On the rubble of the underhive, Julius was on his knees. His armor, a masterpiece of beskar and technology, was dented and smoking. Nightwing, his magnificent axe, bore the stigmata of battle, its runes fading. His lightsaber? Useless against an entity of this caliber. Against a being like Be'lakor, forged by the four Ruinous Powers, conventional weapons, even the most advanced, were mere irritations.
He looked up. The sky was an open wound, throbbing to the rhythm of the sacrifices. His men fought with the tenacity of desperation, but he felt their morale wavering as they saw him, their invincible Commander, so close to defeat.
His gaze finally settled on Be'lakor. The winged shadow hovered, a cruel satisfaction emanating from his form. The First-Damned Daemon Prince. The chosen, then the outcast, of the Four. A power that defied the ages.
Be'lakor watched, intrigued despite himself. Why did this mortal still resist? His armor was pierced, his weapons broken. Mortal weapons could not kill a being like him, only banish him temporarily. And yet... he was too calm. A serenity that bordered on insolence. What is he planning? the daemon wondered, a glimmer of caution tempering his glee.
Julius, his voice hoarse yet carrying, broke the tense silence. "Be'lakor. I must admit, you are the strongest adversary I have faced in years."
The Prince of Shadows inclined his head, a parody of courtesy. "I thank you for the praise. And I will tell you that when you finally kneel, I will make you my right hand. For I have yet to find a mortal more worthy of that place."
A cold smile stretched Julius's bloodied lips. "I thank you for that... promotion. But I must decline."
Be'lakor let out a theatrical sigh. "What a pity. In that case, I shall have to discipline you. And put you... at my feet."
Julius's smile widened. He closed his eyes, retreating into the sanctuary of his mind.
"System."
"I hear you, Master." The voice was neutral, omnipresent.
"Purchase psyker power. Alpha Plus level."
There was a minuscule pause, a calculation. "Master, I can transfer the required potential. However, your current biological body, though custodial, cannot contain it. Your soul is already of rare intensity. Integrating such power would cause it to implode, reducing you to psychic ash. You must first enhance the vessel."
Julius was not surprised. He had anticipated. A mad, desperate plan, born of his arrogance and absolute determination.
"Very well. Purchase the physical strength, resilience, and genetic template of a Primarch. At his full potential. Not a copy, the very essence."
"Cost: exorbitant. Your energy reserves, though vast, will be nearly exhausted."
"Do it. Then, purchase armor. Made of Nth Metal, the god-metal, anti-daemon, anti-magic. Give it the form of Sanguinius's armor. High-tech model, full integration. And incorporate JARVIS as the combat artificial intelligence."
"Design in progress."
"Finally, purchase a weapon. A war mace. To the proportions of Horus's. Material: Auric Silver, quenched in pure psychic essences. Weapon name: 'Demonbreaker'."
"Total transaction pending confirmation. This will consume 98% of your accumulated energy reserves."
"CONFIRM."
Outside, less than a second had passed. Be'lakor, seeing Julius with his eyes closed, thought him resigned. He raised his sword to strike.
Then, the world exploded.
Not an explosion of fire, but of LIGHT. A silver, pure, incandescent light that erupted from Julius's broken body like a nascent sun. The debris around him began to float, then vaporized into white dust. Be'lakor screamed, recoiling, his shadowy eyes burned by this sacred radiance.
Inside the pillar of light, the transformation was titanic, apocalyptic. Julius's bones cracked, reorganized, stretched. His musculature densified, reaching superhuman proportions. From his back, in a rending of flesh and energy, two immense wings burst forth. Not wings of daemonic leather, but eagle's wings, majestic, made of luminous silver feathers, each seeming forged from solidified moonlight.
His hair, short and black, whitened in an instant, becoming a silver mane that floated in the ambient energy. His eyes opened. They were no longer electric blue, but pools of liquid silver, shining with a light that pierced souls, as cold and pitiless as distant stars.
The armor formed around him, not by attaching, but by growing on his skin. Liquid, living Nth Metal, silver, flowed to form armor of breathtaking beauty. Elegant and deadly, it hugged his new superhuman forms, protecting every muscle, every joint, without hindering movement. Fins and aerodynamic protrusions recalled the armor of the angel of Baal, but sublimated, futuristic. On the breastplate, a relief of a double-headed eagle seemed ready to take flight. The JARVIS AI initialized in his mind, merging with his senses, calculating attack angles, daemonic weaknesses.
In his right hand, the metal formed, thickened, to create the weapon. Demonbreaker. A monumental war mace, its handle engraved with runes of banishment, its spherical head bristling with spikes of auric silver. It radiated a power so hostile to Chaos that the air around it crackled and purified.
The light dissipated.
Julius was no longer there.
In his place, standing on the ruins, was a being of legend. An archangel of metal and silver lightning. Sanguinius resurrected as a high-tech god of war. His silver wings spread with a sound of thunder, stirring up a storm of purified dust.
He raised Demonbreaker, pointing the mace at Be'lakor, his silver gaze piercing the daemon's shadow.
The voice that emerged from him was no longer entirely human. It was the sound of a divine bell, the roar of a stellar engine, charged with absolute authority.
"Now, daemon. Let's begin again."