By the time the Word Bearers' and Eaters of Worlds' fleets arrived over Colchis, the Word Bearers there had either surrendered or been killed. The Eaters of Worlds had lost the majority of their force in the preceding assault — most of the survivors had been cut down. A portion remained surrounded in the arena complex, where Castellax and Thanatar units were conducting a final sweep — exactly as they had once done to the Ultramarines on Calth.
Looking at these Word Bearers — power armour repainted black, shoulder guards marked with unfamiliar runes — Lorgar's expression was deeply uncomfortable.
He genuinely had no desire to give these traitors any mercy. But they had surrendered. And they had already begun their own self-imposed penitent campaigns.
After Vironii's intervention and explanation — and given that they had genuinely contributed on the frontline —
Lorgar reluctantly accepted their surrender. He detached a portion of the fleet and sent them out to begin their penance.
"At least your sons are still willing to follow you, Lorgar."
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Angron looked at the floor — covered in Eaters of Worlds skulls, the Butcher's Nails still ringing faintly in the heads of the dead.
They had gone mad. The moment they saw him, they had thrown down their weapons and charged forward seeking death. Even after the fact, the expressions frozen on their faces — contorted by pain and fury — had found no release.
The anger rising inside Angron produced a faint ache behind his eyes.
No one, seeing their sons become monsters like this, could remain calm. That slave had dragged the Legion into a bottomless abyss.
And it got off easy. Dying that cleanly.
Angron felt genuine regret. He should have taken the time to properly denounce that slave while he had the chance.
It was at this moment that Perturabo finally arrived. He had come in a hurry — and when he heard what had happened in these thirteen days, even his mind took a moment to process it.
"Well. As long as you're both unharmed."
Perturabo didn't know what to say. Were Word Bearers always this absurd?
And what exactly was a Blood Angel blessed by both Khorne and Slaanesh?
You could be the favoured of one Chaos God. You could theoretically be the favoured of all four. But simultaneously the darling of Khorne and Slaanesh — two whose mutual antagonism was absolute — that was not supposed to be possible.
Yet the Angel had broken that rule. And by Lorgar's description, the Angel's combat capability had been genuinely terrifying.
He had no idea how much Chaos had invested to pull these people through — but clearly they had committed everything to this gamble.
"Warmaster — what is the situation with the other brothers? What is happening on Terra?"
Angron voiced the question everyone present wanted answered.
"Unknown. For now, Terra should be holding. Magnus has already gone through the Webway. After you've sorted things here, both of you do the same — get back and reinforce the Solar System and Terra."
"What about the regions out here? We're just going to leave them?"
Neither Lorgar nor Angron was comfortable abandoning these regions to Chaos.
"You two go back first. Their main force is concentrated outside the Solar System — this multi-front assault was designed to clear certain threats in advance."
"It's not just you two. Other brothers have almost certainly been attacked as well. You were fortunate, Lorgar — Angron happened to be with you. Right now every brother has probably been hit. I need to find them one by one."
"As for the outer regions — I've already deployed the Black Shields, the Deathwatch, and the Grey Knights. They've begun moving. The Abominable Intelligence cohort is also engaging. They'll manage. Our primary task is defence right now — because we still don't know where Chaos intends to strike from."
"The defensive lines I built with Dorn are formidable. But if Chaos has committed this much, they have capabilities we haven't accounted for. Or someone who can break through what we built together."
Perturabo had a deeply unpleasant premonition. Because there was more than one Chaos Warmaster — and the true master of siege warfare had not yet appeared.
If Lheor and Lorgar and the others had been deployed, then where was Horus? And more troublingly — Perturabo had already formed a hypothesis about why the Emperor had suddenly lost half his power.
The region around the Olympia worlds had fallen into an eerie silence. Superficially nothing appeared wrong — but the wrongness was everywhere, a pervasive sense of wrongness that made the chest tighten.
Perturabo felt it — Guilliman and the Five Hundred Worlds were in trouble. And the most likely scenario: Ultramar had fallen quietly, without anyone knowing it had happened.
Whether going there now could change things — Perturabo wasn't certain. But even if he went, if he truly faced the genuine Dark King there, he was probably not yet a match for it.
And the fact that it was still content to wait meant it believed remaining still was its most advantageous move.
The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar — even committing forces to assault there immediately might not produce good results.
But what about Guilliman?
Perturabo felt genuine worry for his brother.
No. He had to go look. Guilliman should not be compromised — because Guilliman was the Imperium's true "backup reserve." He was the final contingency Perturabo had prepared for the possibility that the Imperium one day fell into terminal decline.
The Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar contained an incalculable wealth of stored resources — effectively maintained by Perturabo as a second Olympia.
He had to go see.
"Both of you — remember. Get back to Terra as fast as you can. Bring these people with you. Angron — I'll send the Grey Knights to Nuceria. Do what I say for now."
Angron and Lorgar exchanged a look. Neither liked it — but for the greater cause, they would comply.
Just as Lorgar was ordering his forces to begin systematically stripping Colchis, a fleet of considerable size — entirely blood-red — closed toward Colchis's position. The near-orbital gun emplacements locked on immediately.
Kharn and the others were already ready to open fire. These were traitors — there was nothing to discuss, even if they were Eaters of Worlds.
But the fleet stopped just out of their engagement range. It didn't bring weapons to bear. It made no move to enter their firing solution. Instead, from the central capital ship, a single Stormbird launched and flew toward them.
Batusa, Lhorke, and the others watched from their respective ships as the Stormbird approached — debating whether to shoot it down.
The Eaters demanded immediate destruction. The Word Bearers wanted to know the intent — maybe these were like their own brothers who had entered Black Shield service?
"The Eaters of Worlds have no need for these traitors. The War Hound's glory will not be trampled by defectors!"
Kharn was volcanic in temper — outside of Angron himself, Gal and Lhorke were the only ones who could sometimes talk him down.
"Perhaps we should first see what they intend. If something is wrong, the Warmaster is below us. Are we afraid of a gesture like this?"
"Sounds reasonable in theory. What if brothers die because we weren't careful enough?"
"Any consequences fall on me alone."
"What does your taking responsibility accomplish when the dead are already dead?"
Inside the Stormbird, Kossolax stood with his heart hammering in a way he couldn't quite control. He was afraid these fleets would simply open fire without discussion — and equally afraid of losing this chance to finally leave those madmen behind.
The Butcher's Nails in his skull rang in violent waves. The excruciating pain and the Blood God's fury made this moment almost unbearable.
But he held it down. His own ambitions — his genuine hunger for real honour — would not let him go back to that.
Pointless slaughter. Blood and skulls for their own sake. The Eaters of Worlds had become a monster Legion — comprehensively and completely.
No honour. No tactics. No thought. Not even shame. Because of that damned Angron and that bastard Kharn, they had dragged the Eaters into this abyss.
For the sake of so-called "shared experience with their father," how many brothers had been forcibly implanted with the Butcher's Nails? How many had become nothing but beasts by mid-Crusade?
Kossolax was one of them — held down by his brothers while it was done to him. He could still recall every face of the men who pinned him. And Kharn's face above his, expressionless.
The Butcher's Nails had been hammered into his brain by force. The pain had been the most unforgettable experience of his life.
Nobody knew what kind of willpower he had used to suppress the Butcher's Nails' control. But it had made him the "coward" of the Eaters of Worlds — looked down on by every brother.
Yet this same "coward," in the short window after Angron and Kharn had been exiled to the Warp, had used his combat ability and strategic mind to consolidate the Eaters' scattered remnant fleet in half a month.
And having seen what had happened to their counterparts, he had found what he believed was a better path forward for the Legion — even if the path was dangerous.
He didn't know if these brothers would take them back. So he had made the riskiest decision available.
He had come alone to negotiate.
If not now, there would never be another chance.
He didn't want to be a traitor. He didn't want to spend his life controlled by the Blood God and the Butcher's Nails. If he had never seen this alternative, he might have simply endured — hoarding power in the shadows.
But Kossolax no longer wanted to return to that existence. He would rather be shredded by lances and macro-cannons today than go back to living like an animal.
The others had made their peace with it too. Nobody wanted to return to that madness — no hope, no honour, nothing except skulls and blood and the Butcher's Nails driving pain through their heads at random.
Living worse than a mutant in the hive bottom. Whoever wanted that kind of existence was welcome to it. They were done.
Today, if re-entry failed — they would charge in a suicide run. Let the guns silence them in the void permanently.
"Let them come. I want to see what these traitors have to say."
Angron's voice came through the channel. Kharn immediately went quiet. Gal and Lhorke made no further objection.
The Conqueror moved forward slightly to close the distance with the Stormbird. Kossolax's relief was immense — he still didn't know the outcome, but at least there was some hope.
The Stormbird flew toward the enormous modified warship and settled onto the landing bay.
Kharn and the others were already waiting. They wanted to see exactly what kind of traitor had the nerve to come directly to their headquarters.
What surprised Kharn was that only a single Eater of Worlds stepped off the Stormbird.
He was not particularly large. The Butcher's Nails in his skull rang continuously — but his face carried none of the pain-and-fury contortion that defined the Eaters.
Calm. Suppressed. With a thread of something like controlled madness behind the eyes. That was Kharn's first impression.
What kind of warrior could suppress the Butcher's Nails?
Kharn and the others were genuinely surprised. They knew what this device did to a person — even their father, before the Warmaster had removed it, had been driven nearly to death by it.
"Kossolax?"
Lhorke seemed to recognise him — the name came out reflexively.
"I didn't expect the Commander to still remember me. I assumed that after defecting, no one would. Even my brothers back then barely knew who I was. They only knew the Legion had produced a coward."
Kossolax forced a thin smile.
"Your death was not particularly honourable. When Father went mad and hacked you into something resembling a log, I was there watching. When he came back to himself, it was me who put the pieces of your body back together."
Lhorke's expression didn't change.
"He's our Second Company Commander now. A little more time and he'll probably take my place."
Kossolax's face showed genuine envy. Look at the life he gets to live here — and I could have had this too.
Damn Angron. Damn Kharn.
"What do you want here? To surrender?"
Kharn's large frame was first to approach. The phase axe in his hand was already half-raised to split this traitor in two.
Kossolax looked at this Kharn — and felt a moment of disorientation. Just in terms of presence alone, this one was vastly stronger than the Kharn he knew.
The scale of the frame. The Terminator plate — heavier than Saturnine plate. The face — far more wild than his Kharn.
He looks like someone with no pressure in his life whatsoever.
"Before you drove the Butcher's Nails into my skull, I respected you. You were the only one who could genuinely hold Father back when he went mad."
Kossolax didn't answer Kharn's question — he said something instead that made Kharn go quiet.
The phase axe came to rest against the neck of this "brother" who barely reached his chest. Kharn had no interest in dragging this out.
"I don't want to hear you ramble. Say your purpose, or I will split you in half."
"We're here to surrender."
Kharn's expression was contemptuous. He almost spat on the deck — then remembered it was his own ship and swallowed it back.
"You have the nerve to talk about surrender? You've killed enough of your own brothers, haven't you? And now you stand here and tell me you want to surrender? Go say it to the brothers who died because of you. See if they agree."
Kharn was ready to bring the axe down. Kossolax's expression was ugly. This brute. Still so insufferable. Still so powerful that resistance is pointless.
But a large hand stopped Kharn. Gal decided he wanted to see what this "traitor" had actually planned — after all, this was someone who could hold the Butcher's Nails down.
"Commander Gal? You're alive? Weren't you killed in the Khoro System before Father's return?"
Kossolax was mildly surprised — then reminded himself that this was a different universe and let it go.
"Why are you surrendering? Like the Word Bearers?"
"We just want to live like people. But that thing and Angron turned us into animals. We had no choice before. Now we want to be something decent."
"Where were you when it mattered? If you were truly loyal, you shouldn't have defected in the first place!"
"Scared of death is scared of death — don't dress it up as if you had no other option. Opportunist."
Kharn still hated traitors.
"Those who mattered are dead. They stood against us when we attacked Calth — some of them were ground to death in the arena by rotation teams, without dignity or honour."
That stopped not just Kharn — even Gal and Lhorke came close to losing composure.
"If you want to die that way, you don't need Kharn to do it. I'll introduce you to the same experience personally. Though looking at you, I doubt you'd last the first round."
Lhorke said coldly.
"Commander — the ones I brought with me are the last Eaters of Worlds who can still control themselves. We took the wrong path. Now we want the chance to prove ourselves."
"We're not here to argue our past. We'll demonstrate our loyalty in what follows. No words can prove it more than our actions."
Kossolax was going to push for this. If it failed — dying on this ship was still better than dying like a stray dog in the void somewhere, forgotten and honourless.
"If you don't believe us, split me now. I'd rather die at your hands today than go back to being a madman. We've all made our peace with it — if I don't succeed today, they'll launch a suicide charge against your fleet."
"Then I'll cut you down right now and blow your ships into fragments to drift in the asteroid belt!"
Kharn moved to do exactly that — but Gal stopped him again.
"Commander!"
"Can you calm down? Look at yourself. Is this how a War Hound is supposed to act?"
"Bring him through. Signal the fleet — tell those ships to come closer."
Angron's voice came through the channel. Kharn stood down.
"Come on then. Consider yourself lucky."
Kossolax felt something release in his chest. This had already half-succeeded.
Walking through the ship, watching these large "brothers" passing him by, Kossolax couldn't hold back his curiosity. He had noticed it before.
(Author note: Kele Novel latest update — Iron Lord's Days of Slacking)
"Why are all of you so large?"
He looked at Lhorke as he asked.
"A minor surgical procedure. If Father accepts your group, you'll be eligible for it too. And the Butcher's Nails — those can also be removed."
"The Butcher's Nails can be removed?"
Kossolax stopped walking.
"Father's were removed by the Warmaster. If your people perform well, maybe Father can ask the Warmaster to extend the same to you."
"Whether they'll accept you at all isn't settled yet. Isn't thinking that far ahead a bit premature?"
Kharn's tone was still unfriendly. Kossolax paid it no attention.
The Butcher's Nails can actually be removed.
Kossolax had already decided. Whatever happened in the meeting — he was going to beg for that. On his knees if necessary. Whatever it took to get that thing out of his head.
The Butcher's Nails rang again. It sounded especially jarring here, among these Eaters who carried no such burden. Kharn and the others watched the short figure for any sign of wrongness — the moment he showed any, they would cut him down.
But Kossolax's face remained expressionless. Not even a flicker of pain crossed it. His gaze stayed level and clear — even as the thunder of two hearts beating too fast was audible enough for Kharn and the others to hear.
The slightly elevated breathing showed he was not unaffected. But he could hold it. He was still rational.
"You're genuinely unusual. No wonder you were able to consolidate a broken army in this short a time and keep it cohesive. From our engagements these past days — your fleet has been the most disciplined and the most tactically coherent of anything we've faced."
"Perhaps you and your other self might find some common ground. Though he's not like you — he has a sense of humour. But he could never endure like this."
Lhorke offered his assessment.
"If I had started here from the beginning, I think I could have used my tactics and capabilities properly. I could have been the one trading jokes with my brothers. I could have sat with ordinary auxilia soldiers and talked rubbish and laughed about nothing."
Kossolax said this simply.
"Traitors don't get 'what ifs.'"
Kharn had never liked traitors and had never been soft when cutting them down.
"The Eaters of Worlds becoming what they became — half that responsibility is yours, Eighth Company Commander. Is that still your rank? Were you still forcing yourself to change, bringing your company brothers along with you, following your father whether you wanted to or not?"
"Like the other you — who voluntarily implanted the Butcher's Nails in himself to share Father's pain, then forced us all to have them installed as well."
"Do you know that I still remember — Commander — the feeling of you holding my head down while you drove that nail in."
"Do you know what it felt like, when it churned my brain into something between porridge and nothing, and then worked deeper into my spine until it had replaced parts of it?"
"I understand Father's experience now. And I understand how they became those animals."
"Most of the Legion's brothers were driven into beasts by the two of you. And Father was just a cowardly, useless bastard who dragged everyone down with him."
"In our version — originally we were the most celebrated War Hounds in the Emperor's service. We earned honour beyond counting."
"But because of that slave and because of Kharn — because of them — we became the most savage Legion in the entire Imperium. We went down the road of rebellion. Because of Warmaster Horus, we slaughtered our own brothers on Isstvan."
"Do you know something, Kharn? Because of you — when some brothers finally started to resist, Father actually genuinely acknowledged them for the first time. And then he hacked them to death. Just like he always did."
Kossolax recounted these events calmly and without emotion. The more the War Hounds heard, the angrier they became.
"Look at what I am now. Is Father somehow beneath a mere Eater of Worlds? He was a slave — completely. No one in the universe was more two-faced and savage. At one point he even insulted the Thirteenth Primarch who was trying to help us."
"He always thought he was the victim. He always channelled his misfortune onto everyone around him. The Legion suffered. The worlds we attacked suffered. Old, young, children — it didn't matter. He took all their heads."
"Sometimes he forced us to kill children who had done nothing wrong. Refuse — he'd kill us. Comply and displease him somehow — he'd still kill us."
"Only you, Kharn. You were the only one who could stay near him that long. I never understood it — a creature with nothing to offer the Legion beyond combat strength, who somehow earned Father's favour. How?"
"Eventually I understood. You weren't just a loyal dog — you were a dog who could read minds. Who would run forward and wag his tail and beg, who would sacrifice his own life without hesitation for a single moment of his master's approval. Loyal, powerful — but still a dog. I'll bind you to the ship's ramming prow one day and use you to crash into Angron. Let father and son appreciate each other properly."
Kossolax made no effort to conceal his hatred for Kharn and Angron. The entire Eaters of Worlds Legion had carried this resentment for years.
"And that damned one — actually, is the female Captain still on this ship?"
"Captain Serin?"
"Yes. Her. That one."
"Though before she defected, she was genuinely responsible. She worked hard. Unfortunate that Angron and his people dragged her in and she started losing her grip as well."
"Speaking of which — you and her were close once, Kharn, weren't you? Back then you and she were among the few still relatively clear-headed in the whole Legion. Pity the Blood God got to both of you and left you both as that repugnant version."
"If I hadn't had the Butcher's Nails put in me — maybe there would have been one more person in the Legion who had genuine respect for them."
"It seems 'I' caused you considerable suffering. Child."
Everyone stopped.
Froze.
Kossolax didn't know why — but the moment he saw this figure, his eyes began to sting. As if every suppressed grievance was being drawn out at once. As if all the emotions he had held down for years had found a way to move.
Angron could feel it — the emotional weight inside this "son" was something extraordinary. One person carrying what felt like a thousand people's worth of accumulated feeling. He couldn't imagine what these years had actually been like.
"My lord — I — I—"
The Kossolax who had been talking so easily a moment ago found his throat closing. He couldn't get the words out.
"Call me Father. Your blood carries my legacy. The bond between us still exists."
Kossolax looked at the tall figure before him — the same silhouette as the savage he had known, yet entirely opposite in every other way.
The tears came before he could stop them. The Butcher's Nails rang relentlessly in his skull — but Kossolax remained uncontrolled by it. He dropped to one knee.
"Father."
Sevatar thought surrendering Nostramo had been entirely worth it.
This paradise world — Samneal — was genuinely wonderful.
No scheming. No habitual brutal crime. No sky eternally blocked from light by that permanent shadow.
Sunlight fell on them and their children. The education and social order here was healthy. No twisted concepts of justice.
The Night Lords, under Sevatar's reasonably diligent management, were developing tolerably well.
Though Father was still the same obsessive master of righteous justice who couldn't tolerate a single crime in his sight — but that was fine. Sevatar was confident: given a little more time, more exposure to normal environments, more sunlight, Father would recover. Gradually.
The Great Crusade was over. They had time to spare now. Father would definitely come back to himself. The Legion's brothers would one day become upright judges and arbiters, bringing something good to the universe.
Real futures. With actual hope.
Sevatar lay in open grassland. No power armour. Warm sunlight on his face. Among the Night Lords — who had never been fond of light — Sevatar was very much an anomaly.
"Uncle Sevatar."
A little girl, sucking on a lollipop, wandered up beside him. None of the ordinary fear most people showed the Night Lords.
"School finished?"
"Mm-hm. Are you sunbathing again?"
"I like the sun."
"But the other uncles don't. And some of them are quite scary."
Lisa thought of the terrifying giant she had encountered a few days ago. The black eyes and the scarring had nearly made her faint on the spot.
"They'll like it soon. We don't need to avoid it anymore."
"Avoid what? The sun?"
"Yes."
"Why would anyone avoid the sun? Too hot? Just don't like it?"
"Don't like it. Before — we wouldn't appear in sunlight."
"Why?"
Lisa sucked her lollipop, genuinely confused.
Sevatar didn't answer. He opened his eyes and looked at this perfectly round-cheeked little girl — and poked her soft face once with a finger.
But then Sevatar stood up. His expression darkened.
Lisa had never seen him look like this. She didn't understand why.
"What's wrong, uncle?"
"Go home now. Stay with your parents, listen to what the uncles tell you, find somewhere to hide. Understood?"
Lisa didn't know what was happening — but looking at Sevatar's expression, and hearing the alarms beginning to sound at that exact moment, she gave a very obedient nod and ran home at speed.
What was happening? Why was Samneal being attacked? And at this threat level?
"Commander."
Sathyr and Shen came to meet him.
"What happened?"
"We've been attacked by the Dragon of Fire. Counterattack is already underway. Father has personally deployed."
"How could the Dragon of Fire attack us? What's going on?"
"We don't know. The Dragon of Fire's fleet is behaving strangely — the fire they're directing at us is unusually ferocious. Father suspects they've been corrupted by Chaos."
Shen answered.
"Chaos corruption? How could the Dragon of Fire be corrupted? He was with the Warmaster — how could Chaos corrupt him right in front of the Warmaster?"
"We don't know. Father has gone to find out."
"Father just went out like that? Who's with him?"
"Only twenty Black Guard. Fer and Kasati are with him."
"Reckless. If something already seemed wrong, why not reduce them to zero threat with firepower first, then deploy?"
"Can these traitors' capability compare to the firepower the Warmaster gave us?"
"So what do we do now?"
Sathyr didn't know what to say. Shen broke the silence.
"Where did Father go?"
"The largest capital ship."
Sevatar looked through the viewport at the Gloriana-class vessel — larger than the Nightfall — its exterior a study in black and damage. He had no idea what had happened to Vulkan.
But one thing was certain: Vulkan had been corrupted by Chaos somehow.
"Resolve those fleets as quickly as possible. Sathyr — gather the remaining Black Guard. Prepare to board with me. We find Father. Shen — you take command."
"Yes, sir."
"How did you end up like this? Vulkan?"
Konrad couldn't reconcile what he was seeing with the image of the straightforward, honest Dragon of Fire he remembered.
Everything he had seen on his way through this ship — the tortured humans, the horror — had made him feel like he was back in his own room aboard the Nightfall. If Sevatar hadn't dismantled that room, he might well have gone back inside and never come out again.
"What happened to you?"
The enormous figure had changed completely. Vulkan's great dragon head even breathed sustained jets of intense high-temperature flame.
He held a war hammer. He was walking toward Konrad one step at a time, completely indifferent to anything Konrad was saying.
And from that enormous frame came a voice — tone childlike, almost simple.
"I knew it. Brother, I knew you wouldn't just die that easily. I knew it. You're just like me! Heh heh heh."
The terrifying body produced childlike words. This was absolutely not the Dragon of Fire. Konrad was certain of that — this was not his brother.
"Everyone fall back."
Konrad said to his sons.
"Father!"
"Go. There's no one on this ship who can stop me from leaving whenever I choose. Go find Sev. I'll rejoin you."
The Black Guard had no choice. They obeyed and left. Get back to the Nightfall first. Find someone to come get Father.
BOOM.
A devastatingly powerful hammer blow struck the deck plating. Konrad stepped out of the way without difficulty.
Vulkan's frame was enormous — but the speed was not slow. Against any combatant less agile and mobile than Konrad, the sheer force behind those swings could already reduce a Primarch to pulped meat.
The Undying Dragon's strength was such that even the air pressure from a casual strike left marks on the ship's internal plating.
Konrad couldn't even safely approach, because even glancing contact with one of those swings risked shattering every bone in his body — after which Vulkan would flatten him.
The phase lightning claws Perturabo had gifted him weren't getting any useful purchase. Vulkan's frame was too enormous — unless he could remove the head in a single strike, every attack bounced off that heavy armour without meaningful effect.
"Stop dodging, brother. Come at me like you used to. Kill me. This isn't fun otherwise."
The hammer was moving faster now. One swing came close enough to actually catch Konrad.
"How did you become this, Vulkan?"
Konrad asked, barely keeping clear of a hammer blow.
"Ate a black monster. Then ate a fragment of something inside a white stalk. Then became like this."
Vulkan's actions didn't slow for a moment — and from the chest cavity, something resembling a furnace made the entire body appear to glow from within.
The black skin shone with an inner light. The black armour had fused with the body completely. The defensive mass and the offensive output made Konrad's refined technique completely inapplicable.
But Konrad's goal was never to kill Vulkan. The sons should have escaped by now. Time to leave himself.
Konrad stopped engaging. He vanished — moving toward the ship's exterior. Vulkan immediately followed. The enormous frame thundered across the deck plating, the floor barely able to support the weight.
"Brother, don't run!"
The roar came from behind. Konrad paid it no attention — turned several corners, and was gone.
Vulkan could only vent his frustration on the bridge fittings and on the mortals and sons unfortunate enough to be nearby.
On Olympia, in the palace administrative hall, Calliphone had been managing state affairs continuously for nearly two years. Things had been genuinely relentless — she hadn't had time to take Abbot to the opera in months.
The Great Crusade was over, but she still had no rest. Until the situation was fully stable, the administrative burden would remain this heavy.
The logic engines had optimised enormous amounts of the workload — but her mortal body was beginning to show the strain.
Especially now that Perturabo had told her something major was happening. The entire Olympia system had been placed on lockdown, and nobody seemed to know exactly what was going on.
Calliphone was genuinely tired. She desperately wanted to step back and actually spend time with her brother for once.
But while Calliphone was still processing administrative documents, a steady but heavy set of footsteps reached her.
Who? At this hour?
Calliphone looked toward the door.
A tall figure in black armour stood outside. The inverted omega insignia on the shoulder plate identified him.
"The Thirteenth Primarch?"