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Chapter 256: Thousand Sons: Father, Father
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 10:07:33 +0000 UTCChapter 256: Thousand Sons: Father, Father
With the Primarch's entry, the outcome was decided. How to win correctly, how to win this war with the least losses, and how to make every warrior realize their maximum potential, was what everyone needed to do.
"Let the flames purify all!"
A torrent of fire filled every inch of the ice-cliff, like a tsunami, melting everything in its path.
The Rune Priest's face was brightly illuminated. Before the flames even reached him, the cloak of Njal Stormcaller had already ignited from the high temperature. He took a deep breath, using a gale to protect his companion raven from harm, and threw his own ritual into the Fenrisian storm. "I am the storm! I am the lightning!"
BOOM—
Blue and red, wind and fire. Two completely different torrents collided. The steel corridor was disintegrating, melting. In the deep mines, the entire structure was shaking violently. The surrounding corpses were turned to ash. Several Astartes and the Rubricae controlled by the Thousand Sons who were caught in the shockwave were thrown into the air.
And behind the Thousand Sons sorcerer, a crystal-clear Silver Tower of Tzeentch was constantly emitting energy pulses. A large number of daemons and Chaos thralls poured out, but they did not support the sorcerer who was locked in a stalemate with his enemy, but instead began to drill deep into the ground. They used daemonic fire to clear the way, their progress unusually fast, as if they were searching for something.
"Dammit, they really are here to rob the place," Ramesses said, teleporting to the vicinity of the tower. He noticed the daemons' movements, his face filled with displeasure. To dare to steal from him... they really had a death wish.
"..."
I haven't even said anything yet. Trazyn, at his side, opened his skull-mouth, then swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue. He was quite puzzled by these... let's call them 'people' for now. Trazyn was puzzled how these people knew there was a C'tan shard buried here. He had been planning on making a quiet fortune, taking the Burning One's shard while everyone was busy drinking. He hadn't expected to be arrested by the evil Thousand Sons before his plan had even begun.
"Trazyn, are you sure this is the place?" Ramesses asked again, preparing to call Arthur for a targeted lockdown.
"Of course, my Lord. I have the detailed coordinates of this Burning One's shard," Trazyn replied immediately. He wanted to say more, but was interrupted by a sudden heat wave.
BOOM!
"Whoa, it's just like a cultivation battle," Ramesses said, instinctively steadying his golden mask. He immediately shielded the friendly forces in the blast radius and watched the magic-duel before him. Njal Stormcaller, clad in Indomitus Terminator armour, was flying on the wind, entangled with a Thousand Sons sorcerer on a Disc of Tzeentch. And the rest of the Wolves, aside from adding a few ripples to the psychic shield with their scattered bolter fire, could only worry about how to keep their beards from being burned off in the storm.
And such scenes were playing out around every Silver Tower that had not yet been taken down by Arthur. You wouldn't expect it, but in the Imperium, aside from the Thousand Sons, the most systematized psychic units were not the First Legion Dark Angels, nor the well-rounded Ultramarines, but the seemingly barbaric Space Wolves.
Compared to the Librarians of other chapters, who usually survived the warp by their 'caution' and incredible good luck, the psykers of Fenris were much more unrestrained. They believed in the Four Gods. Or rather, the Four Gods' aliases on Fenris.
A common ability of the Rune Priests was to summon storms on the battlefield to cover the army's advance. In addition, they could cast runes to predict the ebb and flow of future events. Many Rune Priests also had a connection with ravens, which were called "Choosers of the Slain" by the Space Wolves, and could form a spiritual bond with the priest. This connection allowed them to see through the ravens' eyes and control them, so they could be used as scouts and messengers.
Sound familiar? This isn't Tzeentch, I'll eat—
Compared to the pointy-headed one-eyed Ogryns and the empty-canned Thousand Sons, these Rune Priests were the true interpreters of how to correctly use the power of the warp. Like the Stormseers of the White Scars, the Rune Priests channeled their power through the natural forces of Fenris, a restrictive medium that could protect them from the malicious influence of the warp.
And Ramesses also understood why Logan Grimnar had so easily agreed to the Dawnbreakers' intervention. Because the Venerable Dreadnought had awakened and was now on the battlefield.
What's wrong?
His intuition was screaming at him. The Thousand Sons sorcerer suddenly stopped, and then the Disc of Tzeentch carried him in an exaggerated maneuver to avoid a statue of Dorn that was flying towards him.
A sacred Ironclad Dreadnought, under the imploring gazes of a group of wolf-pups, charged straight into the flame-filled canyon. The claws on its left arm directly severed the restraint of a hydraulic pump. The sudden release of pressure launched the tens-of-ton hydraulic rod in a fraction of a second, sending the Ironclad Dreadnought hundreds of meters into the air.
The Dreadnought's lightning claws, flashing with the light of a disruption field, swung directly at the Chaos sorcerer, who was close by and had no time for a second evasion.
Air-grab—
The ground of the mine completely shattered. The sacred Ironclad Dreadnought stood steadily in place, its massive body impervious to weapons, a mangled corpse under its claws.
"Nice," Ramesses couldn't help but say.
"Still going strong," Trazyn said, starting to record with his antique camera.
Bjorn the Fell-Handed. Ostensibly the oldest Dreadnought in the Imperium, the only surviving member of the Varagyr Wolf Guard, who had led the Space Wolves for nearly a thousand years. The fact that the Space Wolves could change from the discipline that was comparable to the Night Lords in the Great Crusade era to their current excellent ethos was largely thanks to this old man. For ten thousand years, whenever the Wolves encountered any difficulties or pain, it was this old man who would awaken at the critical moment to help his juniors. His contributions were immense.
"Ancient!!!"
With a series of barks, the dogs eagerly tried to pass through the wall of fire.
"Stand down! Guard the perimeter! Eliminate all enemy forces," but Bjorn, having killed his opponent, did not relax his guard. His voice, distorted by the sacred Dreadnought's vox-emitter, was still a resonant boom that spread in all directions. The eager wolf-pups immediately stopped.
The Stormcaller beside Bjorn immediately understood and pulled up a howling wall of wind, isolating the area.
"Heh heh, Bjorn. Ten thousand years have passed, and you are still so cautious," the shattered Disc of Tzeentch suddenly vanished, then re-formed in mid-air. A rift in space appeared, and a Thousand Sons sorcerer in blue and gold armour leaped out again. He spread his arms, and several more portals opened, and countless daemons poured out. This time, they began to charge at the Space Wolves' formation. These were the daemons he had made a pact with, and were not under the control of the Lord of Change.
Sizzle~
The corpse on the ground was still seeping tissue fluid, which steamed on the hot surface.
BOOM!
Then came a heaven-shaking explosion. A closer look at the corpse revealed that every inch of its skin was carved with blasphemous runes that drew on the power of the warp. The Thousand Sons often communicated with the Librarians of other renegade Astartes, and would absorb some of their members as apprentices to replenish their numbers. Of course, in Chaos, an apprentice was basically a consumable. If you couldn't kill your teacher during your studies, then you would just be another kill for his kill-count book.
Creak~
The ground collapsed, and the support pillars fell. It was obvious that if those Wolves had rashly entered, then death would have been their only end. And in the scattered clouds, only the sacred Ironclad Dreadnought was still unharmed.
Let the true Chapter Master of the Space Wolves come and see me! For no reason, Ramesses, looking at the old man who was protecting the numerous wolf-pups, had this thought in his mind.
He dispersed the spell he had prepared to teleport Bjorn away, and instead transformed it into an attack. Master Arthur's null-zone had arrived.
What now?
His intuition was screaming at him again. The Thousand Sons sorcerer, who had just been about to mock Bjorn after the failure of his trick to kill his juniors, stopped again, and his eyes widened in shock. A golden light suddenly appeared on the top of the cliff, and grew stronger, filling his entire field of vision.
Then he witnessed a terrifying scene. A beam of light pierced through from in front of Bjorn, and diagonally swept across the entire corridor. The daemons and thrall-armies that were crowded together were swept away before they could even scream. Disintegration, ionization... any matter became fragile in this moment. Everything was turned to ash. The beam went straight forward, directly wiping out a huge fragment of several thousand meters.
Then, the light dissipated. The entire canyon was left with only golden particles dancing like fireflies. A Tzeentchian daemon in front of a portal stood there like a statue, watching as his comrades in front of him were turned to nothing, the Silver Tower of Tzeentch directly cut in half. The Thousand Sons sorcerer was stunned, his hand holding his staff trembling slightly, his brain not yet having recovered from the overwhelming attack.
Bjorn, who had just been about to mock his old rival, was also stunned. He protected the Stormcaller and looked at the ravaged entrance of the canyon.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh...
The sound of the wind came from far to near, until it was completely torn apart. A figure in gold and red, with a trail of sparks, appeared. He held a long staff in one hand, his emotionless gaze sweeping over one enemy after another, who were like statues. The staff was slightly raised.
"That's—!"
The Thousand Sons sorcerer's eyes widened at the suddenly appearing figure, his arrogance turning to astonishment. He had never expected to see such a person on a planet belonging to the Space Wolves. So familiar, so... This is a Primarch!
A new Primarch, a Primarch who had mastered magic. Their Primarch. This was the salvation the Lord of Change had spoken of! The Thousand Sons sorcerer's face was filled with excitement. He had accepted the Lord of Change's oracle for this very moment.
Magnus had gone mad. He lived in his own world, his mind unsound, treating his fantasies as reality. He would say he loved his sons, but what he did was use his already broken sons as consumables. The first time he had attacked Fenris, he had sold out the Thousand Sons sorcerers who had helped him after he had achieved his goal. From that moment on, he had lost the right to lead the Legion.
Ahriman had also gone mad. He had been crushed by the 'Rubric of Ahriman,' which had killed almost all the members of the Legion. Aside from the powerful sorcerers who still retained their flesh, the rest had been turned to dust and could only become the puppets of other sorcerers. This sin had made him exile himself to the Webway, not knowing that this was just another game of the Lord of Change.
Only I, only I am still sane. I correctly understand the words of the Lord of Change, do not make rash attempts, and with a clear mind, analyze and choose the tasks He gives me. I chose to attack Fenris, not out of hatred, but as a result of a rational analysis. And so I have received the correct reward. I have found the Primarch. I will have a proper home, instead of playing a ridiculous drama like those two clowns.
The Thousand Sons sorcerer's gaze was fervent as he looked at the tall, magnificent figure in gold and red. He raised a hand, and the fine sand from the Rubricae flowed into his hand. At the same time, the Thousand Sons sorcerer could feel countless souls, the living, the dead, and even the souls of daemons, concentrating on him. The clumsy sand was gradually given a灵动. This was salvation! In the eyes of the Thousand Sons sorcerer, this was salvation!
For no reason, an unprecedented sense of fulfillment welled up in his heart, as if something was occupying him!
Run!
While the young Thousand Son still didn't know what was happening, the Tzeentchian daemons had already turned and fled. A teeming mass of them poured towards the portal, which had begun to collapse with the approach of a certain presence. They didn't care about the plan anymore. They just wanted to live!
But what awaited them was only despair. Just as their fingertips were about to touch the Chaos portal, it shattered like a broken mirror.
"Gah! No!"
"Kill me! Kill me now!"
"Why is He here?! Why?!"
Bjorn looked on in bewilderment as the daemons ran towards him, actively trying to impale themselves on his lightning claws. This comical scene made even the experienced Bjorn's mind shut down. Daemons can feel fear? He immediately looked at Ramesses. Although he didn't understand why, he quickly determined that this must have something to do with this suddenly appearing being.
'The new Primarch that that boy Logan spoke of?' he wondered.
"Don't hesitate. Just kill them," Ramesses said. Tzeentchian daemons, because of Tzeentch himself, he was always wary of. They were not listed as employees. When caught, they were usually "gutted."
Bjorn, on muscle memory, gave a symbolic nod, and then began to slaughter the daemons. The Tzeentchian daemons eagerly rushed forward, hoping to be the next to be cut down. But was it really as they thought?
"It's my turn! It's my turn!"
As a Pink Horror of Tzeentch leaped up excitedly, a smile of release on its face as it ran into a lightning claw, what awaited it was not banishment, but a soul-shattering tearing sensation. No, the soul was literally shattering. It had been intercepted by an unknown power during its banishment.
"No!"
In the crack between the real and the psychic world, its expression immediately turned to terror. It could feel a power tearing it apart, like the waves of the warp shattering a mortal's soul. But the tide was only a moment. What the Pink Horror faced was a constantly rotating grindstone.
Bit by bit, it was ground down on a soul-level. The fragments were so fine that, from a daemon's perspective, one could easily see the information within. This was death by a thousand cuts! A long, drawn-out death by a thousand cuts!
It twisted its fat body, wanting to warn the daemons who were rushing to their doom on Bjorn's claws. But in an instant, its thoughts changed. Why should I warn these fools? Why should they be able to live?
Tasting the coming of death in despair, it thought with resentment, 'Die! All of you, die!'
"Heh heh, my operating system has been iterated to the point where I can get souls from under Master Arthur's nose," Ramesses said with a chuckle, shaking the fine sand in his hand, trying to see what would happen if he injected a blank soul into it. He then came to the Thousand Sons sorcerer's side.
"I will ask, you will answer. Is that acceptable?" he asked politely.
"Of... of course, my Lord!" the Thousand Sons sorcerer immediately stood up straight and replied nervously. He could feel the strange sense of fulfillment in his body disappear.
'Dammit, it's a good thing I waited until Master Arthur had charged in before I showed my face. Otherwise, nine Greater Daemons of Tzeentch would have definitely popped out and turned me into tofu in the materium,' Ramesses's lip twitched.
This was the reason he had been hiding in the dark. Tzeentch had been watching him. If he had made a rash move, this Thousand Sons sorcerer could have performed a "one becomes three" on the spot. As in, one person exploding into three Greater Daemons of Tzeentch.
"What did the Lord of Change tell you?" he asked.
"War. Cadia. Iron. Machine. Forge. Plot. Chaos. Urgent. Future," the Thousand Sons sorcerer said, and then, as if being controlled, his eyes went visibly blank.
There's a war to be fought on Cadia, caused by Chaos, and it's related to the Adeptus Mechanicus. Probably Vashtorr. Ramesses did a quick calculation, just in time to finish off the Tzeentchian daemons below. Hmm, it's true. It's just that the identity is not pointing to Vashtorr, but somewhere else.
"But I think the being below is more important to us," he said with a smile to the 'Thousand Sons sorcerer.' "You can't fool me."
The 'Thousand Sons sorcerer' was stunned for a moment, as if trying to figure out how Ramesses knew. He then shook his head, shouted "Change," and left with a laugh.
"My Lord, what did you wish to ask?" the Thousand Sons sorcerer asked, seeing the Primarch was silent for a long time. His fervent gaze was fixed on the ashes flowing from the Primarch's hand.
"I've already asked," Ramesses nodded.
This guy Tzeentch already knew they could use the power of the C'tan and was trying to stop them through his real-space channels, even if he was telling the truth. As for Fenris... Ramesses looked at the sky. They should be grateful that Fenris had called them here. Fenris had a World Spirit. The Rune Priests could correctly apply the power of the warp thanks to it. And these special lives also had a certain qualification to participate in the Great Game.
He focused on the changes in the ashes in his hand, then patted the sorcerer on the shoulder. "Goodbye."
The purest killing intent, the most concise of choices. The Thousand Sons sorcerer instinctively tried to think, but after a moment's daze, he could no longer think.
CRACK—
A pure aura locked onto him, freezing his movements completely. Rifts spread along his body, shattering his soul, silencing his consciousness. The sorcerer's tall body, along with his armour, shattered, and as each piece was ignited, it dissipated into a shower of sparks.
The sorcerer, having passed the Thousand Sons sorcerer, paid him no mind, but focused on the changes in the thing in his hand. Behind him, only a fading light was left, the last trace of which was wiped away by his flowing golden cloak.
A clean death.
