“Cadia is doomed to fall.
That is an immutable certainty.” In the cramped cargo hold, a mortal, a Primarch, and an Astartes sat cross-legged in a circle on the cold metal floor, marking out a temporary council ground.
Kaelen spoke first, laying out a predetermined outcome from the future.
He offered no elaborate explanation; Horus and Cullen were already thoroughly convinced of his time-transcending foresight.
“Abaddon will lead the Black Legion and Chaos warbands in full force to launch the Thirteenth Black Crusade.
They will suffer setback after setback on the ground, yet maintain absolute dominance in the void war.” As Kaelen spoke, he arranged spare metal parts on the floor to form a makeshift sand table: a worn bearing represented planet Cadia, various screws were split into Imperial defenders and Chaos traitors, and an octagonal piece of scrap steel unmistakably signified the Blackstone Fortress that could shake an entire sector.
“After two brutal ground campaigns, a furious Abaddon will stake everything on a single throw, ramming the Blackstone Fortress directly into Cadia.
When that happens, the Great Rift spanning the Imperium of Man will open completely, tearing the Imperial domain in two—Imperium Nihilus and Imperium Sanctus.” “Tactically speaking, the Imperium has zero chance of victory.
Once the void war is lost, no matter how gloriously the ground battles are won, they cannot stop Ezekyle’s fleet.” Horus stared down at the makeshift map on the floor, countlessly iterating tactical scenarios through his Primarch intellect.
Even if he could devise several operational plans to crush Ezekyle’s fleet in an instant, every single one hinged on a fatal prerequisite: the Imperial Navy and Astra Militarum on Cadia had to yield total command to him.
But was that possible?
Let the Warmaster who launched the rebellion ten thousand years ago and nearly destroyed the Imperium command their fleets?
The minions of the Inquisition, who would pounce like mad dogs at the slightest scent of heresy, would likely turn their guns around first and do everything in their power to purge him to ashes.
“Then what should we do?” Cullen asked in a deep voice, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Blend in with the Astra Militarum and fight alongside them?
Disguise yourself as an Ogryn?” Kaelen gave a slight nod.
“I don’t want us drawing too much attention either.
A traitor Primarch from ten thousand years ago—even if this Lupercal isn’t *that* Lupercal—is enough to set the entire galaxy abuzz.
Add a Fallen Angel to the mix, and it’s a double carnival for the Inquisition and the Dark Angels.” At this point, Kaelen looked at Cullen with amused interest, making the Fallen Angel thoroughly uncomfortable.
“My good knight, if you want to relive the thrill of charging into battle like in the Great Crusade, that’s fine.
But your juniors—who are far more enthusiastic about hunting traitors than killing xenos—will also be joining the fray on Cadia.
The Dark Angels 3rd Company specializes in crushing defiance.
If they catch wind of you, a prime seat in the Rock’s interrogation dungeons is already reserved for you.” Cullen’s jawline tightened violently, his teeth gritting together.
He knew the temperament of his successors well.
Even if he brought out airtight proof of a vision from the Emperor, they would knock him unconscious first and drag him back to the Rock before asking questions.
The battle-hardened veteran immediately clamped his mouth shut, no longer mentioning any ideas of charging the frontline.
Silence settled over the cargo hold for a moment.
“State your actual plan,” Cullen rasped out.
“Wait for people.
Wait for two figures who can speak directly to Guilliman.” Kaelen held up two fingers.
“One is Belisarius Cawl, an Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus who has lived since ten thousand years ago.
Guilliman left behind a contingency plan back then, commanding him to develop the technology to pull him back from the brink of death.
The other is Saint Celestine, the Living Saint of the Imperium—the Emperor’s own Chosen, and a powerful psyker capable of altering the tide of battle.” Cling tightly to these two powerhouses and hitch a ride on the expedition to Macragge.
That was Kaelen’s core strategy.
“Absurd,” Cullen snorted.
“Why would two key figures of the Imperium trust an origin-less mortal and a…
traitor Primarch?” “Which is why we need a pledge of loyalty of sufficient weight.” Kaelen leaned forward, his eyes burning as he locked onto the Wolf God.
“In the final phase of the ground assault, Abaddon will teleport down in person.
“Right at the most chaotic juncture of the battle.
My Wolf God, you will face this current Warmaster of Chaos—your once most favored first son—in a father-son duel ten thousand years in the making, right before the eyes of the defenders.
“Use Abaddon’s presence to prove your true identity.” Horus instantly grasped the entirety of Kaelen’s intention, his voice steady.
“That Archmagos undoubtedly retains my baseline genetic records in his databases, and a Living Saint can read the true essence of a soul at a glance.
When they witness a Lupercal untouched by Warp corruption—one who actively strikes down Abaddon—their immediate reaction will not be to open fire.” “They will fall into a dilemma,” Horus deduced, following the logic.
“To kill me, they lack certainty; to leave me be, they fear Abaddon converting me and creating yet another corrupted Warmaster.
Thus, the safest choice will be to take me to Macragge and hand me over to the soon-to-awaken Roboute Guilliman.” It was a masterclass in reverse hostage-taking.
Forcing the top figures of the Imperium to treat this galactic-tier time bomb as a top priority that must be guarded by their sides.
As for whether Horus could beat Abaddon?
Kaelen chuckled inwardly.
That would be far too cruel to Abaddon.
Even as a Warmaster of Chaos blessed by the Four Gods, he was fundamentally still an Astartes.
Defeating a Primarch was an absolute impossibility.
Let alone facing the Wolf God—a top-three combatant among Primarchs during the Great Crusade—his own genetic father.
Kaelen could already picture the scene: Horus pulling off his belt and whipping point-headed Abaddon like a spinning top.
Kaelen snapped his fingers.
“Spot on.
Once we see Guilliman alive, the rest can be left to him.
The Lord of Macragge will certainly be stunned by your appearance.
He is a man of strict rules and logic; once he confirms you’re uncorrupted, he will surely grant you a chance to prove yourself and ultimately bring you back to the Imperial Palace on Terra.” Ezekyle Abaddon.
Horus picked up the octagonal scrap steel representing the Blackstone Fortress.
Once the First Captain of the Luna Wolves, his most fanatical, loyal, and violent firstborn son.
The strong spirits of Ullanor, the laughter aboard the *Vengeful Spirit*, the supreme glory forged side-by-side during the Great Crusade…
all churned in his mind before crumbling into dust.
Erasing the Legion’s name, trampling former oaths, and leading a mob of Warp-twisted scum to pillage and slaughter across the galaxy.
Was this the legacy he, Horus, had left to humanity, to the universe?
Was this what the son he had once been proud of had ultimately become?
No.
It should not be like this.
Horus slowly raised his head, his face shrouded in the shadows of the cargo hold.
There was no hysterical rage, no deafening roar.
Only a coldness beneath supreme rational suppression, cold enough to freeze the stars.
Countless alien warlords who fought to the bitter end during the Great Crusade had tasted this exact coldness.
It meant the Wolf God had decided to step onto the field himself to end it all.
“I will go see him.” The Wolf God’s voice was as low and heavy as a thunderstorm on the verge of erupting.
“I will ask him to his face which Warp hound he fed the pride of the Luna Wolves to.” Two thick fingers suddenly exerted force.
*Snap—!* An ear-splitting crack of breaking metal rang out.
The two-inch-thick piece of steel was crushed into two twisted scraps by his bare hands.
“Even if he offers an answer that satisfies me, I will still rip out his spine with my own hands and crush this threat for the Imperium once and for all.” Extreme violence exploded through the cargo hold alongside an absolute, unequivocal declaration.
The hairs on Kaelen’s neck stood on end.
Even Cullen subconsciously tensed the servo-actuators of his power armor, a flash of instinctive awe for the Primarch passing through his eyes.
Just as this murderous intent crested its peak, Kaelen poured a bucket of cold water over it.
“I strongly advise against killing Abaddon.” Horus cast the crushed scraps onto the ground, his gaze locking onto Kaelen with unquestionable pressure.
“Why?” “In this grand chessboard of the Chaos Gods, he is the most critical pawn.” Kaelen lowered his voice, pushing the nut representing Abaddon to the exact center of the makeshift map.
“The Gods need him alive…” He paused for half a second.
The second half of his sentence caused the breath of both listeners to catch in their throats.
“And the One upon the Golden Throne needs him alive just as much.”