"Numerology tells me that we might be in trouble."
Almost at the same time Mortarion's voice fell, the angel with azure wings turned his head silently. His face—an almost exact replica of the Emperor's—echoed the girl's features, as if they were a pair of siblings inheriting the same divine genetic sequence. They were born of something deeper within the Emperor's blood and flesh, unlike the Primarchs who were born in cultivation chambers or tempered in the fires of the Warp.
"You are not my brother." His bronze lips parted slightly, and wings of burning blue flame shook. He arrived before Mortarion in an instant, moving at a speed even a Primarch could not react to. A blazing blade lunged straight for Mortarion's throat. "You are but filth of the Warp, a despicable demon, an ugly sorcerer."
The fiery blade pierced through Mortarion's body. The Angel was too fast; Mortarion only had time to barely shift away from his vital points. The blade, wreathed in blue psychic flames, stabbed beneath his collarbone. Violent, searing pain surged through his body. Mortarion's face distorted in agony, but he was tough enough to remain conscious, his fingers twitching as he calculated relentlessly in his mind.
Mortarion realized that while the Angel was swifter and more powerful than him, he was also more crazed, denser, and more primitive. He was entirely a weapon—a pure weapon. When the Emperor forged him, it seemed it was only to solve a specific, urgent need of a certain era. Because of that haste, every function other than being a weapon had been stripped away or simplified. His martial aspect was pure and overwhelming, but his humanity was paper-thin. He was driven only by internal hatred; he could not lead, could not establish deep connections with other warriors, and could not bear duties beyond destruction. His body existed solely to output the terrifying psychic energy within, lacking the intricate delicacy of Mortarion or the others. His mind lacked the intelligence and sensitivity of a Primarch; he had the skills for combat but not the art of war. His flesh lacked the extraordinary adaptability and the peerless toxin resistance Mortarion possessed...
In essence, he was to a Primarch what a Thunder Warrior was to an Astartes, though his immense psychic power compensated for many of his flaws.
The burning blade advanced another inch. The intense, fiery pain forced a slight scream from Mortarion, but suddenly, the Angel's movements halted. He felt an inexplicable sensation—one he had never experienced before. His stomach felt heavy. He felt as though something within his body wanted to be released, something sticky was descending, yearning to leave his form and enter the free world...
The Angel judged this feeling based on the knowledge that had been hypno-indoctrinated into his mind:
He wanted to poop!
Bacteria—strange and peculiar bacteria—were flowing through his cells, producing a potent effect.
"The 'Today I Shall Go To The Toilet By Myself' Bacteria"
This was a strain Mortarion had developed after obtaining raw samples from a "Randomized Pathogen Generator." He had used Numerology to research and cultivate several exotic bacteria that did not rely on the power of Nurgle or the Warp. These pathogens inherited the absolute, unconditional infectivity of the original source. While they weren't lethal enough to be useful in standard combat against Primarchs, Mortarion had realized that the Angel's immunity was not as flawless as a true Primarch's, and he had used them on a whim.
Seizing the moment of the Angel's stiff, sluggish hesitation, Mortarion lurched backward. The flaming blade was torn from his shoulder. Almost simultaneously, Janus unleashed a psychic surge far beyond that of a normal Astartes. Swarms of rune-etched scarabs poured out, tearing open Warp rifts to try and drag the Angel into the tides of the Immaterium.
The strange sensation in his abdomen made the Angel hesitate. He had never defecated; this was his first impulse to do so. More importantly, he sensed no Warp energy within these bacteria. Shaking his wings, the Angel ignited Janus's crystal scarabs with azure fire while retreating to put distance between himself and Mortarion.
"What have you done? There is no Warp taint in those bacteria..."
The Angel's psychic power surged through his flesh, trying to purge the virus causing the bowel movement, but because the bacteria possessed a strange power that did not belong to the Warp, the speed at which his psychic energy could clear them was incredibly slow.
"You just called me a sorcerer. I must protest; I am a Numerologist."
"Numerology is a rigorous science based on mathematics. It bridges the underlying logic of the Warp and the material universe through calculation. It is a victory for materialism."
As Mortarion spoke, he covertly dispersed more bacteria from beneath his cloak.
Meanwhile, Kaldor Draigo, wreathed in crackling psychic lightning, stepped forward with his silver sword. He swung at the Angel, who raised his own blue-flame blade to parry. The silver sword and the flaming edge collided with a crisp ring that echoed through the air. Two massive psychic forces, capable of distorting the Warp itself, exploded through the blades. Draigo's arm burst open, blood spraying from beneath his skin, but he gritted his teeth, his eyes flooded with psychic light as he swung again. The Angel merely offered a contemptuous smile. Azure fire flashed, and the Titan Sword—the blade that had slain ten thousand demons—shattered into a thousand fragments.
Sharp light burst from Janus's single eye as complex incantations spilled from his lips. Every fragment of the silver sword glowed with brilliant psychic light. The combined powers of Janus and Draigo converged; the fragments melted under the heat of the energy, turning into a storm of fiery meteors that streaked toward the Angel.
"BEGONE!!!!"
An animalistic roar erupted from the Angel. Even Janus, a shard of Magnus's soul, let out a shocked gasp. This wild, crude, and crazed psychic power was more savage than even Leman Russ. Janus felt as if his very spine were breaking just from the shock of it.
The fiery meteors vanished into thin air the moment the roar sounded, as if the Angel did not permit their existence, and the world obeyed his will. Blood sprayed from Draigo's mouth; his skin blistered and charred under the psychic shock. He swayed, nearly collapsing.
"Die— cough cough cough... ugh... cough, spit!"
The Angel's roar was abruptly interrupted. His throat convulsed, followed by several disgusting, dry coughs as he spat out a thick, yellow glob of phlegm.
"The 'Forcing One to Cough up Thick Phlegm' Bacteria"—another of Mortarion's synthetic pathogens. It seemed useless, but Mortarion had realized the Angel's mastery of the Warp was neither rational like his own, nor scholarly like Magnus's, nor superstitious like Russ's. He relied entirely on instinct!
The Emperor had given him no psychic knowledge, only the instinctual control over his own power. He was like an untrained "wild" psyker. Wild psykers, regardless of strength, often rely on shouting, specific words, or chanting names to trigger their power. On the Black Ships, the most efficient way to suppress a wild psyker isn't a null-collar, but a gag. While the Angel wasn't as limited as a common mutant, being unable to roar clearly hindered his focus.
At the same time, the Angel's dark brown hair began to wither and curl, falling out in clumps like silk threads descending from the sky. The Angel grabbed at his head in confusion, coming away with a fistful of hair.
"The 'Male Pattern Baldness' Bacteria."
"You're starting to look like our brother," Mortarion said with a mocking tone, likely referring to the baldness of many of his siblings.
Veins bulged on the Angel's forehead, but then...
+Do not linger with them!+
+Alexander is recovering faster than expected!+
+This isn't the first time he's faced this!+
The girl snapped her gaze toward the Angel. The digital barrier before her finally collapsed under her power. But her usually indifferent face showed a trace of panic—the currents of the Warp were stabilizing. Alexander was recovering from the impact of the Chaos-faith shockwaves.
This speed was entirely beyond their expectations!
The Angel let out a vicious snarl, but he obeyed the girl's command. He beat his wings, appearing before the girl in an instant, grabbing her, and flying deeper into the Black Manor.
Kaldor Draigo moved to pursue immediately, but Janus reached out and caught a handful of the Angel's fallen hair.
Hair... In the ancient sorcery of many civilizations, hair was the perfect medium for casting, cursing, and corruption. All primal sorcery followed two ancient laws: the Law of Similarity (like produces like) and the Law of Contact (things once in contact continue to act on each other). These two laws were the most direct cognitions of causality held by living beings and still held great power in the Warp. But it wasn't enough; the Angel was too strong. Unless...
Just then, Mortarion's voice whispered in Janus's ear. It was a precise string of time—the exact moment of the Angel's birth. Janus didn't know how Mortarion knew this, but he felt the undeniable, tight connection between that moment and the Angel.
Normally, a sorcerer with only hair and a birth time would struggle to harm the Angel, but Janus was different. He held a shard of Magnus; he was a scion of the Emperor, making him a "brother" to the Angel. In human history, "fratricide" was a ritual of immense power—from the first murder to the Battle of Calth, to Horus slaying Sanguinius. Brothers killing brothers, brothers betraying brothers.
"Sorcerer, show me what you can do," Mortarion's gloomy voice urged.
Janus's single eye dimmed slightly. It wasn't enough yet. While the spells surged within him, the Angel's fire was burning the Warp itself, repelling outside influence. His connection wasn't deep enough because he was still Janus; the soul shard was not the one in control...
+Let me do it.+
The voice of Magnus's soul shard rang in Janus's mind.
Janus nodded slightly, allowing the part of his soul belonging to the Crimson King to rise to the surface. In that instant, his self-perception shifted toward Magnus. He felt the connection to his original body—the power of the Second Rubric flowed through him. It was a tide of karmic fire, a call for convergence.
Primal, savage syllables burst from Janus's mouth. Terrifying psychic light erupted from his eye. Ancient sorcery buried deep in the Warp took hold. Within Janus's vision, a scene was reflected: the Well of Eternity, where fate begins and ends. Above the well, within Tzeentch's realm, a fleshy mass—the convergence of countless versions of Magnus—quivered as power flowed into Janus.
Tzeentch watched this with hesitation but did not stop him. The Great Conspirator could sense Alexander's rapid recovery, and that "abomination" (the Angel) was, after all, an enemy.
The brown hair turned to ash. The birth year, month, day, and second entwined. The bloodline of brotherhood turned into a chain. Janus reached into the void and pulled; three chains made of fate and blood extended from his hand, locking firmly onto the Angel's fleeing form.