Horus walked toward the church.
Within a hundred miles, there were traces of war everywhere. The classic Hive City structure, haphazardly piled together by generations without any planning, had utterly collapsed beneath the bombardment. Death was everywhere, corpses everywhere—except here. It stood amid dust and shadow, stubborn as a nail driven into the skulls of dead saints, five inches long.
And this nail was fifteen meters long.
Small gargoyles perched beneath its jutting eaves, lowering their heads to gaze upon this seething land as it gradually fell from the human world into hell. They were made of bronze, and their eyes were profoundly deep. Their forms were distinctly different from the other gargoyles on Krieg—not rounded, but downright hideous.
He stared at them for a while, as though something had occurred to him, then continued onward. He walked slowly, because Vitus's body had not yet fully recovered. He had used his own power to heal some of the wounds, doing so with extreme care. He had to ensure that Vitus would not be affected by his power...
At least, not too much.
He would not be overly optimistic. After all, he had slaughtered every last thing within that fog.
He covered his abdomen and felt the unceasing pain.
Vitus was a strong young man with a vitality others would envy, but he was still only a mortal. He had no way to endure pain endlessly like an Astartes or a primarch, then continue throwing himself into battle.
Horus was not disappointed by this. He had already understood why the Astartes and primarchs had been created:
In the end, it was for battle. Their foremost duty was combat, and combat was also their nature. Everything else, such as intelligence or talent, was merely incidental...
And sadly, only through war could they