Magnus did not realize that the order sent to Leman Russ
had already been secretly altered by Horus.
The Emperor's true intention
had only been to bring Magnus to Terra to take responsibility,
nothing more.
He had never intended to execute Magnus,
nor punish the Thousand Sons.
But Magnus, unaware of this,
faced Tzeentch's threats in silence—
then finally answered with firm resolve:
"Even if I must pay with my life,
it is a price I—who made this mistake—should bear."
Tzeentch laughed softly.
"How noble of you.
But what about your sons?"
Magnus fell silent.
The question hit him where he was most vulnerable.
He had no answer.
But neither did he intend to accept Tzeentch's offer.
He could feel the malice radiating from that being.
Yes—serving Chaos might keep them alive for a time.
But the cost…
The cost would be monstrous.
In the end,
death might well be kinder.
After struggling internally for a long while,
Magnus faced the three terrible choices before him:
• Betray humanity and throw himself into Chaos
• Resist futilely and doom everyone
• Accept death with dignity
Among these three awful roads,
he chose the least disgraceful—
to die with honor.
He issued a simple command to his Legion:
No one is to fight back.
He then disabled Prospero's orbital defenses,
preparing to face the Emperor's punishment
with the last shred of dignity he could preserve.
Next—after another long hesitation—
he activated every ship in orbit,
allowing any Thousand Son who wished to leave
to flee into the void.
He knew that if they left quietly enough,
they could likely survive somewhere in the Imperium,
living quietly in obscurity.
This was the only escape Magnus could leave them.
But when his warriors heard his orders,
their reaction was instant and explosive.
Shock—
disbelief—
then furious outrage.
They refused to accept that after decades of service,
after sacrificing everything for the Imperium,
their choices were now:
exile and anonymity—
or death.
Almost immediately,
many among them resolved to resist.
They would stand against the Space Wolves,
against the Custodians,
against the Sisters of Silence—
no matter the outcome.
Some even rallied others to join them.
When Magnus saw this unrest forming,
he simply sighed.
He sealed himself away,
choosing not to interfere.
He understood better than anyone:
It was pointless.
This opponent—
Leman Russ—
was unlike any they had faced before.
He was born to hunt Primarchs.
To suppress psykers.
To break those touched by the Warp.
The sons of Magnus were outmatched from the start.
Meanwhile
Guided by Orsaga's will,
Lorgar sought out the Primarch of the World Eaters—
Angron.
He knew this was a man who could be swayed.
Of all the Primarchs,
no one had a deeper resentment toward the Emperor.
Even Lorgar, despite the Perfect City incident,
could not compare.
All the Primarchs shared the same general belief:
If any Primarch rebelled against the Emperor first,
it would be Angron—
and no one would be surprised.
But when Lorgar first approached him,
Angron's reaction was one of barely concealed disgust.
To him, Lorgar had always been
a sycophant—
a blind worshiper of the Emperor.
Why would he welcome someone like that?
Until Lorgar said the one thing he never expected:
"I want to destroy the Imperium—
and the Emperor."
Only then did Angron's attitude shift—
slightly.
Even so,
he remained deeply suspicious.
After all,
he vividly remembered Lorgar's former fanatic devotion.
What if this was a trap?
Perhaps Lorgar wanted to lure him into rebellion
only to hand him over to the Emperor
as a token of "loyal service."
Such betrayal was not impossible.
Thus, even as Lorgar spoke passionately,
Angron absorbed only fragments of it.
Talk of "Chaos Gods" and "true divinity"
he dismissed entirely.
To him, Lorgar sounded like a deranged cultist
rambling in circles.
Just as Angron debated whether to trust him at all—
A stabbing, excruciating agony
tore through his skull.
The Butcher's Nails.
Whenever Angron tried to think deeply,
they punished him—
ripping through his mind,
driving him toward violence.
It robbed him of clarity,
of calm,
of the ability to plan or scheme.
Because of the Nails,
Angron spent most of his existence
half-mad,
half-feral.
It was precisely why he had never launched a rebellion—
not for lack of hatred,
but because he simply couldn't.
If he rebelled randomly,
the Emperor would crush him instantly,
turning him into nothing more than a tragic joke.
Lorgar saw Angron's expression twisting,
his hands gripping,
his muscles swelling with uncontrolled rage.
He knew the signs.
The old illness was back.
Without hesitation,
Lorgar poured psychic power into him,
suppressing the Nails' frenzy.
He had no desire to be torn apart
nor to waste energy restraining a berserk Primarch.
Ten long minutes later,
Angron finally calmed.
His breathing steadied.
As clarity returned,
he looked at Lorgar—
—and paused.
Lorgar blinked.
Angron's lieutenants exchanged worried glances.
After a moment,
Angron finally spoke, solemnly:
"…What did you come here to tell me?
Say it again."
Lorgar: "…"
Angron's lieutenants: "…"
All of them fell silent.
For this too
was one of Angron's old conditions.
When the Nails were implanted,
part of his brain had been cut away.
The result?
Occasional memory lapses.
A Primarch with moments of forgetfulness—
and uncontrollable rage.
A tragedy carved into flesh and mind.
.....
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