Chapter 438: You Do Not Understand the Weight of the Dawn
He had died many, many times.
Countless times.
Time and again, he felt his hearts cease their rhythm, only for the echo of duty and the violent palpitations of his transhuman physiology to force him back to his feet. It would have made him scream, had he the breath to do so.
That was the sensation of that era—drifting in the void, longer than eternity.
Perhaps even longer.
Perhaps even now, a part of him remained there—dying, reviving, and dying again.
Sometimes he could not distinguish between duty and torture; they had merged into a singular, unending continuum of agony.
But now, in a sense, it was over.
He was once again the man he knew. He could take up arms, march into the unknown, and kill for his liege. He could follow orders, and he could issue them.
He was a Knight. Just as he had been in his youth when he sailed the Sea of Stars, fighting for the future of humanity. He was the Legion's finest swordsman, the bearer of the Mantle of the Champion, one of only two Dark Angels to ever defeat Alajos in a duel. A legend mentioned in the same breath as Raldoron and Sigismund.
"If the Lord of Knights suffers any accident, you will die."
Farith Redloss, Voted-Lieutenant of the Dreadwing, listened to the words spilling from his old brother's mouth. He looked into eyes that seemed to have aged centuries in the span of a few minutes of separation. The indignation on his face gave way to horror.
For a split second, there was disbelief.
Then came the calculation.
Redloss began to recall the strangeness of it all. He could not understand why these brothers, who were absolutely loyal to the Lion, had been fundamentally altered the moment they participated in the boarding action. It was as if eons of time had been forcibly injected into their memories.
What sorcery was this? Why was nearly a quarter of the Legion instantly psycho-indoctrinated into a cohesive force? And who were these strangers they followed with such fanatical devotion? Why had even Corswain fallen into this state?
Even Corswain has turned.
Inhale deeply. Exhale. Redloss tried to stand abruptly, only to be yanked back by the mag-locks securing him to the chair.
The sensation of total isolation left Redloss, a man who had always been steadfast, feeling a chaotic vertigo.
"You need not look for us, Lord Cypher," Knight-Consul Galahad said, looking at the young Seneschal before him with a low, ironic tone.
Compared to unfortunates like Redloss, Corswain seemed to have sunk deeper into the mire of the future, so much so that when a hand reached out to pull him from the mud, his fervor was all the more intense.
He appeared unstable. Galahad didn't think Corswain posed a threat to His Highness personally, but his zealotry might complicate His Highness's plans.
"Is Lord Cypher not currently on the planetary surface?"
Having cowed the Lion's loyalists with his cold, uncharacteristic threat, Corswain feigned confusion.
There was no 'Lord Cypher' here. That title currently belonged to Zahariel, the traitor leader of the Mystai, dwelling on the surface.
"And I hope it remains that way. As do you," Corswain responded, signaling to his colleague that he retained his rationality and would not resort to extreme measures unless the situation became extreme.
"Hmph."
Seeing the righteous expression on Corswain's flushed face, Galahad scoffed lightly.
Among the Dark Angels, this was as close to blunt honesty as one could get.
Beside him, his adjutant, Ranchel, who had completed the data-link with the majority of the fleet, nodded to the Knight-Consul.
Galahad extended his hand and decisively bridged the vox-systems of the Loyalist faction (The Lion's) and the Future faction (The Dawnbreakers) into the grand fleet network.
Remaining silent, sweeping his gaze over the assembly, Corswain's mouth twitched.
These people... even the Dark Angels present who were loyal to the Lord of Knights... they did not understand the true worth of the Dawnbreakers. Perhaps because the Lords of the Dawn were too benevolent, these warriors, starved of emotional validation for so long, instinctively drew close like moths to a flame. They believed them to be leaders worth serving and stopped thinking further.
They ignored too much.
Drifting in the Warp for so many years, Corswain knew exactly what the Empyrean was. He knew what the Emperor had become over the long millennia. He knew the state of the Imperium and the grim darkness that was all but guaranteed.
Until the Dawnbreakers appeared.
He had watched from the shadows for a long time, analyzing the Emperor's contradictory commands, enduring the torture of countless consciousnesses rolling in his mind. It was only after the death of Perturabo that he truly confirmed their significance.
Irreplaceable.
Absolutely irreplaceable.
Humanity should not just be cheering for their arrival; their fervor for the Imperium itself should not be shaken by petty accidents.
This peerless temperament, cultivated in an environment unknown to history, was the cruel galaxy's final mercy to mankind. Such an existence—even if it were someone as mad as Angron—must be stabilized, just as the War Hounds sacrificed captain after captain to stabilize their sire. They must never be allowed to fall to Chaos.
If a trade had to be made, then apart from the Dawnbreakers themselves, everything could be sacrificed. Even the other Primarchs. Even the Imperium.
That was why Corswain felt an instinctive hostility toward anything that might affect the Lord of Knights.
These Dark Angels, still obsessing over "Does His Highness love me? Do I love His Highness?"... The Lion, whose mindset was still that of an immature child... these troublesome existences were constantly grinding down the Lord of Knights' patience.
Corswain had even formulated a contingency plan: to purge the entire Dark Angels Legion, the Lion included. A clean slate. Let His Highness lead the true Dark Angels—those raised under the aegis of the Dawnbreakers, educated by him.
"We will not sit idle for long."
Corswain took a sharp breath, shaking off the dark thoughts. "Tell me what you need me to do."
His attitude was humble. Galahad, who was adjusting the fleet's firing vectors, looked up in surprise.
There were not many 'Fallen' who had come with Corswain. Lord Ramesses had locked onto their souls; the Formless Lord's sorcery could incinerate them at any moment. This was the collateral that allowed Corswain to cross the Rift.
After a brief hesitation, Galahad outlined his duties: an overwhelming information offensive, assisting in pacifying the stricken zones, reducing the intensity of resistance, and ensuring that their enemies—whether Luther or whatever other chaotic filth lay in wait—paid the price.
He spoke quickly and concisely, providing only the information an executioner needed to know.
"Finally, we must ensure the fleet operates under a unified will. Turn the warships of this timeline into His Highness's weapons. End any potential Chaos conspiracies. The rest is just finding a way back."
Hummm—
After a brief static whine, the vox-channels, returning to normal operation as the orbital bombardment ceased, received a comprehensive data packet.
It was a series of images: The Lion and the Lord of Knights in confrontation. And their voices.
A holographic display flickered to life, and the raw, unedited dialogue echoed across the bridge.
"What exactly are you afraid of—"
Arthur's interrogation of the Lion rang out. Questions about his actions during the Heresy. Questions about his impulsive decisions regarding Caliban.
Public broadcast.
The Invincible Reason, as a Gloriana-class vessel second only to the Emperor's flagship, was a super-heavy signal relay. Barring Chaos sorcery, the surface of Caliban could not stop these sounds and images from descending.
Redloss looked ready to pass out from rage.
For him, this was the cruelest form of execution.
Because the Lion had actually done it.
Ignoring the struggles of the Lion's loyal son, Galahad adjusted the broadcast slightly, inserting the one sentence the Loyalists needed to hear most.
"If the war for Caliban contains not only the vile and cunning but also the innocent and implicated, then you owe your sons a chance to prove where they stand."
"..."
This was more effective than any accusation against Luther or the Lion.
almost instantly, the intensity of resistance against the automata dropped drastically across the planet.
When a man realizes that wetting the bed won't kill him—that he just needs to wash the sheets—he stops trying to burn the house down to hide the evidence.
Redloss looked desperate.
He knew it was over.
Because of that single sentence, every Dark Angel attacked by the Lion would lean toward the strange Primarch fighting him.
Especially since the Lion was already wavering.
"Fortunate," Corswain said suddenly.
Before anyone could speak, he continued.
"I will return to Caliban. I leave full command of the fleet to you."
Caressing the hilt of his sword—a blade that felt somewhat unfamiliar after so long—Corswain explained: "Zahariel is deeply corrupted by the Ouroboros. And the Ouroboros of the future has been infected by the Plague. I need to watch him. The corruption of Chaos permeates every crack. The humans of this era do not have the Emperor's protection as they once did. I need to prevent accidents. And as for you..."
He looked at Redloss again, sneering cold, before turning back to Galahad.
"I remember your oath. Here, no matter the cost, you must lead your fleet to destroy every possible conspiracy."
"I don't need you to remind me," Galahad replied.
Times were different now.
He knew what he had to do.
Aldurukh, Fortress of the North Star Order
Azrael paced slowly through the corridor, his heavy ceramite boots ringing against the metal deck.
Klaxons wailed everywhere, echoing along the labyrinthine passages of the fortress. A few surviving lumen-strips flickered intermittently, spared from the orbital strikes that had hammered the northern residential districts.
Belial walked beside him, followed by his Deathwing brothers. Their steps were steady, their bone-white and black armor casting long, dancing shadows in the strobe lights.
Since the duel between His Highness and the Lion began, Azrael had completed hundreds of tasks.
He issued direct orders to unit commanders, planned Legion deployments, secured key checkpoints and roads leading to the city core, selected Battle-Brothers to lead negotiations in every engagement zone, assessed every potential threat, and deployed warriors capable of neutralizing them.
Since joining this mission to correct mistakes and save humanity, this was all he had done.
He had always been good at this. He didn't need to report to anyone. He didn't need to report to His Highness.
He had full authority.
Boom!
Azrael departed the outer perimeter of the fortress in a Draco troop transport. It roared out of the underground motor pool, passed through the unfolding adamantium gates, and entered the tunnels leading to the citadel zone.
Leaving the fortress's interlocking anti-air zones, the transport climbed onto the main supply artery stretching west. Most of this road was subterranean; the city had seemingly anticipated attacks from orbit, and many such roads crisscrossed beneath Aldurukh, heavily shielded from bombardment.
This allowed Azrael to bypass the congested traffic.
Civilians and soldiers injured in the bombing were being evacuated with the synchronous arrival of the Imperial Army logistics, sent to support bases established in the fortress's AA zones.
These mortals, their fates tragic and uncertain, looked on with bewildered eyes. They didn't know what had happened. They only knew the war had started inexplicably and ended just as strangely. The demigods in matching armor had shown them three different faces in the span of an hour: executioners, then indifference, then saviors.
At least the thunder of guns overhead had ceased. They no longer had to endure the earth-shaking impacts or the terror of marching boots.
Now, the security provided by nutrient paste allowed them to lower their lasguns. They chewed numbly, recalling who had died and who was still alive.
Troublesome.
Recalling the Lion's face, Azrael frowned subconsciously.
Truly troublesome.
It wasn't that he looked down on mortals. He had always been the executor of His Highness's will; he knew the great vision, and he knew that both Astartes and mortals were indispensable parts of it.
What he found troublesome were the Dark Angels.
Anything related to the Dark Angels was always filled with trouble.
Unlike the ignorance found elsewhere in the Imperium, which was limited by cognitive and educational levels, every problem with the Dark Angels felt more like a neurotically unreasonable tantrum.
A list of names flashed through Azrael's mind—people he needed to meet next.
In the sealed eastern sector of the Angelicasta, they had designated a zone of absolute neutrality. Representatives from all sides would meet there to exchange words and weave the truth, presided over by him, the Supreme Grand Master.
Whenever it came to this, Azrael couldn't help but admire His Highness's temper.
He didn't know how His Highness tolerated these people.
He lowered his eyes slightly.
"What is it?"
As an old friend who had nearly beaten Azrael to death in a duel back in the day, Belial noticed the fluctuation in Azrael's mood immediately.
"Negative thoughts."
Azrael looked up as the transport rumbled to a halt.
"I hate them," the Supreme Grand Master confided to his partner. "They are troublesome. They are constantly grinding down my patience."
"You say that as if I don't hate them too," Belial shrugged, cursing in a low voice. "I even hate the past version of myself. I feel like back then, I was like a Chihuahua in a constant state of stress response."
Chihuahua. An ancient Terran canid breed whose origins were lost to time. They were small in stature but possessed incredibly high intracranial pressure, which kept them in a perpetual state of rage. Their reaction to any threat was to bite.
Many Imperial nobles had a fondness for such grotesque pets.
"At least you have self-awareness."
The apt metaphor from his friend made Azrael laugh out loud.
"It was He who taught me the quality of self-awareness," Belial said, offering sincere thanks. "And I thank you, for giving me a chance to change. I can see now... our Legion has long since become something different."
"Yes. Thank His Highness."
Azrael led his honor guard forward.
We really should give them a chance.
mainly before the final blast door of the inner citadel entrance, Azrael saw a stranger waiting for him.
"..."
Just as Azrael signaled his retinue to halt, the man performed an ancient Calibanite salute. He wore a hood that obscured his face in shadow, revealing only strands of hair stained with grime, highlighting his disheveled state. Upon his pauldron was the unmistakable winged sword icon.
"The Supreme Grand Master approaches," Belial barked, drawing his power sword and pointing it at the stranger's throat, clearly unwilling to let Azrael's authority be challenged. "Move aside."
"Apologies."
The man bowed in apology but walked directly toward Azrael.
"I have been looking for you, Supreme Grand Master. I have counsel to offer. I hope to take only a moment of your time."
He turned his body slightly, revealing a rusted greatsword.
Azrael glanced at it and felt a chill sweep through his body.
"Trouble..."
"Solve... these troubles..."
"Trouble... they are all..."
He could almost confirm that the moment his eyes made contact, he heard a voice emanating from within. A murmuring whisper.
Hazy, piercing, filled with anxiety.
"Your Highness..."
"Only you remain..."
"The most excellent you—"
"Heh."
Azrael smiled.
He casually drew his own ancient sword from its scabbard, gripping the hilt.
"Well, you are in luck. It speaks to my heart. Give my thanks to your master, and tell him this sword suits my current mood perfectly."
"I will."
The stranger nodded, then asked, "And what mood is that, Supreme Grand Master?"
Azrael stared at him, staring into the cloudy eyes beneath the shadow of the hood.
He roared ferociously.
"I want to kill you!"
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