My Life as A Death Guard
Chapter 447: Welcome to Baal
[Baal]
A corner of the once-magnificent cathedral had been blasted open. Sunlight poured through the shattered ceiling, falling upon the serene face of an angelic statue, cracks spreading downward from above.
The Great Angel shook his wings. He stood within the light, both hands resting on a sword planted in the ground, eyes gently closed in brief repose.
His Sanguinary Guard stood beside him, their blood-red armor glimmering faintly, vigilant and ready.
Across the planet, countless battles still raged, large and small, but the Blood Angels had confined them to the deserts far from critical regions.
And now… after eight weeks of non-stop fighting, the Angel needed a moment's rest.
He only needed… to sleep standing for three minutes.
The Great Angel's wings no longer bore their decorative chains of gold and crimson. In their place were dried bloodstains. Some feathers were knotted together, twisted into clumps by coagulated blood.
Even in sleep, the Angel's brow was faintly furrowed, making him appear all the more majestic and severe.
At one minute and eight seconds, hurried footsteps broke the cathedral's silence.
It was the commander of the Sanguinary Guard—Azkaellon—Sanguinius's subordinate, the complete opposite of Amit the Flesh Tearer.
When Azkaellon reached the Angel—at one minute and thirteen seconds of his rest—the Great Angel opened his eyes wearily.
"Speak," Sanguinius said.
"I saw something in my dreams, I believe that is why you have come."
In the strange dream, he had foreseen the arrival of allies.
Please… the Great Angel prayed deeply, deeply.
By the Emperor… let it be Horus—let it be the son of Horus.
If it were Horus, then they would once again light upon Baal a beacon to illuminate human civilization.
Horus held command of all armies, authority over the deployment of billions of worlds, and—more importantly—he was Sanguinius's closest friend.
Sanguinius had sent countless distress signals toward the Sons of Horus, and countless times he had awaited Horus's arrival.
Emperor… Sanguinius sighed inwardly. Please let it be Horus.
Even… Fulgrim would do.
The Great Angel's blood-red eyes fixed upon Azkaellon, waiting for his words.
Azkaellon gave a brief salute.
"By the Emperor, by the Great Angel—my lord. According to automated scan arrays, multiple fleets have suddenly appeared at the Mandeville point."
The Angel regarded him gently.
"Which Legions?"
"My lord… the First Legion and the Eighth Legion."
For an instant, Azkaellon thought he glimpsed something fractured beneath the Angel's gentle smile—but it was only an illusion. The Great Angel still smiled warmly at his son.
A feather fell from his folded wings. Since the Astronomican had gone dark, the Angel had begun molting more frequently.
Konrad Curze and Lion El'Jonson…
Sanguinius smiled inwardly.
He would rather it were Mortarion.
After a brief collapse of spirit, the Great Angel began to move. He hoped… at least… perhaps… he should have more faith in his brothers.
Yet what he saw next cruelly told him that this was wishful thinking.
. . .
"Trash!!!"
"Madman!!!!"
The Lion roared, kicking Curze away as he tried to claw at him. He panted heavily; little air remained in the compartment.
Everything had happened in an instant: the massive explosion, then the ship breaking apart. Curze had completely lost his mind—he had blown up the ship!
Without a Gellar field, the tides of the Warp surged freely through the fractures in the hull.
A huge hole had been blasted at the end of the corridor.
The gravity system had completely failed. Amid chaotic pressure shifts, people floated upward, only to be hurled about by violent air currents and sucked toward the breach.
The entire world had turned sideways.
The Lion clung desperately to a ventilation pipe embedded in the wall. With his other hand, he gripped Konrad Curze tightly—he could not let this damned traitor escape again.
Konrad Curze shrieked madly. His pitch-black pupils were even beginning to roll back white. Lion was immensely grateful that Curze was not wearing armor—otherwise, with powered claws, Curze would have torn the Lion's arm to pieces.
Low, whispering voices murmured at his ears. For the Lion, he had already encountered such things in the forests of Caliban.
He roared in anger, trying to force the deranged Curze to settle down.
Curze's tears were dragged away by the rushing air, falling toward where Fulgrim had last appeared. The Night Haunter seemed desperately intent on leaving together with Fulgrim.
The Phoenician would be fine, Lion thought. The Emperor's Children ships were over there, and besides, Fulgrim was a Primarch.
If a Primarch could die so easily, then he wouldn't be a Primarch.
Finally—whether after an instant or an eternity—the Warp spat them out with distaste.
On the fragment of ship they occupied, the gravity system suddenly resumed. With a heavy crash, the two Primarchs slammed to the ground.
After this ordeal, Lion's armor had almost completely failed. Aside from the sword in his hand, he had been reduced to the same level as Curze.
The Lion shouted in extreme fury. Nothing like this had appeared in his original plan—this was supposed to be an easy boarding action, not one where the prey blew itself up first, and then plunged into a Warp rift!
After Fulgrim disappeared, Curze went completely mad. He abandoned everything, recklessly trying to attack Lion. Frost had already formed over the stump of his severed arm.
The Lord of Caliban fought back. They brawled wildly inside the ruined compartment. Lion was certain Curze had knocked out two of his teeth.
The gravity system was not functioning properly. In fact, the Nightfall's gravity system, like its master, was insane. In this half-destroyed compartment, gravity fluctuated—sometimes increasing, sometimes decreasing.
This added considerable spectacle to the two Primarchs' asymmetrical free-for-all.
At times they floated in the air, twisting and sliding, trying to punch each other. With nothing to brace against, the Lion had to grab Curze with one hand while hammering his face with the other.
At other times they were pinned to the floor, gravity crushing them down. Overloaded ventilation pipes and light fixtures tore loose above them, dragged down by gravity, only to shatter against their heads.
Meanwhile, as they fought, the compartment's air circulation and temperature systems completely failed. The air grew thinner; the temperature kept dropping.
Eventually, pressed against the ceiling by reversed gravity, Lion turned his head and spat. Broken teeth and bloody foam smeared into a thin stain across the ceiling.
Prolonged intense fighting, the harsh environment, a trip through the Warp, and their injuries left both Primarchs on the verge of exhaustion.
Amid gravity that made the entire compartment groan, the Lion struggled to push himself up. He began crawling toward Curze—who appeared unconscious, though it could just as easily be a ruse.
He crawled, leaving a trail of blood across the ceiling.
Curze made a faint rattling sound—almost there—
Lion heard something: footsteps, or perhaps the sound of something beating.
He turned his head and saw a pair of golden armored boots standing at the edge of the breach, one foot poised in the void like a bird.
Sanguinius, face darkened, stepped into the compartment one pace at a time. The immense gravity made each footfall heavy.
With every step, feathers fell from his wings, dropping like stones.
As if he had finally had enough, the Angel turned his head. He raised his spear and thrust it into a section of bulkhead—
Bang!
With the gravity abruptly destroyed by the Great Angel, Lion and Curze simultaneously lunged at each other.
"Both of you—STOP!!!"
The Great Angel roared. His free, outstretched hand drew back slightly. A golden spear, which had nearly pierced the bulkhead, now stood between Lion and Curze—just grazing the two as they were about to collide.
The Angel breathed deeply. He saw Curze and Lion turn their heads toward him; after a brief glance, the two rushed at each other again.
They even seemed eager to seize the spear the Angel had just thrown.
The Angel's expression darkened. His face was as impassive as a true god of war. His wings spread behind him, and he slowly drew his sword.
Now, a battle was required. The Great Angel thought.
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