Lorgar wasn't entirely sure why Sanguinius had ended up like this.
He had always been the most perfect among the Primarchs — so how could he have given himself over to Slaanesh?
But Lorgar had never shown mercy to traitors. He had grown far stronger now, and the golden flames on the Sword of Promise burned more ferociously than ever.
This left Sanguinius in an increasingly desperate position. Where he had once held the advantage in both skill and strength, the golden flames made it impossible for him to fight freely.
If Lorgar's methods could be called "merciful," then the way the Word Bearers dealt with the Blood Angels was nothing short of savage. When the massive Word Bearers charged into the Blood Angels, they brought everything to bear — war hammers, chainaxes, melta fire, and gauss rays — all aimed to kill. Whatever was most brutal, that's what they used.
For all that these traitors who had fallen to Slaanesh seemed to revel in suffering, when the Word Bearers moved to crush their skulls and they faced the brink of destruction and began fighting back in desperation, they looked utterly pathetic.
Against the Titans and the Abominable Intelligence legions, the Blood Angels' celebrated martial skill counted for nothing.
The Word Bearers showed no mercy — and that goes for the auxiliary forces of this world who had been fighting alongside them. These men had not been corrupted; the local forces had been called up as temporary support. Yet they had still been nailed down like bolts on these worlds.
Lorgar and the Word Bearers had no interest in converting stubborn mortals. The most brutal fighting was entirely of their making. These fanatics fought no worse than any other Legion, and when it came to matters of faith, their slaughter was every bit as thorough as the Iron Warriors or the Iron Hands.
Sanguinius didn't normally care much about casualties among his sons — but not this time. It had taken so much effort just to get them separated and regroup after the recent retreat; these sons had been cultivated through enormous hardship.
And now they were all going to die here. What would he have left afterward?
A Legion Master's most important asset is not his strategy or personal ability — it's that he still has a Legion.
Without a Legion, what was he? What did raw personal power matter? How many volcano cannon shells or plasma blasts could he absorb? How many lances or macro-cannons could he shrug off?
The Primarchs were none of them fools. They were indeed favored — but only so long as they remained valuable. And a Primarch's value had never come from combat power alone. If it were purely a matter of fighting strength, the Four Gods could invest a little effort and produce warriors of comparable caliber.
A Primarch without a Legion was worth far less.
Especially Sanguinius, who had basked exclusively in the favor of the Lady of Pleasure — the one thing he could not bear was to have that favor divided among other daemons.
He wanted to retreat.
But Lorgar clung to him like a rabid dog, and the golden flames in particular were something Sanguinius could no longer draw any pleasure from.
Thud.
The Sword of Promise drove into Sanguinius's chest — but this time it was not by his own choosing, and he no longer had the strength to retreat back into the warp.
"No! Brother—"
"Go tell your master in hell! They'll be joining you there soon enough!"
Lorgar poured more power into the golden flames. Sanguinius wailed, but this time he could not fight free. The flames devoured his essence, burning away every blessing Slaanesh had granted him.
"AHHH—!"
With a scream more agonized than anything even a Keeper of Secrets could manage, Sanguinius was gone. From that moment on, the Angel of Blood existed no more.
And at that very instant, the entire Blood Angels Legion cried out as one — their father's death had triggered a unique genetic flaw deep within their bloodline.
But before it could even manifest, the iron rings and war machines had already reduced them to fragments. Melta fire and plasma rounds don't care how resilient a body of flesh and blood is, and gauss rays don't care how much your genetic flaw might augment your strength.
Precious few Blood Angels escaped. A single cruiser, at the cost of many capital ships, slipped silently away from this place of sorrow.
On another front, Mortarion and Fulgrim encountered opponents of their own.
Leman Russ, who had fallen to Tzeentch, and Corvus Corax, who served no single Chaos god.
In truth, this was not much of a contest. Russ, operating well below his full strength, could not hold back the tide against Mortarion's relentless advance. And Corax found himself outmatched against the Phoenix's precise and methodical strikes.
What truly gave Mortarion and the Phoenix headaches were the defensive lines Roboute Guilliman had personally constructed.
These fortifications were not as impregnable as those of Perturabo or Dorn, nor as tenacious as the Death Guard's own defenses, nor as tactically precise as the Emperor's Children.
And yet they held back the Imperial advance — even as they crumbled.
Mortarion and the Phoenix could not understand it. Why were their losses so much greater than those of the other Legions, while their gains were the smallest of all?
It was as though casualties were simply appearing from thin air — and yet every line of every battle report was perfectly accounted for.
Without realizing it, they had been drawn into Guilliman's sea of attrition.
"You look quite flustered, brother."
"Look at yourself — how could the Perfect Phoenix possibly look so rattled?"
Corax licked the fresh blood from his lightning claws. He had not fallen to Slaanesh, but his crimes were enough to horrify even that god.
"All I know is that none of you are leaving here today. No matter how many times you manage to resurrect, Father and the Warmaster will make sure you disappear from this world permanently."
Fulgrim looked at this brother who was deranged to his very core, and his expression was one of pure disgust.
"Is that so? Then let's see if they're worthy of that claim."
Corax lunged at Fulgrim instantly — but Fulgrim deflected the blow.
All of Chaos had been weakened by Perturabo and the Emperor — not just the Four Gods themselves.
"No matter how many times you come back, every time you face us, you will be cast out — until the day you die for good!"
"Then show me you're capable of it."
Corax loved nothing more than tormenting these brothers. For one who had elevated the art of inflicting suffering to its absolute peak, tormenting a brother was the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.
But Fulgrim was right — Corax had been greatly diminished. And choosing to match techniques against Fulgrim was not a good idea. He lost, and lost quickly.
Fulgrim severed the head of his "brother" with a single sword stroke, then watched as the head — still wearing its deranged smile — dissolved into a mass of warp energy and vanished.
Crash!
Russ was hurled violently into the hull plating of a warship. Just as he rose to move away from the bulkhead, hundreds of gauss rays converged on him from every gun port on the bridge.
Forced to raise a psychic shield, he left himself open — and Mortarion's ambush connected perfectly.
A massive gauss rifle blew through his left shoulder, and the great scythe came sweeping in again.
Russ didn't accuse Mortarion of fighting dishonorably, and Mortarion had no interest in honor whatsoever. Both men were the type to act without wasting words. Even having fallen to Tzeentch, Russ's strategic mind still ranked first among the Demon Princes of Change — and his ruthless character had never needed elaborate words to manipulate others.
Mortarion could sense clearly that this brother had no intention of relying on Tzeentch's power, despite knowing exactly how to use it.
"You've always been this proud. No matter where you end up, that arrogance of yours never changes."
Mortarion looked down at Russ, who lay broken beyond the ability to rise.
"Do it."
Russ said nothing more. Mortarion wasted no words either — and simply shot his brother's head apart.
"Ha — look at you, slave of the Blood God. What's the matter, didn't your master bother to bless you?"
Angron had his wings snapped off and his left arm severed.
"Then again, look at you cowering there like a whipped dog. I imagine the Blood God doesn't much favor failures like you."
"RAAAGH!"
Angron hurled his spear with every last ounce of his strength, but the other Angron caught it easily.
"Look at that — the little dog is angry. Are you furious because your master doesn't love you anymore? Then go crawl back and bark a little louder for him!"
The blow came faster than Angron could react. He was split in two, and sank into the long, slow process of resurrection.
On Fenris, the Space Wolves were slaughtered to the last. Ahriman performed magnificently — his psychic powers erupted one after another, and wielding twin chainswords he cut down no fewer than eighteen Wolf Lords, laying the groundwork for total victory.
Magnus, too, did not disappoint his sons.
"Rest now, brother. You'll find true release soon enough — Father and the Warmaster will see to it."
Magnus looked upon his broken "brother" and brought one fist — as large as a Dreadnought — down upon Russ's skull, crushing it.
As for this universe's Russ, he encountered an adversary he hadn't anticipated.
"I thought you'd go to intercept Russ. I didn't expect me to be your target."
Looking at the Khan before him — stripped of all self-awareness — Russ felt a pang of sorrow.
This brother had once been just like him. And yet here he was.
"No matter. Your loving father is about to be cut down by mine. When that happens, you won't have to go on suffering like this. All I can do now is spare you that immediate pain."
"Farewell, brother. I hope you never find your way back to realspace again."
Countless Abominable Intelligences poured past Russ and surged toward the Khan.
The White Scars couldn't hold out long. The Space Wolves had no desire to brawl with this particular nuisance at close quarters — every one of them reached for ranged weapons they rarely used in normal combat.
In the end, after the Khan was maneuvered — without quite realizing it — into a particular location by several iron rings, he sensed something falling from the sky above him.
Before he could identify it, an immense nuclear and thermonuclear warhead detonated and swallowed him whole.
When the blinding light and shockwave faded, the landscape had been leveled. Every trace was obliterated. The terrain had dropped by dozens of meters.
"Safe travels, brother."
"You're not much, are you? You pledged yourselves to the Blood God and Slaanesh — and you're still this pathetic."
"One madman and one fool. You really do deserve to be called the Empire's Legendary Duo. And I hear the 'Horus' of this world turned out to be an idiot as well — no wonder you ended up following him."
"I suppose it wasn't without reason. Only birds of a feather flock together — how else would he have gotten the two of you to join the traitors?"
"A pack of lunatics, and a bunch of husks who've turned to dust. You really are one big happy family."
Sanguinius spared no mercy in his mockery of the two traitors, then drove his longsword up through Angron's jaw and scrambled it thoroughly before kicking him away.
Half of Magnus's face had been carved off, and Sanguinius gave neither of them a moment to breathe — longsword and spear alternating in fluid combination, hacking both of them apart so completely they couldn't muster a shred of resistance.
The World Eaters and the mostly-reduced-to-ash Thousand Sons were ground into the dirt by the Blood Angels and kept there.
This wasn't even a contest between comparable forces. The Primarchs from other universes had at least managed to put up some resistance — but here, these versions had no ability to fight back at all.
Because they had been ruined by every conceivable circumstance.
Angron without the Blood God's blessings, stripped of his power and his mind; Magnus, long since thoroughly dead, reassembled as a broken shell by Ahriman's painstaking effort.
Such specimens weren't even a source of pride for Sanguinius — the current him could defeat both of them with one hand tied behind his back.
"When you get back, pass a message to your masters — actually, never mind, Father and the Warmaster are already dealing with them right now. You'll all be going to hell together very soon."
"Don't be in too much of a hurry. Some of your brothers might be joining you on that road, so you won't be lonely."
He impaled both of them on his spear at once, then swept his longsword from left to right and sheared away half of their upper bodies.
Khârn was hacked into pulp by Raldoron in single combat. Ahriman, surrounded and beaten down by Meros and his companions, was banished back to the warp.
The already devastated World Eaters and Thousand Sons nearly ceased to exist entirely after this battle. Aside from those who had ascended to daemonhood, the last remaining true World Eaters and Thousand Sons had been all but wiped out.
"Mortarion! Where are you running?! Weren't you always going on about how tough you are? Why are you moving so fast now?!"
The Khan showed absolutely no sense of fair play. Putting distance between them, he and the iron rings opened up on Mortarion with a relentless barrage.
And even when Mortarion closed the gap, it didn't help — the Khan was simply faster.
In short: refuse to fight Mortarion's war of attrition and endurance. The Khan loved this style of fighting.
The White Scars fought the same way — raking the Death Guard with gauss rays and plasma weapons, not particularly caring about accuracy, because they had more ammunition than they could ever use and no fear of overheating.
For the Death Guard, their legendary resilience and endurance had become a torment. Their thick defenses and deadened pain receptors made this style of warfare especially humiliating — and the casualties were enormous.
The Titan Legions and Knight Houses had already broken their lines. This was not a defensive war they were capable of fighting.
Even though they were on home ground, and these star systems had all been thoroughly corrupted —
When they watched the star fortresses forcibly drag a star close and draw its energy to perform "physical sterilization" of the planets, the Death Guard's spirit finally broke.
What are we even fighting for at this point?
Mortarion was not the kind of man who could watch his sons suffer. So he ordered the Death Guard to retreat.
He remained alone to face the Khan, even knowing how this would end.
"Shameless wretch!"
"Still better than slaughtering your own sons, traitor."
"What's wrong — a mighty Primarch reduced to playing regimental champion? Then again, your actual Legion—oh, wait. He was already banished by Jaghatai. He can't come."
"Never mind that. Let me ask you something: did suckling at Nurgle's teat feel good? Is that why you betrayed your father? I heard it's rather larger than Slaanesh's — I suppose that explains why you—"
The Khan's words had an unerring ability to hit every nerve. Even the White Scars listening in on the comm channel felt faintly scandalized.
Father — even if you are a Primarch, there are things you can't just say!
"YOU WILL DIE FOR THAT!"
"Then come and kill me. Why are you running away?"
"Stand still!"
Mortarion seized a moment to destroy one of the iron rings — but in the same instant took a precision shot from the Khan, a gauss ray punching a gaping hole through his left leg.
Mortarion stopped dodging. He charged straight at the Khan.
"Die, you bastard!"
Seeing the Khan had stopped evading, Mortarion committed fully and swung his great scythe in a devastating arc.
But the Khan simply caught it with the White Tiger Dao — and the scythe shattered.
Only then did Mortarion see: his great scythe had already been hit by gauss fire long ago. His left flank had been eaten away by the beams. His bolt pistol had been melted.
Mortarion doubled down in fury. No weapon? He still had his hands. His teeth.
He would make this bastard pay.
The Khan's White Tiger Dao shattered that ambition. In the instant before he was banished, Mortarion caught a clear look at the Khan's face. No mockery. No more taunts. Only a trace of sorrow in his eyes that would not fade.
Toramino's luck was not good. He had run into Dorn — now pledged to Khorne — a fanatical war-mad berserker who gave everyone a headache.
No one could understand how Guilliman had managed to keep someone like this in line. I suppose that's why even Father found him troublesome.
The Thorns' assault had been shattered by the Steel Legions and the Iron Warriors.
Toramino and Terian stared at the deadlocked front lines and felt a mutual throb of frustration.
Even in defense, this siege-master's work was flawless.
Toramino — a man with tremendous confidence in his own offensive tactics — found himself completely outclassed when facing a Primarch. They were simply not operating on the same level.
If their side's overall advantage had not been so overwhelming, Toramino thought he'd already have been smashed through by the enemy Primarch.
"It seems we'll have to force the assault, Terian."
"Our attrition has grown quite significant. The traitors' defensive lines interlock at every point. Apart from Lord Guilliman, who can match them move for move, we've all been bled for considerable strength."
Toramino studied the tactical display — the naval battle still favored them, but a resolution would take time.
The decisive factor would be the ground war.
"We can't help it — matching a Primarch is something we're simply not capable of, especially one who is spoken of in the same breath as Father."
"Then let me go in as the vanguard. If I encounter the Primarch, at least I can give you advance warning and keep our losses from piling up all at once."
He'd already died once, after all. If it came to that again, he'd just wait for Father to resurrect him. Terian was at peace with it.
"Not yet. Let's probe with the Abominable Intelligence Legions first."
"Where are we going to find that many Abominable Intelligence units? Remember — our front is stretched very thin. We're already running short on Abominable Intelligence Legions as it is."
"Reinforcements are still two weeks out, Commander. Wouldn't committing the Abominable Intelligence Legions now be too much of a gamble?"
Terian was skeptical.
"No choice. If I don't send a large enough force of Abominable Intelligences down there, why would the Primarch bother to jump ship and come for me personally?"
"You want to be bait? To kill a Primarch?"
Terian saw through Toramino's plan immediately.
"Are you out of your mind, Commander? That is a Primarch. Even the Grey Knights can't claim they can banish a Primarch at full strength."
"The only thing that can defeat a Primarch is another Primarch!"
Terian couldn't understand why Toramino was taking such a risk when they could simply steamroll this position in time.
Wasn't playing it safe the obviously correct choice?
"Father and the Emperor have already launched their offensive against Chaos in the warp. These Primarchs must have been significantly weakened."
"It's still a Primarch!"
"But the enemy clearly wants to drain our strength. If we can eliminate this position quickly, the fourteen star sectors surrounding this area will be completely open to us."
"Terian, I know it's a Primarch — but if we don't banish him, even after we break this defensive line, he'll simply anchor himself to the next one and make us pay all over again."
"We'll take unnecessary casualties throughout. Even the Abominable Intelligence Legions — it's worth one gamble. And even if we fail, there's nothing to truly fear, is there? The worst case is the same as what happened to you."
Toramino had long since made peace with his own death. Every Space Marine had.
"General Ferrix was right not to nominate you as Supreme Commander. You're too extreme, Commander."
"But it tends to produce unexpected results, doesn't it?"
Toramino looked at this old comrade, and a wild gleam spread across his face.