They had been waiting for their chance, lying dormant in the frigid snow, wearing the Blind Spot Star. They had almost entirely shut down the functions of this mechanical body, pushing their presence down to the absolute minimum.
Cerberus—or rather, what remained after the distillation of Loken and the demon Samus—knew exactly what kind of entity the Warmaster was. He was the Centaur who hunted the stars; his hooves had crushed ten thousand civilizations, and many monarchs of pocket empires had fallen beneath his arrows.
Everything he had destroyed, everything he had conquered, had become part of his internal essence. He was a microcosm—a manifestation of humanity reclaiming its Manifest Destiny after the Golden Age, a symbol of the rise following a catastrophic fall, and the last flicker of brilliance before a long corruption.
He was the first ray of sunlight rising in the deep night, and the first shadow of darkness ending the day. All they had to do was seize an opening and plunge the Black Sword into his body. A single strike would suffice. But that simple task, once the target became Horus, transformed from crossing a small puddle into crossing a sea of stars.
The Black Knight adjusted his state. His body was sculpted entirely from machinery; it was the power of the Machine God rather than flesh and blood that drove this frame. Yet the adjustment the Black Knight made was not physical, but spiritual...
As early as the 30th Millennium, Sigismund had realized one thing: in this world, once martial skill reaches a certain pinnacle, the influence of the spirit on swordsmanship far outweighs that of the flesh.
The first time he made such a discovery was when Sigismund watched footage of Akurduana in combat. He realized that Akurduana's speed, precision, and strength when swinging a blade had surpassed the limits of an Astartes. In some rumors Sigismund heard... Akurduana could even hold his own against a raging Ferrus Manus in the arena for several bouts.
Whether the rumors were true or false, the strength Akurduana displayed had transcended the limits of what an Astartes body could contain. He had clearly tempered a certain power into his sword. But before Sigismund could obtain an answer, Akurduana had already fallen.
To find that power, Sigismund threw himself into the arenas of the World Eaters, seeking to find sword-skills that transcended Astartes limits through bout after bout of slaughter. Gradually, he noticed that every warrior, when swinging a weapon, infused it with something that did not belong to their technique or their flesh.
Kharn's axe was always filled with a hint of sorrow amidst the rage; Argel Tal's blades were full of gloom and contemplation; Loken's sword was as bright as the moon; Lucius was full of arrogance...
The sword is an extension of the self. That was Sigismund's understanding at the time.
But looking back now, the Black Knight would say that Sigismund's youthful perception was wrong.
The sword is not an extension of them; they are an extension of the sword. An Astartes is a weapon—a tool of sincerity, a vessel of purity. To be Astartes is only loyalty and slaughter; to live by the sword and die by the sword. Sigismund had gladly accepted this fate. If not him, who else? If he did not stand forth, who would? Who would die in his place?
Thus, he understood: he was the sword in the Emperor's hand, the sword in the hand of the human race. He forged his heart into the blade, tempered through a thousand strikes...
It was not just him. From ancient times through ten thousand years, all Emperor's Champions had tempered their lives, their souls, and their blood into this sword.
The Black Knight gripped the Black Sword; starting with Sigismund, the will of every generation of Emperor's Champion gripped the blade alongside him. They committed their lives to fighting for humanity and entrusted their souls to the Eternal Crusade. No matter the time or place, their only wish was to purge the xenos and the filth of the Empyrean, to level every enemy of mankind.
This accumulation of conviction within the Black Sword, spanning the long ages, guided the blade in the Black Knight's hands to point directly at Horus...
It was not just the conviction of the Champions, but also that of Cerberus, or more plainly, Garviel Loken. Alexander had distilled the demon Samus—distilled that demon born from the death of Garviel Loken—to extract the part belonging to Loken. Loken's hatred for Horus, Loken's rage, Loken's reverence, Loken's love, his sorrow, his pain, his struggle, and his regrets—those emotions rippled through the Black Knight's body, merging into the Black Sword.
Only one chance...
And the opportunity appeared exactly as orchestrated. As the crimson cloak entangled the demon blade Drach'nyen, and as Horus and Sanguinius were deadlocked, the Black Knight stepped forward.
The Black Sword reflected the sky's light; the figures of a thousand Emperor's Champions emerged in that light. They swung the Black Sword in a thousand different stances, a thousand blades overlapping into one, thrusting toward a single target: Horus Lupercal!!!
Horus sensed the weight of what was contained within that sword. He admired it, yet he still had to cruelly tell this Black Knight, tell the thousand-tempered machine spirit of the Black Sword, tell Sigismund: he was the Wolf Lord, he was the Warmaster, he was the Emperor's Centaur. For an Astartes—even just to wound him—was impossible. Even though he was currently deadlocked with Sanguinius and could not use Drach'nyen, the fact remained.
The Talon of Horus lunged at the Black Knight, meeting the Black Sword head-on.
The Black Knight marveled at the Primarch's speed and reaction, sensing the terrifying energy swirling around the talons.
The Black Sword collided with the Talon of Horus. The titanic force sent the blade flying from the Black Knight's grip, and the arm holding the sword was shredded by the talons. But he—the Black Knight, the Black Sword, Sigismund, and all the Emperor's Champions—used every ounce of strength to reach out with the other hand, gripping the sword in mid-air and raising it high once more.
"Great Emperor, the most resilient guardian of our souls..."
"...Please grant me strength. Let me be your sword, use me to slay your enemies. Let me be the vessel that manifests your power, that your enemies may fear your name..."
"Emperor of Mankind... I am no longer afraid. I forge myself in faith, making me a sword of vengeance and justice..."
"God-Emperor, please forge me into a blade to sweep away all demons..."
The voices of a thousand Emperor's Champions prayed in unison. But their Lord was already silent, fallen to death alongside the sacrifice and the Dark King. No one would answer them. The Black Knight knew it; Horus knew it too. But...
But Horus saw it. A Black Sword was raised high, its point to the sky, flickering with a faint light. Another Black Sword was raised, overlapping with the first; the light grew clearer. Then ten Black Swords were raised together, then a hundred, then a thousand.
Behind the Black Knight, the Emperor's Champions raised their swords in unison, points meeting, the blade-light so brilliant it was as if a star were rising behind him. The light of that star ignited the souls within the Black Sword. The bodies of the Emperor's Champions were bathed in fire; their Armor of Faith burst apart in the heat, the flesh on their skulls swept away by the flames.
Every piece of armor, every bone, every Black Sword overlapped, transforming into a towering figure. That figure was a corpse, bathed in fire, suffering before all living beings. Whoever hated humanity must first hate him. He raised a blade broader than a sun and pointed it at the enemy of mankind.
Horus was absolutely certain: that was not his father. But it was, most truly, the Emperor of Mankind—the one who sat upon the Golden Throne and sacrificed himself for humanity.
"The God-Emperor of Mankind is gone! The one who swung the sword sacrificed himself before the blade, leaving only the edge to remain in the world..."
"...But we still walk your path. We know the greatest practice of faith is born from the love of humanity..."
"Enemy! Fear my name! Fear my sword!"
The Talon of Horus was severed. The Black Sword fell with irresistible force, hacking into Horus's body. Blood flowed; the Wolf Lord was wounded by the blade. The obsidian edge advanced inch by inch, finally stopping within Horus's torso. The Black Knight's head slumped slightly, and the light of the Black Sword slowly faded.
The Champion's blade no longer held the Champion's soul.
Physically, this strike did not truly claim Horus's life; it had merely carved into his body. It was an extraordinary feat, but only that.
However, Horus felt damage elsewhere—in his soul. Within that strike, something had pierced into his spirit. But his soul did not resist, as if that thing itself was a part of him.
Time seemed to freeze...
The girl looked down at the board, watching the Black Knight card self-immolate. From the fire emerged a fractured, incomplete card: Garviel Loken. The Black Sword had pierced Horus's soul, and Garviel Loken was the wound the sword had dealt to him.
The girl understood. This was what Alexander truly wanted. He was returning Garviel Loken to Horus, returning a quarter of Horus's soul, attempting to turn Horus into his own card.
Bold, arrogant, yet very much in his style. If it succeeded, it would be a massive trauma to the girl herself—a situation far more dangerous than Horus being killed by Sanguinius. The Dark King would lose a vital sacrifice... and it might even completely shatter the causality of the Dark King's birth.
The girl rested her chin on the back of her hand. If the causality of the Emperor becoming the Dark King was shattered, then the causality of Guilliman becoming the Dark King would become viable. In that case, Alexander could sell any Primarch and use the cheaper version of the What-If Phone Booth to turn the possibility of Guilliman becoming the Dark King into reality.
Was this his true plan all along?
The girl shifted her gaze to Horus.
"Father."
"You, like me, possess a simple impulse."
"You believe in brotherhood. You believe in the bond between father and son. You believe these simple, direct emotions are greater than all complex politics, ideologies, and morals."
"When the Emperor left us to return to the Palace, when there was no longer a place for Astartes in the Council of War, when we seized everything yet possessed nothing, you felt an instinctive rage, a pity for your sons..."
"This was the foreshadowing of your path toward error."
In the darkness, the figure of Abaddon passed by Horus's side. His face was always set in a great rage; behind him hung a full moon... He was the most overflowing emotion, the brightest impulse.
"Father."
"You, like me, possess a somber hesitation."
"You love your father, love your brothers, yet you fear disappointing your father through error, and fear your brothers stealing your father's love for you."
"When the Emperor gave you the responsibility of Warmaster, you naturally became distant from your finest brothers, while simultaneously dreading a mistake that would fail the Emperor's trust..."
"This was the catalyst for your path toward error."
In the darkness, Little Horus Aximand passed by Horus's side. His face was always grim; behind him hung a half-moon... caught between light and shadow, hesitating and lingering.
"Father."
"You, like me, possess a rustic abandonment."
"You love war, love combat, love honor, love the Crusade. You love that mortals fear or worship you because of your conquests, yet you loathe administration, loathe trivia, loathe taxes, loathe records—you even loathe order."
"When Malcador's bureaucrats replaced the officers of the Great Crusade, and tax collectors entered every planet you conquered, you felt rage... Father, for you, the best life was the Eternal Crusade."
"This was the foundation of your path toward error."
In the darkness, Torgaddon passed by Horus's side. His face was always mocking; behind him hung a gibbous moon... a prominent personality, difficult to tame.
"Father."
"You, like me, possess a pure sincerity."
"You sincerely love your sons, sincerely believe in the Manifest Destiny the Emperor proclaimed, sincerely believe everyone can walk into an honorable end, and sincerely believe everything you do is for a better future."
"When you were in the Serpent Lodge on Davin, sinking into the Warp, seeing the future of the Empire so corrupt, ugly, and superstitious, seeing your name and your brothers' names forgotten, you were truly enraged. You understood that what you saw was real, but you never imagined that it was your rebellion that would turn the Empire into that."
"This was the reason for your path toward error."
In the darkness, Garviel Loken walked toward Horus. He did not pass him by but stood directly in front of him. Behind him hung a new moon—the purest, most sincere, the newest...
"Father, Warmaster, Wolf God..."
Loken reached his hand out to Horus. "I hope you still maintain that sincerity now. Go and see the end result of what your current actions will cause."
"How many souls will be burned to ash because of your loyalty to an unholy thing? How much death will descend upon this galaxy, until the universe itself marches toward death, and finally, even death itself ceases to exist."