"For the Blood of Sanguinius—!"
"For Russ! For the All-Father!"
"For Macragge! For the Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds!"
"Make them repent!!"
"For the Emperor! For Holy Terra!"
...
The cries rose and fell, echoing like thunder. Perhaps it was the roar of the Blood Angels' descendants—those Astartes whose voices shook the heavens. The vast host, infected by their fervor, raised their weapons high and responded to the golden archangel who soared above them with deafening war cries.
Under the lead of that holy figure—like a true god descended to the mortal realm, no, a god incarnate—the Cadian defenders launched their counterattack.
Wielding the magnificent Divine Key known as Crimson Blade, they struck into the warped, bloodthirsty tide of daemonic abominations with all their might!
"High Castellan… is that a Primarch? The Lord of Holy Blood! A living Primarch?!"
In the command core of Kasr Kraf, a Cadian assault general tore out his ocular servo-assist implants, trembling all over in disbelief.
The image of [Sanguinius] was perhaps second only to that of the Emperor himself throughout the Imperium.
In the 41st Millennium, Sanguinius was loved across the Imperium for his heroic deeds during the Great Crusade, his near-perfect nature, and his impossibly handsome visage. His valiant sacrifice at the end of the Horus Heresy had made him the most beloved of all Primarchs—a hero worshiped by all.
Even Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar and ruler of the Five Hundred Worlds, author of the Codex Astartes, Lord Commander of the Imperium, and Master of Macragge, did not enjoy such fame among the common folk as [Sanguinius].
To commemorate him, the Imperium of Man had established Sanguinala—celebrated every 25th of December—second only to the sacred Feast of the Emperor's Ascension.
On that day, people wore trinkets bearing Sanguinius' image, held grand feasts, decorated Sanguinius trees, exchanged gifts, and prayed for a better life.
As for the matter of the noble [Sanguinius] being slain by Horus during the Heresy—well… that was hardly an issue.
The Emperor works in mysterious ways.
Any event beyond mortal comprehension could be explained simply as a miracle of the Emperor.
"This is the Emperor's miracle! The Lord of Holy Terra has heard our prayers and returned His divine son to the mortal realm—sent a demi-god among us once more!!!"
From the ruined bastion, blasted open by the bombardments of Dark Titans, the Imperial Cardinal stationed at the Cadian Gate defense sector stared in awe at the towering figure of the Primarch.
Even with his eyes, he could not perceive Sanguinius' movements clearly. As the battle lines began to shift in the Imperium's favor, he saw only a searing golden radiance cutting across the Warp-tainted sky.
A sweeping trail of divine light traced a magnificent arc—its brilliance burning through corruption and decay. Exploding flesh and twisted metal bloomed like flowers before that half-god's might.
"This is our honor—to stand beside the Son of God! Move! Move! I shall follow the divine child into holy war and repay our blood-debts with blood!"
The Cardinal, half-mad with zeal, waved his sacred scripture frantically, his wrinkled face flushing red with ecstatic fervor.
For a believer, to witness such a miracle fulfilled before his very eyes—what greater glory could there be?
It was the greatest moment of his life. No deed could compare. With deep humility, the Cardinal offered his gratitude to the Emperor, thanking Him for granting him the privilege to witness this divine event.
Though nearly eighty years of age, the old priest moved with astonishing speed. Clutching his ecclesiastical staff, he shoved aside the Crusader guards protecting him, tore at the hem of his cumbersome robes, and sprinted toward the frontlines where the archangel fought.
BOOOOOM—!
A piercing sound like the shriek of a train ripped through the air. Before Ursakar E. Creed could react, a beam of black energy struck the fortress parapet not far from him…
The remains of a Black Legion Chaos Marine—his body half-crushed, fused into the shattered armor of an Ultramarine Terminator—lay sprawled across the ground, a grotesque smear of mangled flesh and ceramite like a child's crude graffiti. A long, stinking trail of blood marked the point of impact.
"Lord of Hosts… King of Baal… Great Angel…"
Exhaling a deep breath, Ursakar E. Creed drew his gaze back from the devastation. His face slowly regained composure from the shock and awe. He tore away the cigar that had been bitten in half between his teeth and spoke, every word bitten clearly and deliberately:
"So this is the Emperor's power… this is what it meant, in the Great Crusade, when the Primarchs walked among men."
He looked around at all the flickering holo-screens. His stomach tightened. Beyond the burning images of the battlefield between gods and monsters, he could perceive nothing else.
What was a Primarch?
A Primarch was a transcendent being created by the Emperor of Mankind—through cooperation with the destructive entities of the Warp (or rather, his attempt to exploit them). Using forbidden powers drawn from the Warp, combined with His own infinite wisdom and the pinnacle of genetic mastery of the Golden Age, the Emperor forged superhuman life beyond mortal imagination.
Of course, none of that was public knowledge.
Besides the Emperor Himself and a handful of His most trusted confidants—such as Malcador the Sigillite or Erda the Eternal—even the Primarchs themselves never knew the full truth. They could only speculate.
By the 41st Millennium, the common belief within the Imperium had become far simpler and easier to grasp: the Primarchs were the Emperor's sons.
And since the Emperor was a god…
His sons were also gods—or at least, demigods. Thus it was proven.
The divine son of the God-Emperor—a god of war who fought for humanity, a peerless commander destined to lead the Imperium to victory against the darkness that ceaselessly encroached upon mankind—to sweep away the decadence of the long Imperial twilight…
Every strike of the radiant Archangel was as swift as lightning. The traitors' corrupted power—bought through the betrayal of their kin and their very souls—was worthless before him. Not even the gifts of their daemonic masters could save them.
Unmatched. Unstoppable.
Even the veterans of the Black Legion—those ancient killers who had survived ten thousand years of unending war—could do nothing but watch their weapons and blades shatter against the energy field of the golden Primarch's armor before they were obliterated into ash.
Their retaliation, if any, ended the same way—bodies torn apart, scattered like dust.
Driven by vengeance, the sight of the Archangel's glory filled every loyalist heart with renewed courage. The Cadian regiments—once crushed and on the verge of collapse under the Black Legion's relentless advance—rose again. Side by side with the Astartes, they charged, roaring defiance at the heretics before them!
Even Creed, hardened and pragmatic, could not help but fall into awe.
Under the blood-red heavens, angels and daemons clashed. The clash of gold and iron roared like thunder. The titanic force that shattered heaven and earth in every movement left Creed both terrified and entranced.
He longed to fight beside the Archangel himself—but he could not.
He was the Lord Castellan of Cadia—the supreme commander of its defense. He had to remain calm.
Regaining his composure, Creed resumed his duties with practiced precision—reorganizing the lines, coordinating artillery, adjusting formations. He issued orders through data cables, directing the regiments supporting the Archangel's charge to maintain cohesion, while urging the dazed reserve forces and heavy weapon crews to hold their positions.
Then came the sound—chaotic, mocking, and sharp.
"Ah… such beauty, such nobility. I can barely stand it. Such a rare specimen… I would so love to collect it…"
"Silence, alien scrap! Your honeyed words won't deceive a Primarch!"
A sharp exchange—flippant and furious—rang through the vox. Creed froze mid-command, then turned sharply, his throat rumbling with a low growl.
"Necron!"
The ancient machine-being's metallic eyes glowed faintly green as it chuckled.
"Such eyes… cold, suspicious. Hmph. You humans built your 'Fortress Worlds' upon the foundations of our creations—unauthorized structures, violations of sacred design. Is it truly strange that I am here? Come now, calm yourself. You should be honored—I've already chosen you as one of the featured exhibits for my Prism Gallery."
The segmented metal plates of the alien's ornate cloak chimed with a strange, inhuman harmony. From between its rib-like structures of living metal, streams of emerald light pulsed outward. Even surrounded by Space Marines—bolters trained on it, chainswords pressed against its neck—the peculiar Necron seemed utterly unconcerned.
"I've been observing you for some time," it said, voice smooth and resonant, filled with uncanny intellect. "You are a clever one—unlike most of your kind, who are so… inflexible."
With a graceful wave of its hand, the being stroked its gleaming metallic chin with evident amusement, its mechanical fingers tapping lightly against the haft of its long, phase-shifting command staff.
"You must have noticed by now," it continued, "the blackstone constructs on Cadia—the monoliths capable of suppressing the Warp—existed long before your species ever set foot here…"
Its glowing green eyes brightened with a disturbingly human-like gleam of anticipation.
"Unfortunate for you, those are our creations. Tell me—how does it feel, that you humans, who pride yourselves on purity, must rely upon xenos relics to suppress your traitorous kin?"
The Necron's mouthpiece flickered as it spoke, producing a rasping grrk-grrk sound of grinding metal.
"Damn it, you rusted pile of bones—what did you say?!"
"Tsk, tsk… you see? Even after the variables of prophecy have unfolded before you, your kind remains so… temperamental. We are allies, for the moment. And this—this is how you treat your guests? Such an impulsive species."
"Watch your tongue, alien!" growled a Blood Angels successor, his eyes blazing with fury. Lightning crackled along his power sword's disruption field, bzzzzt-bzzzzt.
"Ah, yes, your 'Father of Heaven.' Your 'Primarch.'"
Though its metal face showed no expression, the glowing conduits in its eyes brightened slightly. The drawn-out tone of its voice and the subtle inflection carried something between mockery and pity.
"Oh, what's this I see? A fallen Great Unclean One of Nurgle!"
The thunderous roar from afar drew the metal skeleton's attention immediately—so unlike the usual cold detachment of its kind.
BOOOOM—!
A colossal, bloated green monstrosity was hurled high into the air. Even from a distance, one could almost smell the stench—the ruptured belly spilling its entrails in a shower of bile and pus. Within the grotesque torrent, swollen Nurglings and other foul spawn were flung skyward like toys, only to crash back down as a massive golden-red light smashed the Great Unclean One into the ground like a rotten melon.
The impact rippled outward in concentric waves, like a stone thrown into a still lake. The shockwaves spread far and wide, and even those within the fortress bunkers felt the violent trembling of the earth beneath their feet.
But it was not over.
From the Warp rift of a self-sacrificial ritual stepped forth another horror—a towering, multi-limbed, androgynous figure with crablike claws and goat's hooves. It let out a low, resonant hum, its body shrouded in swirling violet mist.
The haze carried seductive illusions, and in a daze, every living being that beheld it saw visions of beauty—sinuous forms of perfect, writhing bodies, the embodiment of carnal temptation. Even the Astartes, despite their superhuman will, felt their primal instincts clawing at the edges of reason.
Then—before any mortal could even whisper a prayer to the Emperor—the illusion shattered.
"You shall DIE—!!"
"In the name of the Selene, I swear—I will strip your flesh, tear your bones, and scatter your ashes across the stars!!!"
It was Sanguinius' roar.
A wrath beyond all measure—like thunder erupting from the void—ripped through the battlefield. Every soul could feel the Archangel's fury burning in his chest.
VMMMMMMMM—!!
A blinding red light flared—blood-red and terrifying.
The Crimson Blade cut through the air, and the very sky fractured under its force. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—!
From the arc of the blade, a crimson flash tore through the Keeper of Secrets' body. Thousands of atomic slashes—each one a storm of divine precision—shredded the daemon into nothingness. The creature was obliterated beyond the concept of flesh; the violet-red traces of annihilation expanded outward, rippling across half the battlefield, cracking the world open.
SKREEEEE—!!
In the next instant, a blue, two-headed avian daemon—one of Tzeentch's twisted lieutenants—who had been whispering incantations behind a Khornate behemoth, was suddenly impaled mid-chant. A golden spear, its tip shaped like a teardrop, pierced the air and struck the daemon with such force that it was driven deep into the ravaged ground like a shell.
A trail of blood-red destruction dozens of kilometers long followed its impact, crushing everything in its path. The explosion overturned the Dark Titan legions that had just regrouped, scattering their ranks into disarray. The bisected avian's remains, still glowing with unspent energy, slammed through the fallen hull of a battleship before bursting out from the other side of the metallic mountain.
As the scent of the Changer of Ways vanished in an instant, the Khornate greater daemon froze—its massive hand clutching its blood-forged axe suspended mid-swing. It turned—and met the gaze of Sanguinius, whose face was dark with fury so intense it could cut glass.
For a brief moment, the daemon regretted not sending K'Bandha instead…
That thought was its last.
A single thrust. The golden sword pierced its chest. And then—what followed was a slaughter that even Khorne himself might have found excessive.
Sanguinius tore the Khornate daemon apart with his bare hands, ripping its limbs and torso asunder, bathing himself in the creature's blood as it dissolved into ash.
Gulp…
Creed's throat went dry. Around him, his subordinates and guards could only gasp and swallow hard, unable to look away from the carnage. He cast a sidelong glance at the Blood Angels and their successors.
No wonder the rumors said they were accused of bloodlust, fury, and loss of control—it clearly ran in the family.
"No… wait."
Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. His face paled. "According to the Cadian blackstone obelisks' suppression power over the Warp—by every battle record we have—greater daemons of this magnitude shouldn't even be able to manifest! Under blackstone interference, their warp energies would be too unstable for summoning!"
He turned sharply. "What did you do?!"
"Smart one," replied the metallic being with a mock-innocent shrug. "I deactivated the blackstone obelisks' suppression function, of course."
"What?!"
Clack-clack-clack! Bolters locked and loaded.
Vrrrrr—! Chainswords whirred to life.
The Necron, surrounded by furious Cadian officers and Space Marine sergeants, remained utterly calm. "Because it was your 'Father,' your Primarch, who ordered it."
"This was a transaction," the alien continued smoothly. "He told me that my people's blackstone constructs are excellent as energy coordinate carriers. The details of the exchange are… irrelevant. What interests me is how he intends to reverse-engineer a material designed for suppression into one for amplification."
The green light in its eyes flickered ominously. "Now, I believe I have my answer… a new Warp storm is already rising."
Its gaze shifted from the fading violet-red glow of the battlefield to the disintegrating remains of the greater daemon. Then, with a tone of quiet pride, it spoke:
"Allow me to introduce myself. You may call me… Trazyn."
...
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