"These fakes you used to replace me and my brothers..."
Horus withdrew his gaze and looked toward the Emperor, who raised his sword again.
"They might actually be of some use to me."
The Emperor sensed danger, but he could not foresee what Horus intended to do next.
He knew full well that both he and Horus had exerted every last ounce of strength. If either of them shifted even the slightest bit of attention away from the duel, he would swiftly fall behind.
The Emperor forced himself to focus.
The Emperor's Sword descended. Horus did not block it, and a wound filled with darkness and layers of warped flesh opened across his chest. Surging Psychic Power poured from it.
At the instant his torso was split open, Horus stared at the others, who were like passing ants to him, and raised a hand toward them.
The clone Primarchs other than Clone Horus had no idea what Horus intended to do. Only Horus's clone instantly sensed the intense malice and intent emanating from his original.
He wants to corrupt us.
The moment Clone Horus had that thought, his other brothers understood what was happening to them without needing his explanation.
The Psychic Blast ceased, because Horus's Psychic Power shielded the people struggling beneath the psychic barrier.
But this was no gift. After a blink, every clone Primarch under that protection saw a scene entirely different from their surroundings. Memories surfaced in their minds—whether they were the memories of the clones, limited to before the end of the Great Crusade, or the experiences of their originals afterward, all appeared before the clone Primarchs' eyes.
Heavy negative emotions filled their minds.
Dissatisfaction and hatred toward the Emperor were magnified countless times, crowding out every sensation and thought of the clone Primarchs.
Even