Chapter 482: Master Art Scorns the Dark Gods; The Despoiler Weeps at the Saturnine Gate
"What is he babbling about now?"
Ramesses gestured toward the screen shimmering with psionic light.
Iskandar Khayon's psychic scream had been a mere interlude. What commanded their attention were the five-colored tides churning within the Empyrean.
Roboute Guilliman stared at the display, his mind processing the entities represented by the shifting hues, even as they remained blurred behind layers of metaphysical shielding.
It matters not, Guilliman thought. As long as I reject them, the "Outsider" logic will find a path.
This was a visceral lesson, a unique case study in Warp-dynamics. Had the fleet not transitioned to realspace—protected by the "Golden Geezer's" scrutiny and Karna's presence—Ramesses wouldn't have dared such a bold play.
"How can he even compare me to Magnus?"
Facing a host of Astartes he had never met shouting "Father" at him, Ramesses wore an expression of profound insult.
"The Red Cyclops was handled perfectly by Tzeentch, true, but honestly? Sometimes I can't tell the difference between him and an Ogryn."
And you're the one feeling aggrieved?
Guilliman didn't dare refute him. He simply nodded in agreement.
In the past, he had guarded the dignity of his brothers. Even with Lorgar—that malicious, superstitious priest—he had forbidden his scions from speaking ill of him. Now? He didn't care.
After reviewing the Biographies of the Primarchs and realizing that some of his brothers were absolute bastards—and that in certain scenarios, an Ogryn would indeed have been more competent—Guilliman felt that being compared to them was a stain on his own honor.
He spoke in hushed tones with Tigurius, the son born of the 41st Millennium who had become his most trusted advisor. Tigurius was drinking in Warp-lore with the thirst of a parched man.
Ah, yes. Hallowed Numerology.
Guilliman thumbed through a stack of texts. Servius, trained under the rigorous protocols of the Victrix Guard, stepped forward and assisted the Primarch in locating the original Tome of Numerology left behind by Mortarion, using it as a reference against Ramesses' "modern" psychic manual.
He wondered how the Great Library of Macragge had even managed to keep such forbidden filth.
[The prisoner in the cave mistakes his limited perception for the total truth. Only the fortunate soul who breaks his chains and flees the darkness can know the vastness of reality.]
Guilliman realized a new truth: this "cave" called the Imperium was actually the final bunker shielding Humanity from a world of toxic air.
His fingers traced the lines of Ramesses' vivid metaphors in the textbook:
[Sometimes, Man must reach for powers beyond the cave to survive. The Great Khan leads his Stormseers to taste the tides, using the power with caution—a shallow sip, never a drown. The Wolf King sought the antidotes from his shamans, ignoring the source. The Lion binds his sons with discipline and restraint, always preparing a blade for the threat... They all know the sea outside the cave is composed of liquid poison.]
[But the Red-Skinned, One-Eyed Ogryn is different. He leads a pack of Little Ogryns into the toxic sea without protection. He wears sunglasses as if he's on a beach vacation, high on the fumes, and turns back to wave his armored brothers into the muck so they can all get 'high' together.]
"Heh..."
Guilliman couldn't contain a chuckle. At the same time, a memory of his return to Terra surfaced—a memory of his own staggering hubris.
He had arrogantly used the "Imperial Truth" to deconstruct the Ruinous Powers. He had dismissed Dorn's plea to blockade the traitor-held Mars and Luna to prioritize the hunt for the fleeing heretics. He had self-righteously assumed the threat of the Four had been broken by the Emperor and that his Father would soon "return," causing him to miss the window of opportunity.
In truth, the Four were eternal. They had been unrestrained from the moment the Emperor was bound to the Golden Throne. And the Emperor wasn't "coming back"; He was the victor of a godhood ritual fueled by human destiny. If He ever rose from the Throne, He would no longer be the man He once was.
Guilliman had understood nothing of the Four, nor the significance of what had transpired on Terra, yet he had dismissed the judgments of brothers who had endured the fire. In that moment, he had been no different from Magnus.
His decrees had only been enforced because of the 3,200 capital ships and 250,000 Ultramarines hanging over Terra's broken shell.
Guilliman's face went rigid. A "boomerang" of realization struck him.
He could only imagine how his grandstanding must have looked to Dorn—who had just returned from a Khorne-infested hellscape; to the Khan—who had looked Mortarion in the eye and killed him; and to the Wolf—who had known the Emperor's true nature for centuries.
They must have looked at me with my Emperor's Sword and my 'Grand Authority' and thought I was nothing but an arrogant, Blue-Clad Ogryn.
He let out a sharp sigh, his pride evaporating. He focused his mind back on the texts.
He couldn't afford to be that fool again. Not when his brothers were looking to him to anchor the Imperium's logistics.
When the Khan and the Wolf finally return from their 'vacations', Guilliman thought with a flicker of spite, I will make sure they look upon me with respect. And then I will use every administrative tool at my disposal to pin them into the positions they should have occupied from the start.
The thought of the two brothers who had "comfortably" abandoned the Imperium after his fall brought a dark smile to his face.
"It won't be that simple," Ramesses muttered.
While Guilliman was plotting his revenge on his wayward brothers, Ramesses remained focused on the Empyrean.
The spell was manifesting, but he had hit an obstacle.
Bizarre storms, psychic fires, tides of rot, and hallucinogenic mists churned around him. They were held at bay by his golden radiance, yet they coiled around him like a threat.
The Four Gods were displeased with his attempt to assassinate Abaddon via a teleportation error.
The Warp was not a unified front. It was a kaleidoscope of conflicting wills and ancient grudges. The friction between the Four was as intense as the war between realspace and Chaos. Choosing a representative they could all tolerate—like Abaddon—was no easy feat.
Abaddon was the ultimate actor, a source of endless entertainment and tactical utility. The Four were not about to let their most amusing puppet since Horus be "deleted" by a rival player who was becoming far too comfortable on the game board.
Ramesses was silent.
The surging tides of the Sea of Souls lashed against his projected form. To a daemon, he looked like a blinding, terrifying anomaly; to himself, he was a pillar of radiant gold.
But no one moved to strike yet.
Ramesses knew he couldn't "kill" the Four.
And the Four knew that the figure before them was merely an avatar. They didn't know what lurked beneath the light, but they knew it wasn't something they could easily consume.
Tzeentch had tried thousands of times. Since the "Park" appeared, the Lord of Change had sent host after host to dismantle it. If the souls Ramesses used to construct his golden body were actually consumable, Tzeentch would have built 999 "Super-Ramesses" in his own domain by now.
Abaddon must not die.
That was the Gods' bottom line.
The environment had shifted. Named champions were now endangered species; without the Warp's direct protection, they would be hunted to extinction.
The greedy Gods didn't want to pay the "upkeep" for their servants, but they wouldn't compromise forever.
Especially Tzeentch.
A predetermined outcome was boring.
Brilliant blue flames erupted, dropping iridescent feathers. The quill-tips of these feathers were engaged in a metaphysical tug-of-war with Ramesses' will, scrubbing out his answers and writing their own on the scroll of Fate.
Golden light periodically flashed behind Ramesses. The "Cold Sun of the Warp" (The Emperor) would reach out and tear the parchment of Fate whenever a result appeared that He disliked, forcing the Gods to start the calculation again.
Every time this happened, the feathers would pause, then begin scratching frantically, the psychic equivalent of Tzeentch throwing a tantrum.
"Headcount stays the same. I won't touch Abaddon. The rest is up to their own skill," Ramesses proposed.
He knew he couldn't drag this out. His "health bar" wasn't infinite like the Five he was dealing with. A war of attrition in the deep Warp would eventually break him.
But the "130" limit had to hold.
Otherwise, Huron wouldn't stand a chance.
Abaddon might be a "clown" in the grand strategy, but in a direct duel, he was a monster. Before his ascension through the gifts of the Four, he had faced Sigismund, Telemachon, and others, surviving encounters that would have ended any other warrior.
A fair duel. While Haarken's Raptors tangle with the defenders, Abaddon and his 130 elites against Huron and his 130 elites.
The bickering Gods paused.
With a sound like a fist unclamping from a bone, the red fires of Khorne receded.
The Blood God was the first to agree. He slammed his fist onto the armrest of the Brass Throne, settling back into his role as a statue of eternal slaughter.
He needed blood. He didn't care who won. Mankind was a social species; they needed passion to overcome fear and kill the things that blocked their survival. That emotional output was enough for Khorne.
And Abaddon?
The Warmaster of Chaos was a master at making people bleed—whether they were his enemies or his own men.
Slaanesh followed immediately.
The Dark Prince had no desire to linger in a stalemate. The galaxy held too many new flavors of excess for Her to savor.
Honestly, Ramesses was Her second favorite "toy." The way he danced on the edge of the forbidden without falling was intoxicating. It added a layer of "Maybe I can seduce him" to the Great Game.
Moreover, the threat of Ynnead had been neutralized by the Dawnbreakers. With the Crone Swords safely "stored" (and one in Her own palace), the Prince of Pleasure had lost Her most glaring weakness.
As long as Abaddon lived, She was happy to watch the Jester perform, drawing pleasure from the chaos he left in his wake.
Nurgle, however, was weeping.
The warriors loyal to Abaddon were marching to a "good death," which felt like a profound waste to the Plague Father.
But He had no leverage. He was currently the most desperate of the Four. He was still trying to keep the lid on His own cauldron. His plagues, once incurable and universal, were being cauterized at the source by the "Executioners" of the Emperor and the Dawnstar.
Tzeentch saw the "Cold Sun" focusing its glare on him.
The hellish psychic storm retreated, leaving behind a blank sheet of parchment that displayed only a single number.
Fine. The goal is achieved. Everything is according to plan.
Transaction complete.
Ramesses finally scribbled his decree upon the void of Fate. In the material universe, only a micro-second passed. The roar of Khayon was crushed by the Warp-tide. The destiny of the Black Legion was sealed.
130.
Only one hundred and thirty warriors.
"Father! Karna!"
Ramesses was fast. The moment the number manifested, he dropped his pen and lunged forward.
Two suns—one massive and freezing, one small and warm—slammed into the "erased" portion of the teleportation stream. They began seizing the first round of trophies: the fallen warriors of Abaddon's host.
The possessing daemons were sucked dry. The fallen humans were granted "True Death."
Under the veil of the Formless Lord, the two suns took priority. They moved with a celerity that left the Four Gods howling in fury behind them.
The Large Sun and the Small Sun drifted away, shielded by the veil, leaving the Dark Gods to shriek into the void.
When you are strong enough, you can ignore the rules. When you are not, you are a slave to them.
For the weak, every drop of blood praised Khorne. Every choice sang the glory of the Gods. But there were those—and the Emperor behind them—who could ignore the iron laws of this galaxy. They could make the claws of the Gods bleed with their own defiance.
This was not the end.
Ramesses' consciousness snapped back to reality.
He keyed his vox.
"Nineteen. I've got a list. Keep your eyes on it."
"Boss. Master Art. Here are the final coordinates. Go ahead of us."
"My end is secure. We'll hold the main body here. Do it."
The link cut.
Ramesses picked up the "Agreement."
The shadow of the Raven had once again wreathed the Gods' "collections"—the daemons and the fallen they had spent aeons crafting—distracting Their gaze.
In the Warp and the Webway, two regions that should never meet, two Knights leading the same Legion had detached from the main host and were moving at the absolute limit of transhuman speed.
A verbal pact is worth nothing compared to a prize taken by the sword.
If the Gods wanted their souls back, they would have to come and take them from Ramesses' hands—just as they had tried to do moments ago.
And by "coincidence," Ramesses was never alone.
The Formless Lord set his final strokes at the bottom of the agreement.
[EVERYTHING IS ACCORDING TO PLAN]
"..."
Looking at the few subordinates remaining around him, Abaddon felt a sudden, sharp constriction in his throat. A thick scent of blood filled his nostrils.
This moment. Exactly like then.
He had discarded the influence of the Lord of Iron. He had rejected the interference of the Gods. He had pushed away his past errors. He had executed his mission in the most traditional, martial way, using his own mind and absolute will.
And he had been taught a lesson of staggering cruelty.
In the past, he had spat upon Warp-sorcery and been kicked out of the Imperial Palace by Rogal Dorn using the most basic, primitive tactics. Now, he had spat upon the Warp once more, only to be judged by the entity behind Huron using methods that transcended even a Chaos Astartes' comprehension.
He looked to his side. Falkus Kibre and his thirty Bringers of Despair.
He looked further. A hundred Wolf Brothers and a scattering of Justaerin.
Where is the rest of my army?
Abaddon's gaze moved to the sharp metal spurs of the deck. He moved with careful, controlled steps. His eyes inadvertently landed on the cracks in a nearby Emperor's Icon. Blood was seeping from the stone.
Abaddon closed his eyes.
They were in the walls. They were in the foundations. They were fused into the very icons of the Emperor that now blazed with a holy, mocking light.
This was the result of his decision.
Abaddon had replayed the past a thousand times. The Saturnine Gate. The catastrophic failure that had gutted the elite of the Emperor's Children and the Sons of Horus.
He had blamed the bedrock for being too soft. He had blamed Perturabo for mocking him. He had blamed everything except himself.
But now, this catastrophe could be laid at only one door: his own clumsy, pathetic incompetence. For the second time—
No. For the thousandth time.
Abaddon had delivered his men to their destination only to bury them in a grave of no honor.
Again.
The members of the Black Legion stared at him, waiting for the Warmaster to speak.
They were wavering. They were confused.
They could all see that their Warmaster's latest gamble had failed. Their opponent was a master-chessman who had predicted every move, waiting for them to walk into the snare. The "Inspirational Promise" of the boarding action had evaporated in a heartbeat.
Because of him.
Abaddon could hear the snickering of the Four in his ears. Perhaps not just the Four. He heard the galaxy mocking his hubris, laughing at his self-importance—another exquisite performance for the spectators of the universe.
He choked back the blood rising in his chest.
He raised his blade. In this arena paved with the flesh of his own warriors, directly ahead of them behind a shimmering energy shield, their opponents were waiting in perfect formation.
Fulgrim had once said that Abaddon and Fabius Bile shared a peculiar trait.
No matter how stupid the mistake they made, they always maintained a posture of "I am correct," stubbornly walking the same path while insisting they were different from everyone else.
The laughter in the air grew louder.
Gunfire erupted. Sparks filled the corridor.
Let them laugh.
Amidst the rising fire of the battlefield, Abaddon found his mark.
"I am still the Warmaster. They will never find another like me."
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