Rogal Dorn stood like a rock upon the command node, his voice echoing through the comms channels to every corner of the fortress complex, inspiring each and every defender.
"Warriors of the Imperium, my sons, this is the Empire's darkest hour. You must fight bravely and eliminate these damned traitors.
"The very survival of the Imperium is at stake. We must fight for humanity, for the Emperor.
"Hold fast, warriors of the Imperium! Reinforcements will arrive soon.
"The Twelfth Primarch, Axis, the Thirteenth Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, and the Imperial Left-Wing Warmaster, Kratos.
"They are leading their armies here now. The Ultramarines, the Golden Legion, and the Sons of Axis. These three great Legions will reach the battlefield. We will reverse our fortunes and turn this defeat into a decisive victory."
Dorn broadcast this message across all open channels, seeking to rally the morale of the Imperium's armies and inspire the loyalist Legions to fight on.
Upon hearing this, the Space Marines said little. They simply raised their weapons in silent resolve and opened fire on the enemy.
The mortal soldiers, however, managed a few ragged cheers. At least they had something to hope for now. Reinforcements were coming. They just had to hold on a little longer, just a little longer.
Yet in the command center of the Imperial Palace, Rogal Dorn's face was deathly pale. Even his famously stoic features could not hide the grim weight upon him.
The enemy's assault was far too ferocious. Chaos Space Marines, Hellbrutes, and endless daemons from the Warp. Their numbers were simply overwhelming.
Massed charges of Hellbrutes broke upon their defenses. Driven by Chaos Space Marines, hundreds of these war-engines charged like runaway siege rams, furiously battering the heavy adamantium gates and void shield generators.
They tore at armor plating with their brute strength and savaged the structures with their built-in cutting saws and drills. Heavy cannons and laser arrays on the ramparts fired relentlessly, blasting one Hellbrute after another into burning scrap, but more of the monsters swarmed forward over the wreckage of their kin.
Tzeentchian Sorcerers also launched surprise assaults, forcibly tearing open small, flesh-like portals within the fortress's weaker areas, such as logistics corridors and ventilation shafts.
Shrieking Pink Horrors and flame-sword-wielding Bloodletters poured forth, spreading chaos and slaughter deep inside the loyalist lines.
The faithful Space Marines and mortal auxilia were forced into brutal close-quarters battles within the narrow passages, fighting for every inch of ground at a tremendous cost in lives.
At that moment, the other four Primarchs, Vulkan, Jaghatai Khan, Ferrus Manus, and Corvus Corax, arrived at the command center, their power armor stained with blood.
"Rogal, we need reinforcements," Vulkan said, "If this continues, we won't be able to hold them back. The enemy will soon make a massive landing on Holy Terra, and our lines will be pushed back to the Palace perimeter."
"Our main forces now consist of the Blood Angels, the Imperial Fists, and the White Scars," Ferrus Manus stated, "The Salamanders, the Iron Hands, and the Raven Guard have all been mauled and are severely understrength. It is time for the Custodes to be deployed."
The enemy's offensive was simply too violent; the legions of Chaos seemed truly infinite.
The Space Marines could endure and continue the fight, but the mortal soldiers had reached their breaking point and could shatter at any moment. If the vast mortal army collapsed, the consequences would be unthinkable.
Upon hearing this, Rogal Dorn frowned, shook his head in resignation, and spoke with a weary sigh. "I am sorry, my brothers. The Custodes cannot join the fight."
"Why?" Vulkan demanded, his disbelief clear, "The battle has reached the Palace gates. Are the Custodes still going to hide themselves away? They are the most powerful warriors in the Imperium. Each one is worth ten Space Marines, or even more."
The other three Primarchs' expressions soured as well. At a critical juncture like this, were the Custodes truly still conserving their strength?
They had also noticed another issue. The number of Imperial Fists in the battle seemed wrong; at least thirty to forty thousand of their warriors were nowhere to be seen.
"Rogal, what are you hiding from us?" Corax asked, his voice sharp, "Why are a portion of your Legion's warriors not in this battle? And why are the Custodes unable to fight?"
"Because they are fighting another battle, one of great importance, no smaller than the one we face now. The Custodes have already suffered heavy casualties," Rogal Dorn said with a sigh, "I committed a portion of my own sons to that front as well. We truly have no more reinforcements to spare."
The Emperor's condition was very strange. Both the Golden Throne and the entire Webway project were now being sustained by Magnus's power alone, as the Emperor focused all His might on suppressing a dark aspect of his own being. Since the defense of Holy Terra had begun, the daemons of the Warp had been furiously assaulting the Webway. The pressure on the Custodes fighting within was no less than what the loyalists faced outside.
"So you're saying all we can do is hold out and wait, hoping Axis, his son, and Guilliman arrive in time?" Ferrus Manus asked.
Dorn nodded grimly.
Axis and Guilliman were their last hope. With a decisive advantage in numbers, it was only a matter of time before Horus conquered Holy Terra.
The situation should not have been this dire.
Ordinarily, the Emperor could have left the Golden Throne at any time, letting Magnus bear the burden temporarily, and gone to eliminate Horus Himself. But for some unknown reason, the Emperor himself seemed to be in trouble. Far from being able to destroy Horus, he was finding it immensely difficult to even maintain his vigil over the Webway.
Just then, a powerful gust of wind swept through the chamber. Sanguinius landed within the Palace, his two great wings folding behind him. He nodded to the other Primarchs before turning his gaze to Rogal Dorn.
"Dorn, I have ill tidings for you," Sanguinius said.
"We have more than enough bad news already. Go on," Rogal Dorn replied with a weary shrug.
"We have lost orbital space above Holy Terra," Sanguinius announced, leading the others towards the Palace entrance. "Our contact with Luna and Mars has been severed."
Rogal Dorn's brow furrowed. Suddenly, a colossal impact thundered in the distance.
The sky was abruptly dyed a bloody red, accompanied by a deafening war cry filled with boundless agony.
A massive figure, wreathed in blood-flame, tore through the atmosphere and crashed like a meteor before the main gate of the Imperial Palace. The shockwave sent dozens of loyalist defenders and Hellbrutes flying. There, a monster nearly five meters tall began to furiously slaughter everything it saw. It had a humanoid shape but was crowned with demonic horns and what looked like thick, corded dreadlocks. In its hands, it wielded two giant axes.
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne! Death to the False Emperor!" It was Angron, the mightiest Daemon of Khorne and Primarch of the World Eaters.
He had fully unleashed the terrifying power granted to him by his patron. He was more massive and twisted than ever before. His skin glowed like scorched iron, and the infamous Butcher's Nails atop his head pulsed with a malevolent red light. From his back, leathery wings blazed with an undying flame of blood. Every swing of his twin great axes unleashed a storm of energy that tore at the very fabric of space.
Angron had but one objective: to breach the main gate of the Imperial Palace. His goal was the same as Horus's, to take the Emperor's head. He ignored the cannon shells and bolt-rounds that peppered his form, as such attacks could not even scratch his daemonic hide.
He charged like a frenzied juggernaut of flesh and rage, heading directly for Dorn's command tower. In his wake, loyalist soldiers and unfortunate Chaos Space Marines alike were torn apart by his violent aura.
"That's Angron," Sanguinius said, his brow creased in a deep frown. "The primarch discovered on Nuceria, the one who had already been corrupted by the powers of Chaos."
He was the original Twelfth Primarch, the one Axis had replaced in this timeline.
This creature would be no easy foe. According to intelligence they had received from the future, Angron's combat prowess was in the highest tier among all the primarchs.
"This twisted brother of ours… Let me deal with him," said Vulkan, the mightiest and most physically imposing of the primarchs present, as he stepped forward.
Rogal Dorn was about to stop him, but Vulkan's tower-like form had already strode forth.
The Primarch of the Salamanders marched out to meet the foe, his heart a furnace of rage. With every step his massive frame took, the very flagstones of the Palace trembled.
"Angron!" Vulkan's voice boomed like the rumble of a volcano before an eruption, cutting through the clamor of the battlefield. "Look at what you've become! A twisted monster who has betrayed his noble blood, betrayed humanity! Stop this madness!"
The only response he received was an inhuman roar that tore itself from deep within Angron's throat.
The crimson light of the Butcher's Nails flared so brightly it threatened to burn through his skull, incinerating the last vestiges of his reason. Angron's blood-red eyes locked onto Vulkan, a worthy and powerful skull to be offered to the Blood God.
"ROAR! THERE CAN BE NO BETRAYAL WITHOUT FIRST SWEARING LOYALTY, AND I NEVER CONSIDERED MY BLOOD NOBLE."
Angron abandoned his charge on the command tower and spun violently toward Vulkan. The flaming wings on his back beat furiously, and he shot forward like a blazing comet, carrying with him a wave of destructive power.
The twin chainaxes in his grasp let out a piercing shriek as their teeth spun at blinding speed, ripping the air and stirring a foul, bloody wind.
Vulkan stood unafraid, his massive form moving with a speed that defied its size. He let out a low growl and, rather than dodge, met Angron's charge head-on. Taking a mighty step forward, the powerful muscles in his arms bulged as he tightened his grip on his legendary two-handed power hammer, Dawnbringer.
The hammer's head was no simple blunt instrument; it was shaped with a sharp, ram-like point and was etched with complex runic arrays. In that moment, the runes glowed with an incandescent orange-red light, energized by the psionic fury Vulkan poured into them.
A deafening thunderclap erupted as the great hammer and the twin axes collided with unimaginable force.
It was the ultimate showdown, a clash of pure strength against rabid, chaotic fury.
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