Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (VIII, 7k)

John is a farmer.🍭💜  🐜★

To be more precise, he was a farmer in Macragge. His ancestors were hardworking laborers, and Macragge had never shortchanged them. The land passed down from his ancestors still remained in John's hands, but he still considered himself a farmer, not a rancher.

This is a very old-fashioned idea, and if we were to delve into it, it would probably go on and on. It originated in Macragge many years ago, when King Conno was in power.

Getting back to the main point, just how old-fashioned is John? To give you an example, he doesn't even want to replace workers with machines, even though doing so would bring in dozens of times more profit.

"That will leave many people without food," John always told his son. "We have over thirty helpers. If I send those damn machines into the fields to work for us, where will those people go to make a living? Their grandfathers worked in the fields with my grandfather, and I won't let that tradition disappear."

His son listened attentively at first, but later his attention shifted elsewhere, such as participating in the Ultramarines recruit selection— John had nothing to say about this; he was neither proud nor did he intend to stop it.

His daughter, his son's sister, was quite proud of this, constantly proclaiming her brother's ambitions at school, and then everything fell into place. John's son became Ultramarines, ventured into the stars, and never returned.

Twenty-one years after he left Macragge, John received a letter from the front lines in which Primarch Roboute Guilliman personally apologized to him.

He admitted that his "misguided command" led to John's son's death, and while he could not reveal the specific details, he asserted that his son had died a glorious death. Roboute Guilliman's court provided John with a large sum of compensation, as well as two special ways of mourning.

A replica of the banner of Ultramarines company, from his son's company, now hangs in the most prominent place in his home. There is also a monument in the southern part of Macragge with his son's name on it.

It was engraved separately on it.

John didn't hate Roboute Guilliman; he knew the price of war. His wife didn't hate him either, or rather, she didn't have the opportunity to. She had died the year before that letter arrived.

But his daughter was very unhappy about this, and spent her days in tears, even refusing to go back to teaching at the university.

John was very worried about this, but what could he do? His children were all grown up and had their own ideas. And he was already sixty-three years old, no longer young.

He didn't want to undergo life-extending surgery, and as for the land, he planned to hand it over to a younger man who, like him in his youth, was very interested in land.

However, he would never stop working until he died. This field had sustained countless Ultramarines, so he had to stay here at all times, unless he died.

For example, at this moment, he was standing on the edge of the field with a hoe on his shoulder, watching countless shooting stars fall from the sky.

"The Throne is above!" John exclaimed, grabbing his beard in shock. "What's going on?"

He got the answer quickly, because a meteor was falling from the sky. John stood there for several seconds before he realized that it was going to land in his field. He could tell from its trajectory, but what really got him moving was a pricking intuition.

John roared at the top of his lungs, his voice sounding as if he had returned to his youth, when he sang all night in the tavern.

"Run!" he roared, waving his hands at the workers in the field. "Get out of there! Get out of there! Run!"

At first, the workers just stared blankly at the falling meteor without doing anything. It was only after hearing his roar that they realized they should run for their lives, so they immediately scattered and ran in an orderly fashion along the ridges towards the refuge facilities.

At least a dozen people tried to persuade John to go with them, but he refused them all. The gray-haired old man sat on the edge of his field, carrying a hoe, determined to witness the meteor fall with his own eyes.

Dozens of seconds later, it landed heavily on the land he used to grow cotton. The shockwave from the impact spread for hundreds of meters, still causing him to fall from the ridge to the ground, his whole body aching.

John's body, long tormented by joint problems and age, should have needed a rest before regaining the strength to get up, but the laws of nature no longer applied to John at this moment.

He immediately scrambled to his feet. Smoke and dust filled the air, almost obscuring everything, and the blazing flames stung his eyes. John grumbled and, carrying his hoe, headed over there.

Undoubtedly, his actions were extremely bold, but the guards' questioning was no longer a concern for him—he had a strong intuition that his son had returned.

This seems illogical, but there are always some things in the world that don't require logic.

He continued deeper, soon coughing from the burning smoke, but that didn't matter, because John always managed to do something. He rolled up his clothes to cover his mouth and nose, and walked towards the meteorite through the burning smoke that was enough to poison his lungs and steal his air.

The cotton fields were beyond repair, replaced by a huge crater, and everything around them glowed with the afterglow of fire and destruction. The land being ravaged like this should have been heartbreaking, but John had no time for sentimentality, because he saw a drop pod.

A faint glimmer of joy rose in the old man's heart: Could it be? What if Roboute Guilliman was wrong, and my son hadn't died in battle, but was simply missing?

He gripped the hoe tightly and carefully climbed down the deep pit. At first, everything went smoothly until he slipped and fell.

This fall was much more serious than the previous one. He lay on the ground for a while before he could barely straighten up. A piercing pain shot through his forehead, and his vision became blurry. Just then, he heard a strange, muffled thud.

At first, he thought it was his imagination, until the sound kept coming, one after another. It sounded like a blacksmith hammering iron, or someone using a hammer to destroy something.

A hammer? Why must it be a hammer? John felt a sense of absurd amusement, but he couldn't laugh out loud because a huge piece of steel flew past his eyes, followed by a giant.

He tumbled out of the burning drop pod, his armor battered and his face covered in wounds. John was stunned—he didn't think his son looked like this.

"You!" The giant spotted him immediately, his voice sounding as if it were filled with blood. "Get out of here, civilian! It's not safe here!"

"Who are you--"

"--Leave!" The man glared at him and used his massive Warhammer to prop himself up.

The weapon was covered in blood and looked extremely ferocious. It wasn't until he stood up that John realized just how tall the man was, and his last shred of hope vanished.

This should have been painful, but John became increasingly steadfast in his position.

What are you thinking? Coming here all by yourself? He asked himself, you know very well that Roboute Guilliman would never lie, Ishmael died in battle, that's it.

But who is this person?

"Who are you?" John gripped his hoe warily. "Tell me who you are, big guy, and where you're from?"

The giant looked at him, his expression shifting between annoyance and deep thought with a speed that seemed almost absurd. After a long while, he finally spoke, his tone not gentle, but his words were reassuring.

"Put that hoe down, civilian. If you're going to hurt me, you'll need at least a Boltgun. A muddy hoe won't do any damage."

I need to know who you are!

"I am Perturabo, the Primarch of the Iron Warriors of the Fourth Legion, and you—" He looked up at the sky, thick smoke obscuring everything, yet he seemed to see it all, his gaze intensely focused. "You are a Macragge, aren't you?"

"Who do you say you are?" John looked at him incredulously.

The giant sighed. "I don't want to repeat myself, civilian. Leave now. Find yourself a safe place to stay. I and everything I brought are none of your concern."

But you stand before me.

"So?"

"According to the laws of Macragge— " John shouted, "Everyone, whether civilian, official, soldier, or legionary, must fight for Macragge!"

"Then?"

"You say you're a Primarch, I don't know if that's true, and I've never actually seen Roboute Guilliman. But the Word Bearers are besieging us, Invictarii Hero mentioned it many days ago. How would I know if you're with them?"

Perturabo almost laughed.

"If I were you, do you think you'd still be alive to say so much to me?" he asked.

John looked at him for a long while before putting the hoe down.

I think so too.

The old man nodded nonchalantly, then slumped to the ground, his legs weak and his body trembling. He threw down his hoe, clasped his hands together, and sighed deeply.

Perturabo stood still, listening intently. Among thousands of different sounds, he picked up the one he needed: the sound of rapidly moving vehicles. He could even tell that at least three airships were moving towards him.

This discovery extinguished the Lord of Iron's desire to move. Moreover, landing in such a manner meant that only staying put could ease the tension of the Ultramarines. He stood still and waited patiently.

". grown ups?"

Perturabo looked at the commoner and raised an eyebrow. "I didn't expect you to address me like that."

"But you are the Primarch."

"Just half a minute ago, you thought I was a traitor who sided with the Word Bearers."

"That was a long time ago," John muttered, looking up at Perturabo and hesitantly asking a question. "But what brings you here, sir?"

"I told you, what I am and everything I brought is none of your business. But you have courage, commoner. What's your name?"

John.

"Just John?"

"But John, I'm just a farmer, sir."

"Very well, John, I can tell you a little. I've come here to find Roboute Guilliman, the Lord of Macragge," Perturabo replied reservedly, understanding the urgency of the situation but also knowing the necessary formalities.

Moreover, he was about to meet with Roboute Guilliman's army, Perturabo believed that treating a civilian in Roboute Guilliman's territory well would make the atmosphere of the meeting more favorable to them.

Furthermore, he genuinely admired the courage displayed by the old man.

Of course, he wouldn't say it outright.

Do all Ultramar people possess this fearless quality? He pondered this and received an expected answer.

"But—" John's eyes widened. "—He's not here, sir."

"I know," Perturabo said.

--

"Our Primarch is not in Macragge, Lord Perturabo," said Valentius Dollo.

"I know," Perturabo said, raising his hands for two Servitor to stitch up the wound on his ribs. His expression was perfectly calm, as if he hadn't been hurt at all. "He's in Calth."

Valentius frowned, gripping the sword at his waist. "I demand an explanation, my lord."

"Don't be foolish, Valentius the Invictarii." Perturabo glanced at him, emphasizing the word "Invictarii." "Horus's orders are no secret to us; we know what he did."

"But that doesn't explain why you fell from the sky."

"There's a reason for this," Perturabo said briefly, his brows slightly furrowed.

The medical Servitor's hands were moving back and forth across his wound with needle and thread. The monomolecular needle barely pierced his flesh, while the thread required two Servitor working together to get through. He could feel every centimeter of progress they made; it was almost a form of torture.

Valentius also noticed this. After much deliberation, he loosened his grip on the sword and began to report a terrible piece of news to Perturabo.

"I need to report something to you." He pursed his lips solemnly. "Your brother, one of the Emperor's sons, Vulkan, Lord of Drakes, has succumbed to his wounds. Our physicians confirmed this twelve minutes ago. I'm sorry, but we are unable to heal a Primarch."

Perturabo squinted, pushed aside his Servitor, and picked up his Warhammer.

"Take me to him," the Lord of Iron commanded.

Why?

"Take me there, Invictarii," the Primarch said coldly, baring his teeth. "Then you'll know why."

Valentius for a moment, then did as instructed.

They walked down a long corridor into the depths of Roboute Guilliman's court, and after passing through several iris-activated metal gates, they arrived at a highly specialized medical room.

Even by Perturabo's discerning eye, there is absolutely no problem here.

In the center of the hall stood a huge iron bed. Medical equipment had been moved aside, and the staff had been evacuated beforehand. A white sheet covered the bed, revealing a strong figure.

The Lord of Iron strode over and casually tossed his Warhammer to the ground.

Valentius frowned, annoyed by the enormous echo, but what Perturabo did next truly pushed his nerves to the limit— Perturabo ripped open the white sheet and grabbed Vulkan's corpse.

"Your Throne is above you, what are you doing?!" Invictarii shouted angrily. "Are you trying to desecrate the dead?!"

"Quiet," Perturabo said without turning his head, and pried open his brother's eyelid to examine the dilated pupil. After a few seconds, he put him down and picked up the white sheet to cover the body.

"He'll wake up in a few hours. Have someone monitor him, and notify me immediately once he wakes up."

Perturabo spoke emotionlessly, his words gradually turning the anger on Valentius Dollo's face into a blank stare.

He couldn't understand Perturabo's words, and for a moment he couldn't even tell whether he was the one who had gone mad, or whether the gloomy Primarch, known for his unpredictable temper, had gone mad.

Perturabo glanced at him, walked over, and picked up his Warhammer. "We're not crazy, Invictarii. It's just that I know some things that shouldn't be known, like, my brother won't die."

"What did you say?"

"He won't die, Valentius." Perturabo sighed wearily, his back to him. "Otherwise, how do you think we escaped from Horus?"

"Who?" Valentius asked in shock, his expression like that of a baby being punched by its parents.

He was shocked too many times in a short period of time; his facial muscles even showed signs of spasm. This state lasted for twenty minutes before gradually improving. By then, they had moved to another place to talk, and there were more people present.

"Continue," Perturabo commanded, manually donning his armor. "Don't stop unless I tell you to, Dantioch, understand?"

"Understood," the Warsmith said, turning so that the group of Ultramarines officers and an elderly woman in front of him could hear him more clearly.

"After that, we ventured into the Warp. The voyage started off smoothly, but that cursed traitor quickly caught up with his fleet."

"His wolf pack has shrunk considerably due to the Warp's turbulence, so we're no longer under as much pressure as before. However, something even more incomprehensible has happened: Horus has somehow appeared directly on the bridge."

"He was alone, yet impervious to bullets and swords. We suffered heavy casualties, and then the Lord of Drakes ordered us all to step back and let him and the other Primarch handle the matter. Then, Horus— "

He turned to look at his Primarch.

"--Continue," Perturabo told him indifferently. "We have nothing to hide from the Ultramarines, and besides, I didn't tell you to stop, Dantioch."

"Yes, Primarch." The Iron Warriors sighed heavily. "Then, he killed Vulkan, and he also severely wounded Lord Mortarion and summoned some Warp evil with his blood—I'm not sure if it was a group or just one."

"It's a group."

Perturabo interrupted the conversation again.

"It's a swarm," he repeated. "That thing is a collection of malice, a swarm of flies, but that's just a superficial outward manifestation. Its true nature is a plague, I'm not sure what it is, but it's definitely a plague."

"Primarch?" Dantioch looked at him.

"Never mind, I'll explain." Perturabo shook his head. "You go and rest first."

"Yes, sir." The Warsmith strode out of the room.

The Lord of Iron tightened his grip on his wrist, checking the Power Armour's operational status. His expression remained calm, but his next words were like the spitting of a viper, sending chills down one's spine.

--

"I'm tired of fighting you, Vulkan," said Horus Lupercal, his armor stained with blood.

"I admit you're a formidable opponent, but you could barely manage to leave me with a scratch. So, do me a favor and just lie there and don't move, okay?"

In response, Vulkan, whose jaw was shattered and whose head was almost unrecognizable, twitched his right finger.

The Wolf God sighed, "You can never be my match, why don't you understand?"

"Then I'll do it," Mortarion said hoarsely, his hand silently cutting through the air with a sharp sound.

The Lord of Death's eyes blazed with fury, and tears of blood streamed down his face. Corpses hung everywhere on the bridge— Iron Warriors, Salamanders, and Death Guard. They died with their eyes wide open in fury, covered in blood, making the place resemble a slaughterhouse.

"Face me, you traitor!" the Barbarus roared as he charged forward. "I will avenge Vulkan!"

"No, Mortarion!" Perturabo shouted, trying to dissuade him.

He was kneeling on the ground, Horus had just casually knocked him back dozens of meters, inflicting even more serious internal injuries. He understood clearly that to pose a threat to Horus, it would take three people, or at least two.

But the Lord of Death wouldn't listen to a word he said; he charged straight at Horus. Horus smiled slightly, raised the Worldbreaker in his hand, and the Warhammer crashed down on Mortarion's breastplate like a missile.

Ceramite, Adamantium, and bone all shattered with a crisp cracking sound. Blood gushed from the Lord of Death's mouth and nose, yet he roared as if he were completely unharmed, twisting his wrist and slamming the war scythe down with extreme brutality.

A flash of silver light, and the Silence created a deep, bone-revealing wound on Horus's face. Blood splattered, and Horus took two steps back in surprise, but instead of being angry, he was delighted.

His bizarre smile appeared extremely distorted on his increasingly terrifying face.

"Interesting." He laughed. "This isn't what I foresaw, Mortarion. You seem to have surpassed yourself. But this shouldn't have happened; you're strong enough already. Stop here, brother. Don't go any further. The God of Corruption won't like you like this."

"I curse you! And you damned god!" the Lord of Death roared incoherently, dragging the silence along as he continued his march.

Perturabo followed closely behind, the Lord of Iron's face glowing with an inhuman light. Horus, however, still had the energy to smile. He first knocked down Mortarion, then grabbed Perturabo's Warhammer with one hand, yanked it over, and knocked him to the ground with a backhand motion, before casually tossing the Warhammer over as if throwing away trash.

"You cannot win," Horus declared calmly. "From the beginning, I hoped you would enter the Warp, and now, you have truly arrived here. I am invincible, brothers."

He grinned, revealing sharp canine teeth that gleamed, and a burning red light flashed deep within his eyes.

"You're nothing but a monster, don't presume to call me brother," Perturabo said with difficulty. "Vulkan is right, the Horus I knew is dead. You wear his skin, but you..."

He spat out a mouthful of blood.

"He's a monster!" Mortarion roared as he rose from the ground, finishing his sentence. His world-renowned resilience seemed to have taken another step forward, transforming into a tenacity that defied scientific explanation.

He dragged his mangled body and charged at Horus once more, his fighting spirit burning brightly in his eyes. His enemy, however, smiled and took a step back, raising his right hand, from which a thick green light suddenly burst forth.

In the light, a swarm of buzzing flies suddenly appeared. The Lord of Iron slammed his fist into the ground in anger, forcing himself to his feet. Of course, he recognized the flies; how could he forget?

Picking up the Warhammer, the Lord of Iron was about to join forces with Mortarion to kill Horus —until the flies began to explode, one after another, without stopping for a moment, and a vast and terrifying figure briefly appeared on the bridge through these still-dying flies.

A bright green light shone forth, and the three rotting eyes that Mortarion had once seen appeared vividly before them.

How can one describe this thing in words? No, no words can depict even a fraction of its terror and a fraction of its mercy.

He is cancer, constantly multiplying. He is 7,777,777 different diseases. He is the endless cycle of life and death. Corrupt blackness pervades Him, distorting ships enveloped by Geller Field wherever He appears, causing countless Daemons to howl and praise His name.

Horus lowered his head slightly and uttered His name.

"My Grandfather Nurgle." He opened his arms. "I have offered you a sacrifice!"

Who was the sacrifice? In what seemed like an eternity, Mortarion understood everything. His teeth began to chatter, and then they all shattered. Blood spilled from his lips and teeth, and he trembled as he raised the scythe high in his hand.

"How dare you—" he roared. "I'll kill you!"

--

"And then?" Tarasha Euten asked, her face pale.

Perturabo leaned back in his chair in silence and shook his head. He was unwilling to describe what happened next; it was already a miracle he had managed to get this far, but this clearly did not satisfy the Ultramarines.

"My lord, how exactly did you get to Macragge?" Valentius asked, his expression utterly grave. "I don't understand. But if I follow your line of thought, if that thing truly exists, how did you escape?"

"Ask my brother Mortarion," Perturabo smiled mockingly, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "That thing tried to subdue him; before our very eyes, He began to torment him and his dead offspring. But he resisted to the very last moment, even—"

He closed his eyes.

"Let me have some peace and quiet," he said. "I'll talk about this later."

There's one more chapter. I plan to update 15,000 words today, plus an extra 5,000 words. I might not be able to finish writing it all, so I'll make up for the short update tomorrow.