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Chapter 41: What We Fight For
The first meeting between Angron and Horus crackled with barely restrained violence, like the moment before a plasma reactor breach.
When Angron's scarred lips formed the words, "Do you seek to challenge me, brother?"
 Horus responded not with words but with action, launching himself forward with the fluid grace of a born warrior.
"Show me what strength you possess."
Years of blood-soaked sand and roaring crowds had honed Angron's instincts to a razor's edge.
Combat was not merely his profession, it was his essence, carved into his very soul by a thousand victories and the screams of the fallen.
As Horus closed the distance between them, Angron's expression shifted from wariness to something approaching joy. Here, at last, was an opponent worthy of his fury.
Both were the Emperor's finest work, perfect fusion of reality and the Immaterium's dark gifts, vessels of power that transcended mortal comprehension.
They wielded no weapons save those the God-Emperor had crafted into their very bones. Each blow carried the force of thunder, each movement spoke of annihilation barely leashed.
Horus's fist connected with Angron's jaw, a strike that would have pulverized a normal man's skull.
The impact sent the Red Angel tumbling across the chamber's adamantine floor, his massive frame carving grooves in the blessed metal.
"Your reputation appears somewhat... exaggerated," Horus observed, allowing himself a smile of satisfaction.
In the depths of his gene-forged heart, he harbored a desperate hope, that their father would witness this moment, would see which son proved superior in the crucible of combat.
Angron spat crimson upon the deck, the taste of his own blood awakening something primal within his transhuman physiology.
Rising with deliberate slowness, he rolled his neck until vertebrae cracked like breaking stone.
"Premature words, brother, this contest has barely begun."
The prospect of facing such formidable opposition sent fire coursing through his veins.
Too long had he fought lesser beings, slaves and criminals whose deaths brought no satisfaction. Here stood a true challenge.
"Standing merely prolongs your inevitable defeat," Horus declared, advancing with measured steps.
His next assault came like a thunderbolt, fist cutting the air with a sound like tearing silk.
But Angron had not survived countless arena battles through strength alone. Subtlety guided his movement as he shifted aside, allowing Horus's strike to pass harmlessly by.
His own hand shot out, seizing his brother's elbow and using momentum against him.
"An old gladiator taught me this technique before the crowd took his life. I hope you appreciate its elegance."
With Horus momentarily off-balance, Angron struck, his boot connecting with his brother's midsection and sending him flying across the chamber like a launched artillery shell.
The Red Angel pursued without hesitation, leaping high to bring both fists down in a finishing blow that would have cratered the deck plating.
"I have never known defeat upon the sands. No matter the opponent's strength or skill, victory has always been mine. You fight well, brother, but this day shall be no different."
Horus rolled desperately aside, Angron's strike creating spider-web fractures where his head had been moments before.
Springing to his feet with feline grace, the future Warmaster lowered his center of gravity and charged, his shoulder taking Angron in the torso and driving him backward.
"Then today you shall taste humility for the first time."
What followed was not mere combat but art, two perfect killing machines testing every technique, every stratagem their enhanced minds could conceive.
Neither could claim definitive advantage; where one excelled in raw fury, the other countered with tactical precision. The chamber echoed with the percussion of superhuman blows.
"Enough."
The voice that interrupted their duel carried the weight of absolute authority, not raised, yet somehow more commanding than the roar of macro-cannons.
The Emperor emerged from the chamber's shadows, His form wreathed in psychic radiance that made the air itself seem to bow in reverence.
 Behind Him strode Constantine Valdor and a full squad of Legio Custodes, their auramite armor gleaming like captured starlight.
With casual application of His will, the Master of Mankind separated His warring sons, invisible chains of psychic force holding them apart despite their continued struggles.
Even restrained, Angron and Horus locked gazes across the intervening space, each seeking some sign of weakness, some opening for renewed assault. Neither found what they sought.
"You are brothers," the Emperor declared, His words carrying the finality of natural law.
"Your destiny lies not in fraternal conflict but in unity of purpose, the elevation of humanity to its rightful throne among the stars."
He moved between them with measured steps, each footfall seeming to reshape reality around Him.
"Horus, behold Angron, Lord of Nuceria, undefeated champion of ten thousand arena battles. He is your brother in blood and purpose."
The Emperor's gesture encompassed Angron before shifting to indicate the other Primarch.
"Angron, this is Horus, Lord of Cthonia, architect of a hundred victories in My name. You share the same genetic genesis, forged to serve as humanity's salvation."
With visible effort, Horus extended his hand in greeting, his expression carefully composed.
"It is an honor to meet you, brother. I foresee a profitable alliance between us."
Angron regarded the offered hand for a long moment before grasping it firmly. To any observer, the gesture spoke of reconciliation and acceptance.
Yet the white-knuckled grip and tensed muscles told a different story entirely.
"Competition breeds excellence," observed a rasping voice from nearby.
"Though perhaps you might consider channeling such energies toward our enemies rather than each other."
For the first time, both Primarchs became aware of the raven perched upon their father's shoulder, a creature that seemed to shift between states of existence, present yet somehow apart from reality's normal flow.
Confusion clouded their enhanced minds. Neither recalled seeing the bird moments before. How had it simply... appeared?
"Greetings, both of you, Lord Horus and the Arena King. Perhaps we should adjourn for refreshments. I understand Terra produces excellent processed tubers with fermented tomato extract."
The raven's casual tone contrasted sharply with the formal atmosphere, its words carrying undertones of amusement that seemed almost heretical in the Emperor's presence.
Following Angron's rescue and the alteration of his fate, the cosmic mechanisms governing their reality had shifted.
The third node of possibility had stabilized, granting new freedoms to those who walked between worlds. Protective veils that once concealed certain truths from mortal perception had lifted, though other safeguards remained in place.
"What manner of creature is this?" Horus demanded, his enhanced senses struggling to categorize what defied easy classification.
"This is the Raven," the Emperor replied, His tone carrying subtle warning. "Another guardian of our realm. In My absence, his counsel carries the weight of My own will."
The corvid spread its wings in mock ceremony. "Come now, young ones, surely you can acknowledge your second paternal figure?"
The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees. Even the Custodians shifted uncomfortably in their armor.
"Merely attempting to lighten the atmosphere," the raven added hastily, noting the Emperor's expression. "Please, continue your discussion."
With a flutter of wings, it relocated to Valdor's shoulder, and as it passed from direct sight, both Primarchs found their memories of the exchange growing strangely dim.
"I spoke these words to Horus upon our first meeting, and now I must repeat them for you," the Emperor said, His attention returning to Angron.
 "The original design called for you to command the Twelfth Legion in My Great Crusade, to serve as one of humanity's primary instruments of conquest."
"But circumstances conspired against us. Shortly after your birth, our great enemy stole you away and cast you upon Nuceria's cursed soil. While I bear responsibility for failing to protect you, know that it was never My intention to abandon you to such fate."
The Emperor's gaze seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, examining something deeper than mere physical form.
"We cannot yet determine what taint our enemy may have left upon you. To grant you immediate command of the Twelfth Legion would be unconscionably reckless, both to the Imperium and to humanity itself."
"Therefore, I offer you two paths. The first: prove yourself worthy through service with our expeditionary forces. Demonstrate that you remain untainted, and the Legion shall be yours by right. The second: abandon this calling entirely. Your strength ensures you will require supervision until the Great Crusade concludes and our realm achieves stability, but afterward, you may claim true freedom."
Horus studied his brother carefully, hope flickering in his enhanced hearts. 'Choose the second path,' his thoughts urged. 'Return to your arena world and your gladiator companions. Leave this burden to those better suited to bear it.'
Angron fell silent, his mind turning inward. Images flashed before his enhanced consciousness, the slave pits of his youth, the screaming crowds that fed on suffering, the countless worlds throughout the galaxy where similar horrors played out on grander scales.
The weight of that knowledge pressed upon him like a physical force.
"What do we fight for?" he asked at last, the question emerging from the depths of his tormented soul.
"For processed tubers and fermented tomato extract, naturally," the raven interjected.
"What measure of civilization can a world claim if its people cannot enjoy such simple pleasures?"
A ghost of a smile crossed the Emperor's features. "For humanity's manifest destiny among the stars. For the restoration of our species' rightful dominion. And yes... for the simple joys that make existence worthwhile."
Constantine Valdor's jaw tightened imperceptibly. His worst fears were manifesting, the Emperor's speech patterns slowly incorporating elements of the corvid's irreverent philosophy.
How long before Imperial battle-cries included references to processed foodstuffs?
Angron nodded slowly, his decision crystallizing like cooling adamantine.
"I accept the first path, Father. I shall prove myself worthy of Your trust."
Horus's expression carefully concealed his disappointment. Another rival for their father's attention, another obstacle to overcome.
Following the formal conclusion of their meeting, Angron found himself assigned to study alongside Horus, a arrangement that lasted precisely until the Emperor departed the chamber.
Within moments, both Primarchs had agreed to continue their interrupted duel in the training grounds.
Word of their Primarch's return spread through the Twelfth Legion like wildfire.
Warriors who had served without their gene-father for decades rushed to witness this momentous occasion.
Not to be outdone, the Sons of Horus also converged upon the combat arena, their loyalty to the Sixteenth Legion's master compelling them to show support.
What began as a contest between two demigods inevitably devolved into something far more chaotic.
"For Angron and the Emperor!" roared Khârn, one of the Twelfth Legion's newest inductees, as his fist connected with Ezekyle Abaddon's jaw.
The impact sent the future First Captain sprawling, and Khârn followed up by driving his opponent to the ground.
"For Horus and the Emperor!" Abaddon snarled in response, reversing their positions and seizing Khârn's head.
The sound of skull meeting adamantine wall echoed through the arena like gunshots.
The massive brawl that erupted required intervention from both Custodian Guard and Imperial disciplinary units.
When order was finally restored, every participant found themselves sentenced to solitary confinement for reflection upon their conduct.
Yet none expressed regret. Instead, they wore their punishment like badges of honor, regaling their battle-brothers with tales of the legendary melee.
Far from mockery, the other Legions regarded the affair with barely concealed envy.
The longing for their own lost Primarchs had never burned more intensely, particularly among the First Legion, who bore the distinction of being first-created yet remained fatherless still.
The Emperor learned of the inter-Legion conflict but dismissed it as inconsequential.
His attention had turned to matters of far greater import, Malcador had delivered a quantum communication array, its design enhanced by the finest tech-adepts of Mars.
Instantaneous communication across galactic distances, independent of the Warp's capricious currents, had become reality.
The Great Crusade was about to accelerate beyond all previous limits.
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