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Chapter 184: Left Too Soon!
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 10:44:32 +0000 UTCChapter 184: Left Too Soon!
"Oh, so the Lion's getting his hackles up, is he?" Ramesses's voice was bright in the psychic domain, laced with the unique brand of mockery favoured by the Thousand Sons. He even gave his staff a leisurely twirl, the gem at its tip tracing a playful arc of light through the streams of psychic energy.
Not far away, the Grand Master of the Librarius, who was directing a Wraithknight, gripped his own crozius so hard that his adamantium gauntlet creaked in protest. That thrice-damned son of Magnus!
"It hasn't come to that. I am not so foolish as to wait for a conflict to erupt before I think to resolve it," Arthur replied. In the distance, the Wraithknight's ion cannon roared, blasting the spire of a Slaaneshi temple to dust. He shook his head. He had merely noticed the first signs of trouble. What was wrong with wanting honour? Everyone in life needed something to strive for. A reasonable desire should be reasonably accommodated. Ignoring a problem would not make it disappear.
"What I mean is, I require some free time."
"While that's certainly true, I get the feeling you're making fun of someone," Ramesses said, shaking his head. "This is why I don't like raising 'pups' like you do. Too many attachments. If I could, I'd prefer any future forces I command to be like the Ultramarines. At least you don't have to worry about them."
The Grand Master of the Librarius began to tremble, his breathing under his faceplate as ragged as a bellows. For a moment, he was sorely tempted to order the Wraithknight, currently dismantling a Slaaneshi ritual site, to take a swing at the insolent Thousand Son.
"...I can guarantee speed on my end," Ramesses said, seeing the Lion was well and truly beginning to hiss and knowing he'd pushed far enough. He got back to business. "Slaanesh's gaze is not on the materium at the moment. The Great Game in the Warp is in full swing, so They won't be able to interfere for a while. The key is whether you can finish up quickly. It would be a joke if we missed the Blood Angels' victory feast."
The Lion was seeing red.
"Of course we can," Arthur replied, pressing his fingers to his temples. His lip twitched. Do you have any idea how much you sound like a nursery headmaster trying to shove a problem child into someone else's arms?
"They are the First Legion."
His tone was flat, but it carried an undeniable weight. With that single sentence, the turbulent psychic energy around the Grand Master of the Librarius instantly calmed. He silently loosened his grip on his crozius, the joints of his gauntlet clicking softly as they reset. The Wraithknight's cannon swiveled back towards the remaining Chaos forces as if its master's rage had never existed.
"That's a reason I can believe," Ramesses shrugged.
With the arrival of the Dawnbreakers, the outcome was decided. The once desperate, deadlocked battlefield was suddenly clear. The army that fell from the sky advanced with banners flying, launching attacks in every direction, intent on ending the long-running farce in a single night. The Tyranid swarms, in contrast, were thrown into chaos as their synapse creatures were systematically eliminated by Librarians who had received specialized anti-xenos training.
On the other side of the planet, however, in a ruined human settlement, another enemy remained, detached from the main battle. Atop the chitinous eaves of a fortress-like structure stood creatures wrought of flesh and blood. From the remnants of their uniforms, barely visible beneath the fleshy carapaces, one could tell they had once been this world's Planetary Defence Force officers. Unaware of the battle's progress, they stretched their necks, peering into the darkness.
The plan to use Chaos to fight the Tyranids had gone off without a hitch. The liberation of Estelia was imminent. But even as the first light of dawn fell, news of victory had not yet arrived.
"Just a little longer..." the lead officer murmured, his newly sprouted third hand caressing the broken Aquila on his chest, his ulcerated eyelids blinking with effort. These wretched things believed they had never truly sought the gifts of Chaos. They huddled in the shadows of their flesh-fortress, dreaming of a day when they could kneel once more before the Emperor's holy icon.
Their alliance with the Slaaneshi cultists had been nothing more than an act of desperation. When the swarm had descended, these half-corrupted PDF soldiers had dragged their mutated bodies into the outermost tunnels of the Fortress of Delights. Here, the cloying incense of Slaanesh masked their scent, and walls of living flesh shielded them from the Tyranids' claws. They huddled in the darkness, waiting for the war to end, waiting for a "redemption" that would likely never come.
—What a pathetic delusion.
They waited until dawn, when a figure in purple finally arrived.
And then, the true dawn came.
A figure in purple robes stumbled into the tunnel, their magnificent garments stained with filth and scorch marks. The face that should have been eternally elegant was now twisted in terror, its crystal-clear skin covered in fine cracks.
The PDF officers peeked from the crevices of their flesh-fortress, their extra nostrils twitching keenly. It was the scent of Slaanesh, but mixed with an unprecedented... fear?
The Daemon Prince ignored the ants swarming around him. Its six elegant limbs suddenly burst, clouds of pinkish-purple dust erupting from the stumps. An eerie song filled the tunnel—a chorus of a million tortured souls, its soundwaves given physical form by the resonance of the flesh-walls.
The moment the incense dissipated, the mutated eyes of the officers widened in horror.
They saw their own rotting bodies.
They saw the mountains of their comrades' bones piled in the fortress's depths.
They saw the Aquila they so piously caressed, long since corrupted into a writhing mass of flesh.
"Aaaah—!"
Screams tore through the silence of the tunnel. These pitiful souls finally understood: from the moment they had hidden in this fortress, they had become the eternal playthings of the Lord of Pleasure. And now, even the right to deceive themselves had been cruelly stripped away.
The Daemon Prince sped past them, fleeing deeper into the tunnel. Behind it, the officers' cries slowly twisted into mad laughter.
Rrrrip!
Ignoring the delectable offerings of despair behind him, the Daemon Prince tore open a wall of flesh. The morning light streamed through the rift, illuminating a chamber filled with pink limbs and, in the center, a bizarre figure. It had a long, serpentine tail and, unlike other Keepers of Secrets, was rather "bloated," like a disproportionately large eel. Its appearance was unique among the forces of Slaanesh, but from the unmoving limbs of the Daemonettes in attendance, its station was clearly exalted.
The purple-robed Prince saw him and immediately dropped to one knee, beginning to lick the viscous tip of the serpentine tail.
"There has been a complication, Your Highness."
Before him, the twisted body suspended from the flesh-domed ceiling slowly raised its head. Dozens of neural bundles extended from beneath its mother-of-pearl mask, connecting like a living crown to the pulsating veins on the ceiling.
Thump-thump...
The bundles of sinew contracted rhythmically, compressing the air into a strange tone. By the time the sound waves passed through the resonant cavities in the Prince's temporal bones, they had become an inhuman whisper with multiple echoes.
"What is it?"
The Daemon Prince opened its mouth, drool dripping from its vocal cords onto the snake-like tail, causing it to twitch as if from an allergic reaction. "Y'khassar has been captured. The Corpse-Emperor's dogs are here."
In an instant, the tail withdrew. This form of pheromonal communication was clearly more efficient than human speech. But then, for a long time, the tail remained motionless, as if its owner had fallen into a deep slumber.
Sweat beaded on the Daemon Prince's brow. He glanced nervously at the Slaaneshi handmaidens who were watching him with great interest. After what felt like an eternity, the sweet, cloying voice spoke again.
"This was not part of the arrangement."
Indeed, it wasn't. Daemons were generally uninterested in invading regions infested by Tyranids. Even with a weakening World Spirit and the souls of the Aeldari, the Lord of Pleasure had neither supported nor opposed this venture, remaining focused on the Great Game against the Lord of Decay. The original plan had been simple: corrupt the World Spirit before the swarm consumed the planet, then use the Aeldari souls within it to perform a ritual. The daemons could then open a portal to the materium, use it to escape, and no one would care about the fate of the planet or the bugs.
"The plan... encountered an unexpected development," the Daemon Prince said with difficulty. "Y'khassar, that arrogant mongrel, has fallen into the hands of the Corpse-Emperor's dogs. The corruption ritual has been completely destroyed..."
That pig, still playing at being a mortal noble, had been captured without even reacting, his essence bound within his mortal flesh and burned on a cross. The situation now was clear: the Corpse-Emperor's dogs would search every inch of this planet. There was no escape. The setback was fatal. Their plan had failed at its source.
"Who did this?"
"I don't know. All communications were blocked."
"Mmm~"
The sticky voice was suddenly very close. The Daemon Prince looked up to find that the unformed serpentine creature had appeared before him. It raised its hair-like fascia and gently stroked its own body.
"So you are telling me that all these years of preparation, the plan to seek an audience with the Goddess... has failed before it even began?"
The neural fascia, torn as thin as gossamer yet as sharp as steel needles, stroked its body, leaving a trail of bloody cuts. The Prince did not dare to argue. His senses were sealed by his superior; any torment he felt now was very real. And he had no argument to make. The plan was in ruins. All their schemes had failed before they could even be put into motion.
But the flesh-tendrils did not consume him. The expected agony did not come. Instead, they slowly withdrew.
"This is not your fault. It is I who expected too much from my children." The Daemon Primarch's cloaca secreted a crystalline mucus, its pearlescent scales opening and closing with its heavy breathing. It had sensed it, out among the stars, at Isstvan: that pure, flawless presence. Its child, an untainted, perfect creation. The mere thought of dragging that body into the abyss of depravity made its serpentine tail tighten excitedly around a palace pillar. It seemed this Daemon Primarch hadn't had his brain completely addled by desire just yet.
The Daemon Prince breathed a sigh of relief. Before he could speak, a soft command came to his ear. "I will forgo this chance to manifest. I will leave something for you. Remember, for a flower to bloom, it must consume something. This is your last chance for self-redemption."
Something? And how am I supposed to evade the Corpse-Emperor's dogs?
Too many questions remained in the Daemon Prince's mind, but before he could ask them, his material brain ceased to function. The Prince's remaining sanity screamed in protest, but its physical brain had shut down from overstimulation. It struggled to force out its last words: "No... you can't... Lord Fulgrim... I offered you six hundred and sixty-six..."
Its voice cut off abruptly.
Its soul was brutally extracted, every drop of psychic essence squeezed from it like juice from a grape. The power of the Lord of Pleasure began to flow back into the body of the serpentine consort, strengthening him.
If you cannot bring me a perfect offering... then you will become the offering yourself.
The Daemon Primarch's movements were chillingly practiced. Clearly, this was not the first time it had plundered the residual value of a failure. Suddenly, it stopped its smacking lips.
"Hmm, still not quite enough. It seems I must visit other worlds."
The Daemon Primarch clicked its tongue, and a liquid of satisfaction moistened the palace's tapestries. Its bloated serpentine body began to unfurl, stretching into a slender monster nearly eight meters long. In the material world, its body began to dissolve into ash.
Swish—
In an instant, the flesh turned to dust. The morning sun shone in, unobstructed. Then came a deafening BOOM.
Hehe, too late.
At the last moment, the Daemon Primarch turned its head, intending to cast a mocking glance at the newcomer, to savour their frustration and regret. But instead, it saw a solemn knight standing outside. He held a sword and shield, and at his feet lay several Slaaneshi beasts, their skulls caved in, their limbs twitching. The wounds, which should not have been fatal, had killed them as if they were nothing more than crushed insects.
The eyes, now turning to sand, widened in shock. Faced with a blinding plasma glow, a chill, along with a sudden roar from Slaanesh itself, shot up its spine.
FETHING HELL, I LEFT TOO SOON!
An infinite strength surged through its body, and it lunged forward. Even if its soul could not tear through the veil, Fulgrim, force-fed power by Slaanesh, still controlled this body.
The roar was instantly drowned out by a continuous barrage of attacks. The Librarians used their sorcery to forcibly drain the area of warp energy, suppressing any potential Chaos contamination. Amidst the hum of super-charged plasma cannons, the sand-sculptures, which had begun to regain their colour, were vaporized one after another, exploding into a fine mist.
"Oh, my dear brother. Let me have a look at you."
The sand-body lunged, and was methodically blocked by the knight. Arthur had no desire to converse with Fulgrim. If he had to choose a Primarch he detested the most, this thing that was neither man nor daemon would be his first choice.
"It seems my brother is shy. No matter. I will make you speak."
Fulgrim looked at the silent knight, and through the faceplate, saw the eyes filled with disgust. A thrill of excitement shot through him, making his true form clench in anticipation. Several melta-beams took advantage of the brief stalemate, lancing through the last pleasure-altar and then focusing their fire on the Daemon Primarch's body.
Just as Fulgrim seemed to be gaining the upper hand in their brief exchange, Arthur decisively retreated.
THUD!
A Wraithknight's blade slammed down, and the full weight of its blow smashed the body into a pile of shattered carbon fragments.
In the Warp.
In the Sixth Circle of Slaanesh's palace, Fulgrim, who had just closed his eyes in anticipation, snapped awake. Wait, that's not right.
I am a Primarch! I am the flawless Fulgrim!
Even the arrogant Guilliman would look upon him with loathing! Even the stubborn Dorn had once marveled at his works of art! And now... that knight with the sword, that brother who should have been basking in his perfection, had no desire to even speak with him?
You have no desire to communicate with me? To speak with your dear brother?
To be so unceremoniously banished back to the Warp by the forces of the materium... a feeling of shame, of having his charm rejected by his own brother, washed over him, and a sticky fluid began to seep from his lower body.
This brief humiliation did not last long. The favoured Daemon Primarch soon heard the furious shriek of Slaanesh.
His punishment was at hand.
"Master... I..." Fulgrim immediately coiled his eight-meter-long body, his perfectly sculpted upper torso prostrating itself before the Throne of Pleasure, his carefully groomed silver hair falling at his master's feet. He panted heavily. With each lash of the whip, the image of the black knight was seared into his mind, becoming an inescapable obsession. Especially that look of utter disgust, as if he were looking at trash.
"Ooh, ooh, no, ah—!"
Splish~
Drip... drip...
The twitching reflection in the pool of mucus beneath the throne was distorted. It was not the reflection of a perfect warrior-god. It was the reflection of a pathetic, desire-driven pet snake, bowing its head to its master's whip.
In the materium.
Once the threat was confirmed eliminated, the Dark Angels quickly dispersed at Arthur's signal. The heavily armoured units that had been converging on his position redeployed. The Ravenwing, on their grav-bikes, continued to push forward, relaying information and coordinating the entire Legion's movements. There were no wasted motions. They were like a killing machine that had been running for ten thousand years.
"That was quite the spectacle," Ramesses said, arriving behind Arthur, dangling an Infinity Circuit from his hand. He had just finished negotiating a soul-coordination project with the World Spirit, and in that time, the area had been turned into a slaughterhouse. Gravity had contained the flesh to the center of the area, where the soft tissues had been baked into carbon. The writhing creatures of pleasure were now frozen in the moment of their death, like museum specimens.
Most shockingly, there were no signs of a battle, other than the scorch marks. It was as if the enemies had been crushed by some more primitive, more brutal force. It hadn't been long at all, yet the Slaaneshi forces had been wiped out completely. And there was no doubt as to who was responsible for the overwhelming, yet incomprehensible, scene.
This is the Dark Angels.
If he wasn't trying to maintain his persona, Ramesses would have had to take a sharp breath. These guys were neurotic, but their combat effectiveness, when fully supplied, was on another level entirely. If other Astartes, with their more rigid and singular fighting styles, could give their opponents the illusion that they could win, the Dark Angels inspired only utter despair. You couldn't break them, you couldn't stop them, and the chances of escaping were infinitesimally small. They could independently gather intelligence, formulate battle plans, and execute missions according to their commander's wishes. You just had to give them the men and the gear, and the Dark Angels would take care of the winning.
They made it easy. No wonder everyone had been so eager to stuff them into various roles as soon as they'd picked up these strays. Their previous reluctance to take over Romulus's administrative duties was simply because they found Imperial bureaucracy to be a soul-crushing nightmare and wanted to pass the buck. But any administrative tasks they were assigned, they handled perfectly.
Ramesses slowed his pace slightly. He saw a mangled wreck of a body lying on the ground, rising and falling with the receding warp-tide. With a flicker of interest, he scooped it out of the tide. A mortal, tainted by Slaanesh, who had tried to use the power of Chaos to fight the Tyranids. But no miracle had occurred. To be touched by the Ruinous Powers was to be doomed to be broken.
"No matter how much you try to avoid it, the Great Enemy is always there," Ramesses sighed, not blaming the man. In his worldview, it was reasonable to pay a price to save a world. Even if he wasn't willing to do it, someone else would have the stomach for it. They had no connection, had never even met. Ramesses felt no need for false sentiment. He simply intended to annihilate the body completely, to spare the soul the torment of Slaanesh.
"Leave it to me."
As Ramesses looked down, a low voice came from nearby. He opened his eyes and saw Arthur striding towards him through the ash. With a swing of his sword, he said, "I have a better way of dealing with these tainted souls." His movements were fluid, clearly practiced many times over.
"It's tragic," Ramesses complained to Arthur. "That in the end, their only hope was Chaos." Although he loved a dark joke and enjoyed teasing people, he was still a man of the 21st century. Even his jokes had their limits. There were plenty of jokes on the Silent Vow, but he would never make one about the dead, like Sanguinius.
"We are working to ensure that more people like this can rely on us," Arthur replied seriously, not changing the subject. "As for the Chaos Gods, they will pay the price."
Ramesses nodded gravely. He then noticed the numerous scratches on Arthur's armour, and was slightly surprised. "Ran into a tough one?"
"Yes. Fulgrim."
Fulgrim?
Ramesses was momentarily confused. He had been busy haggling with the World Spirit and hadn't expected a Daemon Primarch to show up on a garden world. But he wasn't too worried. It was just a Daemon Primarch. Without a Legion, the four of them could handle him easily. But before Ramesses could ask, Arthur had already sheathed his sword and shield.
"Don't worry. He's been banished. The ritual was never completed, and the Dark Angels' firepower was sufficient to destroy his material form."
"...Oh. So he intercepted the World Spirit, saw things were going south, decided to cut his losses and run, and then ran into you."
Ramesses received the combat-log recording from Arthur and couldn't help but laugh. "I seriously suspect the big blue bird had a hand in this." If Arthur had arrived late, he would have missed him. Out of sight, out of mind. If he had arrived early, a single Daemon Primarch without a Legion was just a matter of a few extra swings from a Wraithknight. With the Dawnbreakers' military strength, he still would have been banished, but he would have been beaten soundly in a straight fight. At least they would have tried, and there would be no cause for regret.
But to arrive at that exact moment... To be banished, but under circumstances that left the nagging feeling of "what if I hadn't given up so soon, would I have had a chance?" It was like pulling up your fishing rod and seeing a massive fish right next to your hook. Never mind if your rod can even handle it, just look at the size of that fish!
"That snake is going to be in for it now—wait, there are no scars on his face yet? So Rylanor hasn't fed him his favourite virus bomb. Should we pay a visit to Isstvan III when we have the time?"
"..."
Arthur didn't reply. He accepted the battle-reports from the various Wings and began to review them. From now on, the specific affairs of the Legion would fall to him, while Romulus would focus on grand strategy and key campaigns. The Dawnbreakers needed at least one Legion that could stand on its own, without relying on Romulus.
The First Legion was the prime candidate.
