Boom—KRAAASH—!!
With Curze's heavy fist, the massive gate forged from thousands of skulls exploded inwards.
The shards of bone scattered like a storm, but were deflected by the protective force fields before they could reach the armor of the Black Guard.
Thud, thud!
Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall as more than three hundred of the Lords of Midnight's honor guard surged into the profane sanctum like a tide.
The hall before them was more terrifying and grandiose than any they had seen—
Its vaulted ceiling was supported by crossing arches of white bone, each "beam" formed from hundreds of spiraling spines. The floor was covered with a carpet of pulsating flesh, bleeding thick black ichor with every step.
The walls were embedded with living, screaming bas-reliefs—souls in eternal torment. Light came from burning skulls that floated mid-air, spewing blood-red fire from their eye sockets and casting everything in a grotesque hue.
At the far end of the hall, a set of stairs forged from thousands of melted weapons rose toward a horrifying throne. This throne, like a mountain of metal, was welded together from shattered power swords and chainswords, with blood seeping from every crevice.
Upon that throne, a figure more than ten meters tall slowly stood—
Its "metal dreadlocks" were chains of brass interwoven with still-dripping Astartes helms. Horns like curved slaughter blades protruded from its body, each inscribed with ancient records of massacres.
Its frame was wrapped in brass armor, and molten blood pulsed beneath its plating. Its claws were as sharp as forged metal.
"Heh…"
The voice of this Greater Daemon was the echo of ten thousand massacres. Its jagged mouth opened, revealing rows of rotating, saw-toothed fangs.
The nearest Black Guards instinctively stepped back, for that maw wasn't the mouth of any living being—it resembled the inner workings of a living shredder.
Thud, thud!
From the shadows beside the throne, two lines of heavily armored warriors emerged. These were World Eater Terminators, clad in sickly dark-red armor with bone spikes protruding from every joint.
Their pauldrons bore no legion sigil—instead, freshly woven intestines formed Khorne's symbol. The dual chain-axes in their hands buzzed at overclocked speeds, producing a bloodthirsty wail.
Three hundred World Eater Terminators—precisely matching the number of Black Guards. Khorne's favorite "fair fight."
Seeing this, Curze's warriors needed no command. The Black Guard immediately split into three groups.
One activated their Terminator optical camouflage and infiltration systems, vanishing into the shadows—ready to strike from the flanks.
Another formed a wedge formation to engage the enemy head-on.
The last group covered the retreat route and provided heavy fire support.
"Hahahaha—ha—ha—!!"
The daemon atop the throne burst into madder laughter as eight massive flesh sacs began to rise behind it.
Splorch—Splorch—!
The sacs ruptured instantly, spilling out eight warped constructs—five massive dolls stitched together from multiple Astartes corpses, and three flying daemon engines with power claws.
Battle broke out in an instant.
Clang—Clang Clang—!!
The song of bolter fire rang first through the "Throne Hall."
Ri~whoosh—whoosh!!
Shing~shing—!!
Then came the hum of melta guns, plasma fire, and micro-missile salvos.
Explosions and flame churned across the skulls and flesh of the floor, launching waves of searing energy.
The Black Guard's vanguard scattered tactically, engaging the oncoming daemon constructs in squads of three.
Two of the stitched abominations had their torsos pierced by plasma fire yet still lunged forward, swinging dangling limbs like flails, one slamming a Black Guard into a spine pillar.
"Hahaha!!"
"Die! Die!!"
Five World Eater Terminators, cloaked in blood and flame, smashed into the line like iron giants, unafraid of any impact. Chain-axes and power claws flashed with arcs of death, and two Black Guard squads were immediately crushed.
These were veterans—warriors who had likely fought for a thousand, if not ten thousand years.
Meanwhile, a Black Guard squad forced their way into the enemy line, using short-distance boosters to tear off the wing of a daemon engine mid-flight.
One stitched abomination lunged at a squad leader, but the skull-crested captain struck with a mighty power hammer—
BOOM—!!
The hammer, crackling with lightning, slammed into the creature's chest mid-air.
CRASH—!!
With a dull blast, the construct was hurled into a dais, toppling half its structure.
Smoke and blood filled the air, heavy with the stench of scorched metal.
The battle had devolved into a brutal melee. Every second brought the sound of rending armor, breaking bones, and screaming steel—a symphony of ghostly blue and crimson chaos.
Yet at one edge of the battlefield, all stood still.
"…"
Curze, standing at the rear of the Black Guard, silently locked eyes with the unmoving Greater Daemon.
Only the hiss of his helmet's filters could be heard.
That towering form—dreadlocks of metal, twisted brass horns, bulging muscles beneath brass armor—should've been pure Khorne's creation.
But Curze saw deeper.
He saw the remnants of something else—twisted, but not completely lost: a Primarch's essence.
In that moment, Curze's mind returned to the Primarch quarters of the Imperial Palace.
There, their father—the Emperor of Mankind, Samuel Young—his golden eyes flickering in the dark, had shown him a psychic vision of another universe's tragedy.
Angron, standing in a pool of blood, Butcher's Nails jutting from his skull, howling silently at the sky.
That universe's Lorgar offered him the Book of Holy Word, eyes shimmering with something unholy.
During the ascension ritual, Angron's body was torn apart and reformed, made into Khorne's plaything.
"The most tragic of traitors," Father had said in that memory. "The enslaved, made into the slavemaster."
Now, the thing before Curze was that tragedy made flesh.
Through the shattered crown, Curze saw the pin marks in Angron's skull. In those burning eyes, a flicker of tormented awareness still lingered.
"Brother…" Ascended Angron finally spoke, his voice the grinding of a thousand chainswords. "You… will…"
As his broken words spilled out, the berserk World Eaters and the Black Guard fell silent as if by instinct.
The Black Guard tensed, targeting systems locking on with a chorus of beeps—but Curze raised his hand to stop them.
No war cry. No speech.
The two Primarchs stepped forward—
Angron's brass boots crushed bone, while Curze's magnetized soles kicked up blood.
Second step—
The Daemon's chain-axe began to spin. Curze's claw lit with violet lightning.
Third step—
The air itself tore apart. The collision of two Primarch-level powers unleashed a shockwave that flung warriors from both sides.
When the blood mist cleared, all saw it:
Curze's right claw had pierced Angron's abdomen. The chain-axe was frozen just three centimeters from Curze's neck, halted by his armor's defensive field.
"I saw it," Curze's voice carried warmth for the first time—repressed fury. "How they tricked you. Used you."
The daemon's pupils contracted—some long-buried memory stirred.
ROOOOAR—!!!
But in the next second, Khorne's will surged back. The throne hall shook, bones shattered, blood and fragments launched into the air.
WHAM—!!
A headbutt smashed into Curze's helm, shattering his energy shield. Sparks flew.
Curze staggered but did not fall. His claw lashed out at Angron's throat like a serpent.
CLANG—!
The daemon's chain-axe intercepted it, claw and saw grinding with a screech, sparks raining.
Reality warped around their struggle. Even air rippled from their clash. Several bone columns crumbled.
Three World Eater Terminators saw an opening and lunged at Curze from the flank, chain-axes howling.
Curze didn't even look.
SPLURCH—!!
One head flew. Its neck sprayed golden, purified flame.
A leg swept out like an axe, crushing a second's chestplate, vertebrae cracking audibly.
The third's axe was inches from Curze's neck—
Then its upper body simply vanished.
Perhaps a single elbow strike had crushed it completely.
"GET BACK!!"
Angron, now in a berserk rage, screamed and swung his axe, bisecting his own warriors who tried to aid him.
Armor shredded like paper, blood and metal spraying.
"This one… is mine!!"
Not only the World Eaters wanted to help their Primarch—so did the Lords of Midnight.
Five elite Black Guards saw an opening and targeted the daemon's joints with 1.0-cal heavy bolter rounds.
But—
CRACK!
Angron's left arm twisted impossibly and grabbed the frontmost warrior's helm.
SKKRK—!!
With a sickening crunch, the helmet—and skull—were flattened into paste.
WHRR—SSSH—ZAK!!
The spinning axe swept out, instantly bisecting the remaining four. Their armor may as well have been paper.
"Fall back," Curze barked coldly through comms. "This isn't your battlefield."
The Black Guard obeyed immediately, focusing on battling the remaining World Eaters.
They now fully understood—when Primarchs fight, mortals must stay out of the way.
Angron's axe came up, slashing from below toward Curze's chest.
Curze leaned back by millimeters—barely enough. The blade grazed his armor, showering sparks.
He spun, claw targeting Angron's armpit.
SHHHT!
Three inches in—but the daemon's muscles clamped like steel.
It grinned and headbutted again. This time, Curze couldn't fully dodge.
BANG—!
His faceplate cracked, yet he smiled, as if this had been his plan all along.
In a flash, Curze's left claw stabbed forward—into Angron's throat.
!!!
The daemon recoiled, molten blood spewing onto Curze's shield, hissing as it sizzled.
ROOOOOOAR—!!
Angron thrashed with his axe. The entire hall shook.
But Curze no longer engaged head-on. He danced through the axe arcs like a wraith, dodging perfectly.
When the daemon's attack pattern broke—
SPLURT!
Curze's claw pierced its gut again, punching through to the back.
But Angron didn't evade. He let it happen and countered—
BOOM—!!!
A left hook to Curze's temple sent him to one knee. The skull-paved floor cracked beneath him.
Angron raised his axe to finish it—
But Curze surged up, ramming into Angron's chest.
His head cracked the daemon's jaw, and his hand grabbed the Primarch's spine—
KRKK—!
The vertebrae snapped audibly.
RAAAAAH—!!
Angron roared, in agony now, dropping his axes and reaching for Curze's throat.
"It's over."
Curze's voice was calm. His claw, once wreathed in violet lightning, now burned gold with pure psychic flame.
In a blink, he drove it into Angron's skull. The claw tip burst from the back of the daemon's head.
The daemon froze.
Its eyes cleared—not fire and madness, but pain—an ancient, buried sorrow.
"Curze…" Angron spoke—not the daemon, but a long-forgotten soul. "I… I…"
His body began to collapse from within.
Curze watched in silence. Only as the last particle turned to ash did he whisper:
"Rest, brother. May you find Father's forgiveness… in Hell."
As the final speck drifted away, the throne hall began to collapse. The battle between the Black Guard and the World Eaters reached its bloody end.
The Lords of Midnight had won—a pyrrhic victory, with nearly two hundred warriors dead.
After all, any Terminator who had followed a Daemon Angron was surely a veteran of millennia. For a newly formed honor guard to win at all was, in itself, a staggering feat.
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