192 Terra (Forty-Nine, New God)

As the Worldbreaker hammer fell upon him, Ferrus Manus thought nothing. ★😝 🍬🐙

He just swung the hammer.

Two immense forces collided head-on, and a howling wind and shockwave, accompanied by raging Mars, suddenly descended. The black dust that had covered the ground was swept away, and its original appearance was finally revealed, gleaming with silver light, engraved with reliefs, containing the craftsman's painstaking efforts and ingenuity, but it had been completely tainted by a Chaos darkness.

However, whether it was driven by some force or simply a terrible coincidence, Ferrus's name remained quietly in the very center of that silver brick.

He was unaware of this.

How could he possibly notice? Did he have to remove his steel boots and look down at the floor tiles?

No, he could only do one thing now: resist Horus Lupercal's strength with his hammer in both hands. The thing that had once belonged to their brother had easily overpowered him in the wrestling match with just one hand, leaving him no time to think and causing his bones to groan in pain.

The Worldbreaker cruelly ravaged the Forgebreaker, its spiked surface wreathed in crimson Radiance, resembling leaping lightning. But it was not true lightning; it was not a force of nature. It took this form only because the thing that held it desired to see it.

Just like he wanted to see the world burn.

As long as he wants

Ferrus let out a deep gasp as a greatsword slashed down from above his head.

It traced a dangerous arc, then suddenly changed from a slash to a thrust, aiming at Horus with absolute and naked killing intent.

A giant claw stopped it, even knocking it out of its grasp. The Lion El'Jonson's pupils contracted, and it immediately roared as it swung Leman Russ Russ's spear, golden light condensing at the spear tip, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly.

This should have been a fatal blow, but Horus only needed to glance at it, and the Lion El'Jonson was sent flying backward, spear in hand, as if struck head-on by some giant beast. Blood gushed from the gaps in its armor, and the Lion El'Jonson landed, trembling and vomiting a mouthful of blood.

His face even showed a hint of confusion, not understanding what had struck him. He was so badly injured, yet Horus hadn't actually touched his brother at all.

It was just a look, nothing more than a look.

He could have just killed him.

Why not? Something asked softly.

Horus Lupercal gave a disdainful snort amidst the whispers and issued a warning.

He turned back and began to continue torturing Ferrus Manus with his power, pressing down with the strength of his fingertips so that Ferrus Manus and his Forgebreaker would let out low, labored gasps.

"Aren't you coming yet?" he asked the void.

The void did not answer; instead, a terrifying greatsword formed from raging flames answered the question.

The sound of it slicing through the air was like the wailing of countless wronged souls. Horus turned to look at his once radiant brother, now suffering greatly. A smile suddenly appeared on his pale face, which was now glowing red.

Very well. Then let's see how long you want to wait. I don't mind putting on a show just for you, Father.

"I miss you so much, my dear Fulgrim."

As he spoke, he smiled and retracted the Worldbreaker, simultaneously gripping the Sword of Wrathful Flame with his right giant claw. The Blazing Flame, which should have been coiling around his power claw and scorching his flesh, remained motionless and even began to slowly extinguish.

"Do you remember who the first person to die was?" he suddenly asked.

Fulgrim trembled and roared in anger.

Of course he remembered. How could he not? He remembered everyone—their names, their faces, their personalities.

And how they died for him.

He tried to resist, to use this soul-crushing, dark power to make the greatsword burn again; he wanted it to burn to death, to burn the monster standing before him with the face of Horus Lupercal.

The unfortunate thing is, he couldn't do it.

I still can't do it.

"You haven't offered enough sacrifices."

The monster began to explain gently to him, its tone as intimate as when they used to stand side by side.

"You have the determination, and the resolve to do whatever it takes, but ultimately he doesn't want you to truly become his servant. How ridiculous, Fulgrim? His kindness is utterly useless. And I want to know, his kindness—"

He took a step forward, crushed the Sword of Wrathful Flame in his hand, and swung his giant claw, piercing through Fulgrim's chest before thrusting it upwards again.

In the agonizing pain, Phoenix heard him say, "--Was this the last straw that broke the camel's back?"

Fulgrim looked him straight in the eye and slowly smiled amidst Laerhe's scream.

Ferrus Manus swung the Forgebreaker from behind Horus in an ugly manner.

At the same time, the Lord of Drakes strode in with unparalleled fury—among the many Primarch whose progress was hampered by demons and monsters, he was the first to arrive at the battlefield.

That once gentle face was now completely distorted, and sticky blood slowly dripped from his dark forehead. It wasn't his blood, but it made his face even colder and more inhuman.

Horus turned around and flung Fulgrim away. The phoenix's blood splattered in the air, and before it even hit the ground, another muffled thud suddenly rang out. Ferrus Manus was also knocked away, his breastplate dented.

However, this seemed to be the limit of what he could do—how was he supposed to deal with Vulkan, who was in a rage and had launched an unstoppable charge towards him?

The answer is to do nothing.

Waves of darkness surged from the air, viscous like the blood of living beings or water from another world. Vulkan's charge came to an abrupt halt; the ground beneath his feet transformed into a fiery inferno, engulfing him. Blood and flesh splattered, but the Lord of Drakes remained unmoved, as if he had expected this all along.

"We will kill you," declared the blacksmith of Nocturne, his frenzied killing intent boiling over. "We will skin you alive, tear your flesh apart, and break your bones."

"You'd better climb out of that fire pit first, brother," Horus replied with a smile. "Also, I forgive your slight offense."

So, who's next?

He raised his head.

"Ah"

With a soft sigh, Horus dodged the thrust of the Spear of Telesto by turning his head, then immediately took two steps back to dodge the slash of the White Tiger Dao. Without any further words or communication, Sanguinius and Jaghatai attacked Horus from the left and right.

They were once his closest friends, but now they genuinely want him dead—and of course, who among them isn't?

Who, besides his foolish offspring and the Chaos demons, wouldn't want to kill him?

Ultimately, disappointment is inevitable.

"Jaghatai." Horus shook his head slightly. "I once thought you could understand, so I let it go."

He seemed to have lost all interest, swallowing back the rest of his words. The Chogoris man, however, made no response, only continuing to swing his knife. He had nothing to say, not even bothering to give a disdainful look.

The Khan had long understood that all words and actions were in vain; this man was not Horus Lupercal. He could offer him nothing but murderous intent.

This extreme focus caused his sword-wielding speed to increase rapidly; the white tiger's blade flashed continuously, like a flowing stream.

Then, he hit him.

Jaghatai a deep breath, slowly took two steps back, and blood gushed from his abdomen.

"A scar." Horus blocked Spear of Telesto, looking at Jaghatai. "To exchange for another scar, isn't that fair, brother?"

"Not enough," the Khan replied in a low voice. "It's not enough to merely leave a slash on your shoulder armor; I want it to appear on your neck."

Horus did not answer, but turned to look at the angel. Sanguinius was gripping his spear with all his might, engaging in a struggle with him. The opposition between black and white had never been so pure, and of course, the anger in Sanguinius' eyes had never been so evident.

Through the sharpness of his claws, Horus stared into his brother's eyes, a sudden, savage desire rising within him—he wanted to utterly destroy his wings, pluck them off, sever his limbs, and leave him to gnaw at the Khorne in the dust.

Horus's expression suddenly darkened.

He swung his claws to force Sanguinius back, but his figure suddenly vanished from the spot without any warning. The next second, he descended from the sky and struck Sanguinius hard.

The Worldbreaker destroyed the angel's armor, yet miraculously, it did not harm a single inch of flesh. Its power, far greater than that of Ka'Bandha, was completely absorbed into the ground, creating a giant crater several meters deep. The angel lay inside, his face filled with astonishment, and even a hint of fear.

It wasn't the fear of death, but something else.

Horus released his grip, leaving the Worldbreaker on his armor. He glanced at it, and the Worldbreaker's weight suddenly increased, dust billowed, and the angel was forced to sink deeper into the ground once more. He was still unharmed; none of the forces had truly harmed him, even though they had widened the crater as if it had been hit head-on by a missile.

Why?

Sanguinius looked at him with a mixture of fear and anger.

Horus heard the question but did not answer; he simply turned his head. Ferrus Manus and Jaghatai pounced on him again, with Fulgrim close behind, his Sword of Wrathful Flame rekindled. Vulkan roared as he tried to break free of the fiery prison to help his brother.

He smiled.

He slowly raised his right claw, and crimson lightning began to dance between the five sharp claws.

Time stopped instantly, obeying the command. Blades that should have been swung remained suspended in mid-air, and those who should have died were spared a moment of survival. Darkness swept over, and his roar echoed throughout Terra in the next second, then throughout the entire galaxy, and finally, the Chaos waves that were surging ceaselessly through the Warp.

"Get out of here. I won't say it a third time," he said grimly. "Don't even think about getting involved in this battle. You're just spectators. If you dare to overstep your bounds again, the consequence will be death."

The fourth ancient text offers a different response to this unexpected event.

The Slaanesh smiled radiantly, full of delight.

The Nurgle remained calm and composed, preoccupied only with stirring the cauldron, as if this matter were more important than anything else.

The one in blood red was furious, but couldn't spare the time to deal with the matter.

His sword had pierced deeply into a pulsating silver light, which constantly shifted, sometimes transforming into a pure white steed, sometimes into a gigantic bird. The blue Radiance danced like starlight, flowing countless times like blood in this battle unseen by anyone.

And He was the one who laughed the most happily.

"What did you do?" Blood Red roared.

"Variables," said the Tzeentch. "Even if he is just a shell, he is still Horus Lupercal."

"What have you done?!" Blood Red continued to roar.

He wielded his sword and continued to slaughter Him.

The Tzeentch did not answer, yet his laughter continued uninterrupted, oblivious to the pain and his own loss. He knew He would be healed. For the threads of fate were being severed one by one, and the predetermined ugly ending was about to be completely altered.

Change, endless change.

He originally intended for this physical form to serve as a puppet, walking in the mortal world in their place, but not long ago, He suddenly had a better idea.

Rather than a puppet who only calls out for his father, wouldn't a truly ambitious monarch, one who aspires to usurp the throne, be more fitting for his role?

Wouldn't a monster capable of causing lasting chaos in the Materium be more interesting than a disposable puppet?

His thoughts were unknown to anyone, but Horus's anger was unmistakable.

He seemed to have been deeply insulted, and his rage caused the countless dead hanging upside down in the royal court to close their eyes in unison, unable to bear watching any longer. The demons ceased their movements, and an instinctive fear rose from the depths of their flesh, forcing these monsters and demons to scream in unison.

The royal court began to tremble, darkness spread, faded, and vanished into nothingness. Flames ignited, crimson like eyes. Horus turned around, abandoning the angels behind him, and strode in another direction.

A sharp blade emerged from the darkness, flashing briefly across Konrad Curze Curze's pale face, his pupils as black as the empty sockets of the dead. Horus didn't even glance at him, nor did he stop or parry; the blade remained suspended in mid-air, eerily unable to advance.

Curze narrowed his eyes, then suddenly retreated. Another Shadow, similar to him, descended from the sky, its claws slashing at Horus's neck, one in front and one behind.

He got a similar result—the claw blade stopped in mid-air, unable to penetrate any further.

Unlike his treatment of Konrad Curze Curze, Horus raised his left hand, clenched his fist, and knocked Kolaus Corax to the ground. But it was only one punch.

After that, he picked him up, tossed him to Konrad Curze Curze, and continued walking briskly, not even sparing him a second glance.

The Night Haunter stood still, slowly exhaling a breath of stale air. He looked down at his brother in his arms, the Lord of Deliverance, who struggled to spit out a mouthful of blood mixed with fragments of internal organs, his face cold.

"It's not time yet," the Night Haunter said softly. "We must wait."

"When will we have to wait?"

"Wait until he comes," Curze said. "Wait until the two gems come together. But what is this monster going to do then?"

His question was answered a few seconds later.

The Lupercal's Court fell silent at that moment; no sound could remain or be heard in any way, only a terrible silence remained.

Horus Lupercal tilted his head back, gazing at the thousands of dead hanging upside down in the royal court, his gaze distant and cold, as if he were looking through them at the sky.

After a brief observation, he raised his right claw, and crimson lightning began to flicker once more. In this royal court, which had been expanded tens of thousands of times, all living and non-living beings on Terra watched this scene, whether they wanted to see it or not.

They understood that he was gathering strength.

But why? Why such extreme honesty? What is he trying to achieve?

Only a few people can know the answer in advance, one of whom is Ahzek Ahriman, a completely blind man. In theory, he cannot see what is happening, but he can "feel" it.

He had fallen to his knees, his hands trembling—no matter how long it had been since he had used his psionic powers, he was still a powerful Psyker.

Knowledge resided in his mind, just as psychic energy slumbered deep within his bones. At this moment, the extreme sharpness resulting from the superposition of these two was revealing something to Ahzek Ahriman.

Something truly terrifying.

He tried to warn them, but he couldn't make a sound; it was as if the room had become a vacuum. His words could only be uttered in his mind, and Ahzek Ahriman knew that whatever he tried to say would sound like a scream.

You can't keep running away forever.

Horus Lupercal spoke thus in his royal court; at this moment, he was the only voice here.

He clenched his right claw, and red light scattered, causing the ground to boil. Some began to scream silently, many people. They had once been soldiers, civilians, or Astartes, but soon they would no longer be.

In the spreading red light, millions of chairs silently emerged from beneath people. They were forced to sit on them, and then their bodies began to change. No, not just their bodies—but their souls, and everything else.

The human form began to transform, becoming alien and twisted. The soul was painfully altered in the Radiance, as dark power poured into it continuously, tearing apart memories and turning everything they cherished to ashes.

But this is not the end, because these ashes are being shaped by a force with absolute force.

A newly born race, a completely opposite and utterly contrasting aspect to humanity, left its reflection in the Warp the moment it appeared; before that, they had never existed. And after that, they would exist forever.

What incredible power this is!

How could a mere body imbued with power accomplish such a feat? Even three of the Four Ancient Ones were baffled by this, and their questions were met with nothing but wild laughter from the instigator.

He didn't even know what He had done; He merely pushed things forward and blurred some of the original boundaries.

From the moment it takes on the name "Vengeful Spirit," the line begins to blur completely. It doesn't know what the consequences of its actions will be, but that's what makes it interesting.

That's how it should be. He watched with fervor as the body gradually filled up, even acquiring its own retinue, and uttered a declaration amidst the Chaos storm.

I acknowledge your birth!

Horus Lupercal stared at Him indifferently and coldly, without uttering a word.

The power that the four gods had poured into his body began to be gradually devoured. Pleasure, decay, and crimson tried to reclaim it, but it was too late. They had blessed him without regard for the cost, and today they were finally tasting the bitter fruit of their actions.

Only the Tzeentch willingly, even briefly, bowed down and worshipped this soon-to-be-born new god—a god created by a god, a noble new god possessing the four ancient powers and able to claim a share in the eternal spiral of hatred.

A god who is waiting for his father.

"I'll be waiting for you here," Horus Lupercal declared calmly. "Come to me, Father."

A sound was heard.

A second voice came from within the temple, which transcended the royal court—but what was that voice? Could anyone describe it precisely?

If others were still able to speak, perhaps some might say that the sound sounded like thunder, but others would immediately object, how could it be thunder? It was clearly the sound of a sword being drawn.

Or perhaps it's the sound of horses' hooves, war drums, the clanging of shields, a king reciting a long poem, a wise man cursing fate, a warrior's furious roar.

It was a father's heart-wrenching sigh.

A flash of golden light streaked across the thick darkness above the royal court, like a shooting star. It pierced the long night, bringing a glimmer of light, followed by a raging torrent of lightning, millions of bolts, all piercing the darkness together.

Warmaster looked at his father.

The Emperor looked at his mortal enemy.

"You should be thankful that I still have a heart of Mercy," Horus said coldly. "I could have slaughtered your sons and your people, but I did not. I have shown them leniency. Unlike you, Father. You are a liar who sent them to their deaths."

The Emperor did not answer, and the air suddenly began to tremble—was something about to descend? What was it?

Countless people eagerly awaited, hoping, yearning, and screaming that their one and only king would save humanity and utterly sever the head of that number one rebel. However, they were unaware that the battle had already begun.

The trembling air is the lingering echo of an end, not the clarion call of a new beginning.

The Emperor took a small step back.

The demons cheered.

"Silence," Horus said.

They immediately fell silent.

"You're still stalling for time, Father," Horus said with unusual calm. "I know what you're trying to do; you want to wait until he comes, but only He will come, not Karyl Lohars."

"That god harbors no hostility towards me whatsoever, even though I have shared His power to some extent. He is the god of Vengeance, the god of hatred, and also the god of justice. The scales of Vengeance are always balanced. Is the hatred of an emperor the same as the hatred of a commoner? He will not help either side. Your plan has failed."

"That's not my plan," The Emperor said.

He raised his left hand, and golden light silently emanated from between his fingers. The structure of time began to crumble, as did space. They were folded, catalyzed by the will of the Master of Mankind, and transformed into a prison, tightly enveloping him and his enemies within.

In a corner where no one was paying attention, Lion Aljonsen slowly stood up on his own.

He was badly wounded; at least half of his bones were broken. He gripped his spear silently, feeling immense shame—and then he heard Russ's silent words.

"I told you, "Lion Russ sighed. "I said you're no match for him, none of us can stand against him. He's a different species altogether. Do you expect a group of ants to defeat a giant with invulnerable skin and immense strength?"

"I'll give it a try," the Lion El'Jonson said coldly. "Many ants can kill an elephant."

He strode forward, using his spear as a walking stick, toward the prison.

"Do as you please, try it all you want, brother, it's pointless anyway," the Fenrisian quipped sarcastically.

Forget about participating in the battle; you can't even comprehend the form in which they're fighting each other. Can you see what's happening inside the prison? Can you hear the sounds they make as they fight? Do you really think this battle is still confined to the Materium?

No, Lion, you must understand that Terra has already stepped one foot into the Warp. And we are now in that dark other half, where everything you are familiar with is just an illusion. The real struggle is on a level you cannot reach.

The Lion El'Jonson stopped in its tracks.

"How do you know so much?" he asked.

"Because I am dead," Russ replied calmly. "The dead can see things the living cannot."

"Let me see it too," said the Lion El'Jonson.

He flipped the spear and plunged its tip into his own chest. He didn't bleed or get hurt, but he heard Russ's helpless sigh—a genuine sigh.

A hand gently rubbed the top of his head, the touch feeling real.

"You shouldn't have done this, brother," the Fenrisian said sadly. "Now you'll see, but you won't understand; you'll go mad."

--Really?

The Lion El'Jonson gazed intently at the prison, and then, finally, he saw it. Just as Russ had said, it wasn't the battle he had imagined; there were no clashing blades, no wounds, no blood, no roars, no contest of strength or fighting skill.

So, what is this?

What words can describe such a battle? No, that's not right, can this really be called a battle?

Lion Aljonson's fingers began to tremble, and his reason rapidly evaporated. His imagination was replacing his reason, and only in this way could he continue to gaze.

Russ continued to chatter in his ear, trying to rouse him to his senses, but he could no longer hear her, and even if he could, he would be unable to respond.

His mind had completely sunk in, like a willing drowner, defying the instinct for survival, joyfully welcoming the seawater that was about to engulf him.

He saw something.

Something whose true nature is difficult to describe, a dark, towering, swollen, rotting entity that laughs, groans, roars, rages, and endlessly shifting thoughts—

"Shh, shh, I know, I know." Russ gently stroked his head, tears welling in his golden eyes. "Horus."

--Yes.

It has the face of Horus.

It is gnawing on the Emperor.

Lion Aldridge screamed as he returned to the real world.

A spear was pulled from his hand and thrown at his feet. Luther forcefully pulled him up and began to examine his wounds. The Lion El'Jonson's eyes were wide open, his mind already scattered.

He was utterly incapable of thinking further; he had witnessed something beyond his capacity to bear—was this because his will was not strong enough? No, that was not the case at all; this had nothing to do with the strength of his will or the stability of his mind.

Luther knew that as their struggle continued, sooner or later more people would be forced to witness what Lion had just seen. It was a terrible and cruel event, and it was inevitable. No one could leave Lupercal's Court anymore; this was Terra.

Terra is the Vengeful Spirit.

An altar.

He took a deep breath, pulled the Lion El'Jonson to its feet, and gripped the spear with his prosthetic arm. Leman Russ Russ's voice rang in his ears at that moment. "I thought you knew very little, Luther."

"I wish I didn't have to know so much," Luther replied with a wry smile.

"He'll be alright," Russ said. "He'll pull through, I believe in him."

But the problem now isn't whether he's conscious or not, Lord Russ. Luther thought to himself.

He sighed and placed the spear in the Lion El'Jonson's hand, his grip tightening instinctively, his body tensing for a split second. Luther knew he would be unharmed. Just as Leman Russ Russ had said, he believed the Lion El'Jonson could pull through—but how many believed in the Emperor?

Or rather, among those who know the truth, and those who have the ability to glimpse it, how many truly believe that the Emperor can win?

Luther didn't know the answer. He wanted to win, but his reason told him that the Emperor couldn't win.

The Master of Mankind's energy is already tied up with too many things; his power is limited, and he still considers himself human, not a god. Therefore, he has no chance of winning this battle.

But he doesn't need to win.

The Caliban silently laid Lion El-Jonson down, letting him stand leaning on his spear. He took one last, deep look at his lord and son, then resolutely turned and walked away to the other side.

Within the royal court, not only was one war raging, but only the gods were allowed to speak; others could still fight each other. Thus, the demonic tide began to collide head-on with the loyalists.

Luther had experienced many wars in his life, but he had never seen one like this. It was too vast, too profound; it was the most brilliant Radiance a race could unleash in a moment of life and death.

Luther was inspired, but he also had to face a harsh reality—how could he find the person he was looking for in this endlessly stretched front?

Just as he hesitated, a familiar voice entered his mind, utterly impolite and extremely urgent.

Keep moving forward.

+ Malcador?+

Keep moving forward, Luther, just keep moving forward.

The Caliban did as he was told, and instinctively turned his head to see the short, black-robed figure of the Sigillites on a small hill made up of Daemon corpses.

He stood upon it, gripping the scepter tightly with both hands, his posture extremely weak. Two points of psionic light shone from beneath his hood, not very bright, but enough to pierce and kill any filth.

Luther understood; he was wounded—even the Sigillites was injured to this extent, and even the Emperor was being gradually defeated by that monster.

Can we really win?

Or rather, can we really stall until he comes? And even if he does come...

Luther took a deep breath and put all of that behind him.

The 423rd mission: Find Ollanius Persson. He muttered these words to himself as he strode forward, crashing into the vortex of death, resolute and fearful of the future, yet unwavering in a way that defied logic.

--

Sanguinius gripped the Worldbreaker with both hands, its spikes drawing blood from his hands. He paid no heed, continuing to push the Warhammer, now as heavy as a mountain, which, though unharmed, rendered him immobile.

The angel couldn't tolerate this; he had to leave the pit—fortunately, he was never alone.

Humanity is always united.

A figure emerged from the edge of the pit and leaped down. A pair of arms gleaming with silver light gripped the handle of the Worldbreaker, and Ferrus Manus, his face covered in blood, began to exert force.

The second person to arrive was Fulgrim, who stood beside his Gorgon and worked with him to try to remove the hammer from Sanguinius' body.

This was no easy task. In the past, a Primarch could easily wield or push something ten times the weight of Worldbreaker without breaking a sweat. But now it was different. Forget pushing or lifting it, they could barely move it an inch.

And so, as if by coincidence, or perhaps because someone had truly heard this never-before-said call, Roboute Guilliman's face quietly appeared at the edge of the pit.

He observed for a few seconds, then leaped down. The blue armor was riddled with craters, holes, and scars. In contrast were a pair of blazing white eyes beneath pale, tousled hair—but he did not begin to try. Instead, he spoke to his brother in a serious and earnest manner, without making a sound.

Sanguinius stared at his lips, trying to decipher his meaning from the constantly shifting lip movements. To the Baal's surprise, Roboute Guilliman offered no tactical analysis; his statement was actually quite simple, consisting of only six words.

Let go, let me do it.

Ferrus Manus and Fulgrim exchanged a glance, released their grip, and allowed their now-transformed brothers to place their hands on the handle of the Worldbreaker.

Immediately afterwards, a faint but genuine sound reached their ears. This was the third sound; though faint, it was undeniably present.

As the sound appeared, a scene unfolded before their eyes—a furnace, burning with flames, hundreds of points of Radiance surging endlessly. It seemed to contain anger, as well as sorrow, countless emotions blending into it, transforming into a pure and simple power of sincerity.

A burning force.

Roboute Guilliman's gauntlets began to burn, the intense heat destroying the air and distorting the light. The Worldbreaker began to tremble, and dark forces and scarlet lightning suddenly reappeared, climbing upwards from the spikes.

Lord Macragge stood still, veins bulging on his forehead, his face illuminated by the light in his eyes, revealing his bones, blood vessels, and nerves beneath his skin.

He let out a silent cry, the deep, resounding roar from his chest becoming all the more real.

The Worldbreaker was suddenly sent flying.

Roboute Guilliman collapsed to his knees, blood gushing from his seven orifices like a waterfall.

Fulgrim immediately helped him up, while Ferrus Manus pulled the angel to his feet. Sanguinius looked at them, speechless. He clenched his fists, bent down to retrieve the Spear of Telesto from the pit, and closed his eyes.

He can also make use of his talent.

And this time, the scene he saw was the same as before. He lay in the royal court, covered in blood, bleeding, with Karyl Lohars standing beside him.

What necessary connection was there between them? Sanguinius didn't know the answer, but he would do everything in his power to make it happen. He nodded to them and flapped his wings, flying into the darkness.

At the top of the royal court, the empty eyes of the dead stared at everything. They were indeed dead, but they were also spectators, and even more so, sacrifices. They would remain here until the flames of the altar were completely extinguished.

Ollanius Persson gripped his gun, withdrew his gaze from them, and walked forward.

(End of this chapter)

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