The Macragge's Honour sailed steadily through the turbulent waves of the Warp, the low hum of its engines the only background noise within the ship. Deep within the medical bay, in the heavily guarded intensive care unit, the indicator lights of the life support equipment blinked rhythmically, emitting a faint ticking sound.
Suddenly, Luna Aisa's tightly closed eyelids twitched slightly. Immediately after, her fingers unconsciously curled, and a barely audible, dry groan escaped her throat.
Apothecary Vorlak, who had been monitoring her vital signs from a data screen nearby, instantly looked up. A rare flicker of surprise crossed his weathered, always stern face, quickly transforming into focused attention. He swiftly moved to the side of the medical pod, his aged but steady fingers expertly checking Luna's pupil reaction and nerve reflexes.
"Tech-Sergeant Aesa?" Vorlak's voice was low and calm, carrying a soothing power. "Can you hear me? If you can, try to move your right index finger."
Luna's brows furrowed tightly with effort, and fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. A few seconds later, her right index finger, wrapped in sensors and tubes, moved ever so slightly, but undeniably.
A subtle hint of relief flashed in Vorlak's eyes. He immediately pressed his communicator, connecting to a specific channel: "Notify Lieutenant Golden, Tech-Sergeant Luna Aisa has regained consciousness."
The message quickly spread. Soon, the figures of Lieutenant Golden and Gaius appeared outside the medical pod's observation window. Although Gaius's injuries had not fully healed, he could move without much difficulty. Both their faces showed undisguised excitement and concern as they looked through the thick glass at their comrade, who had just struggled back from the brink of death.
Apothecary Vorlak stepped out of the medical pod, gently closing the door, and faced Golden and Gaius. His expression had returned to its usual seriousness.
"How is she, Apothecary?" Golden asked impatiently, his voice hoarse with tension.
"Her waking up is, in itself, a miracle created by the Emperor's grace and medical technology," Vorlak's voice was calm, as if stating an objective fact. "Her spinal nerves suffered almost catastrophic damage during the impact. I used the most advanced bio-mesh and nerve regeneration techniques to repair them, barely preserving her lower body's motor function and preventing permanent paralysis."
Gaius's heart sank. He couldn't imagine how devastating it would be for an excellent Tech-Sergeant like Luna to lose her mobility.
"However," Vorlak's tone shifted, "this does not mean she will recover quickly. It is estimated that at least three months of close observation and mandatory rehabilitation training will be needed for nerve connections to stabilize initially. During this period, she must absolutely not endure any strenuous activity or mental stimulation, otherwise, all efforts will be in vain, and her life could even be in danger."
Three months... Golden and Gaius exchanged glances, both seeing the gravity in each other's eyes. This meant Luna would be unable to participate in the upcoming great battle.
"We understand," Golden nodded solemnly. "Thank you, Apothecary. Without you, Luna might have..."
Vorlak waved his hand, interrupting him. His gaze swept over Golden and Gaius, finally resting on Gaius, with a hint of complex emotion, almost paternal, that was different from his usual demeanor: "Take care of yourselves. Sergeant Karl, and that reckless fellow Dorian... I've been performing surgeries on your squad for decades. I don't want any of you to be wheeled in next, or... worse."
The old Apothecary, known for his calmness and detachment, rarely showed such a hint of almost weary concern. His words made Gaius and Golden pause, then a warm current surged through their hearts. Apothecary Vorlak had witnessed their wounds from their days as new recruits, and his scalpel, in a sense, was also a guardian of their lives.
"We will, Apothecary," Gaius promised earnestly.
They chose not to enter the medical pod to disturb Luna's initial recovery, only looking deeply through the observation window at their weak but resiliently awakened comrade. They tacitly decided not to tell her about the immense crisis facing Ultramar for now, allowing her to rest peacefully.
Meanwhile, in a side chapel of the Chapter's chapel at the other end of the warship, the atmosphere was entirely different.
The Company Chaplain, clad in black Power Armour adorned with skulls and symbols of atonement, his gaze from beneath his skull helmet, as if corporeal, fell upon Dorian, who seemed somewhat ill at ease. Dorian's massive frame, kneeling in the solemn chapel, also appeared a bit constrained; he was unaccustomed to such introspective occasions.
"Brother Catonia," the Chaplain's low voice echoed in the side chapel, "the battle on Austin Star, and the severe wounds you sustained to cover your comrades, displayed fearless courage. However, severe injury and unconsciousness can sometimes render the soul fragile, making it susceptible to the whispers of the Warp."
He slowly opened the holy book in his hand, producing a soft rustling sound: "Tell me, during your unconsciousness, or after waking, did you perceive any unusual sights or sounds? Anything... that might shake your will?"
Dorian answered gruffly, "No, Chaplain! I just slept, had a few dreams, and woke up in the medical bay." He tried to make his tone sound light and natural.
"Dreams?" The Chaplain sharply caught the word. "What kind of dreams?"
Dorian's heart skipped a beat, and he inwardly cursed himself for speaking too much. He tried hard to recall, attempting to describe them in the least ambiguous way: "Just... some jumbled dreams. Dreams of fighting, fighting traitors, similar to before." He deliberately omitted the details of the dream—the crimson armor, the brass throne, and the thrill of slaughter.
"Specific details?" the Chaplain pressed, his gaze piercing. "What kind of enemy did you fight? What was the battlefield environment like? How did you feel?"
Dorian became somewhat annoyed by the questioning. He was not good at concealing or fabricating and subconsciously mumbled, "What else could it be, those scum of the Word Bearers! Fighting in a place... full of bones... I felt... I felt quite invigorated while fighting..." As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. The word "invigorated" was clearly inappropriate when describing a battle against Chaos.
Sure enough, the Chaplain's skull helmet tilted slightly, his cold optical lenses fixed on Dorian: "'Invigorated'? Brother Catonia, please explain in detail why a desperate struggle against the enemies of the Emperor would make you feel 'invigorated'?"
Cold sweat immediately broke out on Dorian's forehead. He stammered, trying to backtrack: "It's just... it's just the satisfaction of killing the enemy! Yes, satisfaction! I wish I could smash all those traitors!" He waved his fists, trying to cover his inner panic with anger.
But the Chaplain was clearly not fooled. He closed the holy book and took a step forward, the invisible pressure almost suffocating Dorian.
"Dorian," the Chaplain's voice became even deeper, imbued with an unquestionable authority, "Loyalty is manifested not only in actions but also in the purity of the soul. Khorne, the Blood God of war and bloodshed, is most adept at corrupting valiant warriors, twisting their heroism into a craving for slaughter itself."
He stared intently at Dorian's flickering eyes: "I want you to be honest with yourself. Any hint of doubt or unusual temptation must be crushed in its infancy. Now, look into my eyes and tell me—were your dreams truly just 'jumbled'? Is your heart still as unyielding as the Emperor's fortress?"
Dorian felt a pang of guilt. He dared not meet the Chaplain's soul-piercing gaze, only stiffening his neck and repeating stubbornly, "My... my loyalty to the Emperor and Ultramar is unquestionable! Chaplain! Those dreams are just dreams, forgotten when I wake up!"
The Chaplain was silent for a moment, a silence more agonizing for Dorian than any interrogation. Finally, the Chaplain slowly said, "Very well. Remember your words, Brother. I will continue to monitor your condition. Now, you may go. May the Emperor's light forever illuminate your heart and dispel all shadows."
Dorian felt as if he had been granted a great pardon and almost fled the chapel. It wasn't until he had gone a long way that he finally let out a long sigh of relief, but a seed of unease had been planted in his heart. The Chaplain's suspicion, like a thorn, pricked into his formerly simple and straightforward world.
And in the side chapel, the Chaplain stood silently, his gaze from beneath his skull helmet profound. On his data slate, next to Dorian's name, he made a discreet mark. As a guardian of souls, he had caught a faint, unusual scent, and though subtle, it had to be heeded. In the war against Chaos, any potential contamination could lead to catastrophic consequences.
After Dorian escaped the chapel, he looked back, feeling a tremor in his heart. He gasped for air, not from physical exertion, but from the feeling of his soul being scorched under a magnifying glass, which put unprecedented pressure on this brute who was used to solving problems with his fists.
"...All these questions..." he muttered under his breath, rubbing his forehead vigorously, trying to shake off the annoying thoughts about his dreams and the Chaplain's suspicions. But he couldn't. The bloody battlefield in his dream, the crimson armor, the twisted pleasure of slaughter, and finally, the Chaplain's razor-sharp gaze, clung to him like a nightmare.
He needed an answer. He needed someone he could trust, someone knowledgeable, to tell him what the hell was going on! Sergeant Karl was too proper; telling him this would likely lead to an immediate report. Lieutenant Golden had his duties as an adjutant... Luna was still unconscious... Suddenly, a figure flashed through his mind—Draculas! The veteran who had served in the Deathwatch for decades!
What kind of evil things hadn't he seen? He seemed to recall asking him about this dream before when he was on Terra, and though he couldn't remember the specifics, Draculas surely understood these mystical things!
With that thought, Dorian grabbed onto it like a lifeline. He ignored the dull ache in his back wound and strode towards the preparation area commonly used by the First Company veterans.
In a corner of the area, filled with weapon racks and maintenance tools, Dorian found Draculas. The veteran, adorned with two Golden service studs, was meticulously maintaining his Bolter, as always.
His movements were steady, precise, and carried the calm of one who had seen much. Even with the warship on high alert, he maintained his usual rhythm—a quality only true veterans possessed.
"Brother Draculus!" Dorian called out, his voice rough with urgency.
Draculas looked up. Seeing Dorian, a flicker of surprise, almost imperceptible, crossed his face. He put down his tools and Bolter, then stood up. "Catonia? Are your wounds healed?" His gaze swept over Dorian's still somewhat stiff back.
"Almost. Lying down for so long made me restless!" Dorian waved his hand, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. A rare look of confusion and anxiety was on his face. "Brother, I... I have something I want to ask you. You have to tell me the truth."
Draculas looked at Dorian's expression, nodded, and motioned for him to continue. He led Dorian to a relatively quiet corner.
Dorian took a deep breath, as if making up his mind, and began to describe haltingly: "It's just... when I was unconscious, I had some very strange dreams... not ordinary dreams, they felt incredibly real..."
He described in as much detail as possible the plain of bones, the dark red sky, the earth-shattering sounds of battle, especially the awe-inspiring Brass Throne, and the colossal figure on the throne whose slightest movement made his soul tremble.
Draculas listened silently, his expression gradually growing solemn. When Dorian mentioned the Brass Throne and the atmosphere of endless war, a look of understanding had already flashed in his eyes.
Dorian continued, describing how the dream shifted, and he found himself clad in the scarlet armor of the World Eaters, fighting a tide of Word Bearers to protect Gaius, Golden, and Luna.
"...I was in a frenzy of killing, feeling a surge of strength, as if it were inexhaustible..." Dorian said, his voice unconsciously carrying a hint of the exhilaration he felt in the dream. But then he snapped back to reality and quickly added, "Of course! I was protecting my brothers!"
Draculas's gaze was as sharp as an eagle's. He didn't interrupt, simply motioning for Dorian to continue.
Dorian swallowed, then spoke the part that confused and unsettled him the most: "It's just... those Word Bearers scum in the dream, as they charged, they seemed to be... to be shouting a name at me..."
He frowned, trying to recall the blurred syllables: "It sounded like... 'Khârn'? Yes! It was 'Khârn'! Brother, you're well-traveled, do you know who this 'Khârn' is? Why would those traitors be shouting that name at me?"
When the name "Khârn" came from Dorian's mouth, Draculas, who was usually as steady as a mountain and never flinched even when facing the most bizarre demons in the Deathwatch, suddenly changed his expression!
His pupils slightly constricted, and his body even stiffened for a moment. He stared intently at Dorian, as if seeing this famously valiant comrade anew. His eyes were filled with shock, disbelief, and a hint of... deep worry.
Draculas's unusual reaction made Dorian's heart drop, and a chill ran up his spine: "Brother? What's wrong? Is this 'Khârn'... very powerful?"
Draculas didn't answer immediately. He slowly removed his helmet, revealing a weathered face etched with resolute lines. He took a deep breath, as if needing to calm the turmoil within him, and his voice became unusually low and serious:
"Dorian... are you sure... the Word Bearers in your dream were shouting 'Khârn'?"
"I... I think so!" Dorian was even more nervous because of Draculas's attitude.
Draculas was silent for a few seconds, as if organizing his thoughts. Finally, he spoke in an almost heavy tone: "Khârn... is not 'the leader of some warband'. He is one of the most infamous traitors in the history of the World Eaters Legion... no, in the entire Imperium of Man. He is revered by Chaos worshippers as the 'Hand of the Blood God,' Khârn the Betrayer. He is one of Khorne's most favored champions, a madman who knows only slaughter and destruction."
He paused, looking at Dorian's suddenly pale face, and continued: "On the battlefield, enemies shouting his name usually means... they view him as an avatar of Khorne, or they are using that name to insult and intimidate their opponents, or even... it's a form of summoning."
Draculas's gaze was like a scalpel, dissecting Dorian's dream: "A plain of bones... the Brass Throne... those are symbols of Khorne's domain. Fighting in the armor of the World Eaters... the Word Bearers shouting the name 'Khârn'..."
His voice dropped even lower, carrying an undeniable severity: "Dorian, this is absolutely not an ordinary dream. This is very likely... Khorne's whisper. The Blood God, it champions valor, fearlessness, and close-quarters slaughter. And you, your actions of daring to challenge something far stronger than yourself and fighting to the death against powerful enemies without retreating, might... might have attracted its 'attention'."
"It saw your inner desire for battle, your pursuit of power, and your obsession with protecting your brothers—though the latter would be twisted by it. It is trying to tempt you, to transform your bravery into an addiction to slaughter itself. In your subconscious, it has painted a 'beautiful' picture for you: joining its ranks, gaining endless power for eternal combat. And the name 'Khârn'... perhaps it is a... mark it has placed on you, or rather, an 'example' it hopes you will become."
Draculas's words were like ice water, drenching Dorian's entire body. Before, he had only found the dream bizarre and a little unsettling, but now, he truly realized the gravity of the situation! He was being targeted by a Chaos God...?
"No... impossible!" Dorian subconsciously retorted, his voice trembling slightly. "I am an Ultramarine! A son of Guilliman! My loyalty to the Emperor..."
"Your loyalty is beyond doubt, Dorian." Draculas interrupted him, his tone softening slightly but remaining serious. "But the corruption of Chaos, especially Khorne's temptation, often strikes at the purest parts of a warrior's heart. It doesn't need you to betray immediately; it only needs to plant a seed in your heart, for example... allowing you to occasionally enjoy the thrill of killing beyond what duty requires in battle, making you begin to crave stronger, potentially costly power... over time..."
He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.
Dorian stood frozen, immense fear and anger intertwined in his heart. Fear that he was targeted by such a terrifying entity; anger that the damned Chaos God dared to covet his soul and twist his will!
"I... what should I do?" Dorian's voice was dry. For the first time, he felt at a loss when facing something other than an enemy.
Draculas patted his solid shoulder with steady strength: "First, maintain absolute clarity and vigilance. Recognize that it is temptation, a trap. Second, firmly remember what you fight for—for the Emperor, for Ultramar, for your brothers behind you, and not for slaughter itself. Finally... perhaps you should communicate more honestly with the Chaplain. Confronting this level of spiritual threat requires faith and professional strength. Concealment and evasion will only allow that whisper to fester and grow within you."
Dorian fell silent. Communicate with the Chaplain? He had just escaped from there... But Draculas's words made sense.
"I... I understand." Dorian nodded heavily, his eyes regaining their determination. "Thank you, brother. The Blood God? Trying to drag me down? Dream on! Even if I die, I will not submit to it! Never!"
Watching Dorian's fighting spirit rekindle, Draculas felt somewhat relieved, but the deep-seated worry in his heart did not dissipate. Being directly 'favored' by Khorne... this was no small matter. He decided that he needed to find an appropriate time to subtly mention this situation to Lieutenant Golden or someone of higher rank. This concerned not only Dorian personally but also potentially the safety of the entire squad.
Dorian left with a heavy but much clearer state of mind. Draculas, meanwhile, put his helmet back on and continued to maintain his weapon, his gaze deeper than before. The warship continued to sail through the Warp, heading towards an unknown battlefield, and a silent war unfolding within Dorian's inner world had quietly begun. Khorne's seed had been sown; whether it could be choked by a loyal will remained to be seen.
The highest alert issued by Chapter Master Calgar was like a giant stone thrown into a calm lake, its ripples rapidly spreading throughout the Ultramar Sector and its surrounding space.
The first to respond were the Ultramarines' successor Chapters, bound by blood and spirit.
The fleet of the Iron Snakes Chapter was the first to conclude its mopping-up operations in the eastern part of the Sector, overloading their warship engines and resolutely turning towards the northern border. Their warriors were known for their resilience and silence, their serpent-shaped insignia gleaming with a cold luster under the starlight.
Nova's white-hulled fleet detached from its patrol lines on the western side of the Sector, moving like a well-drilled military formation, precisely and efficiently heading towards the rendezvous coordinates. Their discipline rivaled that of their parent Chapter, with every warship maintaining perfect communication silence and formation.
The Nova Marines Chapter's warships, carrying their unique vitality like a supernova explosion, set sail from various outposts and Forge World supply points. Their warriors were known for their explosive power and adaptability, serving as sharp daggers on the battlefield.
Even some smaller Chapters, though equally adhering to the teachings of the Codex Astartes, such as the Chaplain Brotherhood, did their utmost, dispatching their valuable warships and warriors to converge on the northern Sector. Blue eagle insignias shone on ships with different liveries, collectively embodying the extension and loyalty of the great Ultramarines bloodline.
For a time, in the void north of Ultramar, warships from various successor Chapters flowed like streams into a river, gradually forming a considerable force, a preliminary defensive line constructed of loyalty and steel. They communicated with each other via encrypted channels provided by the Ultramarines, sharing data and coordinating their defenses, awaiting the enemy's arrival.
Meanwhile, responses from more distant Sectors also arrived at the Macragge's Honour.
A Dark Angels task force appeared silently, like ghosts, just beyond Ultramar's monitoring range. They did not enter the Sector's interior but instead chose to lie in wait near several key jump points. Though the Rock Fortress itself was not present, the strength of this task force was not to be underestimated; they were like leopards poised to strike, waiting for their prey to show a weakness before delivering a fatal blow. Lion El'Jonson had kept his promise.
Another unexpected reinforcement came from the Blood Ravens Chapter. These warriors, whose combat style was characterized by pragmatism and improvisation, had an even more elusive fleet, but they also sent confirmation, stating they would patrol the periphery, waiting for an opportunity.
Receiving these responses, Chapter Master Calgar's heart on the bridge settled slightly. Although the enemy situation was unclear and the pressure was immense, the support from his brother Chapters gave him hope. He ordered his own fleet to accelerate, ensuring they would rendezvous with the successor Chapter fleets and establish a stronger defensive line before the enemy could potentially launch an attack.
Just as the loyalist fleets were nervously maneuvering in the void, on an inconspicuous Forge World named 'Iron Heart' on Ultramar's northern border, in a noisy, bustling tavern in the lower levels of its largest Hive City, a meeting beyond mortal comprehension was quietly taking place.
The tavern was filled with the pungent smell of oil, cheap alcohol, and sweat. Rough workers gathered here after their shifts, using large mugs of synthetic beer and boasts and complaints to relieve the day's fatigue. In such an environment, the figure in the corner seemed out of place.
He was unusually tall; even sitting, he was considerably taller than the people standing around him. He was enveloped in a seemingly ordinary black cloak that appeared to absorb light, its hood pulled extremely low, revealing only the lower half of his sharply defined, almost transparently pale chin and thin lips. On the table before him, unusually, dozens of unopened bottles of locally brewed, high-alcohol industrial beer were arrayed, as if awaiting an important guest. The surrounding workers occasionally glanced curiously at this strange giant, but in the bizarre expanse of the Imperium, eccentrically dressed individuals were commonplace, and after a few more looks, they lost interest and resumed their clamor.
He, Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard, the Raven Lord, like a true shadow, blended into the noisy background. His pure black eyes, hidden beneath his hood, like the deepest night sky, calmly watched the direction of the tavern entrance, as if waiting for a prearranged signal.
Not long after, the oil-stained main door of the tavern was forcefully pushed open with a 'clang'. A similarly tall and burly figure, exuding a primal, wild aura, entered.
The newcomer had a head of wild, untamed golden hair, tied back with a simple leather thong. His face was rugged, his jawline like a cleaved axe, and his eyes were sharp like a wolf's, gleaming with a mix of wildness and wisdom. He was clad in rough-tanned pelts of an unknown giant beast, revealing muscular, scarred, bronze-colored arms, and each step carried the composed, oppressive presence of a predator.
His appearance instantly quieted the tavern somewhat. The workers sensed his extraordinary presence and instinctively avoided his gaze. His eyes swept across the noisy hall, finally settling precisely on the black-clad figure in the corner. He then strode over, unceremoniously pulling out a chair and sitting opposite Corax.
A daring bartender, just about to ask what these two obviously formidable guests needed, was scared back by the newcomer's fierce, beast-like glare, wisely choosing to ignore them.
The newcomer unceremoniously grabbed a bottle of beer from the table. Without even an opener, he pressed his thumb against the cap and flicked it hard, sending the cap flying. He tilted his head back, and with a few gulps, almost an entire bottle of beer was downed in an instant, as if it were not alcohol but thirst-quenching water.
"Hiccup—" He put down the empty bottle, wiped his mouth, and frowned, his voice booming like distant thunder, carrying a hint of dissatisfaction, "Corvus! Why does the beer in this place taste like water? It has no kick at all! It's not even as flavorful as the cubs' piss on Fenris!"
Corax seemed accustomed to his companion's crude behavior; his hood shifted slightly, a subtle response. He did not engage in the topic of beer but directly asked in his characteristic, low, calm voice, like a night wind sweeping through ruins: "You've arrived, Leman. Long time no see."
The newcomer was indeed the Primarch of the Sixth Legion, Leman Russ, the Wolf King.
Russ grabbed another bottle of beer, drinking it slower this time but still with great gusto. He smacked his lips and looked around: "Only you could find this godforsaken place. My Wolf Guard cubs found this beer tasteless and went to find fun elsewhere."
Corax was silent for a moment, his gaze beneath the hood seemingly piercing the tavern walls and looking towards the distant stars, in the direction from which the Chaos fleet might attack the void. "Lorgar... he has come." His voice remained calm, but the cold killing intent it contained seemed to lower the ambient temperature by a few degrees.
Russ's drinking motion paused. He put down the bottle, his wolf-like eyes narrowed, gleaming with dangerous light: "That bastard, he finally dares to crawl out of his rat hole." His voice was filled with undisguised loathing and eagerness for battle.
"Intelligence is accurate," Corax murmured. "The scale is immense. The Word Bearers' main force, plus the four Chaos Gods' warbands, and... the Black Legion."
"Hmph!" Russ let out a disdainful snort. "Abaddon is also joining the fun? Perfect! I've been cooped up in the Eye of Terror for so long, my bones are almost rusty! This time, I'll make sure they come and never return!"
He looked at Corax, his tone becoming slightly more serious: "What do you plan to do, Corvus? Like before, hide in the shadows and watch?"
Corax slowly raised his head, and from beneath the shadow of his hood, his pure black eyes were finally revealed, so profound they were unsettling. "Shadows are for better hunting." His voice was cold and firm. "Lorgar's life is mine. But before that... we need to ensure the hunting ground doesn't collapse too soon."
His meaning was clear: first, help the Ultramarines stabilize their defenses and hold Ultramar, then find an opportunity to deliver a fatal blow to Lorgar.
Russ grinned, revealing his stark white teeth, the smile filled with savage battle lust: "Understood! Then let's help Robert defend his home turf first! When the time comes, don't you dare try to snatch the heads of those wretches from me!"
The two Primarchs, one a deadly dagger in the shadows, the other a raging war-wolf in the wilderness, forged an alliance to fight the enemy in the corner of this lower-level tavern. No one knew how this seemingly insignificant meeting would influence the impending storm of destruction about to engulf Ultramar.
Outside the tavern, the Forge World's sky remained a murky yellow, stained by industrial exhaust, giving no hint that a great war, destined to decide the fate of countless lives, was already imminent.
Leman Russ's subsequent words were like a heavy boulder thrown into Corvus Corax's already bottomless heart-lake.
The tavern's clamor seemed to be instantly cut off, leaving only the heavy and oppressive silence between the two Primarchs.
Russ's usual expression, a mix of wildness and playfulness, receded, replaced by a rare weariness and sobriety deeply rooted in ten millennia of time.
His thick fingers rubbed the rough bottle neck of the beer, his gaze seemingly penetrating the murky air of the tavern, seeing even more distant and unbearable sights.
"Corvus," the Raven Lord's voice deepened, losing its previous booming quality and gaining a hoarse, heavy tone, "Do you still remember?
After the Heresy, that ruin... Terra was weeping, and the Imperium was ravaged.
We... you and I, afterwards, chose to pursue them into the Eye of Terror.
To the outside, it was said we were going to hunt down the traitors who had fled there, to cleanse the house, to fight to the death."
He tilted his head back and took a large gulp of ale, as if to wash away some bitter memories with the bland liquid.
"That's right, we did slaughter quite a few wretches, making those betrayers pay for their blood debts."
A wolfish glint flashed in Russ's eyes, but it quickly dimmed again, "But we both knew in our hearts... hunting traitors was only part of the reason.
More importantly..."
He paused, seemingly weighing his words, which finally dissolved into a heavy breath that was almost a sigh: "...that Imperium, that Imperium we fought for, yet was almost completely destroyed... it had become alien to us, even... suffocating."
Corax's hood shifted slightly, he remained silent, but it was a silent, deeply empathetic agreement.
"Father... sits on that Golden Throne, his life unknown, maintaining the flickering Astronomican."
Russ's voice carried a hint of imperceptible pain, "The High Lords of Terra, those bureaucrats and politicians, vied for power and schemed over the ruins.
The entire Imperial machine became bloated, rigid, and full of suspicion... it was no longer the place we knew, Corvus.
It was just a huge, empty shell running on inertia."
His gaze turned to Corax, with an almost blunt honesty: "I don't want to go back, and I'm not willing to go back.
Watching that mess, watching those fools squander everything Father and our brothers bought with their blood, I'm afraid I won't be able to control myself and will cleave all those so-called 'rulers' with my axe!"
He pointed at Corax, then at himself: "So, we chose to stay out, in the chaos of the Eye of Terror.
At least there, the enemy is clear, the battle is pure.
We can fight our own way, seek our revenge, without having to face the disgusting filth within the Imperium."
"Until now," Russ's gaze sharpened again, looking out at the dim sky outside the tavern window, "Robert, he went back.
He shouldered that mess, trying to mend this tattered Imperium with his reason and laws.
I admire him, truly.
But that is his choice, his path.
He is willing to tie himself to that broken cart and drag it forward... while I, Leman Russ, would rather chase real prey in the wilderness."
Corax finally slowly raised his head, and from the shadow of his hood, his pure black eyes gazed at Russ.
He said nothing, but nodded very slightly, yet with undeniable certainty.
This simple gesture held too much meaning.
He agreed with Russ's view.
The Imperium was no longer the Imperium of old; its internal decay and rigidity were sometimes more despairing than external enemies.
As a walker in the shadows, he could feel the darkness and distortion hidden beneath the polished surface even more acutely than Russ.
The pursuit within the Eye of Terror was both a punishment for traitors and an escape from a disappointing reality.
The two Primarchs, one as untamed as a wolf, the other as solitary as a raven, at this moment reached a profound consensus on the state of the Imperium.
They understood and respected Guilliman's choice, but they themselves could not, and would not, return to that suffocating cage.
Silence fell again, this time with a heavy sense of mutual understanding.
After a long while, Corax spoke again, his voice still low, but uncharacteristically tinged with a faint, almost imperceptible human emotion—a concern for his progeny: "I... and my sons, have not seen each other for a long time."
He said no more, but the sentence itself conveyed everything.
The Raven Guard Legion, after his departure, fragmented and continued to exist as Chapters.
For ten millennia, he had appeared sporadically like a ghost, then vanished quickly, never truly returning to lead his sons.
This estrangement and longing were deeply hidden beneath his shadowy exterior.
Russ gave him an understanding look and grumbled, "My wolf pups... have also changed a lot.
But the wildness in their bones is still there, I occasionally go back to see them."
His words were crude, yet they conveyed a unique way of caring for his sons.
The two Primarchs thus conversed in low tones in the corner of this noisy, grimy under-tavern.
They spoke of scattered sightings on the edge of the Eye of Terror over ten millennia, speculated about the whereabouts of certain brothers, and discussed vague premonitions of the future... these topics transcended mortal understanding, a dialogue that existed only between these ancient beings.
Time passed quietly, and the empty beer bottles on the table grew in number.
As the sky outside gradually darkened, signaling the arrival of "night," Russ patted his stomach and stood up: "That's enough, Corvus.
Time to move."
Corax also silently rose, his tall figure appearing even more slender in the dim light.
It was then that Corax seemed to remember a very "practical" problem, and he whispered, "Leman, I... didn't bring any money."
For a Primarch who had long walked in the shadows and had almost no material interaction with mortal society, currency was indeed an unfamiliar concept.
Russ was momentarily stunned, then let out a deep, hearty laugh that made guests at several nearby tables look over.
"Hahahaha! I knew you were unreliable!"
He clapped Corax on the shoulder, "This small matter, easy to handle!"
Russ walked to the tavern door and, facing the dim street outside, let out a very unique, long and low whistle, like a wolf's howl.
Within minutes, the tavern door was violently thrown open again, and four tall Space Wolves warriors, dressed in a mix of power armor components and fur decorations, reeking of strong alcohol and wildness, stumbled in.
They were clearly already roaring drunk from elsewhere, their faces flushed, their eyes glazed, and they walked unsteadily.
"For the Emperor! For Russ!" one of the Wolf Guards slurred, kicking over an empty chair.
"This... this ale is good! Another... another dozen!" another Wolf Guard staggered to the bar and pounded on the counter, scaring the bartender pale.
"Hey! You! What are you looking at? Want to fight?!" a third Wolf Guard snarled at a nearby table of stunned workers.
Immediately, the entire tavern erupted into chaos.
The bartender tried to calm things down, the workers panicked and dodged, while the four drunken Wolf Guards began to "improvise," knocking over bottles and shouting loudly, perfectly capturing everyone's attention.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Russ winked at Corax.
Corax's figure, as if merging with the shadows, silently vanished through the back door, unnoticed by anyone.
Russ, grinning, swaggered out the front door, his good deed hidden from view.
As for the tab? Naturally, that was for the "drunk and disorderly" Wolf Guards to worry about.
After leaving the tavern, Corax's figure completely disappeared into the intricate shadows of the Hive City's lower structures, as if he had never been there.
Leman Russ stood at the mouth of a dirty alley, looking at the dim sky, a calculating glint in his wolf-like eyes.
Next, where would he and his "lost" wolf pups go to add a touch of Fenrisian "surprise" to the upcoming great war?
The brief meeting of the two Primarchs ended; they once again vanished into the Imperium's vastness and darkness, but the threads of fate had already tightly bound them to the impending defense of Ultramar.
The vast Chaos joint army, like a nebula radiating plague and evil energy, silently spread to the northern borders of Ultramar. In the command hall of the Oraculum Veritable, which resembled a blasphemous temple, the strategy was set.
The Daemon Primarch Lorgar Aurelian sat high on his black stone throne, his lava-like eyes sweeping over the representatives of various legions and Dark Apostles standing below. His voice, like an echo from the abyss, carried an unquestionable authority:
"Guilliman's sons are accustomed to following so-called 'reason' and 'duty.' They will be like moths to a flame, unable to stand by and watch the worlds under their protection suffer."
He extended a claw covered in wicked armor, pointing to several key planets in the northern starfield on the star map, "Erebus!"
The Dark Apostle Erebus, clad in heavy ritual armor and with his face hidden in shadow, stepped forward and bowed in acceptance: "Your will be done, great Primarch."
"You will lead the Word Bearers' Third and Seventh Branch Fleets, in conjunction with the World Eaters' 'Butcher's Nails' warband, the Death Guard's 'Rotten End' company, and the Emperor's Children's 'Siren Squad,' to form the assault cluster."
Lorgar's command was clear and cold: "Target: the Forge World Hestia, the Agri-World 'Bountiful Valley,' and the Hive City 'Crown of Fortitude.' I want you to unleash a storm on these worlds that the Imperium will remember to its core!"
A fanatical glint sparked in Erebus's eyes: "Understood! We will write the glory of the Dark Gods with blood and fire! Let the wails of despair become the most beautiful sacrificial prayer!"
"Remember," Lorgar added, his tone cunning, "you don't need to completely cut off their communications. Let them cry for help, let panic spread like a plague. What we want is to draw all the Ultramarines, and even their allies, to this slaughterhouse."
"As for the main force," Lorgar's gaze shifted to the hidden, dashed line on the star map leading directly to the heart of Ultramar—Macragge, "I will personally command it, along with the Black Legion's Eternal Crusader and its elite guard, to execute the true decapitation strike.
While Guilliman's sons are bogged down in the north, we will strike directly at the heart, making Macragge relive the 'glory' of the Perfect City!"
The plan was set, the division of labor clear. Erebus immediately turned and left, beginning to assemble his destructive army for feints and sabotage.
Lorgar slowly rose from his throne, raising his arms and beginning to chant ancient and blasphemous incantations. Powerful Chaos psychic energy surged from his body, resonating with the wild energies of the Warp.
Inside the command hall, the air twisted, and light and shadow flickered, as if countless invisible daemons were screaming.
As the spell completed, an eerie energy field enveloped the Oraculum Veritable and dozens of carefully selected capital ships around it. Their hull outlines began to blur, optical signals rapidly diminished, heat signatures almost vanished, and even the most sensitive detectors struggled to capture their presence.
This massive elite fleet, in plain sight, became "invisible" like a ghost, silently turning and sneaking towards Macragge.
However, just as Lorgar was focused on casting the grand spell, and the entire battleship's psychic barrier rippled subtly due to power fluctuations, an unseen presence, darker than shadow and swifter than thought, like a persistent shadow, silently penetrated layers of defenses, attaching itself to an external shadow on the Oraculum Veritable's massive hull.
That presence had no physical form, no aura, as if it were merely a fragment of consciousness, a pure observer. It was the extended will of Corvus Corax, a silent "Shadow of the Raven."
Lorgar's supposedly secret operation, from the very beginning, had not entirely escaped the eyes that had watched in the dark for ten millennia.
At the same time, the Chaos assault cluster led by the Dark Apostle Erebus, like beasts unleashed, pounced on the unsuspecting border worlds.
On the Forge World Hestia, the once roaring factory districts were now a battlefield of blood and gore. Fanatics of the Word Bearers slaughtered Tech-Priests and the Imperial Guard while defiling the Adeptus Mechanicus's sanctuaries with blasphemous flames.
World Eaters Berserkers, wielding chainaxes, rampaged through the production lines, shredding precise machinery and fragile flesh alike.
On the Agri-World "Bountiful Valley," golden wheat fields were trampled by the Death Guard's Plaguebearers, deadly viruses spreading with their decaying bodily fluids, transforming the scene of harvest into a death realm consumed by plague. Nurglings frolicked among the withered crops, turning a vibrant world into a festering paradise.
On the Hive City "Crown of Fortitude," the towering hive cities became an abyss of despair. Emperor's Children Noise Marines tormented the nerves of mortals with twisted sound waves, and the seductive whispers of Slaanesh echoed through the streets and alleys, dragging the weak-willed into the abyss of depravity.
Those unwilling to submit faced the merciless executions of the Word Bearers' Bolters.
Communication channels were filled with desperate distress signals and dying wails. The Chaos forces, having deliberately preserved communication links, broadcast these apocalyptic scenes in real-time to every corner of Ultramar.
"This is Hestia! We are under massive Chaos invasion! Repeat, massive invasion! Requesting emergency support!"
"Bountiful Valley has fallen! Plague! Plague everywhere!"
"The upper hive of Crown of Fortitude has fallen! They are slaughtering civilians! For the Emperor, save us!"
Distress signals poured like snowflakes towards the Macragge's Honour and all Imperial fleets gathered in the northern starfield.
On the bridge, Chapter Master Marius Calgar's face was ashen as he watched the three worlds on the star map instantly covered in crimson markers. The enemy's cruelty and scale confirmed the earlier warnings.
Although he vaguely felt that this offensive was too swift and ostentatious, as if intended to attract attention, he could not stand by and watch billions of Imperial citizens be slaughtered by Chaos.
"Chapter Master!" Captain Cassius's voice was urgent, "Three worlds are under devastating attack simultaneously! We must act immediately!"
Calgar took a deep breath, suppressing the doubts in his heart. As the guardian of Ultramar, protecting every world was his sacred duty.
"Transmit my orders!" His voice resonated across the bridge. "All fleets, target the Forge World Hestia! Full speed ahead! We must repel the enemy and rescue the populace as quickly as possible!"
"Notify the Dark Angels and the Blood Ravens Chapter, inform them of our movements, and request their planned support!"
"Issue a warning to Macragge, report the northern battle situation, and demand that the homeworld raise its alert level!"
With the orders given, the massive Ultramarines fleet, along with the converging fleets of the Iron Snakes, Nova Marines, and other successor Chapters, like an enraged swarm, engines blazing with dazzling blue light, plunged into an emergency Warp jump, heading resolutely towards the Forge World Hestia, where the fighting was fiercest!
The loyal warriors, filled with anger and determination, charged into the starfield that had become a purgatory. They did not know that these desperate cries for help were precisely the enemy's meticulously designed bait.
And behind them, a deadly serpent was silently slithering towards the heart of Ultramar, its defenses depleted.
The storm had fully descended.
Two hours later, in the northern starfield of Ultramar, on the outskirts of the Hestia system.
The void was illuminated like day by interwoven energy beams and exploding fireballs. The Blood Ravens Chapter fleet, the first to arrive on the battlefield, was already locked in a brutal struggle with the vanguard of the Chaos joint army blockading the system.
The Blood Ravens' warships, known for their flexibility and precise firepower, did not directly engage the massive Chaos vessels. Instead, like agile piranhas, they formed small squadrons, using asteroid belts and planetary shadows as cover to constantly harass and fragment the enemy's formations.
Lance arrays tore through the twisted armor of daemon battleships, and macro-cannon salvos erupted in brilliant and deadly fireworks on enemy hulls. From time to time, Chaos frigates were reduced to burning wrecks under concentrated fire, or completely consumed by uncontrolled Warp energy.
However, the Chaos fleet held an overwhelming numerical advantage and was supported by daemon entities. Khorne's Bloodletter fighter craft, like a swarm of red locusts, swarmed towards the Blood Ravens' ships; Tzeentch's Pink Horrors attempted to disrupt the warships' systems and navigation.
While the Blood Ravens achieved significant results, they were also under pressure, with several frigates already heavily damaged. They strictly adhered to a hit-and-run tactic, buying time and space for the main fleet's arrival, and did not rashly penetrate deep into the system.
"Hold on! The Ultramarines' main force is about to arrive!" The Blood Ravens fleet commander's communication echoed through the encrypted channel, steadying morale.
Just as the Chaos fleet attempted to concentrate its forces to first eliminate the "annoying" Blood Ravens vanguard, the distant void was once again torn by the fluctuations of a massive Warp jump!
First to emerge was the majestic, mobile fortress-like hull of the Macragge's Honour, followed by the Iron Snakes, Nova, Nova Marines, Chaplain Brotherhood... a vast fleet with various liveries of azure, silver, deep green, yet all emblazoned with the Imperial Aquila, surged in like a breaking steel flood!
"For Ultramar! For the Emperor!" Chapter Master Calgar's roar thundered across every channel via the fleet broadcast!
The arrival of the loyalist main fleet instantly shifted the balance of power on the battlefield.
The Macragge's Honour's broadside lance arrays, like the Emperor's sword of judgment, severed a charging Word Bearers heavy cruiser in half with a single volley!
The Iron Snakes' warships advanced steadily like an unbreakable shield wall, weathering intense bombardment, providing cover for allies with their heavy armor and powerful point-defense systems.
The Nova Marines displayed exceptional tactical prowess, their ships coordinating seamlessly, firepower distributed precisely and efficiently, swiftly clearing surrounding Chaos light craft.
The void became a colossal furnace. Imperial warships' lasers, macro-cannons, and torpedoes exchanged fire furiously with the Chaos fleet's blasphemous energy beams, bio-acid cannons, and soul torpedoes.
Explosion after explosion lit up the darkness, and the wrecks of warships scattered like meteors. Fighter craft dogfought in the gaps between capital ships, and assault boats braved hails of gunfire attempting boarding actions.
This was a grand-scale orbital decisive battle, where every second countless lives and valuable war machines perished.
However, orbital victory was not the ultimate goal. Chapter Master Calgar knew that the ground threat to the planet must be neutralized quickly to save the civilians being slaughtered.
"2nd Company, Third Company, Fourth Company!" Calgar's orders cut through the fierce battlefield interference, "Target the Hive City 'Crown of Fortitude'! Forced orbital drop! Clear the Emperor's Children and Word Bearers enemy forces on the surface, establish secure zones, and organize civilian evacuation!"
"Fifth Company, Sixth Company, provide orbital fire support, suppress enemy anti-air defenses!"
"Remaining companies and successor Chapter fleets, continue to clear orbital enemy forces, ensure air superiority!"
With the orders given, the already prepared Ultramarines immediately sprang into action. Although orbital control was not fully secured, the orbital drop operation would carry immense risks, but no one hesitated.
Dozens of Thunderhawk Gunships and larger landing craft, like worker bees leaving their hive, blasted forth from their respective mother ships, trailing blue exhaust plumes, resolutely plunging towards the Hive City "Crown of Fortitude" below.
Chaos anti-air fire wove a net of death in the sky, constantly hitting landing craft, sending them plummeting. But more landing craft, thanks to the skill of their pilots and the Emperor's blessing, forced their way through the blockade, diving towards the not-yet-fully-fallen upper sectors of the Hive City.
A more brutal, more intimate ground war was about to unfold within the intricate steel jungle of the "Crown of Fortitude."
Meanwhile, aboard the Oraculum Veritable, which was stealthily moving through the shadows of the Warp, heading directly for Macragge.
The battleship's interior was permeated with blasphemous incense and low, chanting prayers. The corridors were deep and dim, their walls covered with writhing Chaos runes.
A fully armored Word Bearers warrior stood guard at a corridor corner leading to a core area, his optical sensors scanning the surroundings vigilantly, though he did not believe there would be any real threat on the Primarch's flagship.
Just then, his peripheral vision seemed to catch something moving in the shadows of the right-hand passage. He immediately turned his head, staring intently.
He saw a raven, completely black, standing silently beside an energy conduit, resembling a blood vessel, hanging from the ceiling, leisurely preening the feathers on its wings with its sharp beak.
The Word Bearers warrior paused, then relaxed his guard. A raven? The appearance of a bird on this battleship was strange, but perhaps it was a byproduct of some sorcerous experiment, or perhaps... some avatar or messenger of a Lord of Change?
After all, the Lord of Change sometimes manifested in the form of birds.
He was about to turn his head back to continue his guard duty when a thought, like an ice pick, stabbed into his mind—
No!
The symbol of Tzeentch, the messenger of the Lord of Change, was typically a blue raven! Symbolizing knowledge and trickery! But this one... was pure, deep, black, as if it could absorb all light!
A chilling sensation instantly swept over the Word Bearer! He sharply turned his head again, his gaze locked onto that corner!
However, it was empty. The black raven from moments ago seemed to have been an illusion, vanishing without a trace.
"Was I seeing things?" the Word Bearers warrior muttered, trying to reassure himself. Perhaps it was a hallucination from prolonged exposure to the Warp, or sensory interference caused by Warp energy fluctuations. He took a deep breath, preparing to report this trivial anomaly to command.
Just as he relaxed his guard, his head slightly turned, his gaze shifting from its original position—
A subtle, almost imperceptible whoosh!
A jet-black feather, like a poisoned dart thrown by the most skilled assassin, shot out from the shadows at a speed impossible for the naked eye to track! It found with pinpoint accuracy the almost non-existent gap between the Word Bearer's helmet visor and gorget!
"Thwip!"
A soft sound. The tip of the feather contained terrifying power, easily piercing the weak point of the artificer power armor, directly stabbing into the Word Bearer's throat!
The Word Bearers warrior's body stiffened abruptly, trying to issue an alarm, but could only squeeze out a few gurgling blood-flecked sounds from his punctured throat. The horror in his eyes had not yet faded before the breath of life rapidly left him.
He fell heavily, his power armor striking the metal deck with a dull thud, but amidst the continuous hum and prayers within the battleship, it did not attract the attention of others nearby.
Beside his fallen body, shadows twisted, and the tall, gaunt figure of Corvus Corax, clad in black raven-feathered attire, silently materialized as if coalescing from the darkness.
He did not even glance at the corpse at his feet, his pure black eyes, like the coldest detectors, swept across the intricate, blasphemy-filled battleship corridor ahead. His target was clear and singular—Lorgar Aurelian.
The hunt had begun. The Raven Lord had infiltrated the nest, his claws aimed directly at the traitor's head.
The Oraculum Veritable, like a behemoth lurking in the Warp's undercurrents, was far from peaceful within. Deep inside this battleship, filled with blasphemous energy and low prayers, a silent hunt was underway.
Corvus Corax, the Raven Lord, transformed into a shadow of death, moving through the intricate corridors and chambers. His movements defied logic; he didn't run or walk, but seemed to meld with the darkness itself, gliding instantly from one shadow point to the next, with no footsteps, no air disturbance, not even a trace of life escaping him.
Where he passed, only the silence of death remained.
A Word Bearers Space Marine was patrolling a passage, his helmeted gaze sweeping over the scripture-engraved walls without detecting anything unusual. The next moment, a jet-black feather shot out like a phantom from a vent grille above, precisely embedding itself into the seam between his helmet and shoulder guard. He opened his mouth, unable to make a sound, his vision rapidly darkened, and his body slumped softly to the ground. In his last moments of consciousness, he seemed to see a jet-black feather, drifting lightly onto the metal floor before his eyes.
At an intersection, two Possessed Marines were communicating in twisted tongues, emanating strong chaotic psychic energy, their muscles bulging, and their skin covered with sinister runes. They seemed to sense something, and as they warily raised their heads, their vision was filled with an incredibly swift black flash. It wasn't a single light, but the afterimage of countless feathers slicing through space at speeds beyond visual capture. The next second, the two powerful Possessed Marines were cut as if by an invisible blade, turning into dozens of neat chunks of flesh scattered on the ground. Before the foul blood could even spray, the black shadow had already swept past them, disappearing at the end of the passage.
The Raven Lord didn't even pause for them, his pure black eyes always fixed on the direction of the bridge, as if these obstacles were merely dust by the roadside.
Occasionally, a Word Bearers Space Marine would witness a comrade fall, or catch a glimpse of the fleeting jet-black figure. They would try in horror to raise their weapons or press their communicators to sound the alarm. But their movements, to Corax, seemed to slow to a standstill. With a slight shift of his will, one or several feathers would detach from him, like an invitation from death, piercing helmets, throats, or the energy cores of power packs before they could make any sound. The alarm never rang, only the dull thud of bodies falling, the sole footnote to this silent massacre.
However, such frequent killing, no matter how stealthy, with the gradually accumulating aura of death and interrupted patrol signals, eventually drew the attention of higher-ranking entities on the battleship.
At a core node of the battleship, a twisted Chaos Emissary, shrouded in thick Warp energy, suddenly opened its multiple compound eyes. It felt a cold and pure aura of death that did not belong to this battleship, like clear water dripping into ink, subtle yet utterly out of place.
"Someone has infiltrated…" It whispered hoarsely, issuing commands through the chaotic psychic network, "All patrol teams, raise your vigilance! Search all areas, find that lurking fellow! He is among us!"
As the command spread, the battleship's alert level instantly rose. More Word Bearers squads were mobilized, and led by some Chaos Sorcerers, they began to systematically search various chambers and passages. Footsteps, the clang of armor, and the glow of blasphemous detection spells spread throughout the battleship.
But all they found was death.
One team of Word Bearers found an outpost completely wiped out, each corpse with a black feather in its throat; another team found the shredded remains of Possessed Marines; yet another team was instantly impaled by several feathers shot from the shadows.
The intruder was like a ghost, omnipresent yet nowhere to be found. He always seemed to know in advance, avoiding the search routes of large groups, while small units occasionally encountered would vanish silently. Fear began to quietly grow in the hearts of these Chaos Space Marines, who considered themselves chosen by the gods. They seemed to be facing not an ordinary assassin, but a deadly presence from ancient shadows.
Corax, as if strolling in his own garden, easily evaded the increasingly dense search net. His perception far surpassed that of mortals, even these Chaos cultists; the entire battleship's layout and personnel flow appeared like a 3D map in his mind. His goal was clear, heading straight for the battleship's core—the bridge area.
After passing through a power compartment area made of twisted metal and pulsating energy cores, he arrived before a particularly magnificent gate, carved with a huge eight-pointed star. Beyond the gate was a spacious prayer room, filled with the strong scent of incense and blood. This was where the Dark Apostles led their followers in blasphemous rituals.
Corax's figure coalesced in the shadow before the door. He did not directly barge in, but stood quietly, his pure black eyes fixed on the door, as if he could see through the metal to the scene beyond.
The door slid open silently.
The prayer room was dimly lit, with only a few lanterns made of human skin and skulls emitting a eerie green light. At the far end of the room, beneath a small statue of Lorgar, stood a figure.
He wore an elaborately decorated Dark Apostle's robe, held a staff inlaid with soul gems of suffering, and his helmet was shaped like a roaring demon's face. This was a Dark Apostle named Dunle. He seemed to have been waiting here already.
"Ah… look who it is?" Dunle's voice, amplified by his helmet, carried exaggerated mockery and a hint of imperceptible tension. "A poor lost raven? Daring to trespass into the sacred ground blessed by the true gods, into Primarch Lorgar's flagship? Truly… utterly overestimating yourself!"
Corax said nothing, only watched him silently, his gaze so cold that the surrounding air seemed to freeze.
Dunle was enraged by this silent stare, or rather, he tried to use bluster to mask his inner unease: "Do you think you are still the feared Primarch from ten millennia ago? In the face of the true power of the Dark Gods, you creations of the False Emperor are nothing more than slightly stronger insects! I, Dunle, blessed by divine grace, have long surpassed mortal limits! Today, I shall use your head to adorn my altar!"
He raised his staff, and dense chaotic psychic energy began to gather, preparing to cast some malevolent spell.
However, just as his staff reached its highest point, and the incantation was about to escape his lips—
Time, it seemed, had stolen a frame.
Dunle only felt a blur before his eyes; the black figure seemed to sway slightly, or perhaps not move at all. But his condensed psychic energy suddenly dissipated, and an inexplicable sense of weakness came from his waist.
He instinctively looked down.
What he saw was an empty lower body.
His legs, along with the torso below his waist, had disappeared at some unknown point, the severed edges smooth as a mirror, without even immediate blood spray, as if instantly cut and separated by something extremely sharp and fast. And on the chest plate of his remaining upper body, at some unknown point, three jet-black raven feathers were embedded in a triangular arrangement, deeply sunk into the artificer power armor, severing vital energy lines and life functions.
"Im…possi…" Dunle's thoughts froze, overwhelmed by immense horror and disbelief. He didn't even feel pain, only a cold sensation of life rapidly draining away.
Corax's figure still stood in place, as if he had never moved. He looked at Dunle's shattered body, and in his pure black eyes, for the first time, a clear emotion was revealed—a deep-seated, undisguised disgust. Disgust for traitors, disgust for the dogs of Chaos, and an extreme hatred for all these blasphemous existences.
He didn't even bother to give this pathetic emissary another moment of attention, his gaze already moving past him, towards the passage behind the prayer room leading to the bridge.
The next second, another feather appeared out of thin air, like a guillotine blade, precisely sweeping across Dunle's neck.
The head, still wearing the demon helmet, shot skyward, its face frozen in extreme terror and bewilderment. The feather, without losing momentum, carried this head and slammed it hard into the exact center of the forehead of the Lorgar statue behind it! Making a dull thud.
Only then did the headless corpse crash to the ground, foul blood finally gushing from the severed neck, staining the blasphemous altar.
Corax didn't even glance at the bloody scene, his figure once again merging into the shadows, as if he had never appeared, leaving only the head impaled on the traitor Primarch's statue, and the mess on the floor, silently proclaiming the Raven Lord's arrival, and the approach of death.
The bridge of the Oraculum Veritable was less a command center and more a blasphemous temple. The space was vast and deep, with walls constructed of obsidian-like material, covered in Chaos runes that glowed with a dark red light, seemingly writhing as if alive. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur, blood, and a suppressive psychic whisper. At the end of the bridge, seated on a towering, massive throne, was the master of this temple—Lorgar Aurelian.
The Daemon Primarch's colossal body was almost one with the throne, his twisted armor flickering with scripture. His lava-like eyes were half-open, half-closed, as if he was immersed in a dark meditation, or perhaps listening to the whispers of the Warp.
A High Dark Apostle prostrated himself before the throne, his voice trembling with reverence: "Great Primarch, Lord Erebus has sent word. The main Ultramarines fleet and its successor chapters have been successfully lured to the Hestia system and are currently engaged in fierce combat with our assault Cluster. Everything is proceeding as you foresaw; Macragge's defenses have been significantly weakened."
A satisfied and cruel smile spread across Lorgar's twisted face, filled with the pleasure of a successful scheme. "Excellent... Guilliman's sons, after all, cannot escape the shackles of responsibility. Let them struggle in the northern quagmire; once we destroy their home world, we shall see how much of their 'perfect' faith remains."
However, his smile quickly vanished, and he abruptly changed the subject, speaking in a deliberately casual tone, as if conversing with an unseen guest: "But, before we reduce Macragge to cinders... it seems there's a small 'personal matter' that needs to be settled with an uninvited old acquaintance first."
He did not raise his voice, yet it echoed clearly in every corner of the bridge, carrying an all-knowing mockery:
"Show yourself, my brother. Playing tricks with shadows, before true gods, is merely a child's game of hide-and-seek. The Dark Gods... do not appreciate cowards who hide in the dark."
Before Lorgar's last words had fully faded, an abrupt change occurred!
Without any warning, without any sound, not even a ripple of energy.
In that instant, within the bridge, all the Dark Apostles, Chaos Sorcerers, Word Bearers officers, and even the attendant Chaos thralls standing before Lorgar's throne—their movements froze simultaneously.
Immediately after, as if an invisible and massive blade, covering the entire bridge, swept horizontally at speeds exceeding the speed of light!
Pffft—Chhh—
A series of extremely faint sounds, like ripe fruit falling to the ground, rang out.
The next moment, every being on the bridge, except for Lorgar, had their heads—whether they wore grotesque helmets or revealed twisted faces—neatly separated from their necks, sliding down along a perfectly horizontal cut!
The cuts were incredibly smooth, as if made by the most precise laser. Foul blood erupted like fountains from the headless neck cavities, staining the blasphemous bridge a crimson red. The headless bodies stood rigid for a moment, then, like felled trees, crashed heavily to the ground with dull thuds.
Throughout the entire process, there was no resistance, no warning, not even a single scream. Death came so suddenly, so silently, and so completely.
The thick scent of blood instantly overwhelmed the previous sulfur and incense.
In the center of this freshly created, silent hell of corpses and blood, a subtle ripple spread through the space directly in front of Lorgar's throne.
Corvus Corax's figure emerged clearly, as if rising from beneath water.
He was no longer in his stealth-suited raven-feathered cloak. Instead, he wore a suit of master-crafted power armor, as black as eternal night, with sleek and imposing lines. The armor was adorned with dark metallic raven feather reliefs, and his pauldrons were shaped like unfurled wings. He wore no helmet, revealing a face so pale it was bloodless, with features as sharp as if carved by a knife. Most striking were his eyes—pure, deep black pupils that almost filled his entire eye sockets, with no visible whites, like two abysses leading to endless void.
He stood there silently, as if he himself were a condensation of shadow. The fountains of blood erupting on the bridge, upon nearing his body, strangely veered and slid away, unable to stain his armor in the slightest.
Corax raised his pure black eyes, gazing coldly at Lorgar on the throne, his voice calm and unruffled, yet containing a chill more biting than ten thousand years of ice:
"I am not your brother, traitor."
Lorgar seemed utterly unconcerned by the instantaneous slaughter of his subordinates. He even let out a low, booming laugh, filled with twisted pleasure and mockery:
"Hahaha! Corvus Corax! You're still the same, like a true raven, only capable of these petty tricks from the shadows!" He spread his hands, as if displaying his 'openness'.
"Ten thousand years! A full ten thousand years!" Lorgar's voice carried an exaggerated sigh, "You have hunted me for ten thousand years in the boundless chaos of the Eye of Terror! And what have you achieved? You haven't even touched my true shadow! All you've done is clear out some irrelevant fodder, while I, under the guidance of the Dark Gods, have established unprecedented achievements! Is this not the greatest irony?"
He changed his tone, his voice becoming highly seductive, his lava-like eyes fixed on Corax: "Look at yourself, Corvus! Deny it, deny it all you want! But you and I both know! You are no longer the Raven Guard Primarch who relied purely on stealth and assassination! In ten millennia of hunting in the Eye of Terror, you have long since awakened and mastered the power of the Warp! Your shadow-shifting, your silent kills, your stealth that can even evade my senses... which of these is not achieved through supernatural power?"
Lorgar leaned forward slightly, his voice full of inducement: "Admit it, brother! You, like me, have already transcended the narrow boundaries set by the False Emperor! Embracing Chaos is not a fall, but an evolution! It is the only path to true power and eternal truth! Join us, Corvus! Your abilities will truly blossom under the banner of the Dark Gods! Why continue this futile struggle for an empire that has long since rotted and a cold living corpse?"
Facing Lorgar's endless lies and temptations, Corax's face showed no change in expression. Only the disgust and coldness in his pure black eyes almost solidified.
He spoke no more.
His response to Lorgar was a simple action.
Corax raised his hand and slowly donned the uniquely shaped, raven-beak-like master-crafted helmet. With a soft 'click,' the helmet perfectly connected with his gorget.
The moment the helmet closed, an indescribable, soul-shaking aura of terror erupted from Corax!
It was not the chaotic and blasphemous feeling of Chaos psychic energy, but a pure, ultimate power of nothingness and stillness! It was as if the space around him had transformed into the absolute darkness and dead silence of the universe before its birth! Light twisted and dimmed around him, sound was completely swallowed, and even the whispers of the Warp ceased abruptly in that area!
This was the Warp power originating from Corax's essence, perfectly controlled by him; it was the ultimate of shadows, the authority of silence!
With this silent and immense power, he declared his stance—words were useless, victory would be decided by blades!
Seeing Corax's resolute posture, Lorgar knew that any words were now meaningless. The smile on his twisted face completely vanished, replaced by a grim expression mixed with annoyance and caution.
"Stubborn..." Lorgar grunted deeply, slowly rising from the massive throne. His colossal daemon body exuded a suffocating pressure. "Since you insist on seeking death, then I shall grant it to you!"
But a cunning glint flashed in his lava-like eyes.
"However..." Lorgar's voice echoed through the bloody bridge, "This is my domain! Did you think I would give you a fair duel?"
Before his words finished, the blasphemous runes of the entire bridge suddenly glowed with dazzling red light! The floor and walls began to writhe, as if countless invisible tentacles reached out from the depths of the Warp, coiling towards Corax! Simultaneously, heavy and rhythmic footsteps echoed from the shadows around the bridge—more elite Word Bearers, including Daemon Engines completely corrupted by Chaos, were being urgently summoned!
From the very beginning, Lorgar had no intention of fighting alone. He intended to use his home advantage, the power of the entire warship, to utterly crush this raven that had invaded his nest!