54 The Wrathful (Two-in-One)

By now, Fulgrim has lost count of how many battles he has fought.

He had faced numerous desperate situations. After all, being the Primarch did not mean invincibility. He had fought wars where he was out of ammunition and supplies, wars where he was surrounded, and wars where he had to face the enemy at a disadvantage due to faulty intelligence.

Hills, forests, plains, oceans, vacuums. He has fought on at least a thousand planets; he is an encyclopedia of war—but he has never fought a war like this.

He was unarmed and naked, but that wasn't the problem. The real problem was just one thing.

"Father!" someone shouted as they charged toward him, the purple-gold armor gleaming in the ambiguous light of the pinkish-purple sky. The shimmering sea illuminated the human skin hanging on his chest, adding to the fanaticism of his distorted face.

He was breathing heavily; the mere thought of coming into contact with Fulgrim was already making him almost unable to suppress his physical urges—or perhaps, the psychological pleasure was even greater?

He screamed, holding a sword but not using it. His steps were unsteady, his posture like that of a toddler yearning for a hug.

Phoenix punched him, smashing his head to pieces.

Blood and flesh splattered everywhere, some landing in the sea, some on others rushing towards him. The latter were overjoyed and immediately began to devour or lick their brother's blood. Those who did not enjoy such pleasure lowered their heads and lay prostrate in the sea.

Weapons were carelessly discarded, and they began searching the sea for traces of flesh and blood like begging wild dogs, showing no dignity whatsoever as warriors.

Fulgrim felt nauseous; he gritted his teeth, his handsome face contorted with rage.

He charged at the next man, who screamed and raised his sword at him—it was supposed to be a precise and swift strike, and Phoenix had even planned how to respond, but the expected attack never came, because the man actually dropped the sword from his hand.

He raised his hands, trembling, lost in lewd fantasies as he witnessed the Primarch's powerful chest. Fulgrim roared and swung his fist, killing another man.

He was furious.

Since he became lost in this illusory ocean, he had never felt such overwhelming rage. The approaching storm clouds in the sky could not even touch a tenth of the fury he felt at this moment.

He is not a storm, but far surpasses a storm.

He began a merciless slaughter; no one could withstand more than two blows from him, but this did not mean his rage had subsided. In fact, he was even angrier, because these people did not even put up a fight.

Those few who actually tried to attack him also fell into a state of self-forgetfulness due to some strange stimulation. Debauched sounds spread across the sea, and the purple-gold paint that once represented nobility now became a symbol of depravity.

Everyone he saw was indulging in debauchery and pleasure, and he recognized all their faces.

Although it had been transformed into an unspeakable form, he still recognized it.

This continued until Eidolon's voice sounded behind him.

"Primarch!" he cried. "Oh, my Primarch!"

Fulgrim turned around and saw Eidolon charging towards him. It was hard to say whether he felt anger or relief upon witnessing this—perhaps both. Even if it was a fake, it was still a fake that could maintain a fighting stance.

Eidolon roared excitedly, as savage as a monkey. His power hammer remained low throughout the charge, its head submerged in the sea. The disintegrating force field did not dissolve the seawater; instead, it made its color even more intense.

Fulgrim calmly observed his charging posture, preparing to dodge, even adjusting his gait.

Eidolon rushed in front of him, raising the weapon that had killed countless people high—it should have fallen, had Eidolon not screamed and fell backward.

Fulgrim clenched his fists, his expression grim.

"Primarch, I"

Eidolon slowly rose from the sea, panting heavily. He stared intently at Fulgrim's face, his gaze utterly blasphemous. He seemed about to apologize, but was suddenly interrupted by a scream.

"Oh, Primarch, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I hope you can forgive me... hahahahahahahahaha"

He burst into wild laughter, tears streaming down his face. His face was contorted with ecstasy, and the unbearable shame of being personally despised by the Primarch caused his long-parched heart to suddenly surge with emotion.

Fulgrim, unable to bear it any longer, charged toward him. Just then, Eidolon's movements became more agile than ever before. He gripped the power hammer and rolled around aimlessly in the seawater, even opening his mouth to drink the seawater, which he couldn't quite identify.

Fulgrim gave chase, while he ran backward as if he had lost all will to fight, but in the next instant he suddenly swung his hammer backward.

Phoenix immediately stopped and ducked. After he regained his composure with a gloomy expression, Eidolon was already facing him with his hammer.

The six vials were delivering drugs into his body at an unprecedented rate. His eyes gleamed, his ugly face juxtaposed with those eyes brimming with desire. So contradictory, so vile.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Fulgrim let out a sneer at Eidolon, "You truly disappoint me, you imposter. You are simply tarnishing Eidolon's image."

"Really?" Eidolon asked, his lips trembling, tears streaming down his face.

His tear ducts, which should have long since ceased to function, inexplicably regained their original ability. His tears fell into the sea, creating pools of pink that spread outwards.

Fulgrim looked at him with disgust and said nothing more. Eidolon, however, took a deep, deep breath.

He covered his chest and spoke earnestly and sincerely.

"You don't understand, my lord. You don't understand what I really am. Do you think I'm a false Shadow, a puppet created by the power of Chaos? No, that's not it."

Eidolon blinked, put down the power hammer, and straightened his chest with an unprecedented posture.

Although it was only for a fleeting moment, the aura of a "model" emerged in that instant. The sea shimmered, and his face, due to the refraction of light, seemed to return to its original appearance.

Fulgrim was inevitably stunned.

Eidolon laughed heartily, "Do you see clearly now, sir? If not, I can do it again until you accept the truth. I am not an imposter, Father, I am the real Eidolon."

"You can lie all you want," Phoenix spat out through gritted teeth. "I'll make sure you never utter another word."

"If I could truly die, I would thank you." Eidolon bowed extravagantly. "Unfortunately, that's impossible."

Behind him, Shadow began to rise from beneath the sea. Those who had been killed by Fulgrim had returned, their gazes far more fanatical than before.

Phoenix narrowed its eyes, its expression gradually changing. Eidolon smiled smugly, making no attempt to hide its emotions.

"Remember when I said I wanted your head, Father? I will make it. You cannot win a war like this. War requires experience and theory, and you have never fought a war like this before."

The phoenix raised its fists.

"Come on," he said. "If you want it, just come and get it yourself."

Eidolon charged toward him, laughing maniacally.

--

Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon would find it difficult to describe his feelings to anyone; in fact, he probably didn't have the energy to do so.

He stood up and peeked out from behind the makeshift cover with lightning speed. Years of training allowed him to fire four deadly bullets with pinpoint accuracy in that moment. After doing so, he immediately retreated back behind the cover.

"Excellent marksmanship!" shouted an Emperor's Children, his silver hair flying and his face covered with healed wounds. His face was covered with names written in cursive script.

"We need to evacuate, Company Commander Lucius!" Torgaddon roared at the man amidst the howling of his Boltgun. "We must evacuate!"

"Give the order!" Lucius said crisply.

Torgaddon noticed him smiling, the four Service Stud beneath his short white hair gleaming—the commander of the Third Company of the Emperor's Children had perfectly inherited his father's good looks, but unfortunately, his smile ruined everything.

It was a terrifying smile that contained nothing but anger, Torgaddon knew that if given the chance, Lucius would probably charge out into battle despite the bullets.

Fortunately, he's still willing to listen to him, and that's enough.

"If we go through the back, there's more than one way to reach Hangar 21."

"You lead the way, Company Commander Torgaddon!" Lucius made a quick decision and issued the order.

The Emperor's Children obeyed his orders and began their evacuation in an orderly fashion, covering each other from behind the bunkers. Despite being imprisoned for so many days and forced to fight to the death with their brothers, they still managed to maintain their discipline.

Torgaddon was filled with mixed emotions. He couldn't understand why his legions couldn't do it. He quickly dismissed this useless thought and led his brothers and the Emperor's Children out of the encirclement.

They began rampaging through the twenty-first deck, and soon, relying on Torgaddon's familiarity with the area, they escaped the Sons of Horus's encirclement and arrived at a secluded armory.

The squad began resupplying in silence, while Torgaddon removed his helmet and took deep breaths slowly in a corner of the room. Removing a helmet in wartime was unwise, but he had to; he needed to breathe fresh air directly.

This idea shattered the moment the stench of Vengeful Spirit filled his nostrils, and Torgaddon gave a bitter smile, while Lucius stood before him.

"That feeling must be awful, right?" he asked.

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Lucius made a simple gesture. "Even though they attacked you first, I understand the feeling of having to kill them."

"To be honest, I just feel disappointed," said Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon, as he tried to lighten the mood with a mocking smile and a joke. Unsurprisingly, the attempt failed.

The Emperor's Children's company commander looked at him sympathetically and shook his head. "I don't know what exactly happened within your ranks, Company Commander Torgaddon. I'm only unfamiliar with Horus."

"Me too, "Torgaddon thought silently. "The same goes for me."

Two minutes later, they set off again. They tried four different routes, but all were blocked, and they couldn't make any progress. From this strange situation Torgaddon immediately noticed some clue.

After encountering the same predicament on the fifth route, he deduced that Horus wanted to trap them on the Vengeful Spirit. Therefore, he allowed them to move freely despite knowing everything, while simultaneously sending troops to block any possible escape routes.

But why?

This question lingered in his mind.

Why, Father? Why did you do this?

For a fleeting moment, his father tried to answer in the darkness.

--

The War Hounds continued upwards without daring to stop for even a moment.

Their movement was swift, and their killing as silent and ruthless as possible— Servitor, mortal servants, and any enemy Astartes encountered along the way were all slain. Angron finally acquired weapons; he obtained two Power Swords.

For Astartes, this was a greatsword, but to him, it was just two longswords, even a bit short, but having a weapon was better than having none.

Now, their movement relies entirely on Angron's perception. This method of movement is efficient and precise, but also cruel, because every War Hounds can see the Butcher's Nails's movements.

Kharn had lost count of how many times he had considered persuading the Primarch, but as always, he suppressed the urge. He had known long ago that such persuasion would be futile; to Angron, the Butcher's Nails was not merely an instrument of torture.

Roboute Guilliman, the Primarch of the Ultramarines, had mentioned this to him in passing, and he still remembered the expression on the Lord of Macragge's face at the time—a complex look in his eyes that was a mixture of sadness and respect that he would never forget.

They continued upwards, and after another battle and trek, they arrived at the entrance to the eighth deck. The scale of the Vengeful Spirit was enormous, and its owner's pursuit of grandeur was unparalleled.

This pursuit was all-encompassing; even a simple entrance door had to be made as magnificent and grand as possible. It was placed beneath an arch, and fragments of armor and weapons were fused together to form the door itself.

Its surface is rough and unpolished, with the broken pieces of armor and the tattered blade of the Chainsword clearly visible. A dull red is painted on the edges, forming a strongly suggestive metaphor against the ashen gray-white.

Angron and his War Hounds stood before it, the latter awaiting the Primarch's command, while the former fell silent.

Blood.

He smelled the scent of blood.

Familiarity, aversion, hatred.

Blood

Angron closed his eyes, and in his perception, the world plunged into darkness, except for the light emanating from this door.

He began to imagine—without hesitation, he pushed open the door, and in an instant, blood gushed from behind it, engulfing him. A voice began to whisper, promising things, such as power sufficient to defeat Horus.

But Angron laughed.

He was laughing in real life, and he was laughing in his imagination as well.

"You've weakened," said the commander of the Twelfth Legion. "Your voice doesn't sound like thunder; you're a weak god."

Blood flowed upside down, and boundless rage roared wildly, but Angron calmly opened his eyes, raised his hands, and held his sword high.

With a sharp sound as if the air was being sliced apart, the gate was instantly destroyed. He walked in with his head held high, as if victorious, followed closely by his War Hounds.

However, the scene behind the door of the eighth deck was far from pleasant; the stench here was stronger than in other parts of Vengeful Spirit. If the other decks still maintained a basic rational structure, this was a place of utter chaos.

Stairs appeared on the walls, and a red carpet covered the ceiling, its ripples flowing like a river of blood. The ground was empty, devoid of anything. Only the dissipating black fog remained, behind which some Shadow were faintly moving.

"Get ready." For the first time since the start of the war, Angron spoke to remind his soldiers. He turned his head, Kharn saw him smiling.

"We are about to face a tough battle; we may die, we may be sacrificed. But that doesn't matter."

Kharn continued his sentence.

"We will offer a sacrifice with the blood of our enemies," he said.

Angron burst into laughter and plunged into the darkness.

--

You sit on your Throne, you smile, satisfied. You couldn't be more satisfied than this moment; everything is going according to your plan.

Yes, you need to be desperate, so you must first give them hope.

Let Garviel Loken and Torgaddon plot in secret; they can't leave the Vengeful Spirit anyway. Let Angron head towards Fulgrim; the Phoenix can't awaken either. Let Koorus Corax approach you and defect to your side.

He was nothing more than a bird that thought itself free, destined to fall.

You ponder whether to kill them all here. It's not a difficult option; you're powerful enough to shake the fundamental laws of physics with a mere thought, especially since you're on the Vengeful Spirit.

This is your royal court, and you are its sole king. It will grant your every wish. You can turn this place into a killing field, or into a vortex of Chaos power.

Ah, temptation! It's so tempting!

A thirst for blood filled your chest, your eyes turned bloodshot, and you began to crave killing—until another thought entered your mind, you heard a soft rustling of feathers, and that changed your mind.

Yes, killing them now would be a waste; let's escalate the situation. Why not let them escape? You could easily pay a price to summon Warp Storm, trapping them here and preventing their escape.

Someone will come to help them and support them. At that time, you can sow more hope and reap more despair.

You rise from your Throne with a smile, and you hear footsteps. Without turning around, you know who it is.

"Ezekyle," you murmured his name gently. "It's so good to have you here beside me."

Your words carried no malice, yet he bowed his head in shame at them. You know what he was thinking—two of the Mournival had betrayed him, Ezekyle's Abaddon could not tolerate such a thing.

You understand what he wants to do, but now is not the time.

"Primarch"

You hear his call.

"How is it? Is everything ready?" you asked casually, giving your order.

Ezekyle's emotions are the least important thing right now. You need to carefully plan some surprises to welcome your brother who likes to stay in the shadows. He's an ungrateful person, but you still love him.

"Everything is ready, Primarch. We've sealed off all the boarding decks and hangars, and we've prepared all the areas you marked as potential boarding points. The Melta Bomb are also in place. But is using such a chain of bomb traps on the Vengeful Spirit really a good thing?"

He's questioning you. Kill him.

That thirst for blood returned. You narrowed your eyes, suppressing the urge, your heart filled with displeasure. You turned to look at Ezekyle. Your gaze alone was enough to make him lower his head.

"The Vengeful Spirit has evolved, my son," you tell him softly. "It is no longer the warship it once was; it is something else entirely, an embodiment, a source of destruction."

"Primarch?" Fear crept into Ezekyle's voice; he wavered, he was afraid of you.

Very well, are you scared, my son? Your fear is exactly what I need.

"Go down," you tell him. "Be careful, Ezekyle, don't die. I'll be very sad if you die."

You are not lying.

Ezekyle's mood improved somewhat.

You slowly walk forward to the towering, enormous porthole. From here, you can clearly see the fleet approaching you.

The Emperor's Shadow a special warship. Your brother used its unique reflective shield to conceal it among the stars countless times—how similar this is to his own talent!

Unfortunately, this special equipment derived from the Void Shield also has drawbacks. While it makes ships undetectable, it also reduces the ship's own sensing and defensive capabilities. Furthermore, the Void Shield and the Reflective Shield cannot even be used simultaneously.

What does it mean that your brother didn't use his usual tactic of ambushing you?

That's interesting.

You think of Konrad Curze Curze again, probably because of some of his reminders? You're familiar with his vague, rambling ravings.

A prophecy? How laughable.

Any one-sided interpretation of the future is wrong; no one can truly observe the future. Except you, yes, except you.

You smiled.

You hope Alpharius is doing his job.

Nostramo, what a wonderful planet.

You gaze at the stars, longing for the day you return to Terra. Your yearning is insatiable; having barely seen Angron, you already crave to see more of your brothers. This yearning will never end, unless you...

The voice of "Father" Horus Lupercal echoed in the darkness, sounding like a call, yet also like a sob.

What happened to you just now?

It doesn't matter, let's keep staring.

Update complete.

I had writer's block yesterday and forgot to send a separate chapter notification, sorry.