Leaving the noisy, pungent tavern, Kaelen led Horus into a dimly lit, sewage-drenched abandoned alleyway.
They planned to use this route to head back to their original shelter.
But before they had taken more than a couple of steps, the system interface before Kaelen’s eyes suddenly flashed with a blinding red light.
Turning his head, he used the flickering, dim light to clearly make out a layer of graffiti corroded by time on the wall.
It was an extremely ancient and hidden symbol.
Crossed swords and broken wings.
[Beep!
Hidden quest triggered!] [Seeking the Fallen First Legion: Contact the Fallen Angel!] Kaelen sucked in a cold breath, his feet firmly pinned to the spot.
“What is it, my friend?” Horus, draped in the stealth cloak, stopped and asked in a low voice.
“We’ve run into one of your brother’s unlucky sons.” Kaelen lowered his voice and quickly, succinctly dumped the tragic civil war of the First Legion, the Dark Angels, on their home world of Caliban, and how the Fallen Angels had been wandering the sea of stars, hunted like mad dogs by their own brothers for ten thousand years.
Hearing this tragic history of blood and tears, the Wolf God fell silent.
He did not speak, only turning his head to look deep into the dark corridor.
His brother Lion El’Jonson, whom he had once feared the most and been the proudest of, and the First Legion he took such pride in, had actually ended up in fratricidal bloodshed and ten thousand years of exile.
A faint sigh dissipated into the foul air.
“Let us go.
Since there is a trace of my brother’s lineage, let us go see.” Horus’s voice carried a heavy tone that was hard to conceal.
Guided by the faint tracking of the system, the two pulled their stealth cloaks tight and slipped into the deepest, most lawless ruins of the Hive’s black market.
The surrounding smell of engine oil and the sour stench of mutated fungi were gradually overtaken by a strong, metallic scent of blood.
Kaelen knew they had arrived at the core territory of the most bloodthirsty local gang—the Black Hand Gang.
Ahead lay an abandoned heavy machining workshop.
Right now, it was buzzing with activity.
The harsh sound of plasma charging and bolt weapons chambering joined together, their overlapping lines of fire weaving into an airtight barrage of death.
Dozens of fully armed gang thugs were pinning a massive figure, cloaked in a tattered hooded robe, behind the cover of a scrapped forge.
The gang leader at the front was wildly waving a power saw, his arrogant, manic laughter echoing throughout the workshop: “I don’t care what kind of mutant freak you are!
Today, I’m stripping that iron shell off you and selling it to the black market big shots to cash in!” Kaelen, hiding in the shadows, poked half his head out.
Once he saw the situation clearly, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
“An Astartes?!” he whispered.
“A grand, noble Space Marine, pinned down by a bunch of mortal thugs?” “Wait, has he run out of ammunition for his weapons?” The massive figure behind the cover was clearly severely wounded.
He didn’t even have ammo to fire back and could only rely on his ceramite armor to withstand the stray rounds.
Seeing this, the gang lackeys grew even more insufferably arrogant, whistling mockingly and hurling filthy insults like water.
Just then, Horus’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The Primarch’s superhuman vision instantly pierced through the tattered robe, locking onto the distinct silhouette of black ceramite power armor beneath.
“That is an Astartes of the First Legion, the Dark Angels.” “It should be the Fallen Angel we are looking for.” The Wolf God turned his head to look at Kaelen, his eyes posing a silent question.
Save him, or not?
Kaelen didn’t waste any breath, giving a swift, clean nod.
“Help him.” Well, duh.
If they didn’t help, how would they get the reward from the system?
Before the words could even fade.
The giant who, just a second ago, had been posing as an “Ogryn” charged straight out of the shadows.
Like an ancient tyrannosaur, he stepped directly into the blistering line of fire!
Fast.
Unbelievably fast.
Horus’s speed completely bypassed the physical limits of a mortal’s retina.
The eight gang thugs guarding the flank didn’t even see what was happening before feeling like a runaway mag-lev train had smashed right into their faces.
A mountain-toppling, ocean-parting impact force erupted in an instant!
With several sickening crunches, the eight men and their weapons were sent flying, slamming violently against the metal wall, instantly turning into several splatters of radiating gore.
The gang’s wild laughter choked in their throats like a rooster being strangled.
Everyone stared with wide, terrified eyes at this three-and-a-half-meter-tall muscle monster that had appeared out of thin air.
Even the Astartes hiding behind the cover looked up in sheer shock.
“Fi…
Fire!
Kill him!” The gang leader finally snapped out of it, his voice cracking in terror.
The dense rain of bullets immediately shifted targets, pouring madly toward Horus.
But this was a Primarch.
Even a Warmaster without his power armor was not someone these lowlifes could hope to scratch.
Horus didn’t even bother to dodge.
He reached out and grabbed a scrapped lathe beside him that weighed several tons.
Amidst a screeching rend of metal, he swung that multi-ton hunk of iron with one hand, hurling it like a toy straight at the heavy weapons position!
Boom—!
A deafening roar tore through the workshop.
Flesh and blood splattered everywhere.
Severed limbs and metal shrapnel intertwined in the air, creating a brutal rain of gore.
The entire slaughter took less than ten seconds.
A pure, unadulterated dimensional strike.
The Black Hand Gang elites, who had been so insufferably arrogant a second ago, were now nothing more than red and white splatters coating the rubble and scrap metal.
A deathly silence blanketed the workshop.
The cloaked warrior behind the cover surged to his feet, tightening his reverse grip on a dull combat knife.
As a battle-hardened Astartes, the moment he witnessed the slaughter, he felt an unspeakable dread.
It was an absolute hierarchy suppression belonging to a demigod Primarch, buried deep within the core of his genetic code!
As powerful as a Space Marine was, his sword-hand couldn’t help but tremble slightly now.
Horus casually shook the blood off the back of his hand, his gaze as calm as still water as he looked at the sword-wielding Astartes.
Kaelen also stepped out of the shadows at the right moment.
A howl from the high-altitude exhaust fans swept through.
It blew the hood off the Astartes’ head.
Revealing a mottled, battered suit of black power armor covered in horrifying battle scars.
He stared intently at the giant before him, who stood half a body taller than himself and was disguised as an “Ogryn.” The breathing beneath his helmet became extremely rapid and erratic.
His voice shook violently out of sheer, utter disbelief: “Who exactly are you…
Your aura, and your style of combat…
are identical to a Primarch!” Kaelen nodded to Horus.
Without any hesitation, both of them pulled back their hoods simultaneously.
The Astartes did not recognize the mortal, but he certainly recognized the “Ogryn” beside him.
When that sharp-featured, internally radiant face belonging to the Arch-Traitor was fully exposed in the dim light…
The Fallen Angel’s pupils dilated to their absolute limit, his brain nearly shutting down instantly.
After a brief yet seemingly eternal, deathly silence…
He lunged like a rabid beast!
Even knowing he was outmatched, he did not hesitate for a second to swing his dagger, trying to plunge it straight through Horus’s throat!
“Traitor!
Die!” *Clack.* A dull thud.
Horus merely extended a single hand, effortlessly catching the Astartes by the wrist, locking the deadly blade firmly in mid-air.
“Do not be agitated, warrior.” The Wolf God looked down at him, his voice deep and resonant.