Interlude 150: The Angel of Baal and the Eagle of Atonement (

Sanguinius hopes that no one will ever ask him how he feels again. 😾♛ ★😾

He simply fell, nothing more, without feeling anything.

So let us ignore the smell of burning, the clouds slowly dissipating like Embers, and that dazzling crimson crown. Let us also ignore the devastation on the ground, such as the ruins of cities, the remains of Titans, the Vengeful Spirit deep within the Imperial Palace, the fallen gunboats, and the burning trenches.

Let us leave corpses, death, and darkness behind.

It is enough to simply gaze upon all of this, just as Sanguinius, with a terrible hope, calmly and stoically observe it all.

The wind howled in his face, but his gaze never wavered for even a second. The flashing red lights and lightning stung his eyes, yet also illuminated his skin.

His golden armor gleamed, Baal man's skin reflected a strange halo under its influence, while his veins gradually bulged from his forehead, and his expression began to change.

How could you do such a thing, Horus?

How could you burn all of this to the ground?

The angel painfully posed these questions, but he had no time to think further; a rain of fire fell from the sky, brushing past him.

Those were his offspring, enduring the turbulence inside the landing module, unaware that they were about to face a war that could last forever. Terra was no longer what it once was; it had long since crumbled.

It has been destroyed.

The angel composed himself, shattered the clouds, and descended.

Both the Blade Encarmine and the Spear of Telesto were held in his hands. The sorrow was fleeting, buried deep in his heart, waiting for a moment of quiet solitude, when it would take root and sprout.

Now, he was left with only one emotion: rage. If he were not Sanguinius, but Roboute Guilliman or Lion El-Jonson, he would have chosen to seek out Horus Lupercal and fight him to the death.

But he was Sanguinius, after all, and he could see many things that his brothers could not.

Why did Horus become the creator of this dark apocalypse? He wanted to find the answer. More importantly, there were still many people who desperately needed his help, who desperately needed their help.

Sanguinius was not afraid of death, but he could not die in vain. If he was destined to die, he hoped that he could save as many people as possible before he died.

He fell, fell, fell, and then plunged into the darkness.

Layers of illusions immediately enveloped him, along with the stench of the Warp. Countless Daemon sensed his arrival at that moment, as if they had encountered their natural enemy or their destined foe. They howled in unison, and the Chaos Gods also saw his arrival.

Then, the things before Sanguinius' eyes immediately began to shatter and flash back, and his vision became a rather Deceit trap.

But the angel didn't care about any of that; he simply flew through the darkness following his instincts, letting these illusions make their futile attempts.

He stretched out his arms, and the blade and spear transformed into the tentacles of death, shredding everything that reeked of Daemon stench. Their wails echoed in his ears, but instead of quelling his anger, they only fueled a deeper rage.

The illusion began to change, and a crimson light, which he had seen not long ago in the Signus Cluster, cast an approving glance at him from the Chaos waves.

Then, it's the same old promise again. Always the same: the power to change everything, the power to kill Horus Lupercal.

Would He really give it to him? Sanguinius knew He would, but he didn't need it.

Killing Horus Lupercal was not his destiny.

He remained indifferent, but others could not possibly remain truly unmoved.

A surge of psychic energy, seemingly from nowhere, swept in and shattered the illusions. The angel's vision finally cleared, and he saw the people still resisting in the darkness—and they saw him too.

"It's Sanguinius!" someone shouted, tears streaming down their charred faces. "The Emperor's son has come to fight alongside us!"

"Don't shout for me, I'm too late," he thought painfully, but suddenly felt another impulse, so he spoke loudly to cover up the bitterness and helplessness.

"Yes!" he cried. "I have come! Sanguinius is here, loyalists! Sanguinius of Baal is here! For Terra!"

A Radiance emanated from his wings, illuminating the darkness and stinging the Daemon. He drew his sword and spear, beginning his relentless slaughter as he flew. At that moment, in both light and darkness, people were shouting those four words.

"For Terra!" Their voices rang out in unison, like Thunder.

They were roused once again, which was one of Sanguinius' greatest strengths. He had pondered this before, trying to understand why he possessed such terrifying charisma. He hadn't had the answer then, but now, he seemed to understand.

If he were a mortal fighting alone in the darkness, if his ammunition were about to run out, and all around him were the low growls of Daemon —then, in this moment of despair, if a golden figure pierced the darkness, passing overhead, bringing light and promise...

Yes, this is the meaning of my existence. Sanguinius thought. This is why I was born.

I am a symbol. I represent light, victory, and justice—though I am unworthy of these things, I can make them believe in them.

I can bring hope.

But your father's demands on you go beyond that.

A voice suddenly rang in his ears; it was the psionic energy of the Sigillites, Malcador, who was the master of that sudden burst of psionic energy.

Is Father still alive?!

The angel responded anxiously, completely ignoring the Sigillites's probing of his thoughts.

"He certainly is, at least for now." Malcador sighed. "But I must tell you, you must not go to see him now."

+ The Vengeful Spirit has forever altered Terra, but there are things that neither it nor those Warp sorcery can truly touch, like the Astronomican, and therefore, they will try to corrupt it. Go and assemble a force, Sanguinius. Now is a good opportunity; look to the right, and you will see--+

The Sigillites paused for a few seconds, and in that instant, the angel keenly sensed his true thoughts. Psionic communication was a double-edged sword; the Sigillites could see his thoughts, but Sanguinius could naturally do the opposite.

However, Malcador seemed to have been on guard against this all along, and the angel could only see some superficial thoughts—such as mercy.

What do you see?

+ Fulgrim. He's cleared the darkness. Communication equipment in the area has been restored; now is the perfect time if you want to raise a large enough force.+

"I understand," the angel replied solemnly.

He remained impassive, his expression grave, his eyes shining like jewels. He wondered why Malcador felt pity for Fulgrim.

He flew in the direction indicated by the Sigillites, and nothing could stop him. With a flap of his wings, golden Radiance cascaded down from his feathers, creating a path of light.

People began to gather spontaneously, whether soldiers or civilians, whether Astartes or mortals—on this battlefield, they were no longer distinguished; they were simply human beings, nothing more.

Years later, those of them who were lucky enough to survive might say that it was Sanguinius that inspired them.

But that's not the case, at least not what Sanguinius would say.

The truth is quite the opposite; they were the ones who inspired him.

"Fulgrim!" he called out.

The phoenix, clad in purple-gold armor, turned around at that moment, looking somewhat astonished. Yet, the Fireblade in his hand still possessed undiminished power, severing the head of a Daemon in one swift motion. An angel descended from the sky, landing beside him, and sighed sincerely.

It's so good to see you again.

Phoenix looked at him, and after a long while, she answered him, and even then, she seemed to struggle.

"Me too," he stammered, looking bewildered and conflicted.

He was about to say something when he heard the roar of an engine, and instinctively turned to leave—though it might not be the best way to put it, the angel did feel at that moment that his brother was trying to run away.

"Fulgrim?" Sanguinius asked calmly, concealing his sorrow. "Where are you going?"

He thought he roughly understood where Malcador's mercy came from; until now, he hadn't seen a single Emperor's Children. He didn't know what had happened to force those proud warriors away from their father, but...

Sanguinius didn't ask about it aloud, but instead urged him again, "Stay, Fulgrim, the people need you."

The phoenix stood firm.

"Do they need me?" He slowly turned his head, and only then did Sanguinius notice that his brother's white hair seemed somewhat withered, and there were traces of tears at the corners of his eyes. "They don't need me, Sanguinius, what they need is—"

"--Lord Fulgrim!" someone cried from the darkness. "Lord Fulgrim is here too! My the Emperor, we have hope!"

"."

The phoenix quickly turned around.

He was weeping, Sanguinius was certain of it. He silently spread his wings, casting even more Radiance. People poured in from all over the ruins, shrouded in darkness, their faces still numb, even when the two Primarch were face to face.

War is such a thing; it cruelly dismembers everything with its relentless treads, crushing everything into dust.

This naturally includes human nature.

"Adults."

An officer walked toward them, stumbling along, and saluted.

His uniform was crumpled, and his helmet was nowhere to be found. He reeked of gunpowder and the stench of Warp Daemon, a light gun slung across his back, and two dangling fragmentation grenades hanging from his officer's belt.

"Hello—" Sanguinius glanced at him, barely making out the nameplate on his right breastplate. " —Anbis"

"Sir." The sergeant saluted again. "You..."

He seemed to freeze, unsure of what to say for a moment, like a machine that had suddenly decided to break down. His rank wasn't high, but he was the one in this small unit who could best speak on behalf of ordinary people.

However, this temporary predicament was quickly resolved as an Imperial Fists appeared before them.

"Lord Sanguinius, Lord Fulgrim, Casp of the 32nd Company of the Imperial Fists reports to you," he said.

Sanguinius noticed that he hadn't reported his rank, and the black and gold Mk III Power Armour suggested something else—the angel decided not to inquire about it for the time being, simply nodded to him, and went straight to the point.

He knew what kind of conversation the Imperial Fists preferred.

"Casp, how many brothers do you have left?"

"Sixty-two," the Imperial Fists said in a deep voice. "Twenty-seven Iron Hands and thirty-five Imperial Fists. We come from various companies; our original formations have been broken up. They elected me as their temporary commander. We still have the strength to fight, sir."

"Very good, sixty-two." Sanguinius gave a satisfied, approving smile, then looked at the sergeant. "Sergeant Anbis, could you please count the men and gather the troops around me? My brother and I have something to discuss."

The sergeant saluted silently, did as instructed, and returned to his unit to begin having the soldiers and former civilians line up and count off. Casp of the Imperial Fists also left the area; he could tell that Sanguinius and Fulgrim still had something to say to each other.

"Fulgrim."

"."

"Fulgrim?"

"Don't do this, Sanguinius," the phoenix whispered.

"You mean you don't want to fight alongside these respectable men?"

"I--"

Fulgrim looked up and saw a patient and calm face, and all his worries vanished.

The truth he had been about to blurt out without thinking was swallowed back down. He looked around and saw one tired face after another. After the baptism of war, they should have become numb, but their hope was rekindled because of him and Sanguinius.

So that's what it feels like. He gave a wry smile. So that's what I was doing back then.

Suddenly, another voice rose in his heart.

Don't deceive yourself, pretending you only just realized it. You knew all along what you were doing—slaughtering hope, sowing the seeds of Chaos. You were no longer Fulgrim then, but merely a slave to pleasure and enjoyment.

Yes. Phoenix slowly exhaled a breath of stale air, acknowledging the truth in her heart.

That's true, that's definitely how it is. But now...

He looked down at his hands.

Only two hands.

"I don't know what you've been through, Fulgrim. I've just landed and I'm completely lost, but I know exactly what I need to do and what I should do. People need us, brothers, just as we need them. In the face of such a crisis, humanity should unite even more."

As he spoke, Sanguinius sheathed the crimson-stained sword and patted his shoulder with his right hand.

"What do you think?" the angel asked expectantly.

Fulgrim nodded silently; he had nothing more to say—while the voice within him chuckled, like an audience member waiting for the next performance in a theater. It laughed and posed a new question.

"Was it all worth it?" He asked. "Give up seeking his forgiveness, then call upon the god of Vengeance, and sacrifice yourself. You are a non-existent being, my love; you have never done evil in this world. No vengeful spirit seeks Vengeance against you, nor do any unjustly deceased curse your name."

"Here, you are a hero. The Vengeance god didn't even glance at you before killing my body. You are still alive and move in this way, entirely because I choose to."

Then why are you willing to let me live like this? And why did you go to the trouble of moving me here?

"Because it's more interesting this way," He said thoughtfully, his voice revealing an undeniable weakness.

"Such enjoyment is truly a rare treat for me, especially since I have nothing to do right now except wait for my injuries to heal. I'm afraid it will be a very, very long time before I'm fully recovered. So why don't I take this time to let you do something you want to do? I have nothing else to do anyway."

Fulgrim slowly closed his eyes.

Sanguinius believed he was contemplating. But in reality, he was questioning a deity.

So, when will you show your fangs?

I don't understand what you mean, my love.

When will you rewrite this drama according to your own wishes? You can take away my depravity, my addiction, and even turn me back into a human from a monster. Of course, you can also give them back, and then you can win again.

"No, no, you've misunderstood me, my love." He suddenly became serious. "I don't need to 'win' anything. Victory is something other people pursue. To me, it's irrelevant."

"I am the god of love, the god of pleasure, and the god of evil—I know who I am because I know what I want."

"In that world that no longer exists, I meticulously plotted to corrupt you, to make you my jewel. But I am always fickle; you are indeed a jewel, but I have grown tired of you, my love."

"It is indeed a play, but how could I know how it would go? You are the playwright, the director, the makeup artist, and the actor. From the beginning until now, I have not interfered, but only offered suggestions. The decision-making power is still in your hands."

"I've given you complete free will; all your actions are your own decision. And now, even the stage set has been set up for you. Every step you take is unknown to me. How could I suddenly interfere with such a wonderful experience?"

What do you really want?

"I only want to see you become a hero, or a monster again." He whispered quietly, gently, even lovingly. "That's all, my love."

Hero? Me?

Fulgrim opened his eyes, and the image of Sanguinius was reflected in his violet eyes.

I am not a hero.

He looked at his Radiance brother and said in his heart.

I am a reflection, an echo; my purpose is to bring you joy. I am a toy that shouldn't exist, and you are my master.

You've already taken me apart with your tools; you've seen every detail and part of me inside. You know where to add what you want, you know how to change me.

I can't even exist for much longer. You don't have much strength left to sustain me and keep me moving. I can feel it.

"Yes, indeed," He said approvingly. "But I will try my best to let you live a little longer—one Terra, two Terra? I will try, my love. You know, my curiosity is always very strong."

However, if all those things are taken away

I've already taken it.

Phoenix gripped his sword tightly.

If I make a mistake, I will make amends, apologize, atone, and do everything I should do, just as I vowed to my children.

I am neither a hero nor a monster; I am simply Fulgrim.

"Indeed!" He exclaimed in praise. "So, do what Fulgrim must do, my love!"

Phoenix raised his sword, and Sanguinius suddenly drew his as well, his expression changing. Fulgrim turned and slashed horizontally, the bright blade of his flaming sword illuminating a pair of violet eyes, and also illuminating a group of Daemon leaping out of the darkness.

Blood splattered as people swiftly went into battle mode, without the slightest hesitation or doubt as to why the Daemon had suddenly appeared. On the darkness-shrouded land of Terra, this had long been the norm.

No one knows exactly how many there are; no one can make a complete count, and those very few who know the answer won't bother to do so.

Phoenix also knew the answer, but he did not obtain it through legitimate means. His answer came from beneath his outward appearance, from the Chaos power buried deep within his bones.

The power of the Warp is terrifying, but also immense; it even allowed the Phoenix to understand one thing the instant the Daemon leaped out—this battle would be his last.

"What will you do?" his god asked. "Your deeds will be forgotten, attributed only to him. This is the last time of your life. Will you waste it here in a battle destined to be meaningless?"

The phoenix did not answer, but simply brandished its sword.

His swordsmanship's starting stance struck Sanguinius with a strange elegance—as far as he knew, the Chemos hadn't adopted such a proper starting stance in a long time, but he had no time to think further.

A rumbling thunder sounded silently in the darkness, and a Daemon emerged from the ground.

Its posture was very strange, hunched over like an old man, yet it was five or six meters tall. Its blue skin was dotted with many skeletons, and it held a long staff in its hand, with two scarlet horned eyes staring at them from above.

A torrent of water poured forth from its shadow, countless screaming blue flames bursting forth, followed by flying monsters resembling headless sharks.

The surging tide of demons, their appearance and sheer numbers enough to terrify anyone, failed to shake Sanguinius in the slightest.

"I'll go kill it," he said calmly, his wings already spread.

"No."

Phoenix gave a negative answer. The intense heat of the Fireblade scorched a blue Daemon that was throwing flames. It screamed and tried to retreat, but its head was severed by the sword.

"Brother?"

"Let me do this," said the phoenix, and strode forward.

Sanguinius' vision blurred, and he found that the phoenix's figure had vanished from its spot. At the same time, he smelled an extremely strong stench coming from the Warp. The angel's pupils contracted, and he subconsciously looked in the direction of the demonic tide.

He saw flames.

Genuine flames emanated from the Fireblade, which radiated intense heat. The flames stung his eyes, and while they were killing the demonic tide, they also made Sanguinius feel uncomfortable.

How could this be?

He immediately flapped his wings and took flight, rushing towards the demonic tide. But just two seconds after taking off, he heard a piercing scream. The demonic tide began to dissipate, and Sanguinius stared intently in the air, only to see the phoenix piercing the chest of the Daemon wielding a long staff with its sword.

He rushed off.

"Brother!" Sanguinius gripped his sword and spear, landing not far from Fulgrim, and shouted, "What happened? What did you do?"

Fulgrim did not answer; it simply looked at Sanguinius. The demonic tide burned, flames roared, and the stench of the Warp was so strong it was hard to breathe.

Then, his face began to dissolve.

A true dissolution—the skin and flesh cruelly turn into a viscous liquid and slowly fall to the ground, hissing and splashing, creating one deep pit after another.

In a mere half-second, the face had become unrecognizable. Sanguinius stared in horror at everything before him, when suddenly he heard Fulgrim's voice.

The phoenix didn't open its mouth, but it still heard.

I'm sorry.

"Fulgrim of Chemos said, then knelt down, his body hissing in the flames. In the time it takes to breathe, he vanished. The last trace he left in the world was the sword wound on the chest of the blue Daemon that was still walking toward death."

What exactly happened?

Sanguinius had a million questions he wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to ask a single one.

It all happened too fast and too suddenly, even for the Primarch, it was incomprehensible. But he could hear the sorrow, guilt, and emptiness—pure emptiness—in Fulgrim's last words.

He stood there silently, unsure how to react. People rushed up behind him, searching for any trace of Fulgrim.

--

"Where shall I put you?" He asked.

From the Radiance, He stretched out a hand.

Long and fair-skinned, but devoid of skin, only muscle and nerves remained, with some areas even revealing the stark white bone. The marks of knife wounds were clearly visible on this mutilated arm, and the hand, missing its five fingers, barely managed to grasp a gemstone that resembled a teardrop.

It is transparent, without any color, as if it would disappear at any moment.

The hand reached for a deep purple pedestal, upon which six rings were placed, each inscribed with a different word in ancient Eldar script.

"It seems none of these suit you," the god murmured. "Since that's the case—"

He withdrew his arm.

"--Stay by my side, my love," He said with a smile. "Let's see how long these empty stories of yours will circulate among them?"

The gem did not answer.

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