The Blood Angels surged toward the Star Tongue Court in fury—black fury. Even Mephiston, their Chief Librarian, could no longer contain his wrath. He was prepared to march from the Archangel's Palace, his soul burning with the fire of vengeance.
"Wait, Mephiston," a frail voice called from the throne.
"Do not let anger cloud your reason. Do not harm the innocent. Cough… cough…"
Between ragged breaths, a pristine white feather, now stained with the blood of an angel, was placed into the Chief Librarian's hand.
Gazing at the crimson mark upon the feather and recalling the Archangel's words, Mephiston was deeply moved.
This was the genetic father of the Blood Angels, the holy Archangel, the perfect son of the Emperor. Even after being struck down by treachery, he still held compassion for mortals.
"Yes, Father. I shall uphold your mercy and restrain my brothers."
Kneeling, Mephiston raised his white wings in solemn devotion, tears glistening in his eyes. Then, without daring to lift his gaze, he departed the palace, afraid that witnessing his Primarch's grievous state would shatter his fragile composure.
Around the palace, the Primarch's personal guards stood vigilant, eyes bloodshot. Inside, only Commander Dante remained, torn between his duty to avenge and his duty to protect.
Regret gnawed at him. He should never have allowed the psyker private audience with the Primarch. Now, he was consumed by remorse, grief, and rage.
"Dante."
A weak but familiar voice broke his thoughts.
"I am here, Father," Dante responded somberly.
"Order me a meal from the Sons of the People," the young Sanguinius murmured.
"...What?" Dante's head snapped up, eyes wide in disbelief.
The Primarch had just suffered a grievous wound, yet he was thinking about food? His appetite was this good?
A thought occurred to Dante—a bold, heretical thought.
"Holy Father, the Apothecaries are on their way. They will tend to your wounds."
"Cough… Dante, do not trouble yourself. It's nothing serious."
Sanguinius' voice was oddly vigorous, despite the blood mist that stained his lips. Yet, to a being of his stature, such an injury was no more than a superficial cut.
Had the medicae arrived moments sooner, they might have had a role to play. But given time, the Archangel would mend on his own.
"I see…"
Dante muttered, watching the Primarch rise from his throne with a mix of awe and exasperation.
He wanted to speak—
But he dared not.
Finally, he sighed and changed the subject.
"Your Highness Dukel has imposed rations. Your brother instructed the Sons of the People not to overindulge you. Our allocation for the month is already exceeded. Ordering more is… difficult."
A fit of violent coughing erupted from the throne.
"…Very well, Father. I will arrange it immediately."
The coughing stopped at once.
Behind his mask, Dante's expression was one of sheer helplessness.
Learning virtue was arduous, but learning indulgence? Far too easy.
And all of it was Dukel's influence!
The Reckoning at the Military Affairs Department
"My Emperor, under Your throne, the Department of Military Affairs has committed heinous crimes!" Dukel's voice thundered before the gates of the Military Affairs fortress.
Three generals from Macragge stood beside him, presenting undeniable evidence. Above, Guilliman loomed, his fury palpable.
A murmur spread through the gathered citizens of the Imperium.
Holographic projectors flickered to life. The priests of the Mechanicus meticulously authenticated each recording. Whenever a projection was confirmed as genuine, the crowd erupted in outraged curses.
Under the watchful gaze of the Omnissiah, the priests would never deceive the Machine Spirit. Nor would they need to.
Life in the Astra Militarum was already a brutal struggle—war, death, and horror awaited them in every campaign. Yet now, it was evident their own military bureaucracy had betrayed them as well.
The projections revealed the grim truth:
The Department of Military Affairs had promised armor for the front lines, yet due to rampant corruption, the gear often arrived two years after the war had ended.
When an Astra Militarum regiment was deployed to high-intensity battlefields, the Department of Military Affairs preemptively sent death notices to their families—without confirmation. The soldiers' death allowances? Vanished.
To cut costs, tactical training was abandoned. Instead, recruits were simply told that Orks, Daemons, Tyranids, and Aeldari were weaklings who would fall before them.
Such reckless incompetence had already cost the Imperium tens of billions of lives.
Dukel had witnessed similar atrocities before. When stationed on Ophelia VII, he had purged over half the local nobility for embezzling soldiers' death stipends. And now, he had found the root cause.
The Primarchs' expressions turned to ice.
Dukel and Guilliman, for all their achievements in governance and statecraft, were first and foremost generals. And nothing enraged them more than the mistreatment of their loyal warriors.
To them, the Military Affairs Department was more contemptible than the Inquisition or even the Administratum.
The Chief of Staff of the Military Affairs Department arrived, oblivious to the storm awaiting him. He saluted the two Primarchs.
"My Lords, what brings you to the Department of Military Affairs?"
The generals had severed his communications before this confrontation, leaving him utterly ignorant of his impending doom.
The Imperial citizens stared at him with growing hostility.
Dukel's voice dripped with fury. "You arrogant wretch, your crimes are laid bare before the Imperium. Confess!"
The Chief of Staff blinked. "...What?"
Under the fire of the Primarch's wrath, he faltered, confused.
Dukel's psychic presence expanded, a towering shadow eclipsing the mortal before him. "Your evil is well-documented. Shall I list your crimes?"
Something in the Chief's mind snapped.
"Wait, I can still count my crimes at this point?!"
His own words shocked him.
The crowd gasped.
For a moment, the Chief felt as though his tongue had betrayed him, revealing his true thoughts involuntarily. And yet, he still did not fully grasp the scope of the situation—until his eyes landed on the holographic projections.
His pupils shrank.
"What… what is that?!"
"Your guilt," one of the Macragge generals declared. "We stand with the Primarchs."
Guilliman nodded approvingly. "Well spoken. You have not dishonored Macragge."
At that moment, the nobles and officials implicated in the recordings began flooding the courtyard, prostrating themselves before the Primarchs.
They knew the laws of the Imperium. In the past, such crimes could be swept aside with bribes, influence, and patience.
But Dukel was unlike any ruler before him.
No one doubted that he would execute them all.
"Your Highness, I confess!" one noble blurted.
"We only followed orders!" another pleaded.
"Great Lord of the Second Legion, we will testify against the Chief of Staff!"
Dukel: "..."
Guilliman: "..."
Chief of Staff: "..."
Dukel and Guilliman exchanged glances, exasperation flickering in their eyes.
The Chief of Staff trembled. "Your Highness… this is a misunderstanding!"
Dukel sneered. "Misunderstanding? Mechanicus, confirm the authenticity."
The Tech-Priests shook their heads. "The data is indisputable."
A cold smile spread across Dukel's face. "Then fabricate another lie, worm. I dare you."
The Chief of Staff fell to his knees.
"My Lords, I am guilty!"
The weight of Dukel's fury crushed him. He had seen what became of those who defied the Primarch's wrath. The Tribunal had already been purged in righteous fire. He would not be next.
Better to submit. Better to live.
"Confession?" Dukel sneered.
"Yes! It is as the generals have said. I strayed from the Emperor's teachings, failed in my sacred duty, and committed grievous wrongs. I acknowledge my sins and seek absolution."
Dukel's mockery deepened. "You deserve to be executed on the spot!"
The Chief of Staff paled. "My Lord, I accept Imperial judgment! But my crimes do not warrant death. According to Imperial law, I shall accept all due punishment. If you disregard the law, it will undermine the Empire's faith in justice! Chaos will follow!"
Dukel's gaze darkened. "You claim innocence in this? Are you certain?"
"I am certain."
"Then continue the playback."
The holo-projectors resumed, broadcasting before the eyes of the Imperium.
The evidence was overwhelming—countless instances of abuse, corruption, and callous disregard for the lives of Imperial soldiers.
But despite the damning display, Dukel's expression twisted with frustration.
"Your Highness," a voice crackled through his comm-link. Efilar, a high-ranking Sister of Silence. "The criminal was meticulous. His words were veiled, his actions indirect. By Imperial law, a death sentence is difficult to justify."
The Chief of Staff exhaled, relieved. For once, he felt gratitude toward his political adversaries—had they not forced him to tread cautiously, he would not have survived so long.
Dukel exchanged glances with Guilliman.
The law was sacred.
But so was reason.
The Second Legion was eminently reasonable.
If someone deserved to die, they would die.
Guilliman's gaze flicked toward an admiral of the Ultramarines.
The officer caught the silent command.
"Your Highness Dukel!" he called. "I report that the Chief of Staff conspired with the 'murderous ghost' to assassinate the Emperor! His secret correspondence is locked within his personal safe."
"What?!" Guilliman roared, turning on the accused. "I pray this is false. That even the Departmento Munitorum did not stoop to regicide."
"No! I swear to you, Your Majesty—I had no part in such treachery!" The Chief of Staff was now truly desperate.
But Guilliman ignored him.
"Calgar! Conduct a search personally! I will see the truth with my own eyes."
"As you command, my Lord."
Calgar and his squad of Ultramarines stormed the archives. Minutes later, they emerged with a safe.
From within, a sealed letter was withdrawn.
The room fell silent.
Dukel's fury burned as fiercely as his sword, which erupted into golden flames.
"Colluding with assassins, attempting to murder the Emperor, striking against a Primarch, inciting rebellion, and betraying Imperial soldiers—are there any depths of treachery you will not sink to?! A criminal of this magnitude deserves nothing less than death!"
With those words, the godlike Primarch brought down his blazing blade, his judgment absolute in the eyes of the gathered Imperials.
For nearly an hour, no evidence had surfaced to sentence the Chief of Staff to death. The Empire's laws were woefully inadequate.
Fortunately, the Lion had taken charge of the Adeptus Arbites.
Dukel could only hope that Imperial law would soon be reforged—so long as the Lion did not take things too far.
The Chief of Staff of the Departmento Munitorum was beheaded, his lifeless eyes staring in shock. As his body collapsed, the assembled crowd gradually dispersed. Yet, even as they departed, their voices of disbelief lingered in the night air.
"By the Emperor, the audacity of the Chief of Staff!"
"My poor son—he died without knowing why, a casualty of a corrupt system. If not for the judgment of the Emperor's sons, we would have never uncovered the truth. Praise be to the Emperor, and to His sons for delivering justice!"
"That traitor deserved his fate."
By dawn, what had transpired this night would have spread across every district of Terra.
As the last of the onlookers departed, Dukel turned to Guilliman. "Brother, from this moment, you are the interim Lord of the Departmento Munitorum."
Guilliman placed a fist to his chest. "I will not fail in this charge. No loyal warrior shall fall in vain under my watch."
"I believe you." Dukel nodded.
Tonight's events made it clear—Guilliman had been preparing for this for some time.
Though he held the title of Lord Regent, his authority, nominally above the High Lords and second only to the Emperor, had been greatly curtailed before Dukel's purge of Terra began. Even with the might of Ultramar behind him, he had been obstructed at every turn by the labyrinthine bureaucracy of Terra.
It had been over four hours since Dukel had set foot on the Throneworld.
The Inquisition, the Adeptus Arbites, and the Departmento Munitorum had all been upended. There was much yet to be done, but for now, power was once again in the hands of the Emperor's sons.
Dukel gazed up at Terra's night sky and exhaled. "Dawn is coming. Light and hope are never far away."
Guilliman, standing beside him, also looked to the heavens.
Then—
"Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!"
A formation of aircraft roared across the sky, their engines howling like hunting beasts.
Dukel blinked. "...What?"
Guilliman frowned. "...What?!"
"Are those Blood Angels' Stormravens? What are they doing? A midnight training exercise?" Dukel asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
"No. Their movements are filled with intent—hostile intent." Guilliman's expression darkened. "We do not yet know their purpose, but we must stop them before they bring chaos to Terra."
Dukel nodded grimly. Neither he, nor Guilliman, nor the Lion desired disorder on the Throneworld. A single misstep here could have ramifications for the entire Imperium.
Were it not for this necessity for stability, the purging of Terra's corrupt nobility would have been far simpler. A few well-placed bombardments would wipe them out entirely—leaving only the Imperial Palace standing. Not even the Imperial Fists could stop such a decisive strike.
But as they prepared to issue the order to intercept the Blood Angels, a massive figure plummeted from the sky.
"Boom!"
Dust and debris scattered as the ground cratered beneath the impact. As the smoke cleared, the armored form of Mephiston, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels, came into view.
Dukel's gaze remained impassive, but Guilliman's eyes narrowed.
"Mephiston," he demanded, "explain yourself."
The Blood Angel said nothing.
Instead, he knelt before them with a heavy thud and… silently wept.
Dukel frowned but extended a hand, pulling the Librarian to his feet without hesitation. "You have done no wrong. Rise. Now, tell us—what has happened?"
Mephiston lifted his head, and both Primarchs saw the raw agony in his bloodshot eyes. Fangs glinted in the dim light—an ominous sign of instability.
Something had driven the Blood Angels dangerously close to losing control.
But what Mephiston said next sent a chill through them both.
"My Lords, Lord Sanguinius has been assassinated. The Grand Master of the Astronomican Court struck him down within the Imperial Palace. He is gravely wounded—his life hangs by a thread."
Dukel and Guilliman exchanged a glance.
Guilliman: "Assassinated? Who would dare? Could this be another deception?"
Dukel: "I don't see a script in his hands."
Guilliman: "So this is real?"
Dukel: "It's real!"
Mephiston withdrew a single white feather, stained with fresh blood.
The two Primarchs stiffened, their pupils contracting. The scent of Sanguinius' lifeblood filled their nostrils.
"To the Astronomican Court!" Dukel roared, his golden flames erupting once more.
Guilliman, equally enraged, brandished the Emperor's Sword.
Even the Lion, upon hearing the news, emerged from the shadows of Caliban, his expression grim.
Sanguinius was beloved by all his brothers—not merely in words, but in truth. Now, in his reborn, childlike state, he was even more vulnerable. No Primarch would stand idle while he was harmed.
To strike at Sanguinius, on Terra, under the very eyes of four Primarchs?
Such audacity could not go unanswered.
But just as they were about to set forth—
"Your Highness, Lord Sanguinius has returned. However… he has exceeded his meal quota by over half this month. Shall we still provide his meal?" The voice of an aide crackled through the vox.
Dukel stopped mid-step. "Sanguinius… is requesting food? Isn't he supposed to be dying?!"
"No, my Lord. He appears to be in excellent health."
Dukel froze.
Realization dawned upon him.
He had been played.
Not just him—his brothers had fallen for it as well. Sanguinius had orchestrated the entire deception.
Damn his dramatic tendencies!
"Your Highness? Shall I serve Lord Sanguinius his meal?" the aide asked again, hesitant. Dante himself was standing before him, his crimson gaze expectant.
Dukel exhaled sharply. "...Give him another drumstick."
"Understood, Your Highness."
As the vox cut out, Dukel muttered, "And tell him his acting was impressive, but next time—don't."
Meanwhile, the Lion and Guilliman, still armed for battle, continued to march forward with their assembled forces.
Dukel grabbed them both and, with a sigh, explained the truth.
The realization struck them like a Thunder Hammer.
The Lion blinked. "...So Sanguinius staged his own assassination?"
Guilliman pinched the bridge of his nose. "By the Throne, that angel is ridiculous."
Still, the Lion mused, "He may have been dramatic, but his actions served us well. The Astronomican Court has long been a source of instability. This may be the moment to purge them."
Guilliman, watching the enraged Blood Angels in the distance, sighed. "If we can stop them from burning Terra down first."
Dukel silently agreed.
The Blood Angels were simply too extreme.