"Why does a world like this still exist within Ultramar?!"
"This is an insult to Father. This is a disgrace to the Imperium. What will the Warmaster think of us when he finds out? He might even call Father to account!"
"Within three days, we take this place and begin reforming it. I will not tolerate this kind of system or this kind of rot existing within our domain. Is that understood?"
Ventanus addressed the world below and the members of his guard with cold fury.
Nuceria?
How had this place — practically on the border of Ultramar itself — escaped the Thirteenth Legion's notice entirely?
They had always prided themselves on reason and civilisation. If word of this got out, what would that make Father and all of them?
This place had to be cleansed.
"Accept no surrender from any member of the ruling class. Take their heads. Liberate the slaves and the people. Shoot every last one of those damned nobles."
Ventanus, of noble birth himself, was one of the rare Ultramarines who held genuine respect for mortals — which was precisely why Guilliman had identified him early, and why he had risen step by step to his current position.
Right now, Nuceria's slavemasters had made an enemy of this merciful Tetrarch.
"Another brother found?"
Perturabo was busy reducing the yield of a miniature black hole bomb — the thing was useful enough, but far too unpredictable. It needed adjusting.
Guilliman's voice came through the vox, carrying a note of grief and fury.
"Yes. And his condition is very bad. I don't think anyone but you and Father could address this."
"What happened? Where did you find him?"
Perturabo's hands paused. A bad feeling settled over him.
"At the border of Ultramar, in a place called Nuceria..."
Looking at Perturabo's expression — dark enough to rival the bottom of a furnace — and at Angron lying unconscious in the stasis field, Guilliman felt a guilt he couldn't suppress rising inside him.
"If I had found this sooner, perhaps our brother wouldn't be like this. I—"
"This isn't on you. Don't blame yourself. Now — tell me the situation."
"When my sons found him, he was being forced to fight his foster father in the arena. The device on his head was tormenting him without pause."
"When they reached him, he was still using his last shreds of reason to beg my sons to leave."
"At first they tried to communicate with him, but what's on his head had already driven him past the point of reason. Ventanus had no choice — he released the Iron Circle and the Castellans to bring him down, then contacted me."
Perturabo looked at the modified Butcher's Nails driven into Angron's skull. From the Warp, he could almost hear endless mocking laughter, ridiculing his failure to prevent this.
The fury building inside him was enormous. The neural cables on his own head were shaking almost as violently as the Nails themselves.
Perturabo tore a rift in the Warp open with his bare hands. The colossal Daemonic Forge drove itself directly into the heart of the Crystal Labyrinth.
Endless steel daemons poured out of the Daemonic Forge and hurled themselves at the Lords of Change and Horrors swarming around it. Fortresses and warships opened fire directly into the Crystal Labyrinth with full saturation.
Titans the size of warships moved through the already-shattered Labyrinth, reducing what remained to rubble with every step.
The daemonic legions of all four powers began flooding in from every direction, piling onto the Crystal Labyrinth simultaneously — and between them, managed to shear off another substantial piece of Tzeentch.
Even so, nobody quite understood what had gotten into the Lord of Iron today — he had opened war against all four of them at once.
His steel daemon legions fought with extraordinary ferocity, at one point routing the combined daemonic armies so thoroughly they were left in disarray. Tzeentch had already slipped away quietly. Nurgle and Slaanesh extracted themselves in haste. Only Khorne remained.
After turning the Warp upside down, Perturabo departed, still seething.
"Warmaster, did you go and fight them—"
Watching Perturabo disappear and reappear in an instant, Guilliman had already guessed.
"Obviously. They had a hand in this — I have no doubt!"
"A bunch of mortals, some so-called Dark Age technology — how could that bring down one of our brothers? What kind of sedative is powerful enough to knock out a Primarch?!"
Perturabo's voice was tight with fury.
"If you think they weren't involved, you're a fool. Those wretches — one day I will reduce them to rubble!"
"Do you have any way to resolve our brother's problem? Beyond you, I can't think of anyone who could save him."
Guilliman looked at Angron lying in the stasis field, his expression pained.
"I'll handle it. Right now I need to think about how to explain things to the War Hounds. Did you clear out the people on Nuceria?"
"Yes."
"And those abominable technological constructs?"
"All destroyed."
"Destroy the knowledge of how to make them as well. Things like that have no place in the world — they only cause suffering."
"Consider it done."
Perturabo gave a brief nod, then carried Angron away.
"Drive it into my chest. You know what to do, child."
"No — it shouldn't be like this! No!"
Onomamous looked at the struggling Angron. This gladiator, who had fought countless bouts throughout his life, could no longer rise.
"You must learn to control yourself, child. Don't become a beast. That is not who you truly are."
"Now — kill me. Then take your brothers and sisters and run. This place is not where you belong. Leave."
Onomamous had wanted to take Angron with him, but the Butcher's Nails that had been installed in his own head had already taken too much from him — he no longer had the capacity to leave.
He could feel the pain and the madness with terrible clarity, especially the voice that murmured endlessly in his mind — blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne — a voice that was eroding every last fragment of his reason.
He could only imagine what his child was enduring in this moment, having endured it while holding himself back from fighting for so long. It could not go on like this.
He gathered the last of his reason, and walked step by step toward Angron — who had collapsed to his knees, hands clamped over his head, crying out in anguish.
Angron was immensely strong. Even among Primarchs, his physique and raw strength ranked at the very top.
But right now, all Onomamous saw was a child suppressing unbearable rage and grief — a good child he had been forced to raise.
He was failing. Onomamous could feel his body giving out beneath him. He didn't know what it would mean to yield to the voice in his head, but he had spent his entire life as a slave — and this time, he would not be a slave again.
"Angron... kill... me... take... them... run..."
Those were the last unclear words Angron heard before his consciousness shattered.
When his awareness returned, the spear in his hand had already passed through his foster father's chest.
"No!"
The modified Butcher's Nails drove him instantly into madness.
A gladiator of terrible power finally showed what he truly was.
The bloodthirsty spectators and nobles who had been watching the bout inside the arena were massacred in moments. Blood soaked the arena floor. The stench of heads and torn flesh hung heavy in the air. And in his mind, Angron heard the voice clearly.
It was laughing. Laughing out loud.
Say it. Blood for the Blood God. Skulls for the Skull Throne.
Say it!
"No!"
Angron fell to his knees. The arena's perimeter was being rapidly sealed off. Nuceria's forces surrounded the area.
Angron was resisting. He would not be a slave again.
Blessings and power poured into him in a constant flood. His last shred of reason and the fury inside him duelled against each other.
Born with the ability to absorb the emotions of those around him, he knew how to make people feel what they wanted to feel.
But that life had exhausted him. So he had resisted — and the slavemasters had installed the device on his head.
Angron was nearly broken. His foster father's last words were the only thing still holding the beast inside him in check.
Until a storm of gunfire erupted, and screams filled the air, and a group of blue-armoured warriors appeared before him.
"Run..."
His reason was almost gone. The Butcher's Nails screamed against his skull — the Dark Age device, driven deep into his brain and spine, flooded him with rage and pain beyond anything he had ever known.
The warriors seemed to be saying something, trying to calm him. But he could no longer hear them.
The spear in his hand had shattered long before. Two chainaxes from somewhere had become his new weapons, their howling blades briefly drowning out the pain in his head.
What followed he barely remembered. A massive drop pod fell from the sky. Enormous Iron Circle automata emerged from it. Torrents of fire blanketed his entire field of vision — missile impacts that would have staggered even a Primarch.
Angron had become a true beast. The sounds coming from his throat were no longer human. He fought the Iron Circle in the arena's outer ring, ignoring the wounds accumulating across his body, never slowing.
Crack.
An Iron Circle thunder hammer came down hard against the side of the Butcher's Nails. Angron's consciousness blurred. Through the haze, he saw the slaves he had known — his brothers and sisters — weeping as they screamed at the Iron Circle not to hurt him.
The hammer came again. It landed squarely on Angron's head, and the already-battered Primarch went completely still.
When he woke again, he found himself looking at mechanical arms carrying surgical instruments and medicae vials.
The agony in his head prevented him from making sense of where he was. The ability he had always carried — absorbing the emotions around him — had gone silent. The torment that had never left him was absent.
The rage was gone. The pain was gone. So was the confusion, and the distress.
For the first time, he felt a strange and unexpected peace — a comfort so unfamiliar it almost made him think he had died and arrived somewhere that was entirely his own. If he could have chosen, he would have preferred not to wake.
But then his foster father's voice appeared in his mind again, alongside that other voice — the one carrying fury — and Angron's head ached worse than ever.
"You're awake?"
A voice reached him — full and steady, but carrying a trace of coolness.
Angron's consciousness gradually reassembled itself. His vision was blurred, his thoughts tangled, as though his mind had been wrung out and stirred into paste.
"You were lucky. The surgery went well."
"The Nails hadn't been implanted long, and your constant resistance to their integration made removal difficult — but with my skill, bringing you back was still manageable."
Angron turned his head. Standing there was an immense figure — taller and broader even than he was.
His emotion-sensing ability was gradually returning. He could perceive several intermingled currents — grief, fury, relief — but none of them came from the figure before him. Angron couldn't read him at all.
"Who are you? Where is this? Am I still alive?"
Angron felt weak. And he didn't want to get up. He wanted to stay here for as long as he could — to hold onto this rare and unfamiliar quiet.
"Father."
War Hound commander Gheer said the word with a slight tremor, and Angron felt the shock of it go through him.
Onomamous's face clarified in his mind. The foster father who had died by his hand. The memory surged back, dark and terrible.
The emptiness and throbbing in his head returned. Angron closed his eyes against the pain.
"You still need rest. Having the Nails removed has left you very weak. Once you've recovered, your sons will bring you up to speed on the current situation. Sleep for now."
Angron felt something — needles, gentle — easing into his veins. Nothing like the rough, violent injections into the neck they had used on Nuceria.
Angron drifted under. Perturabo looked at his now-quiet brother, then glanced at the tearful white-armoured warriors nearby, shook his head, and left the private workshop.
"How is your brother, Abo?"
His sister had been waiting outside. When Perturabo had returned with Angron, Calliphone had already felt the intensity of the fury coming off him.
"He'll be fine. After he recovers, I'm planning to send him to Ultramar. Let Lady Euten guide him — the same way she raised Guilliman. Guilliman can handle the strategic and tactical education. I expect the Great Crusade will have one more capable Legion Master before long."
"He'll be joining the Crusade as well?"
His sister was uncertain. Angron, from what she'd seen, didn't look ready for anything of the sort.
"Yes. Not sending him straight to the front is already a considerable concession. The galaxy has to be reclaimed as quickly as possible. We still have some time — but only if we make every moment count."
Perturabo's persistent sense of unease had been deepening lately.
The Emperor had recovered well — eating and drinking, occasionally humming tunes from around the early thirtieth millennium, back to working with the Magi on the Webway. Malcador had long since returned to his thankless duties as Chancellor.
The brothers, while cool toward Perturabo over the matter of the Emperor, had at least been conducting themselves properly in this period.
Necron tomb complexes had been excavated in meaningful numbers, eliminating future threats before they could materialise. Extermination orders had been issued in force wherever Orks had been spreading unchecked. Administrative efficiency and the standard of human living conditions had both risen substantially.
The Thousand Sons' Flesh Change had been resolved. The Warp-induced corruption at its source had been cut off by him personally. Their numbers restored to twenty thousand, they had returned to the Crusade.
And now Angron had been found and brought home. The War Hounds had their Primarch back. The Imperium had gained another Crusade commander.
Everything was improving. A better tomorrow was within reach.
And yet the unease inside Perturabo only grew heavier.
Chaos was definitely building toward something enormous. He just couldn't determine what they were planning.
His temperament had never been one suited to this kind of helplessness. Knowing that someone meant you harm, knowing that harm was coming, and being unable to do anything about it — the powerlessness and frustration made him deeply uncomfortable.
"Can't he do the same as you — stay in the rear and let the Legion run the Crusade themselves?"
"No. His situation and mine are different. And the sooner the galaxy is reclaimed, the better our position when the enemy tries something."
"Brother."
Angron, dressed in a white robe, came to the hall where Perturabo received him.
"Thank you for saving me. And for removing what was in my head."
"My ability and the Butcher's Nails together made my existence a torment. Without you, I can't imagine what I would have been reduced to — between it and the voice in my head."
Angron's words confirmed what Perturabo had suspected — the second God's intervention had been premeditated. And if he was reading things correctly, Slaanesh had also been getting amusement out of Angron at some point, slipping blessings in to find entertainment.
Next time a war in the Warp broke out, he was going to charge in and kill all four of them before doing anything else.
"It was nothing. Between brothers, there's no need for formality. You seem to have recovered reasonably well — I think it's nearly time to send you to Macragge."
Perturabo looked at Angron, already largely recovered, and felt a genuine admiration for his constitution.
Even for a Primarch, having the Butcher's Nails removed typically meant at least two weeks of recovery. Angron had come back in three days.
"Your sons have filled you in on the Imperium's current situation. If you have any questions, ask me."
Angron gave a slight smile and shook his head. When he'd initially caught up with his sons, he'd already learned of the Warmaster's rather remarkable exploits — which could be described, generously, as extraordinary.
"No questions. But thank you for looking after my Legion so well."
"Father — the Warmaster is deeply ambitious, and he imprisoned the Emperor, and now he's brought us under his command to gradually wear down our loyalty — I think we need to get out from under the Warmaster's authority as soon as possible."
"Exactly — who knows if, when he eventually moves to take control of the entire Imperium, he'll use us as pawns in his internal war?"
"And the Warmaster has a long memory for grievances, Father. Let me tell you—"
Gheer and Kharn had been busy briefing their father on the state of the Imperium while simultaneously making sure to include a thorough account of the Warmaster's "villainy."
But from the very first moment he'd set eyes on Perturabo, Angron had known — this brother was not what his sons and the others described.
Angron absorbed freely the emotions around him — the proud solitude, the melancholy, and beneath it all, a concern so thick it had almost congealed.
Setting aside the initial impression his sons had given him, judging purely by what he sensed — Angron thought this brother was a ruler who worried deeply about the world and the people in it, and a genuinely decent man.
"Is that right? I didn't notice them speaking so highly of me when they were gossiping about me."
"For all I've done — pulling them out of the Emperor's fleet rotation, giving them a star fortress, giving them ships, making sure their equipment and vehicles are fully supplied, personally searching out promising recruits from across the galaxy to join the War Hounds — and this is the gratitude I get."
"I ambitiously imprisoned the Emperor, used my methods to bring my brothers to heel and keep the Great Crusade running under my domination — apparently I've left quite a few people deeply dissatisfied."
Perturabo said this around a piece of roast he'd stabbed with a fork, looking at Angron with an expression of mild amusement.
"I'm sure it's a trivial misunderstanding. A Warmaster of your stature would never hold Gheer and the others' careless words against them."
Angron felt the awkwardness of having been overheard criticising someone to their face.
Through the viewport, he could see several white-armoured War Hounds grunting away inside an enormous cylindrical water tower structure that had been moved to Olympia — labouring under evident compulsory supervision.
Perturabo's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Quite right. As Warmaster, I certainly wouldn't trouble myself over such minor infractions. In fact — you're newly recovered and still adjusting, so I have an excellent place in mind to help you find your feet."
"Oh, I couldn't — you've already done so much for me. Using your facilities for my training on top of all that seems a bit much."
"Come now, what kind of talk is that between brothers? Finish the meal and I'll take you over."
"All right. Thank you, brother."
The still somewhat unworldly Angron's eyes glistened. The Warmaster was genuinely too good to him!
"Lift!"
Angron hoisted a load-bearing column — ten metres in diameter, a hundred metres tall — and set it on top of several that had already been welded together.
The engineering Titan's mechanical arms extended laser welders, fusing them in place in a smooth sweep.
Angron wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked up at the water tower that was now ten thousand metres tall, and concluded that Gheer and the others had been right. The Warmaster did hold grudges.
"Father, you've worked hard. Here — eat something."
Kharn passed him his father's favourite — mint-and-mustard purple cabbage nutritional paste.
"Incidentally, when is the Warmaster planning to release us? Isn't the Great Crusade urgent? All you commanders are here, I haven't returned to the Legion — the Legion's crusade efficiency must be suffering right now."
Angron ate the paste and talked with his eldest son.
"Father — this is only the first water tower. The Warmaster said we need to build at least five. It'll be a while yet."
"The Legion back home is currently being led by the Warmaster's new Iron Smith. Efficiency probably isn't suffering much."
"Even if we returned to the Legion, we probably wouldn't be moving that much faster."
Gheer walked over. Father and sons, stripped to the waist, gathered together — talking about the Legion and the Warmaster's arrangements — with a certain quality of finding small comforts in difficult circumstances.
"What are you all doing! Three hundred load-bearing columns in and you're already slacking? You call yourselves Primarch's sons? Up! Back to work! Go work!"
Perturabo's voice entered their heads, and Angron and company shot to their feet and went back to their labouring with renewed urgency.
The corner of Perturabo's mouth curved slightly. The weight that had been pressing on him for days had finally lifted a fraction.
"My lady, that's the situation. I wonder if I might ask you to guide my brother — much as you raised Guilliman."
"It would be my honour, my lord."
Looking at the open, warm, smiling young man before her, Lady Euten honestly wasn't sure she had much left to teach.
"Robert will be back from time to time. Don't forget to have him teach Angron what he can."
"Of course, Warmaster."
Perturabo nodded, glanced at Angron's expression of open curiosity, and felt satisfied that this was the right place for him.
The emotions Angron had absorbed throughout his life — shaped by Nostramo and Nuceria both — were deeply unhealthy. Truthfully, his worldview had already been warped to some degree.
Few people understood what kind of damage a childhood in environments like those would do to someone.
Curze was already a lost cause, in Perturabo's private assessment — nothing could be done for him now. But Angron only needed some adjustment. Send him somewhere rich in culture and human warmth, and he could grow back into something healthy.
There was probably no better place in the entire galaxy for Angron than Macragge.
"Take your time here. Feel things out. When Robert thinks you're ready to be a Legion Master, go back and lead your Legion."
"All right."
"There's no rush. The Great Crusade values efficiency, but not to the point of grinding people into war machines. I'm not the Emperor. An occasional pause is acceptable."
Perturabo said it to Angron directly. He had no desire to see this brother — so difficult to recover — fall into another trap.
"Remember what I told you before. Don't let them deceive you. If anything seems wrong, don't keep it to yourself — bring it to me. I'll find a way to address it."
"Stop trying to carry everything alone. You're not by yourself anymore, Angron. Understand?"
"I know. Don't worry, elder brother."
Angron broke into a wide grin. The labour-reform work had left a thick stubble growing over his head, and he looked full of energy.
"Warmaster."
Back aboard the Iron Blood, a Custodian-armoured Iron Guard appeared before him.
"I thought I told you to stop disguising yourself as my attendants."
"Force of habit."
The Iron Guard's form shifted, resolving into a stocky, handsome bald figure.
"The other brother — still no sign?"
"No. I've been searching for years, but nothing. Though I can feel that he shouldn't be far from me."
Perturabo found that strange. By rights, even if Omegon had returned late, there was no reason he should have remained unfound given Alpharius's twin-link connection and his active search.
Had Chaos intervened?
"Keep looking. If you sense anything unusual, contact me immediately. I'll come at once."
"Understood."
"The Perpetuals and the Cabal investigation — any progress?"
"The Cabal is well-concealed and very thorough — they don't leave loose ends. Beyond what I and some of my sons have been able to trace, the Hydra hasn't found much either."
"As for the Perpetuals, more news there. The original Warmaster and our — biological mother — have quietly returned to Terra, apparently satisfied themselves that Father is unharmed, and left again."
"A few others have slipped back as well, though they left once they saw Terra was undisturbed. My sons are tracking them."
"Beyond the original Warmaster, who I'm personally trailing, the others' trails go cold quickly."
As expected. The Perpetuals weren't particularly formidable fighters, but their ability to vanish was second to none.
"Where is Ollanius Pius now?"
"Serving as a regiment commander in Robert's mortal auxilia. A distinguished record. He has authorisation to retire to Calth and will probably be heading there soon."
"Erda? Any approximate location?"
Alpharius frowned slightly.
"If the intelligence hasn't been deliberately fed to us, my best guess is that she's currently on Terra itself. She's almost certainly met with the Chancellor. She appears to be living in seclusion somewhere with the Thunder Warriors."
Hidden in plain sight. Perturabo hadn't expected Erda to have the nerve to return to Terra under these circumstances. Couldn't let go of her old feelings?
"Russ and Horus — anything unusual?"
"Nothing. Situation as normal. Though the First Legion is largely impenetrable to me — I can't get close to the Lion either; his instincts are too sharp."
"The First-Returned seems fine as well. Sanguinius is somewhat anxious about the Red Thirst problem — he's already considering a temporary pause to the Crusade..."
"Dorn remains Dorn — committed to self-punishment as always. Curze, having been made a Judge, has paradoxically become considerably more stable. The Eighth Legion, drawing recruits from Terra and the paradise world you provided, has had no major incidents."
Alpharius laid out everything he'd gathered for Perturabo.
This had all been Perturabo's instruction from the start — he was genuinely afraid that one of his brothers might be quietly compromised by Chaos without anyone noticing, so he'd tasked Alpharius with close surveillance, with instructions to alert him the moment anything seemed off.
For now, looking at the picture — everything was moving forward well. No major events or problems had emerged.
Dantioch had already led his Chapters into the Obscurus, pushing the front line alongside the three strong Legions of the Lion, Ferrus, and Horus.
In the Tempestus sector, the Death Guard and portions of the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors Expedition fleets were methodically sweeping through.
Lorgar in the Pacificus had practically gone berserk — so productive that his crusade efficiency was being deliberately throttled to allow the administrative integration to keep pace.
Even in the vast Eastern Fringe, multiple Legions had been pushing steadily outward — the Iron Warriors had already crossed beyond the Astronomican's light.
The proto-Huscarl surgery had been rolled out across the Legions. Combat capability was rising across the board. Certain names were already becoming legendary.
Ferrix in particular — that frame, slightly larger than most Primarchs, combined with power fists larger than battering rams — stood at the undisputed top even in an Astartes culture that produced giants in abundance.
Malcador had begun drawing the finest minds and most gifted psykers from every Legion to begin quietly forming the Grey Knights ahead of time — preparing for threats still to come.
The Webway construction beneath the Terran Palace had made significant recent progress, now within the final stretch before reaching the Webway gate itself.
Honestly, Perturabo no longer knew what Chaos could possibly do to reduce the Imperium to the desperate wasteland he remembered. With the Necron awakening managed and the Tyranid vanguard still far off — what enemies remained capable of threatening the current Imperium?
But the unease persisted. Even the most blundering and stupid of the Chaos Gods — Khorne — Perturabo was certain that brute was also sitting on something nasty.
Whatever came, it would be dealt with. That much was true, and Perturabo had full confidence in the Imperium's current position.
"Forget it. I'll find time to beat Tzeentch into a state where it can't cause trouble."
Perturabo had made his decision. Without Tzeentch in the picture, at least half the galaxy's problems solved themselves.