Chapter 248: This Demon Is Not That Demon
The moment the psychic spark ignited, it was as if everything had slowed down.
Mortals screamed and fled, the Space Marines tried to rush to their Primarch, but they were too far, and time was far too short.
Dorn roared, Guilliman shouted something, and the Angel simply sipped his wine, calmly observing the situation.
To everyone's surprise, faced with Magnus's attack, Mortarion only slowly raised his hands and made a helpless shrugging gesture.
He did not try to block, resist, or dodge.
Magnus roared at Mortarion's seemingly mocking behavior, and the brightness of his psychic arcs flared, erupting with dazzling sparks that lit up the entire hall.
If before he had only wanted to issue Mortarion a warning, now, he intended to make his brother taste the pain of the warp.
Brilliant lightning exploded forth, serpentine bolts lashing out like pythons, their fangs bared as they hissed toward Mortarion's throat!
At the last moment, the corner of Mortarion's mouth beneath his mask curled into a mocking smile.
The Angel rose, hand on the sword at his waist.
— Black — Domain — Descends —
For an instant—just an instant—everything in the hall turned gray, dull, nauseating. All sound from every soul vanished from their senses, and an indescribable weakness crept over their very spirits.
But the feeling disappeared without a trace in the next breath, as if it had all been an illusion. People froze mid-action, staring at each other in panic and disbelief, silently asking what had just happened.
No one dared to speak. The great banquet hall fell into a comical silence.
Even the Primarchs themselves seemed to pause. Guilliman and Dorn realized something had occurred, but they could not comprehend what it was.
Their eyes turned toward the center of the stage.
Before Mortarion stood a hooded figure, raising high a pitch-black scythe. Its darkened blade glimmered faintly, intercepting the psychic lightning that had been meant for Mortarion.
No one dared look directly at the being. An overwhelming sense of loathing repelled them from seeking the truth. Those few who tried to glimpse it found their sight blocked by the hood and shadows.
They could only faintly sense that beneath that hooded darkness lurked a monster.
And the hissing, fanged serpent of lightning was gone—vanished utterly, leaving not a trace.
Mortarion spread his arms, as if recalling a joke, and chuckled with satisfaction.
"Just now, you asked me—what do we use to kill psykers."
"Now you know."
Mortarion stared at Magnus with deliberate provocation.
Across from him, Magnus trembled, raising a shaking hand toward the figure before Mortarion.
"Wh-what is that?"
Filthy, blasphemous, incomprehensible, a thing of pure negativity that made Magnus want to vomit.
He screamed in terror and rage:
"What IS that?!"
Like a two-dimensional black hole imposed upon the Immaterium, it radiated a hollow hum that Magnus could not endure. He had seen it—just now, with his own eyes—people's emotions, their fear, their panic, all consumed by that monster.
This was something Magnus had never known, something no ancient tome had ever recorded, something no sentient being could bear, a sin abhorred even by the gods—a butcher's filth.
Around it, Magnus even recognized traces of his father's psychic seals.
No—no, no, no. Was Mortarion actually driving a creature that their Father himself had sealed away?
How dare he?
He… how… DARE he?!
Magnus roared, his voice carrying boundless fury:
"Mortarion—you—you are keeping a daemon?!"
Mortarion raised an eyebrow. Hades seemed to let out a laugh. Mortarion didn't know why Hades laughed—he only felt anger boiling up.
The Lord of Death's rasping voice came laced with wrath:
"What the hell did you just say?"
"What else could that thing be?! It's a daemon! What are you doing, Mortarion?!"
Mortarion drew in a long breath.
The fire in his eyes sank low, like the stillness just before a storm breaks.
Lowering his head, Mortarion reached out and grasped the haft of Hades's scythe.
The Lord of Death spoke to Hades:
"Lend it to me."
And with an irresistible force, Mortarion wrenched the death-scythe from Hades's hands.
Hades stared at him in surprise. The Primarch muttered under his breath, "You just keep the Black Domain up."
Hades blinked, bewildered, glancing at his now-empty hands. Wait—huh?
But Mortarion was already striding forward, scythe in hand. To everyone's astonishment, as Mortarion advanced in silence, it was Magnus who retreated.
With every step Mortarion took, Magnus cursed and stepped back in kind, sparks of psychic energy crackling brighter and brighter around him like a flashing warning.
Mortarion was unmoved. His scythe leveled straight at Magnus, brimming with crushing force.
Ahriman rushed forward with the few remaining, panicked Thousand Sons—but to Hades's surprise, they did not move to help Magnus. Instead, they surrounded him.
Hades swallowed hard. He calculated quickly: at this distance, if he tried to cripple Magnus, the Thousand Sons around him would likely be… erased from the board entirely.
Wait, wait—someone give me a hand here! Garro—where's Garro?!
—Oh, right. Garro had gone to help Mortarion.
Damn it!
Hades raced through possibilities. He couldn't fire his weapon—he no longer had his scythe—and if he just slammed down the Black Domain here, he might break Ahriman and the others outright. Psykers, after all, were fragile when it came to the integrity of their souls.
Hmm…
Hades looked up and saw that the other three Primarchs had already begun to move. Well then, Mortarion was on his own.
Warp-light flickered around Ahriman's body. He spoke calmly, but Hades could hear the faint tremor in his voice:
"You cannot harm my father. Monster—what are you?"
Hades sighed.
"Just an ordinary Blank, nothing more."
In the next instant, the lightning around Ahriman's body dimmed, and a fist charged with the Black Domain swung toward him.
. . . . . .
"Calm yourselves, both of you. Calm down."
The Angel was holding Magnus in check, his great wings fully unfurled, casting radiant light across the hall.
"That thing is a monster, Sanguinius! You saw it yourself! Let me go! I will seize it!"
"I don't think Mortarion would appreciate you speaking of his son like that."
Meanwhile, Dorn and Guilliman were restraining Mortarion together. Compared to Magnus, Mortarion was still thrashing with all his strength, as though he meant to break free just to stride over and slap his brother across the face.
"What the hell did you just say?! You filthy sorcerer! You think you're worthy to judge my commander?!"
"Silence! To quarrel over petty words—you bring shame upon the face of the Primarchs!"
"You still represent the Imperium!!!"
Dorn roared in fury, as though he might strike both of his brothers down with his blade.
At the very last instant, just as Mortarion's scythe came crashing down, the Angel moved—his sword intercepting Mortarion's strike while a sweep of his wing shattered Magnus's incantation.
Dorn and Guilliman immediately followed Sanguinius's lead. Trusting his brothers to restrain Mortarion, the Angel devoted himself to Magnus. Mortarion, his eyes fixed on Magnus and nothing else, was utterly intent on cutting him down, but Dorn took him from behind, slamming him to the ground. Together, Dorn and Guilliman pinned him.
Magnus, too, was struggling—but Sanguinius sensed the resistance was not as fierce as it appeared. Pretending not to notice, the Angel pressed Magnus firmly down with little difficulty.
Guilliman sighed. The weary Lord of Macragge had no desire to join in the furious, childish squabbling of his brothers. Instead, through the vox channels, he took command of the terrified mortals left in the hall.
The Ultramarines he had brought quickly moved under his orders to restore and maintain order, minimizing the collateral damage caused by two Primarchs fighting.
Elsewhere, Hades looked apologetically at the heap of Thousand Sons lying groaning on the ground. Scratching his head, he gave a sheepish smile toward the Imperial Fists and Blood Angels who had originally rushed in to break up the brawl.
"Uh… that wasn't me who started it, alright?"
He raised his hands, trying his best to show sincerity—he didn't even have a weapon anymore.
He was innocent, forced to defend himself, entirely justified, and thus should really be released without blame.
Yet he still found himself surrounded by the Imperial Fists and Blood Angels, like a criminal being arrested at the scene. The "victims" weren't dead—just groaning on the floor.
Stop moaning already, Hades thought to himself. He hadn't even hit that hard.
The problem was simply that these Thousand Sons relied far too much on the warp.
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