Magna Macragge City outskirts, Crown Mountain, Ultramarines Chapter Monastery—Fortress Hera.
"[Lorgar]?"
"It is I."
Without warning, the compassionate voice echoed across the battlefield. From the burst of the teleportation beam, a towering figure erged like a god descending from the heavens. Before the sanctum gates of the shrine where the Thirteenth Primarch slumbered, he stood—majestic, radiant.
Crimson-violet light particles mixed with golden motes. The very air distorted, space itself shimring with visible ripples as his arrival shook reality. The sheer shockwave scattered friend and foe alike, giving Marneus Calgar the brief reprieve he needed to break free from encirclent.
Being the bastion of resistance was no small burden. Calgar’s master-forged armor was riddled with holes, cracked and scarred. His exposed face was swollen and bloodied, his eyes sticky with the gri of battle. Forcing them open, he looked up at the unexpected ’reinforcent’ with a mixture of confusion and dread.
The newcor’s presence was overwhelming.
Though he radiated calmness, wisdom, and scholarly composure, what emanated strongest was the torrent of overwhelming energy and vibrant life force within him—like a roaring ocean that dominated the hearts and minds of all within the sanctum.
Every warrior inside Fortress of Hera—loyalist and heretic alike—recognized him instantly.
That imnse fra, towering over even the tallest Astartes, dwarfing even Calgar in his ornate armor, spoke one undeniable truth.
He was a demigod.
The Roman nural XVII—the mark of the once-loyal Word Bearers Legion—glead faintly upon his armor. The polished, light-gray plate was inscribed with sacred scripture and illuminated with prayers. Upon his shoulders rested the gilded double-headed Aquila and the flaming to—symbols of divine truth and holy fire.
Everything about him proclaid his identity, yet also scread contradiction—so much so that even the most steadfast of minds began to waver.
Kor Phaeron, the Dark Cardinal of the Word Bearers and the Primarch’s forr faith adviser, whispered in disbelief, his voice trembling so hard that many around him felt a chill crawl up their spines.
[Lorgar].
The Great Word Bearer. The First Traitor. The Daemon Primarch. The mortal enemy of the Ultramarines.
"[Lorgar], my son, my most precious jewel, my master... why... why have you co in person?" Kor Phaeron quickly regained his wits. Choosing his words with care, he forced a servile smile.
He studied his ’adopted son’ carefully from what he believed to be a safe distance. Where were the Colchisian runes once engraved upon his skin? Was he not ascended? Had he not sealed himself away within the Eye?
Could this be a plot of the Changer of Ways? Or perhaps a deception of the Corpse-Emperor?
Confused and suspicious, Kor Phaeron began to inch backward subtly. Now was not the ti to act rashly. He quietly prid his teleport beacon built into his Terminator armor.
Caution had always been his strength. His sharp instincts were the only reason he had survived this long.
And those instincts scread danger now—for he could feel it, radiating from Lorgar’s gaze.
Killing intent.
Not overwhelming, but pure and absolute.
Damn it... did that bastard Erebus snitch on again?! Or has one of my little secrets been exposed?! #& (Colchisian profanity). Erebus, that filthy snake, as if he’s any cleaner than I am! Crow laughs—"Q@Q群↗Ⅵ~⑥{Ⅱ∩溜∧0!@岭∈叭%^贰=２*&^"—the pot calling the kettle black!
Just as Kor Phaeron studied Lorgar Aurelian, the Daemon Primarch was examining his so-called foster father in turn.
A failure.
That was Lorgar’s verdict.
Even after ten thousand years, though Kor Phaeron’s body had long since fused with his armor through blasphemous sorcery, Lorgar saw it clearly—his transformation was imperfect. He had not undergone proper Imperial gene-seed modification. Instead, bionic augntations, alchemical serums, and a heavily modified suit of power armor rely made him roughly equivalent to a Space Marine.
That wrinkled, tattoo-covered bald head, the aged, scheming face, and those narrow, venomous eyes—everything about this man filled Lorgar with disgust.
Bzzzzzz—!
Crimson lightning danced and coiled around Lorgar’s weapon—the Divine Key and Scepter of Truth, personally blessed by Selene. From its haft to the tritagonal Honkai Cube embedded at its head, destructive violet-red energy surged upward, releasing a blinding radiance.
"[Lorgar], you shouldn’t listen to that fool Erebus! I’m your father—the one you trust most!"
Realization struck Kor Phaeron like a bolt of terror. His face twisted in panic as he shouted across the hall. Every cell in his withered body scread of death’s approach; his flesh, fused with armor, seed to vibrate in agony. Even his long-trusted psychic foresight yielded nothing—no warning, no protection.
Sothing was wrong. Deeply wrong.
"Pathetic acting."
Lorgar lifted the Scepter of Truth, stepping forward slowly. His head tilted slightly, his golden eyes gazing down upon Kor Phaeron and the corrupted Word Bearers that surrounded him. In his gaze flickered pity, disdain—and, faintly, relief.
Your faith was never true. At noon, the false proclaim devotion; at dusk, the devout are revealed.
You are rely worshippers of power.
"You already suspected I was not your pitiful foster son, yet you still cling to wordplay and deceit. Suspicion, jealousy, hatred... False disciple, your heart is too stained with filth to ever be called faithful."
In Lorgar’s dark-golden eyes, flas of judgnt erupted.
Bzzzz—CRACK!
A violent surge of psionic and warp-born energy swept outward. The air howled; tornadoes clawed at the skies. Fortress of Hera trembled from foundation to summit. The sacred hall shuddered and cracked, molten light devouring the walls until the chamber beca a blazing forge.
The sheer force was overwhelming—even Calgar dared not look directly upon it.
"Attack him—now!"
Kor Phaeron shrieked, backpedaling furiously, jagged teeth bared. "Kill him! That’s not [Lorgar]! It’s so sorcery from that rotting Corpse on Terra! A trick more insidious than the Great Crusade itself!"
He raised the cursed blade shard high. The malefic psychic ritual—powered by ten millennia of sacrifice and countless innocent lives—ignited in a burst of hellish light.
Like a chorus of wailing dead, hundreds of heavily corrupted Word Bearers and Dark Apostles roared their hatred and charged at Lorgar in a tide of madness.
BOOM!
One strike—simple, unadorned, and absolute.
The Scepter of Truth swung sideways with the roar of red lightning. The very ground convulsed. The impact thundered like the cracking of the world. Bones shattered, flesh tore, armor ruptured—all at once.
Hundreds of charging possessed were obliterated in midair. The annihilation field radiating from the Scepter spread outward like a tidal wave, tearing apart cultists, corrupted chanicus soldiers, and daemon-forged engines alike. The sanctum, the steel, even the sky itself split open.
Crash!
Possessed, Terminators, Dreadnoughts, Hellbeasts—none were spared. The shockwave ripped through them all, blasting the vaulted do of the sanctum sky-high, sending tons of adamantine, ceramite, and gold-plated marble raining down.
Sculpted angels shattered into dust. The holy arches broke apart. Void shield emitters lted, fortress gun batteries twisted and collapsed. The debris—concrete, steel, and flesh—fell like teors, leveling the mountain peaks surrounding Crown Hill and piercing the storm-wracked heavens.
A literal storm of blood and ruin.
The floor split into a web of cracks filled with gore and bone. Corpses piled in grotesque mounds, painting the shattered marble in a tapestry of death.
That single, devastating strike left all witnesses paralyzed—awestruck and horrified beyond reason. The air itself seed frozen by fear.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM-BOOM—!
Each swing reshaped Fortress of Hera’s structure. The tremors ruptured organs within living bodies; the shockwaves sliced through steel and flesh alike. Every step Lorgar took rang with the tallic hymn of war.
Clad in his immaculate Armor of the Word, the Daemon Primarch strode through the inferno untouched—harvesting life and soul alike, as easily as reaping wheat.
The cultists began to flee.
Once the most deranged of the Chaos Marines were slaughtered, the rest of the warbands inside Fortress of Hera broke completely. Already lost to Chaos, they had long abandoned honor and discipline—only greed bound them now. To expect them to fight to the death was impossible.
That power...!
A Primarch! A Primarch—!
Had the Corpse-Emperor created another one?
Unwilling! They had been so close to corrupting a loyal Primarch!
Kor Phaeron fled, mind blank with panic. He hurled orders through psychic command to the possessed warriors around him, forcing them to buy him ti. However much it pained him, his decision was instant—retreat! For all his cunning, to face a Primarch, even one manifested by sorcery, was no act of courage. It was suicide.
"Bridge—activate the teleport beacon! Ergency extraction! NOW!" he scread into his vox as he ran, tumbling over shattered debris.
Bzzzz—!
The teleport beam shimred around him. He grit his teeth, vowing vengeance. He would return.
One second passed. Then two. Then three...
The last of his Blessed Sons burst into a cloud of blood midair, and the splatter painted Kor Phaeron’s frozen face.
"False believer... do not presu that your shallow mind can define all things."
A vast shadow lood behind him. In disbelief, Kor Phaeron turned—only to see crimson lightning engulf his vision as Lorgar’s Scepter of Truth descended.
"Spatial lock. You cannot fathom the weight of true power."
"No—!"
"In the na of Selene, in accordance with divine destiny, I—Lorgar Aurelian, Patriarch of the God-Emperor’s Evangelion, the most humble servant of the Divine Empress—deliver judgnt. False disciple, the stars shall hold no refuge for your wretched soul!"
His dark-golden eyes blazed with violet-red radiance as he raised the Scepter.
This was a judgnt.
He felt no fury toward the other self’s betrayal. He was himself—a servant of Her Majesty Selene, a preacher of the Gospel, the Empress’ ssenger.
This was the judgnt of the faithful upon the false.
False believers—more hateful than heretics.
RIP—!
From scalp to skull, the force tore through Kor Phaeron like divine thunder. His skin split, bone cracked, veins and nerves burst, eyes popped, lungs and heart pulverized—until his body exploded like an overfilled vessel, splattering molten gore and shattered armor across the shattered floor.
"The ’Perfect City Incident’ was never punishnt. It was a gift."
Raising the gore-stained staff, Lorgar murmured reverently, "If you were truly faithful, you would have understood—divine attention is the greatest honor."
Crackle—
Activating the annihilation field, he burned away the blood and viscera clinging to the Scepter’s head. Then, stepping into the firelit shrine, bathed in the crimson glow of the burning heavens, he approached the sleeping Primarch.
Thud... Thud...
Each step echoed. Ascending the fractured stairs, Lorgar passed the battered Ultramarines and Macragge Guard who knelt in silent awe. None dared et his gaze.
"No! I cannot verify your identity! You cannot approach the Gene-Fath—"
Bang!
Calgar and his captains, broken and bloodied, tried to stand in his way—only to be swept aside by an invisible force that hurled them to the ground.
Before they could rise again, the next teleport beam flared—bringing new arrivals.
The Archmagos Dominus and Saint Celestine had arrived with reinforcents.
"It’s ti to wake up, my unseen brother," Lorgar said softly, halting before the throne.
There sat the Thirteenth Primarch—tall, pale, and motionless in his blue armor of reason, like a ghost frozen in death.
In Lorgar’s hand, a violet, elongated crystalline shard began to take shape.
"How enviable, this divine attention... My brother, this is Her Majesty Selene’s personal gift to you."
He raised the shard and drove it straight into Guilliman’s throat wound—the one still faintly exuding the strange, sweet scent of the warp.
Zzzzt—!
The stasis field disengaged. Primarch blood—vivid crimson—splashed forth before the stunned eyes of all present.
"No—!" Calgar roared, despair flooding his face. But in the next heartbeat, that despair was replaced by astonished hope.
The violet-red crystal dissolved into the wound, vanishing completely. Then, the lifeless, pale body of the Gene-Father blazed with new vigor—his form suffused with limitless power.
Haaaa—!
A deep, resounding breath echoed through the sanctum.
Guilliman breathed once... and again.
Life surged through his colossal fra. Each inhalation rolled like ocean tides, resonating through the air.
"Hey! Wake up, Guilliman, my brother! Now’s not the ti for sleeping—you’ve still got work to do."
Smiling broadly, Lorgar spread his arms wide, eager to greet his long-lost comrade, ally, and brother-in-arms.
And, of course, to preach.
Ahem... My dear Guilliman, would you like to hear about the Sacred Words of the Sacred Selene Empire?
Thud!
Before he could finish rehearsing his greeting, the towering blue-armored giant stood.
He too spread his arms.
"[Lorgar]—!"
It was... a bit too enthusiastic.
BANG—!
The blue giant slamd into the gray one with the crash of armor against armor.
"Lorgar of Colchis—I told you! Our ceasefire is over. The pact is void. I will never again offer you or your bastard spawn an olive branch. You are no brother of mine! Next ti we et, I’ll kill you myself—and toss your foul corpse into the deepest pit of hell!"
Grinding his teeth, Guilliman’s voice thundered with fury. "Blood for Calth’s dead! Blood for Ultramar’s fallen!"
Lorgar sighed softly. "How unfortunate, my poor brother... Your anger is misdirected."
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