"Lord, the tide of war has diverged from our projections. A strategic shift is imperative," said Fakus from beside him.
Horus did not respond. His gaze remained fixed ahead, unmoved by the counsel.
This was only the beginning of the conflict. He would not retreat—not so easily.
The blue-robed Magos of the Dark Mechanicum had offered similar advice before the first salvo was even fired. But Horus, determined to bring down Dukel, had long since discarded caution. He was a gambler now, and would not fold before the last die was cast.
Especially not when the stakes, in his eyes, were merely a worthless daemon.
Above the atmosphere of Belia IV, the skies bristled with heretical weaponry. Chaos launch silos, daemon-warped turrets, and corrupted mechanical constructs hovered in formation, forming a vast, tangled web—designed to be a death trap for any Imperial advance.
But the trap never sprung.
Before it could claim a single soul, it was annihilated.
The void burned as countless Imperial warships surged forward—armored behemoths armed for total war.
Macro-cannon barrages thundered across space. Plasma lances lit up the void like artificial stars. Torpedoes trailed flame as they punched through reality itself. Even the tides of the Immaterium seemed to recoil before the fury of the Imperium's arsenal.
Where Chaos fleets once held dominion, only wreckage remained. Drifting hulks, burning debris, shattered warships—and the dead. So many dead, scattered across the void like broken promises.
Then came Dukel.
When the Imperial Warmaster unleashed the Circle of Truth, the tide shifted entirely. The veil was parted. The void was broken open for the Imperium's wrath.
Waves of strike craft poured from Imperial carriers like angry hornets, converging on the enemy like divine retribution made manifest. Each fighter weaved between wreckage and fire with impossible precision, executing surgical strikes across the Chaos line.
A colossal fortress-ship of Khorne—a mobile skull shrine bristling with guns—became the eye of the storm. Dozens of fighter squadrons harried it from all angles, disrupting its void-shields, slamming its hull with payloads that shook the stars themselves.
Firestorm after firestorm battered the heretical citadel. The daemon engines within howled in fury, impotent against the orbital onslaught.
A single cruiser locked on, channelling the full power of its primary lance battery.
The void trembled as it fired.
The beam of annihilation struck the Skull Fortress like the hammer of an angry god. A shockwave tore through its structure, igniting internal fuel reserves, and cascading ruptures ripped through its hull.
Within seconds, the entire daemon stronghold was engulfed in blood-red fire—gore boiling in the vacuum, as if the fortress itself was bleeding.
Aboard the Spirit of Vengeance, Horus watched grimly. Data flickered across layered displays, alarms shrieking in relentless rhythm. As the flagship of the daemon fleet, it hovered above the chaos—its bridge a sanctum of dark technology.
He stood before the grand hololithic projector. Shimmering runes and glowing glyphs outlined the battlefield below. Each sphere of light represented an armada—requisitioned vessels, corrupted cruisers, daemon-warped carriers.
"Update the tactical schematics. Relay fleet losses," Horus commanded.
"As you will, Warmaster," Fakus replied, nodding.
As the Dark Thinker interfaced with the projection array, the images shifted. One sigil, burning crimson, pulsed violently.
Alongside it danced erratic data-streams—streams that screamed silently in the tongue of corrupted machine spirits.
Each pulse marked the death of another warship.
Horus's expression darkened.
He had prepared for the possibility of defeat. But not like this.
Not so fast. Not so absolute.
The incompetence of the daemon legions stoked his ire.
This was no longer a pursuit. It had become a battle for survival. His entire strategy teetered on the brink of collapse.
The Imperium's response had been overwhelming. They had obliterated his Chaos fleet with disturbing ease.
Now, at every vector of retreat or reinforcement, Imperial vessels prowled like predators. The roles of hunter and hunted had been reversed in the blink of an eye.
For all his cunning, Horus had miscalculated.
He had believed the Imperium to be a dying carcass—its strength bled dry by ten thousand years of attrition.
But what stood before him was not a corpse. It was a colossus reborn. A war machine more ruthless and precise than during even the Great Crusade.
The contrast was stark.
Compared to the Saint Efilar's forces he had crushed with ease, the legion led by Dukel was like comparing flickering embers to a burning star.
Efilar had been bait. A feint.
It had worked. Horus had believed he had drawn Dukel into a trap.
But now, standing before the true fury of the Imperium's chosen Warmaster, Horus felt only dread.
The daemon fleet he had trusted—champions of the gods, warbands from every dark corner of the Eye—crumbled like brittle bones under Dukel's boot.
No number of daemons could break a god-killer.
"Warmaster, your orders?" Fakus asked again, his voice strained.
"We wait," Horus answered, voice low.
"Wait?" Fakus blinked in disbelief.
Given the severity of the situation, he could not imagine what they were waiting for.
Fakus was no novice—he had seen countless battles, and in moments like this, the only recourse was often direct confrontation. Decapitation strikes. Boarding actions.
—Was Horus planning to assault the Inner Fire?
But even as the thought crossed his mind, Fakus dismissed it.
Dukel was no ordinary foe.
His name echoed through the Immaterium itself. His campaigns were the stuff of nightmare and legend alike.
Magnus the Red and Fulgrim, Daemon Primarchs both, had joined with Kairos Fateweaver, Skarbrand, and the Keeper of Secrets in a grand alliance of Chaos. They had encircled Dukel with an army the likes of which had not been seen in millennia.
He shattered them.
Alone, he captured both Fulgrim and Magnus, dragging them screaming from the Warp.
He razed the Garden of Nurgle. He slaughtered the Great Unclean Ones by the thousands. He tore from the Plague God's hands the Eldar goddess of life herself.
To think of boarding such a man's ship… to even consider it… was to invite death.
They had prepared for Dukel's boarding actions, not Horus's.
As for joining Dukel?
That was unthinkable—
Fakus had seen many foolish ways to die in the warp—but this was, without question, the most absurd.
His thoughts raced to find meaning in Horus' silence, and soon, the answer dawned.
"Brother… have you made your decision?"
A surge of golden light flared as a teleportation array activated. From within the radiance, a towering figure emerged—robed in sanctified gold, like a sun piercing the mists of a dying realm.
Fakus' heart dropped. He turned his gaze toward Horus' unmoving back, trying to make sense of why Lorgar Aurelian, the Bearer of the Word, would arrive here—now.
"How goes the preparation for the rite?" Horus asked.
"All is ready," Lorgar replied with a reverent smile. "The Word Bearers and I have labored without rest, offering sacrifice beyond counting. A sacred temple has been erected at the core of Belia IV."
He stepped forward, his tone fervent. "This world was chosen for a reason. The battlefield was no accident. Now, you need only steel your heart."
Horus gave a curt nod. "Even if it costs me everything, Dukel must be stopped. That oath has never wavered."
"A wise resolve," Lorgar said, his grin deepening. "In just a few brief decades, that man has returned and plunged the galaxy into upheaval. Even the gods are stirred… fate itself coils and shifts around him."
"If you hesitate, if you give him more time—then the end will truly become inevitable."
Horus said nothing, but the flexing of his gauntleted fists betrayed his agreement. The ceramite groaned under pressure, and the crimson light of rage flickered in his eyes.
This was the reason he had made his choice.
He had glimpsed a future none should witness—and even without the guidance of prophecy, the signs of impending doom were written across the stars.
Dukel's weapons—alien, unknowable—were unraveling the fabric of the warp itself. Every moment of their activation fractured the boundaries of the immaterium.
Horus did not understand how the energy was extracted—nor where it went—but he did understand its consequence.
It would tip the balance between the materium and the immaterium until reality itself collapsed. The cosmos would fall to entropy.
Anyone with insight could see this future looming.
And so, like a gambler who saw ruin on every side, Horus had no choice but to wager everything. Dukel's strength grew by the day. To delay even a moment more was to surrender the last chance to win.
Dukel, seated upon his throne aboard the Inner Fire, leaned forward slightly, his eyes half-lidded in thought.
"What will you do now, old friend?" he murmured to the shadows, contemplating Horus' silence.
From all indications, the daemon legions were finished—doomed to annihilation. And yet… Horus remained.
He wasn't retreating. Which meant he had another plan.
After a moment, Dukel clapped his hands once.
A ripple of warp distortion spread through the throne room as dozens of Doom Slayer elites stepped forth. Led by the ever-silent Doom, they knelt on one knee beneath his gaze—silent, armored titans awaiting the call to war.
"My sons," Dukel said solemnly, rising from his throne and descending the obsidian steps. "It is time to fight—not for conquest, but for mankind's dream."
He reached down, helping each of them to their feet. His touch was firm but gentle, his actions carrying the quiet dignity of a true father. He adjusted the pauldrons of one, the warcloak of another. His care was sincere.
He stood tall among them.
"For ten thousand years, we have endured nothing but strife. Through darkness upon darkness, we've survived—barely."
His voice echoed like thunder within the chamber.
"Our people have been tormented by xenos, defiled by heretics, and betrayed by our own."
"Plague. War. Temptation. Deceit." He spat the words like poison. "The enemy wears many masks—but its aim is always the same. To see us broken."
"I have seen our kin cry out in despair, clawing for hope while choking on ash."
"In a galaxy of flame, every soul struggles. Reason is cast aside, compassion a forgotten luxury. There is no peace—only survival."
He paused, pacing slowly through the ranks of kneeling warriors.
"Sacrifice became routine. Every world a war zone. Every dawn uncertain."
"The blood of our enemies and the blood of our brothers both stain the soil of a thousand worlds. I have looked to the stars and wondered—will our children ever see a future worth living for?"
He stopped. His gaze sharpened.
"That future will not come unless we carve it with our own hands."
"The age when we must suffer endlessly is not eternal. That vision—of peace, of dignity—is worth fighting for. Worth dying for."
He drew his blade and raised it skyward.
"You are my sword. You are my wrath. You are my unshakable oath, made flesh."
Tears welled in the eyes of even the most hardened warriors.
Every Doom Slayer was a veteran of countless campaigns, their souls etched with pain. They had borne witness to humanity's worst agonies—and now, they would answer with fire.
"Father, we don't—" Doom's voice came from within his helmet, low and hollow.
He meant to say more, but Dukel raised a hand, silencing him with the simple gesture.
"Fight for me," Dukel commanded. "Draw your swords for the common ideal of mankind, my sons. I still believe that the golden age shall come—not by sentiment or mercy, but through fire that burns away the dark."
Zheng—!
As Dukel's voice echoed through the war-torn throne room, the Doom Slayers drew their blades in unison. The crimson glow of energy fields crackled along each Argentinum-forged weapon. There was no need for speeches. No need for further ceremony. Only action.
These warriors—veterans of countless battlefields—had long since shed any fear of death. They were not men. They were the extension of Dukel's will.
The Emperor had once forged angels in gold. Dukel, the Warmaster, had forged these in wrath.
They did not fight for praise. They fought for purpose.
And no daemon nor god of the warp could shake that resolve.
As the air distorted with rippling warp signatures, the Doom Slayers vanished.
They were not gone—they had entered the battlefield.
Across the scorched plains of Belia IV, traitors and daemons alike felt the tremor of their arrival. The presence of the Slayers turned the atmosphere leaden with dread. Traitor Astartes and daemonic entities turned to flee, their courage melting into panic.
It was too late.
Where the Doom Slayers tread, a vortex of violence followed. The very air seemed heavier, as if reality itself recoiled at their presence. The cursed creatures of the Immaterium hesitated, unnerved by the unnatural calm of their executioners.
Weapons forged from sub-Argentum energy alloys—gifts from the Fabricator-General himself—gleamed with a killing light. Demons who once reveled in slaughter now trembled, their primal instincts overridden by something alien to them: fear.
Dukel sat once more upon his throne, unmoved. He watched as his sons descended into carnage.
"Kill them all," he ordered, voice level and devoid of joy.
There was no triumph in this. The Doom Slayers annihilated daemons as easily as mortals consumed rations. Efficient. Inevitable. Unfeeling.
The battlefield shifted.
The moment Doom himself emerged, a psychic scream erupted across the daemonic ranks. Even the lesser warp entities, mindless and savage, recoiled from his presence. The front lines of the daemonic host broke and scattered, but escape was futile.
There was no sanctuary.
With a blur of motion, Doom's blade—pulsing with scarlet light—swept through the air. With every strike, limbs, heads, and torsos were carved apart. Daemons fell by the dozens, butchered by a weapon that had tasted the blood of horrors beyond mortal comprehension.
There was no need to preserve the corpses for the Argentum Foundries. There were more than enough daemons on Belia IV to drown the planet.
The Doom Slayers were not collectors. They were destroyers.
They were the Empire's sharpest instruments of war—divine weapons wielded by the Warmaster himself.
All enemies of mankind would fall to them.
Greater Daemons, creatures who had razed entire systems and shattered Imperial battlefleets, howled in despair. Their guttural roars turned into curses—foul, chaotic invocations hurled at the Slayer who now cut through their ranks like a scythe through wheat.
Doom offered no reply.
He didn't need to.
Even when they were soldiers of Krieg, trained from birth to accept death without emotion, they had never shown such quiet fury. Doom needed no words. No acknowledgment. He existed for this sole purpose:
To destroy.
And so, the destruction continued.
…
TN:
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