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Whenever Ahriman gazed upon Carena from its highest point, he was always reminded of his homeworld.
No, not Holy Terra, though he was indeed born there.
Although Ahriman also cherished the rolling hills, arid deserts, and warm river valleys of the Achaemenid Region, and the ancient, solitary tomes slumbering within its brick-walled bastions, like all veteran Thousand Sons, from the moment they first laid eyes on the home world of their gene-father, Prospero, Ahriman had already come to view this secluded Eden as his new homeland.
In Ahriman's eyes, Prospero was the most beautiful place in the entire galaxy, especially the soul of that world: the City of Light, Tizca. It was the culmination of countless intellects' efforts, including Magnus himself. It was a center of wisdom and art, an aesthetic embodiment of order and sensory delight, a marvelous paradise for seekers of knowledge, forged from black coasts and snow-white marble.
And in Carena, Ahriman could vaguely see the shadow of his former home. The city's history could be traced back to humanity's most glorious Golden Age. Its massive, elegant, and harmonious structure symbolized the boundless confidence and imagination regarding civilization and the future at that time.
"What are you looking at, Ahriman?"
A gruff voice broke the Thousand Son's immersion in his own world.
The newcomer was a mass of crude steel, encased in robust Mark III Power Armor. It was emblazoned with simple yellow and black stripes, indicating he was a warrior loyal to Perturabo, the Lord of Olympia.
Ahriman could smell the newcomer's scent—a mixture of many foul odors: salty sea wind, the cries of refugees, the dust of war, the thick stench of blood and tears, and the pervasive unease that now permeated the entire city.
"I am observing this city, Fhlorix."
Ahriman tried to make his voice sound as respectful and normal as possible.
"I believe we should act. This city and its countless mortals are in a perilous state. Their hearts are filled with fear and uncertainty. My soldiers tell me that hundreds of mortals unilaterally leave the safe zones every day, returning to the dangerous wilderness."
The Thousand Son's repeated statements caused Fhlorix to nod incessantly. His eyes, like the finest machines, constantly scanned the crowd below, radiating an emotion that made Ahriman uneasy and resistant.
"You are right. We should make them move faster. The current efficiency is too slow."
As Fhlorix spoke, hundreds upon hundreds of Iron Warriors streamed continuously from the landing craft. They formed a yellow and black torrent, with two warriors stopping every hundred meters to take over areas the Thousand Sons warriors were unable to manage.
The joy of powerful reinforcements arriving settled in Ahriman's heart for less than a minute, as he quickly discovered that as the god-like Iron Warriors stood by the roadside, the unrest among the evacuating populace seemed to increase rather than decrease.
These sons of Perturabo had clearly performed similar missions before: both their blood-stained armor and their unholstered bolters were enough to make even the most composed Imperial citizens whisper nervously.
"I hear a cult called the Sons of C'tan is obstructing our evacuation efforts?"
Ahriman simply nodded in response to Fhlorix's question.
"Yes, they wield extraordinary influence on this world, and their power has grown very rapidly, especially with the occurrence of a series of disasters. Every day, people are deluded by them into seeking revelry and so-called divine favor in the disaster areas."
"Then why not purge them?"
"Because objective conditions do not permit it."
This answer made the Iron Warrior scoff.
"Don't tell me it's difficult, warrior of the Fifteenth Legion. We can simply select all suspicious individuals and screen them one by one. Or even further, prioritize technical personnel and young laborers, then women and children of appropriate age, and then everyone else. By classifying them this way, we can quickly transport everyone in batches, instead of wasting time like this."
"They are citizens of the Imperium, not livestock, Fhlorix. Your method would only lead to resistance, misunderstanding, and humanitarian tragedies."
Ahriman suppressed the urge to curse. He knew, of course, that Perturabo's sons had little patience with mortals. They always took for granted that everyone would bend before numbers and efficiency, or believed that anything could be achieved by methods such as whipping mortals.
Crude fellows.
This answer clearly did not satisfy Fhlorix, but just as he was about to escalate the argument, a visible commotion suddenly erupted within the crowd.
The two Company Captains exchanged glances, then simultaneously leaped from their hilltop vantage point, pushing through the increasingly panicked crowd, and sprinted towards the source of the disturbance. In other areas, countless Legionnaires were doing the same.
——————
"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! My kin!"
"Glory! Revelry! We are the blessed! The chosen of the god! And now, we shall ascend! We shall become one with the great Lord of the Storm! Now!"
"The Sons of C'tan implore you, my kin! In the distant past, we lost an opportunity, lost the favor of the god! But the Lord of the Storm is merciful! He has granted us his miracle once again! He has given us the chance to be with him!"
"Kin, I implore you! I implore you to look up at the sky! Rejoice! Exult! For this storm is the revelation of his descent!"
When Ahriman arrived, the fervent preaching had been going on for a while. The Thousand Sons Captain couldn't help but frown, for he sensed a strange fanaticism emanating from the surrounding crowd.
But this was not difficult to resolve. As Ahriman's two fingers slowly closed, the crazed preacher involuntarily clutched his own throat. He seemed to suddenly be unable to breathe, falling backward off the raised platform, only the sound of his body shattering reaching their ears.
"Is the situation resolved?"
Fhlorix's voice came through the Vox-caster, but Ahriman's unprecedented solemnity answered him.
"No, worse."
The Thousand Sons Captain was certain that the psychic power he had just used was limited to not killing the man, only causing him to collapse due to minor oxygen deprivation—but the scene before him was like a pre-meditated sacrifice.
Yes, a sacrifice.
Almost as soon as the preacher fell, Fhlorix could hear hoarse shouts erupting from the crowd, from all around him.
"Murder!"
"These lackeys of the Chaos Gods! They want to plunder our divine grace!"
"Kill them! In the name of the Lord of the Storm!"
Such shouts quickly spread in waves. The Iron Warrior watched in astonishment as the quiet populace suddenly transformed into another kind of creature: they shed their cold-weather cloaks, revealing ochre robes underneath, carved with golden serpentine symbols—the mark of the Sons of C'tan.
Longswords, axes, autoguns, and even logging guns began to appear in their hands, mercilessly firing upon everyone, Astartes and terrified civilians alike.
When Fhlorix saw children barely a few years old, and even pregnant women, cheering and raising weapons, his surprise finally turned into a roar in his Vox-caster.
"What the hell is going on?!"
Ahriman's bitter laugh answered him, the Thousand Son's power surging wildly, doing his utmost to create invisible shields for every fleeing civilian.
"Remember what we discussed earlier, Fhlorix? Just as I said..."
"Objective conditions do not permit it."
——————
Even an Astartes could not stop the flow of blood.
Screams filled the streets. The blades and bullets of the Sons of C'tan assailed from every wicked corner, indiscriminately slaughtering everyone. Hundreds fell in the first minute of the attack.
Dozens of Astartes were swept up in a tide of tens of thousands, murderers and victims clashing savagely before them. Even the most seasoned warriors dared not open fire indiscriminately at this time. Ahriman and Fhlorix stood like towering bastions in the most chaotic areas. Each time their bolter rounds were fired, guided by their targeting systems and intuition, they would reap the lives of three to five cultists, only to witness these frenzied adversaries kill more people with their indiscriminate attacks.
"This won't do."
Fhlorix's bolter round tore through another masked killer. Then, he saw a rocket launcher aimed at him.
Damn!
The Iron Warrior mustered his courage. Amidst Fhlorix's low roar, his massive shoulder plate successfully parried the deadly projectile. Ahriman's shield activated at the most opportune moment, saving the Iron Warrior and hundreds of mortals behind him from the storm of shrapnel.
Before the assailants could shriek in frustration, they were torn to shreds by furious counter-fire. Scorching flames continuously erupted from the Astartes' bolters, incinerating wicked souls to ash.
Just as Fhlorix ensured that the rocket launcher no longer posed a threat, he suddenly heard a laugh—the Iron Warrior quickly confirmed it wasn't laughter, but a whisper, a wave, a surge in the psychic domain that he couldn't describe.
Ahriman's sigh came through his earpiece, a sigh of relief at the arrival of reinforcements.
Accompanying this sigh, a wondrous tableau suddenly unfolded before Fhlorix's eyes: he saw the blades, spears, and staves all drop simultaneously, and their owners instantly lost their frenzied spirits. He observed that the expressions on their faces had solidified, as if a calm deity had deliberately molded them into placid forms.
Then, the hands of these Sons of C'tan slowly dropped. Blue light hovered around them. They all hung their heads, as if their souls had been extracted, simply standing still as the survivors fled past them.
Fhlorix was still in shock, while Ahriman gestured to his subordinates. The Thousand Sons who had previously formed a human wall with the Iron Warriors to separate the safe zones stepped forward. They shattered the skull of every Son of C'tan without hesitation.
As all this happened, the Stormbird finally landed in the very center of the street. Perturabo's son watched as a slender and tall woman emerged from it, blue light also swirling around her.
With this scene, an absurd thought began to surface in Fhlorix's mind, until he saw Ahriman conversing respectfully with the newcomer, until the Thousand Son's introduction reached his ears.
"This is Lady Morgan, a Senior Advisor to the Legion."
[I do not recall having this title.]
She is a woman of few words, Fhlorix thought, looking at her face.
"Believe me, Morgan, just now, you saved thousands of Imperial citizens. Any hero who accomplishes such a feat fully deserves such an honor. Everyone present will bear witness for you, including Fhlorix."
The Iron Warrior merely nodded blankly. His question was quietly transmitted to Ahriman via Vox-caster.
"How did she do it? Or rather, what exactly did she do?"
"Nothing complicated. First, you need to accurately predict every Son of C'tan from thousands of meters in the sky, then use psychic power to control their minds and bodies until the ground troops' bolter rounds pierce their heads. That's all."
"Sounds easy... can you do it?"
"..."
"Everyone has their strengths. Lady Morgan is a master of mind control. If not for her gender, she would already be a Thousand Son."
Fhlorix's cast-iron face twitched intermittently. He still couldn't properly accept what he was seeing.
"A mortal who might be more powerful than us, and you accept it so calmly?"
In response to the Iron Warrior's question, Ahriman let out an arrogant laugh.
"Such is the wonder of the Warp and psychic powers... you, of course, wouldn't understand."
Fhlorix's breathing remained a doubtful rasp, and only after the silver-haired lady slowly walked away did Ahriman pat his shoulder.
"It's alright, Fhlorix, I know how you feel, but you absolutely don't need to—fear her."
"You see, I am her guarantor."
"If you still feel uneasy, it's fine. We are about to meet the Primarchs together. You can absolutely come with us. Trust me, you'll like her."
"Even your Primarch will."
Fhlorix narrowed his eyes. He sensed something was amiss. The arrogant and reserved Ahriman seemed overly fond of this mortal, as if he had been bewitched.
Bewitched...
As the word appeared, Fhlorix self-deprecatingly shook it out of his head. He opened his mouth, but in the end, didn't voice any of his doubts.