191 Terra (48, Playing with the World)

"My task is..." Ollanius Persson took a deep breath. ♠🐳 👻👤 "First, I need to get to a bridge where four people are waiting for me."

"A bridge," Kołos Corax repeated.

Ollanius Persson's vague description did not cause him any emotional fluctuation; the King of Assassins remained very calm.

However, his claws were still covered with the flesh and blood of the nightmares, and the decomposition field should have completely evaporated this flesh and blood, but for some reason it stopped working.

He was staring intently at Ollanius Persson with his dark eyes.

That merciless face was like a sculpture, sculpted by human hands, possessing a terrifying coldness. It wasn't a mountain, but an abyss beneath it; the wind that swept across his cheekbones and nose was the howl of the dead from that precipice. His thin, sharp lips held inhumanly fine teeth.

Ollanius Persson suddenly awoke.

The Lord of Deliverance stared at him expressionlessly.

"A bridge, is that it?" he asked softly. "I understand. We will escort you until you reach the bridge."

"But—" Ollanius Persson uttered those two words instinctively.

This was certainly not his true feeling; it was merely a shift in intuition. He just wanted to say that word because there were still some things he didn't understand.

"--What is it, Ollanius Persson Commander Or?" the Lord of the Ravens asked in a voice that could be described as gentle.

"No, it's nothing, sir," Ollanius Persson replied, frowning.

His attitude was undeniably infuriating, and although no one else cared, he himself was very unhappy with it. This ambiguous style of conversation had likely caused him some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder tens of thousands of years ago.

He felt that at that moment he sounded exactly like someone else.

However, what angered him even more was the look in the eyes of the Apothecary Meros at that moment. The Blood Angels was cautiously observing Ollanius Persson from the side. The combination of that attitude and look made it seem as if he wasn't Ollanius Persson, but some saint who had appeared out of nowhere.

Ollanius Persson felt nauseous—not at anyone else, but only at himself.

"I still let you come back," he said to himself. "I swore I would drive you away forever, but I still let you come back."

Ollanius chuckled inwardly.

Ollanius Persson took another deep breath and returned to the real world. He looked around and realized that everyone was looking at him.

Whether it was Corius Corax, the flock of crows behind him, or Meros and Constantine Valdor...

"Why are you like this too?" He looked at the Adeptus Custodes Guard Marshal in disbelief, who nodded slightly without flinching, showing complete obedience.

They all seemed to regard him as their leader, to follow his orders, and to obey whatever those orders actually were.

Ollanius Persson gritted his teeth, a surge of anger rising within him. He was angry at himself again. He was always like this, constantly battling with himself, and after all these years, nothing had changed. He knew in his heart that he was a bastard.

But he's a bastard who knows what's right and what's wrong.

So, Ollanius Persson began to speak in a tone he was very familiar with from the past.

"First, we need to go back, back to the vicinity of the eastern front of the Imperial Palace."

He raised his hand and wiped the fine sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The grime didn't transfer to his sleeve. His heart began to pound; tens of thousands of years had passed, and never before had it been so intense. It was ironic, as if he had only now truly come to life.

"My destination should be there. In the beginning, Company Commander Fafnir Lane of the Imperial Fists pointed me in the right direction. But I got lost. In Terra these days, finding a clear path is just too difficult."

"Moreover, I must persevere on this path. I have been traveling with Lord Constantine Valdor for a long time, and he can guide me, showing me many new routes. Each time we embark on a new path, it seems we are one step closer to my goal, but this is nothing but a mirage."

"We only appeared to be a little closer to it; we were never truly close to it."

Ollanius Persson paused for a moment, taking a breath of fresh air. A chill gradually crept in; the previous walking and roaring had made his blood boil, but now it had slowly cooled down. A cold wind rose and howled past, and Ollanius Persson instinctively gripped the gem on his chest.

Memories flooded his mind, and in a daze, he seemed to be wearing bronze armor and holding an iron spear, or perhaps wearing a domed bulletproof helmet with a few matches and a woman's card hidden in the inner lining of a cigarette.

Every war he had ever experienced came rushing back from his shattered memories in that instant, and only then did Ollanius Persson realize that perhaps his memories had never truly been shattered.

He had simply tossed them into a corner to escape things he didn't want to think about. Now, he was beginning to accept them willingly.

"What's wrong, you coward?" Ollanius asked gently. "What's wrong with you?"

Ollanius Persson did not answer.

Every man, woman, and old man he had killed grasped his hand. Every man, woman, and old man who had fought alongside him grasped his hand.

Some were waving flags, some were shouting, some hated him, some respected him, but now, they all stood behind him.

They are all human, and now they only have one faction to choose from. There are no longer any distinctions, no longer any enemies or allies, only humans, and nothing more than humans.

He was among them. Of course, where else could he have gone?

He was smiling, not with approval, but with...

"You've finally arrived, my friend."

Ollanius Persson slowly straightened his back, and a change quietly occurred.

"We need to find a new way back."

As he dug into his own heart, opening up all those graves with his bare hands, he spoke with unwavering resolve.

"The old route is no longer effective. No matter how many routes back to the eastern Imperial Palace we may remember, they are no longer of any use. And we must go back."

His head began to ache, his temples throbbed with each heartbeat, and even the nerves in his teeth started to twitch.

In a daze, he almost felt like he was growing new teeth. Ollanius Persson's head was throbbing more and more, but he kept talking, talking nonstop, his speech crystal clear.

"I'm sure it's waiting for us there," he said, staring into the void, enunciating each word clearly.

Ollanius Persson, of course, had no idea where this conjecture came from; he simply followed his intuition and presented this baseless speculation to everyone. They believed him, while he believed no one, not even himself, but he believed this statement.

He didn't say that.

"We have to go back, and then..."

"And then what?" Kolus Corax asked softly.

Ollanius Persson grabbed his gun, flicked the safety with his finger, and locked it. The whole process went very smoothly; his finger no longer trembled, as steady as cast steel.

"We'll kill it," Ollanius Persson said. "Whatever it is, we have to kill it and be done with it."

At all costs.

--

The storm howled, and raindrops pelted the corpses, the corpses of Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors, and the expressionless faces of Rogal Dorn and Perturabo.

Flames are erupting inside the trenches, the last trench, the last piece of land—land belonging to humans, not traitors or monsters, the last five hundred meters of the five kilometers.

A blood-stained flag fluttered high above their heads, and the eyes of countless corpses stared intently at this final battle. Something whispered, sang, and laughed in their pupils, cheering for this desperate struggle.

Four lowly things.

Perturabo swung his Warhammer, sending something flying. It had once been someone's head, but not anymore. Now, it was just a mass of shattered flesh and blood. Eyeballs were pierced by bone fragments, and dark parasites mingled with the blood.

A body wobbled and fell, landing on top of many more. The trench was completely filled and was no longer a viable defensive structure.

Was it a design flaw? Perhaps, after all, neither steel nor rock could have imagined that this would happen.

How can we describe their current situation?

Alright, let's start from their feet. What they're treading on is no longer soil, but corpses. A mountain of corpses, with Word Bearers, Sons of Horus, Daemon, Iron Warriors, and Imperial Fists.

The blood of loyalty and betrayal mingled together, seeping into the soil, seeping into the Ceramite, and then being buried in the black snow.

Now, let's consider a more realistic question—how many people are still alive?

Steel and Stone didn't dwell on this question; they had no time for it. They didn't even have time to observe the battlefield; they could only fight, only fight. They had no more troops to draw upon; all they had left was this cruel and utterly inhuman blood-soaked millstone.

The last high wall, the last trench, the last defensive fortification.

They themselves.

Is it teetering on the brink of collapse?

Rogal Dorn issued a proclamation with Storm's Teeth.

No.

No way.

He raised his weapon high.

He eliminated all the crimson, pitch black, roars, howls, screams, and cries from the stubborn rock, leaving him with only one thought. To match this thought, he even optimized his way of thinking.

Now, he is not an architect, designer, defense master, or Primarch Seven who is an expert in warfare; he is not even Rogal Dorn.

He is the embodiment of pure rage.

This fury has a name, but it cannot be accurately described in any language. It is sorrow, indignation, regret, and helplessness. It is also the bitter tears of a son, the sorrowful sigh of a father, and the remorse of a protector for his people.

The enemy continued to pour in, endless and inexhaustible, like some kind of inexhaustible energy source. The ground trembled, and the strange ground, composed of flesh and metal, continued to rise slowly.

Dorn focused intently on tearing flesh with his Storm's Teeth. He knew exactly what he was doing, and couldn't know any more. He had reached the limits of his thinking; any further and he would descend into madness. Not yet, for he was fighting alongside his brothers.

His brother, Perturabo, the Lord of Iron.

Behold his carnage.

Behold him raising his Warhammer high, then slamming it down. Behold him standing behind Dorn, facing the surging demonic tide. Behold how he repeatedly drives those twisted beasts back to where they came from. Behold how he lets out a defiant roar, shaking the demons to their core.

Let's see how he protects his brother.

"Nothing can touch you, just keep killing," Perturabo said. "Just kill them all."

Dorn did not answer, but simply brandished his sword. Their division of labor was clear; it had been discussed beforehand. Perturabo dealt with the demons, Rogal Dorn slaughtered the traitors.

Their trenches were completely filled with corpses, but that wasn't enough; compared to the crimes they had committed against all of Terra and humanity, the slaughter was far from sufficient.

But they also knew very well that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, this truly was the final battle. Yet, like cornered beasts, they were determined to fight to the death.

No one knows what the Imperial Palace was like, or whether anyone survived in the collapsed ruins, but the Emperor remains. He has never gone far; he is always here, fighting alongside them. Therefore, they still need to fulfill their duties.

Yes, it was them.

Rogal Dorn made a request to his brother from the underground tactical room in the trenches.

"I want you to help me defend the Imperial Palace," said the Stone. "I cannot defend this place alone; I need your help, Perturabo."

The steel nodded proudly.

Therefore, they are now fighting side by side.

This has never happened, and is considered completely impossible. Yet, how many people truly hope that it could actually happen?

Imagine, steel and rock fighting side by side—what a magnificent sight that would be! There would be nothing in their path that could be called an "enemy."

However, what price must be paid to make this happen? No one knows, and no one can calculate. Until today, it was just a beautiful illusion, until today it has come to pass.

Until Terra was engulfed in blood.

You see, this is the price to pay.

Horus Lupercal smiled silently.

I am so proud of you, Rogal, Perturabo. You are our role models, the pride of your father.

Therefore, you must die.

"Well done, Ezekyle," he praised his son softly. "You drove my brother to his death."

Abaddon kept his head down, maintaining steady breathing, and remained silent.

He knew in his heart that this matter had nothing to do with him. He was not the one who summoned the demons, nor was he the one who deployed the entire XVI Legion here.

From receiving orders to achieving victory, the only thing he could do was continuously send out Word Bearers and his brothers to that ridiculous five-kilometer trench to meet their deaths.

This is what he did. If you don't believe me, just take a look at the trenches. Just one look at those corpses, and you'll understand everything.

"What reward do you desire?" Horus asked again. "A promotion? Do you wish for a promotion, my son? You are already a company commander in my company, and the last member of the Mournival. I'm afraid you've reached the limit of your promotion. Then, weapons?"

He suddenly laughed, raising his right claw high, and the crimson eyes on his armor all turned at that moment.

"How about I give you Rogal's Chainsword? It's a bit too big for you, but that's alright. You'll be able to master it completely after a while. It's not something difficult for you to accept. You can always adapt to any environment and survive."

He put his left hand on Abaddon's shoulder.

You are my pride.

He was filled with love, while it—or rather, they—maliciously spewed venom, beginning to burn Ezekyle Abaddon's heart, and he was powerless to do anything about it but to accept it silently.

Everything in the universe has its own rules, some of which were established tens of thousands of years ago. As a son, one should not disobey one's father, at least not for Ezekyle Abaddon.

He would rather completely immerse himself in lies than truly open his eyes and observe reality.

Horus Lupercal was extremely pleased with this. They were extremely pleased with this.

Silence reigned. No one, not even a Daemon, dared to utter a sound before Horus at this moment; even breathing became cautious. The sky was devoid of any blood or gold light, only darkness remained.

Only darkness remains.

Horus laughed.

Father, oh Father.

Of course you know what tricks he's playing. You've been tolerating him all along; you've tolerated his deceptions, Deceit, and all his schemes.

But that won't be necessary for a long time.

Whether a wandering deity or a burning Astronomican, their end will come soon. The deity will cease to exist, and His authority will belong entirely to you, to Horus Lupercal, to the King of Kings, the God of Gods.

And the Astronomican will be completely extinguished; you've even figured out how to put it out.

First, you will kill that relic called Thunder. He has lived too long; no one should live that long, especially since he was just a discarded experiment.

Then there's Fulgrim's son, Sol Tavitz, who is in great pain, and you certainly wouldn't mind giving him peace. However, it has to be done in front of Fulgrim. That's what makes it interesting; that's what tragedy is about—destroying beautiful things for others to see. Besides, Fulgrim needs some stimulation.

The third one is for Bjorn. You heard him tell the story of the Icebreaker by the fire. You didn't like it because it had no point at all, none from beginning to end. Bjorn's story disgusted you.

The fourth is Ahzek Ahriman, whom you will kill quickly and painlessly. The plan could not have progressed so smoothly without his behind-the-scenes maneuvering. In a sense, he accomplished what you were supposed to do ahead of time, and therefore deserves a swift death.

But the last one is the real highlight.

Sigismund, son of Dorn.

How are you going to kill him? Play with him first, get Rogal's attention, how about that? It's a shame you used to like him a lot, and you don't exactly hate him now, but you absolutely have to make Dorn lose something.

His mind is too hardened; you have to be so cruel to find an opening in it, a crack so tiny it can hardly be called a crack.

You know Dorn won't waver, but he will grieve.

With just a moment of sorrow, Dorn will no longer be himself, for you will pierce his chest with your claws and personally send him to the Hall of the Ancient Four.

Would the four ancient figures be excited about this?

Probably so. They have already poured enough into this drama. They are the writers of the script, the directors who painstakingly searched for the actors, and the workers who built the entire stage with their own hands.

Their shoulders were covered in white ash, and their knees were stained with paint. They designed such a beautiful place and gave it to you so that you could be crowned king here; therefore, they deserve a reward.

"The reward is you," Rogal Horus smiled. "But this is also your promotion."

He watched patiently as Rogal Dorn fought atop the mountain of corpses, then turned his gaze to the man behind him and sighed.

Alas, Perturabo.

In this real world that never existed, you should have stood by my side, becoming my most valuable ally in my attack on Terra. Although you retreated at the last moment, I don't blame you; it's just that everyone has their own ambitions.

But why are you siding with your father? I thought you already loathed him enough, and that despicable thief who ruined your reputation in front of your own children.

Thief--!

Horus's eyes suddenly turned crimson, thunder rumbled in the sky, and the wind howled. Ezekyle Abaddon looked up and saw his father's armor gleaming. Horrifying black smoke spewed from every crevice, and raging flames cruelly bloomed from those eyes.

He stared into those eyes for a second, just a second, and then he started screaming without even realizing he was screaming.

By the time the screams subsided, the world had completely changed.

The blood and mud on the eastern front of the Imperial Palace have vanished. The battlefields where countless people fought, along with the smoking Titans and various tanks, are now lightly shrouded in darkness. Ivory pillars support the dome, and the floor is paved with glazed tiles and gold. In the distance, a Throne appears, and an upside-down corpse stares at everyone with open eyes.

A few seconds later, several rays of light appeared in the darkness. They were not the light of torches, nor were they lights lit for illumination. Instead, they were four Radiance originating from the Chaos.

Four pairs of eyes stared at them simultaneously.

Laughter. Laughter aloud in anticipation of the coming end.

For the first time, Ezekyle Abaddon felt fear in Lupercal's Court, but this was only the beginning, for he suddenly noticed five more people on the ground, one of whom was being casually examined by his father, who was holding him in his hand.

"Thunder?" Horus chuckled. "A good name."

He carried him and began to walk, his steps firm, as if he had planned it all along. But the direction he faced was empty, not even a single pillar.

Abaddon's mind was in complete disarray. He had assumed the Vengeful Spirit had crashed and was buried deep beneath Terra. But what was going on? Why had Lupercal's Court reappeared?

"Because I want to," Horus said gently.

Abaddon looked up and saw a face completely shrouded in darkness. He looked past him and saw Horus carrying the man as they continued walking. Then he looked away and saw Horus looking down at him.

That gaze made Abaddon feel utterly insignificant.

"Because I think, my son," Horus repeated. "I've told you before, I can do anything. The laws of physics are just a boring game. I'm far more powerful than you can imagine. Look, Ezekyle, see what I can do to add some fun to this drama."

He smiled, pointed to another version of himself, the one carrying Thunder toward the empty center of the royal court—and then, a fleeting scent of damp earth from the forest lingered.

A giant sword appeared out of thin air, cleaving through the darkness and also through Horus Lupercal's breastplate. The Lion El'Jonson — Lion -Jonson, the Lion El'Jonson of Caliban —roared as he felled Horus to the ground with the giant sword and pierced him with his spear.

A large sword followed closely behind, slashing without hesitation at Horus's legs and hands. Chogoris Jaghatai Khan, carried out this treasonous act with a cold gaze.

Ferrus held the Forgebreaker high in his hands and brought it down directly onto Horus's head with the simplest and most direct slam.

Only two people remained still: Sanguinius and Fulgrim. The former stared blankly at the scene, while the latter's eyes, burning with raging black flames, were fixed on Abaddon.

No, that's not right.

It was its eyes fixed on the person next to him.

Ezekyle Abaddon slowly raised his head.

"Do you understand?" Horus winked at him. "A little trick, a tiny deception, Fulgrim figured it out, but this is just the beginning."

His words were true; right behind the Lion El'Jonson, in the forest that appeared out of thin air, an army roared and charged out.

Abaddon's eyes stung. This was truly a battered army, every soldier wounded, their armor worn and tattered in an embarrassing state. But they possessed a burning fighting spirit, a clear and unwavering rage.

Abaddon dared not look any longer. Unbeknownst to him, the thin veil covering his eyes had been completely burned away by the terrible truth—but then a hand reached out from the side, forcing him to lift his head.

"Why not look, Ezekyle?" Horus asked softly. "Look, look at their united spirit, their fury. Look at their Titans, their armor, their fighting spirit, and what lies ahead."

He smiled, raised his right paw, and then slowly closed it.

Abaddon heard nothing; too many sounds occurred at once, and his ears couldn't handle such a cacophony of noise—he was deaf. But that didn't matter, because he could still see.

He saw at least dozens of Titans instantly reduced to twisted scrap metal, along with other tanks, speedboats, or any other vehicles, and anyone sitting in them. Some force had easily crushed, destroyed, and annihilated them.

Death.

The instigator's voice reached his deaf ears with perfect accuracy.

"And then, how do you think they will react, my son?"

Abaddon could not answer.

Horus laughed and strolled out of the darkness. Space began to boil, and the broken structures, in accordance with his will, began to be squeezed, destroyed, and rebuilt. Anyone still alive on Terra felt an immense pressure at this moment, as if being summoned or drawn.

The Primarch were the first to be affected.

Roboute Guilliman, roaring as he beheads the traitor; Angron, regrouping and leading his army to shatter the Daemon' ranks; Perturabo and Rogal Dorn fighting side by side; Vulkan, cleansing the demons with fire; and Kolus Corax, rushing to the Imperial Palace.

In that instant, they all felt it.

Is anyone absent? No.

Even Konrad Curze Curze didn't. He stopped, stared into the darkness, and a fleeting, genuine anger finally crossed his pale face.

But this was not the end; it began to spread until everyone began to feel it with absolute certainty. From civilians to soldiers, from priests to believers, from the First Legion to the Nineteenth Legion.

Horus Lupercal smiled and opened his arms.

The red light, as if the world were ablaze, flashed and then vanished.

"Welcome." He bowed slightly, his voice resounding throughout the royal court, reaching the ears of everyone present. "Welcome to Lupercal's Court."

Ollanius Persson took a deep breath and gripped his gun tightly.