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39.34% Warhammer: Imperium Ascendant / Chapter 34: Chapter Twenty One: Gold, Silver, and Steel (Part I)

Kapitel 34: Chapter Twenty One: Gold, Silver, and Steel (Part I)

Location: The Heart of the Inner Sanctum, Luna

Date: 813.M30 (Thirteen hours since the battle for Luna began)

It was Evil Incarnate. That was the only way Abaddon could describe the nightmarish being before him. Nearly every human civilization had some myth or concept of the Adversary. Satan, Lucifer, Apophis, Set, Erllig, Iblis, Angra Mainyu, Be'lakor, Ba'al, Azura, Nyarlathotep, and many many more. This idea, the idea of the primordial enemy, evil given form and purpose, it had gained sentience and power within the Warp. The thoughts of all of those thinking creatures had coalesced into a single being of malice and horror. It formed into the Dark Master.

Now Be'lakor, the First Damned of Chaos, had entered the material universe. Empowered and given body by the Creed of Four Phases, the Daemon Prince's fanged maw split into a grin as it noticed the fallen Primarch. Moving ponderously, as it grew used to the rapidly fading laws of physics. It moved with an almost apathetic gait. The universe seemed to ripple and contort as it walked towards the Astartes, as if space/time itself fought to move from his infernal presence.

The Daemon Prince spoke in a deep and eloquent tone. "I had hoped to claim the XVI as my host" the creature said with a rueful glance at the fallen hero. "He would have made a perfect body. The Dark Gods would never possess a mightier Agent. Alas, this sorcerer will do."

Shadowy warp-fire coalesced around Be'lakor 's claws. Approaching Horus, it let out a mirthless laugh. "Still, a body such as that has so many uses."

Abaddon was quick to realize the monster's intent. It wished to desecrate his father's body. He would not allow the fiend to do as it pleased. To Abbadon, the honor of the entire XVI Legion was at stake. Standing between Primarch and Prince, Abaddon intended to die stopping the monster. Some part of the young Astartes knew this is exactly where he belonged, standing before Evil Incarnate and guarding mankind's destiny. He had done so aboard the Tiber-Prince, and he would continue to do so until his last breath.

Be'lakor stood twice the height of a Primarch and peered down at the Astartes before him. "Oh? Another Warmaster approaches me. The First failed to embrace the gods. Will you fail yet again Despoiler?"

Roaring with fury Abaddon charged the Daemon Prince. He knew he could not best the horror, but he could delay it. Be'lakor deflected the Astartes' blows with casual ease, laughing at the Space Marine's futile attempts as he did so. Soon, the other Battle-Brothers within the Chamber charged the Daemon as well. It laughed and summoned another blade to meet their desperate charge. Dozens of Astartes threw themselves at the monster, but Be'lakor shredded them to bits, dodging bolt shells and bisecting Astartes with supernatural skill the whole time. Screaming with righteous fury as another one of his brother was killed by the daemon, the Redeemer fought on. Abaddon was too slow on his next parry and was sent flying with a lash of Be'lakor's draconian tail.

Abaddon landed in a crumpled heap near his father's body. As he lay next to Horus' corpse, a faint flicker of Light caught his attention. Jolts and sparks of psionic electricity emanated from the Speartip buried in Horus, faint golden energy glowing from it. Eyes locked on the spear-tip Abaddon stumbled to his feet and felt a presence brush up against his mind. His father's voice blasted through Abaddon's head at a volume akin to a thunderclap. "Take up me up and strike down the evil" it commanded. "Purge this unholy daemon, Abbadon the Redeemer."

Slightly concussed and mad with grief, Abaddon did not even question the reality or sanity of what he was about to do. Scrambling over to the Primarch's body, he gripped the speartip, pulling it free from his father's corpse, its psychic energy crystalizing into a longsword of purifying light. A corona of gold rippled out and through Luna. Every psychic on Terra's moon felt it and instinctively knew the source. This golden beacon called out to three in particular: The Angel, Marcus, and Kalib. It called them to the place of their sibling's death.

The XI and XIII Primarch immediately discharged their duties to subordinates and rushed towards the Lunar North. They could not reach their brother Horus through the psychic bond shared by the Twenty. The beacon carried a simple message to them. Something horrible had happened to the XVI. Fear, desperation and frantic worry that only the kin of the lost can feel coursed through the brothers. To the Angel of Vengeance, it simply acted as more blood in the proverbial water, helping to guide it towards the source of corruption.

Abaddon the Redeemer felt his body and soul shake from the energy coursing through him. His gauntlets started to glow from the heat, and he could feel the burning power of the Speartip in his very bones. Power only a Primarch could possess coursed through him. Abaddon did not know how long he could survive such an experience, and he did not care. He simply hoped he would last long enough to avenge Horus Lupercali.

Raising the blade high, Abaddon charged the Daemon Prince. The power coursing through him caught Be'lakor's attention. With a wave of shadowy force, the Dark Master smashed away the hoard of Astartes trying to gain his attention. Summoning a single jagged blade of tainted metal, the Daemon prepared to match swords with Abaddon.

Faster and stronger than his body and mind had any right to be, Abaddon dueled the horror from beyond the material world, his shining sword clashing with Be'lakor's. Letting loose a shower of sparks with each blow, Abaddon felt his body scream in protest from the exertions he was placing upon it. Muscle ripped and bone cracked, psychic light healing the injuries as quickly as they came. Abaddon was faster and stronger than ever before. But even with his new powers, he was barely fit to trade blows with Be'lakor. The Daemon Prince laughed maniacally as it its blade flashed a mesmorizing pattern of murder. The monster seemed to be enjoying the duel. The Battle-Brothers of the XVI fought at Abaddon's side, hoping to distract the Daemon even a bit.

Even fighting dozens of Astartes and the empowered Abaddon, Be'lakor was holding his own. Seeing no other options the XVI Astartes had all activated the Legions unique Twenty Fourth organ. It was an augment to their revitalizer gland, a gift from their Primarch to his sons. In moments of extreme stress, a flood of neuro-enhancers and pseudo-organic war-chems explode from the gland, allowing the Astartes to think, move and react faster than should be physically possible. Combining this gift with the latent psionic blessing each Astartes possessed resulted in short bursts of incredible power. It was a secret weapon reserved for the most dire of moments. If there was ever a time for such a thing, it was now. Supercharged by the Speartip's psychic effects and his father's biological gift, the elite of Horus' sons fought at a level unmatched by any other Astartes in all twenty legions, desperate to avenge their fallen and send the fiend screaming back to the abyss. To the Astartes time seemed to stand still and incomparable power coursed through them. To the Daemon Prince this was just further entertainment.

Unknown to all but Be'lakor, another threat hid within the chamber. Cloaked in etheric shadows, the monster once known as Argel Tal stalked. Korban the Eversacrified clambered along the Daemonic Cathedrals ceiling, careful to avoid the battle down below. The Possessed Champion dropped down to the Warp Rift, scanning for what he needed to complete his mission. Hidden from the Astartes, Korban claimed his objective: The twin artifacts of Luna, namely the obsidian knife, still caked in Zamora's blood, and the chalice Sagitari-17 had drained to become the Daemons host. Plucking them from the warp-tainted stone, Korban retreated into the Shadows. His minions had escaped through the Warp Rift, and he would in time. For now, the Gods still required him on Luna.

Be'lakor felt the Eversacrificed complete his mission and let out a snort of annoyance. Another rival for the god's attention was never welcome. Even if they were forced to work together, the Dark Master felt contempt and hatred for all others who curried the undivided attention of the unholy patrons.

The duel between the elite of the XVI Legion and Be'lakor continued unabated. The Astartes had yet to land a single blow on the monster, only distracting his blade. Every few minutes, a Battle-Brother would falter. Through bad-luck, exhaustion of the 24th organ, or simply not matching the Daemon Prince, they would fall. The lucky ones were left broken, the unlucky ones died and were spiritually devoured by the monster. Still, the Astartes held. Abaddon knew at this point he could not slay Be'lakor, and he knew his only hope was to delay until someone who could arrived.

Location: The Heart of the Inner Sanctum, Luna

Date: 814.M30 (124 Terran Minutes since the duel started)

Everything was pain. Abaddon felt like he was being ripped apart. Mind, body, and soul pushed past any sane limit and all were failing him. Even as his Battle-Brothers were cut down, he fought on. For over two hours, Abbadon had fought with valor against the daemon, matching its world breaking blows each time it sought to end his life. By the seventeenth minute, he stood alone. All his fellow Astartes lay dead or dying around him. Even as sanity and rationality left him, carried away by pain, Abaddon knew the responsibility that was now his. He and he alone stood between the daemon and its goals.

A sudden shift rippled through the tainted chamber. Something grabbed the attention of the Daemon Prince. Be'lakor sensed the twin forces making their way towards the chamber. Marcus Augustio and his sons were traveling the root Horus had taken. Kalib, in turn, lead the XI through the opposite entrance, the one consecrated to the Dark Prince. The Daemon Prince could feel the XI Primarch dueling the Keeper of Secrets bound to that gate. They would be here soon, and the true battle would start.

"Amusing as this spar is, your betters have come. I shall finish this distraction before devouring more of the Anathema's spawn." growled Be'lakor.

Moving at speeds the Materium struggled to translate, Be'lakor lashed out at Abaddon. Lunging forward, Be'lakor sought to rip Abaddon's head from his shoulders. Bracing for the traumatic impact, Abaddon used the Sword of Longinus as a pike. Letting the Daemon's momentum impale its taloned hand on the shining blade. Pulling back, Be'lakor looked at its hand. The greatsword of psychic fire was stuck through his palm. Golden flames licked at Be'lakor's hand and seared his flesh. The Daemon Prince examined it with an expression of amused surprise on his face.

"A potent weapon, wielded by weak children. An apt metaphor for the power you and your father possess. Abaddon and Horus, both weak fools. Undeserving of divine anointment."

With a disdainful blow from the daemon. Abaddon crumpled. Separated from the Spear of Destiny, his body was rapidly collapsing. Be'lakor wrapped his tail around the dying Astartes. Lifting Abaddon up to face level, with the blade still burning in his hand, the Daemon Prince presented a single claw while speaking. "The power you used was not yours to wield, it is a borrowed spark of a failed demi-god. Not enough to harm me, but it will scar me. A considerable achievement, mortal. I shall return the favor to both father and son."

Slowly and methodically, Be'lakor sunk his talon into Abaddon's left eye. Puncturing and burning away the Astartes' vision. Abaddon could not even scream, his body so damaged that a rasping gasp was all he could manage. Inky black flames scoured the flesh down to the bone, the Warp-energy taking its time to burn away his nerves. When a blackened socket of bone was all that remained of the eye, Be'lakor let Abaddon crumple to the ground.

The Redeemer could only watch as the Daemon Prince turned its attention to Horus. With an ugly kick, Be'lakor moved the Primarchs fallen body over. Peering down at the rictus of pain that soured the Demigod's handsome features, Be'lakor pulled the blade from his hand, gritting his fangs in pain at the act. True to his word, a silver scar soon formed where the blade had punctured the Daemon. Putting one massive foot on the Primarchs chest, Be'lakor brought the Spear of Destiny down, driving its point into the right eye of Horus with a sickening squelch. The psychic crystal that encased it shattered as he drove it in. Soon, the only piece left was a shard of ancient metal impaled his socket.

Laughing at his own twisted joke, Be'lakor summoned his daemonic blades and prepared to butcher the Emperor's sons. On cue, the XI and XIII burst from opposing sides of the chamber. The sight of the rift and its dark influence were barely noticed by the two. What caught and held their attention was the defiled corpse of Horus Lupercali. The XVI Primarch lay at Be'lakor's feet, the daemon's posture over their brother's corpse was equal parts taunt, challenge and proclamation of malice.

Kalib was faster in recovering. Like the Angel of Death he was, the XI charged the Daemon Prince. With Power-axe and Crossbolter drawn, Primarch who was fast earning the name Keeper of Souls rushed forward, intent on breaking this monster. Whispering incantations of smiting, silver flames erupted along the Primarchs weapons and wards shimmered into being around him. He was meant to guard mankind against horrors like this. It would die screaming if it was the last thing the Primarch did.

Marcus took longer to processes the tragedy before him. He understood it, and had a fairly accurate estimate of events. Even so, he did not want to believe his brother was dead. So when that terrible terrible truth thundered through his mind, something snapped. The calm and collected aristocratic XIII howled in bloody rage. His noble features twisted into a grimace of pain and fury. With gladius aloft, he joined his brother.

The Daemon Prince crossed blades with both Primarchs, easily dueling both champions of humanity. When he dueled Abbadon, he had been sparring, enjoying the thrill of the fight. This would be the true battle, one that would take all of his terrible power to win. In the hell-domain that made up Luna's core Be'lakor was incredibly mighty. With a powerful host and a glut of warp-power to fuel him, these false-godlings stood no chance.

"I am Be'lakor! The Dark Master of the Warp. First and True Prince of Chaos! You shall die by my hand and join the trillions who I have devoured!" Proclaimed the Monster.

The Primarchs did not respond. Killing the Daemon was all they could focus on. The duel took place in both material and immaterial. Blades locked as wills clashed. Telekinetic lighting and dark curses swirled through the chamber. Two sons of the Light against the first Son of Darkness.

The Legionaries of the XI and XIII knew this was not battle for them. Instead, they hurried to assist the XVI Astartes. Most were dead, but some still clung to life. Apothecaries conducted triage as they dragged the fallen away from the battle. Beacons were activated and distress calls were sent. The clash of the Titans was not their battle, but they still had a war to win. Abaddon still clung to some semblance of consciousness, the last embers of borrowed power coursing through his ruined body. Those flickers blessed him with a momentary glimpse past the veil. For a split second, Abaddon Redeemer saw Korban the Eversacrified leaving the chamber under a cloak of shadow. He tried to warn his tending cousins of the XIII of the danger, but his slurried and broken speech came off as maddened rambling. Neuronic misfires brought on by traumatic damage would not let him give the information to his comrades. Panic filled Abaddon's mind as the drugs entering his system forced him into Sus-An coma and soon the only thing that Abbadon would be seeing would be the inky blackness of a deep sleep.

The duel between the demigods raged on. Blessed silver bolts shredded Be'lakors wings and in return, Kalib was racked by dark talons. The Primarchs fought hard and few beings in the entire cosmos could withstand dueling the two. Unfortunately, Be'lakor numbered in that handful. The Primarchs were young and inexperienced beings, not yet tempered by millennia of experience. This, and the madness of grief slowly but surely turned the battle in Be'lakor's favor. The Daemon Prince was thoroughly enjoying himself, and it was only a matter of time until he claimed the XI and XIII.

Almost as a response to the monster's glee, a shockwave of golden energy erupted across the Solar system. Passing through Luna and the rest of the system. It burned the Daemon Prince and knocked it back. It and countless of its kin across the solar warzone felt a dreaded presence and whispered its name. "Anathema."


Kapitel 35: Chapter Twenty One: Gold, Silver, and Steel (Part II)

Location: The Bucephalus.

Date: 814.M30 (210 Terran Minutes since the duel began)

Far above Terra's moon, the Bucephalus let loose a final devastating broadside. Smashing the last bits of false-life from the Hashut-Hulk that the flagship dueled. In turn, The Emperor of Mankind had broken the unborn God, and now cast its withering existence into the pit. The horror of infernal industry known as Hashut howled in impotence as the Master of Mankind proclaimed their doom across the warp. "I wield the light of sanity! I am the Lord of the Real! I name you for what you are: An infernal lie that feeds of misery and pain. Begone from this plane, never to return!"

Unhampered by the God whose number is Four, the power of the Emperor shone across the Solar system. The Emperor of Mankind felt all that had occurred and a storm of fury boiled within him. The Primordial Annihilator had stolen a son from him. It had struck down Horus through sins that were not his to own or answer to. Malcador had unleashed the Angel, and Luna teetered on the brink of damnation. Neither he nor the Throne-Emperor was infallible, but the damage done was massive. It was thankfully not as much as it could have been, but still terrible in its destruction.

Turning his thoughts to Horus, he attached a message to his sons on Luna. It rode the wave of golden power unleashed by his victory over Hashut. In it, an ember of hope flew. A possibility to change history once again and save the Primarchs. The Spear of Destiny had been involved with a miracle once before, it could once again.

 

Location: The Heart of the Inner Sanctum, Luna

Date: 814.M30 (214 Terran Minutes since the duel started)

The Emperor's message rattled through Kalib and Marcus's minds. "Recover your brother, his Legion, the Spear and evacuate immediately. An experimental weapon is to be unleashed"

Momentary doubt flickered through the superhuman minds of the Primarchs. Their Father had seemingly sent Horus to his death! That doubt was quickly washed away by the content of the message, for the Emperor had a plan. The Master of Mankind was always ahead of his enemies, even if they were the Dark Gods. The message had shaken both Be'lakor and the Primarchs. Resetting the flow of battle.

The pause did not last long. A vicious roar escaped Be'lakor as he charged the Primarchs once again. The two young demigods struggled to parry the blows, not because of any failure in their training or in their spirit, they were just simply outclassed by the First Prince of Chaos. Even with the knowledge that they could not win this fight, they continued the struggle, telepathically relaying orders and information to their legions all the while. The still living elite of the XVI were ferried out of the chamber and towards evac points. The dead were harvested and marked with runes of warding. A troop of pallbearers from both XI and XIII Legions attempted to move Horus Lupercali, but crackling psionic residue coating the fallen Primarch and his considerable bulk hampered this effort.

As duel continued, a series of emergency Vox transmission crackled into the Primarchs' armor. The Legion Fleets spotted something moving at incredible speeds headed for the Lunar North Pole. Auspex readings were off the charts, and any psychic probes they sent towards the object had produced bizarre results. Whatever weapon the Emperor had unleashed was coming in fast. To the fleet, it appeared like a flaming meteor, somehow defying the laws of physics by lighting a trail of psychic destruction across the hard vacuum of Luna's surface. Despite lacking any conventional or detectable thrust system, the object which was smaller than a drop-pod was moving at velocities an Imperial Destroyer would be pressed to match.

A crew member onboard an XIII Legion escort craft watched its path as she manned one of the ships Flak turrets. By sheer luck, she was closest to the fireball and had an impressive view of the object. The gunner would swear for the rest of her days that whatever she saw, it had wings.

The comet suddenly changed direction, diving straight towards the lunar surface. Frantic orders from Terra prevented it from being fired upon, with the Imperial Fleet watching apprehensively as it struck moon. Instead of a massive cloud of ash erupting from a tremendous impact, it seemed to pierce right through the Lunar bedrock. An arrow of light and fire set loose from the Emperor's vaults.

The impact could still be felt from within the Inner Sanctum. A high pitched hum seemed to resonate through the entire Moon as it bore through the satellite. The Primarchs attempted to disengage from the duel but were stopped by the fury of their opponent's blades. Any weakness or misstep would lead to catastrophic injury. The noise only increased and the temperature within the Chamber started to climb. Orders were given, the Astartes evacuated, leaving the body of Horus. It would be up to the fallen Primarch's siblings to remove him. Marcus silently hoped that they could survive whatever was coming. A quick glance at his brother told him that they were both beginning to have serious doubts about this conflict. The belief of invincibility and immortality that naturally came with youth and supernatural power was rapidly fading from both of the Primarchs.

Then finally, after what seemed like an seeming eternity, judgment came. Like a boring drill made of solid flame, the Angel burned through the bedrock and smashed through the ceiling, exploding into the chamber in a corona of psychic fire. It had burned a straight hole to the Sanctum. Scorching away stone, steal and the Dark Gods touch. The corrupted stone and steel composing the inner Sanctum recoiled from it, the Angel's fire searing away at the Warp's influence. It was a pure and terrible shard of the Anathema, the thing that Chaos feared above all else.

All three combatants stopped the duel as it crashed through the ceiling. Impotent rage and a twinge of fear radiated from Be'lakor while the Primarchs were more shocked than anything. Before them stood a woman made of fire. It radiated an aura of order, domination, and destruction they had only felt one other place. This illuminating shadow of their father was a lesser and far more terrible thing of the Emperor. It was all the fire and fury of Mankind's protector, stripped of its compassion and humanity. Yet on some hidden buried level, the two Primarchs felt something disturbingly similar. A spark of power and majesty only felt when in the presence of kin. This weapon… It was a Primarch but not a Primarch.

The Angel looked upon the Primarchs and spoke in a voice of legions. "Take the XVI and leave. My flames shall purge the unclean."

Without another word, it turned to Be'lakor. A blade of blue-flames materialized within its hand. The Daemon Prince smiled a wicked grin and prepared to face its first true challenge in eons. Before him was the Anathema's scion, it would die by his claw! Frantically Kalib and Marcus rushed over to Horus and hoisted his body up, his noble arms draped over each of their shoulders. Ignoring the sparking pain of psychic shock and the burning heat of the Angel, the brothers bolted from the Chamber. This was not a battle for them, they were like ancient myth-heroes stuck between clashing titans. Heraecles Half-God and Percyus Argos-Maker were mighty figures, but nothing compared to the wrath of Tarturaiz or Ourano. Such was the difference between young Primarchs and ancient Daemon Kings. One day that would not be the case, but for now they would have to take comfort in the knowledge that survival was their key objective.

As the three Primarchs left the chamber, the Angel and Be'lakor faced each other, black and gold flames crackling around them as the fabric of the room buckled under the weight of the psychic power present in the chamber. Both combatants watched for weakness, slowly circling the sanctum like dueling apex predators. At some unknown signal, the Angel and Daemon charged. Like colliding planetoids, they locked blades, unleashing a shockwave of psychokinetic force that detonated with a thunderous boom which shook the inner sanctum and cracked its stone structure.

In the cathedral-sized sanctum, they clashed. To mortal eyes, it would appear like twin stars colliding. One of inhuman heat and power, the other of oily daemonic chill. Be'lakor was capable of wielding more power in the materium in eons. The First Prince was a mass of sheer evil, a thing of doom and damnation. The Angel was worse. It was a thing of undiluted domination. Raw power barely directed by the Emperor's will. Be'lakor spat curses and profane insults with every strike. Grim silence was the Angel's only answer.

Just as their physical bodies dueled, the monsters fought spiritually. Chaotic and Anathemic energies were unleashed. Distorting and destroying the sanctum in a never-ending cycle. Flying through the rapidly crumbling sanctum, the Angel hacked away at Be'lakor's guard. Each blow a thing of blessed steel, holy flames, and divine fury. The Daemon Prince was puzzled by what he fought. Its existence was an unknown, some terrible tool the Anathema had kept locked away. Be'lakor could feel that this "Angel" had more in common with him than any human. It was a blasphemy to everything the so-called Emperor believed in. Something that should have been hidden away in shame. For it to be unleashed was truly interesting.

With serpentine whispers, the Daemon plied these questions, hungering for forbidden answers and an advantage in the duel. Be'lakor had thought himself invincible, for the amount of worship and warp-stuff pouring through him had made it to where not even a Primarch could stand against him. The Angel seemed intent on proving him wrong. It moved at speeds he barely registered and its swordsmanship was flawless. Its power matched Be'lakor in every way, empowered by some unknown source it grew hotter and hotter to counter act the rising tide of evil known as Be'lakor. With the souls of the Creed glutting him and the power of the rift the Daemon Prince only grew in might.

Like a dynamo of psychic energy, the Angel only grew stronger, its flames expanding, filling the sanctum. Scouring away the warp-taint and melting the steel and stone into metal-veined obsidian. It was like fighting a Star, a force of nature. The Angel was practically divorced from human characteristics. Order, pure and dominating order, given flesh. The Angel's body was not immune to its power. Being burned to ash and rebuilt to perfection simultaneously.

Normally, defeat in the material world meant banishment and castigation, annoyances but only setbacks. For an ancient and impossibly powerful Daemon Prince like Be'lakor, true death was a near impossibility. As the Angel-Fire seared his soul, he started to worry if this Anathema-Shard could render him into unbeing.

Growling in fury, Be'lakor channeled all its might into breaking this foe. His power bloomed like a black-hole, growing to devour a world. The entirety of Luna shook with each blow. Thousands of gigatons of imaginary energy distorted space/time and ripped continent-length fissures through the Moon. Twin gods, one of unbending order, and another of eternal chaos dueled and the universe trembled.

Location: Near Luna's core.

Date: 815.M30 (41 Minutes since the Angel's arrival)

After escaping the chamber, the Primarchs desperately sent orders for a mass evacuation across the vox channels on Luna. The pacification of the Moon was dying down, and only a few heavily entrenched holdout of Cultists remained. These traitors cheered the Dark Gods as they saw the Astartes and Auxilia retreat, not knowing the source of this temporary salvation came from their gods' antithesis. Loyalist forces and civilians were herded into massive landing craft. A thunderous migration of millions surged towards the Lunar surface, hoping to reach the Astartes evacuation points. With void control, the entire landing power of three legions could be put to use.

Marcus and Kalib hauled their brother's body through the winding catacombs within Luna. Both superhumans using telepathic and vox communication to coordinate the diaspora towards the Lunar surface. Every few seconds, another detonation from the core would echo through the satellite, buffeting the Primarchs and sending some of their guards stumbling. The Emperor had unleashed something incredibly powerful, and Kalib silently hoped this thing could be locked away again once everything was over.

Relays from the rest of the System were looking excellent however. The enemy fleets had been largely composed of demonically infested hulk-ships, millions of years of burned out cosmic refuse ejected from the Warp by petulant gods. Compared to the full Imperial might commanded by the Primarchs, it was insignificant. The element of surprise and their numbers had been the only advantages possessed. New heroes were baptized in void combat and the start of a thousand legends across the twenty legions started.

The huddled masses of the Solar System had watched the forces of evil come. They had heard the maddened broadcasts howling for death and damnation. Humanity's cradle had shuddered with fear and revulsion as the horrors of Old Night came calling. Those terrified, huddled masses had expected the terrible scene of chaotic and xeno marauders violating entire worlds to come once again. Instead, legions of light marched forth to meet this great enemy. Millions of champions reborn through human mastery of the cosmos had stood between them and the darkness. The Emperor had dueled a false-god and broke it upon the anvil of War. His sons had rallied the mightiest armed force in Sol since the near-forgotten days of the Iron War. The Light of Salvation had come. Suddenly as if a switch was flipped, a new understanding blossomed in the infant Imperium. The Age of Strife was over, the human soul would not be extinguished. No, it would instead burn bright with the light of the Emperor. He was not just the Master of Mankind, but the Herald of its Salvation. The same fervor that pumped through him and his sons filled them as well. The time to run and hide was over. Now it was time to stand and fight.

To the Primarchs within Luna, such grand sentiments escaped them. Grief filled their hearts, and a desperate drive to survive propelled them. The fate of Horus had been hidden from the greater part of the legions so far. Such a crippling blow to morale could not be allowed at such a crucial time. As they fled the calamitous battle raging within Luna, the psionic fire could still be felt. A faint heat that could be detected by all within range. No matter when they were, the sensation of a distant inferno could be felt coming from the core. Psychic feedback rippling through the Imaterium picked up by countless souls.

Marcus and Kalib could only flee and hope to follow the Emperor's orders. The Primarchs, the body of Horus, and their respective honor guards made a strange sight marching through the tunnels. Unknown to them, a hidden agent of Chaos had joined this odd caravan. Hiding in the meniscus between the Materium and Immaterium was Korban the Eversacrifice. Hidden from the distracted sixth sight of the Primarchs, the Daemonhost had stalked them since they exited the inner sanctum, searching for a moment of weakness to strike.

It came when a truly cataclysmic impact shook the moon. Crevices large enough to swallow a man erupted throughout the tunnel which caused the Primarchs to completely stop in their tracks. The quake combined with an eruption of psychic energy buffeted them. At that moment, with all their senses distracted, the Eversacrifice struck. Like some nocturnal fiend, Korban materialized from the shadows. In one taloned hand was an obsidian blade of sacrifice and in the other a bloody goblet.

Supercharged by the blessings of Chaos and striking at a moment of distracted weakness. Korban ripped the cursed dagger across the chests of both Marcus and Horus. The empowered volcanic glass ripped through the auramite armor and raked the Primarchs' flesh. Exhausted from dueling Be'lkaor, Marcus lacked the focus to erect a kine-shield or some similar defense fast enough. A splatter of demigod ichor leaped through the air. Propelled by the blade's edge, like paint dripping from a brush. A few drops from two possible Arch-Traitors were stolen into the goblet.

With both artifacts anointed in the Primarchs blood Korban attempted to flee. In a single fluid motion, he collected the blood, and slashed the dagger across space/time, ripping open a gaping wound into the Warp. Chanting black-prayers to the Dark Gods, Korban leaped through the rift in reality, hoping to escape with this newly born Athame-Dagger. Despite all his gifts, Korban was only a mutated and damned Astartes, not a being capable of harming a Primarch without paying a bloody price.

An edge of blessed Adamant-Silver cleaved through Korban. Kalib Kraad, the XI Primarch had brought his war-axe down on the Eversacrifice's midriff, ripping through tainted ceramite, muscle and bone. With a blow that held the precision of a surgeon's scalpel and the might of an artillery barrage, Korban was broke in half. Vomiting blood and ichor, the Eversacrifice howled in agony as he fell through the portal. His lower half was separated from him and his internal organs were burning in a caustic reaction from the thrice-blessed silver. Crippled and in intense pain, Korban the Eversacrifice tumbled into the Warp, still clutching the artifacts.

With a shudder, the rift shut behind the fleeing Daemonhost, damning him to tumble through the hell-currents of the Warp in a crippled state until the fickle whims of the Dark Gods found it appropriate to release him back into the matterium.

The wounds he had inflicted were neither deep nor cursed. Just powerful enough to shed a Primarchs blood. Loathe to guess at the reason or nature of this bizarre occurrence, the Primarchs continued their mission onwards. They would get their answers eventually, but the threat was dealt with for the time being. Marcus Augistio waved his shocked guards away and continued onwards. Escaping the calamity at Luna's core took all precedent.


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