The lingering echo of metal striking metal faded inside the abandoned workshop.
Throwing down the rusted length of rebar, it hit the ground with a crisp clatter.
Cullen stared at the giant standing before him.
There was no raging Chaos corruption, nor even the high-and-mighty disdain expected of a Primarch.
Cullen could feel it—the way the giant had pulled his last blow during their duel, the absolute control over his own physical force.
It matched his ten-thousand-year-old Great Crusade memories of the Warmaster.
The Wolf God had always been warm and friendly toward allies and factions willing to communicate.
In that regard, he was entirely different from Cullen’s genetic father, Lion El’Jonson; the cold, unfeeling Lion cared only about whether the enemy was destroyed.
And no matter how paranoid one might be, an Astartes’s combat instincts did not lie.
The Horus Lupercal standing before him was no cruel joke played by warp daemons.
A realization formed in Cullen’s mind: the Wolf God of the past had traveled through time to the present.
“You win.” The veteran lowered his eyes, picked his power sword up off the ground, and slid it back into its sheath.
Horus nodded.
“Let’s move.
The commotion here will soon draw gang reinforcements—or something far worse.” Nearby, Kaelen heard the long-awaited synthesized voice chime in his mind.
[Hidden quest completed.] [Reward issued: One set of brand-new MK IV Maximus Pattern Power Armor.] [Reward: 1,000 points.] Kaelen inspected the gleaming black ceramite sitting inside his system inventory space.
The MK IV Maximus pattern, a top-tier piece of kit from the Great Crusade era, offered the ultimate balance of mobility and protection.
Looking at Cullen’s battered, war-torn armor patched together with scrap metal, the reward could not have come at a better time.
Still, Kaelen could not pull it out just yet—it was far too conspicuous.
“Let me take us back to another safehouse of mine,” Kaelen said, dusting himself off and gesturing to Horus.
The trio navigated the dark drainage conduits of the Underhive.
Cullen walked in the rear, his gaze occasionally drifting over Kaelen’s head to land on the burly figure draped in a cloaking mantle ahead.
The First Legion veteran’s vigilance was not easily dispelled, though the tense hostility from earlier had ebbed away.
After turning seven or eight corners and slipping past two rusted blast doors, they reached Kaelen’s lead-lined secret sanctuary.
The space was cramped; once two massive transhumans stepped inside, even finding a spot to set one’s feet required careful picking.
Kaelen sat down on a pile of frayed cables and let out a long breath.
Cullen looked around, picked a relatively smooth section of lead wall, and leaned back against it.
The power armor’s servo-motors let out a low hum, accompanied by the occasional rasp of grinding parts.
He was exhausted.
Ten thousand years of exile.
No supply line, no battle-brothers, only endless flight and pursuit.
Rest was an unattainable luxury.
“Eat something,” Kaelen said, tossing him a block of compressed field rations.
Cullen caught it.
The rock-hard texture made him frown, but he tore open the wrapper and bit off a chunk anyway.
Even for a veteran used to legion combat rations, chewing through it took considerable effort.
Horus sat cross-legged at the far end, studying his own palm in the dim light filtering through an overhead vent, offering no comment.
Silence stretched through the shelter.
Cullen swallowed the ration block as fatigue washed over him.
Space Marine physiology allowed them to remain awake for vast stretches, but even transhuman nerves had their limits.
Having confirmed the two possessed no immediate ill intent, he finally permitted himself to slip into a shallow dormant sleep.
A dream submerged him like a rising tide.
————— Cullen found himself standing in a field of ruins.
He knew this place intimately.
The Hab-block Spire of Terra, his birthplace.
Cold wind whipped gravel across scorched, crumbling walls, while the sky hung overhead in the oppressive leaden gray of the Unification Wars.
His power armor was gone; he wore only basic black carapace under-gear.
His hands held no blade, yet his palms still bore the calluses earned from centuries of swordplay, even carrying the faint scent of blood.
Pure instinct took over, and the Astartes’s combat nerves tightened immediately.
Yet there were no enemies in sight.
Until he turned his head and spotted a flame.
At the far end of the ruins, a campfire burned.
The flames flickered steadily, driving back much of the surrounding chill.
A man in a worn brown leather coat squatted beside the fire with his back turned, idly poking at the logs with a branch.
The man’s silhouette was not particularly imposing.
Yet with a single glance at that back, Cullen felt his blood freeze in his veins.
His knees buckled, giving out completely without his consent.
This presence was even more familiar, even more awe-inspiring, than standing face-to-face with his Primarch—Lion El’Jonson.
He recognized him.
It was his Lord, his Creator.
The supreme sovereign over all Astartes and Primarchs!
The Master of Mankind, the Emperor!
“You have come, my child.” The man turned around.
His face appeared gentle, yet etched with the exhaustion and sharpness distilled from millennia of endless warfare.
His eyes were so vast they seemed to contain the entire galaxy, piercing in a single glance all the pain and obsession hidden deep in Cullen’s soul.
Cullen’s knee struck the ground heavily.
He bowed his head low, his heart beating in his chest like a war drum.
Ten thousand years of anguish, rage, and confusion rose to choke his throat.
In the end, it all coalesced into a single pure, devout vow: “My Lord.” “Rise, child.” The Emperor’s voice was soft, yet it easily overpowered the howling wind around them, landing firmly in the deepest recesses of his soul.
“You have no need to kneel before me.” “You have already proved your loyalty to me…
with your blade, your blood, and your ten thousand years of suffering.” “I have kept my loyalty to You unbroken!
I am the sharpest blade of You and my father, Lion El’Jonson!” Cullen snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at the man before him.
“To see You again now—I can die with no regrets!” “No.” The man spoke, shaking his head slowly.
“You cannot die.
Not yet.” “My Lord, what would You have me do?” “Protect him.
Help him,” the man said gravely.
“You witnessed his arrival with your own eyes.
You know he is not the arch-traitor of your memory.
He is Lupercal, not Horus.” “You wish for me to aid the Wolf God?” Disbelief washed over Cullen’s face.
“But…
he is the traitor.” “In the Horus Heresy, he was the first of my children to die,” the man sighed, a heavy sorrow suffusing his voice.
“Despicable enemies ambushed him and corrupted him.” “The one who stands before you now is the warm yet sharp Lupercal we once knew—not Horus the Arch-traitor.” “I need him.
The Imperium needs him.
And when the time comes, Guilliman and Lion El’Jonson will need him too.” At the mention of his Primarch’s name, Cullen clenched his fists tight.
That mortal, Kaelen, had not lied—the Lion truly would return!
“However, you must also stay watchful of the young man at his side.” The man shifted the topic, a rare glint of scrutiny and confusion surfacing between his brows regarding Kaelen.
“My Lord, You mean the scavenger named Kaelen?” “Yes.” The man paused, his profound gaze seeming to pierce through the veil separating dream and reality.
“Yet trust him as well.
When the time is right, bring him to Terra—bring him before me.”