Chapter 442 – The Primarch's Duty! An Angry Roar! Demands for Answers!
Seeing Horus speak in such a way, Abaddon and the other company commanders could only back down. After all, if the Emperor truly intended to make an example of them, they would have no power to resist.
Everyone knew exactly how overwhelming the Emperor's might was.
Before long, Horus stepped out of the flagship's command center. With the help of his attendants, he removed the heavy power armor from his body and changed into a relatively lighter, more ornate ceremonial outfit.
This ceremonial garb was far less bulky than the armor meant for wartime, but it was still adorned with silk trimmings, gold, diamonds, and other precious metals, with fine and intricate relief carvings at various points.
Even this "lighter" formalwear weighed at least fifty pounds—something no ordinary human could ever manage to wear.
But for Horus, this was the most comfortable clothing he ever donned, reserved only for audiences with the Emperor.
"If I don't come back, you will take command of the Luna Wolves in my place," Horus told Abaddon solemnly. The strange signs surrounding this summons left him unsure whether this trip to Terra to meet the Emperor was good news or ill.
If the worst happened, the Legion would have to be entrusted to his most trusted confidant.
"Yes!" Abaddon replied, though with a complicated expression.
For some reason, Horus could not shake the feeling that the Emperor's reason for summoning him back to Terra was not simply to name him Warmaster—there was likely something more.
But what, exactly, he could not guess.
He carefully reviewed the past two centuries of the Great Crusade, recalling everything he had done with the Luna Wolves under his command. Horus admitted to himself that he had, at times, massacred civilians, razed cities with brutality, and taken war spoils.
But such offenses existed, to varying degrees, among other Primarchs as well—and surely they were better than dabbling in the Warp or psychic powers.
Horus could swear that in the past several centuries, he had never once willfully touched anything to do with the Warp.
That meant the Emperor would not have cause to accuse him of heresy involving the Warp or psykers.
Ruling that out left only one other possibility—the question of who would be named Warmaster.
Could the Emperor have another candidate? Lion, Russ, Guilliman? Based on their records… do they even deserve it?
Horus could not make sense of it.
Once his formalwear was finally in place, he took a deep breath, pushed down the doubts in his heart, and turned to smile at the commanders behind him.
"Gentlemen, the next time you see me, you'll have to call me Warmaster."
Horus did not want his warriors to worry. Today was meant to be the day of his investiture as Warmaster, not a day to be spoiled by baseless speculation.
With that, under the eyes of the Luna Wolves, Horus boarded the craft and departed with the Custodians for the Imperial Palace on Terra.
---
"Your Majesty, Horus has arrived."
Malcador returned with several Custodians to report. Along the way, Horus had done nothing out of line, as if he was certain he would come to no harm.
On the high steps of the throne, the Emperor glanced at Malcador without a change in expression, indicating that he should bring Horus in.
The Emperor had spent no small amount of time considering how to deal with Horus.
Though in the near future Horus would be chosen by the Ruinous Powers as their favored champion, bringing ruin to the Imperium beyond repair, at this moment he was still the Emperor's Warmaster, the pride of the Imperium—and unlike Magnus, he had no real contact with the Warp.
Even if Horus were to be called to account, there would still need to be a concrete charge.
From the intelligence provided by the Universal Megacorp, the root of Horus's eventual fall could be summed up in one word: doubt.
He doubted the Emperor's view of the Primarchs—suspecting that they were mere tools, disposable and concealable at will—and feared that he might one day be "erased" like others.
And in truth, Horus's suspicions were not wrong; the Emperor did see the Primarchs as tools, but that did not mean he felt nothing for them.
It was simply that the weight of his burdens left him unable to give them the care they deserved.
Once the historic mission of humanity's resurgence was complete, the Emperor had fully intended to retire into seclusion with the Primarchs.
But Horus could not see that intention.
Beyond that, Horus harbored a deep loathing for the Imperium's political structure, detesting the corrupt bureaucracy and yearning for a sweeping reform—one in which the Primarchs would hold the reins of power, casting aside foolish mortals and putting the Imperium into the hands of its elite.
The Emperor could understand the sentiment, but from a practical standpoint it was meaningless—and worse, it risked destabilizing the Imperium's already fragile and backward political foundations.
The fact was, Astartes and Primarchs were far too few compared to the teeming masses of ordinary humans.
Even if one Astartes were assigned to govern each colony world, there would never be enough.
Putting Primarchs and Astartes in charge of the Imperium's governance would be nothing more than replacing mortal officials with superhuman ones—the policies would still need mortals to execute.
If the path for mortals to rise into the central government was cut off, the consequences were all too easy to imagine: even worse corruption, even more dysfunctional politics, and perhaps an explosion of Chaos cultists.
When the road upward is barred, some will always take desperate measures—storming the capital is often easier than earning a place within it.
And most crucially—these hulking warriors had no political sense. Put them in charge, and the Imperium would lose the rule of law, replaced by rule of faction and brute strength.
From this perspective, Horus's errors lay in his political vision and his personal feelings toward his "father." He was not beyond redemption; with the right guidance, this Primarch could still be brought back.
---
"Father!"
At that moment, Horus entered the grand hall under Custodian escort, smiling as he looked up toward the throne.
No matter how much time passed, the Emperor always seemed wreathed in a sacred radiance, like a god walking among mortals—so much so that a single glance could drive one to kneel.
Horus had not seen the Emperor in a long time. On his last return to Terra, he had not been granted an audience; after escorting Paul and the others, he had gone back to his homeworld of Cthonia.
Only now had father and son met again.
Horus could hardly wait to share his joy and ask about the investiture.
But the Emperor spoke first.
"Horus, what do you think is the duty of a Primarch?"
The question caught Horus off guard. He could not read any hint of emotion from the Emperor's expression, nor any sign in his tone of whether this was meant as a rebuke or a test.
But the very fact that the Emperor asked such a question ruled out an accusation—if this were a trial, he would not have started with something so… irrelevant.
"Your Majesty, the duty of a Primarch is to safeguard the Imperium of Man, to restore human civilization, and to cleanse the galaxy of xenos!"
This time, Horus chose his words with great care, giving what he believed was a flawless answer.
Even if it was not perfect, it could not possibly be far off.
"Is that so? And you do not think a Primarch is simply a tool I created for the sake of waging war more conveniently?"
The Emperor's tone and expression remained utterly unreadable, like a divine statue carved in stone.
But the words struck Horus like a spear through the spine, freezing him rigid where he stood.
"W–What…"
When that nightmarish word slipped from the Emperor's lips, the fear Horus had buried in the deepest recesses of his heart was laid bare under the harsh light of day.
In that instant, the Emperor before him no longer seemed noble and divine. Instead, Horus saw the shadowed, ruthless visage of a scheming conspirator.
What did the Primarchs truly mean to the Emperor?
Horus had pondered that question countless times, always brushing it aside with a vague answer—summed up in the simplest of terms as the bond between father and son.
But if he were to examine it closely, the relationship between a Primarch and the Emperor was nothing more than that of a vassal and a sovereign. Whether they were mere tools depended entirely on the ruler's needs.
Ever since Magnus had been captured and Prospero destroyed, Horus had wondered if he might become the next "Magnus."
Now, it seemed the Emperor really had regarded them only as tools.
A sudden sting welled at the tip of Horus's nose. The only love in this world without reservation was that between a parent and a child.
Yet all too often, parents did not truly love their children—they simply saw them as a form of insurance, as labor resources to be exploited for profit, with personal gain woven into the arrangement.
Only the child's love for the parent was without condition, without selfish motive. It was not the child who needed the parent, but the parent who needed the child.
To the Emperor, the Primarchs were there to conquer new territories and lead campaigns across the stars. But for all the glory and high titles they had earned, they had never regained the affection the Emperor had once shown them.
Even if Magnus truly had erred, there were ten thousand other ways to handle the matter. Yet the Emperor had chosen the cruelest: annihilating the Thousand Sons, erasing Prospero from existence, and imprisoning Magnus.
Whether Magnus could even survive was another matter entirely.
In that moment, Horus felt the blood in his veins was no longer the sacred lifeblood of the Emperor, but a heavy burden shackled by chains.
He stared wide-eyed at the Emperor's face. The Emperor still looked as exalted and holy as any god—but godhood, Horus realized, meant the absence of humanity. The Emperor's love was boundless… except it no longer extended to his Primarch sons.
Just as Adam and Eve were cast from Eden for eating the forbidden fruit, stripped of their divinity and made mortal, Magnus had sinned—and the Emperor had denied forgiveness, instead delivering divine punishment without hesitation, shaming his own son before the galaxy.
If one day humanity no longer needed the Primarchs, would the Emperor erase them all as he had erased those two missing brothers—wiping away every trace of their existence?
The Great Crusade, the Warmaster's mantle, the honor and accolades—what meaning did they hold now?
Fear and dread closed in. The word "tool" echoed relentlessly in Horus's mind, twisting his stomach into painful knots until he nearly vomited.
The stomach—humanity's emotional barometer—was wracked with stabbing pain. Horus clutched his abdomen, drenched in sweat, desperate to flee this nightmarish place. Warmaster, Primarch of the Luna Wolves—none of these titles meant anything anymore.
But his legs would not move. The entire Imperial Palace felt bound by some unseen spell, pressing him immovably in place.
"Why… What did we do wrong?!"
Horus's whole body trembled as he confronted the Emperor. He could not understand what crime of his had warranted being summoned across the stars just to have his spirit crushed like this.
Was this to be the Primarchs' fate—like the hunting hound butchered once the rabbit was caught? The Emperor no longer needed them for the Great Crusade, so he would imprison them, erase them from memory?
By now, Horus had no desire to be Warmaster. All he felt was a boundless sorrow, the bitter lament that his dearest father would choose this day—his proudest day—to kill him.
"Magnus allied with the warp's foul gods—he sinned and deserved punishment. But what have I done wrong?!"
His furious roar shook the chamber. Even if death was inevitable, he would not go without understanding. He wanted to hear the Emperor admit—out loud—that he had never truly loved them, that they had only ever been useful in the moment.
Facing Horus's bloodshot eyes, the Emperor remained silent. He waited—waited for Horus to unleash all the doubt and fear he had long suppressed.
If such feelings were not purged now, the Chaos Gods would one day exploit them, dragging Horus fully into the darkness.
Better to resolve it all here, once and for all.
The Emperor continued to gaze down at his grieving son. He knew Horus was desperate for an answer—but he would not give it yet. He wanted to hear more.
When the Emperor said nothing, Horus abandoned restraint and spat his anger without hesitation.
"I worked myself ragged uniting those damned fools, making the Primarchs obey my commands, exhausting myself for the sake of the Imperium."
"Countless Astartes have died in alien worlds. Now, after the Great Crusade has finally ended, you would erase us, and hand the Imperium to those pathetic mortals!"
He poured out years of bitterness.
Did the Emperor not know the sort of men his Primarchs were?
Angron—an extreme, bloodthirsty butcher.
Fulgrim—a compulsive perfectionist consumed by his own flaws.
Mortarion—a poison-breathing madman.
Magnus—a proud, arrogant megalomaniac…
If not for Horus's steady hand keeping them in check, the Imperium would have been ruined long ago.
And above all—these victories had been won by the Primarchs and the Astartes. Why should all the spoils now go to mere mortals?
It was unjust.
"What makes them better than us? They are greedy and cowardly, baser than ants, viler than rats—how can they be trusted to rule the Imperium?"
Horus's fury nearly took form, the raw force of his voice shattering porcelain vases in the hall. The Custodians gripped their weapons, ready in case the Primarch lost control.
Malcador said nothing. Like the Emperor, he listened silently, realizing at last how much weight Horus had carried for the Imperium.
"In strength and might, my Luna Wolves can crush the fiercest xenos and guard the Imperium's borders. In loyalty, we Primarchs and the Astartes share your blood—we are your true kin, your truest allies, not those mongrels."
Horus simply could not fathom why the Emperor would treat them this way, when they were so much stronger than mortals in every way.
Mortals—what did they have that the Primarchs did not?
"Those mortals, those wretched nobles and officials, they're all corrupt, disloyal—they twist your decrees for their own gain. How can such filth be worthy of your love?"
As he spoke, Horus's mind replayed countless scenes of purges—corrupt nobles and inept governors bound to stakes and burned, their kin executed in kind. Any who had profited from stolen wealth, Horus had executed without mercy.
He loathed injustice in all its forms.
At last, the Emperor's expression shifted subtly—but still he stayed silent, watching Horus rage.
Time passed. Horus's words dwindled, his emotions cooling slightly. Sweating heavily, breathing hard, he finally voiced his darkest suspicion:
"I know why you called me back to Terra. You mean to strike at the Primarchs—and I'm the strongest of them all."
"You fear I'll strike first, rallying my brothers to tear down the empire you've built."
"Heh… So next, you'll lock me away with that idiot Magnus? Don't. If you do, I'll tear out that fool's throat before your eyes—kill the son you once claimed to love."
Even at the end, Horus hoped for a dignified fate. Being caged with Magnus would only sully his honor as Warmaster.
Magnus had died for consorting with the warp and betraying humanity.
But Horus—Horus had never betrayed the Imperium. Never once had he betrayed the Emperor.
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