The "Space Wolves" were far more savage and ferocious than the Sons of Horus had imagined.
And the Luna Wolves were far more frenzied than the "Wolves" remembered.
When both sides launched their boarding actions, most of their psychological expectations of each other were still based on old memories.
But imagination is one thing — when they actually stood face to face and fought, they discovered the enemy was nothing like what they had predicted.
The gap was enormous.
"Bjorn" didn't know how to describe these Luna Wolves.
The "Wolves," already savagely temperamental by nature, had completely abandoned reason after pledging themselves to the Blood God. All that remained in them now was the hunger for blood and the instinct of the beast.
"Bjorn" was one of the few "Wolves" who still retained some semblance of reason — because he had become a Dreadnought.
Paradoxically, the agony of that existence had preserved a fragment of his rationality, allowing him to make limited judgments on the battlefield.
As he could right now: he was certain that he and the Wolf Cubs who had awakened him were no match for those three-meter-tall Terminators across from them — to say nothing of the fourteen Dreadnoughts standing opposite, each larger and more powerful than him.
This battle could not be won. It was a death sentence from start to finish.
The Blood God's blessing had indeed made the "Wolves" stronger — but that came with a price.
The "Wolves'" capacity for thought had sunk to about the level of Greenskins.
Faced with this glaring disparity, they could still howl and charge forward regardless.
"Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!"
That was the company champion who had charged out fastest. Bjorn watched him go, wanting to call him back but finding no words.
The wolf cubs threw themselves forward one after another. The elder who should have been first at the front now stood motionless.
This was not weakness. Bjorn was simply out of options — and it connected to his long-standing opposition to the Legion's fall into Chaos.
Having once fought at the side of "Russ" and "the Emperor," he held the Legion's current state in profound contempt.
This was the old wolf's deepest disdain for these mindless recruits.
But in this moment, none of that disdain mattered anymore. This was nothing but a slaughter.
The company champion who had charged out first had his upper body blasted apart by a Dreadnought's bolt cannon. The recruits were massacred one after another by the Terminators across from them.
"Bjorn" moved forward as well, each step heavy. Dreadnoughts were not fast, and they were cumbersome.
His Dreadnought pattern was not a good one. Though pledging to the Blood God had rendered the old and outdated model somewhat irrelevant, it was genuinely inferior to the newer, iterated designs.
"Bjorn's" skill could not save him. Two Dreadnoughts considerably larger than him quickly tore away his heavy bolt cannon and power claw.
One of them pinned him under its foot and held him immobile. This was total domination by sheer force — his skill simply wasn't in the same league, and the Blood God offered him no further blessing.
The sarcophagus was crushed under the weight of that foot. This once-honored member of the Wolf Guard died in a boarding engagement — without a shred of glory to show for it.
The Luna Wolves, already showing the first signs of their sickness, displayed a terrifying face when confronting these traitors. The scenes of carnage they left behind were on par with the terror wrought by the Night Lords.
Unfortunately, everyone here had already become a devotee of the Blood God. There was no fear left to exploit.
Just as Abaddon now found himself in — the Obliterators were performing well. Even against the "Wolf Guard" and "Russ," they could hold their ground for extended periods without breaking.
Abaddon had charged directly to the bridge where "Russ's" command room was located, bringing thirty Gal Vorbak and Obliterators with him. Now, barely half of them remained at his side.
Abaddon split a Wolf Guard in two with one sword stroke. The Talon of Horus in his left hand instantly bisected another Wolf Guard at the waist.
In strength, he had almost no equal among Astartes when Primarchs were not in the field — he could match even the Custodian Tribune Valdo blow for blow.
Among all living Astartes, there were few left who could challenge him.
"Russ" had clearly noticed this exceptional Astartes. He had a vague impression of him — but with his cognition already warped by the Blood God, the recognition would not come clear.
Watching this once greatly-praised Primarch reduced to what he had become, Abaddon was reminded once again of Chaos's true horror.
This was also the opponent he would one day face on behalf of everything. Even though Lord Dorn had already designated the traitor who killed his father as his personal priority, Abaddon had not abandoned that goal himself.
For now, the Primarch before him was the perfect whetstone. He wanted to test exactly what he was made of.
But "Russ," locked in combat with the five Exterminatus Relics, suddenly sensed the iron machines beginning to pull back.
Just as "Russ" was about to press his advantage, Abaddon stepped into his path.
"Traitor! Your opponent is me!"
The Blood God never cares where the blood and skulls come from — and "Russ" never cared who his opponent was.
"RAAAGH!"
"Russ" roared and charged. Abaddon raised his sword and charged in turn. Today, the Luna Wolves would offer one fallen Primarch's skull as tribute to their dead father.
"I once held you in great respect, my lord."
Frix looked at "Corax" ahead of him — utterly transformed. The "Raven Lord" who had given himself to the Architect of Fate had become an enormous blue bird-creature.
The Raven King, his body covered in grotesque growths and eyeballs, had become the very thing he once despised most.
The Primarch who had fallen to Chaos for the sake of his sons was already dead. Only a twisted consciousness and a shattered will remained.
"You once said you were willing to hide forever in the darkness for humanity's sake — that wherever there was oppression, the Ravens would be there, bringing dawn to the night, until death."
"But all I see now is a fallen traitor. Cunning and repulsive."
The Exterminatus Relics and Iron Circles gradually closed in around "Corax." Frix had also readied himself fully. He knew this elusive Primarch would come to find him personally.
"Words are wasted here. You must die today. When it is done, I will leave your body whole — at least let you die with some dignity."
It was rare for "Corax" to find an Astartes who still remembered his old ideals.
He had never wanted to betray anyone. But his sons were at the breaking point, and in his desperation he had accepted the guidance of the Architect of Fate.
Yet that guidance came laced with unimaginable malice. "Corax" sank deeper and deeper, until at last there was no way back.
"Because of your betrayal, the Nineteenth Legion has become what it is today. You forfeited any right to forgiveness long ago, my lord. Surrender. You are not our match."
"Corax" did not argue. He could clearly feel the strength of this Astartes and those Obliterators.
"Fight first, then we'll see!"
"Corax's" silhouette vanished from where he stood in an instant. But Frix's back seemed to have eyes of its own — he spun and drove a fully-charged phase fist directly into the strike.
Both of them were hurled back a considerable distance by the sheer force of the impact.
The nearby Exterminatus Relics charged in immediately. The Iron Circles harassed "Corax's" positioning with ranged fire from the flanks, splitting his attention.
Frix charged back in as well, rejoining the battle. This Primarch had no path of escape — the anti-psyker field had been pushed to maximum.
"Corax" had lost his ability to appear and vanish at will. His body, forged from Warp energy, had grown dangerously weak under the suppression of the anti-psyker field.
This was the main reason Frix had detected "Corax" the moment he quietly infiltrated the warship.
Frix and the Exterminatus Relics vastly exceeded anything "Corax" had anticipated. He could not comprehend how an Astartes could grow this powerful — but Frix's phase hammer and phase gauntlets gave him no time to think.
"You are destined to be exiled by us, my lord. You have no way out."
"Your sons have been slaughtered to the last by our Legion. You should have known this outcome before you ever launched your attack. My brothers and the Obliterator Legion are already moving to reinforce our position. Surrender, my lord."
Frix swung his hammer in rapid succession, sealing off every avenue of attack available to "Corax." The Exterminatus Relics pressed just as hard as Frix himself — their coordination with him carried a natural, instinctive synchrony.
The Iron Warriors and Luna Wolves' advance in the Serene Reach was going smoothly. Dantiochus and Vulkan were also making excellent progress in the Extreme Reach.
But in the Nebulous Reach, Dorn had run into an opponent that left him utterly incredulous.
Looking at the vast, bloated fleet ahead — and smelling the thick, nauseating stench of rot that carried across millions of kilometers and turned the stomach — Rogal Dorn had never in his life imagined that this particular "brother" would throw himself into the arms of the Father of Plagues.
"What in the world are you doing, 'Sanguinius'?"
Dorn muttered under his breath. His voice was not loud, but Sigismund, Matthias, and the others heard every word.
And in truth, it wasn't only their father — even they found it utterly incomprehensible.
What in the absolute hells — why would the "Blood Angels" give themselves to Nurgle?!
"Father, what should we do?"
Matthias asked.
Dorn, unusually, did not answer at once. He simply stared at the fleet ahead, momentarily at a loss.
"Father."
Only when Matthias asked again did Dorn's thoughts return to the present.
"Are the anti-psyker positions active?"
"Already online. The moment we detected their fleet, we pushed the power to maximum."
"There is no need to engage them directly. Use the ship cannons to reduce them to nothing. A boarding action is unnecessary."
Dorn actually still wanted to know why the "Angel" had fallen like this — but as supreme commander of this galaxy's revenge crusade, he could not afford to waste time on a Nurgle-blessed fleet.
Mountain Formation and thirteen star-fortresses had already trained their guns on the fleet ahead. Queen of Glory and the Abyssal-class battleships had once again fallen into seamless formation, lining up shots against those bloated living-ship hulls.
Plasma macrocannons and high-powered lance batteries had all been trained on those grotesquely over-armored vessels.
But then a sight that shocked Dorn and his forces appeared once more — the Death Guard fleet, normally sluggish and lethargic, suddenly surged forward toward the Imperial Fists' fleet at tremendous speed, somehow making warped, lurching jumps.
By some unknown means they were phasing between realspace and the Warp, achieving astonishing velocity.
This made it impossible for the Imperial Fists' guns to reliably track and lock their fleet.
The intense, withering barrage ultimately destroyed only about twenty percent of the Death Guard's ships — but by then they had already threaded through the Imperial Fists' fleet and rapidly commenced boarding.
"Father—"
"Prepare for boarding defense. And have the Legion switch to melta and plasma weapons across the board. Extra melta grenades, as many as can be carried."
"Yes, my lord."
"Prepare to receive my 'brother.' This engagement may not be as straightforward as those before."
Dorn took the phase chain-sword from his hip — forged for him by Perturabo's own hands. He had set aside the Talon of the Storm and taken up this stronger, more personally meaningful blade as his standard weapon.
When Polux caught sight of "Amit" appearing before him, he was struck dumb by what his "brother" had become.
That bloated, reeking plague-swine. A wide gaping mouth split open across his belly, festering intestines and rotting flesh twisted together, with several Nurgle daemons frolicking merrily inside.
Were it not for the unmistakable pair of chain-sword blades, "Amit's" appearance alone — already barely distinguishable from a Great Unclean One —
— would have left Polux completely unable to recognize this as an Astartes at all, let alone the once-legendary Flesh Tearer.
The arrival of the Death Guard left the assembled Imperial Fists struggling to believe their eyes — that this was truly what the perfect Blood Angels Legion looked like after its fall.
"Amit. You, who despised traitors more than anyone — you too have become one. And in such a... profane form."
But "Amit" gave no answer. Both chain-sword blades — trailing rotting flesh and spraying foul-smelling slime — roared to life and drove directly toward the Imperial Fists.
The Death Guard behind him followed suit, their massive frames advancing with heavy, thunderous steps that set the entire deck shuddering violently.
Seeing this, Polux dispensed with words. He thrust the melta gun directly out from behind the storm shield wall.
The Imperial Fists — every one of them clad in Tyrant Terminator plate — raised their meltas and plasma weapons in unison and trained them on the monsters charging toward them.
"Fire!"
At Polux's command, the modified melta guns — three degrees more terrifying than the standard Dreadnought-mounted variant — erupted in streams of fire.
Sigismund looked at "Lestrade" ahead of him. These were among the rare few Death Guard who still looked, on the outside, like Astartes.
No visible signs of external corruption whatsoever. Even the insignia on their pauldrons was still legible.
But Sigismund could still smell the stench radiating from them.
Beneath that power armor, they had entirely rotted into walking corpses — of that Sigismund was certain.
"Lestrade — is that you?"
The Death Guard at the front gave the faintest shudder, but still drew the power sword from his hip — one that bore not a single mark of Nurgle's blessing.
The Death Guard said nothing. They walked toward the Imperial Fists in silence.
Beneath his helmet, Sigismund's face wore a rare flicker of hesitation — but his resolve hardened quickly.
He drew the phase sword from his hip and stepped out from behind the wall of Obliterators and storm shields.
His towering three-meter frame looked upon these clean, unmarked Death Guard before him.
The Imperial Fists moved in wordless unison, following their company commander's lead. The Obliterators quietly withdrew behind them, holding position as a last safeguard for the battle to come.
"We will end your suffering with our own hands, brother."
The iron chain wound tight around the phase sword on his arm. Sigismund launched his attack at a speed the Death Guard could barely perceive.
"It looks as though you fell to Chaos over the matter of your sons."
"Am I right?"
The moment Dorn laid eyes on "Sanguinius," he had a fairly good sense of how it had all unfolded.
His counterpart in this universe — "himself" — must have lured "Sanguinius" into a war zone, then laid a perfect trap there, specifically designed to ensnare the Blood Angels — either through corruption or something akin to a triggered Black Rage.
And "Sanguinius," unable to bear watching his sons suffer that torment again, accepted Nurgle's terms.
That was simply who Sanguinius was. He and Guilliman both doted on their sons to excess — willing even to sacrifice themselves for the sake of protecting them.
In their eyes, the Honor Guard was nothing like a guard at all. It was more like a group of sons they themselves needed to protect.
This had earned them the most genuine devotion and loyalty from their sons.
Even Mortarion had no way to compare with these two in this regard.
Both Dorn and Perturabo had cautioned them repeatedly over the years — do not spoil your sons so completely. But neither had ever listened.
And now, it seemed, that indulgence had finally led to catastrophe.
"It appears you have even come to agree with this Chaos God's philosophy. Even watching your sons fall to what they have become — you were still willing to raise a rebellion against the Imperium and even dare to attack us."
"It is too late for any of this now, Dorn."
"Today, either you die, or I am exiled back to the Warp. There is no third option."
"Sanguinius" gripped his spear and sword. From his wings, plague flies and contagion spread in waves, filling the command room of Mountain Formation with a suffocating stench — yet the psychic propagation of that corruption could not reach past the anti-psyker field holding it at bay.
Dorn said nothing more. He raised the phase chain-sword in his hand, and the duel with his brother began.
There were no Obliterators here, no Imperial Fists. Dorn stood alone, waiting for this "brother" of his.
A fallen Primarch might be considerably stronger — but Dorn had grown considerably stronger as well.
The Unyielding Stone was no longer what he once had been. His features had grown harder, his frame more densely muscled, his technique sharper and more lethal.
With every attribute elevated by a considerable margin, Dorn intended to slay this fallen brother alone — and even though he was a traitor, Dorn was still willing to grant him one final measure of dignity.
"Come on then, traitor."