The sky turned violet.
It was not the afterglow of dusk, nor the refraction of a nebula.
It was a color filled with sickness and ill omen, a color belonging to the Subspace; like a drop of ink, it arrogantly and irreversibly stained the entire filthy firmament of Isstvan III.
Immediately after.
A deep pulsation, as if coming from the heartbeat of the universe, crashed down.
It was not a sound.
It was a pure, psychic pressure so immense it was enough to crush reality.
Inside the camp, all surviving warriors felt, at that moment, an irresistible trembling originating from the deepest depths of their genetic bloodlines.
A mortal auxiliary soldier, currently moving ammunition, felt his legs go soft and he knelt straight to the ground; his body shook like a sieve, tears and snot flowing uncontrollably—not from sadness, but because his soul was being tightly gripped by an invisible hand.
Even the Space Marines, with their iron-hard wills, let out painful grunts.
Their power armor systems emitted sharp overload warnings.
They felt as if their internal organs were about to be forcibly squeezed out of their bodies by that invisible pressure.
Breathing became a luxury.
"Hold steady!"
Saul Taviz let out a hoarse roar, slamming his sword into the ground to steady his body, which was on the verge of collapsing; his face was as pale as paper.
"In the name of the Goddess! Hold the line!"
The name of the Goddess brought a faint, spiritual warmth.
But the pressure from the sky became even more terrifying the next second.
Hundreds of Thunderhawk Gunships and drop pods, painted in magnificent purple and decadent gold trim, tore through that eerie violet canopy like purple teardrops, trailing long, eldritch exhaust flames as they roared down.
They did not recklessly crash into the position like the Noise Marines before them.
They landed around the ruins of the magnificent Hall of the Song with a posture full of artistry and precision.
The hatches opened.
Out marched squads of Emperor's Children warriors, their armor magnificent, their movements elegant.
Their armor was even more exquisite than those of the Noise Marines, inlaid with shimmering gems and engraved with intricate, ornate phoenix emblems.
Their movements were uniform, filled with the artist-like pride unique to their legion.
Yet their eyes no longer held their former nobility and honor.
It was a cold void, filled with cruelty and sadism.
They did not launch an attack immediately.
They simply, silently and elegantly, formed a massive, crescent-shaped encirclement around the ruins of the Hall of the Song.
Every warrior seemed to be participating in a grand parade.
Every movement was filled with a sense of ritual.
They were welcoming.
Welcoming their god.
Welcoming their Gene-Father.
The gazes of all the loyalist warriors subconsciously turned toward the sky.
Turned toward the most magnificent and massive Thunderhawk Gunship hovering directly above the Hall of the Song.
The gunship's hull was painted the purest purple, with a proud, spreading-winged phoenix outlined in molten gold.
That was Fulgrim's flagship.
Click—
Amidst the sound of hydraulic rods releasing, the gunship's hatch slowly opened.
A figure appeared at the doorway.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
The lamentations of the entire planet stilled for him at that moment.
He wore a set of purple power armor inlaid with countless gems and rare metals, so magnificent it was enough to make the stars dim.
The lines of the armor were smooth and elegant, as if it were not a killing tool for war, but the most perfect work of art displayed in a temple.
His face remained as handsome as ever, like a legendary deity, without a single flaw.
Only, deep within that handsomeness, there was a hint of sickly, eldritch paleness.
A faint, arrogant, and playful smile hung from the corners of his mouth.
In his hand, he carried a longsword that was pitch black and emitted an ominous black light.
That sword seemed to possess life; the eerie runes on its blade were slightly squirming, emitting silent roars filled with greed and longing.
The laer blade.
Fulgrim.
The Fallen Phoenix.
He had arrived.
"Father..."
In the camp, Rauth Solaart's tall frame swayed violently.
He looked at the familiar yet strange figure in the sky, looked at the demonic sword in his hand exuding endless evil, his eyes filled with indescribable, heart-rending pain.
Beside him, Saul Taviz gripped his Bolter tightly, wanting to raise his arm to aim at the figure who had betrayed everything.
But he could not.
The Primarch's psychic pressure, like an invisible mountain, pressed down heavily upon his soul, making it incredibly difficult for him to even move a finger.
On Nathaniel Garro's eternally impassive, stone-like face, veins bulged; he growled, attempting to resist the suppression originating from the depths of his bloodline, yet his body still trembled uncontrollably.
Despair.
A true despair, a thousand times denser than what they felt facing the Noise Marines before, flooded the entire loyalist position like cold seawater.
Fulgrim ignored the struggles of the ants on the ground.
He simply enjoyed all of this.
Enjoyed the silence filled with fear and despair that he brought with his entrance.
He spread his arms, as if to embrace the whole world.
Then, he slowly drifted down from the height of ten thousand meters.
His movements were devoid of any worldly air, as elegant as the most perfect dancer on stage.
Finally, his combat boots, inlaid with golden phoenixes, landed lightly and silently atop the highest, collapsed dome of the Hall of the Song.
He stood at the artistic pinnacle of this city.
He stood atop this massive tomb he had created with his own hands.
He looked down at his former sons, shivering under his pressure.
A sickly smile, filled with pity and pleasure, appeared on his face.
He slowly opened his mouth, preparing to deliver his decadent declaration regarding "liberation" and "new aesthetics."
Just at this moment.
A figure walked out calmly, step by step, from the shadows of the loyalist position.
It was a young girl.
She wore no power armor, only a simple, plain black dress.
Her black hair cascaded like a waterfall, appearing all the more profound against the backdrop of white bone dust and the violet sky.
Behind her followed another girl with blonde hair, timid like a small beast.
Leticia.
Under everyone's gaze, and under Fulgrim's intrigued gaze, she walked to the very front of the position.
She did not release any perceivable energy.
But wherever she passed, the immense pressure belonging to the Primarch, which was enough to crush the souls of Space Marines, melted away silently and rapidly, as if it were ice encountering a red-hot iron.
The aura belonging to the Divine Charm that she radiated opened up a sanctuary of absolute tranquility and inviolability around her.
Across the entire battlefield, that suffocating pressure suddenly lightened.
All loyalist warriors felt as if they had floated back up to the surface from the deep sea, gasping greedily and violently.
Their gazes shifted, simultaneously, from the fallen demigod in the sky to the mysterious girl on the ground.
The desperate pressure of the fallen Primarch.
And the creative aura of the divine girl.
In the center of the battlefield, they formed an invisible yet distinct confrontation.
The sky was a sickly violet.
The earth was a pure black.
The smile on Fulgrim's face froze for the first time.
His violet, arrogant pupils contracted slightly.
What did he see?
He saw a "beauty" that could not be described in any language, could not be depicted by any art, and was beyond all his categories of understanding.
It was not the stimulating "beauty" he sought, the kind obtained through distortion and indulgence.
It was a harmonious, tranquil, supreme "beauty" originating from the very source of the universe, of creation and order.
The laer blade in his hand shrieked madly and sharply in his ear, urging him to destroy, to possess, and to desecrate this "true thing" before him that made it feel endless fear.
But deep within Fulgrim's own soul, the most primitive pursuit of "perfection" belonging to the Emperor's Children gave him an unprecedented urge to kneel and worship.
His declaration was stuck in his throat.
Leticia ignored his complex gaze filled with shock and greed.
She also ignored the ominous demonic sword in his hand that was craving her soul.
She simply, calmly, raised her head to meet his gaze.
Then, she asked the first sentence.
The voice was not loud, but like a clear stream, it easily pierced through all the psychic storms and echoed clearly within everyone's soul.
"Fulgrim."
"Is this the 'perfection' you seek?"
Her gaze slowly swept over the empty armor belonging to the Noise Marines scattered on the ground.
Swept over the mortal corpses that had unfortunately perished in the previous battle.
Finally, it fell back onto Fulgrim's handsome yet twisted face.
"A pile of corpses, and a weeping city?"
---------------------------------
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! If the fanfiction has you hooked and you can't wait to see what happens next, you can unlock 30 or more chapters in advance over on my patreon: patreon.com/FTLGenBen
Also every bit of support means the world to me so if you're loving the ride, don't forget to drop a Power Stone, Thanks.