When Bona looked around, he was bewildered.
Before him was no longer that horrific, loathsome fortress of evil, but the bloodstained, scarred walls of the Imperial Palace.
And impaled on the Chainsword in his hand was an Adeptus Custodes Dreadnought.
The Dreadnought dropped the spear in his hand and gently stroked Bona's hand with his claw.
"Child..."
Bona recognized him. This was...
"Uncle Malak?" he cried out in shock.
"Heh, heh, heh..."
Bona hurriedly lowered him to the ground, but had no idea what had happened.
Then he saw his own reflection in the pool of blood on the ground.
Bona was horrified.
"Who is that? Is that me?!"
He looked around. Before him stood his father's palace, while the Adeptus Custodes and Astartes fought desperately to the death atop and beneath its walls.
Hadn't he... been crushing the vile enemy?
When he looked behind him, he no longer saw a host of brave, fearless warriors, but one hideous Greater Daemon after another.
He wanted to know what had happened.
A wave of psyker power spread out from him, swiftly sweeping across all of Terra.
He saw fire raining down from the fleets, bombarding Terra indiscriminately.
He saw warriors of the Imperium bearing the Aquila emblem bravely facing the armies of Chaos Daemons.
He saw Horus, shrouded in darkness.
And...
The Emperor's Children, wantonly slaughtering unarmed civilians merely to satisfy their perverse desires.
Tens of millions of souls wailed, crashing into Bona's mind like a dam bursting.
Anger, accusation, pain, and despair flooded his soul. The overwhelming torrent of information made Bona understand everything in an instant.
He fell to his knees in agony, then clutched his head and howled.
A tremendous psychic shriek erupted from the Imperial Palace district. Apart from the soldiers sheltered by the Emperor at the Gate of the End, vast numbers of nearby daemons, rebels, and Imperial Army troops who had failed to evacuate died instantly.
The Chaos Sorcerers with psychic abilities burst into flames where they stood, writhing in agony. The terrifying psyker power overwhelmed them outright, turning them into spillways through which energy surged between the Warp and reality.
Excruciating pain filled Bona's mind, and every dead soul seemed to be condemning his atrocities.
He stared at his reflection in the blood.
No, no, no, no.
I'm human, not a daemon.
He swung his Chainsword and severed his own bone wings. Blood gushed out at once.
But new growth immediately sprouted from the stumps, and a fresh bone wing grew back.
Terrifying flames seared the alien limbs on his body, burning great swathes of healthy skin and mutated flesh alike into charred matter.
But fresh skin rapidly grew back, revealed as the scabs fell away.
Yet even this near-self-mutilation was a release for Bona. At that moment, the pain in his mind was almost enough to destroy his will.
He had to do something.
Bona could clearly sense that another brutal massacre was still taking place on the other side of Terra.
In an instant, Bona's entire body began to blur, and reality and the Warp grew unstable.
In the blink of an eye, Bona vanished.
Far from the Imperial Palace, vast numbers of Terran civilians hid in the slums, praying that evil would overlook them.
But they were wrong.
Fulgrim had come here with his Emperor's Children Legion, and then, to satisfy their perverse desires, they had begun their wanton... torture.
If the World Eaters' aimless slaughter served only to please the Blood God and ease the agony of the Butcher's Nails, then the Emperor's Children acted solely to satisfy their twisted appetite for amusement.
Tens of millions had died at the hands of these demigod superhumans who should have protected them. No event in human history could compare to this atrocity.
Even the most rational scholar would have gone mad upon witnessing the Emperor's Children's sickening acts, which transcended anything carbon-based life should have been capable of.
Fulgrim, no longer remotely human, resembled a writhing loach, utterly immersed in boundless pleasure.
Suddenly, a warp rift opened beside Fulgrim.
Before the maddened Primarch could react, a huge hand reached out of the rift and seized him by the throat.
But he did not struggle. Instead, he roared with laughter.
Bona stepped out, his mind all but consumed by rage, and glared at him.
"Hahaha, do you want to play with me too? How shall we play? Oh, I'm choking, cough, cough..."
Bona tightened his grip, and the sound of a snapping neck rang out.
Then Fulgrim blazed fiercely like a match, burning to nothing amid shrieks that could have been either pleasure or pain.
Only then did the Emperor's Children Legion, still engrossed in their pleasures, realize that this figure had killed their Gene-Father.
They tried to fight back, but what met them was a slaughter as furious as a tsunami.
Only after dealing with Bona did the Emperor look toward the sky.
He could sense that he had to go there.
A thousand Psykers who had volunteered to sacrifice themselves began burning themselves away, buying time for the great Emperor.
He looked at his old friend-the Sigillite, Malcador.
Malcador, too, understood that the moment had come.
The Emperor merely glanced at his old friend, then rose to his feet.
The loyal servant bowed to the great Emperor one final time, then walked shakily toward the Golden Throne.
The Emperor quietly approached and steadied Malcador with a hand, the grief in his heart almost impossible to conceal.
Malcador understood something then, too.
He simply spoke one last sentence to the great Master of Mankind:
"Don't be sad."
Malcador smiled and nodded to the Emperor, speaking in a voice no one else could hear.
"Do not grieve."
This was a moment they had both long known would come, one they had understood ever since they first met.
Dozens of centuries of conversation had long since laid them bare to one another. They had nothing left to say.
The Emperor looked at Malcador. It was only one old friend's final glance at the other, filled with silent understanding and duty, and everything they owed each other.
Malcador walked shakily up to the throne.
He was old, and tired.
He sat upon the Golden Throne.
The Emperor did not look back again.
Everyone had their own fate, and he had his.
The Emperor drew the longsword blazing with fierce flames. Below the dais, Sanguinius and Rogal Dorn had already assembled their most elite warriors.
They all understood their mission.
To bring this rebellion to an end.
Before you continue