Chapter 200: Noble Magic Immunity, and No Time for Talk
"The Emperor is sick. Foul, corrupt, and ignorant ideas poison him on his throne."
"Humanity is sick. Unworthy, gluttonous bureaucrats are dragging mankind into the abyss."
Cyraxes walked through the long corridor, listening to the advancing roar of artillery and the screams of the Chaos traitors. His war-boots crunched over ceramite fragments bearing the Imperial Aquila. His crimson cloak brushed against a peeling fresco on the wall, the Emperor's face in the painting being consumed by a pulsating blood-moss.
Through the narrow passage formed by the towering buildings on either side, Cyraxes looked up at the cold sky. Stormbirds streaked overhead, and dense formations of Valkyrie fighters conducted saturation strikes. The corner of his mouth twitched beneath his helmet. In a brief hallucination, the engine-flares of the fighters became the festive fireworks of a knightly celebration.
Drop pods rained down incessantly. Burning meteors of plasteel and iron crashed into blasphemous cathedrals, and the vaporized filth rose in a golden mist amidst the flames. It was like a scene from the Great Crusade.
Sigh.
The fantasies again. A fantasy where Caliban had not rebelled, where the Emperor's twenty stars still stood guard over Terra, where his sons wore loyalty as their armour and planted the banners of the Great Crusade on every reef in the galactic darkness.
Cyraxes gripped his crimson dagger and strode forward, dragging a set of chains. The scraping of the iron links was mixed with a low, inhuman panting.
"I smell it... I feel it... the call of the Lord of Pleasure," the bound Chaos Lord shrieked, guiding Cyraxes. Chained along with him was a Champion of Nurgle, whom he had always despised. The Grandfather's plague was spreading along the chains, all the way to the clasp connecting to the dagger's hilt, infusing the blade.
Almost there. We're almost there.
Cyraxes knew they were doomed. Baelor could not hold out for long. A Legion-level saturation strike was not something this disorganized rabble of Chaos warbands could withstand. But before that, he needed to find a Primarch. He needed to implant his ideas into his mind.
The Imperium could not stop a Primarch from seeking an audience with the Emperor. Not even the Custodes could stop him. Then, he could destroy that rotten throne. The Emperor would be freed, and humanity would be made great again.
This thought echoed in his skull, drowning out the roar of the distant explosions, clearer than any whisper from the warp.
I see it. I see it.
The fog before him suddenly parted, as if a stage curtain had been pulled back by an unseen hand, revealing a majestic figure floating in the air. The flames burning on his own face grew more intense. Cyraxes looked at the figure before him.
That was his target. The new master of the Lion's pride.
"Aaaargh!!!"
The chains suddenly went taut. The two Chaos Champions let out inhuman screams as their flesh melted like wax, flowing down the chains to the dagger, a final offering for the ritual.
CLANG!
He whipped the chains forward.
"Tzeentch, you son of a—"
The chains tore through the mist. The figure seemed not to have reacted. Just as Cyraxes thought he had succeeded, the poisoned chains were batted aside by a black sword. A shower of brilliant sparks erupted at the moment of impact.
In the Warp, the Lord of Change let out a disappointed sigh, followed by the sound of shattering crystal, the shriek of lustful desire, and the squelching of rampant decay. Tzeentch had paid the price for his little game.
Cyraxes drew back his chains and looked at his target. Are my eyes deceiving me? He frowned. Am I being influenced? This knight had an aura that stirred a longing in him, and yet felt as familiar as a family member. It was a fleeting illusion. After a moment of calm reflection, Cyraxes was certain he had never met this man before.
"Greetings, Primarch," he said, and with a gesture, the chains rose into the air.
Ramesses decisively moved behind Arthur. He couldn't break those chains, despite their ordinary appearance.
"Those chains are not ordinary iron," Cyraxes said. "I can assure you, if a Techmarine were to analyze them, they would find nothing unusual, save for the extreme purity of the iron used. But science cannot tell you everything. You should be able to break ordinary iron chains with ease. But what gives them their strength is the process of their creation, not the material used." He paused, studying Arthur and Ramesses. "I imagine it is the same for Primarchs. You are made of nothing more than flesh and bone, blood and genes. Yet the Emperor used these to create something truly extraordinary..."
He made another gesture, and the chains connected to the dagger moved with his will. A fire burned in his heart, a detailed plan filled his mind, and the power of the universe's true masters was at his back. Cyraxes was fearless!
CLANG!
The blade shattered the iron chain as if it were a silken thread. Cyraxes, guided by a premonition, dodged the attack and turned to see the sword-tip suddenly stabbing towards his face. A thrust.
A spark exploded in front of Arthur's face. At the last second, the dagger had pulled Cyraxes's hand to block the attack. But Arthur's strength was too great. Cyraxes was sent flying like a baseball.
"Ignores the mechanics, just pure stats, my boy," Ramesses said with a grin. He had just finished wiping Ezekiel's recent memories and planting a back door to prevent the undercover Dark Angels from reading the real ones. He glanced at the Fallen Angel, who was now hanging from a wall, vomiting blood. Ramesses raised a hand, and his psychic power, like an invisible hand, lifted the broken fragments of the blade from the ground.
The plagues of Nurgle, the lust of Slaanesh, the change of Tzeentch... only the bloodlust and hatred of Khorne were missing. "The Great Enemy is ever persistent," Ramesses sighed, his five fingers suddenly clenching. Within the field of reality projected by Arthur, the filth was ground to nothing, like glass in a crusher.
It was a good thing he was always so clever. He knew that playing with the warp often ended badly. He had anticipated that even with a block, gods like Tzeentch might find other ways to locate them. So he always moved with his companions. Otherwise, who knows when he would have been caught out.
"?"
Cyraxes, embedded in the wall, was filled with disbelief. Why?! His sorcery could easily suppress a Titan, let alone a single warrior. The face covered in flames was a mask of utter bewilderment. He had schemed for so long, killed so many, given up so much... and in the end, the power he had gained was nothing?
Cyraxes clenched his fists. In the instant the sword pierced his body, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind. He heard the laughter of the Changer of Ways. He felt the minute creatures that lived in symbiosis with his body multiplying. He even felt pleasure. At this moment of ultimate shame and sorrow, a physiological reaction he thought long dead began to stir.
Cyraxes froze, until the pain from the blade shocked him back to his senses.
"Kill me! Kill me now!"
A tall figure moved through the blizzard, pressing down on him like a mountain. Like a basket of fruit split down the middle, a rainbow of fluids stained the ground.
Compared to the delicate handling required for the two generations of Dark Angels, Arthur had no psychological burden when it came to cutting down Chaos. He was never one for words. Cyraxes was a threat to humanity. That was enough.
CLANG—
Cyraxes stopped, stiffened, and then his chestplate was pierced from within by something sharp. Arthur tensed, preparing for something worse to tear its way out of the sorcerer's body. But he felt the tearing sensation in his soul recede. He recognized the foreign object, and was even more surprised.
"Greetings, Primarch."
Fabius Bile gave a slight bow, his signature bald head a sickly pale in the dim light. He glanced at Ramesses, who was floating lazily, not even bothering to use his own body. He scoffed at this being who was so immersed in the power of the warp, as if seeing a second Magnus.
Most of his attention, however, was on Arthur. The clone-body he was inhabiting did not carry much equipment, but Fabius could still feel the stable reality that surrounded this Primarch. It reminded him of a place he had once visited: the tomb world of Solemnace, belonging to Trazyn the Infinite of the Necron Nihilakh Dynasty. Those ancient beings could also use technology and certain entities to stabilize the laws of reality and banish the influence of the warp.
"Is this the Emperor's new creation? A fusion of a Necron C'tan?" Bile's eyes were filled with a researcher's desire, and his mind was flooded with inspiration. Yes, in the past, I was too focused on the warp and genetics, completely ignoring the beings who truly controlled the material universe.
Arthur and Ramesses exchanged a look. The former's face was a mask of indifference as he tightened his grip on his sword. The latter rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Here we go again," Ramesses sent via psychic message. "Why does everyone always think we're related to the old man on the Throne?"
To be honest, the Dawnbreakers wanted nothing to do with the Emperor, especially not a father-son relationship. They all had their own parents. They were saving humanity with their own resources, purely out of a desire to make this dung heap a little better. The fact that they hadn't made the old man call them 'father' was a mercy.
"Ramesses," Arthur said, turning his head.
"Not him. Just a vessel for his consciousness. Can't catch him," Ramesses shrugged. His psychic sight clearly showed the internal structure of Bile's body. No complete soul, just an implanted fragment of thought. "Just cut him down. I'll see what I can salvage."
Bile's expression froze. Before he could comprehend the meaning of the words, Arthur had already moved. He looked at the Pater Mutatis, pulled his sword from the pile of mangled flesh, leaned in, and swung.
CRACK-CRACK!
The sound of breaking bone was a continuous rattle. A Pain Engine large enough for two men to encircle was cleaved in two.
Bile was baffled. He couldn't understand why this Primarch had attacked him without even a hint of a desire to communicate. Logically, shouldn't there have been probing, negotiation, or at least letting him finish his sentence? The Apothecary's past experiences had given him a researcher's arrogance. He thought the knowledge he possessed would be a bargaining chip.
CRACK-CRACK—
The sickening sound of breaking bone continued. Bile watched as his own body was split down the middle. All the carefully prepared bio-organs, enhanced sinews, and neural interfaces were rendered meaningless by this single sword-strike.
Then, his perspective suddenly rose.
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