[After the Davin incident.]
[Warmaster Horus was gravely wounded and underwent that life-altering treatment (corruption) in the temple, rising once more.]
[But he was no longer the heroic and radiant Warmaster he once was.]
[Rumors spread. Within the Imperium, word traveled that Horus was amassing troops with ill intent.]
[Fulgrim heard these rumors.]
[At this time, though his spirit had been riddled with holes by the corruption of that daemon sword, a final shred of loyalty to the Imperium—or rather, what he perceived as loyalty—remained in his heart.]
[He decided to go see Horus.]
[He would personally question his brother and uncover the truth.]
[He even brought his entire fleet, prepared to take Horus down should he truly have turned traitor.]
"This is the last chance."
In reality, Dorn stared fixedly at the screen, his fists clenching until they creaked.
"He could still have been saved then. If only he had swung his sword... if only he had swung it like a true loyalist..."
On the screen, Fulgrim boarded Horus's flagship—the Gloriana-class battleship, the Vengeful Spirit.
[But he did not bring a great army.]
[Out of that damned arrogance and trust in his brother, he brought only a small contingent of the Phoenix Guard.]
[The two met in Horus's strategist's chamber.]
[By now, Horus's aura had completely changed.]
[He sat in the shadows; those eyes, once full of wisdom, now burned with a heart-stopping, chaotic dark fire.]
["You have come, Fulgrim."]
[Horus's voice was low and raspy, like the grinding of rusted iron plates. "Are you here to judge me?"]
["That depends on you, Warmaster."]
[Fulgrim's hand rested on his sword hilt, his expression complex. "Ill words about you are spreading on Terra. Tell me they are lies. Tell me you are still loyal to Father."]
[Horus stood up.]
[He did not defend himself. Instead, he began to show Fulgrim his so-called 'truth.']
[This was not a battle, but a psychological siege.]
[Horus knew exactly where Fulgrim's weaknesses lay—his vanity, his obsession with perfection, and his craving for 'recognition.']
["Loyalty?" Horus sneered. "Loyalty to whom? To that hypocrite who created us as tools and intends to toss us into the trash once we've served our purpose?"]
["Look at yourself, Fulgrim."]
[Horus walked up to Fulgrim and pointed at his ornate armor.]
["You pursue perfection; you have forged your Legion into a work of art. But does the Emperor care? He only cares about how many xenos you can kill, how many Planets you can conquer. In his eyes, you are no different from a mass-produced Servitor."]
["No... Father..."]
[Fulgrim wanted to retort, but his voice was weak.]
[Because that sword had begun speaking in his mind again.]
["He is right. The Emperor has never truly praised you.]
[He only praises Dorn's walls and Guilliman's governance. Your art, your life's work—to him, they are but useless decorations."]
[Horus keenly sensed Fulgrim's hesitation.]
["We are gods, brother."]
[Horus spread his arms, revealing a frantic and grand vision. "We do not need to kneel to a mortal. We can build a new empire, an empire ruled by us—by the truly strong and the perfect."]
[There, your art shall become law, and your perfection shall be worshipped for all eternity."]
["Join me. Together, we can reshape the galaxy."]
[Fulgrim's hand was trembling.]
[He was struggling. His reason told him this was rebellion, this was high treason.]
[At that moment, he truly even wanted to draw his sword.]
[The screen showed a close-up: Fulgrim's fingers tightened around the hilt, his muscles tensed, and a flash of killing intent flickered in his eyes.]
In the real Throne Room, everyone held their breath.
"Draw your sword! Kill him!" Ferrus roared in his heart. "That's the last chance! Kill him, and you'll still be my brother!"
"Do it!" Dorn also shouted in his heart.
[But.]
[At that very instant, the Blade of Laer—the daemon sword inhabited by a Greater Daemon of Slaanesh—erupted with an unprecedented psychic shock.]
["Are you going to kill him? Kill the only brother who truly understands you, appreciates you, and is willing to share power with you?"]
["And then what? Return to Terra to continue being a dog for that cold old man? To keep looking at the sour faces of Guilliman and Dorn?"]
["No... you crave more. You crave freedom. You crave... release."]
[Fulgrim's pupils constricted violently.]
[In that moment, what he saw was no longer the traitor Horus, but a gateway to 'ultimate pleasure' and 'absolute freedom.']
[It was the subconscious desire he had always suppressed.]
[His hand loosened.]
[The suffocating killing intent vanished, replaced by a morbid, relieved smile.]
["You are right, Warmaster."]
[On the screen, Fulgrim lowered his head, but not in remorse—he was... submitting. Submitting to desire.]
["Father... is indeed too dull."]
["This galaxy needs some... new color."]
[When Fulgrim looked up again, there was not a shred of clarity left in his eyes.]
[In those purple eyes, only the flames of madness and depravity remained.]
[From his waist, he unbuckled the sword named 'fireblade'—the blade Ferrus had forged for him with his own hands, a symbol of their brotherhood, and of his past glory and loyalty.]
["This sword..."]
[Fulgrim looked at the fireblade in his hand, a hint of disdain flashing in his eyes. "It is too heavy. Too... outdated."]
[Clang.]
[He carelessly tossed the sword onto the ground, like discarding a piece of trash.]
[Then, he held the Blade of Laer with both hands, pressing it against his cheek as if it were a holy relic.]
["I join you, Horus."]
["For perfection. For... pleasure."]
[The scene froze on the 'fireblade' abandoned on the floor, the cold metal reflecting the twisted shadows of the two fallen Primarchs.]
The real Throne Room.
"..."
Ferrus Manus looked at the discarded sword on the screen—the gift he had poured his heart into, forging it for his brother over countless days and nights.
He did not roar.
He simply closed his eyes slowly, as if all his strength had been drained away.
That pain was ten thousand times more intense than being beheaded.
It was the sound of a heart dying.
"He didn't just throw away a sword."
Vulkan looked at Ferrus beside him and spoke softly, his voice filled with endless sorrow.
"He threw away your past. He threw away... the man named Fulgrim."
And within the ranks of the Emperor's Children, Thor Tarvitz's tears finally burst forth.
"That was the end."
The loyal Captain looked at the stranger Primarch on the screen.
"At that moment, our father died. From then on... what led us was merely a monster wearing a Primarch's skin."
"And we..."
Loken looked at Tarvitz beside him and took his brother's hand. "What on earth are we to do?"
This was not just a betrayal.
This was a murder of the soul.
Everyone realized that the once-radiant Phoenix who pursued perfection had been completely incinerated in the fires of the Warp.
All that remained were ashes.
And the serpent named Slaanesh, crawling out from those ashes.