Chapter 439: What Is This Nonsense You Are Stirring Up?
"I will kill you!"
Roaring with fury, Azrael slammed the messenger against the wall, his blade severing the man's neck in a single, brutal motion.
Surrounding them was a cacophony of noise, yet a sudden shadow swept in, isolating Azrael from the sounds of the world.
Chaos Sorcery.
Figures clad in heavy plate, their faces concealed beneath thick, hooded robes—likely to hide severe mutations—emerged from the gloom.
They had been hiding in the shadows, wielding supernatural powers granted by the Ruinous Powers, and they felt their moment had come.
Azrael smelled the fanaticism on them. The extreme obsession with a singular cause had eroded their minds, turning them into raving zealots.
But in truth, this fanaticism was hollow. They were merely slaves, tools used by the Dark Gods to enact malicious schemes. The Gods cared nothing for them; they were unworthy of worship.
The weaknesses of these fallen creatures were glaring. Like the Emperor's Children, who wallowed in excess and desire, these men had no idea what they were truly doing. They believed they had grasped the hidden truths of the universe, seen through the lies, and willingly offered their loyalty.
The sorcery attempted to dredge up his memories. Azrael could distinctly feel time grinding to a halt.
Lord Ramesses had lectured on such psychic attacks. They were rarely used in direct combat, serving instead as tools for corruption or asymmetrical warfare—a desperate gambit to seize the initiative.
But having one's memories dissected was never a pleasant experience.
It was like being strapped to a chair, forced to watch your past from a third-person perspective, scrutinizing every moment of hesitation, digging for the cracks in your soul.
And none of it was false. These were things he had experienced, things he had done.
"Why do you do this?"
"Because everyone else does it. Does that make it right?"
"..."
"Because the others did it, you chose to kill them? To use murder to cover up the problem?"
"..."
"Do you know why you hesitated?"
"I do not."
"Remember this feeling. It is called shame."
"You know you have committed a wrong, and you feel regret. You feel shame."
"We were not born into this cruel universe to harm one another. We have enemies enough already. That you feel shame, that you hesitate—this is good. If you felt no shame, if you did not think yourself wrong, then our Legion would be truly fallen."
"I understand."
"Now, come with me. We will solve this problem together. That you were driven to such irrational acts is my failure as a leader."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
In his mind, the memory faded rapidly, crumbling into psychic dust.
It was a conversation Arthur had with Belial shortly after they arrived in the Dawnstar Sector.
The entire event had lasted less than half an hour, but the patience Arthur showed during the process, and the decisiveness he showed in the result, had left a deep imprint on Azrael's soul.
"Kill him!"
"You are the best."
"Why should these flawed Dark Angels waste the Lord of Knights' time?"
Why must I kill these Dark Angels for His Highness's sake?
Why must I prove I am the best Dark Angel by killing others?
Do I need to prove anything?
Azrael felt a thick barrier form between himself and these slaves of Chaos.
They didn't understand.
These people didn't understand a thing.
Azrael spat on them, mocking their crude methods. Did they really think the Dark Angels of today could be deceived by such petty tricks?
Even if His Highness were gone...
His Highness is not gone.
"Get out of my head!"
For the first time, the Supreme Grand Master understood why it was said that Chaos corruption permeates every crack.
These whispers were truly annoying.
gripping the Sword of Secrets given to him by the Lord of Knights, Azrael seized a sorcerer by the gorget. With a face twisted in fury, he drove the blade through the neck seal.
Shing!
The disruption field punched through the fiber-bundle muscles without resistance, pierced the black carapace, and drove deep into the chest cavity encased in fused bone, churning the internal organs—human or otherwise—into slurry.
Heaving the blade upward, Azrael bisected the traitor and roared.
"BEGONE!"
The furious bellow was like a brilliant light dispersing thick fog. The shadows coiling around them evaporated, and the Fallen maintaining the spell were stunned.
Time began to flow again.
The silence was shattered in an instant.
"Kill the assassins! Protect the Supreme Grand Master!"
Belial was the first to react. Gripping his master-crafted power sword with both hands, he threw himself in front of Azrael, charging the nearest rogue psyker.
The energy field of his Indomitus Terminator armor flared as he tanked a bolt of psychic lightning, hacking the sorcerer to the ground. The rest of the Deathwing swarmed in. Ceramite clashed against ceramite, and dull thuds mixed with sharp screams echoed down the corridor.
The assassination squad was small—only seven Librarians and a dozen bodyguards. Two were already dead. These Librarians were not equipped with advanced armor or weapons; some were even empty-handed.
But psykers could never be underestimated, especially Astartes psykers. It had to be finished quickly.
Azrael's fierce gaze swept the battlefield, picking out the leader in the darkness dispelled by muzzle flashes.
The target wore ancient Mk II Crusade-pattern armor. The exposed plates were festooned with battle honors and scars, lacking only the purity seals bestowed by the Lion in later years.
Chains binding his medals rattled as he moved, each link holding a bleached skull. The sword in his hand was forged in the shape of an infinite serpent, winding and twisting, culminating in the pommel as the Ouroboros.
A claw of the Ouroboros!
Lord Ramesses had emphasized that the Ouroboros had been tainted ten thousand years ago, and with Nurgle's interference, the corruption on this planet had spiked. Caution was paramount.
Azrael charged straight at his opponent, shoulder-checking another traitor who tried to intercept him. He calculated the distance and the necessary angle.
A serpent-sword spun through the air, moving with unnatural speed.
Azrael's body reacted like a taut drumskin. Every movement was concise and practical. He did not possess Belial's exaggerated combat intuition or physical dominance, but he constantly gathered data from his surroundings, processing and applying it subconsciously to turn it into an advantage.
He slammed into the engagement. His silver sword locked with the serpent blade's jagged teeth. Relying on two swift, ferocious strikes, he forced the opponent back. Then, switching to a one-handed grip, he raised his combi-plasma and fired a snapshot, forcing the sorcerer to abandon a spell and stumble.
The grim expression beneath Azrael's helm shifted into a smile. A flash of genuine pleasure crossed his mind. He hated these enemies. These Fallen had abandoned their bottom line, harmed humanity, and become claws for evil abominations. To eradicate them utterly was righteous.
Once the outcome was certain, only decisiveness remained.
This was what His Highness had taught him.
No hesitation. No mercy.
This was the true Dark Angel. Not struggling over the past, not obsessing over abstract goals like the Primarch's favor, but fighting for humanity. For the inevitable necessity.
He drove the traitor back, severing the chains on his chest, sending the medals flying.
His Deathwing Knights followed close behind, using their superior numbers to drive the Fallen against the outer wall of the hall.
They smashed through the wall, pushing the battle from the interior into the sunlight of the spacious ancient street.
Dark Angels and Fallen fought their way into the exposed central plaza. Both sides were vicious, the combat brutal and intense.
But it ended quickly.
This was an excellent Librarian, experienced and skilled.
If his mind had remained clear, perhaps he could have given Azrael the honor of a true duel. These Calibanites had a savage strength carved into their bones—a desperate bravery born from a cursed world, from facing the Great Beasts, a will to never show weakness while defending their home.
But now, as a corrupted wretch, he was far from enough.
Azrael forced his opponent to the edge of the plaza, driving him out of the smoke so that every detail of the fight could be clearly seen.
His sword work was intensely focused. Not fast, but every strike aimed for a vital point, accompanied by the searing heat of plasma.
Bang!
He parried the opponent's blade, using a supercharged plasma shot to break the guard and knock the weapon into the darkness. Then, turning his blade with his will, he thrust it into the Fallen's chest plate, sparks flying as the disruption field severed the power cables.
The traitor was lifted into the air by the sheer force of the impalement.
"FALLEN SCUM!"
Azrael roared.
He hurled the corpse into the air, tossing his prey skyward like a demonstration, placing it in everyone's line of sight.
This was a demonstration. A display of his stance.
Representatives who had rushed out of the council chamber upon hearing the commotion, faces pale with despair, watched transfixed as the Supreme Grand Master who had been mediating between them dismantled the assassin.
Would there be more fighting?
Would the Supreme Grand Master think they planned this assassination?
Should they strike first?
But none of that mattered.
Those worries were irrelevant.
Azrael turned to face the innocents pouring out of the hall, his sword dripping blood.
He grabbed the severed head of the leader. With a massive exertion of force, he tore the hood and crushed the skull. Fluids that were definitely not Astartes blood or brain matter sprayed out—maggots and filth burst forth, exposing the foul corruption beneath the normal-looking face.
Everyone held their breath, watching the maggots scatter over the residue of the sorcery, so clear under the sunlight.
"DO YOU SEE?!"
He shouted.
His hearts beat with the glorious rhythm of a righteous kill.
"THIS is our enemy! THIS is the bastard who truly deserves to die!"
The representatives were listening.
Their knights were listening.
They no longer looked afraid.
Aside from the howling wind and the distant thunder of a higher-tier duel, the street fell silent. The bloody confrontation was over.
"So what are you afraid of? Get back inside!"
He bellowed.
"Resume the council! Let us discuss how we are going to kill them!"
The representatives scurried back into the hall like chastised children.
"Belial."
Checking each other for significant wounds, Azrael spoke.
"Here."
"I was just attacked by a Chaos psychic assault. But I must remain on the front line to maintain their unity."
Azrael looked at his partner seriously.
"You must watch my behavior at all times. Afterward, you must accompany me to Lord Ramesses to purge any hidden taint."
"Understood."
Belial nodded grimly.
"Zahariel!"
Azrael keyed his vox, looking up at the rift in the sky which had shrunk suddenly before slowly widening again.
"Your orders?"
The steady voice of Zahariel—Rohe, the Loyalist—responded. He had not crossed the rift but was in charge of the fleet's inventory and logistics.
"Bring the Ordinatus down here!"
I'm going to blow the Tower of Angels to hell.
Azrael looked at the colossal fortress piercing the clouds nearby. Its entrances were sealed, automated weapons locking down every approach, refusing entry to any living thing.
He was truly about to explode with rage.
The Lion felt a little dead inside.
A distinct white shockwave halted his blade, yet he had no desire to contest it. Instead, he dodged the incoming slash in a disheveled manner.
It's all out.
Rolling through the dirt, his blood-soaked armor coated in dust.
Yet the Lion, who usually cared deeply for his image, felt nothing. He relied on the purest, most efficient instincts to evade the attacks.
It's all been said.
From the agony of having everything torn open, to the madness of trying to cover it all up with omnipotent violence.
But when his storm-like attacks were skillfully parried, only numbness remained.
Numbness.
His mind drowned in the past. His body left only with instinctive reactions. Only the pain of his wounds gave him a faint sense that he was still alive.
When strength no longer worked, the Lion finally felt panic.
He felt his life was completely ruined.
This was shame. Fear.
He knew he was wrong, but he didn't know what to do about being wrong.
"Just fix it."
A large hole was torn through the smoke screen. In the space of a breath, Arthur looked at the Lion, who had recovered a shred of rationality. The Primarch staggered, lifting his blade, his sweat-soaked hair standing on end in the gale.
Fix it?
How does a Primarch fix this?
There was no time to do anything; he could only leave it to instinct. A white line tore through the smoke, piercing through the Lion like a phantom clipping through reality.
Whoosh~
The atmosphere for kilometers around was instantly evacuated.
The Lion gasped heavily, slowly lowering his head to look at the wound on his chest. Through the injury that had grazed between his two hearts, the Lion looked up at the knight before him.
Blood spread across the ground.
Until a dull thud reached his ears. He watched the Lion kneel on one knee in the ruins, the last shred of dignity refusing to let him fall completely.
Arthur stood up slowly. His own blood also spread on the ground. Silence reigned.
"I have won."
The victor stood tall, surveying his battlefield.
The strife between loyalists had finally ended.
Now, it was time to face the enemy together.
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