Chapter 68 - The Past

The White Scars warriors were arranged in a spacious resting area near the side of the ship's hull to recuperate. They had removed some of their armor and gathered in small groups, maintaining their curved power sabers with specialized grease or checking the mechanisms of their bolt pistols. Despite having just endured a fierce battle, these warriors from the steppes showed little fatigue; instead, there was a sense of relaxation, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

Several White Scars warriors sat around an alloy table, conversing in hushed tones in their ancient mother tongue, Chogoris, speaking rapidly with strong, rhythmic syllables interspersed with unique onomatopoeia mimicking wind and beast roars. They discussed the recently concluded pursuit of the Orks, the whine of their vehicles' engines at maximum speed, and the astonishing yet somewhat restrictive absolute order within the Ultramarines' battleship.

An Ultramarines warrior, responsible for standing guard in this area, stood several meters away, his posture as straight as a pine tree, the blue livery on his power armor gleaming in the cool light cast from the ceiling. He dutifully guarded the safety of this area, while also adhering to etiquette, not deliberately trying to eavesdrop on the conversations of his brother Chapter. However, the Chogoris language, like a sudden storm, with its unique rhythm, entered his ears like an encrypted communication code, making it impossible for him to understand a single word. Perhaps a trace of helplessness flashed across his face, hidden beneath his helmet, but more than that, it was a respect and tolerance for the unique culture of his brother Chapter.

Meanwhile, in the First Company's exclusive lounge, the atmosphere was much quieter. Kaldor had returned here. He chose a window seat and removed his helmet, placing it by his side, revealing a calm and chiseled face. He gazed at the vast starry sky outside the window and the distant maintenance craft flitting like fireflies, his gaze deep, lost in thought.

The door to the lounge slid open again, and a tall, steady figure entered. He wore masterfully crafted power armor with the insignia of the First Company's Lieutenant, the emblem on his shoulder pauldron signifying his exalted status and responsibility. It was Lieutenant Golden.

Upon seeing the Lieutenant, all the warriors in the lounge who were resting or conversing in low voices, regardless of rank, immediately stopped their actions, rose in unison, and struck their left breastplates heavily with clenched right fists, producing a neat and muffled sound, performing the standard Astartes salute.

Lieutenant Golden's expression was calm, his gaze sweeping over each brother present. He nodded slightly and returned the salute with a raised hand: "Continue resting, brothers."

Only then did the warriors sit down again and resume their previous activities, but their voices were noticeably lowered, showing respect for the Lieutenant.

Golden's gaze scanned the lounge, finally resting on Kaldor, who sat alone by the window. He walked over and sat down on the metal chair opposite Kaldor. The heavy power armor made a slight friction sound as it contacted the chair.

Kaldor, seeing Golden, also stood up to salute until Golden waved him to sit down.

The two sat opposite each other, and for a moment, there was silence. Golden looked at Kaldor, this brother who had followed him all the way from the 7th Company, and a subtle, complex emotion flickered in his eyes. He slowly began to speak, his voice more steady and profound than when he was a squad Sergeant, also carrying a trace of undeniable weariness:

"Kaldor, it seems... we haven't sat down like this and had a good talk in a long time."

Kaldor nodded, his slightly stern face softening a little at this moment: "Yes, Lieutenant. You've been busy since your promotion."

"More than just busy..." Golden sighed softly, the sigh filled with the pressure and responsibility of high office, "Every day, assisting Captain Cassius in handling various affairs inside and outside the Company, from personnel deployment and equipment maintenance to tactical planning and coordination with other companies... big and small matters, almost all my time is taken up. I now fully understand what 'with great power comes great responsibility' means."

His words were not boasting but a heartfelt sentiment. From a squad Sergeant leading charges to a Lieutenant who needed to oversee the overall situation and be responsible for hundreds of elite Astartes Monks, the transformation was far more than just a promotion in rank.

His gaze fell on Kaldor's face, his tone becoming deeper, with an elder brother's concern: "You, Dorian, and Luna, you followed me from the 7th Company, climbed to the 3rd Company, and now to the First Company. We've been through so much together... I've watched you grow step by step, becoming pillars of the Chapter."

He paused, his voice lowering, his words filled with genuine concern: "I truly... don't want anything to happen to any of you."

He didn't say it explicitly, but Kaldor immediately understood what Golden meant—the matter with Dorian. As the First Company's Lieutenant, Golden must have already known, and perhaps even participated in the relevant discussions. This concern was heavy and genuine.

Kaldor met Golden's gaze, his eyes calm and firm, and he also lowered his voice: "Lieutenant, there's no need to worry too much. The Chapter Master and the Captains are already aware, and they will certainly find a solution. As for the Inquisition..." Kaldor's voice carried a hint of cool confidence, "They won't know a single word."

His words were steady and powerful, conveying trust in the Chapter's high command and absolute confidence in their secrecy. This, to some extent, assuaged Golden's inner worries. He knew Kaldor, and understood that this usually taciturn brother, once he made a promise, meant he had considerable certainty.

Golden nodded, seemingly relaxing a little. He stood up and walked to the massive observation window, gazing into the distant void. There, the colossal battleship that had once been defiled by darkness—the torment of the word—was now completely revitalized. Most of its external armor had been repaired, and its livery had been changed to the deep blue and gold symbolizing the Ultramarines. The evil runes that once represented the Word Bearers had been completely erased. At the bow, its new name—"Immortal Ultramar"—was spray-painted in bold Imperial gothic.

"Look, the 'Immortal Ultramar'..." Golden's voice held a trace of emotion, "It will be given a new mission, responsible for training new Tech-Sergeants for the Chapter. And Lina..." When he mentioned her name, his tone was filled with satisfaction and a hint of disbelief, "She's the Captain of that ship now."

Kaldor also walked to the window, standing shoulder to shoulder with Golden, looking at the reborn battleship. Scenes from many years ago involuntarily flashed in his mind—the little girl who would only cry while clutching a tattered Ultramarines doll on the 7th Company's strike cruiser, Unyielding Will.

"Indeed," Kaldor's voice also carried a touch of the vicissitudes of time, "that little girl who used to just cry can now stand on her own. "There was no jealousy in his tone, only pure pride and emotion, "She's even surpassed us."

Golden nodded contentedly, his gaze still fixed on the distant "Immortal Ultramar," as if he could penetrate the thick armor and see the girl, whom he regarded as a sister, busy on the bridge. In his heart, he silently and devoutly prayed to the Golden Throne far away on Terra:

"Emperor... please protect these loyal warriors, protect these companions who have come so far and endured so much... May they all be safe..."

Meanwhile, in the Captain's quarters of the "Immortal Ultramar," Lina, having just finished a round of inspections, did not immediately rest. She stood alone at her desk, on which several items of immense value to her were displayed.

Most conspicuous was an Ultramarines doll, very old, its fabric edges even worn and faded, but immaculately clean. It was sewn for her stitch by stitch by her mother from leftover scraps of fabric during her childhood, her first impression of home and protectors, and the spiritual support that helped her through those initial difficult years.

Beside it was a tall, exquisite Grey Knights statue. The statue depicted a Grey Knight, fully clad in ornate armor, raising a force hammer imbued with psychic power, in a valiant pose as if about to crush a demon. This was a memento left to her by the Grey Knight named Kaldor on the Unyielding Will. She wondered how those mysterious and austere Grey Knights, who always fought on the front lines against Chaos, were doing now? A faint trace of loss quietly crossed her heart.

And most striking was a large, curved, dark red tusk placed at the other end of the desk. It was meticulously secured on an alloy base, emanating a faint, unsettling aura of ferocity. This was a tooth from a Khorne Greater Daemon, a trophy pulled from its mouth by another Grey Knights Terminator Captain, Angerthas, and given to her. This tooth symbolized humanity's Unyielding Will and victory in the face of the darkest threats.

Looking at these items, which held countless memories and emotions for her, and at the guardianship, sacrifice, and struggle they represented, Lina's eyes involuntarily welled up. She didn't feel particularly sad, but a complex, inexpressible emotion—recollections of past hardships, longing for lost loved ones, reflections on her current responsibilities, and, more than anything, gratitude for those who had helped her—surged through her heart like a tide, impacting her emotional defenses.

A crystalline tear finally slid uncontrollably down her smooth cheek, dropping onto the cold desktop and spreading into a small wet mark.

Am I crying? Lina thought, somewhat bewildered. She didn't feel sad, but she just couldn't help it.

Just then, the steady and respectful voice of an Honour Guard warrior came from outside the cabin door, breaking the silence within:

"Captain, the Chapter Master's communication is connected to the bridge. Please proceed immediately."

Lina suddenly snapped back to reality. She quickly raised her hand, gently wiping away the tears from the corners of her eyes with her fingertips, and took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing the surging emotions. When she looked up again, her face had regained its usual calm and capable demeanor.

She adjusted her collar and walked with firm steps towards the hatch.

As the hatch slid open, two Honour Guard warriors, standing like steel giants outside, immediately saluted her. One of the warriors keenly noticed the almost imperceptible redness in the corner of Lina's eye. His brow, hidden beneath his helmet, furrowed slightly, and he asked in a low, concerned voice:

"Captain, are you... alright? Has something happened?"

Lina paused, looking at her loyal guard. A gentle yet unmistakable smile appeared on her face as she shook her head: "I'm fine, it's just... I recalled some past events. Let's go, we mustn't keep the Chapter Master waiting."

With that, she no longer lingered, leading the way towards the bridge, her back straight and resolute. That inadvertently fallen tear seemed to be just a brief, private emotional release from the young Captain under her heavy responsibilities, immediately covered by a stronger will and duty, hidden deep within her heart.

Meanwhile, the small stasis field generator, carrying the head of the Daemon Primarch Lorgar, traversed the vast star sea under strict escort and was finally presented to the deepest part of the sacred Imperial Palace on Terra, into the hands of the Lord Regent of the Imperium, Roboute Guilliman.

When a Victrix Guard, clad in blue and gold power armor and silent as a mountain, gently placed the device—which emitted faint energy fluctuations and contained a ferocious daemon head—on Guilliman's vast, document-laden desk, the Lord Regent, who was busy with countless tasks and had suppressed almost all personal emotions beneath a mask of rationality, momentarily froze.

He put down the data slate in his hand, his gaze falling upon the twisted face within the stasis field. That face still vaguely showed the outline of the zealous worshipper from ten thousand years ago, but it had long been disfigured by the power of the daemon, filled with marks of blasphemy and hatred. The dark skin, twisted horns, and eye sockets burning with unholy fire all spoke of the monstrous sins its owner had committed against the Imperium and humanity.

Lorgar Aurelian.

This name stirred up a monstrous wave in Guilliman's heart. The instigator of the Horus Heresy, the first Primarch brother to embrace Chaos and worship it as a deity. Ten thousand years ago, it was he who launched that cruel crusade, sweeping through Ultramar like a plague, turning over a hundred prosperous worlds into scorched earth, and countless loyal citizens died wailing in agony. Calth... that brutal betrayal and massacre severely depleted the Ultramarines Chapter, preventing them from reinforcing Terra in time, becoming an eternal pain and regret in Guilliman's heart.

Now, this traitor, one of the culprits who brought endless suffering to humanity, was attempting to return again, uniting the Black Legion and Chaos warbands, presuming to repeat the atrocities of ten thousand years ago, and bringing the flames of war back to his beloved Five Hundred Worlds.

However, this time, the scales of fate did not tip in his favor. The unexpected return of the Raven Lord and Russ, with overwhelming force, severed the claws of this crusade, and Lorgar, the source of this corruption, had his head personally severed by the Raven Lord, temporarily ending his sinful journey.

Guilliman gazed silently at the preserved head. On his face, which was slightly fatigued from ten thousand years of slumber and continuous toil, a clear and discernible emotion finally surfaced—it was not joy, but a complex expression mixed with relief, sorrow, and closure. The burning rage directed at this particular brother, which had lasted for ten thousand years, seemed to have somewhat extinguished with this final end, but the deep wounds left by the Heresy and the grief of losing his brothers, like scars branded deep into his soul, would never completely disappear.

He did not hesitate for a moment. He simultaneously ordered the Victrix Guard beside him to immediately notify Lion King Lion, and then quickly rose, personally holding the heavy stasis field device, and walked with firm and hurried steps, leaving his office and heading towards the most core and sacred area of the Imperial Palace—the Golden Throne Chamber.

He remembered Corvus Corax's entrustment before he left. To present the head of this traitor to their Father, the being seated upon the Golden Throne, sustaining the fate of humanity with his own will.

Guilliman walked through the breathtakingly magnificent palace corridors. He passed through the "Hall of Heroes" lined with statues of nine loyal Primarchs, each brother's stone image so lifelike it seemed they would come alive at any moment to fight alongside him. He passed by the stone tablets inscribed with the epic history of the Siege of Terra from ten thousand years ago, which extolled the sacrifice and glory of the "Great Angel" Sanguinius in despair, the unyielding defense of "The Rock" Rogal Dorn in the last bastion, and the storm-like, deadly charge of the "Chogorian Eagle" Jaghatai Khan tearing through enemy lines... Every passage was a memory forged in blood and fire, each forming the sharpest contrast with the betrayal represented by the head he now carried.

Finally, he arrived at the immensely vast and solemn plaza outside the Golden Throne Chamber. The towering dome seemed to support the heavens, and the air was filled with rich incense and the scent of psychic energy, inspiring awe. Large numbers of Custodian Guards, like Golden statues, patrolled silently in perfect tactical formations, their sharp gazes sweeping every corner, ensuring the absolute security of this sacred area. Here, any slightest unwarranted disturbance would invite their merciless, instant annihilation.

Guilliman walked to the center of the plaza, carefully placing the stasis field device containing Lorgar's head on the mirror-smooth ground. He then stepped back, straightened his attire, and, facing the closed, massive portal leading to the Throne Room, solemnly knelt on one knee, bowing his head, which as Lord Regent, was usually held high. He waited, waiting for the Lion King's arrival, waiting for a response from the Throne Room.

Not long after, steady and powerful footsteps sounded from behind. Lion El'Jonson, clad in dark green Lion King power armor, strode forward. When he saw Guilliman kneeling in the center of the plaza, and the familiar yet alien daemon head preserved in the stasis field before him, a fleeting, unconcealable shock flashed across his weathered face, but it was quickly replaced by his usual solemnity and composure. He did not ask further, but simply walked silently to Guilliman's side, also kneeling on one knee, facing the Throne Room with him, waiting in silence.

Two Primarchs, the Imperium's strongest pillars at present, now waited like the most loyal knights at their Father's door.

Soon, the atmosphere in the plaza grew even more solemn. More Custodian Guards silently converged from all directions; their Golden armor gleamed with a cold light in the dim illumination, and a vast psychic barrier was quietly constructed, raising the security level of the entire plaza to an unprecedented extreme. On the vast plaza, only Guilliman and Lion remained kneeling on one knee, with a small number of Victrix Guard and Lion Guard standing respectfully a short distance behind them; the rest were Custodian Guards, filling the view like a Golden tide.

Then, three Custodian Guards, clad in the most ancient and powerful "Aquilon pattern" Terminator armor, slowly emerged from the direction of the Throne Room. Their steps were synchronized, heavy and rhythmic, as if treading to the beat of a heartbeat. The lead Custodian Guard had a more ornate plume on his helmet, and his aura was the most unfathomable. He walked before the two Primarchs, his gaze sweeping over the stasis field on the ground, then turning to Guilliman and Lion, and spoke in a voice, modified by his helmet, yet still conveying undeniable majesty and ancientness:

"Lord Regent, Lion King."

He bowed slightly in greeting.

"Both of you, please follow me."

With that, he bent down and, with a solemn and ancient ritualistic gesture, held up the stasis field device containing Lorgar's head with both hands, as if holding an extremely sacred yet extremely dangerous relic. Then, he turned and led the way, walking towards the massive Golden portal carved with the Imperial Aquila and human epic.

Guilliman and Lion exchanged a glance, then simultaneously rose, silently following behind the three Custodian Guard Terminators. Their Victrix Guard and Lion Guard, according to protocol, remained in place, watching their masters walk towards the heart and ultimate mystery of the Imperium of Man.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the empty plaza and grand portico. As they approached, the massive Golden portal began to emit a low hum, slowly opening a crack inward, revealing a profoundly deep, psychically shimmering passage beyond, as if leading to another dimension.

The three Custodian Guard Terminators were the first to step inside, with Guilliman and Lion following closely. The moment they crossed the threshold, it was as if they passed through an invisible boundary; all external sounds were cut off, replaced by an indescribable, immense pressure and vastness that seemed to act directly on the soul.

They walked through an incredibly wide passage, flanked by colossal columns. At the end of the passage was an endless source of light and unimaginable psychic fluctuations.

As they proceeded, both Guilliman and Lion, at a certain moment, felt a gaze.

A gaze not from the material world, seemingly transcending time and space, carrying endless vicissitude, weariness, yet imbued with a will that saw through all things and bore the weight of all beings, silently fell upon them, and upon the daemon head held in the Custodian Guard's hands, from the source of that light.

That gaze, like a physical entity, was as heavy as a mountain, as deep as the sea.

The Emperor had cast his gaze.

Following behind three Aquilon Terminator Custodians, Guilliman and Lion entered the Golden Throne Hall.

Stepping over the massive threshold was like entering another dimension. All the external clamor, the turmoil of Terra, and the burdens of the Imperium were, at this moment, cut off by an invisible boundary. The air was as heavy as liquid gold, and each breath carried an indescribable psychic pressure, enough to instantly disintegrate a mortal's soul. The vision was filled with a light beyond mortal comprehension; that light did not come from any visible source, but from the single existence at the end of the hall, which supported the fate of humanity.

A squad of Custodian Guards, clad in golden armor and silent as mountains, stood like animated statues on either side of the passage. The Guardian Spears in their hands emitted a cold gleam, and their eyes beneath their helmets were as sharp as eagles, scrutinizing any being daring to approach the sacred Throne. Standing shoulder to shoulder with the Custodians were the Sisters of Silence, clad in grey-black power armor and exuding a null-field that suffocated psykers. They were a bulwark against psychic powers, ensuring this sacred area remained free from the Warp's malevolent intrusions. Deeper within, the figures of Grey Knights, clad in silver armor adorned with mysterious runes and specialized in combating daemons, were faintly visible. They, along with the Custodians, formed the final and most robust line of defense for the Throne.

Everyone's gaze converged on the end of the hall, the source of light and power—

The Golden Throne.

It was not a throne that mortal craftsmen could forge, but a vast, complex miracle and prison, constructed from ancient technology and immense psychic power. Countless thick cables and energy conduits intertwined and connected like the roots of a giant tree, flickering with intermittent light, injecting unimaginable energy into the Throne's core. The ancient mechanical structures emitted a low, eternal hum, like the dying heartbeat of a colossal star.

And upon the Throne sat the Lord of Humanity, the Emperor.

Guilliman and Lion, though they had seen their father's form ten millennia ago, still felt their hearts gripped tightly by the sight before them.

The Emperor's body was extraordinarily massive, far exceeding any image in their memories. This was perhaps the result of ten millennia of psychic saturation and the combined power of the Throne. However, this colossal body presented a heartbreaking desiccation. The muscles that once shone with a bronzed luster and contained infinite power had long since atrophied, the skin clinging tightly to the massive bones, presenting a dull, ancient parchment-like color, covered with fine, porcelain-cracked patterns.

He was clad in a simple white robe, but even that robe appeared as thin as a shroud on such a massive body. His head was slightly bowed, his face shrouded in shadow and the halo emanating from the Throne, making it difficult to discern its full features. Only the outline of high cheekbones and tightly closed, bloodless lips were visible. Countless slender cables and neural probes, like a crown of thorns, connected his head to the Throne, maintaining the last shred of life in this shell and the terrifying will that sustained humanity's fate.

Despite the body's desiccation, almost mummified, an unparalleled psychic power, hot and vast as a stellar core, continuously emanated from this shell. That psychic power was not violent, but like a boundless ocean, unfathomably deep, filled with infinite majesty, wisdom, and... an indescribable, ten-millennia-long, extreme agony. The light and pressure permeating the entire hall were the most direct manifestations of this vast psychic power.

Without any command, or even thought, Guilliman and Lion, the two most revered Primarchs of the Imperium, instinctively and deeply bent their knees the moment they stepped into the inner hall and their gaze fell upon the Throne. They knelt on one knee in the most solemn posture, paying their highest respects to the being upon the Throne. Their heads were bowed in humility.

As they knelt, the Custodians and Sisters of Silence on either side of the passage, and the Grey Knights standing deeper within, also knelt on one knee in unison, like falling dominoes. The metallic armor clanged against the ground with a uniform, muffled sound. Within the entire hall, apart from the eternal hum of the Throne and the subtle hiss of energy flow, there was no other sound, reaching the utmost solemnity.

The Custodian Terminator holding the stasis field device and a Sister of Silence, having received some invisible permission, advanced towards the Throne with precise and solemn steps, passing the kneeling figures. They stopped about ten paces from the radiant base of the Throne, which seemed to be a predetermined boundary. The two acted in concert, with an ancient and ritualistic posture, carefully placing the device containing Lorgar's head gently on the mirror-smooth floor, which was inscribed with countless Imperial proverbs.

Once placed, the two immediately retreated, returning to their respective formations, also kneeling on one knee.

At this moment, everyone's attention in the hall was focused on that small stasis field device, and the daemon's head sealed within it, representing ultimate betrayal and blasphemy.

Even though the Emperor's aura was faint, and his body appeared lifeless, every person present, from the Primarchs to the most common Custodian Guard, could clearly and unequivocally feel it—a gaze, a gaze containing the accumulation of endless ages, discerning the essence of all things, and bearing the collective will of humanity, was cast from the direction of that bowed head, penetrating the obstruction of space, and falling upon that stasis field, upon that hideous daemon's head belonging to Lorgar.

That gaze was cold, scrutinizing, devoid of any personal emotion, yet it seemed to contain a fury capable of incinerating stars.

In this absolute silence and invisible scrutiny, Guilliman took a deep breath, suppressed the complex emotions churning within him, and raised his head. His voice rang out in this magnificent and solemn hall, clear and steady, carrying absolute respect for his father, and also the solemnity of fulfilling his brother's entrustment:

"Father."

He spoke, his voice echoing in the empty hall.

"Your loyal son, Corvus Corax—he did not fall in the millennia past."

He paused, his gaze also falling on the daemon's head, his tone becoming firmer:

"He returned from the shadows, and in the star systems of Ultramar, personally severed the head of this traitor—Lorgar—the blasphemer of life. He entrusted me to present this traitor's skull before you."

"Corvus... he completed the judgment of the betrayer."

Guilliman's words were concise, yet contained a huge amount of information. The Raven Lord's return, the traitor's demise, and this ultimate offering. He clearly reported Corvus's achievements and loyalty before the Throne.

As Guilliman's words fell, the atmosphere within the hall seemed to undergo a subtle change. The psychic power, which had been as heavy and calm as the deep sea, began to ripple almost imperceptibly. The light around the Throne seemed to fluctuate slightly, and the cables and energy conduits connected to the Emperor's body emitted a slightly more hurried sound of energy flow than before.

The gaze fixed on Lorgar's head seemed to become even sharper, even... heavier.

Silence.

A deathly silence lasted for what felt like an age.

Then, a change occurred.

Without any warning, the stable glow on the surface of the stasis field device, placed ten paces from the Throne, suddenly began to flicker violently and unstably, emitting a piercing, crackling sound, like glass about to shatter! The stabilizing runes inscribed on the device's casing dimmed and extinguished one by one!

"Buzz—!"

With a sharp burst, the stasis field—collapsed!

The barrier that had limited the daemon's head's last energy connection and essence disappeared.

Almost simultaneously with the field's disappearance, from the eyes of the previously inert daemon's head, which burned with unholy fire, a final, dark red glow of malice and unwillingness erupted! A faint but extremely pure and blasphemous, cursed chaotic psychic energy, like the last strike of a dying viper, attempted to spread outwards, trying to defile this sacred ground!

"Alert!" The Custodian Captain's low, urgent command rang out. All Custodians and Grey Knights instantly entered maximum combat readiness, and the Sisters of Silence's null-field fully expanded, suppressing the blasphemous energy attempting to spread.

However, all these reactive responses seemed insignificant in the face of the ensuing sight.

The Emperor, seated upon the Golden Throne, his massive and desiccated body, remained motionless. His bowed head did not lift, his closed eyes did not open.

But, an indescribable, terrifying power, composed purely of will, erupted like an invisible tsunami, centered on the Throne!

It was not a torrent of psychic energy, but a power more primordial, more supreme than psychic energy—it was rejection, annihilation, absolute negation of chaotic existence!

That power did not target any loyalist present, nor did it cause any physical damage to the hall. It was precisely, like the focused light of the hottest star, entirely unleashed upon the daemon's head that had just escaped the stasis field's confinement.

There was no loud bang, no explosion.

Under the shocked gaze of Guilliman, Lion, and all the guardians, the head of the Daemon Primarch Lorgar, imbued with terrifying daemonic essence, began to rapidly disintegrate and vaporize from the most basic level of matter, as if it were an ice cube thrown into a steel furnace, or morning dew illuminated by the scorching sun!

It first became blurred, transparent, as if losing its physicality. Then, every particle that constituted its existence was forcibly stripped away, pulverized, and reduced to its most basic energy form by that supreme power of will. That last trace of blasphemous psychic energy attempting to resist failed to even stir a ripple before being utterly annihilated, completely erased.

The entire process was silent, yet more chilling than any earth-shattering explosion.

Within a mere two or three seconds, the daemon's head, which had once instigated rebellion, brought countless disasters, and even attempted to return, along with the stasis field device that contained it, had vanished without a trace. No ashes or residue were left behind, only the pristine floor, as if nothing had ever appeared.

Within the hall, the previous silence returned. Only the eternal hum of the Throne persisted.

But that invisible gaze from the Emperor, after completing this silent annihilation, seemed to shift slightly, lingering for an extremely brief moment on Guilliman and Lion.

That gaze seemed to contain too much information to decipher—a hint of confirmation of a loyal son's return? A wisp of cold satisfaction at the traitor's ultimate fate? Or the unchanging, ten-millennia-long, extreme weariness of bearing humanity's burden?

No one could decipher it.

Subsequently, that gaze quietly receded, returning to silence, as if it had never appeared.

The skull-offering ceremony concluded in a manner far beyond everyone's expectations.

The traitor Lorgar, the last trace of his existence in the world, had been utterly annihilated before the supreme will of the Lord of Humanity.

Guilliman and Lion remained kneeling on one knee, unable to rise for a long time. They exchanged glances, both seeing deep shock and a hint of understanding in each other's eyes.

The Emperor was not powerless.

He merely focused almost all his strength and will on sustaining the greater, more brutal war concerning humanity's survival.

And for the vile things representing Chaos that dared to appear before him, even if only remnants, all he offered was the most thorough, most absolute—annihilation.

On Deliverance, the Raven Guard's homeworld, the planet is perennially shrouded in grey clouds, its surface mostly rugged mountains and deep canyons. Its architecture prioritizes utility and concealment, with a stark and oppressive style that perfectly matches the Raven Guard's Chapter culture.

However, in recent days, the planet has been enveloped in an unprecedented atmosphere of awe and fervor. For their Gene-Primarch, Corvus Corax, Lord of Shadows, had truly, tangibly returned after ten millennia of disappearance.

When the Raven Guard flagship, the "Avenger," resembling a ghost ship, slowly descended onto the spaceport outside the main fortress, all the Raven Guard warriors stationed on the homeworld, led by the remaining Captains, along with a large number of Planetary Defense Force personnel and civilians, had already lined up and waited. They watched the lean, tall figure, shrouded in black power armor and shadows, emerge from the ship's hold, and simultaneously knelt on one knee, right hand over their chest, performing the Chapter's most solemn salute.

There was no clamor, no cheers, only a solemn silence, and countless gazes filled with excitement and loyalty.

Corax wore no helmet, revealing his pale, sharp face, which now bore distinct non-human, corvid features. His eyes, pure black like eternal night, swept over his kneeling sons and people. The ancient, unyielding ice in his eyes seemed to melt, forming a barely perceptible ripple. He slowly raised a hand, making a gesture to "rise."

Only then did everyone rise, but they still kept their heads slightly bowed, maintaining absolute reverence.

In the following days, Corax walked the lands of Deliverance. He inspected the Chapter fortress, reviewed his sons' training, and occasionally paused to listen to reports from some old veterans. He spoke very little, often only nodding or responding with a few simple words, but his very presence was the greatest encouragement and affirmation for all Raven Guard warriors. He was like a condensed shadow, bringing silent strength and absolute loyalty wherever he went.

However, everyone could feel that the Primarch did not intend to stay long. The lingering aura of the distant void and endless hunt that clung to him had not diminished in the slightest upon his return to his homeworld.

One dusk a few days later, on the highest observatory of the fortress, Corax summoned Chapter Master Esho'Jaan.

The lingering glow of the setting sun, dim through the thick clouds, stretched their silhouettes. Corax stood with his back to Esho'Jaan, gazing at the fortress city below, which was gradually lighting up, like a slumbering behemoth.

"Esol," Corax's voice was low, like the evening breeze rustling raven feathers.

"My Lord," Esho'Jaan immediately bowed in response.

"I am about to depart," Corax's words were direct and concise, without any prevarication.

Esho'Jaan's heart trembled. Although he had long anticipated it, hearing it firsthand still brought a wave of disappointment. But he did not try to dissuade him; he knew that the Lord of Shadows' path was never confined to one place.

Corax slowly turned around, opening his palm. A feather had appeared in his hand at some point. The feather was entirely black, yet in the dim light, it shimmered with a dark metallic sheen, its edges sharp as a blade, as if containing wisps of shadow energy. This was one of the animated raven feathers from his power armor.

He offered this raven feather to Esho'Jaan.

"Take it," Corax said. "Let this feather be a beacon. When the time comes, or when the Raven Guard faces a catastrophic crisis that it cannot withstand alone, use it to call me."

His pure black eyes gazed at Esho'Jaan, his stare seemingly capable of penetrating the soul: "I will return."

Esho'Jaan took a deep breath, suppressing the excitement in his heart, and extended both hands to solemnly receive the raven feather, which seemed light but felt as heavy as a mountain. He could feel the power and will contained within the feather, originating from the same source as the Primarch.

"I obey your command, Raven Lord!" Esho'Jaan responded gravely. "The Raven Guard will forever await your summons!"

Corax nodded slightly, saying no more. His figure began to blur in the gradually descending night, as if merging with the surrounding shadows.

Esho'Jaan tightly clutched the raven feather, watching the Primarch's figure dissipate silently into the shadows of the observatory like ink dripping into water, leaving no trace, as if he had never appeared.

When he looked up again at the place where the Primarch had vanished, it was empty. Only the cold, power-infused raven feather in his hand proved that everything that had just happened was not an illusion.

The Lord of Shadows had once again embarked on his solitary and deadly hunt... Deep in the Warp, where time and space lose all meaning, in the domain of Slaanesh known as the "Sea of Confusion."

Everything here defied reason and logic. The sky was a constantly shifting, dizzying kaleidoscope of colors, and the air was filled with a cloyingly sweet, nauseating aroma and a faint, seductive melody that stirred the deepest desires of the heart. Twisted, grotesque buildings grew and writhed like living things, and demons of all forms could be seen everywhere, indulging in endless revelry and extreme sensory stimulation.

At the heart of this domain stood a palace of unimaginable size—Slaanesh's Palace of Pleasure. The palace itself was like a constantly transforming work of art, constructed from crystal, pearls, gold, and various indescribable precious materials, radiating an alluringly decadent glow.

In one of the most lavish halls within the palace, a carpet as soft as living flesh was laid out. A colossal figure reclined languidly upon it.

It had a humanoid upper body, with perfectly violet skin and fluid, powerful muscles. Its face was beautiful enough to make any mortal lose their composure, yet its eyes burned with an eternal, hungry fire of desire. However, from the waist down, it extended into a thick, powerful serpentine tail covered in shimmering scales. From its back grew six long, flexible arms, each hand toying with different objects—perhaps an exquisite instrument, perhaps a goblet filled with nectar, or perhaps just invisible threads of lust.

It was the fallen and ascended Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, the Purple Phoenix, once a son of the Emperor, now Fulgrim.

Several lithe, alluring, yet inhumanly twisted Slaaneshi Daemonettes coiled like vines around Fulgrim's massive body. They kissed his violet skin with cold lips, caressed his firm muscles with sharp-nailed fingers, emitting meaningless, seductive moans. Fulgrim's eyes were closed, a drunk ful and languid smile on his handsome face, seemingly completely immersed in this eternal pleasure and sensory stimulation, enjoying the "rewards" he had gained through betrayal and corruption.

However, beyond this ultimate extravagance and depravity, in the light-drenched, rhythmically hypnotic outer regions of the Palace of Pleasure, a silent slaughter was unfolding.

A ghostly black figure moved through the twisted corridors and bizarre courtyards at a speed beyond perception. Wherever he passed, the Slaaneshi Daemonettes engrossed in revelry—whether low-ranking Seekers or more powerful Keepers of Secrets—had their heads instantly separated from their bodies before they could even react!

There were no screams, no warnings.

Sometimes, a few faint, almost imperceptible whooshes would flash by, and the demons would be torn into fragments by black raven feathers, sharp as blades, appearing out of thin air, like puppets dismembered by an invisible weapon. Other times, the black figure himself seemed to become the most lethal blade, his power claws extended from his arms glowing faintly, each strike carrying a soul-shredding chill, tearing apart the obstructing demons along with their twisted pleasures.

A Slaaneshi Daemonette, struck in the abdomen by a raven feather and not immediately annihilated, crawled with difficulty on the ground, its pink-glowing entrails trailing behind. It opened its mouth, attempting to sound an alarm, to warn the other demons deeper within the palace of an intrusion.

But the next second, a heavy, black-armored boot descended like a mountain, precisely crushing its head. The faint sound of a shattered skull and an annihilated soul was swallowed by the eternal, hallucinatory music around it.

Corvus Corax stopped.

He stood before a massive archway leading to the palace's core, inlaid with pearls and wailing souls. His black-as-night power armor seemed to absorb all surrounding light, and the animated black raven feathers on his armor stirred without wind, trembling slightly, exuding a cold killing intent.

He removed his beaked helmet, revealing his current face—no longer the slightly pale, non-human face, but a fierce and savage corvid countenance, fully awakened to his Warp essence! A sharp, beaked maw, pure black, pupil-less eyes, skin covered in fine, metallic black downy feathers, his entire head resembling a giant raven from ancient shadows and tales of death!

The power claws on his arms were fully unsheathed, their edges glowing with a ghostly light that tore reality and souls. His pure black eyes pierced through the opulent and decadent scene before him, locking onto the single target of his journey, deep within the palace.

He felt the familiar psychic surge, mixed with the nauseatingly sweet scent of Chaos—Fulgrim.

Corax let out no battle cry, nor did he hesitate. He took a step, then another, moving steadily and silently, deeper into Slaanesh's Palace of Pleasure.

The luxurious carpet beneath his feet seemed to wither and darken instantly as he passed, as if consumed by shadow. Slaaneshi Daemonettes, disturbed by the slaughter and attempting to approach, were torn to shreds by automatically flying raven feathers or his casually swung claws before they could even get close.

His objective was clear; his will was steel.

Lorgar had already been executed.

But the hunt was far from over.

These fallen brothers, these traitors who had forsaken their father, forsaken humanity, and embraced the darkness... every single one of them.

He, Corvus Corax, Lord of Shadows, Raven Lord, swore to use his claws to—slay them all!

A cold killing intent, like a tangible chill, began to surge against the warm, decadent atmosphere of the Palace of Pleasure, towards its core.

Deep within Slaanesh's Palace of Pleasure, the atmosphere of ultimate decadence and languor was shattered by a chilling, bone-piercing killing intent that forcibly cut in from the periphery.

Fulgrim, reclining on the soft carpet, one of his six arms, which had been elegantly stroking a Daemonette's smooth back, paused slightly. His eyes, burning with the fire of eternal desire, remained closed, but a subtle ripple, hard to discern, crossed his beautiful, almost demonic face.

He felt it.

An extremely powerful, solidified killing intent was approaching the core of the palace without any concealment. This killing intent was so pure, so cold, so out of place with the sweet, decadent pleasure surrounding him, like ice water dropped into hot oil, stirring up invisible ripples.

However, Fulgrim only paused for that one instant. Then, the corners of his perfect lips curved upwards, sketching an arc mixed with disdain and amusement. In his mind, corrupted by eternal pleasure, this intruder might have some skill, able to break through the obstacles of the lower-ranked Daemons on the periphery, but ultimately, it was nothing more than a slightly stronger, suicidal insect that had blundered into the Phoenix's nest. It was far from qualified to make him, the noble Phoenix of the Purple Court, the favored of Slaanesh, personally rise to confront it.

His paused arm moved again, casually gesturing towards the archway with an extremely dismissive wave, as if shooing away flies.

Standing in the shadows at the edge of the hall, two Keepers of Secrets, who had been embracing each other, tall and emanating powerful allure and danger, immediately received their master's will. They ceased their endless intimacy, a flicker of annoyance at being disturbed in their eyes, but more so, a craving for executing their master's command and for the impending "fresh" slaughter. They exchanged a twisted, cruel smile, then transformed into two blurry phantoms, carrying a sweet scent, and sped towards the direction from which the killing intent originated.

Soon, violent clashes of energy, the dull thud of blades tearing through flesh, and the Keepers of Secrets' unique shrieks, a mix of pain and ecstasy, emanated from the palace's periphery. The sounds of battle were brief and sharp, clearly indicating that both combatants possessed power far beyond ordinary Daemons.

Fulgrim remained languidly reclined, even pulling a startled Daemonette closer into his embrace, as if enjoying a farce unrelated to him. He even speculated with interest how long that little insect could last under his two most favored Keepers of Secrets. Would it be torn to shreds in an instant, or would it struggle to let out a few amusing wails?

However, his leisure did not last long.

Less than three heartbeats after the sounds of fighting on the periphery abruptly ceased—

"BOOM!!!"

A deafening explosion shattered the tranquility of the palace's core!

The massive and ornate main gate of the palace, constructed from pearls, wailing souls, and a type of living crystal, burst inwards as if struck head-on by a battering ram! Countless glittering fragments mixed with twisted soul remnants rained into the hall like a storm!

Immediately following, two enormous, hideous heads, still bearing expressions of shock and pain, along with splattering Warp blood, were violently hurled in by a great force, like two defiled orbs, rolling onto the luxurious carpet before Fulgrim's couch, leaving two glaring bloodstains.

These were the heads of the two Keepers of Secrets who had left only moments before!

The alluring and cruel light in their eyes had long since extinguished, leaving only deathly stillness and frozen disbelief.

This sudden turn of events caused the Daemonettes entwined elsewhere to let out terrified screams. Like a startled swarm of snakes, they instantly panicked and scurried behind their master's colossal body, seeking refuge.

Fulgrim's eyes, which had been slightly closed, finally slowly opened at this moment.

In those eyes, there was no longer just desire and languor, but a flicker of offended indignation, and a hint of... cold curiosity that had finally been piqued.

He did not immediately rise; his massive serpentine tail merely tapped the ground impatiently, causing the surrounding small ornaments to tremble. He raised an arm, reassuringly gesturing for the startled Daemonettes to calm down, and then, he cast his handsome yet cold gaze beyond the violently destroyed grand entrance.

There, amidst the shattered doorframe and swirling dust, a figure was walking in, step by step.

He wore power armor as black as eternal night, its lines stark and deadly, covered with countless black raven feathers that stirred without wind, trembling slightly as if alive, emitting a light-absorbing gloom. However, what was most chilling was his head—no longer a human face, but a hideous, fierce raven-daemon's head! A sharp, bone-like beak, pure black, abyss-like, keen eyes with no white, and skin covered in fine, metallic-sheened black downy feathers.

The Power Claws deployed from his arms were fully extended, an eerie blue energy field crackling and hissing on the blades. From the tips of the claws, viscous Daemon blood, emanating blasphemous psychic energy, dripped continuously, leaving charred, sizzling marks on the carpet.

With every step he took, he carried the weight of a thousand pounds, as if treading to the beat of a heart. That cold, pure, undisguised killing intent, like a tangible cold wave, swept through the entire hall, freezing the once sweet air.

Fulgrim watched this intruder, his burning eyes narrowing slightly, carefully scrutinizing him. Ten millennia of decadence and pleasure had blurred many ancient memories. He sensed a faint yet intrinsically profound familiarity from this raven-faced warrior, but that aura was enveloped in thick shadow and killing intent, making it difficult to discern for a moment.

He did not immediately recognize this as Corvus Corax, his brother long forgotten in the dust of ages. In his view, this was perhaps just some mortal strongman seeking power, or blinded by hatred, who had transformed into such a monstrous form under the Warp's distortion, coming to challenge his "perfect" existence.

And so, Fulgrim maintained his languid posture, even drawing a trembling Daemonette into his embrace with one arm, pressing a casual kiss on her pale cheek, before slowly asking in his magnetic voice, filled with endless arrogance and languor:

"Who are you?" His gaze wasn't fully focused on the Raven Lord, as if he were merely examining a slightly interesting object. "Have you come... to submit to me? Show your worth, and perhaps, I can grant you... pleasure beyond death."

His tone was flippant, carrying a condescending air of charity, completely disregarding the murderous, raven-faced warrior before him.

Corvus Corax's pure black raven eyes locked onto Fulgrim's corrupted form, his gaze as cold as ancient, unmelting ice. Hearing Fulgrim's blasphemous and forgetful question, a deep, hoarse sound, like the collective caw of countless ravens, emerged from his sharp, beak-like mouth. Every word contained bone-deep hatred and killing intent:

"Fulgrim!"

He uttered the name that once symbolized art and perfection, but now represented only decadence and betrayal.

"You betrayed the Imperium, betrayed the Emperor," the Raven Lord's voice was like a cold wind sweeping through a graveyard, carrying the chill of a pronouncement. "You murdered Ferrus, my loyal brother!"

When mentioning the Iron Hands' Primarch's name, a nearly imperceptible, forcibly suppressed wave of pain flickered in Corax's voice. The tragedy that occurred on Istvaan V was an eternal scar in the hearts of all loyal Primarchs.

"You abandoned glory and embraced darkness, transforming into this repulsive form!"

His fists clenched suddenly, the energy fields on his claw blades humming shrilly, and the dripping Daemon blood became more rapid.

"I have come today to cleanse the house!" Corax took a step forward, his killing intent like a drawn sword, pointing directly at Fulgrim. "To end you, Daemon, and the Chaos God behind you, here and now!"

Facing Corax's accusations and declarations, charged with a sea of blood vengeance, Fulgrim's reaction was, surprisingly... indifferent.

He showed no emotion even when called by name, nor any guilt or anger when Ferrus and betrayal were mentioned. Instead, a deeper interest appeared on his handsome face, as if he were watching a clumsy, ancient play about "loyalty" and "betrayal."

His massive serpentine tail slowly writhed, adjusting his reclining posture to face this uninvited guest more "comfortably." He still did not look Corax directly in the eye, his gaze wandering between the terrified face of the Daemonette in his arms and the shifting, magnificent murals on the hall's ceiling, asking again in a tone so languid it was almost a dream:

"So... who exactly are you?"

He tilted his head, and one of his six arms waved gently, stirring a sweet fragrance.

"A pitiful soul bound by ancient doctrines? A raven monster immersed in a dream of revenge?"

His tone was filled with undisguised pity and mockery.

"Submit, embrace true perfection, embrace eternal pleasure. All that you cling to—the Imperium, the Emperor, your brothers... are merely... stumbling blocks on the path to a higher state."

Fulgrim chuckled, his laughter like melodious silver bells, yet containing mind-corrupting magic.

"Tell me your name, pitiful raven. Perhaps, I will remember you... before you become my new plaything."

Utter oblivion, extreme disdain.

He regarded Corvus Corax, the Lord of Shadows who had come to execute a kinslayer's judgment, as an ant to be toyed with at will, not even worthy of having his name remembered.

This attitude, more than any vicious curse or furious attack, ignited the rage from the depths of Corax's bloodline.

In Corax's pure black raven eyes, the last trace of rational light belonging to "Corvus" was consumed by the fully ignited, cold fury representing the essence of the "Raven Lord."

He no longer needed words.

Fulgrim's answer was a shriek that tore through the air, like the simultaneous caw of a myriad of ravens!

Corax's figure instantly transformed into a black lightning bolt streaking across the ground, his Power Claws crossed before him, carrying a terrifying might that seemed to tear through space and soul, launching a merciless, deadly pounce towards the still languid Phoenix of the Purple Court on his couch!

The shadow had unsheathed its claws.

Judgment descended upon the demonic palace!

As one of Slaanesh's most favored Daemon Princes, Fulgrim's power was far beyond that of Lorgar, who had only recently ascended to daemonhood and whose foundation was unstable. Beneath his seemingly languid posture lay terrifying strength, tempered by ten millennia of decadence and pleasure, enough to eclipse the stars.

Facing the pounce of Corvus Corax, which carried monstrous killing intent and icy shadows, Fulgrim didn't even change his side-lying posture. One of his six arms, with a speed that defied the laws of physics and combined strength with ultimate elegance, lifted, and in his hand, at some unknown point, he had grasped a twisted, alluring demonic blade, shimmering with a beautiful, evil light.

"Clang—!"

A crisp, ear-piercing, crystal-shattering crash exploded!

Corax's cross-slashing power claws violently collided with Fulgrim's seemingly casual parry of the demonic blade! The energy shockwave instantly spread in a ring, tearing and annihilating the surrounding luxurious carpets, ornaments, and even the low-ranking daemonettes who were too slow to dodge! The entire hall trembled violently, and the living murals on the walls twisted and wailed in pain.

Failing to land a hit, Corax used the momentum to backflip, landing lightly like a raven's feather. There was no ripple in his pure black raven eyes, only an even more condensed killing intent. He knew that against an opponent like Fulgrim, conventional attacks would be difficult to succeed.

He no longer rushed to attack, but slowly straightened his body, his arms slightly spread. The cloak behind him, seemingly woven from living shadows, rustled in the windless air, and countless pitch-black raven feathers on it trembled violently as if they had come alive.

An indescribable power, originating from the deepest essence of the Warp's shadows, erupted around Corax!

"Buzz—"

It was not a sound, but a distortion of rules, a covering of a domain.

Centered on Corax's position, a dense, viscous darkness spread rapidly in all directions like spilled ink! This darkness was not merely the absence of light; it devoured color, devoured sound, devoured all matter and energy that did not belong to the category of "shadow."

The brilliant crystal chandeliers instantly dimmed, as if covered in dust; the magnificent murals on the walls lost all their colors, turning into monotonous grey-black silhouettes; the sweet scent in the air was replaced by a cold, rusty, and dusty shadowy wind; the eternal, soul-stirring psychedelic music was also swallowed by an absolute, heart-pounding silence.

In the blink of an eye, the core hall of this Slaanesh pleasure palace had been forcibly peeled away from the dimension of reality, falling into a Shadow Domain completely dominated by Corvus Corax!

Here, he was the sole king, the silent judge, the deadly hunter.

Fulgrim's always languid expression finally showed a subtle change. His burning eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the completely transformed, dead silent world, now only in shades of black, white, and grey. He could feel that his connection to other parts of Slaanesh's domain was greatly weakened, and the omnipresent pleasure energy that supported his power became thin.

"An interesting trick..." Fulgrim chuckled softly, his tone still contemptuous, but his languor had receded somewhat. His massive serpentine tail coiled slightly, adopting a more defensive posture. At the same time, he used two of his arms to hold the few terrified, trembling daemonettes in his embrace more tightly, and a faint, shimmering psychic shield enveloped them, isolating them from the erosion of the Shadow Domain. Even at this moment, he maintained a twisted "elegance" and a protective desire for his "playthings."

Just as Fulgrim was adapting to the sudden change in environment, Corax moved.

He suddenly flung his shadowy cloak behind him!

"Swish—!"

From the cloak, countless pitch-black raven feathers, as if endowed with independent life and will, instantly detached, transforming into Vague black afterimages, almost identical to Corax's true form. Like arrows loosed from a bowstring, they shot towards the shielded Fulgrim from all directions, above, below, left, right, every conceivable angle!

Each raven feather clone contained a portion of Corax's will and power. They wielded claws forged from shadow, their attack trajectories cunning and vicious, silent yet carrying a deadly chill.

As for Corax's true form, the moment he flung his cloak, he had already vanished completely into the dense shadows, like a drop of water dissolving into the ocean, leaving no trace.

Facing this deluge of shadowy attacks from countless angles, whose authenticity was hard to discern, Fulgrim could no longer lie leisurely on his couch. He let out a soft huff, seemingly of impatience. The two arms protecting the daemonettes remained still, but his other four arms danced like blooming flowers of death!

The demonic blade in his hand conjured countless dazzling, magnificent streaks of light. Simultaneously, his other three free arms pointed, palmed, grabbed, or slapped, each strike precisely meeting the incoming raven feather clones!

"Sizzle! Sizzle! Sizzle! Sizzle—!"

Shadow claws clashed continuously with the demonic blade and Fulgrim's terrifyingly powerful arms. Once struck, the raven feather clones would instantly burst into a mass of pitch-black shadow energy, but more clones followed, one after another, like an unceasing black tide.

Fulgrim's defense was perfect; the magnificent blade light and palm strikes formed an impenetrable barrier of death around him, blocking and shattering all shadow attacks. His movements still carried an astonishing, twisted elegance, as if he were not engaged in a life-and-death struggle, but rather performing a deadly dance.

However, just as he parried a wave of dense attacks from his side-rear, and a minuscule, almost non-existent gap appeared in his blade light—

A black shadow, condensed to the extreme and moving far faster than the other clones, suddenly pounced from his visual blind spot—directly above his head in the shadows—like a venomous snake that had been lurking for a long time! Its twin claws aimed straight for Fulgrim's unprotected head and neck!

It was Corax's true form!

This strike, in its timing, angle, and speed, was utterly flawless, seizing that one-in-a-billion-second flaw in Fulgrim's defensive cycle!

Fulgrim's reaction was faster than imagined! He didn't even look up; a free arm shot upwards as if with prescience, grasping fiercely! Pink, reality-warping pleasure psychic energy swirled between his five fingers!

"Rip!"

Corax's claws almost touched Fulgrim's violet skin but were just barely parried by that terrifyingly powerful hand! The claw tips scraped against the palm, erupting in blinding sparks and energy turbulence! Corax, failing to strike, did not linger, his figure merging back into the darkness, disappearing once more.

Fulgrim looked at the shallow scratch on his palm, from which a trace of dark golden blood seeped. The languor in his eyes finally vanished completely, replaced by a cold and cruel glint of true fury.

"Very good... little Raven..." He licked the blood from his palm; the blood carried a sweet, metallic taste and the fragrance of psychic energy, "You hurt me."

Just then, several Slaaneshi Witches, hearing the commotion and attempting to protect their master, rushed to the edge of the Shadow Domain. They chanted enchanting spells, and twisted psychic energy, like invisible tentacles, coiled towards the densest shadow in the domain, trying to find and control Corax's true form.

However, they severely underestimated the danger of the Shadow Domain and overestimated their own abilities without the full support of Slaanesh's domain.

Their enchanting psychic energy was like a mud ox entering the sea, failing to stir any ripples. Instead, in the next moment, the shadows around them instantly "came alive"!

Several pitch-black claws, formed from pure shadow, suddenly stabbed out from the darkness beneath their feet, instantly piercing their chests and tearing their throats! They couldn't even let out a scream before their charming bodies quickly shriveled and withered like punctured balloons, finally turning into scattered dust, completely devoured by the shadows.

Fulgrim watched this scene with indifference, offering no rescue. In his eyes, these incompetent Witches had lost even the qualification to be his playthings.

The subsequent battle entered an even more brutal and intense melee.

Corax, leveraging the home advantage of the Shadow Domain, appeared and disappeared like a ghost, sometimes splitting into a myriad of raven feathers to interfere, other times his true form launched surprise attacks. His attacks were vicious, cunning, and silent, each time aiming for Fulgrim's vital points.

Fulgrim, on the other hand, relying on his absolute power far exceeding Corax's, his essence as a Daemon Prince, and his despair-inducing combat skills, within a limited range of movement, neutralized all of Corax's attacks one by one. Each swing of his demonic blade carried the soul-tearing power of pleasure, and his fists, palms, and claws contained the terrifying might to shatter mountains. Several times, he even, with an almost precognitive intuition, nearly grasped the trajectory of Corax's true form, and the sharp counterattacks forced Corax to abandon his offensive and retreat into the shadows again.

The battle reached a stalemate. The Shadow Domain was continuously draining Corax's power, while Fulgrim, though partially restricted in his abilities, his abyssal, ocean-deep power reserves allowed him to remain at ease. The two, in this shadow-covered demon palace, fought fast against fast, and skill against brute force, for a time, it was difficult to tell who had the upper hand, with only the constantly exploding energy and scattering sparks testifying to how tragic this fratricidal bloodbath, occurring deep in the Warp, truly was.

Just as this fierce, prolonged battle continued for an unknown duration, and the forces of both sides clashed violently, twisting the rules to their extreme—

Corax's pure black raven eyes suddenly narrowed.

Fulgrim's eyes, burning with the fire of desire, also stirred slightly.

They both felt it.

An indescribable, incomprehensible, irresistible will, like a slowly opening cosmic eye, quietly descended upon this shadow-covered area.

That will carried neither malice nor benevolence. It simply... existed. Like a god looking down on an ant colony, with an absolute indifference and curiosity that transcended mortal understanding.

His gaze pierced through the isolation of the Shadow Domain, through the barriers of the pleasure palace, and landed precisely on this battlefield, on His most favored Daemon Prince Fulgrim, and also on the "little Raven" from the shadows who was battling His darling.

Slaanesh.

The Lord of Pleasure, the God of Excess.

He, or rather, a part of His attention, was drawn by this battle occurring in the heart of His domain, filled with power and the beauty of death.

He did not intervene, did not cast down divine punishment or blessings.

He merely watched silently.

As if appreciating a novel drama unfolding in His own backyard.

Under the gaze of this supreme being, Corax felt an unprecedented pressure, as if the weight of the entire Warp was pressing upon his soul. Fulgrim, on the other hand, the moment that gaze descended, his aura seemed to become even more profound and unfathomable, and the curve of arrogance mixed with pleasure reappeared on his lips.

The gaze of the deity added an even more unpredictable variable to this already perilous hunt.

Three months passed as smoothly as the hum of a battleship engine in the rigorous and disciplined life of the Space Marines.

Tech-Sergeant Luna Aisa's injuries finally began to heal. After strict evaluation by the Apothecary team and a series of adaptive training sessions, she was cleared to return to duty and rejoined the First Company's combat roster. Although a faint ache occasionally lingered in her back, and her movements required more caution than before, being free from the confines of the medical bay and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her comrades again brought her immense peace of mind. She silently checked her toolkit and servo-arm, gradually resuming her daily battle readiness and technical maintenance work.

Dorian's situation was even more peculiar. The Chapter's Librarian, Apothecaries, and even Priests used every available method to conduct repeated, soul-deep examinations on him, with the result consistently being the same—in a non-combat state, no clear signs of Chaos corruption could be found on him. His soul-spectrum was pure, his oaths of loyalty to the Emperor and Ultramar unwavering, a stark contrast to the raging figure who fought outside the medical bay.

Given the inability to find a definitive "pathology," and long-term isolation and scrutiny being an impractical solution, the Chapter's high command, after careful deliberation, made a cautious and somewhat risky decision: Dorian was granted special permission to return to duty.

However, this permission was not unconditional. In the order personally issued by Chapter Master Marius Calgar, it explicitly required Sergeant Karl Horn, as Dorian's closest comrade and the first to discover his anomaly, to constantly monitor Dorian's daily behavior, emotional fluctuations, and any potential abnormalities that might arise during training and future combat. Gaius was to meticulously record these observations in a dedicated encrypted combat log and ensure that any impropriety was reported immediately to Company Commander Cassius or Lieutenant Golden.

This was undoubtedly a heavy responsibility placed on Gaius's shoulders. He understood that it was both the Chapter's trust in Dorian and a test of his own abilities. He solemnly accepted the task, and his gaze towards Dorian, in addition to their unchanging brotherhood, now carried a subtle scrutiny and concern.

Dorian himself seemed largely unaware of any abnormality in this arrangement, or perhaps he deliberately ignored the added "care." Being able to leave the medical bay that had irritated him and touch his armor and weapons again was the greatest relief for him. He thumped his chest, assuring the Company Commander and Apothecaries that he was perfectly fine, and eagerly reintegrated into the First Company's daily routine.

The massive Ultramarines fleet, having completed its patrol and anti-piracy missions in the outer star systems, finally returned to the central region of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, stationed near the Macragge system. This core territory, personally forged by Guilliman and maintaining relative prosperity and order through ten millennia of trials, had recently been unusually calm. No large-scale Chaos incursions or xenos threats appeared; only some sporadic, insignificant pirate and small xenos harassments were quickly resolved by local defense forces or patrol fleets.

This rare period of peace, for an Astartes Chapter that needed to constantly maintain peak combat effectiveness, was both a valuable opportunity for rest and training, and also brought a hint of… restless idleness.

Especially in Dorian's view.

He meticulously polished his precious Saturnine Pattern Terminator Armour and his spare Ironclad Pattern Terminator, along with the Thunder Hammer and Storm Shield that had earned him great renown, over and over again. The adamantium and ceramite surfaces were maintained to a mirror sheen, almost reflecting his slightly agitated face. He craved battle, the thrill of clashing power, the desire to shed sweat and blood on the battlefield, rather than staying in the safe homeport, listening to the monotonous hum of the battleship engines.

"This is too boring!" Dorian complained for the hundredth time, slamming his gleaming Power Hammer onto the weapon rack with a dull thud. His massive body paced back and forth in the lounge, like a hungry lion trapped in a cage.

Finally, he could no longer endure this torment of "peace" and turned his gaze towards the Tenth Company, responsible for recruit training and reconnaissance missions. Since there were no real enemies to kill, "tormenting" the recruits and indulging in being an instructor seemed like a good alternative.

Thus, with the tacit approval of Tenth Company Captain Orpha, Dorian's massive, power-armored figure began to appear frequently on the Tenth Company's training grounds.

He stood before the young recruits, who still carried a hint of naivete and nervousness, arms crossed, and began to "vividly" recount his past "glorious deeds" in his characteristic, booming, and somewhat rough voice.

"Hey! Recruits! Listen up!" Dorian tapped his chest plate with his Power Fist, making a clanging sound that drew everyone's attention, "Today, I'm going to tell you how I, alone, with one hammer, smashed an entire squad of foul-smelling Death Guard Plague Marines, along with their damned Plague Zombies, into a paste stuck on the wall!"

He waved his arms, mimicking the motion of swinging a warhammer, spittle flying: "Those guys, they thought they could scare Ultramarines with disgusting viruses and undead bodies? Bah! In front of my Thunder Hammer, their pathetic counterattacks were like tickles! One swing from me, no matter what Nurgle's blessing, I'd flatten them, man and armor! In the end, only the biggest Plague Marine was left, still trying to self-detonate? I got him first, slammed him with my shield into his own putrid swamp, and he gurgled and was gone!"

The recruits listened, wide-eyed, both startled by the thrilling battle and yearning for Dorian's exaggerated descriptions and powerful strength.

This wasn't all; Dorian, in high spirits, began to recount how he single-handedly challenged a towering Ork Warboss, how he smashed the greenskin brute, man and Power Klaw, with pure strength amidst its Waaagh! cries; he even began to describe how, during a Warp rift conflict, he "almost" flattened the Lord of Change Karlos, who was known as Fateweaver, with a single hammer blow. Of course, how much of this was his artistic embellishment, only he himself knew... Gaius would sometimes quietly observe from the side. He watched Dorian, animated and seemingly no different from usual, feeling a slight relaxation in his heart, but still not daring to be careless, meticulously recording Dorian's words and actions in the encrypted log. As long as it didn't involve combat or extreme emotions, Dorian still seemed to be the boisterous, bragging brother.

However, beneath this seemingly calm Chapter routine, there were ripples. And the source of these ripples came from something all Astartes Monks were accustomed to, yet deeply detested—nutrient paste.

For decades, the Ultramarines Chapter, and indeed the entire Astartes Monks, had been known for the "consistently" unpleasant taste and texture of their standard high-energy nutrient paste. It was a highly elastic, gray paste with a strong smell of disinfectant mixed with lubricant, tasting like low-quality protein powder mixed with engine oil. Its sole purpose was to efficiently and quickly supplement the immense energy and nutrition required by the Astartes superhuman physique. As for culinary pleasure? That was an unnecessary luxury for angels born for war.

Chapter Master Marius Calgar, like countless Chapter Masters before him, had long grown accustomed to this "fuel." In his centuries-long service, he had consumed enough nutrient paste to fill a small warehouse. He had never complained much about it; after all, the desires of the palate were insignificant compared to the safety of the Imperium.

Until this day.

He had just finished a complex batch of reports on border world taxation and xenos smuggling, working for nearly fifty hours straight, his mental fatigue almost at a breaking point. Feeling his processing efficiency decline, he decided to pause and replenish some energy.

A Honour Guard warrior timely and respectfully placed his daily ration of gray nutrient paste on his desk.

Calgar rubbed his throbbing temples, skillfully twisted open the seal, squeezed out a large, elastic chunk of paste, and put it into his mouth.

However, the next second—

The legendary Chapter Master, who had endured countless bloody battles and faced Daemon Princes without flinching, suddenly changed his expression!

That familiar, unpleasant taste, at this moment, seemed to be magnified a thousandfold! The strange smell of disinfectant mixed with engine oil hit his taste buds like a physical punch; the highly elastic paste, as he chewed it in his mouth, no longer brought a simple feeling of fullness, but a… strange sensation, as if he were chewing a piece of industrial rubber soaked in cheap lubricant! He even had an absurd illusion that the stuff was engaging in an intense "free-for-all" in his mouth!

"Ptooey—!"

Calgar could no longer hold it in, abruptly spitting the mouthful of paste into the nearby recycling chute, his face ashen.

He glared at the tube of gray nutrient paste, still more than half full, on his desk, his eyes practically spitting fire. Over two hundred years! He had eaten this stuff for over two hundred years! He had thought his taste buds were long numb, long accepting that this was the Astartes' destiny.

But at this moment, the deep-seated detestation for this stuff, accumulated over two hundred years, erupted like a volcano!

He had had enough! He had truly had enough!

"Guardsman!" Calgar's voice, like thunder suppressing a storm, echoed in the office.

A Honour Guard warrior immediately pushed open the door and entered.

"Summon Company Commander Orpha immediately!" Calgar almost roared the command.

Soon, Tenth Company Captain Orpha, with a hint of confusion, quickly entered the Chapter Master's office.

Before he could even salute, Calgar pointed at the nutrient paste on the desk, speaking in an undeniable, angry tone:

"Orpha! Look at this! We, the Astartes Monks of the Imperium, humanity's finest warriors, have sustained ourselves for centuries—even millennia—on this… this stuff that 'free-for-alls' in your mouth and tastes like cheap protein powder mixed with engine oil?!"

His voice grew louder: "I've been eating this stuff for almost two hundred years! I refuse to believe it! Those idiots in the logistics department, in two hundred years, couldn't improve the taste and texture of this damned nutrient paste even a little bit?!"

Orpha was somewhat caught off guard by the Chapter Master's sudden fury. He opened his mouth, wanting to explain things like the stability of nutrient ratios, the need for long-term storage, cost control, and so on… But Calgar didn't give him a chance to speak. He directly picked up his authorization pen and swiftly signed an order on the data-slate, granting the Tenth Company Captain the highest temporary authority.

"I'm giving you top priority! Use all necessary resources! Go to the Quartermaster, go to those priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus! I don't care what methods they use! Improve the formula! Add natural flavorings! Even if it only tastes like... like dirt! Like clean dirt! Anything but this damn taste!"

He stood up abruptly, the oppressive feeling from his massive body making Orpha's heart palpitate. Calgar stared into the 10th Company Captain's eyes, adding word for word, his tone icy and resolute:

"If those idiots tell you they can't do it..."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the bolt pistol at Orpha's waist.

"Then point your gun at their heads!"

"I believe, when faced with a choice between life and death, they will suddenly become... 'willing' and 'creative'!"

Orpha's heart tightened, and he immediately straightened his body, striking his chest heavily: "Understood! Chapter Master! I'll get right on it!"

Watching the 10th Company Captain's hurried departure, Calgar seemed to be drained of strength, slumping back into his wide chair. He used his massive, power armor-clad fingers to rub his eyes and forehead, trying to alleviate the needle-like headache.

These endless administrative duties, from internal Chapter management to the coordination of the Five Hundred Worlds, from military deployment to logistical support... were almost crushing this legendary Chapter Master, renowned for his valor and command.

And this was only a small part of what he had to face. Compared to Lord Regent Guilliman, who was far away on Terra and had to deal with billions of affairs across the entire vast Imperium, the burden on his shoulders was probably less than a tenth.

Just thinking that Lord Guilliman might have to face documents a thousand times more complex and cumbersome every day, and might also be forced to eat the same unpalatable "standard rations," Calgar couldn't help but feel a deep sense of helplessness and exhaustion for himself, and also for his father, who bore the heavy responsibility of humanity's revival.

Just then, the office door was knocked on again. Another Honour Guard warrior entered, presenting a thick data-slate to him.

"Chapter Master, the annual tax and production summary report for fifty major agricultural worlds within the Five Hundred Worlds has been compiled. Please review it."

Calgar looked at the dense data and charts, took a deep breath, and forcibly suppressed the anger about the nutrient paste and the fatigue in his body.

He reached out and took the data-slate, his gaze becoming focused and sharp once more.

The work continued.

He rubbed his still faintly aching forehead and plunged back into the seemingly endless sea of administrative duties.

Elsewhere, Gaius expressionlessly forced down the last mouthful of gray-green nutrient paste. The elastic, oily, and disinfectant-mixed paste slid down his throat, leaving a persistent unpleasant sensation. Although the Chapter Master had ordered improvements to this damned ration, the Quartermaster's efficiency clearly needed time. He silently cleaned his personal utensils and put them away.

After completing these daily chores, he did not go to the training ground or the lounge like the other warriors, but turned and walked towards a more solemn and tranquil area deep within the battleship.

Passing through layers of heavily guarded corridors, Gaius arrived at a massive alloy door carved with the Ultramarines Chapter insignia and the Imperial Aquila. This was the Sanctum aboard the Macragge's Honour, a sacred place for remembrance, contemplation, and oath-taking.

The door slid open silently, and a scent of ancient metal, polished stone, and faint incense wafted out. The Sanctum's interior was vast, with a soaring dome, and soft light spilled from above, illuminating the surrounding walls.

The walls here were not smooth metal panels, but were made of meticulously polished black stone slabs, each inscribed with countless names. Every name represented a hero who had made outstanding contributions to the Ultramarines Legion or Chapter, or who had bravely fallen in battle. These were Walls of Glory, bearing ten thousand years of sacrifice and achievement, silently narrating the legacy and resilience of the blue bloodline.

Gaius walked slowly into the Sanctum, his heavy footsteps echoing clearly in the vast, silent environment. His gaze slowly swept over the dense names, as if reading a profound epic. Many names he had long memorized; they were part of the Chapter's history lessons, ancestors that every Ultramarine needed to remember.

His gaze lingered on several particularly prominent names:

Ionid Hyl

Cato Sicarius

Flatus Auguston

Marius Calgar

Severus Agemman

Lucian Trajan

Malam Caedo

And... Gaius.

When he saw his own name also prominently engraved among these revered figures, Gaius's gaze flickered slightly. That was after he returned from Terra, successfully broke free from Tzeentch's whispers, and received the laurel-wreathed helmet and master-crafted Power Sword personally bestowed by Lord Guilliman. The Chapter had inscribed his name on the Wall of Glory to commend his loyalty and resilience. This was not an honor he actively sought, but the Chapter's recognition of his will and contribution. Each time he saw his name alongside these great names, he felt not pride, but a heavy sense of responsibility.

He continued onward, reaching the deepest part of the Sanctum.

Here stood a colossal statue, carved from the purest white marble. The figure depicted wore master-crafted Power Armor, his form mighty, his face resolute and wise, one hand holding the Sword of Authority, symbolizing dominion and power, the other cradling the Holy Book, representing knowledge and law. It was the Primarch of the Ultramarines, the creator of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, the Lord Regent of the Imperium—Roboute Guilliman.

The statue was lifelike, as if it might step down from its pedestal at any moment to continue leading his sons in conquering the stars. And at the top of the highest wall behind the statue, instead of stone slabs, was an exquisite bas-relief. The relief depicted a woman in a simple robe, with a benevolent face yet an undeniable resolve. Her gaze seemed to pierce through time, watching the Primarch's statue below, and also watching every Ultramarine who came to this place.

She was Lady Tarasha Euten.

Not an Astartes Monk, nor even a combatant, yet she held an incredibly special and exalted position for the Ultramarines Legion. She was Roboute Guilliman's foster mother and mentor on his homeworld of Macragge. It was she who taught the young Primarch knowledge, etiquette, and the wisdom of governance; it was she who shaped the rational, orderly, and humanitarian aspects of Guilliman's character. Within the Ultramarines, she was respectfully called "Grandmother"; her existence symbolized the legacy, education, and guardianship that the Legion cherished alongside combat and conquest.

Gaius stopped about ten paces in front of Guilliman's statue. He took a deep breath, as if to absorb the solemn and sacred atmosphere of the Sanctum into his very being.

Then, he raised his hands and slowly removed his helmet, adorned with a golden laurel wreath. This helmet bore the honor personally bestowed by Lord Guilliman and witnessed his journey of overcoming Tzeentch's schemes within his heart. He carefully held the helmet in his hands, as if it were a sacred relic.

Next, facing the Primarch's statue, he bent his right knee and knelt heavily on the cold, hard ground. The collision of his metal knee guard with the stone slab produced a clear and firm sound. He lowered his head, placing his helmet-holding hands in front of him, performing the most solemn single-knee genuflection.

This was not the first time, and it would certainly not be the last.

This was a rule Gaius had set for himself, a ritual he had to perform every week.

He knelt here, not to pray for strength or victory, but to remind and warn himself.

His gaze was downcast, falling on his hands holding the helmet, but his mind seemed to return to those years entangled by unseen whispers and shrouded by the shadow of the Lord of Change. Those tempting and twisted riddles, those schemes attempting to lead him astray, those insights that almost devoured his sanity... It was Lord Guilliman's trust, the support of his Chapter brothers, and, even more, his unwavering loyalty to the Emperor and Ultramar deep within his heart, that ultimately allowed him to sever those invisible chains and strip Tzeentch's corruption from his soul.

This laurel-wreathed helmet was a symbol of victory in that unseen war, and Lord Guilliman's recognition of his resilient will.

But he never dared to forget that experience. He knew that the corruption of Chaos was insidious, especially Tzeentch, whose schemes were impossible to guard against. A temporary victory did not mean eternal peace. Complacency was the beginning of damnation.

Therefore, he came to this Sanctum every week, kneeling before the Primarch's statue.

He did this to remind himself not to forget his past struggles and vulnerabilities, and not to forget who gave him guidance and trust in his most confused moments.

He did this to warn himself that the Emperor's enemies would stop at nothing, and that he must always maintain the purity of his mind and the steadfastness of his will, never again giving those dark whispers any opportunity.

He did this to reaffirm his oath—as an Ultramarine, as a son of Guilliman, he would forever be loyal to the Emperor, loyal to Ultramar, and use the sniper rifle and Power Sword in his hands to eliminate all enemies threatening humanity, until his last breath.

The Sanctum was silent, with only his own steady breathing and the low hum of distant energy conduits. Soft light fell on his kneeling figure and the glorious helmet, as if coating them with a sacred halo.

He maintained this posture for a long, long time.

Allowing his thoughts to settle, his will to be honed, and his loyalty to become as unyielding as the stone walls of this Sanctum.

Only when he felt his heart had once again recovered absolute calm and resolve did Gaius slowly raise his head, his gaze once more clear and sharp. He carefully put his helmet back on, feeling its familiar weight and fit.

Standing up, he cast a final glance at Guilliman's statue and the bas-relief of Lady Tarasha above, and performed a deep Aquila salute.

Then, he turned and, with steady and firm steps, left the Sanctum.

Outside, the battleship was in its perpetual state of busyness and readiness for war. But at this moment, Gaius's heart had cleared away any gloom brought by the unpalatable nutrient paste or daily chores. He clearly knew his duty, knew his path, and knew the shadow he must always be vigilant against.

He was an Ultramarines Sergeant, Champion Sniper Gaius.

His battle was endless. His vigilance, too, was ceaseless.