Mephiston, Chief Librarian of the Blood Angels, was once merely a mortal Astartes—spirited, witty, and driven by the same noble passions that coursed through all sons of Sanguinius.
But during the cataclysmic Third War for Armageddon, he succumbed to the infamous Black Rage, consumed by visions of the final battle between Sanguinius and Horus aboard the Vengeful Spirit. Like many before him, he was inducted into the Death Company, his fate sealed: a doomed warrior bound for a glorious, suicidal end.
The Death Company—that cursed brotherhood of the Blood Angels—is tasked with the most perilous assaults. Their minds lost to madness, they charge into death without hesitation. None return. None are saved.
Except Mephiston.
During a brutal campaign, the collapse of a hive city buried him beneath the ruins for seven days and nights. Even his fellow battle-brothers believed him lost. But somehow, impossibly, he endured.
For seven days, he was tormented by the echoes of Sanguinius, the grief of ten thousand years, and the wailing fury of the Black Rage. Yet instead of dying or succumbing, he transcended.
He defeated the Black Rage.
When he clawed his way from the rubble, no longer a mindless berserker but something more—something refined, reborn—his very aura surged with psychic might. The greenskins nearby, sensing this sudden eruption of power, converged on him in a frenzy.
Unarmed, Mephiston met them with nothing but his bare hands.
He returned to his Chapter—not as a madman, but as a miracle. Many doubted his story. None believed the curse could be broken. Mephiston had to prove it with blood and blade.
In the centuries since, he has slain daemons, warlords, and xenos horrors of unimaginable power. Some whisper that only the Emperor, Malcador, and Magnus the Red surpass him in psychic potency.
Mephiston himself dismisses these claims, humbly insisting his powers are "merely above average."
Others speculate his strength lies in becoming the living embodiment of the Black Rage, weaponized and controlled.
Even Mephiston doesn't fully understand it.
In the present, however, Horus Lupercal—the once-beloved Warmaster, now the Arch-Traitor—gave him no such credit. To Horus, Mephiston was a pup of the last few centuries. Just another Marine, powerful perhaps, but far beneath a Primarch.
And so Horus did not hesitate.
With a snarl, he swung his massive Worldbreaker hammer at Mephiston. Even a casual blow from such a weapon was like a thunderbolt—a force capable of pulverizing ceramite and bone in a single instant.
The hammer arced through the air, faster than any Astartes could dodge.
But Mephiston wasn't merely an Astartes anymore.
Time slowed.
The hammer moved like treacle in his perception. Within that suspended instant, Mephiston struck—not at Horus' armored bulk, but precisely at the ragged wound left earlier by Lion El'Jonson.
His sword plunged deep, piercing the weakened armor and widening the ancient scar.
Horus blinked in surprise.
In his vision, he glimpsed a shadow—an impossible black silhouette behind Mephiston, like an echo or a phantom. Somehow, the Librarian had anticipated the swing. Evaded it. Countered.
And then—pain.
Not from the hammer, but from his own chest.
The Lion's wound... had been reopened.
When did the Astartes become this powerful? Horus thought.
He had fought his brothers, bested entire legions, and only three beings had ever stood above him: the Emperor, Malcador, and the second Primarch—whose name was now lost to time.
Yet here, now, a Space Marine had wounded him.
That insult burned more than the pain itself.
"DIE!" Horus roared, unleashing a storm of warp-born fury. Energy exploded from him like a newborn star—radiant, violent, and unstoppable.
Reality shuddered.
Mephiston tried again to bend time and evade, but it was too late. The Warp itself held him fast.
The hammer struck.
A blinding impact. Mephiston was flung across the chamber like a comet.
He vanished mid-flight—shattering into a spectral blur—only to reappear, bloodied and gasping, among the ranks of the Blood Angels.
His chestplate was shattered. Flesh was torn. But he was alive.
At the last second, Mephiston had split his being, creating a psychic echo to absorb the blow. It had nearly killed him.
But he endured.
He would not die—not until he saw Horus fall.
Not until vengeance was done.
"The time of reckoning has come, in the name of Sanguinius!" he cried, voice trembling with fury and devotion.
The Blood Angels answered.
Eyes bloodshot, fangs bared, their rage barely contained—they opened fire.
Their Holy Blood Guard, assigned by Dukel himself to protect the young Saint Gilles, were equipped with relic-grade wargear—enhanced by the tech-heresy of dozens of radical Magos from the Mechanicum.
Even their grenade launchers had been reworked. Each fired fist-sized annihilation warheads—weapons so potent they could tear through void shields and atomize reinforced ceramite.
Each round struck true.
Already wounded, Horus had nowhere to run. The laboratory around him was tight, confined. He staggered beneath the storm.
The bolts tore through his ancient armor, ripping through layers of corrupted ceramite and flesh. Psychic fire burst from the ruptures.
Even his demigod physique, reforged by the Warp itself, could not withstand this barrage.
He pressed forward—but each step grew slower.
The Lion's sword wound, now raw and bleeding, pulsed like a beacon for their fire. It had become a weakness. One they exploited mercilessly.
Horus howled.
Not in rage—but in pain.
Horus's force field flickered violently under the salvo. Within moments, it overloaded—its core burning out, unable to withstand the Blood Angels' relentless firepower.
His expression darkened.
This unit's strength was far beyond expectation. Their combat potential... monstrous.
Horus was forced to retreat behind a slab of broken ceramite and twisted adamantium. He was no longer the hunter—he was the prey.
"Traitor," Mephiston called out, his voice edged with barely restrained fury. He advanced toward Horus's position, plasma pistol aimed, sword drawn, every step a promise of vengeance. "Lay down your arms. I promise you a death less painful."
He didn't speak out of arrogance—he knew the power Horus possessed. Their clash moments ago had proven that. But Mephiston also knew that today, Horus could not escape.
Not from the Sons of Sanguinius.
The Blood Angels had come to settle the galaxy-sized blood debt they bore against the Arch-Traitor. They were willing to pay any price.
Even now, a hundred kilometers away, an entire company of Blood Angels snipers lay in wait.
Each wielded a long-range rifle loaded with annihilation rounds—mass-reactive shells designed to kill Primarchs.
Their weapon: the Dukel's Fury.
When the prototype was first unveiled, Dukel had been furious—not because it was too powerful, but because, in his words, it was "still inferior to the Whirlwind Torpedo." He had demanded revisions.
The Magos in charge, however, was as obstinate as he was brilliant. Ignoring Dukel's concerns about blast radius and accuracy, he pushed the rifle's destructive output to near-insane levels.
Over a dozen design rejections later, the final prototype landed on Dukel's desk. He reviewed it silently—and then, without a word, gave his approval.
Thus was born Dukel's Fury.
If Mephiston fell, or if anything unexpected occurred, the snipers had orders: fire every round, level the City of Flesh and Blood. The entire area would be reduced to molten slag—Blood Angels included.
That was why Little Sanguinius had not joined the battlefield.
For this confrontation, the Blood Angels were prepared to die—all of them—except him.
Horus dared to peek over cover.
Bad idea.
A searing storm of fire met him. The very metal he hid behind was reduced to molten slag. He was forced to move, again.
Looking at the liquefied ruins of the once-mighty metal base, a rare emotion surfaced in the Warmaster's heart: sorrow.
Not for himself—he had already died once. No, it was sorrow for what was to come.
If Dukel succeeded, the galaxy would burn in a war unlike any before.
Horus scanned the shadows, searching for Fabius. The alchemist had promised support. Reinforcements. Escape.
But he was gone.
Fabius had vanished—taking the twenty cloned Primarch tanks with him.
Despair crept in.
He had underestimated them. He should have crushed Mephiston the moment he saw him. He should've taken the Blood Angels seriously.
Arrogance. That had always been his flaw.
"Your death is near, traitor!" Mephiston roared, nearly succumbing to Black Rage again. The pain in his chest screamed for attention, but he ignored it.
The blade in his hand burned with vengeance.
But before the killing blow could fall—before the final justice could be served—a surge of warp energy erupted within the laboratory.
No warning. No buildup.
Blasphemous runes ignited across the walls.
A torrent of etheric wind tore through the wreckage, flinging shattered armor and debris like paper. Time froze—literally. Every motion stilled.
Then, a tear appeared in the air behind Horus: a warp fissure of impossible color. It dragged him in like a dying star collapsing.
The storm ended as abruptly as it had begun.
The laboratory fell still.
Only the crimson glow of Blood Angel visors cut through the dark.
Many had not even noticed the change. Not yet.
But Mephiston knew. He rushed to the ruined bunker, only to find emptiness.
Gone.
A psychic scream erupted from his mind. He tried—desperately—to reopen the fissure, to pursue the traitor into the Immaterium.
But something resisted. Something old. Something vast.
"HORUS! You coward! You DESERVE TO DIE!" Mephiston bellowed. His fury cracked the walls, warped the air.
Denied their vengeance, the Blood Angels turned their rage on the world itself.
Mutants. Xenos. Chaos-born horrors.
None were spared.
They burned the labs. Crushed every vat-grown monstrosity. Purged the heretical experiments. The planet itself became a crucible for their fury.
And as fire devoured the City of Flesh and Blood...
Elsewhere, Lion El'Jonson—wounded and unconscious—was returned to the Dark Angels' flagship for urgent care.
The hunt for Horus was not over.
But vengeance, for now, would have to wait.
Lion El'Jonson lay on the medicae slab aboard the Gladius Noctis, the flagship of the First Legion. His armor—cracked and scorched—had already been removed. A First Legion Apothecary hovered nearby, running diagnostics and administering stabilizers.
After a pause, the Apothecary looked up and spoke in a calm, clinical tone.
"Your injuries are not life-threatening, my lord."
Those nearby—Dark Angels veterans, robed serfs, and knighted Interemptors—expected him to begin listing drugs or suggested augmetic replacements.
Instead, the Apothecary said, almost casually:
"Great Lord of the Dark Angels... Alpharius greets you."
Silence.
Every eye in the chamber turned toward him, the weight of the statement falling like a thunderclap.
No one spoke. No one drew a weapon. They merely stared.
It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened.
On a previous deployment, a Dark Angel had randomly declared himself to be Alpharius mid-flight during a recon op. The atmosphere had been tense. Morale low. The Legionnaire had claimed he was "just trying to lighten the mood."
He was promptly kicked out of the Thunderhawk.
That event became the First Legion's running joke for an entire Terran year.
But this time, the Apothecary didn't laugh.
He reached up, unlatched his helmet, and pulled it free.
And silence turned to tension.
The face beneath the helmet wasn't known to any of them—except to the Lion himself.
Lion's breath caught. His eyes narrowed.
That face.
That aura.
He knew it wasn't an imposter. His instincts screamed it. His gene-coded senses confirmed it. Standing before him was no mere infiltrator, no fool pretending at greatness.
It was his brother.
Alpharius.
Primarch of the XX Legion: the Alpha Legion. Or at least, one of them.
The truth of the Alpha Legion's leadership was a myth even among demigods. There were always two—Alpharius and Omegon—yet none could ever agree on who was first, or if either truly died when claimed.
Their story was riddled with contradictions.
They were the last to be discovered. Or perhaps the first to return.
They were dead. Or perhaps... not.
The only constant was confusion.
And now, one of them stood here, on a ship of the First Legion, masquerading as an Apothecary.
The Lion studied him with narrowed eyes. "When did you infiltrate us?"
He was certain—absolutely certain—that Alpharius had not been with them when they arrived on this cursed rock. Even the greatest infiltrator in the galaxy would not slip past the Lion's perception aboard his own flagship.
But there had been chaos.
The battle in the City of Flesh and Blood.
That place had been a maelstrom of distraction, warp interference, and senseless violence.
That's when it happened. That's when Alpharius slipped through the cracks.
He didn't come by chance. He had been waiting.
The Lion's voice remained steady, but his gaze was iron. "Why are you here?"
"I heard," he continued, "that you were dead."
Alpharius smiled—thin and cryptic. "Don't trouble yourself, Lion. All that matters is that the name Alpharius still has meaning. And that meaning, ultimately... is me."
The Lion's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword.
His tone sharpened.
"Then prove your loyalty."
Silence again.
"Because if you don't…" the Lion's green eyes glinted like twin blades, "I will kill you again."
Alpharius didn't flinch.
He only smiled wider.
...
TN:
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