Planet 63-19. This designation, according to the Imperial Great Crusade's coding system, signified the nineteenth planet conquered by the Sixty-Third Expeditionary Fleet. But in the mouths of the local populace, the name of this world was "Terra."
Looking back now, Horus felt a crawling sensation on his scalp at the sheer strangeness of it. This was a world encountered shortly after the conclusion of the Ullanor Crusade when his fleet resumed its mission. It sat within a system of nine planets orbiting a yellow sun; the world itself happened to be the third planet from the star. Perhaps for this reason, the inhabitants believed they occupied the cradle of humanity, and their ruler styled himself as the Emperor, demanding Horus' fleet offer their submission as the rightful sovereign of man.
The similarity was so uncanny it felt like a mirror reflection of the true Terra—it triggered a sense of the "uncanny valley" in Horus' memories. It was here that one of his sons—the calmest of them all, his beloved Sejanus—had died. The "Emperor" of 63-19 had used his elite "Invisibles" to murder Sejanus while he served as a diplomatic envoy. Horus' heart had nearly shattered then; he descended upon the world with thunderous force and personally slew the False Emperor to vent his fury.
Horus personally killed the Emperor...
The thought leaped into Horus' mind, dark and frigid, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Everything had begun with this planet. All the tragedies, the disasters, and the errors seemed to have been foreshadowed here.
At the same time, Horus felt a deep confusion. Why? Why was this planet here, in this forgotten realm?
"This is a world specifically created for a purpose."
The figure of the Angel of Extinction flickered into the vox-link. He stood within the Blackstone Fortress, looking down upon the planet. "In primordial sorcery, there is a principle: things that are similar on the surface can influence one another."
"Harming a doll can harm the person it resembles; mimicking the sound of thunder can summon rain; building a mock runway can call down cargo from the sky. These are manifestations of the Law of Similarity—the crude understanding of cause and effect held by sentient life. In the material universe, this is a fallacy. In the Warp, however, it holds genuine power."
"The Gods forged this world to resemble Terra. They added Custodes, an Imperial Palace, and an Emperor to mirror the Imperial Court."
"When you slew that False Emperor, a resonance was created in the Warp similar to the act of killing the true Emperor. It bound your destiny to the act of regicide... and allowed the Gods to glimpse what would happen if you truly struck the Emperor down."
On the display before the Angel of Extinction, the planet's surface came into focus. The continents matched the shapes in Horus' memory, but the surface was utterly transformed. Something like dust or snow covered the land, staining everything in a ghostly white. Most regions were hazy, resembling low-quality simulations or the fading memories of a dying man. Only one area remained distinct: High City, the planetary capital, the majority of which was comprised of the Emperor's Palace.
"To hide the existence of this world—to hide the evidence of the 'murder of the Emperor'—the Gods buried this planet here. They ensured that almost all of you forgot its existence."
"Why are we here? Is there something we need?" Horus asked in a low voice.
"The planet itself is not important; its similarity to Terra is the key," the Angel of Extinction replied. "Theoretically, a gateway can be opened here to the corresponding location on Terra. It can lead me to the place I wish to go."
The place he wishes to go...
Horus did not ask where that was. He knew the Angel of Extinction would only offer vagaries. It is for the Great Cause, Horus told himself internally.
"What is my task?" he simply asked, trying not to think too much.
"Take this planet for me."
Taking the planet...
Even as he set foot upon the surface, Horus did not yet understand: from whom was he supposed to take it? Was there even life left here? It was hard to imagine that after ten thousand years of total isolation, sunken in the Warp and shrouded in eerie snow, anything could still live.
The landscape of frost, biting wind, and sharp snowflakes seemed to stretch into infinity. As Horus walked, the cold flakes landed on his shoulders and face, crumbling and dissolving like ash. They cast a dim filter over his unpainted power armor.
The Red Corsairs walked beside him. These warriors watched Horus' back, their bodies trembling slightly with a mix of awe and terror. Horus had to admit that Huron possessed extraordinary charisma. Despite their varied origins, these pirates followed Huron's orders without question; even in their fear, they obeyed.
Horus loved that trust and loyalty between warriors and their commander.
Abaddon. Loken. Sejanus...
A flicker of bitterness crossed his face. He seemed to have lost the chance to truly trust others long ago.
Lorgar, the Angel of Extinction, and the Angel remained in orbit, guarding against potential Imperial incursions. The Alpha Legion twins had departed to infiltrate High City in their own way. Horus, leading a company of Red Corsairs, had teleported directly into the streets of the capital.
The Red Corsairs fanned out into combat squads, moving through the city to investigate. Horus was generally satisfied with their conduct; he saw the mutual trust between brothers and the bearing of true soldiers. However, their weapons and armor were a mismatched patchwork—they looked less like a Legion and more like a highly disciplined band of raiders.
"My Lord... Warmaster." The leader of this group was the Red Corsair sorcerer, Garon the Soul-Eater. Once a Mantis Warrior before fleeing into the Maelstrom with Huron, he possessed the strongest psychic might in the Corsairs. Because of this, he understood the power the Angel of Extinction wielded and remained profoundly submissive.
Horus pulled himself from his thoughts and looked at Garon, gesturing for him to continue.
"Is Lord Huron... well?" Garon asked with a trace of unease. He was submissive, but sharp—he had clearly sensed something wrong with Huron.
Horus opened his mouth to formulate an answer, but suddenly spun around, his eyes flashing with naked killing intent. Garon's legs went weak, nearly driven mad by the sudden pressure of fear, but Horus did not strike him. Instead, the Warmaster blurred past him like a hurricane, reaching into the empty air behind the sorcerer.
A muffled wail erupted. Garon watched with a prickling scalp as Horus throttled an invisible foe—one that even his psychic senses had failed to detect.
Horus' fingers tightened. The displacement field covering the enemy collapsed. A warrior clad in ornate, silver-engraved plate and a red silk cloak appeared, held aloft by his throat.
Garon looked at the intricate patterns on the armor and was reminded of the Emperor's Custodes...
"An Invisible," Horus spat the name. The elite guard of the Emperor of 63-19. Mortal warriors who used Golden Age displacement technology to hide themselves—in their cloaked state, they were capable of wounding even an Astartes.
Sejanus, one of Horus' most beloved sons, had died at their hands. At the thought, Horus' grip tightened further. The warrior let out a pained groan of suffocation.
"You still exist."
"Who rules this world? The False Emperor I slew?"
The Invisible stared back at Horus. His fingers clenched, and the force field around him detonated against Horus' chest, causing the Warmaster's armor to let out a sharp crack. But Horus did not move an inch. He only frowned slightly, as if realizing something.
With a flick of his wrist, Horus snapped the Invisible's neck.
The warrior died, but no blood spilled. He disintegrated like a pile of ash, dissolving between Horus' fingers and vanishing into the swirling snow. Now even Garon realized the anomaly.
"No soul," Garon said, horrified.
"...Just dust. A reflection. A very vivid shadow," Horus muttered, clenching his fist as if trying to feel the substance he had just crushed.
"Are they enemies?" Garon asked.
"Perhaps," Horus replied distractedly.
The Invisibles... that army had been destroyed when he conquered 63-19. Did the dead still linger here? At the thought, Horus' heart skipped a beat. He turned and looked toward the buildings lining the street. Before Garon could react, Horus smashed through the wall of a civilian dwelling. He hunched his massive frame to move through the low-ceilinged house and soon found what he sought.
A person. A hazy silhouette composed almost entirely of dust, sitting at a dinner table and miming the act of eating from an empty plate. The figure seemed completely unaware of Horus' presence.
The city was not empty. It was populated by inhabitants who, like the world outside, were hazy and blurred—like a fading memory. Only the most important places and people left a deeper "impression," making them appear more vivid.
Memory. These citizens were nothing; neither living nor dead. They were merely lingering recollections.
The master of the house, the dusty silhouette, finally seemed to notice Horus. He turned his head with agonizing slowness and looked up in confusion. "What is it?" he asked.
Horus shattered the figure with a single backhand. It broke into ash and dissolved.
They are not entirely incapable of thought...
Even if their reactions were slow, news of his arrival would surely be sent to the ruler of this place. Horus sighed, wondering who it could be. The False Emperor? A counterfeit Malcador? Or...
Horus thought of someone else. Someone capable of organizing the Invisibles and establishing an ordered force on this collapsing world. Based on his memory of those two frauds, he didn't think they had the competence. But if he expanded the scope... to someone connected to this world who never left...
Horus knew exactly one person who could do it.
If it is him...
The sound of marching boots echoed outside the house. The city's army had arrived.
Horus stepped outside to face the troops appearing from the other end of the street. They were Invisibles again, but this time they did not engage their cloaks. Their silver armor appeared hazy in the pale light, as if ten thousand years of dust had settled into the metal. These "Imperial Guard" held lances, blades, and shields equipped with power generators, but their marching style and organization were intimately familiar to Horus.
It was the march of the Luna Wolves. It was the doctrine built by the veterans, by Horus, and by the Mournival across a thousand wars. It was their way of war.
And leading this troop... was not an Invisible, nor a mortal. It was an Astartes.
He wore pearlescent white Mark IV Maximus-pattern power armor. On his shoulder was the icon of his Legion: a wolf howling beneath a moon. The symbol of the Legion's honor. The proof of the conquest of the Moon.
The Red Corsairs were so awestruck by the symbol that they merely raised their weapons in a defensive stance rather than firing. Horus waved for the Corsairs to stand down and gestured for the Astartes to stop.
The Astartes obeyed. His body trembled slightly. "Wolf-God," he whispered.
Horus stepped forward from the raiders, his heart filled with a desperate hope. He looked at the warrior, studying the armor. He could feel that the Astartes' mind still held loyalty to him.
"Remove your helmet, warrior," Horus said softly. "Let me see your face, and state your rank."