The stars turned to dim light and went out. Worlds burned and shattered. The sky became a torn canvas, and monsters with wings on their backs gleefully began smearing it with reeking, filthy blood.
Bells rang. Mad noise erupted again and again without pause, roars and screams endlessly becoming a storm, pale faces of the deceased whistling past within it. The bells did not cease. They only continued to rage.
The earth was strewn with corpses. Upon the empty throne, a humanoid figure forged of golden light was silently screaming and sinking into ruin.
"This is what you will face."
The Emperor of Mankind's voice seemed to come from far away, yet also as if it were right beside them. Rogal Dorn listened to his words, his eyes widening to their limit.
Blood vessels crept up through the whites of his eyes. Simply gazing upon this scene of despair was already causing his vision to fail. But he did not stop. He only continued—continued to receive this torment no human could endure.
A few seconds later, amid the wails carried by the storm, Rogal Dorn slowly asked Sanguinius beside him, "Is this what you and Konrad Curze have seen all this time?"
The Angel nodded, his face pale.
"How terrible."
Among the Primarchs, someone murmured softly. The voice belonged to Jaghatai. The Chogorian raised his head and stared straight at the scarlet, burning sky, then fell silent and said nothing more.
Konrad Curze chuckled twice. He lowered his head and gazed at the ground, so no one could glimpse his expression. Corax followed his line of sight and set his own gaze upon the corpses spread across the hills and plains.
He began to distinguish them.
He saw Astartes. Warriors wearing Power Armor were impossible to mistake. Most still held