Arkio was consumed by rage.
Some people were supposed to be leading a glorious life, reaching its pinnacle, only to be suddenly hijacked by "heretics" disguised as allies. It was an injustice beyond words!
"Damned heretics!" he cursed bitterly.
But as a capable Astartes commander, Arkio quickly regained his composure and began to direct his forces. "Pass down the orders—"
Arkio strode to the holographic sand table, leaning on its edge as he stared at the rapidly spreading red hostile markers. "Third Company, flank from the eastern streets and cut off the roads to the enemy drop zones. Assault squads, occupy the central cathedral's bell tower immediately and establish a fire support point. Second Company, prepare to retake the orbital defense platforms. They couldn't have established a defensive line this quickly; we still have a chance."
His voice was powerful and his commands clear. Responses crackled through the vox channels from various units. Initially, everything seemed under control. The blue markers on the sand table began to move, clicking into the gaps of the red zones like clockwork gears. Arkio let out a small breath. His tactical judgment was sound; the heretic assault was fierce, but the Blood Angels held the foundation here. As long as they held their ground...
Then, Arkio's next breath caught in his throat. He saw it.
Every single advance route of the incoming Astartes precisely bypassed his main force. Those seemingly chaotic landing points were actually locked onto the vital joints of the Blood Angels' defense: supply line intersections, vox relay stations, and reserve assembly areas. Every move Arkio made, thinking it was a correct deployment, was actually him sticking his own neck into a noose.
Refusing to believe it, Arkio sent out one squad, then another. And then, those squads vanished one by one right under his eyes. They were like chess pieces being removed from the board by an invisible hand. On the holographic table, the once-dense blue markers were now pathetically sparse. A red tide was spreading across the battlefield in a manner so elegant it was cruel.
Arkio stared at the table, his brain racing to find even a sliver of a counterattack. He came to a single conclusion. Zero.
"...How is this possible?" Arkio's voice was barely a whisper. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I am the reincarnation of Sanguinius. You heretics should tremble under my wrath, flee before my Spear of Telesto, and finally kneel to kiss the earth at my feet, begging for forgiveness—
How can you be hunting me like a rat? I won't accept it!
It could be said that Arkio was a fairly exceptional commander among the Astartes; being qualified to lead an expedition of three Blood Angel companies meant he was, in a sense, a potential successor to Chapter Master Dante. However, compared to a Primarch of the Iron Hands, there was still a "slight" gap.
"...Commander." The vox operator's voice pulled him back to reality. "Only the Honor Guard remains."
Arkio slowly looked up at the thirty Blood Angels in the chamber. He looked at their faces—resolute, loyal, and shining with the glory of Sanguinius. Then, a fire ignited in his heart. It was rage. Pure, blazing rage, enough to burn everything. This fury drove Arkio to an irrational decision; or rather, it was the only thing left for him to do.
Ten minutes later.
At the peak of the cathedral, the Blood Angels' banner snapped in the wind. Thirty Honor Guard members stood in a line, their power armor gleaming dark red in the sunlight, their bolters and chainswords reflecting a cold light. Arkio stood at the front, his white wings fully unfurled. He held the Spear of Telesto, pointing its tip toward the night sky, looking like a statue of an angel descended to the mortal realm.
"You cowardly heretics!" Arkio roared, his voice exploding over the cathedral and echoing through every street. "Step forward and face me in a proper duel! Didn't you want to corrupt me? To corrupt me—the noble and holy reincarnation of Sanguinius? Then come! I give you this chance!"
It is well known that among Astartes Chapters who value honor, a duel is a sacred tradition. Even renegades from the traitor legions sometimes observe this rule. But obviously, Arkio would not resort to tricks. He swore to defeat the "heretic" fairly and show them the greatness of Sanguinius.
Then, he got his wish.
With the hum of plasma thrusters, a Stormbird glided gracefully from the clouds. Adjusting its posture in the air, it hovered steadily in the sky directly in front of the cathedral, its nose facing Arkio. The forward hatch slammed open, and a figure leapt out.
Everyone present seemed to hold their breath at the same time.
It was a colossus. His frame was taller than any Astartes, easily standing as tall as a Dreadnought. Power armor covered his entire body, the iron-grey paint reflecting a cold metallic sheen under the moonlight. His face was resolute, with lines carved like stone, projecting a majesty that surpassed human aesthetics. He held a warhammer, his posture heroic. A massive pack was on his back, covered in complex mechanical augmentations.
He looked up calmly, his eyes sweeping across the Blood Angels. That single glance caused a stir in their ranks. Some Astartes instinctively took a step back. Though they quickly recovered out of shame, that first impression was already burned into their souls. So grand, so... invincible.
Before such a giant, even the Morlock Terminator squad that jumped down with him, and the two Blood Angels mixed among them, seemed insignificant.
"What do you think?" Ferrus turned his head slightly toward one of the two Blood Angels behind him.
Chief Librarian Mephiston looked at the Arkio before him—a man he had seen only months ago, yet who now felt both familiar and alien. He suppressed a surge of nausea and steadied himself. "You were right, Lord." Mephiston's voice was raspy. "Arkio... he is beyond saving. Give him a merciful death. May he return to the Throne."
"What are you saying, Mephiston!" Arkio's voice came from above, filled with rage and confusion. His wings flapped, his body swaying slightly in mid-air. "Have you betrayed the teachings of Sanguinius? Answer me! Why are you consorting with these heretics!"
Mephiston looked up with pity and helplessness at the once-familiar face. "Have you become so intoxicated by the traitor's lies that you lack even basic judgment?" His voice was soft but reached everyone's ears. "How pathetic."
"You—" Arkio wanted to say more, but Mephiston had already looked away.
The giant named Ferrus took a step forward. Just one step. The Blood Angel Honor Guard instinctively raised their weapons, bolter muzzles snapping toward him. But an invisible terror paralyzed them, leaving their fingers stiff outside the trigger guards, not daring to pull.
Ferrus ignored the muzzles. He simply stood there, looking at Arkio like a father looking at a wayward child. "I am Ferrus Manus, Son of the Gorgon, Primarch of the Iron Hands. Now, I have returned." His voice wasn't loud, but it struck every ear like a heavy bell.
"You are not my brother." Ferrus shook his head slightly. "Or rather, you have nothing to do with my brother Sanguinius. You are merely a wretch deluded by Chaos. I shall grant you a peaceful death."
Terror. Massive terror seized every Blood Angel present. Their eyes widened, and shock surged through them, forcing them to look at Arkio—the "Reincarnation of Sanguinius" they had once believed in implicitly.
Arkio's words were choked off. It felt as if something had been shoved down his throat; the rebukes, roars, and condemnations he intended to shout were all stuck.
As for Inquisitor Stele standing to the side? From the moment Ferrus stepped out of the Stormbird, his finger had been frantically mashing the Warp teleporter on his belt. Death Hand, move for me!!! He nearly broke the button. No response.
How could Ferrus not guard against this? Warp silencer, kid. With Adam's reorganization of the Mechanicus, the dark-tech collections once hoarded by various Magi were coming to light through unified exchange. Coupled with the help of a certain Necron technician—a host of "wonderful gadgets" had been invented. In the projected future, Stele would certainly not be the only daemon to die by these gadgets. Perhaps that fact could bring the Great Daemon of Tzeentch some comfort?
"You've got to be kidding..." Stele's face was pale. He saw Ferrus's gaze bypass Arkio and land directly on him, a gaze so intense it felt physical, burning with murderous intent.
"No!" Arkio's voice suddenly exploded. He lunged upward, the Spear of Telesto carving a silver arc in the moonlight. "You speak lies!" He stepped out, his wings flapping frantically, the air currents sending debris flying. "I challenge you! Die by my Spear of Telesto, heretic!"
The white wings fully unfurled, blotting out the moonlight and casting a massive shadow on the ground. How dare he lie about being a Primarch! Such a crime is unforgivable. Arkio believed in his identity absolutely, so anyone who opposed him was a heretic. Anyone against him was an enemy! This was the logic Stele had instilled in him.
"...Are the Astartes ten thousand years later all this brave?" Raldoron, standing behind, couldn't hold it in. He turned to Mephiston. Even during the Great Heresy, those Slaaneshi Space Marines who had snorted their brains out weren't this insane.
Mephiston: "..." What could he say?
Someone was clearly in a hurry. Arkio flapped his wings angrily, let out a roar, and turned into a blurring afterimage, pouncing toward Ferrus!
However, Ferrus did not look aside. He kept his eyes fixed on Inquisitor Stele, ignoring the incoming Spear of Telesto. Was this arrogance? No, it was the only choice after assessing the situation. An Astartes posed no threat to him and required no attention; the suspected Great Daemon of Tzeentch was the priority.
As a Primarch specialized in war, Ferrus's judgment remained clear as long as he wasn't hot-headed. Seeing Stele finally losing his nerve and trying to run, Ferrus moved.
Fast! Too fast! Almost no one present, except Raldoron and Mephiston, could see his movements. Ferrus's massive body seemed to lose its mass, accelerating like a hundred-ton truck with the pedal to the floor.
Boom!
Arkio didn't see anything clearly. He felt as if his organs were being crushed. It was as if he had been hit head-on by a speeding train; his chest caved in instantly, and he lost all ability to resist. The Spear of Telesto, which he valued more than life, flew from his hand and hit the ground with a clang. Arkio himself was sent flying at high speed—he flew back just as fast as he had lunged forward.
In mid-air, Arkio barely managed to hear what Ferrus said...
"Sorry, passing through."
On the other side, Stele hadn't even taken a step to flee. He instinctively looked up and saw a massive shadow cast directly onto his face. "Wait, I think there's some misund—"
Before the plea for mercy could leave his mouth, a silver palm reached out, gripped his head, and squeezed hard.