The final subjugation of the Drune Xenomorphs was more arduous than expected.
Before Morgana, Zahariel, and a hundred Dark Angels intervened in this war, the three Primarchs and their sons had already fought for six Terran Standard Months in this dead and desecrated Sector. During this period, the only things they saw were tens of millions of controlled humans, like shriveled walking dead, and those most twisted and defiled Mind-Controlling Xenomorphs.
Mortarion and his Death Guard relentlessly cleansed world after world filled with those bloated, tentacled psyker monsters. The Barbarus people, with immense enthusiasm, thoroughly eradicated every last trace of these xenomorphs in the galaxy, just as they had done for decades.
Even the most critical officer could not fault the Lord of the Death Guard for his passion and attitude towards this war of extermination. Except on a few rare occasions, Mortarion always led from the front. Wielding the scythe filled with memories and the xenomorph pistol personally bestowed by the Emperor,
he charged at the vanguard of the Legion, flanked and followed by an endless wave of Death Guard. They were like an unstoppable white and green sandstorm, crushing all resistance and desperate struggles of the defiling xenomorphs beneath their feet, reducing them to ashes.
The Fourteenth Legion had neither war cries nor visible passion; only an unyielding tenacity and perseverance in carrying out every war and massacre to the end. Undeniably, they were mighty warriors, and Mortarion at this time was a hero who had expanded humanity's territory.
At the very least, in this battle, he made immense contributions.
Everyone thought so, whether it was every mortal sailor in the fleet, every Astartes warrior in the Legion, or the two Primarchs who also participated in and commanded this war. Jaghatai didn't care what others thought, and Horus precisely wanted others to think that way.
For Warmaster Horus, merits like reclaiming a Sector and exterminating a xenomorph species were inconsequential. His resume and ambitions held far grander, crazier, and more glorious aspirations.
And if such minor merits and deference could satisfy Mortarion, allowing this brother, who commanded a powerful Legion and possessed considerable strength, to further integrate into Horus's inner circle, it would be the most cost-effective deal. Horus knew very well that his Barbarus brother might not have the same sincere feelings for the Imperium and the Emperor as he did, but he was not worried about this.
In Warmaster Horus's heart, as long as Mortarion maintained the most sincere friendship with him, then it made little difference if this Lord of Barbarus directly pledged allegiance to the Emperor.
As for Jaghatai, there was no need for such trouble. Horus knew very well that the Lord of the Icy Blue Sky did not need so-called merits, adoration, or applause, although most Primarchs would be intoxicated by them.
What Jaghatai truly desired was the camaraderie of fighting alongside his brothers and the freedom of riding to kill enemies with his sons. The Khan's blade would not be wielded for so-called profit or favors, but he would wield it for his sons, and likewise for his brothers, and even for those weaklings he had never met.
As for their gratitude, fear, misunderstanding, or even hatred?
This was never within Jaghatai's concern. This Great Khan from Chogoris had timely abandoned countless so-called glories and life values, leaving only those most sincere, noble, and worthy of upholding.
He would not contend.
But he would not compromise either.
Horus knew this, and so he became Jaghatai's true brother, not just a blood relative.
And when the Imperial Unified Fleet finally tore through countless obstacles and formidable enemies, advancing directly to the last node of the Drune Xenomorphs' blasphemous empire, what appeared before them was a pale and colossal world.
Even if all the ships in the Expeditionary Force were assembled, they would be far from enough to prevent the stellar light from shining upon this hell filled with suffering and malice.
On the Death Guard's Gloriana-class Battleship, Warmaster Horus spent approximately fifteen minutes meticulously outlining the battle plan: First, the initial landing force would consist entirely of Mortarion's sons,
with the Death Guard Legion having the sole honor of being the vanguard. Mortarion himself would fight alongside his sons, arriving on the ground with the first Drop Pods, preceding his sons to face the most lethal anti-aircraft fire and resistance.
The second wave of landing forces would be composed of Horus and the Khan, along with their carefully selected elites. Morgana and some of the best Dark Angels would also join, while Lady Spider herself was specifically kept by Warmaster Horus's side. Horus even personally arranged a "guardian" for her.
The second wave of landing forces would advance in two directions, acting as a flank to the Fourteenth Legion's main assault, screening for them until Mortarion's army in the front breached the endless tide of walking dead to find the culprit behind it all,
the sole ruler of the Drune Xenomorphs. The Lord of Barbarus would be fixated on this goal and would not care about anything else. As for the other Drune Xenomorph forces remaining on this world, Mortarion dismissively handed them over to the White Scars Legion.
And when the Death Guard finally pierced through the layers of xenomorph obstruction and found their sole objective, regardless of the battle situation on other fronts, the three Primarchs would once again unite, fight side-by-side, and kill that powerful xenomorph.
At Warmaster Horus's suggestion and advocacy, Mortarion reluctantly agreed: the Stormseers under Jaghatai's command would be the only unit to participate in this decapitation strike.
As for everything else, leave it to others.
------
"So, this is why you and I are here, Lady Morgana."
The protector specially left for the First Legion's distinguished guest by Warmaster Horus, or as we might simply call him, Ezekiel Abaddon, explained all this with a condescendingly slow and patient tone.
During this time, Abaddon's brow remained furrowed. The First Captain of the Luna Wolves Legion was fully armed, even wearing his Terminator Armor, which was more powerful and important than his martial skill. This armor itself symbolized most of Abaddon's combat techniques and wisdom.
And at this moment, this most courageous warrior under Warmaster Horus, and one of the most reckless captains in the entire Sixteenth Legion, had his head drawn back into the tight protection of his Terminator Armor, squinting his eyes, staring intently at the excessively slender silver figure before him.
She appeared so fragile, delicate, and weak, as if a casual swing of Abaddon's greatsword would easily cleave her in two. But the Son of Horus was not so foolish as to do that. In fact, he had long heard of the almost insane and terrifying reputation this Soul Drinker had accumulated on the Randan front.
Some people always thought Abaddon was a simple fool, both among his comrades and his opponents. Abaddon never bothered to refute these mistaken views; on the contrary, he saw them as opportunities to exploit in future battles.
But this did not mean he was a true fool. A fool could not become one of Horus's most trusted advisors, nor could he become a high-ranking officer truly worthy of the Luna Wolves Legion. It was simply that, most of the time, Abaddon didn't need to use his wisdom.
But now, he did.
To be honest, Abaddon was already feeling a little unaccustomed to it.
------
The world was burning. This nameless world, or perhaps broadly called the xenomorph nation of "Drune," was ablaze in the fury of the three Primarchs and their sons. Thousands of Drop Pods streaked across the almost eternally grey and silent sky, leaving trails of crimson light that tore through the illusory clouds, sowing the gospel of death and destruction across this land that had long lost all vitality.
The galaxy was so vast and so dangerous that, often, even the most powerful warriors of the Emperor could not save everyone. There were always unfortunates who fell just a second before receiving aid and liberation.
But fortunately.
They could have their revenge.
And now, it was time for revenge.
Warriors symbolizing Reaper Scythes and Flying Eagles streamed out of the Drop Pods. Some, like an unstoppable hammer, shattered the blasphemers' defenses, while others transformed into the swiftest blades, each strike eliciting agonizing wails and cries from their enemies.
Under the Legion's might, even the most terrifying and twisted beings appeared so fragile and vulnerable. The sons of Jaghatai, tasked with clearing out scattered enemies, executed their mission almost perfectly. Only two or three of them fell, yet they had meticulously cleansed vast battlefields with their blades.
Even Abaddon couldn't help but approve of the power from the Fifth Legion. He fanatically joined the battle. Although his style was out of place with the elegant sons of Jaghatai, this did not prevent him from leading his warriors in the vanguard, not falling behind even the swiftest Prairie Eagles. This even earned him quite a few admiring glances from Chogoris.
At first, Abaddon worried that such headlong charges might affect the person he was tasked with protecting. But soon, he found that no matter where he charged, even to the very front of the battle line, when he chose to stop,
with a twist of space, the silver-haired lady would easily appear beside him. Occasionally, she would make a move, instantly leveling stubborn strongholds that would otherwise have cost hundreds or even more lives.
Each time such a scene unfolded before him, Abaddon's brow would furrow even deeper. He disliked seeing such power dominating the battlefield, as it made the bravery and fearlessness of warriors seem so childish and ridiculous.
But soon, he encountered an opponent that could not be defeated by courage.
A fortress. A massive, fully functional, permanent fortress complex large enough to occupy an entire continent, whose full extent could not be seen even from the sky. This impregnable structure happened to be located on the other side of the world,
far from where the Primarchs were fighting. And the fleet's firepower from above was ineffective against such a stubborn bastion laden with void shields and anti-aircraft defenses.
Abaddon stood on a vantage point nearby, watching as squads of White Scars and Death Guard laboriously approached this impenetrable killing den. The walking dead stationed here still possessed some ability to assemble ammunition from flesh and metal, weaving a terrifying web of firepower capable of repelling any Astartes assault.
Thus, the most difficult and insane bloodbath began. Abaddon and his comrades charged at the forefront, enduring overwhelming firepower and casualties, clearing room by room those opponents who would never retreat,
capturing and slaying every xenomorph. From high noon to sunset, they had only managed to capture a mere twenty-odd fortresses, with many more awaiting them as far as the eye could see.
If not for the Standard Template Construct on this world, which was incredibly precious even to the Legions, he would have long since suggested blowing this damn world to smithereens!
Abaddon fell silent for a moment. He communicated with the leaders of the other two Legions, using his authority and power, finally reaching an agreement for a temporary retreat. Then, he turned his gaze to the silver-haired lady beside him.
Abaddon didn't like psykers.
But he wasn't a fool.
"Perhaps, we now need your powers, Lady Morgana."
[...]
[Ah...]
[Gladly.]
She smiled, then waved her hand, as if she had been ready for a long time.
In an instant, the heavens and earth changed color. Abaddon seriously looked up, only to see every inch of the sky in his vision instantly consumed by a silent, deep purple. Every wisp of air he could perceive was thoroughly saturated with endless whispers. He stretched out his hand, but felt movement incredibly difficult, as if some terrifying behemoth was suppressing everyone.
Finally, he looked up.
He saw it.
The sky was being killed.
It wept storms and destruction.
That was its blood.
------
"Look there, Vox, what in the world is that?"
His comrade's panic disturbed the meditating Death Guard. He slowly walked to the front of the viewport and glanced at the heavily armed world below.
Then, he understood his battle-brother.
A storm.
A colossal storm.
It covered almost the entire continent and was expanding at a visible rate. In just a few breaths, it had almost enveloped half of the hemisphere in their view, or rather, a third of the world.
It was moving, it was controllable, it was clearly being arbitrarily manipulated by some powerful will, because Vox could clearly see its purpose: this nameless storm was advancing along the fortress complexes visible even from space. Each time it swept over a place, what was once heavily armed turned into utter nothingness.
Vox even felt his eyes deceive him; near the silent eye of the storm, he thought he saw a tiny tooth.
The next second, he realized it was actually a small projection of a battleship caught within the storm.
------
Everything disappeared.
The fortresses, the formidable enemies, even the continuous mountain ranges and continents that had obstructed them, all vanished.
Everything was gone, leaving only the most desolate land.
Abaddon's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nonexistent saliva. Subconsciously, he turned his head to look at the instigator of it all.
She stood there, arms crossed, her weight on her left leg, lazily yawning, her silver hair swaying in the air like willow branches in the wind after a heavy snow.
Abaddon was silent. He remained silent for a very, very long time, as long as his inner screams and shock had lasted.
Finally, before he spoke again, he gravely warned himself internally.
No matter what.
Stay far away from this dangerous woman.
The farther, the better.
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