The dagger was frozen mid-air, held dead in place.
Horus’s massive hand clamped onto the Fallen Angel’s wrist.
It looked effortless, yet it was like an insurmountable ridge pinning down the blade’s edge.
A low growl rumbled from the Fallen Angel’s throat.
He did not back down.
The muscles in his arms bunched violently, and the servo-motors of his black ceramite power armor whined madly, emitting a sharp, overloaded screech.
The peak force exerted by an Astartes was enough to flip a Chimera armored vehicle upside down with his bare hands.
Yet when this inhuman brute strength hit the giant before him, it was like a clay ox sinking into the sea, failing to stir even the slightest ripple.
Horus lowered his eyes.
On the former Primarch’s face—the former Master of the Legion—there was no trace of rage at being targeted for assassination.
In the face of deadly intent inches away, he didn’t even adopt an instinctive counter-attack stance.
His expression was subtle.
Like a seasoned elder looking at an unlucky nephew.
There was tolerance, compassion, and even a touch of helpless irony.
“Traitor!
Regicide!
Evil incarnate!” The Fallen Angel ignored the cracking sound of his wrist bones under the horrific grip strength.
Even if his whole arm was ruined, even knowing this was a hopeless dead end against an overwhelming foe, retreat was never an option in the pride and honor of the First Legion.
His left hand reached straight for the bolt pistol at his waist, intent on driving the single remaining bolt in his magazine right into the face of this eternal sinner.
“Stop!” Kaelen stepped out from behind a ruined lathe, his voice echoing back and forth across the trashed workshop.
“Stop acting crazy!
Open your eyes and look closely!
There is no corrupted Arch-Traitor of Chaos here!” Kaelen pointed at Horus and shouted, “There is no shadow of the Chaos Gods on him.
This is the loyal Wolf God—Lupercal!” The air froze for two seconds.
Then, a dry, rasping sneer came from behind the helmet.
The sound was like coarse sandpaper grinding repeatedly over rusty iron; the derision needed no hiding.
Believe such bullshit?
For ten thousand years, it was this very face that dragged half the galaxy into a bottomless abyss, forcing the First Legion to pay an agonizing, horrific price.
Now a mortal runs up and points at the arch-war criminal, claiming he’s the loyal version?
Sensing that the Fallen Angel had no intention of backing off, Horus did not panic.
He merely sighed very softly.
Then, Horus simply released his grip.
More than that, he stepped half a pace back, exposing his broad, completely armorless, and undefended chest directly to the tip of the Astartes’ dagger.
“Plunge it here.” Horus even raised his hand voluntarily, pointing to the location of his left heart, his voice completely flat.
“If driving this blade into my chest makes you feel as though you’ve saved this shattered Imperium, then do it.” The Warmaster paused, a hint of an elder’s assessment slipping into his tone.
“If Lion were here to see this, he might even give you a word or two of praise.” Faced with a Primarch who had completely dropped his defense and abandoned any intent to counterattack, the Fallen Angel’s motion—brimming with murder—stiffened instead.
In his endless exile, this Fallen Angel had seen far too many Space Marines fallen to Chaos.
The madness and cruelty in the bones of those scumbags could never be concealed.
Yet the giant before him was sane, rational, and even radiated a grand, sorrowful benevolence.
It reminded him of the Great Crusade—of the true Wolf God in his memories…
Kaelen was not about to let this fleeting pause slip by and immediately took control of the situation.
“Calm down first and sense it yourself!” Kaelen spoke rapidly.
“He stands here—has there been even a flicker of distortion in the veil of reality around him?
Do you smell the stench of corruption found on cultists?
Look into his eyes!
Is there a shred of Warp-tainted evil in them?” The Fallen Angel clutched his dagger, not daring to relax in the slightest, his eyes locked onto that face.
Inside his helmet, the auto-senses and environmental monitors remained quiet, reporting no anomalies.
More importantly, his Astartes instincts told him that this man was clean.
There was none of the visceral nausea that mortals inevitably felt in the presence of unholy horrors.
Yet the stubbornness of the First Legion was encoded into their very genes.
“I don’t believe it!
How could the arch-traitor, slain by the Master of Mankind Himself, stand before me?!
This must be your scheme!” He gritted his teeth, pronouncing each word heavily.
Kaelen stopped wasting words and decided to hit him with the hard truth.
“This is no illusion, nor is it a scheme.
All of this is the Emperor’s will.” Facing the Fallen Angel’s suddenly contracting pupils, he continued.
“I know you don’t believe me.
But think about it—if not for the Emperor’s divine power, who else could bring a slain Primarch back to this sea of stars, completely untainted by Chaos?” Kaelen didn’t stop, pressing the advantage step by step.
“You think this is just the beginning?
Before long, Roboute Guilliman, the gene-sire of the Ultramarines, will awaken from his stasis field to reclaim control over the Imperium.” “And even that is merely the start,” Kaelen’s voice turned thunderous.
“What I am telling you is that the Lion, Lion El’Jonson, is also about to return!” “What did you say?!” The Fallen Angel snapped his head up, his eyes widening in shock beneath his helm, staring at the mortal in utter disbelief.
“I said that the Primarch of the Dark Angels, the Lion, Lion El’Jonson, will return as well,” Kaelen repeated word by word.
“I know this sounds as absurd as the babblings of a Chaos sorcerer, but the best proof stands right before your eyes: a living, uncorrupted Master of the Luna Wolves.
Warrior, all of this is a grand gambit set in motion by the Emperor to save His Imperium.” “This must be the Emperor’s mighty power!” The Fallen Angel froze where he stood.
The Lion.
Lion El’Jonson.
His gene-sire, missing for ten thousand years…
was coming back?
Ten thousand years.
He and countless brothers had struggled in endless exile, branded with the disgrace of being “Fallen Angels,” hunted like wild beasts across the galaxy by the younger generations of their own Legion, captured, and thrown into the interrogation cells of the Rock to suffer without end.
Their homeworld destroyed, their father missing, they bore secrets known to none, clinging to life in the mire of darkness.
Yet no matter how fate crushed them, no matter how the world despised them, in the deepest, most hidden corner of these veterans’ hearts lay an absolute loyalty and longing for that proud Lion.
Even if it was just to see him once more, even if it meant receiving execution at their gene-sire’s own hands, it was far better than ten thousand years of aimless wandering and exile.
For even a one-in-a-ten-thousand chance, he was willing to stake his life.
At the same time, his mind raced with cold, rapid calculations: First, he couldn’t win.
Even without power armor, a Primarch could kill him with bare hands in a split second.
Second, if he were truly the Chaos-corrupted Warmaster, he would have died on Terra ten thousand years ago, and there was no way he could appear here in such a clean state.
Third, and most importantly, in the melee earlier, it was the Wolf God who had aided him in breaking the siege.
If he truly wanted his life, he could have killed him outright without waiting until now.
A long, dead silence settled over the workshop.
The Fallen Angel’s arm dropped, and he sheathed his combat dagger cleanly.
He stepped back and drew himself up straight.
Bringing his feet together, he struck his right fist heavily against the ceramite armor of his left breast.
It was an ancient salute reserved for inferiors addressing superiors during the era of the Great Crusade.
Offered by a disgraced veteran to his ancient enemy of ten thousand years.
His movements were stiff and unpracticed, his voice squeezed through his teeth: “Salutations to you…
Master of the Luna Wolves.” The tension finally broke.
The Fallen Angel released the armor seals at his neck.
With a hiss of depressurization, he removed his heavily battle-damaged helmet.
Revealed was a weathered, battle-scarred face.
The left side was almost entirely covered in scars, and five service studs were embedded in his forehead.
This meant his service stretched all the way back to the Unification Wars on Terra.
“Cullen,” he gave his designation.
“Born in the Fold-Hive of Terra.
Member of the Dreadwing, First Legion.
Knight of the Third Company, Thirteenth Chapter.” At this, he pulled his lips back in a self-deprecating smirk.
“And now, one of the Fallen Angels hunted across the stars by the Dark Angels Chapter.” Hearing this unit designation, Horus raised an eyelid slightly.
Dreadwing.
One of the Six Wings of the Dark Angels Legion during the Great Crusade.
They were the coldest, most ruthless slaughters in the entire First Legion, dedicated to indiscriminate massacres and scorched-earth warfare.
But Cullen’s attention was no longer on the Wolf God.
He turned to Kaelen, confusion and vigilance taking over.
“I’ve traveled incognito, specifically choosing a godforsaken lawless place like this to scrape by,” Cullen said, his brow knottily furrowed.
“How did a mortal, in a chaotic place like the underhive, manage to pinpoint and drag out an Astartes who was actively hiding his tracks?” Kaelen spread his hands.
“The graffiti on the third brick up from the corner.
Two crossed swords with a pair of broken wings between them.” “Hexagrammaton—the symbol of your old Legion.
Am I wrong?” The scar on Cullen’s face twitched violently.
Such Hexagrammaton sign-language was understood only by veterans even back during the Great Crusade.
After Caliban shattered, the legacy of the old Legion was broken long ago.
The current Grand Masters hunting them probably wouldn’t even recognize it.
Yet here in this dumpsite of a black market, a random scavenger of a mortal casually exposed his deepest secrets?
Cullen stared intensely at Kaelen.
“You even know the secrets of our Legion…
Who on earth are you?!”