
But he was not the only one to settle scores.
Footsteps echoed again from the white sea of fire behind him.
A figure stepped forward.
He wore meticulously crafted power armor, the purple-gold ceramite adorned with subtle embellishments, each detail perfectly placed, exuding a classic heroic majesty.
A heavy cloak, the symbol of a lord's command, draped over his back. He possessed a humility unlike that of his Legion brethren.
But now, his face bore undisguised sorrow.
And on his neck, a gruesome, blackened wound—the fatal wound inflicted by his most trusted and beloved gene-father on the eve of his fall.
To his left, another figure strode out.
Also clad in purple-gold power armor. But he wore no helmet, revealing a brown face etched with rage. His black hair flowed with the flames, his armor marked with the scars of exploding bombs and the slashes of a chainsword; the boltgun and power sword in his hands burned with the white flames of vengeance.
His gaze was not on the Primarch, but rather like two red-hot daggers, fixed firmly on the armless Lucius.
Then—
Boom—Rumble—
The earth trembled violently, as if a mountain were shifting.
A colossal metal giant emerged from the deepest part of the flames.
It was a Dreadnought.
The armor still gleamed with the glorious livery of the Third Legion from the Great Crusade era, the armor plates etched with oaths of loyalty.
His right arm was a massive, rotating, pre-heating assault cannon; his left arm was a gigantic power claw.
Each step produced a thunderous roar.
Behind them stood hundreds of warriors, also engulfed in pale flames.
They wore identical purple-gold power armor, most bearing the marks of battle.
But they all maintained the final posture they had adopted before fighting to the death in the ruins of Istvaan III, silently raising their weapons, muzzles pointed at the traitors who had once been their fathers and brothers.
For the first time, genuine panic appeared on Fulgrim's eerily handsome face.
His purple, vertical pupils trembled violently, his gaze darting back and forth between the figures.
"You… you all…"
Fulgrim took a step back, his remaining serpent tail writhing uneasily on the ground, a testament to the Primarch's current unease.
He saw the wound on the leader's neck.
That was the starting point of his fall. He had personally strangled the son he had once envied.
The image of that moment—the incredulous gaze, the sound of gushing blood—had been masked by the revelry of Slaanesh for ten thousand years, but now, it was like a torture dagger, piercing his heart.
"No… it should not be… like this…"
Fulgrim hissed, as if trying to explain, but unable to utter a coherent syllable.
Meanwhile, on the other side.
The heroic spirit bearing the Second Company's insignia on his shoulder guard walked directly toward Lucius, who lay on the ground.
Lucius stopped screaming.
He looked at the old friend who had walked up to him, a look of terror crossing his ugly, lidless face, as if he were seeing another painful chapter of his own past.
In the ruins of Istvaan III, it was he who had exploited his brother's trust, deceiving and manipulating him before defecting to the traitors, leading to his breakdown and death.
"Look at me, Lucius."
His voice was calm, but each word seemed to be squeezed out from between clenched teeth.
"Look into my eyes."
Lucius frantically kicked his legs on the ground, trying to back away, trying to escape from the man he had once called "brother" and pleaded with for help.
"Do not come any closer! Do not come any closer! I did this for survival! For a more perfect choice!" Lucius screamed incoherently.
"For perfection?"
The man before him raised his power sword, burning with white flames, the tip pointing at Lucius's scarred face.
"Back then, in that stench-filled bunker, when you cried out to me for help… when you pretended we were going to fight side by side…"
"What were you thinking?"
The man leaned down, his spectral face close to Lucius.
"Were you thinking about how to deceive your brothers, how to plunge your sword into their chests, to earn your pitiful 'opportunity' from the traitors?"
"Were you thinking about how to use your brothers' blood to stain your tongue, begging for mercy from the traitors?!"
"I… I…" Lucius trembled, unable to utter a complete sentence. Faced with the relentless interrogation of his past, his once-proud theories of swordsmanship had become utterly worthless.
In the distance.
The heavily wounded Cohl, supported only by his guardian spear, struggled to stand.
He looked at the figures. As a learned member of the Adeptus Custodes, his database contained detailed records of all the Legions from the Great Crusade.
He recognized them.
"The Third Legion. The Emperor's Children."
Cohl's voice, deep and solemn, resounded throughout the hall through his vox-grille, revealing the identities of these heroic spirits to everyone present—especially the hopeful Fulgrim.
He pointed to the noble commander.
"The Lord Commander, once the symbol of conscience and nobility of the Third Legion… Vespasian."
He pointed to the furious, brown-skinned company captain.
"The Second Company Captain, betrayed by his brother… Solomon Demeter."
Finally, his gaze fell upon the fearless war machine.
"And… the Ancient, the last Emperor's Child of Istvaan III, who defied the traitors with his crippled body for nearly ten thousand years… Rylanor."
Sicarius and Sergeant Varo, along with the two surviving veterans, all stood in solemn reverence.
They offered the highest Astartes honor to these predecessors of the Great Crusade.
This was a resonance of loyalty spanning millennia.
"These are… the martyrs of Istvaan…" Sicarius murmured to himself. "They are not dead… their souls still fight for the Emperor."
Eileen leaned against Varo's leg armor, looking wearily at these unfamiliar uncles.
She heard Old Huang's long sigh in her mind.
[Alas… they were all the most loyal warriors.]
[If they had not died, if that massacre had not happened, each of them would have been a shield for humanity. What a pity.]
In the center of the battlefield.
Vespasian was not filled with the rage of the others. He slowly floated toward Fulgrim, his eyes, burning with white flames, filled only with endless sorrow.
"Gene-father…"
Vespasian spoke, using that title that had once been filled with respect, now only tinged with irony.
"Is this… the 'glory' you promised us?"
Fulgrim's body jolted violently. He wanted to attack this "spectral phantom" with his weapon, but he found he could not even lift his hand.
"You taught us to strive for excellence, to become exemplars of humanity."
Vespasian pointed to the Noise Marines around him, now transformed into monsters, then to Fulgrim's hideous serpentine tail.
"But now… look at yourself."
"You and the Legion have become a pack of screaming, pleasure-seeking lunatics, worse than beasts."
"Your former nobility has turned into indulgence. Your pursuit of excellence has become craving for ugliness."
Vespasian shook his head.
"Is this what you call… evolution? Is this what you were willing to exchange our lives for?"
"No!! Shut up!!"
Fulgrim screamed, his voice shrill and piercing.
"This… this is all for art! For the sublimation of sensation! Vespasian, what do you know, you fool!!"
"He does not understand, but what about me?!"
A thunderous electronic voice boomed, interrupting Fulgrim's sophistry.
The Ancient Rylanor strode heavily toward Fulgrim.
From the vox-grille of the Dreadnought came pure, ten-millennia-old hatred.
"Fulgrim!!"
Rylanor roared, his massive power claw pointing at the Primarch.
"Whether on the battlefields of Isstvan ten thousand years ago, or deep within the ruins ten thousand years later!"
"We kept our oath! We never betrayed you! And you, you shameful traitor, we despise you!"
Rylanor's colossal form forced Fulgrim to look up at him.
"Look at yourself now!"
"Nothing but a repulsive, ugly daemon wearing the skin of a Primarch!"
"You think you have evolved? You think you have gained everything?"
"Ridiculous!!"
Rylanor's voice struck like a hammer blow.
"You have become nothing more than that bitch's dog! A laughable plaything!"
"You lost yourself, lost your honor, even lost your human dignity!"
"You are not even… as free as this broken iron coffin of mine!!"
These words struck Fulgrim like a cannon shell, brutally damaging his already wounded pride.
"Impossible! I am free! I am the Lord of the Legion!"
Fulgrim roared hysterically, his four arms flailing wildly as if trying to dispel the truth.
"You dead men! Losers! What right do you have to judge me?!"
"I killed you! I disposed of you like garbage!"
"Because you were afraid."
Saul Tarvitz coldly delivered the final blow.
"You were afraid to face us."
"You killed us, but that only proves your cowardice."
All the heroic spirits took a step forward simultaneously.
Pale flames merged into a sea of fire, pressing down on Fulgrim.
Under this pure, cold psychic pressure, Fulgrim the daemon prince felt a suffocation.
His handsome face contorted in agony.
Shame.
A shame he had not felt in millennia overwhelmed him.
Before these sons he had once considered "incomprehensible trash," "obstacles," he realized he was the pathetic clown.
"I… I am not…"
Fulgrim staggered backward until he crashed into the broken crystal pillar.
He wanted to retort, to mock them with his usual flowery language, but he found his mind blank.
Rumble—!!!
A violent, unsettling tremor suddenly swept through the entire hall.
It did not originate from any specific location.
It was as if… the entire planet was shaking.
"What is going on? An earthquake?" Eileen asked.
Sergeant Varo's auspex emitted a piercing alarm, and the reading on the screen instantly spiked into the red.
"No! It is not an earthquake!"
Varo shouted.
"Psychic reaction! A planetary-scale psychic reaction!"
"Simultaneous large-scale warp energy eruptions at multiple nodes across the planet!"
"The cultists lurking on the planet… they are not just here! They intend to use the entire planet as an altar!"
Buzz—!!
The concentration of the sweet, cloying scent in the air instantly increased tenfold.
The walls around the hall began to melt, turning into flowing purple liquid.
In the sky, pinkish-purple auroras hung down, and countless laughs and groans echoed across the heavens.
"Haha… hahahaha…"
Fulgrim, who had been cornered and terrified, suddenly let out a low laugh.
He looked up.
Bathed in the dense, almost tangible warp energy,
the fleshy tip of his severed serpent tail writhed wildly, regrowing within seconds, even thicker and more grotesque than before.
His wounds healed.
The feeling of "shame" was completely washed away by the immense power of the Dark God surging into his body.
In its place came a more frenzied, more malevolent, and more powerful force.
"So that is how it is… so that is how it is…"
Fulgrim straightened up, stretching out his four arms, enjoying the infusion of power.
"It seems… that lovely mortal governor was still somewhat useful."
"This entire planet will be sacrificed to the Dark Prince… for a grander celebration."
Fulgrim looked down at the heroic spirits burning with pale flames before him.
The panic from before was gone from those purple vertical pupils.
Only cruelty and a malice to repay the humiliation suffered tenfold remained.
"Well said. Truly moving."
Fulgrim clapped his hands together, making a clapping sound.
"Your anger did give me… a little bit of relief."
"But—"
He abruptly waved his hand, and the warp rift behind him instantly expanded tenfold.
An even more ferocious and powerful Slaaneshi daemon emerged from the rift.
"This changes nothing."
Fulgrim grinned, revealing his fanged jaws.
"You are already dead. Dead men should rot in the ground."
"Since you cherish the memories of Istvaan III so much…"
the daemon prince raised the Blade of the Laer, pointing it past Tarvitz, past Rylanor, and finally at Eileen in the distance.
"Then I will show mercy."
"And kill you…"
"One more time."