A severed arm, still encased in a gauntlet, spun through the air. The cut was smooth, carrying a faint scent of blood.
The immense blue night descended.
Horus's pupils constricted. Guilliman's psychic pressure forced him back, and the claw thrusting toward Guilliman was effortlessly severed by a sharp blade—
Armor that had once been as solid as rock became soft and brittle as a mushroom beneath Guilliman's psychic slash.
But Guilliman's assault had not stopped. In an instant, time seemed to freeze. Horus was struck to the ground and slowly fell backward, yet Guilliman before him moved normally, as though within a slow-motion scene. The cold-blooded king raised his sword, its edge sharp as it pointed directly at Horus's throat.
Was this the end?
Horus thought so, without much resentment. Having come this far, this outcome seemed to have been anticipated ten thousand years ago. He did not regret it, nor did he find it hasty—his other vanished or sleeping brothers had met fates far more absurd than his.
Horus heard the other Shepherd of the Luna Wolves cry out behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw golden light burst forth. The Shepherd of the Luna Wolves swung his warhammer in an attempt to stop Guilliman's sword, but Horus knew that hammer could not block Guilliman's strike for him. It was too late.
Until—
Behind the Shepherd of the Luna Wolves, the Emperor, who had been hesitating behind the two Horuses and wandering madly about, suddenly brightened. His gaze flicked toward Horus, and in his eyes, which had finally regained some clarity, was reflected a child corrupted by Chaos—his sixteenth son.
Guilliman, who had been closely watching the Emperor's every move, immediately felt alarm bells ring in his mind. What he feared most was not the two