Chapter 77: The Eve of the Final Battle
The Laboratory
"Hmm? You even know Aeldari technology. Impressive."
The Emperor's voice carried a note of genuine surprise before his tone shifted, brooking no argument. "Bring Konrad Curze back, and Sanguinius too."
Francis suppressed his curiosity about why the Emperor wasn't taking action against the Night Lords Primarch. Whatever the reasoning, it wasn't his place to question.
"Uh, alright."
"Don't do what you just did again." The Emperor's warning carried the weight of absolute authority. "The Warp is dangerous, Francis. You cannot control it."
Francis opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it and remained silent.
The Emperor's gaze vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
Left alone with his thoughts, Francis lifted the bottle and studied the blood within.
After a long moment of contemplation, he still didn't understand what its purpose was anymore. He muttered under his breath, "Damn it! He isn't a father—it's clearly a foreman!"
The previous commotion in the room had disappeared entirely. Now only Konrad Curze remained, staring intently at Francis with those dark, prophetic eyes.
When he spoke, his voice emerged as a hoarse rasp. "What exactly did you do? Why is Horus hunting you?"
Francis pointed at himself with exaggerated innocence. "Me? I didn't do anything. He's just narrow-minded and can't let bygones be bygones."
Silence stretched between them.
Konrad didn't believe a word, but something else troubled him more deeply. He had prophesied that Francis would be sealed and hidden away, so how had he escaped? The future he'd seen so clearly had already diverged from reality.
"I really didn't do anything," Francis insisted, his tone almost petulant. "You can do prophecy, right? Why don't you look into what I supposedly did to Horus?"
He waved dismissively. "Don't bother thinking about it anyway. You're going to be assassinated eventually. Why not just watch what happens and accept it? After all, as you said, you can't escape fate, can you?"
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Konrad fell silent, his expression unreadable. Then Francis tossed him a holographic projection that materialized in the air, filled with dense columns of text.
"This is...?"
"Are you afraid you'll be bored while waiting to die?" Francis spoke with unsettling cheerfulness. "You can read this to pass the time. Enjoy your last moments. Of course, even if you don't enjoy them, there's nothing you can do about it. You're our prisoner now."
He paused, then added with a mischievous grin, "Oh, and I've poisoned you. If you dare put on any clothes, you'll itch uncontrollably. Don't believe me? Feel free to try."
Before Konrad could formulate a response, Francis had already turned away to contact Sanguinius and Guilliman.
Left to his own devices, Konrad frowned and surveyed the laboratory. He searched for anything that could serve as a weapon or clothing, but found only endless rows of specimen jars containing alien creatures.
Many were insect-like monstrosities that seemed to track his movement, pressing against their containers as if trying to reach his face. In one corner stood humanoid observation pods, each one similar in size to himself.
An unsettling thought crept into his mind about what Francis might have been preparing them for.
"Francis, it's no use." Konrad's quiet voice cut through his reading. "The future is already set. The Primarchs' fates are predestined..."
His words trailed off as something in the holographic text caught his attention. His eyes widened as he read aloud: "The Fate Gu was directly crushed by him. The Nine-Turn Fate Gu, destroyed! Break this fate!"
Konrad Curze went utterly still, staring at the words as though they had physically struck him. At that moment, he seemed to witness countless souls like himself, those who were toyed with and tormented by fate, breaking free from their destinies after enduring unimaginable hardships.
For the first time in his long, dark existence, a thought emerged that he had never dared consider before.
"Can fate truly be resisted?"
The question shook him to his core. Why had every prophecy he'd ever witnessed ended in blood and tragedy?
But these stories before him... they offered something different. They offered hope.
"Fate?" Francis stretched languidly, his tone philosophical. "If you can't resist it, you might as well enjoy it. The result's the same either way, so just enjoy the process however you like. Besides, the Emperor will cover for us in the end. What's there to be afraid of?"
Francis spoke with absolute confidence, secretly pleased with himself.
He was truly a professional at treating existential crises.
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of Sanguinius and Guilliman.
They took in the scene before them—Konrad Curze, completely naked and utterly absorbed in reading a massive block of holographic text—then turned to Francis with visible confusion written across their faces.
The information to process was staggering. Even Guilliman, blessed with multi-threaded cognitive processing, found his mind racing with countless troubling thoughts. Yet what surprised him most was Francis himself.
"Francis." Guilliman's voice carried a sharp edge of curiosity and perhaps jealousy. "Why do you have a golden halo around your head? Did Father contact you and grant you power?"
A pang of disappointment colored his words. Why hadn't he been contacted?
Sanguinius, ever pragmatic, focused on more pressing matters. "Did the Emperor say anything important?"
Francis quickly recounted the conversation, the stern warnings about the Warp's dangers, the command to gather all the Primarchs, and the strange sense of emptiness that had followed the Emperor's departure.
After a moment's contemplation, Sanguinius spoke with characteristic determination. "So, can we depart now?"
"Yes, but..." Francis rubbed his chin, looking uncharacteristically guilty. "Are you sure you want to do it this way? The method is... unconventional."
"No matter what method is required, we must reach the Imperium!" Sanguinius's eyes blazed with unwavering resolve.
...
Which was how the Primarchs found themselves standing before the most absurd contraption any of them had ever witnessed.
Francis and the Soul Drinkers had once again transformed themselves into Orks.
Their battleship—if it could even be called that—had been fitted with countless bizarre engines that seemed to defy every principle of rational ship design.
The vessel looked less like a proper warship and more like an oversized rocket designed by a madman. To ensure none of the Primarchs got lost in the Warp's treacherous currents, Francis had taken the additional precaution of chaining several battleships together in a circular formation.
The result resembled nothing so much as a super-sized firework display waiting to explode.
Sanguinius, Guilliman, and Lion stood in perfect unison, sharing expressions of disbelief etched across their faces as they looked at the monstrosity.
"Will this really work?" All three asked the question simultaneously.
Francis shrugged with complete indifference to their doubts. "This is exactly how I got here, so it's up to you whether you trust it or not."
Time, however, was not on their side. With no better alternatives presenting themselves, they reluctantly boarded the makeshift fleet, each Primarch silently questioning the wisdom of this decision.
"Waaaaaaagh~!"
Francis's high-pitched roar echoed through every vessel like a war cry from humanity's most primitive ancestors.
The bound battleships launched into the Warp with violent force.
They careened through the immaterium like a runaway rollercoaster designed by someone with an active death wish, wildly spinning and accelerating with no apparent regard for safety or sanity. The fabric of reality bent and twisted around them as they plunged deeper into the realm of souls and madness.
"FRANCISS!!" Guilliman's voice roared through the communicator as he clutched his chair with white-knuckled intensity. "Are you absolutely SURE this will get us back to the Terra?!"
"I don't know either!" Francis's response crackled back with almost cheerful recklessness. "Ha-ha-ha, It's all about fate!"
Learning from their previous chaotic experience, the fleet had been outfitted with hundreds of mechanical legs, massive hydraulic appendages that fired in controlled bursts to help them jump between Warp currents, execute impossible turns, and theoretically brake as they approached realspace.
The whole contraption moved through the immaterium with a combination of Orkish ingenuity and what could only be described as blind luck.
"Francis!" Another voice cut through the comm-static as something massive and shrieking collided with their hull. "Is it really necessary for us to crash into things like this?!"
"Don't mind that, it's completely irrelevant! Hi-Hi-Hi," Francis replied with disturbing cheerfulness, as if they hadn't just narrowly avoided total annihilation by brushing past what might have been a Greater Daemon.
Behind them in the Warp, the path they carved through reality left a trail of confused and angry entities wondering what had just thundered past them.
...
Terra
Imperial Palace
While Francis and his brothers hurtled through the Warp in their unlikely vessel, events of equal significance were happening in the halls of Terra.
The Emperor stood among the Tech-Priests in the depths of the Imperial Palace, his attention focused on the Webway construction that would one day free humanity from its dependence on the treacherous Warp.
Then, without warning, he blazed forth with light so brilliant that several of the nearby Tech-Priests had to adjust their optical sensors to avoid damage.
The Aeldari knowledge absorbed from Francis's blood sample had begun to integrate with the Emperor's existing understanding.
What he had learned over millennia of study suddenly aligned with the xenos technology in perfect harmony, creating a synthesis of wisdom that surpassed anything he had achieved alone.
In a single instant, it was as if thousands of years of research had compressed into one moment of absolute clarity. His comprehension of the Webway's intricate mechanics reached heights that no human had ever attained.
The watching Tech-Priests and mechanical experts could only stare in awe as the Emperor extended his right hand toward the incomplete Webway entrance.
He clenched his fist, and reality responded to his will. Countless complex patterns of golden light materialized like living vines, rapidly weaving themselves into an entire section of the portal. The ancient Aeldari machinery seemed to recognize his authority, responding as if it had waited millennia for this very moment.
"Praise the Omnissiah!" The Tech-Priests' voices rose in a chorus of wonder. "This is nothing short of a miracle!"
"By the Machine God, this will advance our timeline by decades!"
"Omnissiah! Omnissiah!"
Their chanting filled the chamber with religious fervor.
Satisfied with the progress, the Emperor prepared to contact Francis again, only to sense that his son was currently hurtling wildly through the Warp.
When he attempted to establish a psychic connection, two massive Ork head phantoms materialized directly in his path, their faces twisted in expressions of savage joy as they roared in perfect unison: "Waaaaaaaagh~!"
"..."
The Emperor of Mankind, Master of Humanity, and the Anathema to Chaos itself, momentarily found himself at a complete loss for words.
'Francis, What in the hell are you doing!!'
"Father?" Magnus's hoarse voice pulled him back to the present moment. "Is something wrong with the manufacturing process?"
The Emperor turned to see his son slumped upon the Golden Throne, his form visibly withered from the immense psychic strain of maintaining the barrier against the Warp's incursion.
"Magnus." The Emperor's voice carried genuine warmth and reassurance. "This is only temporary. It will be fine soon, I promise you."
The benevolent explanation seemed to ease Magnus's suffering, if only slightly.
In truth, the Emperor was carefully channeling vast amounts of psychic power into the newly constructed Webway section, making minute adjustments to ensure its stability. The strain was immense, but absolutely necessary for humanity's future.
The Moon
Far above Terra, the Moon hung in the void like a pale eye watching over humanity's cradle world.
To most, it appeared as nothing more than a barren, lifeless rock, a silent companion to the birthworld of mankind.
But deep within this desolate celestial body, buried beneath kilometers of ancient regolith, lay a secret that predated humanity's first steps into space: an Aeldari Webway portal, dormant for countless millennia, waiting to be rediscovered.
The Dark Eldar had found it.
Their raiding fleet emerged from the portal's shadowed depths with the silence of assassins. Sleek vessels, each one a masterwork of predatory design, cut through the void like sharks scenting blood in dark waters.
These were no ordinary raiders; they came with a purpose, driven by something far more than their usual thirst for slaves and suffering.
"For the survival of the Aeldari!" The fleet commander's voice rang across every vessel, transmitted through the psychic network that bound them. "We must eliminate the Mon'Keigh Emperor!"
"For the Aeldari!" Thousands of warriors roared back, their voices unified in desperate determination.
They had seen the prophecy in the darkest depths of Commorragh.
The golden sun of humanity would rise to consume the Aeldari entirely, burning away the last remnants of their once-great civilization. The Emperor of Mankind would become their extinction.
Therefore, they had no choice but to strike first, to cut off the threat before fate could seal their doom.
The Dark Eldar moved like venomous serpents through shadow, their initial assault claiming the lives of Terra's outer sentries with brutal efficiency.
Their weapons gleamed with an eerie, soul-drinking light; each strike claimed not just flesh and bone, but the very essence of their victims, feeding the raiders' desperate hunger for souls to stave off She Who Thirsts.
For a brief moment, it seemed their surprise attack might succeed.
Chaos erupted across Terra's outer defenses as alarms shrieked and vox-channels filled with panicked reports.
But the Dark Eldar had made a fatal miscalculation. They had gravely underestimated Terra's defenders.
The Imperial Fists rallied with the speed and precision that had made them legendary. Within minutes of the initial attack, Rogal Dorn's sons had organized a devastating counterattack. Their golden armor caught Terra's morning light, transforming each warrior into a blazing avatar of the Emperor's wrath.
Shock transformed into fury, Fury into unshakeable resolve.
When the first wave of xenos raiders attempted to breach the inner defensive rings, they met an unbreakable wall of ceramite and bolt-shell.
"These raiders dare—DARE—to desecrate Terra itself?" Primarch Rogal Dorn's voice boomed across the battlefield like thunder from an angry god.
He raised his Chainsword Storm's Teeth high, its teeth screaming for xenos blood. "We will make them understand that the wrath of the Imperial Fists is a weight they cannot possibly bear!"
He charged forward without hesitation, and his sons followed in perfect formation, an unstoppable tide of gold and fury.
The Dark Eldar, for all their speed and cruelty, found themselves driven back, forced onto the defensive by sheer imperial might and righteous anger.
By the time the xenos realized that assassinating the Emperor was utterly impossible, that they had thrown themselves against an unbreakable fortress, it was far too late to retreat.
But then something far worse began to happen.
The Dark Eldar required a constant influx of stolen souls to survive in realspace, without them, the Great Enemy would consume their own souls. Now, trapped in combat and unable to harvest enough essence quickly enough, they felt Her gaze fall upon them.
She Who Thirsts had noticed their presence, and She was hungry.
Their souls began to disappear, drained away as if an invisible straw had been thrust directly into their minds, sucking out their very being with relentless force.
"It's devouring me!!" One warrior's scream cut through the battlefield, filled with a terror beyond anything even these hardened raiders had ever known.
"How can it be so fast?! No! NO!!!" Another's voice rose to a shriek before cutting off abruptly.
Their bodies began to swell grotesquely, distending beyond natural limits. Bones cracked and splintered with sounds that made even the Imperial Fists pause. Flesh pulsed and writhed like boiling liquid. Strange runes appeared across their skin, the unmistakable marks of Warp corruption claiming them entirely.
Then they burst.
Where Dark Eldar had stood moments before, daemons now clawed their way into reality.
Grotesque faces twisted in insane grins emerged from rupturing flesh, their forms barely comprehensible, each one larger and more terrible than the last, birthed from the stolen souls of the raiders themselves.
One psychic priest fell to his knees in absolute despair. He chanted desperately, weaving emergency wards to seal his own soul, to deny Slaanesh her prize.
His voice rose in frantic incantation as he spoke the final syllable—
His chest exploded from within.
A two-headed Daemonette crawled forth from the cavity, its laughter piercing and utterly mad, a sound that spoke of pleasures and torments beyond mortal comprehension.
The Imperial Fists, hardened veterans all, could only stare in shock.
They had witnessed their enemies self-destruct without even engaging in proper combat. It was unlike anything in their considerable experience.
But the horror had only begun.
The manifested daemons didn't immediately turn their attention to the Imperial warriors. Instead, they gathered together in a grotesque congregation, their movements synchronized in unholy purpose.
Then, with ritualistic precision, they began to commit suicide—offering their newly-stolen essences as sacrifices to tear open the barrier between worlds.
Reality screamed.
Warp rifts opened like wounds in the fabric of existence, and from those tears poured forth the true nightmare.
Chaos daemons surged into realspace like a tide of madness and hunger, their forms barely comprehensible to mortal minds.
Bloodletters with their hell-forged blades, Plaguebearers oozing with diseased gifts, Pink Horrors cackling with insane glee, and Daemonettes promising ecstasies that would shatter souls.
The Dark Eldar's failed assassination attempt had accomplished something far worse than they could have imagined.
They had just committed an act of Great Blasphemy, for they had opened the gates of Hell itself at humanity's doorstep.
The true battle for Terra had only just begun.
[End of Chapter]