Horus loomed over the battered form of the Lion, who lay beside the shattered pedestal. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his massive frame twisting as he swung his warhammer with earth-shattering might.
The blow came swift and savage. The spike atop the hammer howled through the air, trailing a screeching vortex. A light-blue force field flickered to life—Horus knew well that Lion El'Jonson was no ordinary foe. He had to seize this rare opening and utterly cripple his brother's ability to resist.
But at that critical moment, the Lion raised the Emperor's Shield, barely mustering enough strength to bring it to his chest.
With a defiant roar that shook the chamber, the shield flared with radiant golden light. The warhammer struck it with a deafening crash and rebounded.
The sheer force nearly tore the weapon from Horus's grasp, forcing the Warmaster back several paces despite his towering strength.
The Lion fared worse.
Though the shield had saved him, the impact still hurled him across the chamber. Blood erupted from his mouth, and his power armor's safeties activated—surrounding him with an emergency stasis field. Even so, the Lion Primarch was grievously wounded.
He crashed into the ferrocrete floor. Only his unmatched combat instincts allowed him to twist midair, distributing the blow. He rolled for dozens of meters before finally arresting his momentum, barely avoiding further damage.
But Horus was upon him again, charging like a juggernaut. He roared as he closed the distance.
"Fight with me, brother! Or suffer the consequences. I will not retreat. My will is iron."
The Lion rose unsteadily, his eyes calm but resolute. "I've already given you my answer, Horus. No matter how many times you ask, it will not change."
He paused, then said coldly, "No... perhaps you're not even Horus anymore. My brother lies buried beneath ten millennia of decay. You're nothing but a puppet for the Ruinous Powers—a weapon forged to undo the Imperium. A hollow echo."
"You may wear his face, but you're a stranger behind the eyes."
The Lion surged forward once more. His enhanced physiology—the hallmark of a Primarch—fueled his recovery. Blade met hammer in a renewed clash, the sound of their duel echoing like thunder.
The shockwaves from their battle knocked nearby Space Marines to the ground. Divine weapons clashed, shaking the very foundations of the laboratory.
"I am no slave to the so-called gods!" Horus roared. "I still love the Imperium. I still honor our Father. I burn with purpose, with belief in our race's supremacy! But you, Leon—you are relics! You and the others, withered by time and hesitation!"
His hammer crashed down again and again. Each stomp of his iron-shod boots cratered the ground beneath him.
"I will save the Imperium. I will save the Emperor! I will save all of you—from Dukel! No matter what it takes!"
The laboratory shook under their feet. Blood, viscera, and shattered biotanks littered the ground as Horus barreled forward once more, the haft of his warhammer a blur of violence.
His fury was relentless. Even the Lion's Emperor's Shield struggled to absorb the hammer's blows.
And just when Horus believed victory was certain, the Lion shifted.
He no longer defended blindly. Instead, he dropped to one knee—faster than the eye could follow—and redirected the Argentine blade with a full-bodied thrust.
The tip of the sword gleamed as it caught Horus mid-charge.
The Warmaster, already committed to his swing, had no time to alter his path.
The blade pierced his chest, slicing through plate and ceramite like parchment, driven by unyielding will. Blood fountained from the wound as the sword punched clean through.
Yet Horus's hammer still found its mark, smashing into the Lion's chest.
The two Primarchs collided with cataclysmic force, both hurled backwards. They tumbled across the foul, slick floor—coming to a rest meters apart.
Horus landed on his back, his black cloak stained and pinned beneath him.
Even with the durability of a Primarch, the pain was staggering. He lay motionless for several long seconds, the fire in his blood the only thing keeping him conscious.
At last, he reached for the hilt protruding from his chest. With a brutal yank, he tore the Argentine blade from his body.
The Lion was in worse shape.
His chestplate was shattered, the armor crumpled inwards. Blood soaked his torso, pooling around him. The wound was deep. Even for one like him, it would take time to recover.
Horus staggered upright, each movement agony. He realized with grim clarity: the blade had a special property—one that slowed regeneration. Some trick of Dukel's forge, no doubt.
He looked down at the near-unconscious Lion.
And raised his warhammer again.
He would not risk a rematch. After ten thousand years, El'Jonson's strength had exceeded all expectations.
But before the killing blow could fall—
"Protect the Primarch!" The Angels of Absolution surged forward in a wall of ceramite and wrath.
A storm of bolt rounds and krak grenades erupted around Horus. Explosive shells detonated across his armor, halting his advance.
The Dark Angels opened fire with unrelenting fury. They would not allow their father to fall again—not after his return. Not now. Even if it cost them everything.
Their oaths burned brighter than fear.
Grenade launchers thundered like roaring beasts. Precision bolter fire slammed into Horus's plate, one shot cracking his helmet, another denting his chest. Even the might of a Primarch staggered under their righteous barrage.
But it wasn't enough.
It only made him angrier.
Horus, howling with rage, lunged through the fusillade. He brought his hammer down upon the first Angel that reached him. The warrior flew like a ragdoll into a steel wall, his armor splintering, his body reduced to pulp within.
Blood sprayed across the room, painting the walls red.
And still, the sons of Caliban stood their ground.
In a blink, the eyes of the Angel of Absolution dulled. Life fled them.
Then Horus moved—like a comet tearing through the void—vanishing into open space. Neither bolter rounds nor lasfire from the Dark Angels and mortal auxilia could halt his advance.
The thralls and servitors of the First Legion hurled themselves forward, using flesh and steel to form a desperate shield for their Primarch. They were torn apart in an instant—pulped beneath the swings of Horus's warhammer.
Mangled flesh, shattered bone, and ruptured metal flew in all directions, joining the grotesque landscape of the lab—already a cathedral of mutation and gore. Nothing seemed out of place.
A squad of Angels of Absolution lifted Lion El'Jonson's broken form, retreating with all speed. They didn't dare pause—not even for a breath.
A corpse flew overhead—twisted metal and shredded bio-matter crashing to the ground like a discarded puppet.
The rearguard laid down their lives to delay Horus. Scores of grenade launchers and countless lasrifles opened fire, their fury echoing through corridors of sinew and steel. The hiss of cutting las-beams sang through the blood-slick air.
When the Lion stirred back to consciousness, he felt powerful hands lifting his body.
"Cough… cough…" Blood filled his lungs, bubbling up his throat. Each breath was a stab of agony.
Though a Primarch would never drown in his own blood, the pain was still excruciating.
"Prepare for teleportation!" an Angel of Absolution barked through the vox. "Upload coordinates now!"
"The Caliban's Wroth is standing by," another voice confirmed. "We just need to break through."
The voice was close—so close the Lion could smell the warrior's sweat, the copper tang of his blood. "You'll be safe soon, my lord," the Dark Angel promised.
Then came the cry—that awful, inhuman shriek that only Fabius Bile's wretched creations could produce.
Mutated horrors emerged from the shadows, flanking the escape route. The ambush was sudden, feral.
Under normal circumstances, these malformed things would pose no threat. A single Dark Angel could dispatch them with contemptuous ease.
But not now.
Now they were death incarnate.
The Dark Angels were forced to divert firepower to clear a path, slowing their retreat.
"Halt, Leon," came Horus's voice, closer now. Calm. Final. "You know it's for the best."
Each step he took crushed the bones of Imperial martyrs.
This was Fabius Bile's domain—a living, seething city of flesh and madness. No matter how far the Dark Angels fled, the corrupted paths led back to their hunters. They were trapped in the twisted labyrinth of the Flesh-Lab.
Mutants ahead.
Horus behind.
Despair pressed down like a planetary shield.
The Angels of Absolution gritted their teeth. They had accepted death. If sacrifice was required to buy the Primarch time, then so be it.
Then the heavens split.
"BOOM!"
A cascade of light fell from orbit, a storm of fire that obliterated tens of thousands of mutants in a single blazing instant. The ground trembled. A colossal rupture tore open the City of Flesh, clearing a path through the diseased landscape.
From the void above, fleets emerged—dark crimson vessels bursting from warp-jump. Their engines howled. The city screamed in response, a wail of metal and mutated flesh torn asunder.
"Look! Look—it's him! That's Horus!"
"Horus?! Horus Aximand?"
"No—Horus Lupercal…"
"In the name of Sanguinius… I'll see you burn!"
Drop pods and Thunderhawks plummeted from orbit like a meteor shower. And then—
Mephiston descended.
Crimson armor wreathed in power, chainsword roaring in one hand, psychic fury dancing in his eyes—he teleported into the fray, landing between Horus and the fleeing Dark Angels like a vengeful god.
The Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels howled, eyes blazing with red light, power radiating from every inch of his form.
Lion El'Jonson had only brought three cruisers for this clandestine operation—his forces scattered and limited by necessity.
But Sanguinius's legacy was different.
Because of Mephiston's nature—his cursed blessing—he was never without protection. Over five thousand Blood Angels accompanied him at all times, safeguarding his presence with righteous paranoia.
Now they had arrived.
Five thousand Blood Angels. Orbiting fleets. Mortal regiments.
Enough to wage war against a planet. Enough to change the tide of history.
They did not care whose city-state this was.
The Blood Angels tore down the walls of the City of Flesh and Blood and stormed inside with righteous fury. It did not matter that this was Fabius Bile's domain—blasphemous, living, pulsing. They would burn it to the ground.
Mephiston moved through the chaos like a crimson specter, cutting through the battlefield as if time itself bent around him. A shrieking mutant lunged from below—but he crushed its skull beneath his heel before cleaving off its head with a snarling chainsword.
Even though the full strength of the Blood Angels had yet to make planetfall, within minutes, thousands of grenade launchers locked onto Horus and unleashed a storm of fire.
Already wounded from previous engagements, even the Warmaster was forced to fall back.
Arrayed against him were ranks upon ranks of Primaris Blood Angels—towering warriors nearly three meters tall, encased in sacred red ceramite, eyes glowing with hate.
Even Horus, the once-mighty Son of the Emperor, hesitated. He could not slay them all. Not today.
And reinforcements were still descending.
But the Blood Angels had no intention of granting him mercy.
Unlike others, they had never forgotten what Horus looked like.
For the sons of Sanguinius, the memory of the Arch-Traitor was burned into their blood. Every time the Black Rage overtook them, they relived the death of their angelic Primarch—saw again the face of Horus Lupercal, twisted with hatred.
They would never forgive. They would never forget.
Mephiston surged toward the inner laboratory, cutting through mutants like paper, his power and fury a crimson tide. No abomination could slow him.
And Horus knew they were closing in.
His grimace twisted into a scowl. His voice tore through the warp, filled with fury and bitter pride.
"You will pay the price for this."
His wrath echoed like thunder through the city-state.
He raised his hammer, and the force of his steps shook the very foundation of the laboratory. The air warped with the power of his presence. He was a demigod incarnate, and the storm followed him.
But Mephiston did not falter. He did not cower as so many before him had.
Instead, he watched—scarlet eyes narrowing, analyzing, studying every flaw in Horus's movements. He moved like a predator, silent and calculating.
"Kill him on sight."
With that, the Chief Librarian gave the order.
"That's it, brother!" a Blood Angel growled.
"I'll tear open his arteries and drink the heretic's blood. I'll suck the marrow from his bones, offer his heart to the Emperor, and use his flayed hide as my bedspread!"
The Blood Angels snarled and bared their fangs. A hundred weapons locked onto Horus's body. Fire and wrath roared in unison. Even the machine spirits within the launchers howled for vengeance.
The laboratory shook with the sound of the demigod's defiance.
Horus sneered.
To him, these Blood Angels were fools. He saw only arrogance in their zeal.
They were cut off from the main force. Their numbers were fewer than the Lion's retinue of Dark Angels. And more importantly—none among them was a Primarch.
They were nothing but rabid hounds throwing themselves at a lion.
The battle erupted.
Steel met flesh. Bolter-fire painted the walls red. The roar of chainswords clashed with the wrath of ancient power.
But within moments, Horus realized something was wrong.
The Librarian who led them—he was different.
Far different.
This wasn't just another Astartes with a sword and some psychic tricks. No—Mephiston was a monster in his own right.
A being who had wrestled the Black Rage and returned from the edge of madness. A warrior and a weapon—reforged through death and rebirth.
And Horus, in his arrogance, had not seen the threat until it struck.
...
TN:
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