The golden figure emerged from the darkness, auburn hair drifting in the brilliant sunlight he naturally radiated. The Sovereign cast his gaze upon Horus, yet there was no terrifying majesty in that look—only the softness of a father.
+Horus+
The Emperor's voice sounded as if it had crossed vast, distant eons, reaching Horus's ears from a specific moment in the past. +My Centaur+
On the game board before Alexander, the card representing Alpharius flickered and vanished.
The crucial move lay in the gold ring—the one storing a sliver of the Emperor's psychic power and will. But it was not Horus's original Centaur ring; it was actually the Hydra ring the Emperor had once gifted to Alpharius.
Years ago, using his foresight, the Emperor had seen a future where one of the twins would lean toward something darker and deeper than the Four Gods. He had left a strand of his power in that Hydra ring as a safety measure. After the Emperor's "death," Alpharius had quietly kept the ring, preserving the dormant will within.
Alexander had obtained the ring from Alpharius and used his authority to reforge it into the shape of the Centaur ring. Meanwhile, Alpharius—after slaying the true Beta and Gamma—had fragmented himself into new versions of them through a "suicidal" division, lurking beside the girl.
At the same time, Alexander guided the Red Corsairs to acquire the Vengeful Spirit, silently delivering the ship to Horus's side. The ship's Machine Spirit was no longer the one from ten thousand years ago; it was now Khayon's sister.
Using the connection of blood and the authority of the Machine God, Alexander influenced her through Khayon (who had been smuggled out of the Terran Inquisition) to plant the inspiration in Horus to seek the gold ring. Alpharius, already waiting within the Vengeful Spirit, delivered the ring—and thus the Emperor's will—into Horus's hands.
Of course, a tiny fragment of will was not enough to rescue a soul deeply corrupted by the Dark King. Alexander needed a breach to be torn from the inside. The Loken distilled from Samus was meant for this mission: to merge into Horus, awaken the parts symbolized by Loken, Torgaddon, and Sejanus, and let a sliver of moonlight tear through the dark so the Emperor's light could enter.
Horus was a sacrifice to the Dark King; unless the King let go, he could never be free. But just as the Dark King claimed to be the Emperor, the Emperor was also the Dark King.
Horus, already stepped into the abyss, turned back in disbelief toward the figure in the light. It was the silhouette of the Master of Mankind, his father, whom he had not seen for ten millennia.
+Do you remember what I once told you?+
The Emperor's voice rang in Horus's ear:
+My son, you are the Centaur. The rider and the steed merged into one in myth, the perfect union of Humanity and War, Humanity and Crusade.+
+To gallop across the world, to traverse the stars, to be invincible and ever-victorious—this is your destiny.+
+To those in the dark, you shall bring light.+
+To those in ignorance, you shall bring wisdom.+
+To those in hardship, you shall bring aid.+
+To those wasting away, you shall bring guidance.+
+To those in peril, you shall bring help.+
+You shall liberate the stars; you shall become one with the Crusade. Your hooves shall never stop; your arrows shall never lose their way.+
+Now, my son, why have you let your hooves step into ending and death? Why point your arrows at the people you were meant to liberate?+
Tears fell from Horus's eyes, each drop reflecting the bright sunlight like a tiny moon.
He was the Centaur, the Crusade itself, the vessel of the Emperor's will—just as the moon reflects the sun. Yet he had mistaken a black star for the true sun.
The chains binding him to the Dark King snapped one by one. The darkness receded violently. The corpses of Horus that had formed his prison opened their eyes in unison. Memories of millions of acts of resistance flooded his mind. Horus let out a roar of absolute fury and dropped to one knee before the Emperor of Mankind.
"Forgive me... Father..."
+I forgave you long ago!+
+Now, hunt the Black Sun, Centaur!+
Thus, Horus Lupercal became the Centaur. His inner essence surged, tearing apart the shell created by the Dark King to manifest truly in the world. He was no longer a sacrifice; he was the Crusade itself, the last great rise of humanity after the Golden Age. A wild laugh erupted from Horus's throat. The Vengeful Spirit manifested in mid-air.
The Luna Wolves... Sejanus, Loken, Torgaddon, Abaddon, Little Horus... the entire Legion appeared around him. Not just the Luna Wolves, but more warriors surged from within him—the mortal armies that once followed them, and even more.
White wings vibrated; the Great Angel stood beside Horus. The golden light of the Red Tear became the tip of the arrow. Raldoron, Azkaellon, Amit, Meros... all the Blood Angels were there, standing with the Warmaster.
Even more warriors who had left indelible marks on the Great Crusade appeared.
He saw Fulgrim, his perfection restored like a phoenix reborn from a thousand fires, nodding with a smile, his fire-blade glowing like lava. Ferrus stood beside him, wielding Worldbreaker, his face as reliable as the cold mountains of Medusa.
He saw Roboute Guilliman, commanding tens of thousands, bringing the entirety of Ultramar with him—Augustus, Thiel, Ventanus... the heroes of the Ultramarines were there.
Russ arrived with a great laugh, frost swirling around him as the Wolves let out a passionate war-cry. Jonson stood beside Russ, he and his Legion silent as the forests of Caliban, the most reliable of all in the worst of times.
The Khan's storm arrived at the perfect moment with the greatest speed, the hawk descending from the sky. The stars were hunted as the White Scars appeared like predators. Corax emerged from the shadows, silent, his black eyes set in a pale face full of somber resolve.
And for true resilience, Horus turned his gaze to the Stone. Dorn spoke no words, simply nodding as he stood at Horus's side.
Lightning tore the night as a terrifying shadow appeared—Konrad Curze. A hundred worlds had surrendered in fear of him; many horrific stories were told of him, but many conquests during the Crusade saw fewer casualties because of his presence.
Mist drifted and toxic fumes swirled as Mortarion emerged from the twilight with his scythe. Captain Garro stood beside him, father and son fighting as one. Iron roared and the battlefield shook as Perturabo appeared with his grand war machines, calmly commanding the Iron Circle in a harmony of order.
The Arch-Confessor Lorgar softly recited scriptures while Argel Tal stood beside him, spreading the Emperor's faith. Angron let out the most furious roar imaginable, fighting beside Kharn, the Devourers of Worlds unstoppable.
Magnus stood with Ahriman and Amon, walking between libraries and pyramids, weaving the wisest spells. Vulcan's dark face bore a gentle smile—while others might mistake his kindness for weakness, the Salamanders knew it was the source of their strength. Finally, Alpharius—Horus did not "see" them, but he felt they were certainly there.
In the end, Horus saw the golden figure grip the hilt of his sword with him, thrusting it into the black star.
Once, the Dark King used the fruits of the Great Crusade as a sacrifice to pave his path to ascension. Now, the Crusade itself became the arrow of vengeance. The girl's chest was pierced by Drach'nyen—the demon blade born from the first murder, which had finally committed the last murder.
The girl stared in disbelief at her chest. Drach'nyen was the insurance she had left, given to Horus to monitor him. But...
She saw Sanguinius in the distance, a playful, mocking smile on his lips. Among the shredded cloth at his feet, tiny clocks were visible on the fragments.
The Time Furoshiki. Sanguinius had wrapped the Time Furoshiki inside the Reflection Cloak, entangling it around Drach'nyen to reverse the demon blade's time.
The current Drach'nyen was not the pure demon reshaped by the Dark King, but the one influenced by Ra Endymion—changed by the humanity of that Golden Custodian. The Dark King had murdered the Golden Sovereign who was like a father to the "son of the water-thief," and now he had taken his revenge.
The demon blade let out a roar of satisfaction.
Horus drove the blade deeper. The Dark King, born from human self-destruction, was ultimately undone by humanity's first murder. Blood flowed from the girl's eyes; a shrill shriek erupted from her throat. The rising black sun shuddered as a streak of moonlight-like light pierced it. Billions of wails of agony flowed out like blood. Without the girl to channel the Tree of Life's power, the heart of the black sun stopped beating...
At the same time, Horus's form wavered. He could sense that something was shattering from the "now" toward the "past." The girl's body fell apart piece by piece. The causality of the Emperor killing Horus on the Vengeful Spirit to ascend had been broken. Horus had escaped his fate as a sacrifice and used Drach'nyen to murder the Dark King instead. But the Dark King must be born eventually. Present, past, and future began to clash; everything in reality and the Warp became utterly uncertain.
"The Dark King... must be born." The girl's body shattered, her voice stretching as if from the end of the universe. "The result is already fixed."
"The causality of the Vengeful Spirit will repeat soon. As long as it is established, the descent begins again. Even if you stop this cycle, it will repeat until the birth is established. No one escapes..."
At that moment, Alexander stepped forward beside Guilliman. He opened a bottle of Siegfried Bath Liquid and poured it over Guilliman, the legendary dragon-slayer's namesake tool rapidly repairing his wounds.
Guilliman stood up and looked at the Tree of Life and the pierced black sun. "Did we win?"
"Not yet," Alexander said, standing nearby. "But at least we won't end in absolute nothingness."
He looked at Guilliman with an expression the Primarch had never seen before.
"We might still fail, but even in failure, there will be hope."
"I have always believed in hope," Guilliman nodded. "That is why I wrote the Codex—"
"Burn it. If I fail, no other humans will survive. Only you." Alexander shook his head. "You will become the Dark King. All the souls, memories, and wills of humanity, past and present, will belong to you."
"Do you understand? If I fail, you will be the final casket. The casket of the entire human race."
"I have only two requests: even if it's an act, even if it's a facade, keep human civilization going. And then, protect every human memory as best you can. Find a way to resurrect human civilization."
"Does such a way exist?" Guilliman asked softly.
Alexander looked at the black sun and remained silent for a long time before speaking. "I don't know."
Guilliman nodded slowly. "I promise you, I will complete these tasks. I swear it on the honor of Konor and Euten."
Alexander smiled and pulled the final card he could play in this game from his pocket: a red-and-yellow telephone booth.