The trial that you are about to undertake is classified above all authority, even above the authority of your Gene-father. You shall utter not a single word to any soul, be they beloved or otherwise. I will have your oaths, Librarians. Swear upon your own names."
Lord Malcador's voice echoed through Shahedra's mind–a voice beyond voice. Beside him, Captain Ahriman shifted a moment. They did not speak with words or with their minds. They weren't allowed to. And they couldn't, even if they tried. This place was warded by powers far greater than any they'd come across before–greater even than what Lord Magnus could conjure, which meant it had to be the work of the Emperor himself. The other Librarians and practitioners of Warp-Craft from all the other Legionnes Astartes stood with them in the darkened chamber, stripped of their armor, the absence of which made it difficult to tell who came from where, though the Fenrisians were painfully unsubtle.
Their Gene-Father, Lord Magnus, did not forbid the keeping of personal secrets; what he forbade, instead, was the selfishness of keeping secret knowledge that could otherwise benefit the legion or the Imperium as a whole.
Shahedra raised a hand and placed it over his heart. He recognized the act for what it was. Lord Magnus taught it to them, after all. It was a Binding Vow, an ability that came naturally to those who were born in the Immaterium and to Jujutsu Sorcerers. For regular Sorcerers, like himself, the creation of a Binding Vow required rather complicated means, though it depended on the nature of said vow. In this case, a vow to the self was easily performed; Shahedra honestly didn't even have to do anything. "I swear on my name, that I shall not utter a word of this trial to anyone."
All his fellows uttered the same words–or the same intentions.
"Enchain." Lord Malcador uttered a single word and Shahedra felt an immediate power taking hold over him, like spectral chains wrapping over his soul. "A Binding Vow has been made; those among you who break their oath of secrecy shall forfeit their lives."
Shahedra nodded to himself. He wondered what sort of horrors he'd need to endure, then, for the trial to be so secretive. For the sake of the Thousand Sons, for the sake of his brothers, he would succeed… he would endure. He turned to Captain Ahriman and nodded. His brother nodded back. Lord Malcador led them into another chamber. This one was even darker than the last–about as close to pitch black as one's surroundings could get, so dark that he could only barely make out the near-invisible silhouettes of the other Astartes.
"Within this chamber," Lord Malcador said. "All of you will be tested as one. Those who fail will die. Those who succeed will begin training at once. We have little time to waste. Steel your minds, your bodies, your souls, and your hearts. Resist and fight for humanity, for your legion, and for yourselves. Goodluck."
Shahedra breathed in. He did not know what to expect. But Lord Malcador's cryptic words led him to the belief that the test to come was one of mind and spirit. So, he closed his eyes and focused both. Something moved and groaned in the dark, like a great and terrible beast rousing from its sleep. None of them had weapons and their powers were blocked–somehow. No, this was no physical test. There was no monster for them to defeat with their bare hands, though Shahedra suspected the Fenrisians would be excited at the prospect of such a thing, their simple minds unable to comprehend higher and deeper mysteries beyond drinking and fighting and feasting.
The Immaterium, as Lord Magnus taught them, was a place filled with danger and corruption; those who entered with their minds unguarded would almost certainly be assailed by the wild and hungry denizens of that place–spiritual beings who craved the mental energies of the living. The King of Curses, the Primarch Ryomen Sukuna, referred to such creatures as Cursed Spirits; Lord Magnus called them the Neverborn. And so, they learned to focus their minds, to clear their thoughts of all doubt and fear, to take without being taken, to harness and control the power of the Immaterium to their own benefit. Shahedra was, admittedly, one of the last to master the ability, but he mastered it, nonetheless. He mastered himself and his abilities, even his own limitations.
And there was nothing now for him to fear.
He breathed in and, in the next moment, something dark and twisted and unimaginably powerful pulled him into an even darker darkness. Shahedra screamed as the face of something utterly Daemonic turned and loomed over him, immediately overwhelming and breaking apart his defenses. He screamed, but he had no mouth with which to do so.
....
Ryomen Sukuna, Primarch of the Devourers Legionnes Astartes, raised a brow as all the Librarians began screaming, even the ones who were previously thought to have the most potential of the bunch. All of them fell to their knees or fell to the ground entirely, clutching their heads as bile and saliva rushed from their throats and out of their mouths. Then again, such a reaction was ultimately understandable. All things considered, Skarbrand was up there among the most powerful of Cursed Spirits and to share in just a portion of his mind was to partake in a flood of endless rage and bloodlust–too much for any human, Astartes or otherwise, to fully and truly comprehend without almost immediately breaking. However, if one was strong enough in will and mind, then it certainly was possible to resist the anger, to fight back against the tide.
With enough strength and mental and spiritual fortitude, it was possible to not be affected at all, which was precisely what happened to Sukuna when he, briefly, shared his mind with the fullness of Skarbrand's being. He'd stood there, unbowed and unmoved. Sukuna himself was not entirely sure why he was utterly unaffected. In fact, he hadn't felt anything when it happened. Malcador said it had been due to his overwhelming and infinite sense of self, which prevented the magnitude of Skarbrand's being from finding even the smallest foothold upon Sukuna's soul, which sounded quite right, he supposed.
The Cursed Spirit had been so thoroughly entertained by the surprise that he, quite simply, agreed to collaborate without much of a fuss.
"What happens if all of them fail?" Sukuna asked, crossing his four arms over his chest. Watching the Psykers flail and scream was amusing for about a minute and then it just turned kind of sad, really. Most of them did not possess a strong sense of self that was inherent to Jujutsu Sorcerers as most legions simply did not foster or even encourage individuality as Sukuna did with his Devourers. "Surely, you two have contingencies in place if that happened?"
The Emperor shrugged and so did Malcador. It was the former of the two who deigned to give him an answer. "Then they all die. Simple as that."
Sukuna raised a brow. "Just like that? I do not fail to see the necessity of this, but isn't that… wasteful?"
"It was the birth of Psykers that first led to the fracturing of humanity," Malcador said, sighing. "There can be no compromise in quality. If they fail, then that is it; they cannot be allowed to fight in the legions. But, I do not doubt that at least more than half of them will prevail. Skarbrand hardly pays them any attention and is–in fact–dormant."
The Emperor hummed and nodded. Here, where there was no one else to see them, the Emperor did not bother with illusions. The black haired man who sat and drank a cup of something hot did not look at all like the most powerful psyker in the Galaxy, but Sukuna felt the Emperor's power and it certainly did not diminish with the form he'd chosen to take. He smirked, eyes aglow like gold. "A few of them have already succeeded."
Sukuna turned and looked and beheld a grand total of three legionnaires rising from the ground, their eyes wide and bloodshot, trickles of crimson streaming from their eyes, nose, and mouth as they breathed raggedly. "Huh, would you look at that; they actually got through it."
Venaril Tyrod stood amid the darkness, gasping. His shoulders trembled, his lungs raw. He pressed a hand against his forehead, knuckles wet with blood from a shallow cut that traced down his temple. A haze swam across his vision, remnants of the horrors he had just witnessed. He forced himself to remain upright, focusing on the faint lines of stone under his feet.
The chamber had been pitch-black. The only point of reference was the sensation—a flood of fury, scorching and endless, that clawed at every corner of his mind. When it struck, he felt as though a massive beast had roared inside his skull, its roar quaking the marrow in his bones. Skarbrand's rage: that was the name they'd whispered. There was no gentleness in that red daemon's presence, no mercy. Venaril had almost fallen, kneeling, teeth gritted so hard they threatened to crack.
He recalled the moment the presence surged, filling his head with blinding crimson. He couldn't see, couldn't hear. It was only a swirl of hate that pounded his thoughts. Images of war and butchery flashed like stuttering reels. Limbs torn, bodies reduced to steaming gore. Senseless violence. An unstoppable craving for bloodshed. He'd twitched, arms stiff at his sides, a scream trapped in his throat. The pressure had grown, an engine of wrath grinding him down. He'd nearly let go—nearly collapsed into madness.
Yet he clung. In that instant, a mental reflex sparked: an echo of his Chapter's old rites, the warm memory of the Baalite sands. He pictured the midday sun over the rad-scarred deserts, the blazing light that cast long shadows behind a proud warrior. He felt the hum of the Blood Angels' legacy, that fine balance of discipline and artistry that gave them purpose. Slowly, he wrested control, forging a barrier in his mind. Shudder after shudder rocked him, but he kept standing.
Now, moments after the onslaught receded, he lifted his gaze, spotting two figures. One was Ahzek Ahriman—recognizable by the faint brand of a Thousand Sons script on his bare shoulder. The other, a Salamander of towering build, dark skin gleaming with sweat, a drake-scale ring around his neck. Neither wore armor, but each bore subtle markings on their forearms that hinted at their Legion's identity. Both men also stood, shaky but upright. The rest lay sprawled, groaning or unconscious.
Venaril blinked away the last motes of red that danced at the edges of his sight. He exhaled, the copper tang of blood on his lips. He coughed once, tasting iron. Ahriman turned, meeting his gaze. They exchanged a silent nod—no words passed, yet the flicker in Ahriman's eyes spoke of shared relief. The Salamander watched them as well, a faint motion in his throat as though trying to swallow dryness.
From the gloom behind them, a figure detached, stepping closer. The scrape of a staff on stone. Malcador. He halted just beyond the ring of prone bodies. Another shape stood near him: Ryomen Sukuna, arms folded, face impassive. Past Sukuna, Venaril caught the Emperor's outline, though the light remained too faint to see His expression.
Malcador's staff tapped softly.
"You three remain standing. That is enough for now. Congratulations on being the first to succeed." His voice carried across the silent space, low and firm. "Skarbrand has shown you a fraction of his tempest. You endured. You may proceed to the next chamber and rest, while we wait for the others."
Venaril swallowed, rubbing grit from his eyes. He stepped forward with measured caution, body still rigid from residual tension. The Salamander did the same, shoulders squared. Ahriman brushed away beads of sweat on his brow, exhaling a slow breath. And, when the three of them walked together, they did not know that they would become brothers.
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He whispered to the wind, "Blood Field: Red Storm."
In the distance, a legion of alien monstrosities charged without pause. His wings—one crimson and feathered, the other bat-like and leathery—fluttered at his back as a vortex of blood took shape in the air around him. It spun with such force that anything within its grasp was rendered to ragged shreds. The howling of the creatures rose in unison, their screams echoing across the scorched plain.
The vortex swelled in moments, becoming a towering cyclone of red that drew in dust and debris and the abominations alike. They roared and writhed until that crimson tempest devoured them whole. He allowed a faint smile, then ascended, looking down upon the wreckage below: black smoke trailing into the sky, billions of corpses strewn across the ruined battlefield.
Still the tide of creatures did not waver, nor did their numbers diminish. He considered them for a moment. An extermination, he thought, and under other circumstances he might have summoned orbital fire. But this was a proving ground for his newfound Cursed Technique.
He stretched out his hand. Threads of Cursed Energy flickered from his fingertips.
"Expand," he said. The vortex rushed outward in an instant, feasting upon the horde. Then it dissolved beyond his command. His brow tightened.
He recalled how Vulkan and Horus had honed their strength over countless years of trial, how they drove themselves beyond mortal limits. Only a single year—by his reckoning—had passed since he awakened his Jujutsu. That thought lingered as he hovered above the carnage, crimson energy sparking around his hands, the battlefield filled with the wailing of beasts yet to be slaughtered.
A hush lingered in the aftermath of the vortex's collapse. The great cyclone of blood had dwindled into a crimson mist that clung to the mangled earth. Ribbons of gore shimmered along the broken ground, pooling in cracked ravines and slick hollows. Sanguinius hovered above the battlefield on wide-spread wings: one a sweep of crimson feathers, the other a leathery appendage marked by black veins. He moved through the air with an ease that belied the ruin below. Across the plain, rising hills of debris burned in silent conflagration. The smoke twisted upward and bled into a dark sky that spat ash as if the heavens themselves despised the land.
There came a roar across the miles: an unbroken tide of chitinous bodies surging from the horizon. They swept past the corpses of their own kind, indifferent to the mangled limbs and devoured remains. The scattering of dust rolled before them in a low cloud. Their eyes shone in the dimness like orbs of tempered steel. Their claws raked the ground with an endless chittering. Their ragged forms—part insect, part reptile, wholly abomination—swarmed over the fields of blackened stone and half-melted structures, heedless of their losses, drawn to him like moths to a burning pyre.
He lowered his eyes. A single breath hissed between parted lips. His gloved hand lifted with a slow deliberation, each finger splayed. The faint hum of Cursed Energy gathered against his flesh, distorting the air around him. The swirling currents of his power bent the sunlight and cast strange refractions on the battleground. A wind rose, then fell, then rose again. Where the Red Storm had raged only moments before, a lingering vortex of dust and shredded alien tissue still spun in reluctant circles. His heart pounded hard in his chest, and in response the tide of blood below twitched as though tethered to his pulse. Though no expression crossed his face, the slight crease near his eyes spoke of concentration and a hunger for greater mastery.
He descended toward the broken plain. When his boots touched the ground, the soil cracked and sank beneath him, still saturated with half-coagulated gore. He passed among the wreckage of bodies. Some were missing limbs. Others had been twisted so violently they no longer had recognizable forms. The black shells of these creatures glinted with a dull sheen in the gloom. The wind picked up again, carrying with it a raw stench that clung to everything.
He pressed a palm against the air before him, as if warding off the advancing legion. A sharp current of Cursed Energy spiraled outward, sweeping across the flats. The nearest aliens paused, their spined legs bristling. Others hissed and leapt forward. Sanguinius did not move. His wings twitched. A sound like the flutter of tattered sails in a storm rippled across the silence. The swirling dust around him turned a darker shade of red and began to climb upward in a sinuous funnel. Fine droplets coalesced in the air, suspended for an instant before knitting themselves into fresh streams of dancing liquid.
He opened his hand. The funnel widened, and in that roiling swirl one could see flayed flesh. The swirling red turned opaque, a living fluid that glistened with savage intent. Torn scraps of the fallen rose from the ground and merged with the vortex. The howling wind grew. He stood unmoving in its center, hair whipped about his face. His eyes remained calm, and the lines of his jaw set firm. Outside his vortex, the nightmarish horde advanced. Their scaly bodies brushed through the debris. Their shrieks rattled the atmosphere, answering the roars and booms of distant orbital thunder. They came in uncountable numbers, an unholy wave blotting out the horizon.
He spoke in a low voice, half-lost beneath the wind: "Blood Field: Crimson Sky."
His eyes fixed on the heavens. Overhead, the clouds dimmed to a deeper shade of red, as though siphoning color from the swirling mass around him. The entire sky seemed to convulse. Crimson tendrils spread from horizon to horizon, painting the firmament in shades of fresh blood. The stench grew thick, so tangible it seemed to coat the skin. Across the planet's surface, the gloom took on a lurid cast, as if some giant artery had burst in the firmament.
A trembling hush passed over the battlefield. Even the aliens hesitated in their advance. They slowed, jaws slack, compound eyes reflecting that unearthly glow. For a moment, they seemed to sense the promise of violence in the suspended hush. Then came the first spear: a barbed spike of crystalized blood that seared the air with a whistling pitch, burying itself in the midst of their front ranks. The impact cracked the bedrock and sent shattered debris spiraling outward. Another spear followed. Then another. Soon, a barrage rained from the scarlet clouds, each projectile trailing vaporous contrails. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Each one shrieked with the speed of a meteorite, slamming into the alien horde with a thunderous roar.
The plain convulsed beneath the strike. Chunks of flesh and black exoskeleton spattered in wide arcs. Limbs and fluid splashed across the ridges of stone. More spears hammered into the ranks. They pinned creatures to the ground like insects on metal spikes. They tore holes in the packed mass of bodies. They crashed through the lines, leaving smoldering craters in their wake. A murky haze spread across the battlefield, so thick one could barely see five paces ahead. In that haze, thousands upon thousands of those invaders perished, shrieking and clacking with mindless fury until their screams were swallowed by the next wave of blood spears.
Still, the deluge did not slow. The sky was a trembling mass of crimson clouds, swirling at Sanguinius's command. The spears rained in a steady torrent, and each time one fell, a thunderous clap rolled across the plain, echoing off distant mountains. Sanguinius remained in his stance, gloved fingers flexed. His cloak of blood-laced energy swirled around him. The entire field was in motion, as if the land itself had awakened to feast upon the intruders.
When at last the spears eased in frequency, the view across the plain was a graveyard of colossal proportion. Billions of corpses stacked upon each other in unholy mounds. The stench rose in waves, reeking of iron and entrails. Many of the spears still stood upright, forming a forest of blood-red crystals jutting from the earth, each spike a totem of slaughter. Some of the spikes lay broken where too many bodies had piled, but even these had wrought devastation. Beyond this forest, the horizon still seethed with fresh ranks. Even after the unimaginable toll, the aliens were endless. The ground quaked with the hammering of their countless limbs. Their shrill howls filled the air, challenging the sky.
Sanguinius lifted his gaze and tilted his head as if listening to some distant resonance. He rose from the ground with a strong downward thrust of his wings. Where his feet had stood, only a maroon stain remained. His movements were measured, neither fast nor slow, carrying him above the forest of impaled monstrosities. He passed over them like a silent wraith. Some of the creatures still twitched on the spikes. Others lay with their eyes open, lifeless, shattered carapaces leaking vile fluids. Yet the next wave was nearly upon him. He could see them from his vantage, a tide that stretched from one edge of the horizon to the other, unbroken in their march. They advanced over the corpses of their brethren without pause, pressing forward with single-minded hunger.
He paused in midair. His wings beat once. He stared past the ring of fallen spires to the towering presence of that living ocean of horrors. His expression remained inscrutable. His armor caught the glow from the burning sky, turning its polished plates a deeper red. The beating of his heart reverberated in his ears. The alien roar answered from below. They charged over the churned soil, their numbers a living black storm. Some leapt upon the crystalized spears and shattered them with powerful limbs, clearing paths for those behind. The fracturing of blood crystals rang out like muted chimes across the battlefield.
Sanguinius drew a long breath. He spread both arms wide, hands open to the sky. The swirling mists of blood thickened around him, siphoning from the debris below. Streams of gore spiraled upward. The energy roiled like a serpent coiling around its prey. High above, a single break in the clouds revealed a glimpse of distant stars shining beyond that red pall. The gloom parted for an instant, as if the heavens took notice.
His wings spread, the pinions of one shimmering in the ruddy light, the other slick with half-dried blood along the edges. He set his jaw. Thin veins of cursed power branched across his forearms and traveled under the skin of his neck. The once faint hum turned to a low thrumming that pulsed in the still air. He spoke, clear as a hammerfall in the silent cosmos: "Maximum Technique: Bleeding Star."
The clouds overhead churned into a swirling funnel. The entire dome of red began to twist with glacial slowness, revealing more of the black night that lay beyond. Within that darkness, there appeared a fiery haze: a swirling mass that seemed to belong to no known star. It flickered at first, an errant glow. Then it surged, a burning reservoir of light and liquid menace, suspended in the void where no star had shone before. The battlefield fell into a hush so absolute that even the shrill chirping of the aliens seemed momentarily hushed.
A single drop fell from that stellar reservoir. It landed far beyond Sanguinius, near the heart of the advancing legion. The hiss of contact was deafening. A flash of blinding red followed. The drop sizzled through the crusted ground and sent up plumes of molten rock. Creatures around the impact site disintegrated instantly, their shells dissolving into steaming gore. Then came another drop, and another. Each slammed into the planet's surface with a detonation that rattled the sky.
Within seconds, a downpour ensued. It was not water nor the crystalline spears of moments before but molten blood, thick and roiling with heat beyond measure. Columns of superheated fluid crashed onto the field in thick, lurid torrents, boiling on impact and generating clouds of searing vapor. The aliens caught beneath these sudden waterfalls burst apart, their forms liquefied by a heat that melted metal, let alone living tissue. Those that escaped the center of each torrent reeled away, shrieking with the fury of the damned. Even from above, the heat radiating from each point of impact could be felt in the very air.
In a matter of moments, the entire battlefield was awash in a molten tide. Rivers of sizzling blood carved channels through the debris and devoured the nearest corpses, old and new alike. The swirling heat churned with unstoppable momentum, guided by the twisted impetus of Sanguinius's Cursed Energy. Long streams of this molten fluid poured off into the distance, forging bright channels of sizzling red that scarred the planet's surface. The alien legion shrank back, but there was nowhere to hide. More continued to march into the deadly rain, forced onward by the endless press of numbers behind them. They tumbled into those molten flows and were lost amid the seething expanse.
Sanguinius hovered at the epicenter, wings buffeted by hot gusts that tore at his plumes. The swirl of Cursed Energy around him drew inward, then surged outward in a thunderous pulse. The blood that rained from the sky appeared to intensify, each drop flaring like a dying sun. Impacts etched deep craters into the land, blasting aside boulders and collapsed war machines. White-hot steam obscured his figure in a swirling veil, and silhouettes of frenzied aliens flickered in the haze. They struggled to crawl free of the molten mire, their limbs incinerated to stumps, their torsos fused to lumps of congealed remains. Many simply dissolved, sinking into the scorched ground beneath that unrelenting downpour.
His chest rose and fell with each deliberate breath. He watched the carnage unfold beneath him. Columns of vile smoke erupted as entire swaths of the planet's surface melted away. The black carapaces of the aliens bubbled in the intense heat and sloughed off, revealing glistening tissues that charred and popped. Their voices, once so loud, dissolved into a chorus of agony that ended as soon as it began. The molten tide spread in a slow wave, devouring everything in its path. The horizon flickered with the glow of that unstoppable flow, streaking the ground with fiery streams that shimmered like a sea of living embers.
His output and reserves wavered after all the techniques he'd performed. Sanguinius huffed and shook his head. "I suppose I'm not strong enough to decimate an entire world just yet, Sukuna."
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Sukuna stood upon the barren field with all four arms at the ready. The wind pressed across the ground, drawing thin ribbons of dust that curled around his ankles. He inhaled softly, letting the raw taste of the air fill his throat. His face was calm, eyes set upon the Emperor. No outward display of cursed energy traced the air around him; he kept every thread of power sealed inside, a trick that took years of diligence to master. One of his lower hands clutched Hama Yumi, a bow once gifted by Horus, now transformed by Sukuna's own arts into a cursed weapon of potency. The other lower hand steadied the arrow shaft. His upper pair of arms remained free, fingers poised for the forming of seals if the moment demanded it.
Across from him, the Emperor stood in simple black robes, no shield or armor about his form. A gleaming sword lay in his right hand, edge bright as a shard of the sun. Golden lights twisted at his feet, dancing and rising in restless coils that lifted dust and pebbles. He radiated a power that stirred the air and bent the light. Each shift of his stance suggested a violent grace, while the swirl of that roiling brilliance hinted at an unleashed storm. He did not hide his Cursed Energy the way Sukuna did. It rolled over the ground in warm waves, shimmering enough to lift the grit and cast it upward.
They faced one another in a lonely expanse. Far behind them lay the silent spires of a fortress, its distant battlements barely visible in the haze. No spectators gathered. The only witnesses were the scrub brush and broken stone, as if this contest were a private matter. The Emperor let the dust curl around his ankles. He swung the sword once, a languid motion. A ring of pressurized air expanded outward, leaving cracks in the dried soil.
Sukuna's brow twitched. His eyes flicked from the sword to the Emperor's stance. The swirl of golden brilliance made no illusions of the potency he faced. He let his other arms fall in a confident hush, then shifted his weight. He raised the arrow, nocking it to Hama Yumi's bowstring. He offered no outward sign of readiness, but the moment crackled with tension. He spoke in a voice no louder than a quiet aside. "You've chosen jujutsu this time. I see that swirling technique in you. Didn't think you'd limit yourself, though."
The Emperor's lips curled slightly in an echo of a smile. "I do enjoy variety, but it seemed fitting to meet you this way. I suspect your new toys need a worthy target."
Sukuna drew the arrow back. Hama Yumi made no noise as the cursed energies and symbols smoldered along the string. A Binding Vow took pain as payment whenever he pulled back the strick, in exchange for greater power. "You suspect right. Vulkan's absent for some reason. Not many left who can walk away from my new moves without dying."
His arms flexed, each muscle tensed with precisely measured force. The silence stretched, the dust dancing at their feet. A dryness clung to the air. The Emperor chuckled. "If you must know, Vulkan has devoted himself to the creation of a defense network for the Sol System, in the unlikely possibility that our enemies ever reach Terra."
"Do you still believe Horus will turn traitor?"
"I don't know anymore, honestly. The threads of fate are blurry. But, that also means the Great Enemy is just as blind as I am." The Emperor answered. Sukuna's eyes briefly narrowed upon the mention of the Great Enemy. There weren't a lot of them who knew about the Four Parasites that gnawed upon the Cursed Realm and masqueraded as Gods. Sukuna himself was one of the few–mostly because his friendship with Skarbrand apparently necessitated his knowledge of such things.
"That's good news, I suppose. Now, shall we begin?"
The Emperor nodded once. "Then do your worst, King of Curses, and be quick."
Sukuna let the arrow fly. The motion was smooth, almost without effort. The string released with a subtle whisper. The projectile tore the air in a crack, faster than sight or sense. A wave of displaced wind slammed outward, scouring rocks into sharp edges. The arrow streaked in a line of faint violet light, leaving afterimages in the gloom. Even Sukuna's own eyes barely tracked it, but he kept them on the Emperor's posture. He trusted the arrow's path would force a reaction.
The Emperor did not shift. The luminous swirl around him flickered, then parted. The arrow struck the golden aura with a sharp reverberation, as though it had hit a wall of tempered glass. Sparks flew, washing the Emperor in flickers of azure and gold. The projectile crumbled to fine ash, drifting through the air in a slow fall of dust motes. The ground around the Emperor's feet cracked and caved, carved by the leftover energy. Yet the Emperor stood untouched, sword at his side, robe barely ruffled. He exhaled and lifted his gaze to meet Sukuna's own.
Even after all this time, he still wasn't entirely certain how the Emperor's Innate Technique worked–or, at least, not fully. It was hard to figure it out when it seemingly had too many expressions. Thus far, the shield that disintegrated everything that came into contact with it was one of the few constants.
Sukuna flexed the top arms, forming a seal with two sets of fingers. A quiet hiss filled the space around him. The seal stirred the air, shaping an invisible pattern that shimmered faintly like ripples on water. He let the second arrow come to rest on the bowstring, though he did not draw yet. The corners of his mouth raised in the barest trace of amusement.
The Emperor lifted the sword higher, letting it catch the dust-laden breeze. Sparks of gold crackled along the blade, bright enough to sting the eyes. His voice carried in the hush. "You've improved that tool of yours. The arrow was sharper, heavier in presence. Still insufficient. But, hey, immortality gives you all the time you'll ever need for progress."
Sukuna inclined his head and pondered for a moment. "Then perhaps I should stack two or three new curses; the spiritual capacity of this weapon is tremendous."
The Emperor took one measured step forward, leaving a shallow crater in the ground. Dust billowed around his ankles. "Proceed."
A breath passed, slow as an age. Sukuna anchored himself, two arms gripping the bow, the other two weaving signs with purposeful exactness. He allowed a sliver of cursed energy to leak out, black lines dancing around his fingers, feeding into the arrow. The hum in the air grew, a tension that crackled in the ears. Rocks nearby vibrated, some shattering to rubble. Hama Yumi's shape quivered under the strain, lines of cursed script flaring across its length. Sukuna drew the arrow once more, the muscles in his arms bunching tight.
He let it loose. This time, the arrow left a trail of deep indigo, lines of runic malice swirling in its wake. It shrieked through the air, casting a gale that tore a rift in the ground. The arrow parted the dust storm, forging a corridor of still air behind it. The bowstring glowed hot for a heartbeat, then dimmed.
The Emperor answered with a quick raise of his sword, its golden aura slamming forth in a wedge of raw brilliance. Both energies collided in midair. The shockwave rattled the field, peeling the topsoil away in wide sheets. An ear-splitting crack echoed for miles around. Sukuna planted his feet, arms straining against the backblast. He felt the push of hot wind and grit. His eyes narrowed, steps stable.
Every other attack. Sukuna reminded himself. His shield offers him absolute and utter protection from anything once after every attack.
The problem therein lay in the manner of interpretation of what constituted an attack and where it came from, both of which were left entirely to the Emperor. And that fun little attribute made it almost impossible to track which attack would go through and which would not.
As the dust settled, he glimpsed the Emperor, robes fluttering from the force, sword shimmering with residual sparks. The arrow's remains drifted like dim motes, dissolving to nothing. The two combatants locked gazes across the battered stretch of earth. The silence returned, broken only by a faint ringing in the air.
Sukuna exhaled through tight lips, letting the hush extend. He recognized the height of challenge in the god-like being before him. No lesser foe. No trifling test. The Emperor's stance and unshaken composure signaled that this was only the beginning. Sukuna lowered the bow slightly, eyes flicking over the sword's golden arc. He spat once, clearing dust from his mouth, then resumed his stance.
"Not bad," the Emperor said. "I see the curses woven in those arrows. I trust you have more."
Sukuna formed a fresh seal, flexing the top arms again.
"Indeed, I do," he said, voice calm. "We can continue until you tire or I do. Let's see who falters first."
The Emperor inclined his head in agreement, lifting the sword in a deliberate motion that set tiny embers dancing around its edge. Sparks crackled in the scorched air, and the lingering smell of burnt stone clung to every broken fragment of ground. Sukuna stood across from him, shoulders tight and breathing measured, an arrow nocked against the shimmering bowstring. Curses whirled around the projectile's tip, thin coils of dark power that shimmered in and out of view. His fingers bled from the unrelenting pull, droplets falling onto the blackened earth. The battered ground shuddered beneath them, and stones tumbled where they could no longer hold their shape. No one spoke. No one yielded.
Sukuna exhaled and loosed the arrow without a sound. In that same heartbeat, he pressed a hand to a faint mark on his arm, sending Hama Yumi into a storage seal etched beneath his skin. He had tested the bow's limits often, found them more than sufficient for most foes. Beyond the Emperor, only a handful of entities scattered throughout the galaxy survived even a single shot. A gust of wind tore across the field as the arrow streaked forward, its path a sudden blur that churned clouds of dust in its wake.
The Emperor's gaze narrowed. His golden aura-shield pulsed around his body, bright as a dying sun, then flickered in the space of a breath. Sparks danced near his sword, and for an instant, he seemed ready to deflect the arrow the way a smith hammers iron. Instead, he shifted left in one swift motion, the blazing edge slicing the air but never touching the arrow's path. The arrow surged onward, the cursed energy clinging to it like hungry spirits.
It streaked across the distance and met a distant mountain with a thunderous roar. A fierce burst of light stabbed the horizon, swallowing the peak in an eruption of dust and molten rock. When the glow receded, the mountain was gone, vaporized to nothing, the wind carrying away scattered ashes that drifted like smoldering petals in the air.
The Emperor sighed. "That arrow would've pierced through the whole planet if I hadn't slowed it down. That was ridiculous."
Sukuna blinked. "So, that's why the whole mountain was vaporized, you dispersed the arrow's power–somehow."
"I had to," The Emperor shook his head. "That arrow would've destabilized the planet's tectonics."
Sukuna shrugged. "I figured."
"Domain Expansion: Malevolent Shrine!" His domain expanded rapidly outwards, immediately using up a fourth of his total Cursed Energy reserves to blanket more than half the world in a moment of time that lasted less than an eyeblink.
Every few decades or so, Ryomen Sukuna, Primarch of the Devourers Legion of Astartes and the King of Curses and Jujutsu, would challenge the God Emperor of Mankind to a duel that would determine his servitude: if the Emperor won, then Sukuna continued being his subject, but if Sukuna won, then he would finally be free. That had been their deal. And the Emperor obliged him again and again, the both of them growing in power each time.
But, truth be told, Sukuna no longer really cared all that much about winning anymore.
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His domain unfurled in silence, a dark tide that poured across the ruined plains and drowned them in the blackness of Malevolent Shrine. It moved faster than sight could track, swallowing more than half the planet in moments, the edges of that shadow pressing out in every direction. Stones shattered under its weight, the landscape warping as though the world itself recoiled. If Sukuna wished, he could stretch that domain farther, let it sweep over every last inch of soil and cavern, down to the deepest pit. He had done it before, on a nameless alien planet whose only crime was irritating him, and the memory of that ruined sphere still lingered somewhere in the vastness of space. To think he'd thought himself strong during the Heian Era; not once did the King of Curses imagine he'd ever reach this level of power.
The Emperor let out a low whistle, his eyes following the creeping darkness. He wore a faint smile, as though the sight amused him. He shifted his stance, leaning forward.
"Expanding the range so that it won't matter where I stand," he said, voice calm in the heavy air. "I would have done the same, had I your limitations. Good choice."
Sukuna said nothing. His tattoos glimmered with faint power, the lines upon his flesh pulsing in time with each fresh wave of cursed energy. In the next breath, the world split apart. Half the planet collapsed under the sudden fury of Dismantle and Cleave. Mountains folded into themselves, reduced to heaps of dust that vanished in the wind. Seas raged as though struck by a violent hand, their waters carved into foaming canyons of salt and debris. Valleys sank in an instant, entire continents shredded by invisible blades. It was the sort of power that invalidated the necessity of armies and legions, something Sukuna made full use of whenever he and the Devourers needed to conquer entire systems, instead of just a single world; his warriors would conquer the outermost worlds, while Sukuna himself dealt with the heart of whatever alien civilization they were sent to ravage and destroy.
Of course, he wouldn't really blow up entire plants, but scouring the surface of one that was infested by aliens was easy work.
Debris soared through the black air, twisting like leaves caught in a storm. Ribbons of swirling energy flickered in the gloom, each one cutting deeper, searching for what little remained. The Emperor stood at the fringes, watching. The curling smoke and drifting ash settled around his boots, and he neither moved nor made a sound beyond a slow, measured breath.
He had slipped away from these endless blades before, vanished through spaces unseen or hidden behind clever veils of deception. Each time leaving only quiet mockery behind, footsteps that were never there to begin with. This time, Sukuna waited in silence, watching the shredded earth spiral into oblivion, and he allowed himself only the barest narrowing of his dark eyes.
A shimmer broke through the storm. A pinpoint of gold light flickered in the swirling dust, drifting closer. Debris twisted around the shape as though avoiding something burning hot, something brighter than flame, brighter than suns. Sukuna stared at the gold sheen appearing in the ruinous gloom, the radiant sphere defiant amidst the swirling chaos. He breathed out slowly, the sound between his lips almost a sigh, but softer.
The shining orb drifted forward, floating above the ragged, destroyed earth, untouched and untouchable. The Emperor stood within it, features sharpened by shadow and fierce light, smiling easily as if it were the simplest thing in the universe.
"Again?" his voice came softly, mockingly, an echo carried on dust-laden winds.
Sukuna stood motionless, eyes fixed, observing the glowing apparition. His gaze flicked once to the corners of his endless black domain, then back. He recognized this particular golden barrier well enough—a favored trick. A flourish the Emperor favored far more often than raw strength or brute force. Sukuna's fingers twitched slightly, and he watched closely as the bright sphere drifted closer. His narrowed eyes glistened beneath the gloom.
Illusion, then. Trickery made tangible in false light and ghostly promises. Sukuna's thoughts turned, sharpened. Not strength, but sleight of hand. The Emperor within the golden sphere merely watched, calm as ever, even as the world crumbled around him. The ground cracked deeper beneath their feet, revealing molten rivers through spreading fissures. The golden light remained untouched by this turmoil, unaffected not from strength but from the simple absence of any true form.
The Emperor within the sphere tilted his head slightly and offered a faint smile before slowly fading. His mouth formed words, precise, slow, lingering in the air after his image vanished. "Using an old trick and just making it bigger is not going to work on me, oh King of Curses."
"I know." Sukuna let his voice fall softly into the silence. A thin grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. He raised his lower hands deliberately, slow and sure, etching the symbol of infinity into the empty air. His fingertips left glowing trails in the darkness, pulsing faintly, and he crossed both sets of arms across his tattooed chest.
A great pressure built in his chest, and the lines of ink running along his flesh pulsed, rippling with unseen force. Energy surged violently from within him, channeling toward the heart of the darkness, vast amounts drained away in moments. Sukuna's fingers twitched, clenched, released. He raised his head, straightening himself, gazing out across a ruin more complete with every passing breath.
"Malevolent Shrine: Firestorm of Amaterasu."
His voice broke across the darkness, calm as the quiet before sunrise. Around him, every particle of dust, each grain lingering in the shredded atmosphere, suddenly burst alight. Tiny sparks that bloomed swiftly into roaring blasts, thousands upon thousands erupting simultaneously. The earth shuddered. Fiery storms rolled outward in violent tides, swallowing the horizon, consuming everything left standing, burning it down to ashes that scattered weightlessly into a sky black with smoke.
Explosions rippled out, flaring like the birth of new suns, swallowing ruined mountains and burning seas in storms of blistering fire. The sky itself cracked, clouds turning to burning smoke and drifting apart, and the flames danced in the vacant darkness like a host of dying stars. Sukuna watched quietly as his firestorm spread farther and wider, until no corner of the world remained untouched by its furious grasp.
He waited, watching, motionless amidst the inferno, as the trembling beneath his feet grew fiercer, the world bucking violently beneath the weight of his assault. Rivers of molten rock poured through widening fissures, illuminating broken stones and ruined earth in lurid orange hues. The world quivered once, twice, a wounded thing on the edge of collapse, shaking in protest at being torn apart, at being undone.
Sukuna stood in the heart of it all, silent and calm, waiting for the inevitable reply that the Emperor was sure to provide.
When the firestorm faded, only ruin remained. Smoke and ashes drifted over broken earth, and the sky hung black and ragged above. Half the world lay shattered in glowing wreckage—oceans boiled away, their beds laid bare, nothing left but cracked salt flats stretching to charred horizons. Mountains lay toppled and flattened like monuments reduced to rubble, their forms blistered black and red in streaks of molten stone. Subterranean realms once deep and hidden lay exposed, their tunnels flooded with molten rivers spilling and churning, veins of glass twisting slowly within cooling rock.
Sukuna stood quietly, his eyes searching the destruction. He watched dark currents pulse gently through the broken landscape and embers spiral upward, their red sparks vanishing into nothing. Smoke drifted slowly around him, tendrils coiling gently before breaking and scattering like ghosts into the air.
Then beside him, a faint glimmer appeared, a shimmer as subtle as starlight on distant water. It grew steadily brighter, stretching gently into the shape of a man. A golden haze spilled forth, untouched by heat or smoke, and within it the Emperor appeared, calmly hovering just above the shattered earth, arms crossed loosely as though resting. His robes, pale and soft, shifted gently with a breeze no longer blowing.
"I'm going to take a wild guess," the Emperor said, smiling as he reached out and gently tapped Sukuna on the shoulder, "and assume this is your preferred method of planetary diplomacy?"
The Emperor tilted his head slightly, eyes clear and amused, as he glanced toward the blackened horizon. Sukuna only stared in silence, unmoving. The Emperor floated closer, carefully studying the King of Curses, examining him from head to foot with quiet attention. The molten rock beneath hissed softly, as though protesting their presence.
The Emperor's robes remained perfectly clean, untouched by soot or flame, and his face was smooth, unlined by exertion or concern. A single eyebrow rose slowly, deliberately. A soft grin pulled at the corners of his mouth as he examined Sukuna's unblinking gaze.
"Ah," he finally spoke again, softly, voice dry and measured, "you're thinking it again, aren't you? Wondering how it is that I remained untouched while mountains collapsed around us and entire continents were reduced to molten slag?"
Sukuna shifted slightly, the smallest twitch in his jaw as he watched the Emperor hover there, serene above molten ruin. The Emperor leaned closer, just barely. The golden haze flickered around him, casting gentle shadows across his features, and the faintest hint of mockery sharpened his expression. Some manner of dimensional sorcery must've been used–unlikely, but possible. The Emperor was fighting as a Jujutsu Sorcerer, not as a Psyker, and–as far as Sukuna was aware–the Emperor's Innate Technique did not grant him such an ability. No, the most likely explanation was that–
"I was never here," the Emperor said plainly, the words quiet yet distinct, hanging between them like an admission made into empty air. He spread his arms slightly, his smile widening gently. "Did you truly think that you alone would be training and honing your tricks, while I sat idle? I have spent a great deal of time mastering my jujutsu, every expression of it–every single manner it could be used."
He slowly shook his head, gaze holding steady on Sukuna's face. "Did you honestly believe I'd ever let you truly win?"
Sukuna chuckled. "You were on your ship the whole time? I gotta say: your illusions are becoming impossible to notice."
The Emperor shook his head. "It wasn't exactly an illusion. You were sensing me, which was why you didn't think I was up to anything."
"Ah," Sukuna realized. "You cast a projection of yourself across time and space–from your ship."
"Correct."
"One day–sooner or later–I am going to figure out just what exactly your Innate Technique is capable of, because this is becoming ridiculous." Sukuna sighed and chuckled. "I will take this as my loss. If you wished, you could've used that moment to deliver a deadly blow and I could've done nothing to stop it. The victory is yours."
He didn't even feel the Emperor's presence until he heard him speak. That sort of power was surreal. The Emperor snapped his fingers and Sukuna felt a surge of power rush through his form–the shift from Jujutsu to pure Psyker power. The Emperor waved a hand and unleashed a golden wave that seemed to cool the land, turning the seas of molten rock into vast plains of steaming black stone. And, just like that, Sukuna realized he'd just terraformed half the planet.
"Now that we've settled that," The Emperor began, all amusement from his tone disappearing. "There is something we must discuss–something important. You and Malcador are the first to know."
Sukuna raised a brow and nodded.
For a moment, the Emperor paused. "Horus and a few other Primarchs have disappeared. Their locations can no longer be tracked and even I am blind to them. I do not know what happened. Thus far, the Luna Wolves, the White Scars, the Iron Warriors, the World Eaters, the Word Bearers, and the Death Guard have all vanished."
Sukuna raised a brow. "All of them at once?"
The Emperor nodded. "Yes, all of them at once."
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They stood beneath a blazing sun on a world without clouds. Heat shimmered in waves across the broken ground, and the distant dunes glowed with a pale radiance. A line of Word Bearers stood arrayed in crimson and black, each helm turned to the figure at their fore. At the center of their ranks, Lorgar held Erebus by the throat. The kneeling Chaplain's gauntlets scrabbled at the Primarch's vambrace, leaving scuffs on the ceramite. Lorgar's bare hands, thick with gene-forged power, pressed tight around the traitor's windpipe.
Erebus let out a sputtering, muffled rasp. The scorching wind kicked up thin columns of dust that curled around them both. Lorgar's face was set, mouth drawn into a hard line. He said nothing. His eyes fixed on the Chaplain's as though searching for some last sign of remorse. Erebus thrashed, planting boots in the cracked soil in a bid to force himself free. He found no purchase. All along the lines of assembled Astartes, the Word Bearers watched, still as the stones that dotted the desert. None moved to intervene.
Far behind them, whorls of sand rose, stirred by inbound transports. Their engines rumbled in the stifling air. White Scars outriders prowled near a high ridge, dust trailing behind their bikes. Luna Wolves formed ranks along a basin. Death Guard squads stepped down ramps, bolters in hand, scanning the horizon with practiced calm. Iron Warriors angled themselves in tight formations, mechanical precision in their stances. At the far end, the World Eaters waited with heavy chainaxes and a smoldering restlessness that pulsed in the dry wind. None among them advanced. They stood by at Lorgar's request, an allied ring of steel and discipline around the desert plain.
Erebus's lips bled. His eyes bulged. He tried to rasp out some plea, but Lorgar's grip refused to relent. The Chaplain's face darkened, veins standing out at his temples. Even the dunes seemed to hold their breath. A stifling silence hovered, broken only by the hiss of grit blowing underfoot.
At last, Lorgar tightened his hold. A loud pop echoed from Erebus's neck. A wave of tension shuddered through the Chaplain's body. Lorgar twisted, a single, terrible motion that caused the black helm to tilt at an impossible angle. Blood spurted from the gap in the armor's collar ring. Erebus's choking sounds pitched into a faint rattle. The Chaplain's eyes rolled, wide with panic, though no words emerged. Lorgar raised him an inch higher. The entire assembly looked on in rigid silence, even as the desert wind whipped around them in swirling gusts.
A final snap reverberated. Then Erebus's head burst beneath the pressure, a sickening, wet explosion of bone and gore. Red droplets misted across Lorgar's armor and spattered the sand. The corpse slumped, limbs twitching. Lorgar let the ruin of a body drop. Dust swirled around the heap.
No voice spoke. The Word Bearers in the front line watched with hands clenched. Some stared at the Chaplain's remains, jaws set in silent dread. Lorgar's shoulders rose and fell, breath unsteady. He turned, a slow pivot to address the legion that had followed him for so long.
"In betrayal," he said, voice low, "there is no absolution."
He gestured at Erebus's limp form, flung upon the dirt like refuse. "Thus ends the first among your false prophets. Let none doubt that this day has come by my order."
At that sign, a line of White Scars advanced along the flank, their lean forms agile in the scorching light. Luna Wolves strode in ranks, bolters lifted, forming a second cordon. The Word Bearers stood in disarray, uncertain who might be condemned. Lorgar fixed them with a stare, words cold in the desert hush. "All who have bent their knees to the unclean powers—stand forth."
Some in the Word Bearers tried to speak in protest. Some faltered. Others broke ranks, rushing to mount a last stand or to flee. Bolts rang out from the perimeter. The White Scars hammered the foe with controlled bursts of gunfire, while the Iron Warriors closed in with practiced discipline, forging steel lines that cut off any route of escape. Amid the churn of dust and muzzle flashes, the World Eaters roared and stormed forth, chainaxes growling. One by one, the corrupted Word Bearers fell, their cries lost in the crossfire.
Lorgar spoke into a vox-amplifier wired to his gorget. "Purge them," he said, voice devoid of warmth. "Spare none who bear the mark of Chaos."
A volley of explosions tore the stillness. A cluster of turncoats, cloaked in chaotic sigils, tried to hold position behind a half-buried ruin. The Death Guard advanced through the swirling dust, bolters thudding. Torsos erupted in sprays of blood. The hush of the desert gave way to a pitched cacophony of death. Shadows flickered as flames rose from the cracked earth, black smoke surging skyward.
Lorgar remained at the center, gaze distant, fulfilling the role of executioner. He lifted a crooked staff, its tip glowing with the slightest warp-luminescence, and leveled it toward a group of traitors cowering behind a rocky outcrop. A swirl of power coursed along that staff. The ground before them split, molten stone seeping upward. They screamed as the earth swallowed them, the smell of burnt flesh wafting on the wind. The Primarch lowered his weapon with no flicker of triumph.
From the southern flank, Kor Phaeron emerged, rage contorting his features. He led a cluster of Word Bearers who still clung to old rank. They advanced in a desperate push, voices raised in half-formed war cries. Lorgar saw them. A spasm rippled across his face. He stepped forward, staff raised. Kor Phaeron lunged with a crackling power maul, but the Primarch's gauntlet seized the weapon mid-swing, crushing its head in a burst of sparks.
No words passed between them. The old father-figure of Lorgar stared in silent shock as Lorgar snapped the maul's haft. Then Lorgar's free hand closed on Kor Phaeron's breastplate, twisting metal aside. The older man struggled, roared curses, but Lorgar's strength was absolute. Without ceremony, the Primarch slammed the staff's butt into Kor Phaeron's midsection. The blow caved in the armor, sending him to his knees. Lorgar ground the staff forward. Blood sprayed from Kor Phaeron's lips, a single bitter cough echoing in the gloom.
Lorgar's eyes closed, tears wetting the corners. He drove the staff once more, pinning Kor Phaeron to the sand. Another cough, then the old warrior sagged, eyes rolling white. Lorgar released the staff, letting it stand upright in the corpse. A brief lull settled around them, broken by the distant gunfire. He pressed a hand to his eyes, moisture trailing down the side of his cheek. Chainsword growls and howls of the World Eaters' fury lingered beyond, but he heard only his own ragged breathing.
All around, the purge continued. Word Bearers who professed innocence threw down arms and bowed to the loyalists, or they tried to. Some received a single nod from the White Scars, who herded them aside. Others turned out to be liars, brandishing hidden sigils at the last moment. Bolters spat vengeance at close range. Chaos worshipers found no quarter. The sands soaked with Astartes blood, forming dark stains that spread in rivulets down the gently sloping dunes.
Lorgar moved through the carnage like a specter, staff in one hand, chainsword sheathed at his hip. He stepped over corpses, tears unashamed on his face. Now and then, he slew a scattered group of traitors, voice locked in near silence. Iron Warriors hammered the final holdouts behind a ruined spire, plating them with heavy fire, and Lorgar assisted by conjuring a warp-blast that rent the rock asunder. The corrupted Word Bearers inside were exposed and promptly shot down.
Angron strode across the battlefield, chainaxes in both fists. His armor dripped red, though none of that blood was his. He joined Lorgar in the center, panting. No words were exchanged, only a momentary nod. Then Angron spun away to find fresh targets, though the day had almost been won. The final pockets of traitors died in short order, their dying screams buried under the thunder of the allied legions.
At last, silence returned. The winds carried only the crackle of scattered fires. The devoured hush weighed upon the desert. Lorgar halted in the midst of it all, gloom etched in every motion. His sons lay strewn about, many in twisted shapes. Some had died loyal, some had died traitors, all the same now.
He sank to his knees among the bodies and the dust. He pressed blood-slick hands to his face. It was the blood of his legion. A raw sound issued from his throat, a wordless cry that tore the hush. He trembled there, shoulders hitching, tears drawing faint lines through the grime on his cheeks.
Amid drifting embers, Horus approached. His storm-grey plate was stained from battle, a shallow dent on the left pauldron. He said nothing. He laid a gauntlet softly upon Lorgar's pauldron, offering what little solace he could. Lorgar lowered his hands, expression hollow, tears still fresh. Horus reached down and helped him rise. The smell of gunpowder and spilt blood hung between them, sharp in the heated air.
From the smoking outskirts, Jaghatai Khan arrived on foot, helm at his side, black hair matted with dust. Mortarion trudged behind him, pale and silent, scythe caked in gore. Perturabo and Angron followed. They gathered around Lorgar and Horus, forming a ring of primarchs amid the dead. Flames guttered in half-ruined shells behind them, and the bodies of Word Bearers lay in broken lines across the sand.
Lorgar's gaze lifted to each brother in turn. He steadied himself, though a tremor remained in his breath. He placed a hand on Horus's arm, drawing calm from the Warmaster's presence. His voice, though quiet, carried in the hush.
"This was the only way," he said. "They would have turned upon us all. We all saw that… nightmare. We have cut out the corruption here, and so a greater war is averted."
Jaghatai nodded, sweat shining on his brow. Mortarion kept his eyes on the sand, saying nothing, a slow exhalation through parted lips. Perturabo's gauntlets were flecked with soot, and he nodded once in grim acceptance. Angron stood with chainaxes lowered, shoulders heaving.
Lorgar surveyed them, tears still clinging at the corners of his eyes. "I ask you, my brothers: do we remain true to our oath? That we will defend humanity, no matter the cost to ourselves and to everything that we've built?"
Horus answered first with a firm nod. He laid a hand on Lorgar's shoulder once more. Jaghatai followed suit, stepping closer, placing a hand on Lorgar's forearm. His expression was resolute. Mortarion let out a faint grunt in agreement, scythe leaning against his thigh. Perturabo, battered from the fight, inclined his head in solemn unity. Angron's gaze flickered across the carnage, and then he gave the barest gesture of assent.
Their circle enclosed Lorgar, each one reaffirming that vow. The desert stilled around them. The legionnaires who remained loyal or untainted watched from a distance, forming a loose perimeter. Smoke drifted in listless columns from the bodies and wreckage. The wind carried a stench of scorched blood.
Lorgar breathed, and the tears on his cheeks dried in the heat.
"We walk a narrow path," he said, voice low, "a path to spare mankind a far darker fate. Let it be known: we stand united."
His eyes flicked to Horus, who gave a slight nod, the mantle of leadership worn without need of words. Only one among them could be leader. And only one remained worthy. The gathered Primarchs turned from their circle, surveying the bleak ruin at their feet.
Out on the dunes, a tremor rippled beneath the sand. The ground shifted, grains sliding underfoot. Lorgar turned, tears still lining his cheeks, and saw the golden dunes part in the distance. A colossal shape emerged, a serpentine form rising in a cascade of dust. Sunlight glinted on the ridged segments of chitin or scale. The beast's maw opened wide, revealing rows of jagged barbs.
A hush fell upon the assembled legions. Guns rose, but no shots were fired. The worm's roar echoed across the desert, a long rumbling note that quaked the earth. Lorgar's gaze locked upon it. He stood there, blood-spattered and weary, tears drying on his skin. Then he spoke, voice carried on a hush of wind.
"The Golden Path starts here," he said, quiet but resolute. "Upon the dune of this world."
No one questioned him. The worm loomed, a monument of the desert's unforgiving secrets. The Primarchs remained still, the sand swirling around their boots. They had purged the corruption from their legion, and they had set themselves on a final course—one that would guard humanity against the horrors once prophesied. The desert swallowed all other sounds. And in that stark moment, the vow among these brothers stood firm, sealed by blood and tears.
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