Chapter 24: Blood Angels — Part II
2026-03-13 03:54:51 | Author: 一米六的我
"Father."
Raldoron's voice came from behind.
"We have entered the outer edge of the Taros System cluster. Another three hours and we will reach the capital system."
"Can we go any faster?"
"We are already at maximum speed. The captain's mind and the Crimson Tear's machine spirit are both approaching their limits."
Sanguinius said nothing. He knew this was as fast as they could go — and still he wanted more.
Watching their father like this, Raldoron and the Sanguinary Guard felt the weight of it settle over them.
By nature they were volatile and blood-hungry warriors. They could have been dropped onto an Armageddon battlefield and charged harder than a Titan, leaping straight into the xenos with blades swinging — that was simply how they lived. When the killing frenzy took hold, some of them had even shoved a fallen auxilia soldier into their mouths mid-battle, a crude but effective way to replenish strength and dull the Red Thirst.
But watching the anxiety on their father's face now, something else rose in their chests — grief, and fury.
They swore it. They would tear those xenos to pieces in their father's name and avenge their fallen brothers.
"Commander, the Taros xenos orbital space has been cleared. The Second Fleet is conducting final sweeps. Estimated full clearance in twenty-two minutes."
The Iron Warriors' fleet had shattered the Taros navy and was now finishing the job.
The xenos command structure had been reduced to ash somewhere in the endless barrage.
"What is the situation on the ground?"
"Battalion Warsmith Dantioch has completed clearance. All major Taros Combine leadership has been eliminated. The other Battalion commanders are progressing smoothly across the remaining systems. Estimated time to capture the cluster has been brought forward by three hundred and fifty-five hours."
The tension across Ferrix's brow eased, just slightly.
"And the Blood Angels?"
"Their injuries have been stabilised. Relevant memory editing has also been performed — there should be no side effects such as memory fragmentation."
"What about Captain Alvareth?"
"Wounds are too severe for direct recovery. Recommendation: Dreadnought interment or Primcast surgical enhancement. Without one of these two options, he will remain in a death-like stasis indefinitely."
Ferrix frowned. Alvareth's condition was that dire?
It wasn't a matter of reluctance. The problem was that his father had never reported the Primcast surgery to the Imperium — which meant he had no grounds to casually subject warriors from another Legion to it.
More critically, the Primcast procedure had been specifically optimised by his father to suit the physiology of Iron Warriors. When they failed to survive it, at least their chances of pulling through were reasonable. But if Alvareth's body rejected it, or if the rejection rate spiked sharply, there was very little chance of saving him.
Ferrix was torn. A Dreadnought was no place for a warrior of another Legion — no Space Marine of any colour willingly chose to be entombed in one, to live in iron and suffering.
Even if the Iron Warriors possessed Dreadnought frames that rivalled the Achilles pattern, that didn't mean Alvareth would want to enter one.
Ferrix couldn't make this call. He would let Alvareth rest as he was, and wait until his father arrived to discuss it properly with the Angel.
"Have we established what happened to them?"
"According to Adjutant Andrel of the Ninth Company, Ninth Legion, they were detected and surrounded by the xenos almost immediately upon entering the system. One vessel was fought free at great cost to transmit the distress call. Under Captain Alvareth's command, they launched an assault on the xenos capital. A teleportation malfunction left nearly a quarter of their warriors stranded on the surface, where they were encircled by xenos forces."
Ferrix was quiet for a moment. Teleporting without a homer and still having this many survivors — that was nothing short of remarkable. He had nothing to say.
"Adjutant Andrel has requested an audience with you, Commander."
"That can wait. Do we have any readings on the Blood Angels' main fleet?"
"Analysis from deployed probes indicates the Blood Angels' main fleet has translated out of the Mandeville point. They are approximately three days from our position."
Three days.
Ferrix ran through his options. He wasn't certain any of them would hold against a Primarch.
"Commander."
Berossus's voice came over the vox.
"We should make some preparations. When the Ninth Legion's main force arrives and sees the scale of our fleet—"
He left it unfinished. But Ferrix understood.
Even with only three fleets present here, three Gloria Regina-class warships and five Star Forts was already well outside what could be explained away.
And that was before accounting for the partial memory editing done on the Ninth Company survivors — even if the effects were minimal, something would feel wrong, and an observant eye would notice.
If any of this was reported back to the Imperium, the fallout could be severe. They had no desire to become the subject of Imperial scrutiny the way the Thirteenth Primarch had.
This situation could be managed — or it could spiral badly. The problem was that the person arriving didn't give Ferrix the luxury of treating it as manageable.
"Tell Dantioch to begin a gradual withdrawal of the Resentment Intelligence forces."
"Yes."
"Have him clear the xenos from the capital as quickly as possible. The ground must be ready to receive the Blood Angels within three days."
"Yes."
"Second and Third Fleets: maintain alert status, continue sweeping this system, and monitor the Mandeville point. Report the moment the Ninth Legion's fleet is detected."
"All remaining fleets: push forward and accelerate the campaign. Exterminate all Taros Combine xenos and reclaim the occupied worlds. Once the objective is complete, do not return yet."
After issuing the orders, Ferrix pressed his fingers to his temple.
Of all the Legions to run into — why did it have to be one led by a Primarch?
The galaxy was vast. Even with twenty Legions fighting on every front, running into one another without a direct order from the Emperor to combine forces was genuinely rare. At most you bumped into a Crusade fleet by chance — and plugging a Crusade fleet's mouth was easy enough. Hiding things from a Primarch was another matter entirely.
What Ferrix didn't know was that the Emperor and the other Primarchs had already been aware, at least in broad terms, of Perturabo's use of Resentment Intelligence. Even knowing that, he would still have chosen to conceal the rest. Because what his father had done here went far beyond that.
No Legion had ever incorporated Resentment Intelligence directly into their order of battle. No Legion had undergone augmentation of this scale and then concealed their true numbers from the Imperium.
The First Legion didn't have that right.
Ferrix kept his gaze on the holographic display. He had already transmitted a real-time report. All he could do now was hope his father arrived quickly to deal with this himself.
He had no idea how Perturabo would handle it. But for now, Ferrix needed to think about how to approach Sanguinius.
Then — without warning — a familiar presence in the air around him made something lift in his chest.
"Father."
"I know the situation. Finish clearing the ground as quickly as possible. Withdraw the Resentment Intelligence forces. Three Gloria Reginas and four Star Forts are to translate into the Warp. I will handle the rest."
"Yes, Father."
"Keep your cousins calm. Everything else is mine to deal with."
A moment later, with a single sweeping gesture, the Iron Blood translated out of the Warp. This was the Gloria Regina-class warship that the Mechanicum had driven the Jovian Shipyards to complete at full capacity — twenty-two kilometres from bow to stern.
Perturabo had subjected the Iron Blood to a comprehensive refit inside and out, and made it his flagship.
After arranging for the souls of fallen mortal auxilia soldiers to serve as overseers, Perturabo turned his gaze toward the Crimson Tear, which was racing toward them at full speed.
He took in the anxiety and fury on Sanguinius's flawless face. He took in the expressions of Raldoron, the Sanguinary Guard, all of them.
Several approaches formed in his mind immediately. He was confident he knew how to handle his brother.
Sanguinius had been pacing the bridge, periodically urging more speed out of the crew, when he suddenly felt it.
He was acutely sensitive in the psychic sense — sharply so. He felt the gaze that was observing him with almost no effort at all.
Through the haze of perception, he thought he could make out a tall figure standing before him — its presence carrying something that felt faintly sinister, and yet oddly familiar.
"The battle is over. Your sons have been saved. The situation is not ideal. We can discuss the specifics when you arrive."
Sanguinius stilled.
He knew who this was.
"Father, what's wrong?"
Raldoron had noticed the change in his father and stepped closer, concern in his voice.
"Is it Alvareth? Has something happened to them?"
Sanguinius gave a small nod.
"Yes. The Fourth Legion supported them. My brother Perturabo is there. Alvareth and the others have been saved — but the situation is not good."
He said it plainly.
His mood had sunk to its lowest point. They had come too late.
"Why is the Fourth Legion here?" Raldoron asked.
"I don't know. But it's a good thing. We'll get there and ask."
Something felt wrong to Andrel.
Since waking, his head had been heavy — a dull, persistent weight. He kept feeling as though something had slipped away from him. His memories of being ambushed, of teleporting to the xenos capital's surface, of the fighting that followed — they were there, but blurred. The specific details of the battle had vanished entirely. He could remember the Red Thirst taking hold, the foul taste of xenos blood, the Captain's critical condition — and almost nothing else.
The Red Thirst didn't cause amnesia. Andrel had survived near-death experiences before and never lost his memory afterward.
Had the xenos blood done something to him?
That didn't make sense either.
Unless it was our cousins who pulled us out?
He immediately rejected the thought — but then, how had the Fourth Legion saved them? Why did he have no memory of it at all?
He had woken to find a tall Apothecary standing over him.
But since when did the Fourth Legion produce Apothecaries — or any warriors — this large and solidly built?
He didn't remember any of the brothers from that Legion looking like this. Even their commander Ferrix hadn't been this tall, had he?
What was going on?
Andrel's head was swimming. He needed to know how his brothers were faring. He needed to understand why he had lost his memory. He needed to know where he was.
"Brother."
The Iron Warriors Apothecary appeared beside him, finding him still in a daze.
"You seem to be recovering reasonably well."
"Where is this? Where are my brothers?"
Andrel was bare-chested, his body mapped with wounds old and new.
"They're awake too. Your Captain, however, is in a bad way. If you don't want him to remain in a death-like stasis indefinitely, the only options are Dreadnought interment — or he continues to serve the Emperor and the Angel from within the shell of a Dreadnought."
Andrel listened as the Apothecary explained what had happened after their rescue.
They were aboard the Iron Blood — flagship of the Fourth Legion's Primarch.
"Your father is on his way as well. You'd requested an audience with our Commander earlier, but he is occupied directing the fleet's final sweep of the xenos — he won't be available to speak with you for some time."
"Father is coming too?"
That was the important part.
"Yes. Your distress call reached him. He will be here within the day."
The news brought a small measure of relief — but with it came the weight of what the Ninth Company had lost. This had been a brutal engagement. Who could have anticipated the xenos fielding so many warships, and of reasonable quality at that?
Their naval strength had been nearly comparable to a Legion's primary fleet. And they had struck without warning. Without that ambush, things might never have gotten so bad.
Andrel thought of the brothers who had died aboard the ships before they could mount any real resistance. He thought of the ones trapped on the surface after the teleport went wrong.
He felt the Red Thirst stirring again. His anger was rising, and becoming difficult to suppress.
He wanted to go back. He wanted to return to that battlefield and kill every last one of those xenos with his own hands.
"Brother. Steady yourself."
The Apothecary placed a hand on Andrel's shoulder. The firm pressure and the cold touch of precision-crafted power armour snapped him back instantly.
Looking up at the cousin standing over him — a full head taller, considerably broader — Andrel felt the Thirst ease back slightly.
"My apologies. My condition is unstable. The deaths of our brothers — I'm having difficulty keeping myself in check."
He sat back down on the bench that had been set out for them.
"It's a natural response. The flaw in your gene-seed is significant. But you need to learn to govern it — or the Red Thirst will make a beast of you again."
"Yes. Thank you, brother."
Above the Taros home world, two great fleets faced each other.
A Stormbird detached from the Crimson Tear and crossed to the Iron Blood.
In the hangar of the Iron Blood, Ferrix, Dantioch, and the others had been waiting for some time.
The Stormbird settled smoothly. The ramp descended.
Sanguinius stepped out, with Raldoron and Azkaellon close behind.
Ferrix and Dantioch thought, privately, that the stories had not been exaggerated. Looking at him from here — the face, at least, was genuinely flawless.
Golden hair, long and bright. A perfect face. Eyes the colour of old blood. White wings folded close behind him.
He wore power armour of burnished gold, every surface carved with intricate patterns. The Ninth Legion's heraldry adorned his pauldrons. Along his chest, abdomen, and knees, several red jewels had been set — shaped like eyes.
The Eye of Horus. A declaration of deep brotherhood with the Warmaster.
He walked forward with perfect composure, and every mortal auxilia soldier who caught sight of him instinctively held their breath.
Ferrix and Dantioch stood and watched the figure approach.
Ferrix had heard a great deal about Sanguinius. The perfect angel. The formidable warrior. The merciful lord. The salvation of the Ninth Legion. But seeing someone in person was always something different.
That beauty. That quality of presence. The immediate, involuntary goodwill he seemed to generate simply by existing.
Ferrix reflected quietly that there was a reason the Ninth Legion had become one of the Imperium's model Legions so quickly.
But when his gaze fell on the Eye of Horus worked into the armour, something in him felt the bitter irony of it.
Part of the reason the Ninth Legion had suffered so terribly in the early years was their own nature, yes. But the deeper cause, the root of it, was that the Imperium had never truly valued them.
The Luna Wolves' record was dazzling — but how many of those victories had been built on the corpses of brother Legions? Without those cousins absorbing the heaviest fire, acting as the hammer that broke the enemy's attention and strength, how else could the Luna Wolves have executed their precise decapitation strikes with such minimal losses?
The Luna Wolves' equipment and fleet strength had grown to rival the First Legion's. And yet the Legions that had marched alongside them all that time — what had they received? Some of them hadn't even had their full complement of decent equipment. Some of the newer warriors hadn't even been issued power armour.
The Iron Warriors and the Blood Angels had been the worst off. Treated like livestock, pure and simple.
And when it was over, Horus would speak to them in that magnanimous, warm-hearted tone of his, telling them the Imperium and the Emperor would never forget their sacrifice. That humanity would remember.
Then give us better equipment. That was all they'd ever needed.
Even now, thinking about it, Ferrix felt the old anger stir. How had they let Horus talk them around like that? The Fourth Legion had even started developing rumblings of a warrior lodge culture internally — a symptom of exactly that kind of suppressed resentment.
Fortunately, the Iron Warriors' internal discipline had held. No lodges. No shadow organisations. Otherwise Ferrix shuddered to think what his father would have done when he found out.
And yet the Blood Angels — who had once been in exactly the same miserable position as the Iron Warriors — had somehow reconciled with the Luna Wolves. Horus had publicly declared that the Blood Angels had been reborn, that the days of calling them the "Revenant-blooded" were done.
Which had substantially improved the Ninth Legion's reputation across the Imperium.
But that reputation had been destroyed by the Luna Wolves in the first place. They had spread it, quietly, efficiently, letting it take root.
Who else would send warriors with severe genetic instabilities straight into the most withering fire — bare-chested, no armour — and call it a battle plan? Horus did it, without hesitation, and still did it now. Look at what had been done to the Nineteenth Legion — those cousins had been talked into the same trap.
The sight of Sanguinius and Horus as close friends, Ferrix reflected, made this perfect, radiant Angel seem somewhat less perfect than the legends claimed.
"My lord."
Ferrix in his custom Tyrant Terminator armour stood only a head shorter than the Primarch — a fact that drew quietly startled looks from Raldoron and the others.
What in the galaxy had happened to these cousins?
"Commander."
Sanguinius stopped before him and gave a small nod.
That voice. Even a single word — Ferrix nearly faltered before catching himself.
"Father is waiting for you, my lord. Please, follow me."
Dantioch and the others stepped aside to clear a path. Sanguinius nodded and walked forward.
He was burning to know how his sons were faring. He showed none of it.
His gaze moved across the hangar. Across the Iron Warriors going about their work. Across the Iron Circles and auxilia troops filing back in from the surface.
Some were moving in formation, their precision-tooled power armour catching the light in cold gleams. They didn't look at Sanguinius. They went about their tasks with the mechanical purposefulness of soldiers who had learned long ago to think only about what was in front of them.
Strict discipline. Hard-edged manner. Formidable strength. A silent, contained, iron-heavy power radiated from them without effort.
That was the first impression the Iron Warriors made.
And the Resentment Intelligence?
Sanguinius noticed the absence, but said nothing.
They walked in silence. Despite his worry for his sons, Sanguinius had decided to meet his brother first.
By his count, this would be only their second meeting.
This brother had made quite a dramatic entrance upon his return — and then had spent the following years in near-total obscurity, quietly building his Legion and developing weapons on his home world, not even returning to Terra once.
The Imperium had almost forgotten the Fourth Primarch existed.
These days, the most talked-about name was the Firstborn. After that, Ferrus Manus and Lion El'Jonson — their combat records were genuinely fearsome.
The Lion especially: short as his return had been, the First Legion had torn through everything in their path. Their pace had even pushed Horus — who generally favoured careful diplomacy — to adopt a harder edge in his own campaigns.
Even the Thousand Sons, undermanned as they were, had carved out a reputation on Terra. And yet the Fourth Legion, after their Primarch's return, had produced — nothing. Silence.
The Emperor had allowed this brother to abstain from the Great Crusade. But why had there been no news at all from the Fourth Legion? Not a single report, not a single communiqué sent back to Terra.
And yet now...
Sanguinius looked at these Iron Warriors who were almost unrecognisable from what they had once been, and the unease in him deepened.
And this "long-absent" Fourth Legion had appeared here — and had ended a campaign this quickly.
Against a xenos alliance holding twelve star systems.
Sanguinius had come prepared for a campaign of several years. And yet, from the moment the Ninth Company had transmitted their distress signal to now — not even a month had passed.
One month. Twelve systems.
Was that even possible?
He didn't let himself think too hard about it. Raldoron and the others were puzzled, but watching their father's expression, none of them dared ask. They followed in quiet, watchful silence.
The atmosphere between the two groups had grown distinctly peculiar.
"How are Alvareth and the others?"
The Angel asked the question that had been sitting at the forefront of his mind.
"Of the Ninth Company, one hundred and forty-four survived. Captain Alvareth is critically wounded and currently in a death-like stasis. The rest have had their injuries stabilised and should make full recoveries shortly."
Something dimmed in Sanguinius's eyes. A company of thousands, reduced to a little over a hundred.
"Captain Alvareth has two options. The first is Dreadnought interment. We have the finest frames available here — the Achilles pattern, the same used by the Legio Custodes, with performance specifications that arguably exceed it. However, I do not feel it is my place to choose this path for him — that is your decision to make, my lord."
"The second option is a surgical procedure. The success rate is forty percent. If anything goes wrong during the process, Captain Alvareth will certainly die. If it succeeds, he would become the same kind of warrior as us."
Sanguinius and his companions heard the implication in those words.
"Commander — are you saying that every one of your warriors has undergone additional surgical augmentation on top of the standard Space Marine procedures?"
"Yes. Father designed three bespoke surgical enhancements specifically for us, making us considerably stronger than we were. However, because the procedures were calibrated to our own Legion's physiology, the risk to warriors from other Legions rises sharply. The survival margin that exists for us when complications arise would not necessarily apply to Captain Alvareth."
"My lord, you may make your decision now, or after you have spoken with my father and seen your sons for yourself."
Sanguinius was genuinely stunned.
What had this brother been doing?
Why had none of this ever been reported to the Emperor? An augmentation program of this scale and nature — she had never even heard a rumour of it.
The Angel found himself wanting very much to speak with this brother now. He had a great many questions.
Sanguinius and his party followed Ferrix and the others to the Iron Blood's bridge.
And there, after years apart, Sanguinius saw his brother again.
He was wearing a simple white robe. Black hair fell loose across his shoulders. A green laurel wreath sat across his brow. Deep blue eyes regarded Sanguinius with an untroubled calm. His frame was enormous — almost exaggeratedly so — and gave him a quality of gravity that had nothing to do with imposing oneself.
No armour. No weapons. No visible preparation of any kind.
He was simply standing there — and yet Raldoron and the others felt, without quite understanding why, that the air around them had grown heavier. Their power armour felt, somehow, cumbersome.
It was like standing before a mass of hard, dense iron — vast and self-contained, not projecting itself outward, and yet entirely impossible to ignore.
"Brother. It has been a long time."
The Angel smiled and walked forward, embracing him — managing only to reach his lower chest in the process.
Something shifted in Perturabo's face. A smile appeared, stiff but real.
"Brother."
"Thank you for saving my sons."
Perturabo shook his head slightly.
"A small thing. This region was already part of my strategic planning — I simply didn't expect your vanguard fleet to arrive here first."
"I had intended to receive you on the surface. Unfortunately, time did not allow for it. I couldn't build a proper hall to welcome you in."
Perturabo had not wanted the Blood Angels involved in this campaign. If they were, the Departmento Munitorum bureaucrats would catch the scent of resources and descend within the month, looking to absorb this exceptional cluster of worlds into Imperial administration. A Primarch who refrained from politics and backed by the full weight of the Imperium — that combination could easily generate complications Perturabo had no patience for.
He wasn't ready to start killing Imperial officials yet. That kind of move was far too conspicuous.
"You were quiet for so long. I had begun to think you would remain on your home world developing technology indefinitely."
"That was the plan. But then I heard you were here — how could I not come and see a brother?"
"Then I am quite honoured."
Sanguinius said it lightly, with a trace of amusement.
Perturabo looked at him. Those deep blue eyes held no particular warmth.
"I have heard many things about you."
"Most of it, I imagine, about how you turned a disgraced Legion into a model Legion. And about your perfection."
Sanguinius's smile did not change.
"And what is your verdict?"
"Not bad."
Sanguinius gave a small nod.
"Thank you."
"Your sons saved my sons. I am in your debt."
Perturabo shook his head.
"We are all brothers of the same Legions. It was nothing worth mentioning."
"You did save them, nevertheless. That is simply the truth."
"The Taros Combine has been dismantled. We are in the process of exterminating them now. Consider it vengeance on your behalf."
Sanguinius's brow drew together. What did that mean?
"Brother—"
"I am asking that the Blood Angels withdraw from this campaign. I want these twelve systems. I have no interest in the Administratum bureaucrats taking note of this place."
Silence.
"Our brothers were slaughtered here — and we are to be denied the chance to avenge them?" Raldoron stepped forward from behind the Angel, his voice hard with restrained fury. "That is not acceptable, my lord."
"Your vengeance has already been taken on your behalf. As compensation, I can provide ten thousand sets of precision-tooled Terminator armour and two thousand sets of Centurion armour."
"Are you insulting us, my lord."
It was not a question. Raldoron's expression had turned dangerous. Azkaellon and the other Sanguinary Guard were watching Perturabo with barely-concealed hostility — even knowing that the enormous figure before them could kill them without effort.
Perturabo did not look at them. He waited for his brother's answer.
Sanguinius looked at Perturabo for a long moment. Those cold, still eyes gave nothing away, and the indifference behind them sent a chill through him.
"Brother — forgive me, but I cannot accept your proposal. We will participate in this campaign. We will exterminate these xenos ourselves."
Sanguinius met his formidable brother's gaze without flinching, his voice steady and certain.
The air between them had grown heavy. Raldoron and the others quietly regretted having come unarmed.
Perturabo was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again.
"What if I could improve the environment on your home world? Make Baal capable of growing grapes like these?"
A cluster of grapes appeared in his hand — large, round, deep purple, every berry fat and glistening with ripeness.
"I do not believe any father trades his sons against another man's demands."
Sanguinius said it coolly.
Perturabo studied the Angel's beautiful, stubborn expression and acknowledged, privately, that he wasn't going to talk his way around this one.
"You may not stay long. Ten days — this system is yours to use as you see fit for ten days. After that, you leave. This campaign will not be entered into any official records, and you will ensure your own scribes make no note of these twelve systems."
"The earlier terms remain as stated. Give me your answer."
Perturabo had no desire to keep negotiating with the Angel. If the Ninth Legion's vanguard hadn't suffered such heavy losses here, he wouldn't have had much interest in speaking with Sanguinius at all.
"Why does this matter so much to you, brother?"
Sanguinius asked, genuinely curious.
"Because I have no patience for Imperial officials. It is as simple as that. I do not want other people deciding what happens on territory I have taken."
Sanguinius held Perturabo's gaze for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
He turned and walked back toward his sons, the Sanguinary Guard falling in around him.
Raldoron and the others were less than satisfied. But none of them said anything.