“Details.” “Otherwise, I will deem it a lie, and I will punish you!” The words rolled out from the Wolf God’s throat, dry and grating, like metal scraping against bone.
He didn’t believe it—or rather, he didn’t dare to believe it.
Kaelen let out a helpless sigh and summoned the system interface visible only to himself.
[Deducted: 100 Points.] [Exchanged: Scrap Holographic History Projector.] A palm-sized, patina-covered disc materialized out of thin air into Kaelen’s palm.
He smacked the side of the disc twice and tossed it onto the blood-soaked metal floor.
A beam of eerie blue light projected upward.
Ten thousand years of blood and tears were forcibly crammed into the narrow, gloomy corridor.
The imagery flickered and jumped.
The once-prosperous Imperium of Man was now filled with suffering everywhere: the bitter struggles of the lowborn masses, the astronomical planetary tithes, and endless wars stirred up by renegade factions and alien races.
The scene shifted.
It was Terra.
The Imperial Palace that had once symbolized the highest human rationality and glory.
It remained magnificent, but the throne within was filled with an accumulation of countless pipes, cables, and withered bones.
Seated upon it was a shriveled, skin-draped skeleton.
Ten thousand psykers were dragged onto the altar daily to be drained dry, all just to sustain the flickering, precarious light of the Astronomican amidst the darkness.
The imagery shifted again, focusing on the Primarchs.
Brothers who had once fought side by side and shared drinks were now all turned into indescribable monsters.
Angron, studded with brass tubes, roared in a sea of blood and corpses; Fulgrim transformed into a massive, four-armed serpentine demon, trailing a long tail as he sank into eternal corruption and hedonism; Mortarion bore tattered wings, his body rotting and infested with maggots; Magnus became a one-eyed red demon with wings sprouting from his back.
And what of the brothers who hadn’t betrayed humanity?
Guilliman’s throat was slashed by a venomous blade, lying lifeless inside a stasis field; Lion El’Jonson’s homeworld of Caliban was destroyed in a civil war, his whereabouts unknown; Jaghatai Khan charged into the Webway and vanished; Corax transformed into a shadow monster wandering the Warp; Ferrus Manus lost his head; and Sanguinius, the Great Angel praised by all…
had his wings brutally snapped by Horus’s own hands, half his face crushed, left to drown in his own blood on the deck of the *Vengeful Spirit*.
Finally, the projection froze upon a scene of infinite war.
In the depths of the underhives, tens of billions of humans were squeezed of their very marrow like cattle, cultists performed live sacrifices in dark alleys, and Genestealers bred brazenly within the shadows.
“This is the fortieth millennium.” Kaelen reached out a finger, pointing at the silhouette of the skeleton on the throne.
“The future forged by your own hands.” “The Great Rebellion ten thousand years ago severely crippled the Imperium.
It is now on an inevitable path toward decay and doom.” “Where is the damn Sigillite?!” Horus glared at Kaelen, thinking of the mortal he hated most—the Emperor’s most favored courtier, the supreme ruler of the Imperial bureaucratic government.
“As a Perpetual, what has he been doing for these ten thousand years?!” “Oh, he’s dead too.
Because Magnus destroyed the Webway, the Emperor had no choice but to face your corrupted self.
So the Sigillite sat on the Golden Throne in the Emperor’s stead.
By the time the Emperor returned to the throne, he was dead.” “He died as Malcador the Hero.
The Golden Throne drained every drop of his soul and psychic power.” *Pfft.* The beam of light died out.
Reaching the end of its lifespan, the scrap projector shattered into a pile of debris.
In the corridor, even the sound of breathing had vanished.
Horus collapsed inward.
“By the Throne…
what have I done?” The majestic frame that had once been tall and upright, capable of holding up half the Imperium, now hunched over like a dying beggar.
The moon-white plate of his Terminator armor clattered against itself, producing a sickening metallic grind.
He buried his face in his massive hands, his rough fingers digging deep into his scalp, carving out ten bloody tracks.
There was no roar.
There was only a low, mournful wail—like a wild beast having its bones snapped by a steel trap—rumbling from the deepest recesses of his throat.
It was muffled and long, echoing back and forth off the cold metal walls.
The brightest star of the Great Crusade, the First-Found Son most beloved by the Emperor.
He had believed everything he did was for the freedom and glory of humanity, for the grand ideal of the Emperor.
Yet now, he was witnessing with his own eyes that he had dragged all of mankind into the deepest, darkest pit of hell.
His large, calloused hands fumbled blindly through the bloody shreds on the floor.
He caught hold of a broken piece of the chainsword dropped by the Iron Skull Gang thug—a jagged, oil-stained fragment of iron.
Horus reversed his grip on the iron fragment, aimed it at his own heart—the bloodied hole that had just been patched up by the restoration fluid—and drove it down with all his force!
Death.
Perhaps only death could cleanse this unpardonable sin.
“Fuck your entire family!” Kaelen let out a roar and threw his entire body forward.
He wrapped both arms around Horus’s thick, muscular arm, hanging off it with his full weight.
A mortal’s strength was laughable before a Primarch.
The jagged metal edge was a mere half-inch from Horus’s chest, its sharp tip already pressing a pale mark into the newly regenerated skin.
Kaelen’s face turned beet red, veins bulging on his neck.
He kicked frantically against the floor, his voice completely tearing apart.
“Hastur Sejanus!” He screamed hysterically at the bald head.
“Tarik Torgaddon!
Garviel Loken!” The moment those three names were shouted out, that arm—as unyielding as iron—froze dead in its tracks.
“Think about your exceptional sons!
The sons who respected you, loved you, and worshipped you like a god!
If they saw their once-glorious father, the Lord of the Luna Wolves, turned into a coward trying to commit suicide to escape responsibility, what would they think?!” Horus sat with his mouth half-open, his bloodshot eyes staring fixedly at Kaelen.
Kaelen gasped heavily for air, his hands still hooked onto the Primarch’s forearm, speaking word by word: “You created this mess.
You personally started this endless darkness.
And now you just want to close your eyes and call it quits?
Why should the mortals cleaning up your mess and your loyalist brothers bear ten thousand years of blood debts for you?!” “I need you alive!
You’re going to help me fix this ruined Imperium!” “Besides…
it wasn’t entirely your fault to begin with.” Kaelen took a deep breath to settle his emotions, changing his tone.
Horus’s eyes flared with grief and rage.
“Why?
You just said I caused all of this, so why change your tune and say it wasn’t entirely my fault?!” “Your name is Horus Lupercal.
The loyal Warmaster named ‘Lupercal’ died back in that cult temple on Davin.” “The puppet who went to Terra to launch the heresy later on was merely a shell controlled by the Four Chaos Gods—’Horus’!” Kaelen stared directly into his eyes.
“You should know the meaning of your name.
You are the Wolf God, Lupercal.” “That was the glory bestowed upon you by the Emperor himself.
Are you going to throw it to the ground and trample it under your own feet?”