Chapter 356: Everyone Was Persecuted Except Angron
Nikaea Grand Theater – Main Hall
Magnus was panicking.
The Empyrean whispered to him that something was coming. He felt uneasy—an indistinct, rising terror. The currents of the Great Ocean no longer flowed calmly, and the dimming glow of the tutelary spirits warned him that something terrible was about to occur.
He tried to scry, to peer into the future—
The Council of Nikaea. Every psychic current pointed toward it. Something disastrous was destined to happen here. Magnus drew a deep breath. He could imagine the worst outcome.
A murder.
A conspiracy aimed at the wise, at the psykers—at the pioneers of the Imperium.
Ignorant witch-hunters, fueled by prejudice, would kindle their hatred into fire and howl for his immolation.
His father—the Emperor—would He be deceived? Magnus wondered. Would He be swayed by the heated, yet utterly flawed arguments of Mortarion and Leman Russ?
The worst outcome would be the Emperor turning judgment upon the Librarius.
A catastrophe.
At the mere thought of Mortarion's smug triumph and his taunting words afterwards, Magnus felt his mind tremble with rage.
No, he would not let that happen.
Magnus told himself this, yet his heart still obeyed the Empyrean's warning. He entered the theater with fearless steps… but once seated in the darkness, his hands tightened anxiously on the fabric of his robe.
He saw the Emperor.
He saw Sanguinius smiling at him.
Fulgrim as well, and the Librarius delegations led by the White Scars.
Warmth spread through his chest.
But then he saw Mortarion.
He saw Leman Russ—crude, savage men, brutal zealots eager to tear apart anything that displeased them.
Magnus inhaled deeply. Behind him, Ahriman noticed that the Crimson King was unconsciously tapping the arm of his chair.
But even that was not the final straw.
Magnus turned his eyes toward the seat directly facing the stage—and he saw the Sister of Silences surrounding it, while the Mechanicum's stubborn, narrow-minded Mago sat silently around it.
Magnus felt his heart plunge. His soul and reason plummeted as though falling into an abyss.
No—
No, how could this be?
Magnus whispered to himself. He stared at that empty seat in disbelief. There was no doubt: someone who opposed psykers would sit there.
Someone… who opposed psykers.
And that person would sit at the central, primary seat right before the podium.
Suddenly everything became clear.
This was a lynching disguised as a hearing for the innocent.
A witch-burning dressed up as impartial judgment, its architects sneering as they waited to watch him struggle.
No—how could this be?!
Magnus trembled slightly. He looked toward the Emperor.
He hoped for a word, a gesture—any sign that the seating was not a deliberate message.
But the Master of Mankind remained still as a statue, unmoving, inscrutable.
Magnus looked to the Angel, to Fulgrim.
He hoped his allies would see this for the injustice it was.
And in doing so, he missed the moment Mortarion rose and walked onto the stage—the Lord of Death had seized the initiative.
Even the first blow of this persecution was fired by his enemies.
Magnus felt despair swallowing him.
Betrayed. Toyed with.
The searing psychic energies within him surged… No—he should stay optimistic.
Magnus forced a brittle smile—half self-mockery, half desperate hope.
The Council had begun, but the person meant for the primary seat had not arrived.
That meant he still had a chance.
The greatest executioner had not yet come. If Magnus could refute Mortarion's and Russ's claims—if he could convince his father—then hope remained.
Magnus's spirit surged with renewed determination—
And then, in the Sea of Souls, he glimpsed a familiar, terrible presence.
It was coming.
Breathless.
Anger.
Despair.
Magnus stared at the empty seat. Suddenly he understood everything.
This was irreversible.
His fate—was it to be far crueler than he had ever imagined?
No—someone, anyone—tell him this was not fate!
Magnus hid his gasping soul beneath a mask of silence.
He knew—his destiny could not be this tragic.
But those footsteps drew closer and closer.
. . .
Nikaea Theater – Outer Corridor
Hades scratched his head and glanced at the scattered servitors along the hallway.
"Looks like we're a bit late?"
Angron shrugged indifferently.
"I don't care. And if not for me, you'd probably be right on time—playing the dutiful, proper little favorite they want you to be."
"Alright, alright,"
Hades said, "I think they've already started arguing. Maybe we should go in quietly? Try not to disturb anything?"
He looked at Angron—only to see the Primarch's expression instantly twist into a scowl.
"Why, Hades? You—and the World Eaters—deserve an entrance that commands attention and respect. They should show honor when we arrive. No gladiator steps into his arena like a thief."
Hades paused.
"Uh… well…"
He blinked, then smiled.
"Maybe we could enter separately? I'd rather not disrupt anyone—you know how the Silent Sisterhood likes things quiet."
Angron's brow furrowed even deeper.
Hades… uncertain?
The thought shocked him.
Did Hades truly not realize he deserved to have people stand for him?
He was stronger than ninety-nine percent of the Imperium—those wretches should bare their throats in submission at his presence.
Or…
Angron remembered what Hades had said earlier.
He was worried about the other Primarchs—worried how they saw him.
This would be Hades's first appearance before most of his "brothers"… in an official capacity, and as an outsider besides.
Would his brothers be hostile toward Hades?
Angron's teeth clenched. He knew that feeling—had lived in that rage and shame.
No. He would not let Hades face humiliation before those so-called "brothers."
Angron laughed suddenly.
"Have it your way."
He said it warmly—he would make Hades understand that the World Eaters would be his strongest shield.
. . .
Nikaea Theater – Main Hall
"I have witnessed countless innocent minds fall to the corruption of witchcraft—" The voice boomed.
This was nothing like Mortarion's usual rasping mutters.
The Lord of Death's voice rang loud and sharp across the entire theater.
He shouted as if hurling curses directly at the psykers he despised.
"—men who should have been Imperial citizens, fathers to their children, soldiers to their generals—yet after the warp's touch, they became twisted abominations, neither man nor beast!"
No… no…
Mortarion's voice dissolved into a droning buzz in Magnus's ears.
The Crimson King felt the suffocating presence of the approaching monster—heard the executioner sharpening his blade.
Magnus's reason wavered, yet he still knew he was right.
Inwardly, desperately, he argued back against Mortarion:
Only fools abused psychic power recklessly.
Psykery was a discipline—a complex science requiring immense restraint and control.
It was not what Mortarion was painting it to be!
"And beneath that honey—only arsenic! Lies are ever wrapped in sweet bait, hiding the sharpest blade, devouring your soul, corrupting every spark of your psychic being."
Mortarion looked toward the empty central seat before the lectern—and raised his voice even further:
"Since the founding of the Death Guard, we have fought xenos and warp-spawned horrors without fail. We triumphed—but the dangers of the psyker remain ever present, carved into the memory of every Death Guard who faced such creatures! Citizens of the Imperium! Only when you are locked in a death struggle with one driven mad by the warp do you truly understand what a terror psychic power is!"
"It turns the good to evil. It makes the wise into fools, the calm into madmen, the loyal into traitors. It boils the soul. It magnifies desire. It is the source of all evil and all tragedy!"
Mortarion's ringing voice faltered.
The Lord of Death drew in a deep, deep breath.
The entire theater went silent; everyone could hear the strained rasp beneath his mask.
Mortarion suddenly seemed exhausted. He spoke softly, and under the golden stage lights, his amber eyes gleamed, molten gold swirling within them like lava.
"I am well aware of the Thousand Sons' great achievements during the Great Crusade," he said. "My brother and his Legion have reclaimed world after world—yet I worry for him deeply. The Thousand Sons' use of the warp has grown far too extensive. Ominous clouds coil around my brother."
Magnus felt his stomach and soul twist together. He was barely holding on. Beads of sweat welled on his brow.
It was coming… too close…
No. No.
The light in Magnus's eye flared. He could feel his psychic power straining to save him.
But the Witch Hunter's voice continued, slithering like a blade across raw nerves.
Sensing Magnus's distress, Mortarion lowered his voice to a nauseating softness:
"I do not wish—no, I cannot bear—to see that after conquering countless worlds, after shattering regime after regime ruled by foolish psykers and warp-spawn… we discover that among us, among the Emperor's sons, stands one of our enemies."
He paused theatrically, then shook his head slowly.
"This should not be," he said. "This must not happen."
Silence answered him.
Absolute, deathly silence.
Mortarion knew he had won. He kept watch on the Thousand Sons' section—he could tell Magnus was unraveling.
He could sense Magnus realizing he had already lost.
Behind the mask, Mortarion's lips curled.
A pity, really, that Hades wasn't here to appreciate this exquisite moment—
A glint of light caught his eye.
At the high seat above, the main doors cracked open.
Light spilled through the gap, illuminating a single black armored boot—
BANG!
The door slammed open with a deafening force.
Startled, Hades whipped around—and saw Angron standing right beside him, even though he had promised they would enter separately.
The Red Angel's booming laughter rolled across the entire theater as every head snapped toward them.
"Sorry, everyone! Looks like we're running a bit late!"
Angron clapped a heavy hand on Hades' pauldron.
He threw Hades a wink, urging him to follow.
The World Eaters strode out in formation, surrounding Hades as they entered.
Angron knew exactly what he was doing.
With his actions, he declared before all assembled that the World Eaters were Hades's iron shield.
If Hades wouldn't take the spotlight—Angron would drag it onto him himself.
Whoever stood against Hades would stand against the World Eaters.
Hades stared at Angron, mouth slightly open.
Thank the Emperor for the shadowed golden halo around him—at least no one could see his idiotic expression.
Eyes wide, he felt every gaze in the hall turn toward him.
Slowly—weakly—desperately, he looked forward.
He saw the bright stage below.
He saw Mortarion standing there, frozen, staring up at him in shock.
And suddenly Hades realized—Angron's hand was still resting firmly on his shoulder.
"I move for a recess." ×2
Magnus and Mortarion spoke at the same time.
At least on this one thing, they were in complete agreement.
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