"What? You're saying that right after we left, every major world in the Ultramar Sub-Sector—including Laphis, Nova Thulium, and Ardium—has gone completely dark?"
"Several Blessed Sons Companies that stayed behind, dozens of allied Chaos warbands, and even an entire Titan Legion of the Dark Mechanicum have all vanished? What?!"
Kor Phaeron—the Dark Cardinal of the Seventeenth Traitor Legion, the Word Bearers, foster father and former chief faith advisor of the Primarch from Colchis—stood amidst the ruins of Magna Macragge City. His Terminator armor, carved with countless dark Colchisian scriptural etchings, gleamed faintly under the red light as he demanded answers from his Dark Apostles.
"Are you the Emperor's corpse-worshipping trash?! Even a pack of Ogryns or a herd of Grox beasts could have caught someone in three days, couldn't they?!"
Standing in the heart of Macragge's capital—the largest Imperial city in the entire Ultramar system—the Dark Cardinal swung his eight-pointed Chaos mace furiously and roared:
"What, do you think the rotting claws of the Corpse-Emperor still dare to launch a full-scale bombardment within the Ultramar system?!"
Kor Phaeron bared his sharp, jagged teeth in a grin that sent a chill through the hearts of even his corrupted followers.
The Dark Apostle's smooth, bald head shone beneath the crimson light reflecting off the spikes embedded in his gorget, making him look like a rotten, peeled egg. The thin, membranous skin of his head twitched whenever he made an expression, causing the blasphemous black tattoo-script that covered his face to crease and fold grotesquely.
"This is a divine opportunity granted by the Gods! The stars belong to Them! We were meant to offer the soul of a loyal gene-son to the Dark Gods as tribute! This was our glory! Yet you've shamed Their blessings! You've dimmed the light of truth across the galaxy!"
Kor Phaeron was in a foul mood.
With the Great Rift tearing through the galaxy and ever expanding, the battles among the Chaos Gods had unleashed warp storms that severed Imperial communications and transportation. Terra's government had been forced to focus all its attention on the Cadian Gate. This created a perfect window.
A blitzkrieg strike on Macragge—to corrupt and turn a loyal Primarch of the Imperium.
Ah, just imagining it made him drool. What a perfect plan.
Just like Erebus—the so-called 'Hand of Fate' and First Chaplain of the Word Bearers—who once wielded the cursed blade Anathame to wound Warmaster Horus, setting the stage for the Great Betrayal itself. Such glory still made Kor Phaeron burn with jealousy.
After the Heresy, Erebus strutted through the Legion with pride, and Kor Phaeron had despised him ever since.
Among the few Traitor Legions to retain full structure, the Word Bearers still stood strong. Though their Daemon Primarch, [Lorgar], had become something of a recluse, withdrawing to his daemon world and refusing to meddle in mortal affairs, his authority as Legion Master remained absolute.
Beneath the Primarch, Kor Phaeron and Erebus battled ceaselessly for dominance—the eternal struggle for second place. Within the Eye of Terror, their rivalry turned into open sabotage, their war of attrition threatening to tear the Legion apart.
Though Kor Phaeron loathed to admit it, Erebus's rank was still higher.
After all, with the prestige of having deceived and damned Horus himself, Erebus had become one of Chaos's most infamous figures (save that Khorne cared little for him). Red or black, his name carried weight. With the Daemon Primarch withdrawn, Erebus commanded nearly half the Legion's forces.
Kor Phaeron was left with scraps—the remnants of Erebus's feast.
As Lorgar's foster father, and in some ways a peer of the Emperor's generation—a 'sage' of Colchis—how could Kor Phaeron tolerate living under another's shadow for so long?
When Abaddon of the Black Legion launched the Thirteenth Black Crusade, Erebus led a great host of Word Bearers to aid him. Kor Phaeron, disdainful and distrustful as ever, refused to fight alongside him.
Instead, before the Great Rift had even fully formed, Kor Phaeron took his own forces and quietly departed the Eye of Terror. His new target: the Veritus Sub-Sector.
There, he would prepare a grand offering—a gift worthy of the Dark Gods themselves.
Just as Kor Phaeron was preparing his grand offering, the galactic rupture known as the Great Rift and the birth-cry of the Chaos God [Finality] shattered his plans.
Deep within the Sea of Souls, the war waged by that newborn deity upon the higher realms had thrown the material universe into utter chaos. A flood of fragmented and confused messages reached Kor Phaeron—through the sacrifices of his Dark Apostles, the prophecies of warlocks, and the whispers of warp daemons.
The Black Crusade had failed?
The Vengeful Spirit destroyed?
The Corpse-Emperor's Primarch had appeared on Cadia?
...
Kor Phaeron could not tell which rumors were true. The [Warp] was far too violent now. Even his daemon allies trembled beyond the veil of reality, shrieking in terror. The messages they sent were garbled, disjointed, and utterly unreliable.
One thing was certain, though—Abaddon had failed again. So what? The Despoiler had already failed twelve times. One or two more hardly mattered.
Still, if Abaddon had failed... then Erebus had failed too!
Kor Phaeron almost laughed. He even considered sending a message to his 'old friend,' feigning sympathy with the most insidious grin he could muster—smiling venomously as he expressed his so-called sorrow.
But speaking of Primarchs—a bold and enticing new plan was forming in his mind.
The assault on Macragge.
From the intelligence he had gathered, Chapter Master Marneus Calgar of the Ultramarines had dispatched a significant portion of his forces to aid Cadia. Now, with the Great Rift open and warp storms raging, even a Chaos-worshipper like Kor Phaeron found navigation perilous—how much worse must it be for the Imperium?
Kor Phaeron was certain: Macragge's defenses must now be perilously thin, and no successor Chapter reinforcements could possibly arrive in time.
Feasible!
The Dark Cardinal's scheme clicked together like gears in motion.
Of all the new factions under [Finality], none yet possessed a Daemon Primarch—and he would be the first to offer one to the newborn Chaos God. A loyal Primarch's corruption would make the perfect tribute. If he could taint and deliver the slumbering son of the Corpse-Emperor to [Finality], the blessings he would receive would surpass imagination.
At once, Kor Phaeron abandoned his operations in the Veritus Sub-Sector. Rallying a horde of cultists, turncoats, and Chaos warbands, he sacrificed several inhabited worlds and alien species along his path, emptied his slave pens, and plunged through the raging warp routes—his fleet veering straight toward Macragge.
Armed with a blade forged from the shattered fragments of the Anathame, he intended to strike down the Thirteenth Primarch in his sleep—just as Erebus had once felled Horus. To offer the soul of a loyal son in sacrifice, to claim the temptation and power of a Daemon Prince—Kor Phaeron's Chaos armada surged through the turbulent warp like an avalanche descending upon the Ultramar system.
As he expected, the invasion went smoothly.
Though Imperial forces remained on Macragge—the main Ultramarines Chapter, several companies from Omega-affiliated successors, a few pilgrims from other Chapters, new initiates, the Macragge Guard, and detachments of the Astra Militarum—it was far from enough.
Against a full Legion-sized assault led by the Word Bearers, their defense was nothing but a cup of water thrown upon a wildfire.
Even in the Great Crusade, the Word Bearers were famed for their vast numbers, while the Ultramarines had long since fragmented their strength across countless Chapters under the dictates of the Codex Astartes.
Barely two thousand Astartes remained on Macragge itself, scattered across various fronts—while Kor Phaeron's forces numbered in the tens of thousands.
He was confident that even a one-for-one slaughter would end with him standing atop Crown Mountain, over the tomb of Guilliman himself. After all, he didn't need to conquer the entire world—just strike swiftly and reach the shrine.
All he had to do was drive his cursed blade into the Primarch's body, and the offering would be complete.
This time, he would finish what he had failed to accomplish during the Calth campaign millennia ago. Back then, Guilliman had torn out his heart—but now, the Primarch slumbered. Surely he couldn't do that again.
"This pilgrimage... is sacred! There shall be no failure!"
Kor Phaeron roared, voice twisting into a static-laden cacophony of madness and warp-born distortion:
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"There's still a chance to salvage this. Even if the garrison is completely wiped out, it doesn't matter. We're already in Macragge City, halfway up Fortress of Hera—this is the Ultramarines' capital! Even if the Imperial Navy loses, they won't dare bombard this place... continue the assault! Calgar and his kin are at their end!"
"As long as we reach the shrine, we will win the favor of the Gods!"
Around the blasphemous platform—slick with the blood of innocents and strewn with the corpses of fallen Space Marines—stood hundreds of Word Bearers Dark Apostles, sorcerer-warriors, renegade Astartes, and corrupted Dark Mechanicum adepts. At Kor Phaeron's urging, none objected. Grinning with fanaticism, they pressed their assault toward the fortress atop Crown Mountain—the heart of Hera itself.
"To see a pure Primarch fall by our hands... I can hardly wait!"
"Forward! Tear apart these ignorant sons of Man!"
...
Bang! Bang-bang-bang!
Raging sorcerous energy tore through the fortress's structure—statues shattered, windows burst apart, and every relic once built to honor the Emperor's divinity and the Gene-Father's sanctum was desecrated, painted in the dried crimson of betrayal. The traitors' armor, trimmed with serrated spikes, gleamed dully under the flickering light, symbols of their defilement.
"Chapter Master! How long until reinforcements arrive?!"
Rip—!
A bolt shell struck the heavy breastplate of a Terminator veteran, sparks erupting in a blinding flash. The wounded warrior staggered back, his damaged armor leaking sacred oils, but there was no time to recover—whoosh! A bolt of plasma grazed his pauldron, melting a deep concave scar through the ceramite and exploding against the wall. The burning fragments scorched the purity seals etched across his chest.
Vrrrrr—!
The whine of a roaring chainsword came for his head. Without hesitation, the Terminator swung his lightning claws, catching the berserker's weapon mid-swing. His twin-linked storm bolters fired point-blank—each trigger pull ringing like the tolling of a war-bell. The Khornate berserker's massive body convulsed with each impact.
Shards of ceramite spun outward like scythes. Bone splinters peeled away like the skin of a fruit, flesh bursting open. The twin hearts, stomachs, and lungs of the superhuman warrior exploded from his back in a torrent of gore.
The hollow corpse became a living cannon, spewing fire as it fell. The storm of bolt shells poured through the corridor, mowing down dozens of Word Bearers charging forward. One heretic was torn apart mid-scream.
Yet it was not enough.
Beneath the broken walls of Fortress of Hera, the tide of Chaos poured endlessly inward. From the skies above, the Hell Talons descended in waves. The gates, corridors, and stairways—every choke point—had already fallen.
Boom!
A roaring thunder hammer swung from behind, striking the Terminator veteran's helmet. Blood sprayed like mist.
He fell.
The Macragge Honor Guard who had followed him into the breach were crushed beneath the chaos tide.
"Keheheh... fresh meat... this will make a fine appetizer before the feast..."
A group of warp-mutated Possessed, their bodies glistening with blood-red mutations, whispered their inhuman chants. The shadows around them writhed unnaturally, and from the darkness emerged demonic silhouettes with dripping claws, grasping blood-soaked thunder hammers.
Whoosh! Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh—!
But the next instant, searing plasma fire washed over them, consuming the shadows whole.
Who were they trying to scare? Even if the Ultramarines were no longer what they once were, poverty had never been among their failings.
"Fear not death! For the Gene-Father!"
Chapter Master Marneus Calgar charged forward, clad in master-forged artificer armor. His massive figure moved like a phantom through the enemy ranks, his thunderous power fists glowing with deadly energy. Each strike shattered heretics and daemons alike as he fought to bar the defilers from reaching the shrine where the Primarch slept.
Every fallen brother stoked the burning rage in his heart—a fury that would never be extinguished.
Within moments, a dozen Word Bearers, cultists, and traitors lay slain by the Chapter Master's bloodied fists. Foul ichor and twisted organs burst into mist with every blow.
Crack—!
Calgar's armored boot crushed the chest of a warped Terminator, the spikes and horns splintering beneath him. The bolt pistol mounted under his gauntlet fired—a point-blank detonation that blew the traitor's head apart.
"We stand! To the death!" Calgar roared.
The front-line commander of the Word Bearers shrieked in fury. Instantly, every enemy weapon in the sector turned upon the Chapter Master. A storm of firepower converged upon him.
"Chapter Master, look out!"
The voice of Second Company Captain Cato Sicarius crackled through the vox-channel. He wore the plumed Centurion helm marking his first command and a master-crafted Iron Cross-pattern artificer armor. Raising his power sword, the blade crackled with energy fields, emitting a sharp, thunderous shriek.
Blood splattered.
Treading over the corpses of decapitated traitors, Sicarius tried to reach his Chapter Master, but endless Word Bearers blocked his path, their ranks like a tide of blasphemy.
Yet none of that mattered to Calgar. He had no intention of retreating. Even as he was surrounded by overwhelming Chaos Marines, he adjusted his stance constantly—his steel boots grinding against the stone floor, every movement calculated for maximum efficiency, every strike a precise, brutal execution.
Bolts, plasma blasts, and las-beams rained toward him, but an energy shield shimmered into existence, deflecting them one after another. Calgar's personal refractor field blazed like a rock standing against an endless storm. He was already prepared to die.
As the traitors stabbed, slashed, and fired upon him, Calgar did not cease his defiant roar.
"Cowards! Come on—!"
The Chapter Master's voice thundered across the vox.
Adeptus Mechanicus Archmagos, Saint Celestine, the unknown Chapter of the God-Emperor's Apostles... you had better hurry.
The enemy's objective was clear—to reach the shrine where the Gene-Father slept. They attacked with suicidal determination, forcing the defenders to hold their ground in a position far from ideal for a prolonged defense.
"Hahaha... cowards? Guilliman is the true coward! The universe was always darkness—he who refuses to see truth is the coward!"
A vile whisper swept through the sanctum. Warp energy surged violently, bursting like a psychic storm. Behind the ranks of the Word Bearers, a voice echoed—one that made Calgar's very genetic core recoil in disgust.
Holding a cursed blade in one hand and an eight-pointed apostolic staff in the other, Kor Phaeron—flanked by his Blessed Sons and possessed warriors—strode into the sacred chamber where Guilliman lay in slumber.
"So, this is where he rests? I can feel your hunger..."
He muttered to himself, gazing at the twisted, serpentine dagger in his hand. The weapon exuded a rancid stench of decay. His yellowed eyes lifted toward Calgar and the two hundred defenders still standing on the steps.
A towering shadow stirred faintly beyond the shrine.
"Over my dead body!"
"Heh heh..." Kor Phaeron chuckled, shaking his head. "Ignorant fool. I am saving your Gene-Father."
"Dawn fades silently... only darkness endures. That is the one true law. May you dream well."
He spread his arms in a grotesque gesture of mock affection, his lips twisting into a confident, sickening smile. One of the two vilest men of the Word Bearers, the Dark Cardinal, raised his Chaos staff high.
"Raaaaghhhh—!"
Instantly, countless possessed monstrosities—warped beyond any resemblance to human form—charged forth, howling with inhuman rage.
Kor Phaeron didn't even glance toward Calgar, who roared for a duel. To lower himself to such a crude brawl, he thought, would be a stain upon his dignity.
Slowly ascending the steps toward the shrine, Kor Phaeron could already envision it—the moment he would surpass Erebus, the moment he would command his Daemon Primarch as a father commands a son.
As for Imperial reinforcements? Hmph. Once he corrupted the Primarch, none would leave this world alive.
Until—
"...Ah."
A sigh, cold as poison, crept along Kor Phaeron's spine, chilling his fervent thoughts to ice.
"Those who delight in schemes and deceit are the most foolish of men—they lack the intellect to comprehend what faith truly means."
A beam of light cut through the sanctum, banishing the gloom that had consumed Fortress of Hera.
A tall, armored figure materialized amid the carnage. The holy radiance surrounding him blurred his features, but the craftsmanship of his magnificent armor was unmistakable—the work of the finest artisans of a bygone age.
Thud—!
A massive power staff struck the floor, cracking the plasteel and ceramite beneath it like spiderwebs. At its tip gleamed a tritagonal Honkai Cube, pulsing with immense power.
Kor Phaeron froze, disbelief breaking through his arrogance.
"[Lorgar]...?"
"It is I," the figure answered.
—
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