Stripped of the crimson pall forged by the Blood God's wrath, the battlefield lay naked beneath the elements. Countless shafts of golden radiance erupted across the blasted wastes, burning with the manifest will of the Emperor. The fragile Bloodletters and Flesh Hounds, entirely defenseless against the raw power of the Astronomican, withered into ash and vanished into the biting wind. Deprived of their unholy patrons, the surviving Neverborn grew desperately weak, their supernatural resilience shattering under the weight of Imperial deliverance.
With the destruction of the final daemon, its foul form dissolving into nothingness, the catastrophic localized incursion was finally brought to a close.
In the high orbits above Holy Terra, a massive armada composed of vessels bearing the heraldry of numerous Adeptus Astartes Chapters and vast contingents of the Astra Militarum continued their agonizingly slow approach. Below, on the blood-soaked terrain, Axion's mechanical legions were dissolving into pillars of shimmering light, teleporting away. Only a minimal vanguard remained: two Destroyer-class Heavy Automatons and a handful of Armored Wardens, accompanying a specialized diplomatic unit to guard the two containment cages.
Warp-targeted teleportation forced a passage through the thin veil separating reality from the Immaterium. Axion was not inclined to gamble on whether the Chaos Gods would attempt to snatch these prize captives the exact moment the cages crossed into the Warp. The heavy transport craft previously used to deliver the Eight-Legs and the raw construction materials still sat idling within the subterranean docks of the Ordo Sinister fortress. In short order, the prisoners would be hauled into the sky by conventional atmospheric transports.
For now, the Iron Man needed to address the aftermath of his unsanctioned tech-trial.
While anomalies and collateral damage were standard variables in testing unverified technologies, this particular incident had inflicted severe losses upon the Imperium. Five Warlord Titans had been reduced to ruined husks, and the Ordo Sinister had sustained hundreds of mortal casualties. Even the Adeptus Custodes had lost a warrior, alongside four precious guardian spears.
To Axion, replacing destroyed war material was a simple matter of logistics. The true complication lay in the loss of personnel. Operating those five psychic Titans required fifteen Alpha-level psykers. Yet, despite the fact that his escort vessels were scattered across the breadth of the galaxy, the psykers his agents managed to harvest never included individuals of the Alpha grade. Under Imperial protocols, such volatile individuals were invariably sequestered by the Inquisition long before anyone else could catch word of them. The Iron Men were left with nothing but the dregs.
As Axion calculated the most effective way to offer restitution to the Adeptus Terra, Roboute Guilliman, Captain-General Trajann Valoris, and several Lords Solar strode across the ash to stand before the remaining mechanical units.
Imprisoned within the containment field, Angron seemed to recognize his genetic brother. He thrashed violently, a choked, guttural roar scraping past the reinforced grilles of his cage.
"Guilliman!"
Pure, unadulterated hatred flared within the Daemon Primarch, forcing his warp-spawned essence to surge as he attempted to manifest his full might. Yet, the instant the energy signatures within his ruined torso spiked, the psychic-siphoning apparatus of the Adaptive Daemon Detention Device increased its output in perfect lockstep. The sudden, agonizing shift in gravity slammed him downward, forcing Angron to grind his fangs in futile fury.
Guilliman turned, his gaze locking onto the cage surrounded by the silent automatons. Desolate and mutilated as Angron was, the Lord Regent recognized his brother instantly. The cataclysmic duel between the Punisher Titan and Abominatus had so utterly consumed the battlefield's attention that Guilliman had not realized the Daemon Primarch was even present.
Behind him, Trajann Valoris silently shifted his stance. He noted that the hem of Guilliman's heavy cloak had begun to stir in the dead air, a clear sign of the Primarch's subconscious psychic pressure bleeding into the physical world. Axion's glowing optic sensors flared, cataloging the micro-fluctuations of this energy spike into his "Primarch Behavioral Matrix" database under index entry 4417.
Guilliman's eyes pierced the heavy bars of the cage, resting squarely on Angron's misshapen features. The Daemon Primarch's flesh was cracked and ruined by millennia of warp corruption, the Chaos energy pulsing beneath his dark red skin like liquid magma. This creature was no longer the gladiator brother he had first encountered upon the soil of Nuceria.
"You were a fruit plucked by our Father's own hand," Guilliman said, his voice as biting as the polar frost. The hilt of the Hand of Dominion seemed to throb against his palm. "Now, you are nothing but the foulest rot weeping from a diseased root."
For a fleeting second, a spark of Angron's long-lost lucidity flared. Perhaps it was the absolute suppression of the Iron Man's cage, or perhaps the Butcher's Nails were experiencing some catastrophic interference within the localized null-field. He spat a raspy, broken roar through his corrupted larynx.
"What 'Father'?! You know nothing—"
"I know enough," Guilliman cut him off, taking a sharp step forward, his golden sable boots crushing the frozen scabs of daemonic blood beneath them. "I know how you turned your blades upon your own sons. I know how eagerly you bound yourself as a mindless puppet of slaughter." He gestured toward the wide expanses of the battlefield, where the remnants of the Khornate horde were fading into dust. "Look upon your 'blessings,' Angron. You have reduced your entire existence to a mere footnote in the Blood God's ledger."
Angron's bloodshot eyes locked onto the Avenging Son's face, burning with murderous intent. "It was all the False Emperor's design! Our creation, our deaths, all a cosmic trade! You blind, foolish—"
CLANG!
Unable to tolerate the traitor's blasphemy against the Master of Mankind, Valoris stepped forward, striking the iron bars of the cage with an armored fist. The impact rang out like a death knell.
"Silence, traitor," Valoris growled, his voice thick with righteous contempt. "By what right do you slander the Emperor? He has poured His lifeblood into the survival of mankind, His achievements outshining the stars themselves. He is the eternal light within our souls, the beacon that guides humanity through the dark. You are blind, broken by Chaos, to speak such treason in His shadow."
Before the confrontation could escalate, an Armored Warden stepped forward, its massive chassis sliding between Valoris and the containment cage.
"Warning. Do not attempt to attack the prisoners."
The flat, synthetic tone caused Valoris to narrow his eyes, his gaze tracking the immense proportions of the machine.
SHRST!
With a sudden, mechanical hiss, a pale-golden blade snapped out from the Armored Warden's forearm weapon mount, driving straight through the narrow gaps of the adjacent enclosure.
A severed, clawed limb hit the ash with a heavy thud.
Among the favored hosts of Khorne, An'ggrath the Unbound was notorious; no matter how catastrophic the wounds inflicted upon him, his unholy essence allowed him to regenerate instantly and plunge back into the fray. This unnatural vitality made him a living nightmare upon a hundred worlds, a monster that refused to die.
Even now, within a cage specifically designed to bleed his power dry, his torn flesh was attempting to crawl back together.
An'ggrath paid no heed to his severed arm. The stump merely wept a thick, sulfurous fluid that sizzled against the cold metal. Inside the cell, the detached meat twitched and re-formed, the new flesh lacing itself with strands of brass-colored wire like some unholy, baroque relic. The Greater Daemon's eyes burned with baleful embers as his ruined vocal cords produced a sound like grinding stone.
"What a touching reunion of brothers," the Bloodthirster mocked. He bit down on his own newly sprouted talons, flicking a droplet of his foul blood toward the Armour of Fate. "The model son in his golden cage, preaching to the beast that saw through the lie."
The daemon leaned closer to the bars, his breath a reek of copper and ash. "You Primarchs were never anything more than pieces on the False Emperor's regicide board. When He required an edge to conquer the stars, Angron was His blade. When He grew weary of the tool, it became a thorn to be extracted. You stand here now, Guilliman, nothing but a broken sword waiting for its turn to snap."
Angron remained sullenly silent, but An'ggrath turned his hateful glare toward the Captain-General.
"And you, golden lapdog... Do you know why the Blood God despises your kind above all others? Because even your souls are nothing but counterfeit coins, tasting of rust and iron."
Valoris drew his Watcher's Axe in a single, fluid motion, the disruption field along the blade waking with a lethal hum. Yet An'ggrath merely pressed his mutilated torso against the containment field, laughing as the metallic nerves weeping from his wounds traced a crude, mocking silhouette of the Emperor rotting upon the Golden Throne in the air.
Realizing the daemon's intent to provoke them into a senseless rage, Valoris mastered his fury, sheathing his weapon with practiced deliberate speed. He turned to Guilliman, his expression unyielding and severe.
"My Lord Guilliman, these abominations must be transferred to the darkest vaults beneath the Imperial Palace. They must answer for their crimes in the deep black, where no light ever shines."