Gunsmoke choked the air around the Diasporex Gate.
The once-impenetrable defensive line had completely devolved into a living hell.
Wreckage from automated turrets littered the ground. Energy shield generators had long since overloaded and detonated, leaving nothing but scorched craters in their wake. The acrid stench of burnt flesh and ozone hung heavy in the air.
A tide of Emperor's Children washed over what used to be the last bastion of the Diasporex Alliance.
The corpses of biologically enhanced xenos warriors lay haphazardly in pools of their own blood. The four-legged, eyeless creatures had finally shut their sensory organs to the world, plunging into eternal silence.
The mangled remains of the Alliance's mechanized infantry were scattered everywhere. Heavy powered exoskeletons had been ripped open by bolter fire, exposing the bloody, mangled flesh inside.
The survivors were in a full rout. Any Alliance warrior still drawing breath—human or xenos—had only one thought left in their minds.
Run.
Run as far away as possible.
Escape the purple demons. Flee from the eerie, pinkish-purple glow of that twisted curved blade. Run from the figure reaping lives across the battlefield.
Fulgrim.
The Primarch stood in the center of a mountain of corpses. The tip of the Blade of the Laer rested against the deck, a mixture of red and green blood slowly dripping down its length. A chilling, unnatural calm rested on his flawless face.
"Father!"
Kaesoron approached him, utterly drenched in gore. He slammed his right fist against his chestplate, the metal-on-metal clang ringing out with startling clarity across the dead battlefield.
"The Diasporex Gate has fallen!"
"The remaining are routing toward the bridge!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the Legionaries already hunting down the stragglers.
"Do we press the pursuit immediately?"
Fulgrim didn't answer right away.
He simply raised his head, staring down the corridor at the heavy blast doors leading to the ship's bridge.
Deep within his violet eyes, a frantic, magenta light was churning.
The whispers from the blade had never stopped.
Chase them down...
Slaughter them all...
Their terror is the most exquisite seasoning...
Their skulls are the perfect trophies...
This is perfection...
This is true perfection...
A slow, creeping smile curled at the corners of Fulgrim's mouth.
On a face that was already beginning to contort into something unnatural, the expression was profoundly unsettling.
"Pursue them."
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
"Leave no survivors."
The moment the words left his lips, he launched himself forward.
The Primarch was a blur of purple, a lightning bolt tearing down the corridor toward the bridge.
Kaesoron was right on his heels.
Then came Eidolon, Marius Vairosean, and the rest of the Emperor's Children captains, all completely lost to the bloodlust.
The violet tide swept past, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.
But amidst the chaotic charge, two figures grounded their boots to a halt.
Vespasian.
Saul Tarvitz.
The two Emperor's Children officers stood at the edge of the ruined defensive line, watching their battle-brothers fade into the distance before exchanging a heavy glance.
Vespasian's brows knit together.
A complicated mix of emotions flickered in his otherwise clear eyes.
Something is wrong.
Father's behavior just now... it was completely off.
That smile. That look in his eyes. That... It was a bizarre sensation he couldn't quite put into words.
He remembered what Gabriel Santar had warned them about outside the temple on Laeran.
Vespasian took a slow, deep breath.
He turned his head, looking directly at Tarvitz.
Tarvitz was already looking back.
The two Astartes locked eyes, and they both saw the exact same thing reflected back at them.
It was worry. Deep, gnawing worry.
"Vespasian," Tarvitz broke the silence first. His voice was kept low—so quiet that only the two of them could hear it. "Did you feel like..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Vespasian knew exactly what he meant.
Vespasian stayed silent for a couple of seconds.
Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Yes," he replied, his tone just as hushed. "Father... he's getting worse."
Tarvitz slowly balled his hands into fists at his sides.
He knew exactly what Vespasian was talking about.
That smile, that stare, the very cadence of his voice... it was completely alien compared to the Primarch they knew.
The old Fulgrim chased perfection just as fiercely, but it used to be a restrained, internal drive that manifested in his actions.
He wouldn't smile in that twisted, eerie way.
He wouldn't look at his enemies with such unadulterated greed.
And he certainly wouldn't mutter to himself while butchering his way across a battlefield.
A faint shudder ran through Tarvitz's massive frame.
"So what do we do now?" A trace of genuine lost confusion seeped into his voice.
Vespasian didn't have an immediate answer.
He just turned his head, looking toward a relatively quiet corner on the far side of the battlefield.
It was a makeshift staging area for the Iron Hands company.
The warriors of the Tenth Legion were currently getting their wounds patched up with the help of Emperor's Children Apothecaries.
Some sat on empty ammo crates, letting the medics treat the gaping bolter craters in their chests.
Others leaned against the bulkheads, silently watching the Apothecaries work.
A few lay motionless on the deck, draped in blood-soaked canvas, having closed their eyes for the final time.
And standing out sharply amidst the grim scene was a towering, silver-grey figure.
Gabriel Santar. First Captain of the Iron Hands and Commander of the Morlock Guard.
He was leaning against a shattered structural pillar, his silver-grey Gorgon Terminator armor completely covered in spiderweb fractures and bolter scoring.
His face was deathly pale, but his eyes were still as hard and cold as cast iron.
Right now, his eyes were closed, letting an Emperor's Children Apothecary dig into a nasty wound on his shoulder.
Vespasian's gaze lingered on Santar for a few moments.
Then, he turned back to Tarvitz.
"Let's go." His voice was steady, carrying an unquestionable resolve. "We're heading over to the Iron Hands."
Tarvitz blinked in surprise. "But Father's orders—"
"Father doesn't need us right now," Vespasian cut him off, a resolute fire burning in his clear eyes. "He has Kaesoron, Eidolon, and half the captaincy with him."
He paused, turning his attention back to the imposing silver-grey warrior.
"But Gabriel needs help."
"The Iron Hands took heavy casualties backing us up."
"If we just walk away now and leave them here to fend for themselves..."
Vespasian let the sentence hang, but Tarvitz got the message loud and clear.
He thought back to everything Gabriel had told them down on Laeran.
The stark warnings about their obsession with perfection, the heavy scrutiny of that damn sword, the earnest advice to keep their heads straight.
The man actually gave a damn about them.
He was genuinely trying to help.
Tarvitz took a deep breath.
Then, he gave a slow, firm nod.
"Let's move."
He turned around, gesturing to the hundred-odd Emperor's Children Legionaries who had also halted their advance.
"With me."
The warriors didn't hesitate.
Following Vespasian and Tarvitz, they silently broke off from the hunting pack and marched toward the Iron Hands' staging ground.
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