The galaxy burned.
Father and son drew swords against each other.
Brothers slaughtered one another. The grand dream shattered.
Every warrior who realized this felt their heart break. The Astartes who had dedicated themselves to the Great Crusade had all dreamed of following the Emperor and building a great nation. They dreamed of establishing a stellar empire for humanity.
But this dream was destroyed by humanity's own inherent flaws.
Horus betrayed humanity and embraced the Chaos Gods.
He arrogantly declared war on his father.
Attempting to drag humanity into an abyss of eternal darkness. The Istvaan system held too much sorrow and grief for the Salamanders Legion. Too many brothers were lost.
So much so that the entire beach was piled high with corpses.
But the Sons of Prometheus from Nocturne would never compromise.
Because their souls were forged from the fires of Nocturne, hammered into shape on a blacksmith's anvil.
No power could utterly destroy them. They would surely be reforged in fire and return again.
Bearing the flames of vengeance, to unleash their anger upon their powerful foes.
When Taras woke up.
He saw scorching flames burning the sky and the earth.
Everything was a fiery red.
Even space itself was glowing red, like a heated iron block.
Everywhere he looked, there were flames. The sneering laughter of the gods echoed in his ears, mocking the weakness and insignificance of mortals.
Countless screams came from the sea of fire. The charred remains of his comrades burned within the inferno.
He was on an island within the sea of fire.
Rolling heatwaves distorted his vision, and the smoke and dust from the inferno were visible, floating in the air.
On the black reef lay weapons and a large jar, emblazoned with a two-headed eagle.
Scattered memories surfaced.
He remembered that he should have died when the Sons of Horus attacked the Moon.
Why was he still here?
Had the war been lost?
Had humanity become slaves and playthings of the gods?
Was this the sea of fire where he was destined to suffer eternally?
"No!" Taras grabbed his weapon and roared at the sky, "Do not imagine that a Son of Prometheus will ever bow before you, dark gods! Even if this is hell, I will walk out of it."
His voice echoed through the sea of fire. The maniacal laughter of the gods continued as before.
Yet, a cool breeze swept through the rolling heatwaves, starkly out of place in this terrifying inferno.
A calling voice came on the wind.
A majestic voice commanded him to walk through the terrifying sea of fire and bring back the jar with the golden two-headed eagle emblem. Taras looked at the jar, smooth and gleaming, cylindrical in shape, bearing not only the golden two-headed eagle but also the emblem of the Lunar Gene cult.
"The Primordial Mother-Gene?" Taras instinctively recognized the jar's identity.
It was the very Primordial Mother-Gene that he, along with Sarokin of the Night Watch, Wayland of the Iron Fathers, Brantan of the Iron warriors, and others, had seized. The Primordial Mother-Gene was extremely mysterious and powerful.
Its origin could be traced back to the Dark Age of Technology. The Emperor, using the Primordial Mother-Gene and knowledge from the Void Dragon and the Warp, created the twenty Primarchs.
And based on the twenty Primarchs, he created twenty Legions of Space Marines.
During the Horus Heresy, the Sons of Horus invaded the Moon and defeated the Lunar Gene cult.
At that time, a Gene-Witch, at the command of the Gene-cult's Matriarch, took the Primordial Mother-Gene from the Vault of Ages and sent a distress signal into the void. The cruiser *Sisyphus*, where Taras was, received this distress signal. The solar system at that time was in an abysmal state.
Horus, by some unknown evil means, had torn open a terrifying rift near Terra.
An unimaginable fleet bypassed the solar system's void defenses and appeared near Terra's orbit.
All sorts of news filled those on the *Sisyphus* with dread and unease. The rebels had arrived at Terra with overwhelming force, leaving no room for chance.
Everyone was caught off guard. The void burned, planets were shattered.
Endless terror, death, and atrocities enveloped humanity's birthplace. The sneering laughter of the gods echoed throughout the galaxy, cheering for the grand drama they had orchestrated. The *Sisyphus* was scarred and battered; after disengaging from the Jupiter defense line, its hull was almost torn apart.
Even the best Mechanicus Archmagos could not repair it.
Sarokin and the others ultimately chose to respond to the Gene-Witch's distress signal. They went to the Moon and seized the Primordial Mother-Gene from the Sons of Horus. Taras did not witness the final outcome of this operation.
His last memory was of endless pain. The agony of flesh being scorched by flames. The mingled flames of molten material were hot enough to melt everything. To carry away the Primordial Mother-Gene, he chose to wade through the sea of fire. The flames fused his armor and flesh, even burning away his flesh to reveal his glowing white bones. The pain of being scorched by the flames brought a hint of terror to Taras' heart.
He would die, just like the corpses burning in the fire.
But the next second, his sense of mission and pride made him take the first step.
Every Salamander's duty is to bear burdens others cannot. To stand where others fall, to continue into the flames when they retreat.
He picked up his weapon, shouldered the jar, and stepped into the sea of fire. The sky burned, the earth melted.
Atomic flames scorched his armor and flesh. The radioactive fire burned through his helmet, licking at his face. The searing pain radiated from his bones, like torture.
His skin was charred black by the extreme heat, peeling away from the thinnest parts of his skull.
With every step, the pain shot up his bones into his spine.
Unimaginable pain filled his mind like shattered glass, his body felt as if it were on fire.
Yet, Taras walked with unwavering resolve.
Step after step.
Allowing his body to be consumed by the flames.
His dark skin peeled off, his flesh splattered in the hellish storm around him, like embers spitting from a furnace. The sneering laughter of the gods echoed in his ears. They promised Taras eternal happiness.
As long as he was willing to give up, to lie down, the pain would cease.
And how simple and blissful it would be to just give up.
But Taras remained unyielding. The Sons of Prometheus are born in fire, and pain is the hammer that forges them. They do not succumb to pain; they valiantly conquer it. Taras had no fear.
The flames knocked him down again and again, but he rose with a roar every time. The gleaming jar grew heavier, making his steps more unsteady, each forward movement so difficult and painful. The surging, scorching flames gave him the illusion of returning to Nocturne.
He didn't know how much time had passed. Taras still hadn't succumbed to the pain.
He continued, as always, to traverse the sea of fire. The sneering laughter of the gods turned into furious roars.
Deafening, causing tumultuous waves to surge throughout the Warp. They had inflicted so much despair and pain upon this damned wretch.
Why could he still endure?
Why could he still walk on, step by step?
As Taras took a step, a cool breeze blew across his face, causing his charred flesh to crack like a dried shell.
He saw endless grasslands and mountains stretching to the horizon.
Looking around, he found himself standing on a tall mountain. The emerald-like forests were boundless, swaying in the wind like undulating waves.
Flocks of birds soared across the sky, enjoying freedom and fresh air.
He turned his head and saw that the raging fiery hell from before was gone.
Only endless green grasslands and forests remained.
"Congratulations, Taras," a voice said, "Your courage and perseverance are moving. Those terrible flames would burn the weak-minded to ashes, but you are so strong. You have won this trial. The gods' anger comes from their incompetence; they should never underestimate human courage and faith."
Taras looked in the direction of the voice and saw an old man in a long robe holding a staff topped with a two-headed eagle.
He stood there, his face obscured by the robe. This was a being who lived in plots and schemes.
By space marine standards, the old man was too frail.
His back was hunched, as if simply standing there had exhausted all his strength.
"Who are you?" Taras did not take the old man lightly despite his frailty.
Even an insect can bring down a tiger.
Arrogance is a companion to death. Taras' lips moved slightly.
"Don't you recognize me?" The old man looked up at the Son of Prometheus.
Upon seeing the other's face, Taras instinctively took two steps back.
He opened his mouth. Then his expression turned sorrowful.
"Are you dead too, Lord Regent? It seems we've failed!"
Taras had the privilege of visiting Terra with his Primarch, Vulkan.
At that time, Horus had not yet become the Warmaster. The War Council still held all power in the nascent Imperium.
As Regent, Malcador was responsible for raising resources for the Great Crusade and establishing all the rules and regulations of the new Imperium.
When Vulkan arrived on Terra, as a Primarch, he was received by Malcador. Taras also had the opportunity to meet the second-in-command of the Imperium.
A staff member and helper of immense importance to the Emperor. The Emperor, Chancellor Malcador, and Captain-General Valdor of the Custodes were known as the Imperium's Three Great Ones. Their power was the highest in the Imperium.
Even the Primarchs, in a sense, were subordinate to them.
It was only because the Primarchs commanded the armies that the world perceived them as the most powerful beings beneath the Emperor. Taras knew he was dead.
Even being from Nocturne, he couldn't have survived that fire.
With Malcador, the Imperium's second-in-command, appearing here,
Taras could find no other reason besides the failure of the Battle of Terra. The Sanctum was breached, and the Imperium was over.
All they could do was seek vengeance.
Malcador revealed a faint smile and shook his head.
"We have neither failed nor triumphed. The Emperor did not complete his vision, and the Four Gods did not get what they desired. Both sides are in a stalemate."
"Then why are you here, my lord?" Taras asked.
"I died." Malcador showed a hint of weariness as he said this. "The Battle of Terra drained the last drop of blood, and I, too, perished in that campaign. My master spent ten millennia collecting most of my soul fragments from the Warp.
To buy enough time and to prevent the Dark King's descent, He gathered all His strength and crashed into the Four Gods, ensuring they would be powerless to interfere with the Imperium for a short time. Before His final departure, He entrusted all of us to Number Thirteen."
"My current duty is to help those lost souls find their way back. The war is not over; we still have unfulfilled duties."
"Number Thirteen? The Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion? Robert Guilliman?" Taras was intimately familiar with all the Legions and, naturally, with the Primarchs.
"You can no longer refer to Number Thirteen in that manner," Malcador said. "Number Thirteen is the new Emperor, the Imperium's new ruler, and the one to whom you will pledge your loyalty."
"What in the world happened?!" Taras looked utterly bewildered, his eyes filled with endless confusion and perplexity.
"Once you return to the real universe, you will understand everything," Malcador said. "Hurry back. The Great War is about to begin, and all lost heroes will return. The embers will rise, burning brightly once more. Compared to the coming conflict, Horus' Heresy was but a minor interlude."
"How can I return to the real universe?" Taras asked.
"Why not look at what you swore to carry out of the flames, even at the cost of your life?" Malcador smiled slightly.
"That was just the original progenitor, it was— "
Taras' words trailed off.
He was astonished to find that what he had been carrying was not the original progenitor, but a massive key bearing the Aquila emblem. The key transformed into points of light, scattering in the air.
He followed the light points and realized that the beautiful scenery that had been behind him moments ago had transformed into a vast biological laboratory. The laboratory walls were riveted with silver-white metal, crafted with such exquisite skill that not a single welding mark was visible, as if it were a single, naturally formed piece.
Bright lights shone down from the ceiling.
A massive stasis pod appeared before him.
Immersed in the nutrient fluid was his own naked body.
"A perfect body, just waiting for a soul to enter it to awaken," Malcador said. "Go, fulfill your unfinished mission, Son of Prometheus."
"What about you, my lord?" Taras asked.
"The time is not yet ripe." After saying this, Malcador vanished. Taras blinked, only to find himself immersed in nutrient fluid.
He was no longer in a beautiful, secluded paradise, but in a biological laboratory.
Numerous biological pods stood tall within the laboratory, with naked warriors floating inside each, eyes closed, awaiting their souls.
**Target has awakened, ecological features stable.**
The nutrient fluid was slowly drained, and with a mechanical hum, the nutrient pod walls gradually retracted into the ground. Taras, his body weak and limp, was stabilized by several industrial servitors, then cleaned and placed on a soft, white mobile bed.
A priest draped in a red robe approached Taras.
Four or five servo-skulls linked to a spine floated in the air.
"Do you know your name?" a mechanical, emotionless voice emanated from one of the servo-skulls.
"Taras, Apothecary of the Salamanders Legion, 24th Company."
"Very good. Take him to the recovery room," the priest said. "Praise the Holy Emperor, who has allowed a lost soul to return."
The Emperor's Supreme was a place of human scientific marvel.
All sorts of inconceivable technologies could be found there.
Vulkan, who had been constantly forging weapons, used the convenience of the Webway to travel from his forge world to the Sol System.
Guilliman had sent an emissary with a password for him.
From the emissary, Vulkan learned that Guilliman had also summoned Russ and Corax.
Russ had already departed for Universe 03, on a god-slaying mission.
Corax remained with Guilliman, seemingly planning something.
It involved him, or rather, required his assistance.
He emerged from the Webway port located within the Emperor's Supreme.
He had visited the Emperor's Supreme when Guilliman was crowned; at that time, the Imperium had just begun to recover. The Emperor's Supreme was not as exaggerated as it is now, with all sorts of incredible, miraculous technologies.
Spatial folding, dimensional pockets, and so on. The Emperor's Supreme was said to be a colossus-class battleship, but its actual space was certainly more than the volume of a planet.
Many architectural facilities only had an entrance preserved on the Emperor's Supreme.
What looked like a small doorway, when entered, revealed an entire city. The Imperium's application of spatial dimension technology had already spread to civilian use.
Vulkan had been busy forging weapons, combining the Imperium's technology with knowledge of the Warp to forge one artifact after another.
He had recently set his sights on a promising neutron star and was trying to figure out if he could compress it and forge it into a weapon. That would truly be a divine weapon that would kill upon impact and wound with a mere graze.
He had completely failed to notice how prosperous the current Imperium was.
Millions of wide corridors, capable of accommodating massive trains and various vehicles. They were like veins, connecting the entire Emperor's Supreme. The corridors on both sides connected to different pocket dimensions or folded spaces.
Within those folded spaces were commercial trade, specialty foods, and various factories.
In some pocket dimensions specifically used for trade, goods were abundant and dazzling.
Goods from all over the universe, and even from other universes, could be found in those commercial trading dimensions.
In some places, they were even trading living beings from other universes that could be domesticated and kept as pets.
A group of merchants accompanying the expeditionary force to Universe 0 had acquired a batch of exotic species like alien dragons and phoenixes.
After bringing them back, they made a considerable profit, even sparking a craze for exotic species.
Many adventurers, like cowboys, tried every possible means to go to other worlds, hoping to rise to prominence there.
Such prosperity was something even Vulkan had never imagined.
During the Great Crusade, who could have believed there would be such a prosperous era?
Even the Chaos Gods, who claimed to see the future, probably couldn't have guessed that humanity's achievements would be so terrifying.
Vulkan masked his shock in front of the emissaries, following them out of the complex corridors to meet his brother.
When Vulkan met Guilliman, he was in the study with Corax, discussing certain matters while facing several cosmic projections.
His fingers slid across those cosmic projections, like a primordial deity beyond mortal imagination toying with the universe.
"Your Majesty," Vulkan said respectfully.
Guilliman nodded.
"You've arrived, my brother."