You Think You Can Hurt Me?

Horus merely shifted slightly to one side, easily dodging the deadly attack.

"Traitor!" Horus roared, his voice reverberating through the ruins like thunder.

The energy sword in his hand swept out, tracing a brilliant arc of light as it went straight for Eugene Tamba's head. But Eugene Tamba twisted aside with an unnatural agility, evading Horus's deadly attack.

However, Eugene Tamba couldn't avoid it completely. The sword's light sliced easily through the rusted armor on his body. Then, like a bone saw, it tore through his flesh and bones in an instant, carving a huge diagonal wound.

He went flying and crashed into a rock, his chest heaving violently as he struggled to breathe.

His internal organs were clearly visible. It was obvious he had only one heart.

"Heh. Anyone who wants to stay in this rotten Imperium can go ahead!"

"I've already been blessed. I possess a power you could never understand!" Eugene Tamba said, his eyes blazing with fervor.

"You can't even withstand one of my strikes, and you call that power?"

"Don't tell me you think that weird dagger in your hand can hurt me!"

"The greatness of the Imperium is beyond the understanding of you vermin!"

Horus looked at him with contempt and raised the Power Claw in his hand.

Eugene Tamba grinned. The enormous wound that ran across his upper body suddenly transformed into a demonic maw, dripping with corrosive acid. It spewed countless globs of viscous liquid, each trailing green poisonous fumes.

Horus darted aside, avoiding the liquid.

"Hahahaha! Come, embrace the arms of ■■■■■■!" Eugene Tamba laughed maniacally as more zombies clawed their way out of the ground.

The dead rebels and Astartes all rose to their feet.

The instant they came into contact with the green gas, their bodies rapidly rotted and died. Countless swollen boils and abscesses sprouted across their skin, filling the air with a foul stench.

Once it touched an enemy's body, it could infect them almost immediately!

"Don't worry! It's not contagious. Let me have a look!"

Francis arrived at the spaceport, where he spotted a group of Astartes warriors in purple Power Armour with gold trim, milling about.

The golden chalices on their shoulder badges told Francis at a glance that they were his own gene-sons—the Soul Drinkers.

Compared to the other Legions, Francis noticed that his boys were bundled up tighter than anyone.

They hadn't even taken off their helmets!

"Who are you? Hey! Keep your hands to yourself!"

The Soul Drinkers were on edge too. They'd come as soon as they received the order to assemble.

But after arriving, they'd been accosted by a lunatic who insisted on stripping off their armor.

With a rip, Francis yanked off one warrior's armguard, exposing the mutated flesh beneath: a black arm covered in something like spider fuzz.

Sarpedon snatched the armguard from Francis and put it back in place. "Had a good look now?"

The other Soul Drinkers gathered around as well.

"Are you planning to rebel?" Francis asked in surprise, pointing at his own face. "You don't even recognize me?"

"Hmm... why does this guy seem so familiar?"

"Right? I feel the same way, but I can't remember why."

"Captain, do you know him? Is he an old veteran from our Legion?"

"Veteran, my ass. Look at his face! He's handsome and looks way too young to be a veteran!"

"Exactly! Look at all the scars on the captain's head. Now that's what a veteran looks like!"

They all chimed in, talking over one another.

Sarpedon quickly silenced them with a rebuke. "Quiet!"

Then Sarpedon straightened up and saluted Francis. "Greetings. I am Sarpedon, Chapter Master of the Soul Drinkers. We can all sense something familiar about you. Who are you?"

At that very moment, a kindly voice spoke in Francis's mind.

"Your memories have been completely erased from their minds." (The words appeared in gilded letters.)

Their memories had been erased? Sarpedon?

Francis couldn't help thinking how miserable his life had become. His sons didn't recognize him, and his father had sealed him away.

Still, at least he was free now.

Francis kindly patted Sarpedon and smiled. "I'm your father."

Sarpedon: "..."

Everyone else: "..."

The scene fell deathly silent. They might not remember the Primarch, but they did remember that many of their brothers in the Legion had been purged.

And what had their Primarch been doing all this time?

They wouldn't question the Emperor, but they did harbor some resentment toward the Primarch they could call their father.

"I was badly injured, and I don't remember a lot of things from before." Francis scratched his head. Why was he the one who had to be afraid of his own sons?

"But I do remember that you went bald, Sarpedon!"

Sarpedon: "..."

Seeing that they weren't very enthusiastic, Francis came up with a great idea. "Come on, all of you. Attack me together. Let's see if you've improved."

At that, the Soul Drinkers' eyes lit up.

"Hey, hey, it's just a sparring match between brothers! You, put down that Power Maul. And you! No Boltguns either!"

The light in everyone's eyes dimmed when they heard weapons weren't allowed.

Seeing that Francis wasn't wearing a helmet, they took theirs off too.

Once they were all ready, Francis gave a slight cough. "Ahem. Ready?"

"Ready!"

Francis said, "Good. I'll count to three, then we start."

"Okay."

Francis said, "One, two, three!"

In an instant,

Francis made the first move without missing a beat, dousing them with a huge amount of "growth potion" before switching on an intense light.

"What's this?"

"Holy crap, Captain! He attacked us by surprise!"

"Holy crap, Captain, your hair's grown! Holy crap, it won't stop growing!"

In the blink of an eye, countless green hairs had trapped them in place. Just as they prepared to cleanse the ground with fire,

Francis secretly fitted his newly made biological armguard onto his arm. Its sharp hooks swept over their heads.

Then Francis spun around stylishly and said, "You're already dead!"

"We lost?"

The Soul Drinkers stared in confusion. They'd wanted to beat up their Primarch and enjoy themselves. How had they ended up being the ones who got a beating?

"Later, each of you give me a sample of your blood. I'll figure out what's going on."

Francis didn't look back. He merely waved and headed toward the ship.

With a tremendous boom, a massive Gloriana-class Battleship descended from the sky.

The hull of this behemoth was covered in thick armor, its deep charcoal gray making it look like a harbinger of war sailing out of the abyss of space. Its bow was sharp and towering, as keen as a wolf's fangs.

The Hrafnkel's hull bristled with weapons systems, from enormous lance batteries to rows of laser emitters, each one a testament to its devastating firepower. Their cold light traced lines across the ship's night-dark hull.

The hangar doors opened, and Leman Russ came to greet Francis.

He possessed mysterious genetic technology, and Leman Russ—a fellow Primarch—had come to welcome him.

At last, the Astartes of the Soul Drinkers believed that Francis really was their Primarch, their father.

"The Primarch didn't abandon us!"

"He wants our blood samples. He's going to cure us!"

"See? We have a Primarch too!"

The Soul Drinkers, who had only just freed themselves from the hair, stood dazed where they were.

"What are you waiting for? Get on board!"

At Francis's command, everyone naturally followed his orders.

As Sarpedon boarded last, Francis seemed to think of something and teased him. "Sarpedon, I think you should consider asking the Adeptus Mechanicus to make you a pair of trousers with eight legs."

Sarpedon: "???"

He didn't understand, but he still nodded.

"Are we not leaving yet? Everyone in my Chapter is aboard." Francis put an arm around Leman Russ's shoulder.

"The people assigned to protect you haven't arrived yet."

Hearing that, Francis asked in confusion, "Wasn't Father the one who sent you to protect me?"

"How could that be? My Space Wolves Legion is out collecting powerful Psykers from all over."

"With just the few hundred men I have here, tsk... I doubt it'll be enough."

Francis: "..."

The Emperor really didn't trust him. Leman Russ alone wasn't enough; he even needed others to keep an eye on him.

"Oh, there they are."