Lucius the Eternal fell.
Once the proud 13th Captain of the Emperor's Children, Lucius had earned countless honors ten millennia ago through peerless swordsmanship. But that glory had long since rotted, drowned beneath the weight of depravity. The son of the Emperor had been twisted by the excesses of the Prince of Pleasure—and now, the hour of his true death had come.
A crimson blade pierced his chest, and for the first time in eternity, Lucius felt not perverse ecstasy in death—but pure agony. Oblivion stared back at him, cold and final.
No sentient being is immune to the fear of true annihilation.
His god could no longer reach him.
The whip of torment in his hand—once a conduit of exquisite agony—was now nothing but splintered debris. Even his howling armor, which had devoured the souls of the slain, lay shattered.
A blade of alternate gold drove through his back, piercing both body and soul. It scarred even his essence, a blow from which not even the Warp could heal him.
In ages past, every death had only fueled his pleasure and rebirth. With each kill by another's hand, Lucius would reemerge, birthed anew in the flesh of his killer. It was the grotesque gift of Slaanesh—resurrection through ruin.
But not this time.
He felt it—the severing. The god's favor slipping away like blood from a wound. There would be no rebirth, no ecstatic scream of resurrection. Only cold silence.
This was true death. And with it came no satisfaction, only dread.
Lucius cried out to Slaanesh, desperate for salvation. He begged for the cycle to begin again, for a return to torment. But no answer came.
They called him the Undying, but he had never truly faced death. He had imagined it as a final, glorious act—an artistic flourish on the stage of damnation. He had once yearned for it, intoxicated by fantasies of self-destruction.
But now that it was upon him, he cowered.
Terror stripped him bare. His limbs trembled. He crawled like a beast, desperate to flee the blade.
A ceramite boot slammed down on his skull, grinding his misshapen face into the mud.
Humiliation surged through him—but fear drowned even that.
For a fleeting moment, the grip of Slaanesh loosened. Panic overtook devotion. Lucius, once the epitome of arrogance, considered pleading for his life.
But the warrior behind him showed no mercy. The blade fell. His head hit the ground, rolling away into the blood-soaked dirt.
There is no clemency in the Imperium.
There is no peace for the traitor.
The Slayer—Dukel—would hound the enemies of the Emperor and Warmaster to the ends of the galaxy. No god, no daemon, no heretic would be spared. Not until the last was ash.
Within the warp-ravaged skies of Belia IV, the heavens twisted unnaturally. Colors danced out of alignment, bleeding into one another with maddening vibrancy.
Above, the Chaos fleet was breaking.
Wreckage drifted through the kaleidoscopic void—hulks of daemon ships, alien corsairs, and renegade warbands torn asunder by righteous fire. The so-called allies of Chaos had never been loyal. Now, sensing their doom, they fled like rats.
The Plague Arks, Skull Fortresses, Blood Comets, and Crystal Towers—monstrosities gifted by the Ruinous Powers—fell burning from orbit, broken and cast down.
From the bridge of his command vessel, Dukel rose from his throne. He gazed upon the surface of Belia IV with grim consideration.
A structure below had seized his attention—a massive temple-city of unfamiliar design. It did not conform to the Eight-Pointed Star, the standard architectural motif of Chaos worship.
Instead, it bore nine thrones.
The ninth stood at the center, empty and untouched.
In all the annals of heresy, no cult dared build for the entity it represented—the End and the Beginning, the All and the Nothing, the One who embodies Chaos itself.
That throne was never meant to be filled.
And yet it stood there, as if waiting.
If any being in existence could claim closeness to it, it would be Dukel.
This impossible temple had been constructed under the direction of the Great Speaker, a prophet whose true allegiance was known only to a few.
Such an anomaly required Dukel's personal intervention.
On the surface, battle still raged.
Asmodai, Interrogator-Chaplain of the Dark Angels, faced a grotesque monstrosity swollen with corruption. The creature's armor was layered like diseased scales, each joint seeping rot. Beneath decaying ceramite, flesh pulsed wetly, the stench of filth thick in the air.
A traitor once human—now bloated by the favor of Nurgle.
"You are nothing, Asmodai," the daemon-host sneered, its voice a chorus of buzzing flies. "Even if you die today, your death will mean nothing. Not to the Damned, not to the Warmaster, not even to your Primarch. You bow to them like a hound, but they see you as nothing more than a weapon—one easily discarded."
Psychic venom laced every word.
Asmodai resisted, but fragments of memory cut through his defense. Cold dismissals from the Lion—his Primarch, Lion El'Jonson—moments when he had felt more tool than son.
Doubt bloomed.
Humiliation surged.
And with it, fury.
He roared and struck, his Crozius crashing down like righteous thunder.
But the traitor laughed—a laugh full of mockery.
Despite its swollen form, the heretic moved with uncanny speed. It parried Asmodai's strike with a moss-covered bone club, the weapon unnaturally durable. Cracks lined its surface, but it did not break, even under a Chaplain's wrath.
Its origins were ancient—older than most could comprehend. Perhaps even predating the Heresy.
"I'll admit," the traitor rasped, "your new technology gives you an edge. But I've fought this war for ten thousand years, little zealot. You still have much to learn."
And the duel continued—righteous fury against rot-born malice, both locked in a war that would not end until one lay in ruin.
"It's a pity you'll never have the chance to learn," the traitor sneered. "Your worthless life ends here."
Asmodai did not waver. He steadied his breath and launched another assault, chainsword roaring with righteous fury. Every swing cleaved through the air like thunder—proof of the enhanced might granted by the Primaris transformation.
But the Fallen warrior remained unshaken. He met each strike with the calm of centuries, his blasphemous skill honed over ten thousand years of war.
Asmodai's armor, already fractured from earlier battles, was failing. Power conduits sparked wildly from ruptured seams; ceramite plates had split, revealing delicate circuitry beneath. Each wound in the armor echoed as pain through his interface ports, nerves alight with agony.
The Fallen saw these weaknesses and exploited them mercilessly. Each blow targeted a breach, widening it further. Asmodai bit down, jaw clenched, refusing to cry out and disgrace himself before this corrupted foe.
He had fought without pause for weeks. His frame ached. His mind burned. But he stood still—propelled not just by guilt over the Saint, but by his burning hatred for the traitors who had defiled the Imperium.
He would never let a Fallen mock his weakness. He would endure, and when the time came, he would tear the heretic's head from his body.
Yet the tide of battle turned. His power armor was collapsing. The enemy—infuriatingly nimble despite his bloated form—pressed the advantage.
Asmodai gasped for breath. Sparks danced around him. He parried another crushing blow and searched desperately for an opening—any opening.
Then—
Bang!
With a dull clang, the Fallen's weapon smashed his chainsword aside. It clattered across the ruin-strewn battlefield.
Now disarmed, Asmodai had only his fists.
Though the Rubicon Primaris had given him superior physicality, it was still no match for the dark martial prowess of a warrior blessed by the Ruinous Powers.
The Fallen's corrupted bone-club swung again, whistling through the air. Asmodai dodged by inches, lunged forward, and in a burst of strength, wrenched the weapon from the heretic's grasp, hurling it into the distance.
He would not wield daemon-forged filth. That weapon—spawned from warp-cursed bone and plague—would taint the soul of any who held it too long.
The two warriors clashed again, this time barehanded.
It didn't matter. The traitor had the upper hand.
A brutal punch sent Asmodai sprawling. The Fallen straddled him, pinning the Interrogator-Chaplain beneath his bulk.
"Let me hear you scream," the heretic hissed, voice bubbling with madness.
With a savage motion, he tore the flesh of his forearm and revealed a jagged bone spur—filthy and wrapped in the pus of Nurgle's blessings. He drove it down, aiming for the back of Asmodai's skull.
The Dark Angel's helmet was torn free, flung into the ash-choked air.
Foul stenches overwhelmed him: the reek of scorched atmosphere, the stench of the heretic's unclean body, and the rot of death that clung to every follower of Nurgle.
Asmodai choked. He gagged. Vertigo gripped him.
He snarled, summoning one last surge of strength, and broke free—forcing the traitor off him.
But the Fallen came again, grinning wide. The bone spur flashed toward his throat.
Asmodai had no strength left to dodge.
Is there still a place for a sinner like me upon the Throne? he thought, just moments before the killing blow.
Whispers rose around him—indistinct, maddening—calling for his end.
And yet, there was no fear in his heart. Only sorrow. Unfulfillment. Regret.
He, Asmodai, had always been the most uncompromising among the Dark Angels. Even the Grand Masters had only grudgingly accepted his counsel.
Even his Primarch, Lion El'Jonson, had been unable to bear his severity—leaving Asmodai cold and embittered, his zeal unrecognized, his loyalty unthanked.
For a time, he believed he would rust away in silence, a dagger left in its sheath.
But the Warmaster—Dukel—and the Saint had trusted him. They restored him to the battlefield. They listened. They believed.
And what had he done?
He led them into disaster. His rigid guidance brought ruin to the Imperial fleet. Even the Warmaster himself had been forced to take the field.
His failure was complete.
And now, so was his end.
Perhaps this is just, he thought, as the bone spur plunged toward his throat.
He did not fear death. Nor did he fear the fate of his soul falling into the clutches of daemons. All he wished for now was the chance to atone. Even if his soul were granted passage back to the Throne, he would not dare lift his eyes to meet the Emperor's gaze—nor stand among the Imperium's true heroes.
In a haze of pain and regret, he beheld a vision: a massive burning halo of thorns, wreathed in golden flame, descending over the battlefield like the judgment of the divine.
Then—bang.
The corrupted bone spur stopped just before his eye, frozen in place, unable to pierce further.
A moment later, the fallen warrior's head burst apart with a sickening pop, splattering Asmodai's face with vile, stinking gore.
He barely noticed.
Choking back the smell, he twisted around, desperate to see the warrior who had come to his aid.
And then—he saw him.
A giant among giants.
Even a Primaris Astartes would barely reach his waist. The figure strode through the battlefield clad in armor of obsidian, crimson, and gold. A blood-red cape trailed behind him like the banner of a god. In one hand, he held aloft a towering standard—its aquila blazing with light, driving back the shadows like a dawn upon the void. In the other hand, he carried a flaming sword, crackling with unnatural heat and wrapped in an aura of holy wrath.
Behind him surged a host of warriors—tall, disciplined, and filled with fire. Each of them bore marks of elite status: blade veterans, chapter champions, shield bearers of the Imperium. They howled oaths of loyalty and wrath as they carved through the daemonic tide.
Chainswords shrieked. Bolt rounds thundered. Psyker fire seared across the sky. The corrupted were cleaved apart—traitors and warp-spawn alike torn into ruin.
The filth of Chaos ran in rivers.
And yet, as the colossal figure advanced, everything else faded in Asmodai's perception. The screams, the roars, the clash of war—it all dulled to silence.
The giant strode forward, lifted the chainsword Asmodai had dropped, and offered it back to him.
"Take your weapon, son. Can you still fight—for me?"
His voice was a war drum, booming and relentless. Though casual in tone, there was no mistaking the authority in it. This was not just a commander. This was a banner incarnate, a man whom warriors would follow into the Eye of Terror without hesitation.
Asmodai stared, breath caught in his throat, heart pounding with renewed fury. His hand closed around the hilt of his chainsword.
"Of course!" he roared, every syllable filled with zeal. His battle cry cracked like thunder across the field.
The giant nodded once, approving.
"Then stand. And show your enemies the fury of your faith—the fire in your blood is far from spent!"
Those words burned hotter than promethium in his veins. Asmodai felt the weight of exhaustion melt away, washed clean by purpose. Pain became meaningless. Doubt shattered.
He rose.
And charged back into the fight.
At his side were the giant and his honor guard—unbreakable, unyielding. Warriors of the Imperium with iron discipline and absolute loyalty, each moving in perfect synchrony.
They were not a warband.
They were judgment.
Asmodai fought among them, cleaving through the heretics and the unclean, purging the warp-spawn with blade and fury.
The tide of battle turned decisively.
The remaining cultists and daemons, entrenched behind makeshift barricades, continued to resist in futility. Screaming prayers to their forgotten gods, they held their ground in blind hope. But the Dark Gods had long since abandoned them, casting them into the fray as little more than meat for the grinder.
They were cannon fodder—too broken to realize it.
Still, they shouted the names of their masters in desperation, clawing for divine favor that would never come.
But above their cries, above the din of battle, the warriors of the Imperium raised their own battle hymn:
"For the Warmaster! For the Emperor!"
Asmodai shouted with them, his voice raw and loud. His spirit soared—not just in service to the Emperor, but now also for the Warmaster: the towering figure whose flame had reignited his own.
And so they charged, into hellfire and ruin.
"For the Warmaster! For the Emperor!"
"For the Throne and Mankind!"
…
TN:
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