Chapter 310: He Is a God
The scorching wind carried waves of ash. The last gunship roared through layers of smoke and dust, landing amid immense sorrow and confusion.
The hatch opened.
Lorgar stood in that shadow—so hurried, so lost.
He stood there, in the ashes of the Perfect City, among his equally bewildered sons.
He… he gazed slowly across the ruins.
He saw those who still searched desperately through the wreckage and embers, hoping to find even a single surviving scripture.
He saw the priests kneel, praying amidst the ashes—and in their once-unbreakable hearts, a crack of despair began to form.
Gradually, voices began to rise.
"Aurelian," They cried out, "Aurelian, our Father."
Lorgar Aurelian.
They called his name.
Upon this blazing wasteland, his name carried far with the wind.
They stood, looking blankly toward him—toward their Father.
They were asking: Why? Why did it come to this?
The confusion and pain of his sons surrounded him, and Lorgar felt something inside himself fracture—something that made him incomplete.
Why? He wanted to ask the same question—why?!
They had done nothing wrong.
Why had they been rebuked so suddenly?
Why had the Perfect City been used to humiliate them?
Up to now, aside from the communications from the Ultramarines, Lorgar had received no explanation.
Could it have been the Ultramarines…?
His reason seethed; he refused to contemplate the other possibility—that unthinkable abyss of thought.
Lorgar would rather believe anything else than that… than that.
But he couldn't—not yet. Not now.
He looked toward his Word Bearers and tried to force a smile.
As their figurehead, a Primarch could not show weakness.
They were the sons' spiritual anchor—they had to be perfect.
In a sense, remaining calm and rational at all times was the weight a Primarch had to bear.
And if one could not truly remain calm—then at least one must appear so.
Argel Tal stood amidst the ruins, gazing at his Primarch.
Lorgar stepped out from the gunship.
He appeared calm and composed—yet beneath that calm lay both fury and grief.
Erebus and Kor Phaeron followed on either side of him.
Argel Tal's teacher, the First Chaplain Erebus, wore a tired yet gentle smile as he faced the Word Bearers.
He still seemed unable to accept the tragedy of the Perfect City.
Unlike many warriors, the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers often spoke softly—yet his words carried undeniable weight.
It was for this reason that Erebus had earned the respect of most of the Legion, and the trust of the Primarch himself.
Argel Tal still regarded his teacher with the respect he was due.
On the other side of the Primarch stood First Captain Kor Phaeron.
Aside from the Primarch himself, few among the Word Bearers held any affection for this "internally promoted" captain.
Kor Phaeron wore his shining, silver-grey terminator armor—an armor so thick it could rival the plating of a tank.
Any warrior wearing such armor would have achieved glorious feats—rather than wasting it on a man who hadn't even undergone the full gene-seed implantation.
Argel Tal did not wish to judge him.
As he observed the two figures beside his Primarch, Lorgar spoke.
"We shall remember this moment forever, my sons."
Lorgar lowered his eyes; beneath the ashes of the Perfect City, his golden irises dimmed to grey.
"Something beyond understanding has occurred—but I swear to you, if the Imperium, if the Ultramarines cannot give us an explanation for this… then they will pay the price."
The price.
That word echoed in Argel Tal's mind.
He felt the ashes brush against his face.
Then what, he wondered, would our price be?
Aurelian, my Father—what price shall we pay for accepting all of this?
Rigidly following their Primarch's command, the scattered companies of Word Bearers began to regroup.
Even though they were shocked, confused, and filled with doubt, they were still Word Bearers—the Imperium's most devoted warriors.
Soon, a hundred thousand of them stood assembled upon that desolate ground.
As First Captain and First Chaplain, Kor Phaeron and Erebus were permitted to stand outside the formation, one on either side behind their Primarch.
When the last Word Bearer fell into rank, it felt like a signal—but not one meant for them.
There was a stirring in the air, an uneasy tremor.
Argel Tal wished it was the rumble of gunships approaching—but, regrettably, he was wrong.
The sun was setting.
Beyond the ashes and embers, the sky burned orange-red, molten and searing.
Then a golden brilliance, too radiant to look upon, began to envelop the land.
No—that was no light of any star.
It was far more resplendent than a sun.
He had come.
Argel Tal saw disbelief flash across Lorgar's face—the sound of a mask cracking.
Aurelian, were you expecting Guilliman?
Malcador?
Or perhaps some other emissary of the Imperium?
Anyone—anyone but Him.
But He descended here, upon this vast ruin, and in that instant it was made certain—
—They had been wrong.
The muscles along Lorgar's jaw tightened.
Slowly, he turned.
The light was too blinding; even a Primarch had to squint.
Lorgar looked straight toward the sun—toward the being emerging from its radiance.
"Father."
Lorgar trembled as he uttered that word—the word that meant everything.
The Emperor looked upon him.
Lorgar had never seen Him like this.
He no longer wore the weighty, glorious golden armor.
His long, dark hair hung loose.
He was clad in a rough, plain linen robe.
A wreath of olive leaves twined with thorns rested upon His brow.
And in His eyes—there was nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
"Kneel."
He said.
It was not a request.
Nor was it a command.
It was something far more ancient and absolute than either—a word of pure, primal authority.
Argel Tal's mind went blank.
His muscles locked.
The servos of his power armor groaned under the strain—and at last, he knelt.
Knee to ash, head bowed.
And in that moment of total submission, a strange peace washed through the mind of every Word Bearer.
Now, one hundred thousand Word Bearers—one hundred thousand warriors—all knelt among the ruins of the Perfect City.
Lorgar turned, aghast, staring at his sons.
His pupils trembled.
Then he turned back, his voice barely a whisper.
"…Father?"
His Father was looking at him—without a trace of emotion.
"Kneel."
He repeated.
The word pressed against Lorgar like an iron weight.
He could barely breathe.
His mind shuddered; his spine bent under the impossible burden—and finally, he too knelt.
"Lorgar Aurelian,"
The voice came from above them all.
"You have disappointed me."
"I am disappointed in you—and in your Legion."
Lorgar's mind rang like struck metal.
It was as if his blood froze.
He could not breathe.
He could not understand.
Why— why?!
He tried to lift his gaze toward his Father, but the effort failed.
The sheer weight of disappointment crushed him; he could not raise his head.
"You believe that I am a god,"
The Emperor said quietly.
Lorgar's lips twitched into a broken, trembling smile.
Was that the reason?
Because You refused to accept Your own divinity—You destroyed the Perfect City?
You demand that we kneel?
Truth belongs to us, You cannot—
"Then why," the Emperor interrupted, "why have you and your Legion failed to meet my expectations, Aurelian?"
Lorgar's pupils constricted.
He… what…?
Could it be…?
No… He wouldn't…
Why would He…
Had He acknowledged it?
Lorgar's mind went blank once more.
In that vast, stunned silence, he slowly raised his head.
The Emperor stood there, haloed by the dying sun.
The light surrounding Him was golden—cold—and yet…
And yet it felt strangely familiar, almost warm.
Lorgar opened his mouth, hoarse and uncertain.
The god was questioning His worshiper—and what answer could the worshiper give?
"We… we spread Your truth across the stars, without a moment's hesitation. The Legion conquered world after world. Father—why…?"
The final words slipped from Lorgar's trembling lips, fading into silence.
He stared at the Emperor—incomprehension and despair filling his gaze.
The Emperor raised a hand.
His eyes were blinding gold, burning with unbearable light.
He seemed to beckon Lorgar to look—to see the ruins of the Perfect City, the ashes of faith laid bare before them.
"Lorgar Aurelian, do you truly believe you have obeyed my words?"
Wasn't it so? Lorgar trembled.
"Your progress is the slowest of all the Legions, Lorgar. The Great Crusade cannot afford delay."
Lorgar felt as though his throat were bleeding.
"The worlds behind the Word Bearers are never left in ruins! The worlds we conquer can serve immediately—and they are utterly loyal to You! To the Imperium!"
"Loyal to me?"
The Emperor spoke slowly, and the crushing weight of His presence descended again.
Suffocating dread wrapped itself around Lorgar's heart.
He remembered suddenly—the strange unease he had felt in prayer just days before.
"Look at me, my son."
Lorgar stared, trembling, at his god.
Behind the Emperor, the sun burned like an explosion, painting the sky with molten gold.
His face was shadowed, but His eyes—His eyes blazed with that same molten radiance.
"My son, Lorgar… answer me truly, with your heart. Are you loyal to me?"
"I am loyal to You! I am Your most faithful servant! Emperor! My Father! Why—"
Lorgar's roar faltered.
He saw a single golden tear fall slowly from the Emperor's eye.
The Emperor lowered His gaze—in it were sorrow, and regret too deep to bear.
"Then see for yourself."
Lorgar's vision wavered.
Everything around him twisted and warped.
He saw people smashing the Emperor's statues—and he tried to shout in fury, to stop them—But then, from within the shattered stone, pus began to ooze, silencing him with horror.
This— this— why?!
He saw the bustling streets of the Perfect City.
He saw the filth hidden in its alleys.
He saw cultists, cloaked in human skin, dancing madly as they splashed blood over sacred candles.
He saw— he saw—
Lorgar trembled, bending forward, nearly fainting.
Among those visions—he saw it—a glimpse of grey armor.
The armor of a Word Bearer.
He was drowning in guilt and despair.
"This is what you have offered Me, Lorgar Aurelian."
The Emperor's calm voice echoed.
After a long silence, Lorgar's voice rasped out—hoarse, broken.
"Emperor, my Lord… please… grant me one more chance. I will cut the rot from my own flesh. Please—grant me, grant the Word Bearers, grant Your sons a chance at redemption… Father… my Father…"
The Emperor slowly shook His head.
"I cannot trust you."
Lorgar felt himself die inside.
He knelt rigidly, barely breathing.
"But I will grant you and your Legion a chance to atone. You are wise, Lorgar. You and your sons have sought the right path—though you have taken it wrongly."
Lorgar's head jerked up, eyes wide and bloodshot.
He stared at the Emperor in disbelief.
Behind them, the sun was sinking; night began to claim the remnants of day.
"Yes, Lorgar Aurelian,"
The Emperor said.
"There are gods in this world."
From behind the Legion came the sound of heavy footsteps—slow, deliberate, echoing with the faint ring of metal.
The unexpected newcomer sent a shock through Lorgar's exhausted mind.
He wanted to turn, but the Emperor's will crushed him—crushed them all.
"I no longer wish to deceive you, Lorgar Aurelian."
"I no longer wish to see you stray from the path."
The Emperor's voice was soft, but the golden tear on His cheek glimmered like molten light.
He closed His eyes—unwilling to look upon His son any longer.
"I am a god, Lorgar Aurelian. I am a god—but you will never understand what it costs Me to admit that."
The Emperor let out the faintest sigh.
Even speaking those words seemed to drain Him. He looked weary—immeasurably so.
"You must learn again to do what is right, my son."
"And now—bow your head, feel the weight of your sin, Aurelian."
"You must repent."
Feel my sin?
Feel… what?
Lorgar opened his mouth to ask again, but the Emperor closed His eyes.
He was too disappointed—too heartbroken to look upon His son any longer.
Lorgar's heart swelled with endless questions, endless guilt and remorse—but none of it mattered now.
Helplessly, he obeyed the divine command, lowering his head in pious submission.
No one spoke.
Silence fell over everything—
—except for the footsteps.
They were drawing closer.
Lorgar's vision began to dim.
Night descended.
The dark, cold waters of the underworld seemed to rise, lapping at the greaves of the Word Bearers' armor.
The warriors felt weak—and, in that weakness, more awake.
Lorgar held his breath.
He wanted to look up, to ask what was happening—but he realized suddenly that he could not move.
The God did not permit him to.
The footsteps entered the sea of kneeling Word Bearers, as darkness swallowed them whole.
They wanted to look up, to see who it was, to see what was being done—but, like their Primarch, they could not.
They were not allowed to look.
Argel Tal held his breath.
The sound was near—right behind him.
The darkness pressed down so heavily it felt solid.
Through that suffocating blackness, he barely kept hold of his reason.
He saw a pair of black-armored feet pass beside him, faintly glimmering with drops of pale green light—like tears.
What… what is that?
Hades walked silently among the kneeling Legionaries.
In his hands were two immense black stone spears—or perhaps spikes—their shafts as thick as his wrists.
At the tips, three-headed hounds had been carved with exquisite care, each one glaring mercilessly down upon all creation.
At last, he stopped—just behind the front rank, behind Kor Phaeron.
Kor Phaeron, encased in his massive terminator armor, knelt motionless.
His meticulously polished plates gleamed even in the gloom.
Hades listened to the quickening of three nearby heartbeats.
He raised his right-hand spear.
Thrust
"Sssk—!!"
A shrill metallic shriek cut through the air—the sound of metal stabbing through armor, followed by the heavy, wet crunch of flesh being pierced… and then the dull rip of the spear tearing out again.
But Kor Phaeron's scream drowned it all.
"AaaaAAAHHH—!"
He clutched backward with both hands, trying to pull the spear free—but it was driven deep, pinned to the ground.
The spear had entered through the back of his neck, pierced his lung, exited through his thigh, and was buried firmly in the earth beneath him.
He could not lift his head.
He could not turn.
The blow had shattered his spine—he could not.
He could even feel the poison coating the weapon, keeping his nerves aflame, preventing his blood from clotting.
The executioner did not move on.
The monstrous figure still held the spear, and a terrible sense of dread and helplessness flowed down its shaft, sinking into Kor Phaeron's dying body.
"Ghh— hhhhAAAAAAAHHH!"
Kor Phaeron gasped and screamed, his breath ragged, foaming blood spilling from his mouth.
He had never even completed the gene-surgery of a true Astartes—now he was nothing more than a broken doll, wheezing in agony.
Lorgar bowed his head, listening to the screams to his right.
No— no—
He realized what was happening—his foster father— no—
Crimson sweat streamed down his face.
Beside him, Erebus felt a roaring in his ears.
No no no no no no—!
Kor Phaeron had been discovered!
Then surely he was exposed as well—
He had to run—run!
But how could he?
As if reading his thoughts, the psychic aura around him flared brighter—trapping him where he knelt.
'Damn you all!'
Erebus screamed inwardly, calling out the names of the dark gods.
He had given himself to them.
He had promised them the Word Bearers—promised them Lorgar!
They could not abandon him.
He was necessary!
His name was written in the broken fate of the Imperium—it could not end here!
No—!
The footsteps moved again, passing behind Lorgar.
Lorgar would never admit, not even to himself, that in that instant he felt a flicker of relief.
Erebus listened in despair as the monster's tread drew closer to him.
He began to mutter the invocations of the Four Gods, his voice a fevered whisper.
He struggled wildly against the psychic pressure of the False Emperor—and at last, with a violent surge, he wrenched his head upward.
The motion snapped his neck backward—
And he saw it: a black figure looming above him, a monster of the dark, its eyes cold and empty—
In an instant, Hades raised his spear and drove it down.
Crack
The sharp sound of a skull shattering filled the air—followed by the metallic rasp of the spear's shaft grinding through armor, and the wet crunch of a spine splintering.
At the end, the three-headed hound upon the spear's tip stood proud and unmoving, as blood streamed steadily down the shaft.
"AaaaaAAAHHHHH—!"
Erebus screamed.
He cursed, he howled, he thrashed.
He tried to tear the weapon from his face—the spear that had pierced through his skull, skimming the brain but sparing his life—yet all his struggles were useless.
The monster looked down at him, expressionless.
It held the spear firm.
Erebus watched, horrified, as a creeping blackness—alive—spread down from the creature's hands along the spear, dripping slowly, like the priest's own entrails hanging from his body.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"
Erebus's shriek tore through the air—a keening, animal wail that merged with Kor Phaeron's dying gasps.
The sounds echoed endlessly in Lorgar's ears.
Lorgar kept his head bowed.
He knelt, shaking, feeling madness claw at the edges of his mind.
The sun was nearly gone.
The last light sank beneath the horizon.
The Emperor opened His mouth.
"Repent."
The next moment—He was gone.
With Him vanished the crushing psychic weight that had forced them all to their knees.
And yet none of the hundred thousand Word Bearers dared to rise.
They knelt in silence, heads bowed, sweat trickling slowly down their faces.
The soft, cold darkness wrapped around them—as if whispering that He was not cruel, that He punished only the guilty.
But… what was that?
That was no Custodian.
No Primarch.
Then what was it?
The screams of the condemned still rang out—but their very presence only made the silence of that being more terrible.
. . .
Hades stared down at Erebus without emotion.
Kor Phaeron was nearly gone, breathing in ragged, deathly gasps.
Erebus, however, was still very much alive—still shouting the names of the Chaos Gods, still calling upon the Daemons.
When none answered, he spat at Hades, screaming curses, trying to provoke him.
Hades only found it pathetic.
He watched the priest's futile struggle with cold calm.
Erebus clawed at the spear, making himself uglier with every motion.
His eyes bulged; bloody pulp burst from his nostrils, his ears, his mouth.
Without a word, Hades stepped behind Lorgar.
He drew from his belt a broken sword—half a blade—and drove it into the ground before him like a staff.
Resting both hands upon it, he stood silently.
He listened—to Lorgar's ragged breathing, to Kor Phaeron's choking gasps, to Erebus's curses, and to the shuddering hearts of the hundred thousand Word Bearers behind them.
The darkness closed in around him.
Now was the hour of darkness.
Lorgar trembled.
He was on the verge of madness.
He stared, wide-eyed, listening as his most trusted First Chaplain spewed blasphemies—the foul, heretical words of the cults.
He listened as his dying father, Kor Phaeron, choked out broken cries—was that his name being called?
No. No, don't call him.
Everything else was silent.
The ruins of the Perfect City watched in mute sorrow, as if weeping without tears.
When the planet's moon reached its zenith, Kor Phaeron's rasping breaths finally ceased.
A faint sound followed—the scrape of armor against sand, the twitching noise of a corpse whose muscles still shuddered in reflex.
Erebus began to curse.
He cursed Lorgar.
He cursed the Word Bearers.
He spat that they were sheep—weak and pitiful.
That without the holy book, they were nothing.
That they had forgotten every word of faith and power that once gave them strength.
The executioner said nothing.
Lorgar and the others dared not move.
When the moon had passed three-quarters of its course, Kor Phaeron was utterly silent—not even the drip of blood remained.
Erebus began to weep and pray instead.
He screamed that he had been deceived by the Ruinous Powers —that he had seen the truth through pain and punishment—that he repented!
That he would do anything for redemption—that even if they made him a servitor, it would be mercy!
His voice rose in desperation, trembling, pitiful.
He cried out toward the executioner, pleading, almost tender in his despair—for a time, his voice was that of a wounded animal, whimpering in the desert.
Lorgar felt himself wavering.
For a heartbeat, Erebus's lament almost swayed him.
But behind him—the executioner did not move.
An hour later, Erebus began cursing again, his voice weaker now, fading.
When the moon sank and the horizon began to pale with dawn, Erebus's voice stopped altogether.
There came two sharp, guttural gasps—then silence.
His hands slipped from the shaft of the spear.
The sinners had died in the darkness.
They had not survived the night.
A soft clink of metal sounded.
Lorgar knew the executioner—the Silent One—was moving.
His mind was chaos.
Between Kor Phaeron's death cries, Erebus's madness, and the looming shadow behind him through that endless night, he could no longer think clearly.
Hades raised the broken sword.
He brought it down in a swift, controlled motion.
Lorgar's whole body stiffened—but he did not rise.
He did not resist.
Clang
The broken blade struck his armor with a clear metallic note.
Hades paused, then slowly drew the weapon back.
He turned away, preparing to leave.
"Who… who are you?"
Lorgar's voice was barely more than a whisper behind him.
Hades glanced back once—at the kneeling giant, still bowed in the dust.
He said nothing.
He turned, and walked away.
His footsteps receded along the same path by which he had come.
Far to the east, the first light of dawn—pale and cold—spread across the horizon.
<+>
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