Burning of Five Hundred Worlds (Final)

Looking up at the sky, Lorgar Aurelian felt a gentle breeze brush against his fingers. He sat up, his newborn heart pounding in his chest, as if urging him to do something, but he preferred to wait a little longer.

The resurrection took him some time, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Vulkan's carefully crafted scheme forced him back into the darkness, but fortunately, the four gods reacted differently, not just with rebuke.

He comforted himself with this thought; after all, some reaction was better than complete ignoring.

After a while, the Great Word Bearers, holding a golden staff, stood up and sighed on the broken, glass-like earth.

"I've already told you—" He looked down at the charred corpse—"—it would be no use, Vulkan, yet you were foolish enough to ignore it. I will not die; the eyes of the gods are gazing upon the world through me; I am their eye that sees the world, and I will live on forever."

He shook his head with pity, knelt down, placed the golden staff on the other side, and began to gather the remains.

He carefully scooped up the grayish-white powder and ashes with both hands and piled them next to the still-hot corpse.

He did this meticulously and carefully, as if the bloody fight with Vulkan had never happened—which was far from the truth, but the fight certainly had no effect on Lorgar.

He truly died for a moment, but quickly came back to life. His body was filled with surging black Ethereal, which connected him to the essence of Chaos.

Rather than the title of Great Word Bearers, Lorgar Aurelian should perhaps be called the embodiment of darkness.

After a while, he finally buried all the ashes that had once been part of Vulkan under the remains of the Lord of Drakes. He still placed the golden staff aside, but the air suddenly began to tremble.

A string of syllables, not belonging to any language, uttered from his mouth, plunging the world into darkness. The thick clouds that had been scattered by the gunfire returned, gathering in the gloomy sky and obscuring the few remaining, sickly rays of sunlight.

The magnificent ocean unique to the Warp began to surge and ripple, painting wildly across a dark curtain. At this moment, the very few Macragge who still dared to look up at the sky were all plunged into immense fear.

They are witnessing a beauty that most people in the human race have never seen before, but this does not mean they are lucky, because behind this beautiful sight lies only death and destruction.

In nature, beautiful colors often represent danger.

Lorgar closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and continued chanting.

His voice was like a ballad, containing the Eightfold Path. The power of the music was shaking the already fragile foundation of this world. The power of Chaos greedily sniffed the scent of the living world through him, but he was completely unaware of it.

He was still thinking with pity—I told you, brother. I will die, but I will be reborn.

For you, death may be no different from falling into a coma. But during this time you will be unarmed, you will face a terrifying fate, and I am not lying.

A moment later, the song ended. The Colchis slowly opened his eyes; his pupils had vanished, leaving only darkness. He reached out and grasped Vulkan's severed limbs with such force that the already fragile remains began to crumble into dust.

A strong wind began to rise, and his skin started to radiate a dazzling Radiance like the blazing sun, making him almost transparent. If anyone were to be watching from the sidelines at this moment, they would discover the terrifying truth hidden beneath Lorgar's skin.

What pierced through his body under the light was not bone or flesh, but thousands, even tens of thousands of nightmarish creatures. They pushed up his skin, writhing beneath it as he exerted his strength, creating terrifying dents and bulges.

For example, at this moment, he solemnly gazed at his brother, gathering his strength, trying to reveal the truth to him, but his face was changing.

The face belonging to Lorgar Aurelian was distorted to a horrifying degree, with a dark liquid, whether blood or mud, trickling from his seven orifices.

When it drips onto the ground, it turns the glass into black stones; when it falls into the air, it creates cracks, within which dark Shadow dance and twist wildly.

The Word Bearers so eloquently laughed heartily; his skin trembled, his flesh moved, but his bones had long since vanished. He was like a clay doll, utterly devoid of any self.

This is the truth, yet he alone cannot see it.

Minutes later, the gale had escalated into a storm, and no one was able to enter it.

Lorgar grasped Vulkan's hand tightly and began to formally pray for the power of the gods—and as always, his prayers were answered.

Amidst the raging heat, the unrestrained warmth, the diseased pus, and the ever-changing starry sky, Vulkan's remains began to be shrouded in Radiance.

At that very moment, Perturabo stepped off a speedboat.

He was surrounded by a formidable elite force, their armor stained with blood and dust, both from the corpses of Daemon. The urge to kill still lingered in their hearts, yet they could no longer cross the line; reason had hardened to steel.

The assault boat stopped at the edge of the storm, unable to go any further; the mechanical power had its limits. Perturabo silently gazed into the distance, the storm, thick with the stench of blood, ravaging his sense of smell.

It was blood red, yet faintly tinged with an unsettling golden light. This complex blend of colors created a swirling, distorted light on Perturabo's retina, which was utterly repulsive.

But he had to stand here.

In the past forty-four minutes, more than eleven detonation signals have been sent into the Lord of Iron's armor. Only this one requires his personal presence, because Vulkan's signal is also there.

Perturabo tried calling, but no one answered. He then realized that his foolish brother had probably done something that no ordinary person could bear, and had brought about consequences that no ordinary person could endure.

This infuriated him. He had given instructions, almost in a command-like tone, yet this was the result. Vulkan's actions amounted to disobedience, which was intolerable in war.

But Perturabo cannot blame Vulkan for disobeying the orders of his failed coach.

He even wanted to laugh a little—if he were in that situation, he probably would have ignored the words of a coach like him.

However, there is another reason for this, and that reason is called determination.

After seeing clearly what existed in the Warp, Vulkan made a decision. He told Perturabo that he would do everything in his power to prevent civilians from coming into contact with or being harmed by these things.

His resolve was incredibly heavy, but the Lord of Iron was no less determined.

He knew that, admittedly, the Emperor might have indeed told them countless lies about Imperial Truth and the Warp, but even all those lies combined couldn't compare to the horrors of the Warp.

At this very moment, all the important locations throughout the city of Macragge, whether historical sites, military camps, or municipal buildings, have been buried and installed beneath and inside them with all the high-powered explosives possessed by the Macragge people.

After gaining access, Perturabo manually operated three separate launch platforms for the orbital weapons, aiming them at the city of Macragge.

They are just the beginning.

Once these three weapon platforms are activated, numerous pre-prepared data packets will be sent via the internal network to the shared mind space of all server operators.

They will question these suddenly appearing data, and if even one of them clicks on it, all the weapon platforms will aim at Macragge and fire at least once.

If the coalition forces are defeated, all these contingency plans will be activated immediately, without the slightest hesitation. Even if someone senses something is wrong, the Iron Warriors, already deployed to their designated posts, will ensure that his plan proceeds smoothly.

Everything will be destroyed; that's all.

Yes, civilians will die because of this. Those who didn't have time to move to underground shelters will also die, and his children, his brothers' children, will probably all die.

This means that the Lord of Iron will once again stain his hands with the blood of his loyalists, and he will completely betray his oath.

But that doesn't matter.

He didn't care; his hands were already stained with blood. Thirty years earlier, across the Milky Way, who didn't know he was a morbid general who enjoyed sending his soldiers to their deaths one by one, enjoying letting them die meaninglessly? That was just the kind of person he was; he didn't care.

Moreover, rather than letting the Word Bearers drink the blood of the innocent and transform them into monsters of the Warp in eternal torment, it would be better to let them die as loyalists.

Anyway, he'll bear the brunt of the criticism.

If Roboute Guilliman wants to hate him afterward, let him hate him; that's what he deserves, and it's his reward. If the surviving Macragge want to curse him for taking their homes, let them curse him; he doesn't need that.

If Eltelos is going to appear, then let him come.

"Activate the final line of defense," Perturabo commanded, his tone perfectly calm, as if it were just casual conversation.

He still couldn't see what was inside the storm, but he could vaguely sense something through his intuition. His orders reached Dantioch's ears, as well as those of Garro, Artes Numenion, and Valentius Doloros.

They came from Roboute Guilliman's court and gathered here as if they were about to witness something. But none of them understood who Perturabo was speaking to until the sigh of the Destroyer Forrix came through the communication channel.

"I understand, my lord," said the company commander of the Iron Warriors. "May you return victorious."

"Let's save the pleasantries for later, Forrix. Is this a habit of yours? You always like to say things that don't matter."

Perturabo scoffed, picked up his Warhammer, and strode into the storm.

Dantioch instinctively wanted to follow, but was firmly bound to his spot by an order.

"Retreat immediately, all of you. Fight in the city and assist civilians and other personnel in their evacuation underground to prepare for the second round of fighting. Everyone must obey my orders; those who disobey will be expelled from the Legion and never again to fight under the names of Iron Warriors, Death Guard, Salamanders, or Ultramarines."

"You have no right to do such a thing!" Artères Numenín shouted. "We obey only our father!"

"You can try, Arters," Perturabo's voice crackled across the communication channel. "I am the commander-in-chief of the Allied Forces, and my authority is supreme in this war. Tell me, are you going to disobey the commander-in-chief?"

The Salamanders pursed its lips tightly, looking at the Warsmith for help. The latter avoided his gaze, his heart hard as iron, and returned to his speedboat, beginning to operate it in manual mode.

No one could see his expression; his iron mask concealed everything, except for a pair of burning eyes.

Valentius Dollo sighed and issued orders to the Ultramarines. At this moment, only Garro remained, while the Death Guard could only display a wry smile when facing the Salamanders's gaze.

"I cannot bring shame upon him, Arteles," said Garro.

"Now you have no supporters, right, Company Commander?" Perturabo asked.

He sounded somewhat smug.

Unfortunately, Atels couldn't be sure if it was real or just his imagination. The Lord of Iron's voice had become somewhat intermittent, and the background noise caused by electromagnetic waves had been replaced by the monster's soft howls.

In a daze, Artères Numenón saw a scene before his eyes, and he even felt that Perturabo was walking alone in a purgatory.

"I beg you—" Arterius Nouméon began again, making one last attempt.

As expected, he was rejected.

"--I will rescue Vulkan," Perturabo whispered. "We are about to face a dark age, Arters. We will return to ignorance and barbarity, and in such a world, Vulkan will be more useful than I am; he can take the Imperium further."

"Our fathers would never agree with you, nor would I. If things are truly as you say, humanity needs a strong-willed ruler even more."

"Don't deny me," Perturabo said. "I see further than him, and further than you. I'm always right. Cruelty and pressure may give us temporary victory, but if we need to move into the light, we need people like him."

So, leave.

He hung up the call without giving any room for argument.

Artétes Numenziàn clenched his fists and listened to his heartbeat. After a brief silence, he resolutely led his brothers away from there.

The storm continues, but the people are nowhere to be seen. Above Macragge's orbit, within the tormented Mandeville Point, a fleet is warping in.

There's one more chapter, 6k words, to wrap things up. Maybe 7k? I'm not sure.