Chapter 15: Danger! Corruption!
"Huh. This is actually pretty interesting." Francis stroked his chin thoughtfully, studying the various mutations affecting the Thousand Sons warriors. "All these different kinds of flesh-change. Today I might finally get a proper look at what's really going on with your Legion."
Magnus felt his hearts speed up with nervous anticipation. Fear for his sons battled with excitement at witnessing Francis's genetic mastery. "Will it... is it going to be too difficult to fix them?"
"Difficult? Nah." Francis waved dismissively. "I'm just wondering how much pain they can handle during the process."
The afflicted warriors straightened immediately, their eyes burning with desperate hope despite their mutations. "Lord Primarch Francis," one spoke through a partially transformed throat, "we've all heard what you can do. Whatever pain's coming, we'll take it if it means getting rid of this curse."
"Good attitude. Let's get started then." Francis began his examination with practiced efficiency.
He pointed to the first warrior. "Scaled skin, tentacle fingers, pretty minor case. Room 6. The Soul Drinkers will handle you." He scribbled notes on parchment before handing it over. "Give this to them."
Room 6
Inside the medical chamber, sterile walls held an array of specialised tools: precision bone cutters, modified chainswords for surgical work, stabilisation clamps, and blood transfusion equipment.
The central table displayed rows of sealed containers with yellow-green contents that pulsed with bio-luminescent activity.
The Soul Drinker physician, clean in medical whites, accepted the note without ceremony. "Standard flesh-change protocol," he announced matter-of-factly. "Scale removal with affected tissue layers, appendage correction, growth stimulant for regeneration, genetic stabiliser injection, plus supplemental gene therapy."
The Thousand Sons warrior entered to find a gleaming surgical table dominating the room's centre. Medical necessity compelled him forward until he lay on its surface.
Click. Click. Click.
Medical restraints were secured around his limbs for safety during the procedure.
"Brother, why are you preparing that surgical saw?" Concern crept into his voice. "Why am I restrained? What's happening?"
The Soul Drinker's response came with clinical detachment. "Don't fight the restraints, you'll only make recovery harder. Stay still, brother. This'll be over soon."
The warrior's eyes widened. "What do you mean—"
His question became a sharp intake of breath as the procedure began.
Outside, waiting Thousand Sons felt their pulses quicken. Fear and anticipation battled in their expressions as they heard the sounds of intensive medical work from within.
Francis continued his sorting with methodical precision. "Next—multiple appendages with oral modifications. That's a severe case. Room 2, Sarpedon will handle you."
"You there, posterior division into eight segments with additional waste systems... now that's interesting. Room 1, join the queue. I'll handle the complex cases myself."
"And you've developed what look like... cluster growths? Room 2 as well. Sarpedon's got experience with similar mutations."
Ten treatment rooms soon filled with waiting warriors. The collective sounds of intensive medical procedures created what Francis found to be an oddly systematic symphony of necessary work.
A strange sensation made him pause, as if unseen eyes had swept across him. He turned sharply but found nothing. Weird.
Gradually, the treated warriors began emerging. Where they had entered afflicted despite their pride, they now moved carefully, still recovering from extensive procedures. Yet in their eyes burned relief at their restoration.
When questioned, they wordlessly lifted their robes to reveal unmarked, healthy flesh.
"It's real! They're actually cured!"
"Finally, freedom from the flesh-change!"
"Glory to the Emperor! Glory to the Imperium!"
The celebration was infectious, though the survivors remained notably quiet about the specifics. No anesthetics had been available, but they bore their discomfort with grim satisfaction, casting grateful if weary glances at their Primarch before retreating to rest and recover.
"Francis, you're incredible! Even more capable than Fath—" Magnus began with fervent admiration.
Francis's hand clamped over his brother's mouth. "Careful there! That kind of talk'll get us all in trouble."
With the initial cases sorted, Francis headed toward Room 1 under Magnus's impressed gaze.
'Today,' he mused with scientific curiosity, 'I'll finally figure out what's really going on with the Thousand Sons condition. Warhammer 40k is the only universe where you cant even trust the lore.'
"The warrior with the eight-way division, come in first. I need to see how extensive this mutation really is."
Meanwhile, on Davin
Ancient ruins thrust from Davin's surface like weathered monuments, their stones carved with symbols that seemed to shift in the pale moonlight. The locals called it the "Serpent Lodge," and it harbored secrets that predated Imperial compliance by millennia.
Dense vegetation choked the approaches, hiding creatures twisted by influences better left unnamed. Abaddon and his companions had fought through waves of serpentine monsters to reach this place, beings that had once been human, now warped beyond recognition.
"This is the place?" Abaddon's voice carried scepticism as he surveyed the ruins.
"Indeed," Erebus confirmed, his Word Bearers colours seeming to absorb the moonlight. "The Lodge's heart lies within."
The inner sanctum opened around a massive altar of unknown material that pulsed with blue luminescence. Carved into its surface, a great serpent's form seemed to track their movement with stone eyes that held unsettling awareness.
They placed Horus's unconscious form at the altar's base, positioning him to face the serpentine carving directly. Following Erebus's instructions, the local priests began their ritual words in languages that predated human civilisation, syllables that seemed to bend reality around them.
The Sons of Horus withdrew to wait.
Fifteen minutes passed in tense silence.
"You said he'd wake up immediately!" Abaddon grabbed Erebus by the throat, fury barely contained. "Where is he?"
"Peace, First Captain," Erebus replied smoothly, showing no concern for the grip that could crush ceramite. "The Warmaster has been touched by powers beyond mortal understanding. His recovery requires time."
"I'll check on him regularly, surely that's sufficient?"
Abaddon released him with visible reluctance, unaware that Erebus possessed abilities far beyond the physical realm. The Word Bearer was simply waiting for the perfect moment.
The serpent's carved eyes began to glow with crimson light as they fixed on the Warmaster's still form.
Horus's features twisted in unconscious distress.
In the Realm of Dreams
"Where... where am I?"
Horus found himself standing in an endless expanse of white snow, sky and ground blending seamlessly. The cold bit through even his enhanced physiology.
"Ahriman! Abaddon! Sianous! Torgaddon!" His voice echoed strangely, swallowed by infinite silence. "My sons, where are you?"
A familiar shape appeared in the distance, a gray wolf identical to the pelt adorning his battle-plate. When he moved toward it, the creature maintained its distance with uncanny precision, always just beyond reach.
Its lupine gaze seemed to bore into his skull, bringing waves of splitting pain.
The chase led to a frozen stream. Caught off-guard, Horus tumbled through thin ice into water so cold it shocked his enhanced constitution. As consciousness began to fade, strong hands pulled him from the deadly current.
"Sianous?" Horus gasped, staring into the face of his Fourth Captain, Hastur Sianous, who had died in service years past. "How can this be? You... you're here? Alive?"
Joy overwhelmed grief as he embraced his fallen son. Each loss had carved itself deep into the Warmaster's heart, to find one restored seemed miraculous.
"Father," Sianous returned the embrace, "the great Gods of Chaos welcomed me when death claimed me."
The word 'Gods' sent ice through Horus's veins colder than the dream-river. He stepped back, studying his son's face. "Do you know where we are?"
"I should be on Davin's surface, shouldn't I?"
But Sianous ignored the question. "Father, do you know what awaits us when the Great Crusade ends?"
"What do you mean?" Something felt deeply wrong about this encounter.
"I've seen the future through the Chaos Gods' wisdom, Father. It's a future without us."
"Impossible!" The denial came with all his authority and birthright. "I am the Warmaster! The Emperor's chosen son! He would never—"
"You're not Sianous," Horus stated with growing certainty, backing away from the familiar face that now seemed alien. "Who are you? What are you?"
On Prospero
Magnus suddenly stiffened, his psychic senses screaming warnings across the void. The sensation struck him like a physical blow, his brother's spirit writhing under assault by the Primordial Annihilator.
He burst through the door of Room 1, his urgent cry cutting through whatever procedure Francis was conducting.
"Horus is in mortal danger! I can feel Chaos corruption attacking him! We need to reach him immediately!"
[End of Chapter]
FUUCKKK fuck you, Erebus, Fuck you. I can't tell how many fuck I give this man.
And you brother, how are you doing? Huh? Worried about life?
Hmph, there is no peace among the stars, brother, and surely not in our blessed home.
But we must live for a greater purpose, FIGHT FOR THE UNITY OF MANKIND!!!
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