He Did Many Things

The deep blue Whisper, like the thickest venom, seeped into Magnus's nearly stagnant mind through the cracks in his soul.

"What are you hesitating about, Magnus?"

The voice was ever-changing, sometimes like a loving father, sometimes like a loyal friend, and finally it converged into sharp mockery:

"The great Psionic Energy master, the Dawn of Prospero, now thirsts for a humble death? What a pathetic, what an ironic end!"

The Whisper echoed, trying to stir up the last vestiges of resentment in his heart.

"Or is it that... you still harbor a ridiculous sense of guilt towards that Cursed One, towards your 'father'?"

The voice became seductive and full of empathy, "Wake up! He's the one who should feel guilty! He betrayed your loyalty and ignored your suffering!"

You just wanted to save your children, what did you do wrong?!

Looking back on your past and then at the present—who is truly standing by your side now?

The scene was forcibly injected: those Thousand Sons who followed him into Chaos are now only souls wailing in their armor, relying on Tzeentch's evil magic to maintain their pathetic forms.

There is no new flesh and blood, no future, only eternal torment and a destiny that is gradually being forgotten.

Once they lose their support, they will eventually become ancient, forgotten echoes drifting in the Warp.

"Do you want this ending? To let your offspring, your life's work, become a bunch of living 'relics of the past'?" Tzeentch's voice suddenly became impassioned and inflammatory. "If not, then stand up! Accept the true gift, embrace the power you deserve! Defeat your brothers, just like..."

He paused, then offered a highly seductive and toxic analogy. "... just like Horus back then."

"Horus could wound the Emperor, so why can't you, Magnus, defeat Guilliman in his current state?"

Deep within Magnus's fragmented consciousness, something was indeed stirring.

Some forcibly awakened fragments of memory, some thoughts different from Chaos logic triggered by Guilliman's "philosophical beating," seem to be trying to refute these Whisper.

Those principles—about responsibility, about the true starting point of mistakes, about the alternative path that might exist after "knowing one's own ignorance"...

But in the end, all these struggles turned into a sigh that pierced the very soul.

I'm tired.

I'm really tired.

Ten thousand years of obsession, ten thousand years of struggle, ten thousand years living in resentment and distorted knowledge.

Watching his legion wither and become inhuman, watching himself drift further and further away from his original dream.

That forced "life review" just now was more like a cruel summary, draining his last bit of spirit.

Whatever.

In any case, his soul had already been shattered when Prospero burned back then. Now, this body and consciousness of the Daemon Prince are nothing more than the product of countless fragments being forcibly glued together by the power of Chaos.

Let them, whether Tzeentch or anyone else, use them however they want.

The moment the "tool" is used, the real "Magnus"—the scholar and lord who pursued knowledge, cherished his offspring, and longed for his father's approval—may already be dead.

Just like... just like Horus.

Only now does Magnus seem to truly understand: the first loyalist Primarch to "die" may never have been Sanguinius, nor anyone else.

It was Horus himself.

The Warmaster who emerged from that dilapidated temple tainted by Chaos was no longer the Emperor.

What survived was merely a god-slaying puppet named "Horus," filled with the blessings of the four gods.

Deep within the Warp, that black sun erupted in unprecedented fury!

The terrifying Psychic Shockwave, now completely unrestrained, swept across a vast area like a supernova explosion, carrying with them the most intense pain, despair, and rage from the collective human consciousness within a golden light!

Even the thousands of Emperor fragments that had differentiated themselves and represented different collective unconsciousnesses of humanity, wailing and trying to dissuade him, could not quell this fury that originated from the core, from pure "humanity".

The second time!

This was the second time He had watched helplessly as one of His own sons was forcibly tainted and dragged into the abyss by the "blessing" of the Four Chaos Gods right before His eyes!

He will always remember the scene at the end of the Horus Heresy: the dying Warmaster stood before him, his body a plaything of Chaos.

The Emperor (who was still able to move and speak freely at that time) roared at the body, "What have you done to my child?!"

Horus tilted his head, revealing a twisted smile, "You mean Sanguinius? Unfortunately, I reserved a place for him... but he refused. So, I had no choice but to kill him."

But the Emperor's rage was not directed at the death of Sanguinius; His flames almost scorched the being before him, and His voice was hoarse like that of a wounded beast:

"Give him back to me! That's my child! My most beloved child!"

Horus was stunned, then completely enraged by the Emperor's use of the word "favorite," and roared back, "Who is your favorite child?! Among us, who is?! You damned, heartless bastard!"

But as it roared, the sound of "Horus" abruptly stopped.

A look of disbelief flashed across his face as he slowly and stiffly turned his head to look at the distorted, churning shadow at his feet.

In that shadow, he saw the mocking laughter of the Four Chaos Gods, a laughter that was crystal clear.

So it turns out... so Emperor was questioning all along was never Horus, the puppet.

He was questioning the four gods hiding behind the puppet's shadow.

It turns out that the "most beloved child" the Emperor spoke of was, from beginning to end, the true Horus, whom He had personally appointed as the Warmaster and entrusted with all His trust and expectations before the temple was corrupted.

He couldn't save him.

At this moment, history seems to be repeating itself.

Yet another child is about to be completely swallowed up by the shadow of Chaos before him.

They are the crystallization of humanity's collective unconscious, the "divine" essence of human potential!

How can the "gods" that humanity itself has created be permanently enslaved by foreign, distorted, Chaos Gods?!

This sorrow, this anger, almost tore apart the Emperor's humanity, which had long since withered away.

"Yes... how can human gods be enslaved by Chaos Gods?"

The sorrow in Guilliman's eyes was so intense it was almost palpable.

He watched as the azure Psionic Energy enveloped Magnus more intensely, and watched as the last glimmer of light belonging to "Magnus" in the other's eyes began to dissipate.

"Too late... I should have cut it down sooner," he muttered to himself, his voice filled with an unusual sense of defeat.

Within him, the very essence of the Son of War roared, and the flames of vengeance burned fiercely.

That more ancient will also fell silent at this moment, perhaps contemplating the consequences of this "indecisiveness."

"Perhaps you are right, in essence."

Guilliman said to the boiling "Guilliman" within him, "If I had fully embraced this power sooner, if I had been driven by this rage sooner, perhaps I should have cut off his head when he mentioned the Five Hundred Worlds."

Instead of... trying to give him a chance to repent.

He felt a profound sense of defeat stemming from the very nature of Primarch Guilliman.

This sense of frustration was so intense that it even affected him.

"I've never understood... the world of Warhammer 40,000."

He murmured, as if using a word that didn't belong here, "I thought brothers could always talk more... I thought there should always be a chance to make amends..."