The scene on the screen pulled back from the ruins of Istvaan III, crossing the sea of stars to arrive at another desolate Planet—Istvaan V.
There were no cities here, no civilization, only black volcanic sand plains and the treacherous Urgall Depressions.
[The Retribution Fleet has arrived.]
In the footage, a Loyalist fleet so massive it was suffocating blotted out the light of the star.
Leading the vanguard were the heavy warships of the Iron Hands, followed closely by the Salamanders and the Raven Guard. Behind them, arriving as the second wave of support, were the Iron Warriors, Night Lords, Word Bearers, and Alpha Legion.
At this moment, no one except the audience before the screen knew what a gruesome tragedy this would become.
"Attack!"
On the screen, Ferrus Manus's eyes were bloodshot. He saw the fortresses built on the ground by Horus's rebels, and he saw Fulgrim, the one who had betrayed him, standing on the ramparts in provocation.
Rage consumed reason.
The Iron Hands, acting as the vanguard, slammed into the rebel positions like a heavy hammer. The Salamanders and Raven Guard followed, responsible for flanking cover and sudden assaults, respectively.
The battle began.
This was a war of Astartes against Astartes. Bolter shells exploded against Ceramite, and Chainswords tore through Power Armor.
Horus's rebels—the Sons of Horus, Emperor's Children, Death Guard, and World Eaters—resisted stubbornly, but under Ferrus's nearly suicidal, frenzied offensive, they began to "retreat in defeat."
"They can't hold on!"
On the screen, Ferrus roared, swinging his Warhammer to crush every traitor in his path. "Pursue them! Wipe them all out!"
However, the battle-hardened Vulkan and Corax sensed something was wrong. The rebels' retreat was too orderly, and their own ammunition consumption was massive; the warriors were already exhausted.
"Brother, we need to regroup," Vulkan shouted over the vox-channel. "Let the second wave come up and relieve us. Let Perturabo, Lorgar, and the others take over the offensive while we fall back to the Landing Site to rest and refit."
Though Ferrus was reluctant, he knew this was a sound tactical arrangement.
Thus, the three Loyalist Legions began to provide leapfrog cover, slowly retreating toward the Landing Zone in the rear.
There, the four Legions of the second wave had completed their deployment. They had constructed sturdy fortifications, with countless muzzles and gun ports aimed forward—seemingly to cover their brothers' retreat.
[This is the darkest moment in history.]
When the warriors of the Salamanders and Raven Guard wearyly entered the trenches, thinking they could finally catch their breath, and even waved to the "allies" in the trenches...
Horus's flagship in the sky sent the signal.
On the ground, it was Perturabo's cold wave of a hand.
"Fire."
In an instant, the Landing Site turned into a slaughterhouse.
Those muzzles aimed at their "allies" spat out fires of Death at point-blank range.
No defense, no warning.
Tens of thousands of Loyalist warriors were blown to pieces in the first volley. They didn't even have time to understand what was happening before Bolter shells from behind tore through their spines.
"Traitors!!!!"
Vulkan's roar echoed across the battlefield, but was instantly drowned out by countless explosions.
It was a perfect pincer trap.
In front was Horus's main force turning back to kill, and in the rear were the four Legions that had suddenly defected.
The Iron Hands, Salamanders, and Raven Guard—these three Legions were pinned in the middle, hammered repeatedly like slabs of meat on an anvil.
Tactics had failed. Courage paled in the face of absolute firepower.
The stealth the Raven Guard took pride in was meaningless under carpet bombing; the resilience of the Salamanders turned to ash in the baptism of nuclear fire.
And at the very center of this hell was Ferrus Manus.
He had charged too far forward. When the betrayal occurred, he was already deep in the enemy ranks, facing off directly against Fulgrim.
The two brothers, once the closest of kin, now engaged in a duel amidst a sea of blood and mountains of corpses.
Ferrus swung "Forgebreaker," his eyes filled only with the fury of betrayal. Fulgrim wielded the "fireblade," a bizarre smile plastered on his face.
It was a tragic duel.
Ferrus was strong, but by now Fulgrim had received the blessings of Slaanesh's power.
After a series of dazzling exchanges, Fulgrim caught a flaw in Ferrus's defense. The Daemon sword shimmered with an eerie purple light, tracing a lethal arc.
Ferrus froze.
He looked at his brother before him, whose face was contorted, even showing a hint of tears.
And at the final moment, Fulgrim seemed to regain his senses for a fleeting second. Seeing the sword in his hand about to strike, his eyes showed horror and regret as he tried to pull back.
But it was too late. Demonic power controlled his arm.
*Squelch—*
A head flew into the air.
It was the head of "The Gorgon." It was the head of the Iron Hands' Primarch.
The massive, headless corpse crashed to the ground.
And the moment he fell, the entire battlefield seemed to freeze for a second.
Immediately following was the heart-wrenching wailing of the Iron Hands warriors and the frenzied cheering of the rebels.
A Primarch had fallen.
This was the first Primarch to truly die on the battlefield since the start of the Great Crusade. And he died at the hands of his most beloved brother.
The scene turned blood-red at this moment.
Vulkan was engulfed by nuclear fire, and Corax, heavily wounded, broke through the chaotic melee.
The three once-glorious Legions were nearly wiped from the Imperium's rolls on this day.
The black sand plains were stained dark red. This was no longer a battlefield; it was a grave for loyalty.