In the dark cargo bay, heavy breathing intertwined with the low hum of operating machinery.
Horus’s interrogation hung in the sweltering air.
Cullen did not back down.
Even facing the former Wolf God, his rigid adherence to dogma as a veteran of the First Legion was ingrained to his very bones.
“Lord Lupercal,” Cullen used an honorific, but there was no concession in his tone.
“Emotion brings only weakness.
Our existence is to carry out unquestioned orders.
The moment we begin to question why we kill, the sword grows dull.” Horus shook his head, his gigantic form casting an oppressive shadow on the iron bulkhead.
“Blind obedience breeds tragedy.
If the Imperium is built upon unthinking killing machines, then it is no sanctuary for humanity—it is merely a giant slaughterhouse.” Kaelen sat on a nearby wooden crate, watching the exchange.
*To be less than absolute in loyalty is absolute disloyalty.* In the 41st Millennium, if the fanatical zealots of the Ministorum heard the Wolf God’s speech about humans versus tools, they would brand him a grand heretic and burn him at the stake on the spot.
Yet to Kaelen, this was precisely Horus’s most precious spark of clarity.
Horus understood the Emperor.
He didn’t just see the Big Gold Guy as a boss issuing orders; he genuinely comprehended the grand blueprint designed for humanity’s survival.
Precisely because he understood, he positioned himself as an heir and co-builder.
Tools lacked agency—they only chopped and slashed.
Humans weighed options, reflected, and sought better paths forward.
But could Cullen be said to be wrong?
The pride of the First Legion—this old knight was as rigid as weathered granite.
The reason the Fallen Angels could survive ten thousand years of hunted exile without losing their minds completely or falling to Chaos was this exact paranoia—the total objectification of self, casting faith into an impenetrable shield.
Absolute obedience, severing emotions, drawing the blade to kill on command.
In a fucked-up universe full of daemons and xenos, dwelling on humanity often proved to be the breach through which Warp corruption entered.
How many Space Marines turned into playthings for Slaanesh or Tzeentch simply because of a touch of so-called empathy, arrogance, or pity?
Except, of course, for the Salamanders, the Lamenters, and the Raven Guard.
Neither man was wrong.
The clash of their ideals was a miniature reflection of this tragic universe.
Humanity versus divinity, individual rights versus survival—this unwinnable dilemma spanned the entire history of the Imperium.
Kaelen even had the absurd thought that, following this logic, in a parallel timeline where the Four Gods hadn’t meddled, the Horus Heresy might really have been nothing more than a pure ideological and political struggle.
An uprising attempting to guide the Imperium toward an alternate future, rooted in motivations that might even be considered righteous?
Regrettably, the four tricksters in the Warp loved nothing more than watching fratricidal bloodbaths.
They thrust their fingers into the chessboard, flicking pieces around, amplifying anxiety, warping perception, and dragging the entire human race into a mad party down to hell out of what was once an ideological debate.
The argument threatened to escalate.
Cullen clenched his fists, the grating noise of his knuckles rubbing against his power armor gauntlets sounding harsh in the quiet room.
Horus took a step forward, his three-and-a-half-meter tall form exerting a physical pressure that squeezed the air thin inside the cargo hold.
If they actually threw hands, this room wouldn’t last three minutes before being torn into space debris.
Kaelen knew it was time for him to intervene.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on.” Kaelen hopped off the crate and dusted off his pant legs.
“Gentlemen, if you’re planning to host a theological and philosophical debate here and settle it with physical violence, give me a heads-up so I can grab an escape pod outside.” Horus tilted his head, and Cullen looked back as well.
“Two Ogryns, squatted in a pitch-black cargo bay, discussing existentialism and instrumental rationality,” Kaelen said, throwing his hands wide with utter sarcasm.
“If word got out, the Astra Militarum Commissars out there would bite off their own tongues.” The cheesy joke successfully defused the tense standoff.
Horus’s tense shoulders relaxed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.
Cullen let out a cold snort and turned away, refusing to look at the Wolf God.
“There is no standard answer to your debate in this place,” Kaelen said, his playful tone fading as he stepped forward, looking back and forth between them.
“Horus, you believe warriors are human, and that preserved your soul as a Primarch.
Cullen, you believe Astartes are the Emperor’s sword, and that kept you alive through ten thousand years of exile.” “The overall situation is rotten to the core.
Both of your paths make sense in their own way.
But squabbling here serves no practical purpose except to arouse the guards’ suspicion outside.” “We’re all here for the Emperor and for humanity.
Since our grand objective aligns, why tear each other apart over ideological squabbles before the real enemy even shows up?” The words were blunt and unadorned, lacking fancy rhetoric, yet remarkably effective.
Horus was a thorough pragmatic rationalist; once brought to his senses, he immediately detached his emotions.
He sighed, giving Cullen a nod of truce, then turned to walk over to the pile of disassembled Terminator armor parts.
Cullen said nothing, walking to a far corner to sit down.
Only the clattering of metal components and the low hum of the air vents remained in the bay.
Kaelen stepped up beside Horus and nudged him gently with an elbow.
“In this dark age, holding onto humanity is a precious thing, my Wolf God.” “I know, Kaelen.
I know.” Horus sighed.
“There was no need for me to argue over this.
I just…
ah.” Looking at the bitter and conflicted Wolf God, Kaelen racked his brain for a topic change, and then it hit him: Roboute Guilliman.
“What do you think the Master of Ultramar will say when he awakens and sees the current state of the Imperium?” “Roboute?” Horus was somewhat restless.
“I don’t know.
What would he say?” “He’d say he wishes he had died during the Horus Heresy rather than awakening in this dark age to take over the governance of the Imperium—that it should have been him who died, not Sanguinius.” “Roboute is an idealist.
He…
he would never say such a thing.” Horus instinctively shook his head.
Even if he didn’t hold the highest opinion of Guilliman, he knew the Master of Ultramar was a fine, albeit unrealistically idealistic administrator.
“Why wouldn’t he?” “Imperial technology regressed ten thousand years, the internal bureaucracy is rotten to its roots, xenos run rampant across the galaxy, and his fallen Primarch brothers are throwing dark parties everywhere.
He slept for ten millennia, only to wake up to this completely broken shithole.
The Five Hundred Worlds he labored to build are mere history.” “No matter how powerful a demigod is, looking at a clusterfuck like this would cause anyone to snap.” Horus fell silent.
Then Kaelen shifted his tone.
“But I think he will persevere.
Driven by what remains of his ideals, the love given to him by his foster parents, and the example set by his sons, he will stand tall as a Primarch.
He’ll set aside the lofty ideals he held as a Legion Commander and Lord of the Five Hundred Worlds, and throw himself heart and soul into the damned politics and war.” Horus looked up, as if seeing his brother in a new light.
He also understood that Kaelen said this to urge him to lay down his past ideals as a Legion Commander for now, and focus on repelling the enemies of the Imperium in the present.
Rather than dwelling on those philosophical conundrums.
In the face of survival, all philosophy and ideology had to be set aside.
With that, Kaelen requested a book from the system, pulled it out from his coat, and thrust it into Horus’s hands.
Horus picked up the book and looked at it: *Codex Astartes*, Author: Roboute Guilliman, with an attached copy of *Astartes Chapter Records and Historical Archives*.
“Use this to pass the time.
Once you read just the tip of this iceberg, you’ll understand why the Imperium is in such a mess.” “If you were in his shoes, you’d snap too.” Kaelen grinned.
“Military regulations written by Roboute?” The Wolf God raised an eyebrow and curiously flipped open the title page.