Chapter 468: Aftermath and the Movement of Kings
The sun rose over the "Eye of the Desert" on Calth, its light piercing and clear.
The sky was the hue of a cornflower blue. As the fires of war were extinguished, a cool breeze swept across the landscape—perfect weather for the fleet to set sail.
Lander-craft descended from the heavens in a steady stream. Logistical corps, their spirits buoyed by victory, began establishing outposts to process the nightmare of a battlefield that had twisted the planet into something unrecognizable.
Heavy machinery was gathered under the direction of Tech-marines for vox-diagnostic and physical repair. Many guardsmen, upon hearing the declaration of victory, collapsed where they stood—their strength finally failing as they slumped into the rubble, clutching their lasguns, their deep snores punctuated by the distant sounds of reconstruction.
Their uniforms were caked in filth, hanging loose on frames thinned by months of deprivation; their armor was a map of scars. Logistical servitors moved the lightened bodies onto transports, ferrying them to designated rest hubs. They had all grown gaunt over the campaign, but their eyes were full. None wore the hollow, shattered expression of the defeated.
Humanity had won this war.
Truly.
The air felt lighter now. Though the atmospheric toxicity still forbade the lifting of all safety protocols, the danger was receding. As long as they did not venture into the high-contamination zones without psyker-escort, commanders even allowed crews to leave their vehicles for a breath of filtered air—provided they wore full rebreathers and sealed hazard-suits.
Following brief memorial services, officers and generals began the arduous task of post-war assessment. The tireless Astartes threw themselves into search-and-rescue operations. They used their transhuman strength to lift steel girders no mortal could budge, pulling lives from the ruins while casting reverent glances toward the returning Angel.
Nurgle had paid the price for His transgression.
The XIV Legion—the Death Guard—had been broken as a cohesive force. The domain of the Plague Garden in the Warp had undergone a massive contraction. The other three Ruinous Powers had wasted no time seizing the abandoned territories, but most devastating was the Emperor's Legion of the Damned. After Karna had pierced Nurgle's Great Cauldron, an infinite tide of burning specters had flooded the Plague God's Manse, coiling beneath His very arms and forcing Him into a stagnant agony between existence and oblivion.
He could let the Cauldron be overturned and embrace a greater power to destroy the invaders, but He could not do so and preserve His own identity.
Thus, the Plague God was reduced to a grotesque, frozen posture, struggling to maintain a mask of benevolence that had been shredded to ribbons. His influence on the material realm plummeted; across a dozen sectors, the plagues that had ravaged human worlds were visibly receding.
"The Imperial Navy fleets in the Gothic Sector are moving again," Ramesses noted, receiving the data-bursts via the Warp-link immediately.
The Imperial high command, long influenced by the Dawnstar Sector, maintained stable communication lines with the Dawnbreakers. This allowed the Lords of the Dawn to track the shifting tides of the galaxy in real-time, even if the finer details required boots on the ground.
It was a promising start, but—
Ramesses felt a nagging dissonance.
He might not fully grasp the intricate political theater of the material world, but his eyes were fixed on the Warp.
The one thing that drove Nurgle to go 'all-in'... where is it?
Where is the Godblight?
Ramesses scratched his head, his brow furrowing. His data-collection sub-routines were hung up on this singular missing variable. He queried the Legion of the Damned within the Garden, but the burning ghosts had no answer.
"What is it?" the Lion asked, reviewing his own tallies.
Through his mastery of the battlefield, the Lion had broken over twenty Death Guard-held Daemon Worlds in rapid succession. He had driven the XIV Legion into a corner in Ultramar and forced Mortarion into an ending the Dawnbreakers could accept.
He was satisfied.
But Ramesses' expression suggested that the victory was not as simple as it appeared.
"I feel like something is missing," Ramesses replied.
The Lion felt an instinctive flicker of annoyance at this post-war skepticism.
"..."
The Lion grunted, clearing his mind of tactical calculations to focus on potential omissions.
"Relax, it's not on you," Ramesses said, waving a hand to dismiss the Lion's concern. "You did the killing. The rest is our problem."
"What feels wrong is the Godblight. The plague Nurgle intended to use on Guilliman. It's gone. It wasn't in the fleet, and the Legion of the Damned didn't find it when they stormed the Garden."
Ramesses paused, pondering.
Given the presence of Iron Warriors within the Death Guard ranks and early sightings of Magnus the Red, he suspected the Lord of Change.
Typical. The Blue Bird can't help but stir the pot.
He decided not to dwell on it. He explained the current threat level of the Godblight to the Lion.
"It's not a critical issue for now. Nurgle is too busy holding His pot together to gamble again. The toxin's influence on a Primarch is limited anyway. Just keep your eyes open the next time we deal with Chaos."
"Understood," the Lion nodded, his suspicion evaporating.
This was the most refreshing part of dealing with "sane" people. They told you the threat directly so you could prepare, rather than speaking in riddles or hoarding secrets for the sake of drama.
"No further missions?"
"None. The priority now is Macragge. I've finalized the protocol for Old Thirteen's resurrection. It would be a tragedy if we missed the opening act."
Ramesses smiled mischievously. "But don't rush too hard. We need to pick up Karna first."
Now was the time to savor the victory.
At the very least, with their presence, humanity had earned a moment to breathe, to embrace flowers and honor without fearing the corruption of Slaanesh.
Let Guilliman wake to his own triumph.
A spark of urgency ignited in the Lion's heart.
He bid farewell to Ramesses and returned to the command throne of the Invincible Reason.
His reports were compiled and transmitted through the communication matrix. The integration of the Legion allowed his commands to flow with perfect fluidity. Almost every officer remaining in the Ultramar theatre was of the Legion; the mortal commanders had been rotated out for much-needed rest.
Occasionally, the Lion would encounter a mortal officer in Ultramarines livery. They would exchange a nod or a faint smile. These people, like the Lion himself, were far from their original homes, yet they refused to leave the side of these "strange outsiders," choosing to stand with them until the end.
This was the nature of the Dawnbreakers: given enough time, they assimilated everything.
The Lion looked at the Dark Angels gathered around him.
They were waiting.
With the decisive victory secured, one task remained.
They were to be deployed to Macragge, the jewel of Greater Ultramar.
Time was short. The Legion was eager to reach the crown-world they had bled to protect. Though the black-clad knights performed their duties with clinical precision, a subtle undercurrent of excitement ran through the ranks.
The Lion was deep in thought. The Dark Angels watched him with bated breath.
Hundreds of warriors stood on the bridge. The Lion knew them all—their origins, their training scores, their classified evaluations, their psychological profiles stored within the Round Table archives, and the honors they had won in this campaign.
The Dark Angels waited in silence.
"The objective is clear. Consolidate the fleet. Prepare for transit. I have no rewards for you here," the Lion said, his face a mask of stern discipline. "Let us go and find the Lord of Knights."
The Dark Angels saluted, their swords striking the deck in unison.
Now, they were whole.
Now, they lacked for nothing.
"WE ARE THE FIRST!" they roared.
"GLORY TO THE LION AND THE LORD OF KNIGHTS!"
Then, with an even deeper fervor:
"FOR HUMANITY!"
The Lion smiled. When Farith Redloss stepped forward to join the vanguard, the smile widened.
"It is over."
Arthur ascended the winding staircase, his heavy boots sinking slightly into the living metal flowing across the deck.
Corvus Corax stood beside him, the shifting shadows around his form coalescing into the shape of a somber young man.
"A gratifying result," Corax remarked.
Based on the data the Lion had secured, they had neutralized the Pharos beacon on Sotha—the Necron relic capable of acting as a Warp-beacon and facilitating FTL jumps.
The C'tan Shards within had been scrubbed of their consciousness. Trazyn, assisted by a team of defected Necron chronomancers, was beginning the restoration of the beacon. Without the need to suppress the star-gods' wills, the power requirements were manageable. Aside from the energy needed for operation, the Dawnbreakers had secured three inert C'tan Shards as a byproduct.
While not a decisive strategic advantage on its own, an unconscious C'tan Shard—as long as it didn't fall into the hands of an ego-maniac—was enough to ensure a sector capital could never be breached by a direct Warp-incursion.
This was why the Dawnbreakers felt comfortable leaving the Dawnstar Sector to support other fronts. As long as the core system of Dawnstar remained secure, the entire sector could weather any storm.
"Guilliman is about to wake," Arthur said, casting a glance at Corax.
"Coming with us?"
Corax and Guilliman hadn't had the best relationship in the 30k era, but they were, ironically, quite compatible. Back then, they used to play war games together. Corax won the first three rounds, and then never won again.
"..."
Faced with Arthur's sudden invitation, Corax looked conflicted.
"I won't broadcast the fact that you were the first to return. Besides, the Lion is here. I think he'll be more than happy to take the spotlight," Arthur joked, already planning the commendation ceremonies.
The situation was finally improving. The grim, weighted demeanors that Arthur and Romulus had carried for years had lightened. They could finally afford to laugh.
Arthur understood Corax's mindset.
The "First Primarch to Return" held immense symbolic weight, and Corax instinctively recoiled from such worship. He was still "twisted" inside, believing he had failed in the past. He sought to avoid the public eye.
The Melancholy Youth syndrome, Arthur thought. He needs to get out more.
Let the Lion chase the glory of being the "First Son." He would thrive on it.
As for Corax, while they wouldn't force him onto a pedestal, he deserved the honors. Without Corax, the Dawnstar Sector wouldn't have been liberated so quickly. They would still be wandering the Obscurus Segmentum.
And did he really not want to go?
Thinking of the cheers of the mortals he had personally saved... thinking of the era of stability he had helped forge... thinking of the fact that his efforts would be recognized by those who stood beside him in the light...
Corax hesitated.
He wants to go.
"Let's go together," Arthur repeated with a soft smile.
Sometimes, a man just needs a graceful way out of his own head.
"Very well," Corax finally nodded.
"Hmph!"
Magnus the Red lowered his trembling hand, feeling as though a high-voltage current were still coursing through his fingers.
He toyed with the dagger Mortarion had gifted him, observing the horror unfolding in the pool below.
Countless Unaligned daemons howled in a vat of liquid toxin. Even the Greater Daemons—entities who usually enjoyed immense status within the Warp—were struggling in the sludge.
They lasted only a moment longer than the lesser spawn.
The clamor and shrieks echoed through the Empyrean, reaching all the way to the crystalline spires of the Crystalline Labyrinth.
"I warned you," Magnus chuckled, mocking his brother who was now a prisoner of Nurgle.
"My life has always been one of brilliance. There is no such thing as failure for me. How could you have forgotten?"
Thinking of the "glorious life" of Ramesses recorded in the archives, Magnus—now a denizen of the Warp—felt a surge of pride.
Magnus was arrogant because of his nature, but for that very reason, he did not underestimate his opponents. In his view, unless he found a chance for a one-on-one duel, even one as masterful as he could not break the Dawnbreakers.
Are those four even something we should be fighting?
After checking their "pedigree," Magnus had lost all desire to contest them.
So, was his deal with Mortarion a waste of effort?
No. Of course not.
"Mortarion can continue his self-deception," the Crimson King said. "Let the Dawnbreakers and the Lion have their celebration. It is their last chance. For me, this is no defeat. They were never my true enemies. I have already obtained what I sought."
Romulus wasn't the only one who had been forced to strike a brother. And Guilliman didn't have to be the only one to suffer the toxin of the Godblight.
There was another.
One who had also chosen to strike his brother. One who was also a King.
And he was an existence fundamentally different from those four powerful upstarts.
"LEMAN RUSS!"
Magnus clenched his fist.
His words held a hatred so cold it made the Tzeentchian Greater Daemons around him tremble.
He cast one last glance at the Godblight, opening his hand to sweep the screaming daemons and the plague essence into his grasp.
His malicious words stirred a tsunami in the Warp.
"I am coming for you."
Crack-snap!
He woke with a start.
Though his mind was heavy and sluggish, a primal reflex forced Mortarion into motion.
He rose instantly, moving toward the source of the sound, his transhuman senses straining to perceive his surroundings.
Life. Please, let it be life.
The Pale King raced toward the sound.
As his iron boots crushed bone-meal, he saw a deformed skeleton fall.
"No!"
Mortarion fell to his knees.
A wisp of death-essence escaped him, making the pallor of his frame even more pronounced.
He looked around.
This world was infinite. Cold. Deep. Built of endless skeletons and silence. There was no scent. The ground was composed of layers of bone so thick he had yet to touch the bedrock.
Mortarion suspected the depth was infinite, but he dared not verify it.
The sky was black. The earth was white. Everything was covered in bone. A cold, black sun illuminated the landscape, showing the same monotonous scene in every direction.
This was the reward for his failure.
Mortarion looked up, wanting to call the Grandfather's name, wanting to beg for forgiveness.
"..."
The words died in his throat. He swallowed his own withered tongue.
Mortarion looked horrific—withered, a living skeleton. The skin and muscle that once covered his frame had vanished. With every passing second, he felt himself fading away, bit by bit.
He had prayed a thousand times. There was no reply.
He let out a plea, but he could not even see himself.
Aside from the sound of piling bones, the world was silent.
Mortarion wasn't even sure how much time had passed. His perception of chronology had dissolved into a blur.
If this is the price of failure—
Steady!
Hold your ground. Steady.
Nothing was decided yet. Mortarion had endured crushing defeats and chaos throughout his long life.
Whenever he acted, smoke would rise to blind him, followed by a sudden downturn in fortune.
Stay calm. Stay focused.
Don't panic.
He comforted himself, his finger reaching out with extreme caution toward a skeleton, as if hoping the bones would come to life.
His finger touched the bone. Instantly, it turned to drifting dust.
"..."
He walked to a pile of bones.
As was his habit, he climbed to the highest point he had built and continued to wait.
Wait.
Waiting for his consciousness to dissipate in an infinite loop of death. Waiting for his senses to return to the silence of the grave.
WAIT!
He punched the ground.
There was no echo. The bones turned to sand instantly, flowing into the dark fissures.
"FATHER!" he screamed.
Or at least, he opened his skeletal jaw as if to scream.
"If this is your punishment for a traitor, then you have succeeded!"
He cursed and thrashed with a voice he couldn't even hear.
The Death Lord tried to destroy everything around him. With wild motions, he ran toward the sun, trying to seize it, digging into the earth, trying to tunnel through this white abyss, trying to find anything other than death.
He howled in madness.
But in the end, everything returned to silence.
He was forced to face his reality.
The cold sun said nothing, silently observing the pale earth, hanging distantly, indifferent to the suffering below.
It could not respond. This was a domain Nurgle had hidden in the deepest vaults of the Manse.
'Sigh~'
A sigh—one so faint even Mortarion's transhuman senses weren't sure he heard it—drifted down from that impossibly distant cold sun.
The Death Guard had proven their resilience through rebellion. The humans of Ultramar had proven theirs through resistance.
Now, you are Mortarion. Lord of the XIV, the Death Lord, the Liberator of Barbarus. You boast of your resilience. You take pride in it.
Now, you know Nurgle's true face. You know how you fell into this trap.
Now, in this silent world of death—the cage Nurgle built for you—you shall endure the death He discarded. You shall dwell here as a pale, stagnant specter, enduring eternal loneliness and pain, waiting for the next miracle to save you.
It is your turn to prove your resilience.
The cold sun averted its gaze and began its eternal vigil.
Its sight crossed the stars, crossed the hidden rifts between the systems, and settled on the other side of the galaxy.
Ultramar.
That vibrant, living world.
A body that had been pale and stagnant was about to wake up.
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