Ezekyle Abaddon was dead.
The greatest enemy of mankind—the Lord of the Black Legion, the Warmaster of Chaos, the Despoiler—was dead.
Once, during the Great Crusade, he had been the First Captain of the XVI Legion, the Luna Wolves, the Speaker of the Mournival, renowned across a hundred worlds for his tactical genius and unmatched physical might—one of the Great Crusade's fabled triumvirate, the inheritor of the Warmaster's indomitable will to conquer. In the end, he had fulfilled his vow.
At the very least, he died as a man, not as a mindless slave of the Warp Gods. He did not live to please the Ruinous Powers, but fought and perished for his own ideals—on the long road of vengeance he had chosen for himself.
Yes, the road of vengeance.
For Abaddon, his true death came long ago—when the Siege of Terra ended in failure, and his genetic father, Horus, was slain.
Back then, Abaddon's loyalty and devotion to his Primarch were unmatched. Horus's death shattered him completely. It was as if his very soul had been torn away, leaving only emptiness and disgust for the world. He wandered aimlessly in self-exile within the Eye of Terror, a shadow of his former self, consumed by despair.
Then came the news that Fabius Bile, Chief Apothecary of the III Legion—the Emperor's Children—had stolen Horus's corpse and cloned him.
At first, Abaddon's rage was uncontained. But that fury soon gave way to clarity—an awakening. He accepted, at last, that his gene-father had failed.
Taking up the Talon of Horus—the same weapon that had tasted the blood of gods, demons, and angels—he led an assault upon the Emperor's Children and personally destroyed both the clone and the desecrated corpse of the true Horus.
From that moment onward, the First Captain of the Luna Wolves was no more. In his place rose the Despoiler—a soul of vengeance incarnate.
The Despoiler loathed the Imperium and the Emperor above all else.
To him, it was the Imperium and its false god who had betrayed the Astartes—concealing the truth of Chaos, denying the Space Marines any rightful place in humanity's future. (And, in hindsight—perhaps he was not entirely wrong.)
To him, the Great Crusade's dream was dead, and only vengeance remained. He would avenge all the Space Marines cast aside, reclaim the galaxy for those who were once its rightful masters.
That was what set the Despoiler apart from the corrupted Daemon Primarchs—the fallen who had surrendered themselves utterly to the Warp.
He despised them—especially Lorgar of the Word Bearers and Fulgrim of the Emperor's Children—those who had debased themselves as slaves to Chaos, even his own gene-father included.
Under the banners of "Revenge" and "Reclamation," he reformed the shattered Sons of Horus into the Black Legion, welcoming any warrior—Astartes or otherwise—who had the will and the strength to fight the False Emperor.
This was why, despite being the chosen champion of the Four Chaos Gods, the leader of the largest Chaos power in realspace, Abaddon had retained his human form. No mutations, no daemon flesh. He remained wary of the Warp's corruption—as wary as he was hateful of the Emperor.
"Primarchs… the Emperor… the Great Crusade… I see now."
"A coincidence, then? A reflection cast between superdimensional realms… or has this 'Emperor' glimpsed the threads of fate? Prophecy… omens…"
Shhk—
A violet-red aura rippled in the air. With a faint click, the blade of a scythe retracted from the top of the severed head still bound by its topknot. Horus's expression—momentarily tense—softened into calm.
The grief of men means little to one another. He simply found Abaddon noisy.
After reviewing the memories, Horus now felt quite certain—this ranting fool who screamed "You are not my father!" and the fallen Warmaster in his memories were not the same being.
"Gene-father," he murmured. "How absurd."
In the Sacred Selene Empire, aside from a few specialized recruitment sectors tied to major Astartes fortresses, every new Astartes recruit was trained under a unified imperial system. There was no such thing as each Legion managing its own recruitment, gene-seed lineage, or independent genetic divisions.
Once an aspirant completed all augmentation surgeries, enhancement regimens, and standardized tactical examinations, those who trained on the Imperial homeworld or in the trial worlds of the Honkai dimensions were then assigned to Legions according to their combat assessments, individual fighting styles, and personal preference.
In short, within the Sacred Selene Empire, an Astartes Legion Commander was—quite literally—just that: a commander.
Power, rank, and prestige—being second only to one, and above billions of subjects—were certain. But the notion of a 'father and son' bond? Impossible.
To say the least, Astartes warriors of the Sacred Selene Empire could actually apply to transfer between Legions.
All were warriors of the Empress. Their one and only commonality was that each bore the divine power of Her Majesty—the power of Honkai Energy.
The very foundation of the Sacred Selene Empire, and the source of existence for every Astartes warrior (those "Honkai Canned Marines"), lay in the being of the Empress Selene herself.
The idea of rebellion—of raising arms against Selene and crying that She was a false ruler—was so absurd that even Horus dared not imagine it.
If he so much as voiced such heresy, before he even finished the sentence, his own Legion's Honor Guard would turn on him. Blades would be drawn, ranks would splinter, and the entire Legion would revolt against him. The administrators of their colony worlds, the planetary garrisons, the auxiliary regiments, and all local forces would refuse his orders. Even the closest comrades-in-arms would abandon him.
Worse still, the Divine Keys in his possession—the symbols of a Legion Commander's authority—and the Honkai Cubes that channeled his command of Honkai Energy would be sealed instantly. His internal Honkai cells and Herrscher Core would riot, turning upon him first.
To think of rallying even half a Legion against the Empress? Unthinkable. Even gathering half his own subordinates to conspire would be impossible. Not even with Grand General Budo, Grand Steward Sebas, or Princess Alyssa could such madness be achieved.
They might joke and jest in peacetime, their camaraderie genuine, their court filled with brilliance and wisdom—but when it came to matters of principle, Her Majesty Selene's absolute authority was beyond question.
This was no matter for jest.
No, such sorrow should not be his alone to bear—he had to share it.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!
Boom—
The adamantium deck beneath his boots shook violently. The thunder of magnetic boots marching in formation and the distant rumble of blast doors snapping open tore Horus from his wandering thoughts.
"Legion Commander, the bridge has been secured. According to the reports from all boarding detachments, approximately two-thirds of the vessel is now under control."
The crunch of ceramite under armored boots signaled his Honor Guard trampling over the corpses of Chaos Sorcerers. Horus turned, glancing toward the shattered bridge's command dais where the blasphemous eight-pointed star loomed over a throne with a vertical eye. He smiled wryly.
"If the chance ever comes, I would quite like to meet the traitor Primarchs hiding within the Eye of Terror."
Then he raised his lightning claw—its twin-mounted storm bolters humming—and aimed at the corrupted sigil.
BOOM!
The explosion echoed through the bridge. A scream of machine agony joined the storm of metal and fire, only to be snuffed out in an instant. The command throne disintegrated into molten ruin; its machine-spirit's dying wail was swallowed by the roar of destruction.
As he ordered the Luna Wolves to log all confirmed kills and recover anything of strategic or historical value from the enemy flagship, Horus knelt and picked up the massive two-handed sword once wielded by Abaddon in his off-hand beside the Talon of Horus.
The weapon's hilt gleamed with unnatural gold, and just above the grip was the visage of a snarling daemon. From the edges of the blade jutted hooked barbs, the steel itself split with veins of crimson and cobalt, while tormented faces writhed and screamed across its surface.
"Daemon Sword—Drach'nyen."
Expressionless, Horus stared into the daemon's contorted face. His deep eyes glowed faintly, as though burning with inner fire. "Soul fragments… hmm."
He tightened his grip.
Crack—!
The tortured faces etched upon the blade let out a shriek that pierced the soul—a sound between a roar and a wail, desperate and shrill enough to shake the very air. The sound rippled through the chamber, distorting vision itself. Even the Luna Wolves who had entered the bridge staggered under its psychic weight.
At last, the scream faded. The blade shattered into shards of darkness, scattering like rain across the deck with a crystalline clink-clink.
"Send the head to Cadia."
Finishing his task, Horus sealed Abaddon's severed head within a stasis field and tossed it to a pale-armored Luna Wolf Terminator approaching from the corridor.
"His head should help Grand General Budo stabilize the situation on Cadia."
...
Cadia — Kasr Kraf.
The long-standing bane of the Imperium of Man—the fallen Gloriana, the Vengeful Spirit—had finally fallen.
Every guardsman on Cadia saw it.
Yet, despite its symbolic weight, its destruction scarcely altered the grand scope of the battle. The remaining Chaos Astartes, though each a hardened killer forged in endless slaughter, could not withstand the sheer numerical and firepower dominance of the loyalist Astartes legions. One by one, the barricades where the heretics made their last stand were methodically swept aside.
Across the tactical holoscreens, images played of World Eaters in white and blue armor beheading the berserkers of Khorne with their Butcher's Nails still writhing, while the ghostly warriors of the Night Lords tore apart Chaos warbands bearing mockeries of their own heraldry.
The military broadcast system switched to a secured transmission network, its translation handled by AI-assisted vox interpreters and Mind-Soul linguistic matrices. Combat reports were streaming in live—High and Low Gothic in dual channels.
"The Tyrant of Sarora, Devram Korda—terminated."
...
Ursakar E. Creed furrowed his brow, lost in grim thought. When he finally exhaled and took a drag from his cigar, he tilted his head slightly, letting out the smoke at a lazy fifteen-degree angle.
I've seen everything there is to see...
Alright—no, this, this I've never seen before.
The sunlight, long imprisoned by war's smoke, fought its way through the haze and bathed the battered fortress-cities in a golden hue. Creed's gaze followed the impossible sight before him—the endless tide of superhuman warriors flooding across the blasted landscape.
Through the thinning smoke, he saw on a vast plain where a fortress once stood, now leveled, countless Astartes of every color and heraldry shouting in jubilation.
He had already seen the mountains of headless corpses stacked high—chaotic and twisted heads still bound to shattered helms, forming pyramids meticulously arranged by the triumphant Astartes, sorted neatly by Legion colors and heraldic marks.
Before the grisly trophies, a monument—a statue, ornate and magnificent—had already been raised in record time.
Watching these Astartes, fervent and reverent in their offerings, Creed puffed on his cigar with a troubled look.
"Oh, Emperor above…" he muttered. "Since when did the Emperor have a feminine incarnation?"
He felt as though he were trapped in an impossibly long dream—vivid, surreal, almost absurd.
Could it be… no, surely not…
In the distance, Sanguinius—his fury spent—was conversing amicably with the other 'Primarchs.' Though still bathed in blood and radiating a dangerous aura, he seemed calmer than the image Creed held of the Blood Angels' angelic Primarch.
As for Angron—his thunderous voice nearly rupturing eardrums—he was far removed from the image of the ever-raging, ever-slaughtering Red Angel Creed knew. This Angron, though fierce, seemed almost jovial—free-spirited and unrestrained. When he passed by, his keen gaze alone somehow calmed the heart, washing away all fear and anger like a strange spring breeze.
As Creed looked around, he saw confusion mirrored on every face—Astartes and mortal alike.
Nearby, a belligerent veteran began arguing with one of the Punishers assigned to watch them. Denied something, he drew his blade—ah, a duel!—and moments later was promptly beaten into the dirt.
The crowd erupted in laughter. A Space Wolf veteran leapt in next—one round, two, three… and was carried off just as quickly.
Then came the Dark Angels, the Ultramarines—each challenging in turn, each swiftly flattened beneath the crushing might of the towering officer marked with the insignia 'Ⅱ'. His laureled helm, his cape, and his sheer physical dominance left no doubt—none could match him.
One by one, they all fell.
Watching, Creed rubbed his chin thoughtfully. These warriors were not merely Astartes—they were larger, stronger, and faster than any he had seen. One anomaly could be explained by genetics—but an entire army of them? That was something else entirely.
Then, a shout nearby broke his concentration.
It was one of his Cadian officers, his face alight with excitement.
Seeing the question in Creed's eyes, the man saluted sharply and reported, his voice trembling with exhilaration:
"Lord Castellan—Abaddon the Despoiler is dead!"
"What—?!" Creed's cigar nearly fell from his mouth.
...
[Warp]
In that incomprehensible, unbearable expanse of infinite dimensions—
Selene, the 'villainous interloper,' was happily toying with the local natives.
"Ah~ my, my~ how careless of me," she said with exaggerated sweetness. "I arrive here, and before I even unpack, I've already slain so many of your chosen champions and children… and taken your homes too. How terribly rude of me~"
Her tone was shamelessly smug, every syllable stretched with playful malice.
—
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