"My lord, you shouldn't be doing this. It's far too dangerous."
Dantiochus found himself at a loss. Why was it that these Primarchs, who all seemed so reliable in ordinary times, turned reckless the moment something actually mattered?
"They are already cornered prey with no possibility of threatening us further. We only need to advance steadily — these traitors have no possible way to slip from our grasp."
Dantiochus couldn't understand why, with such an overwhelming advantage, they would still insist on carrying out a decapitation strike this dangerous and unstable.
If anything went wrong, the entire front line could collapse.
It was such a simple piece of logic — how could the Primarchs not see it?
"These traitors aren't worth us risking our lives any further, my lords."
Dantiochus turned his gaze to Sigismund and Atilus and the others, hoping they might be able to talk their fathers down.
But even Atilus — normally the most gentle and rational among them — gave no response. Clearly, they all believed this war should be ended by the Primarchs themselves.
"Abaddon—"
"My lord, please, take me with you on this decapitation strike. The Luna Wolves will absolutely not let you down."
It seemed there was no saving these people.
Dantiochus felt thoroughly drained. Why did everyone get so reckless right at the most critical moments?
"There's no need to keep persuading us, Barabbas. We know your good intentions. You are an excellent commander — that's precisely why the Warmaster trusted you with command of his Legion."
"But our resolve will not change. This war began with 'us.' By right, it should be we who end it."
It was clear Dorn had gotten swept up in something here. By all logic, a man so pragmatic shouldn't be acting this way — but every time it came to confronting his brothers, Dorn always seemed to instinctively reveal this weakness.
For all his iron-hard, unbreakable resolve, the Unyielding Stone still had a flaw: he was sentimental.
Even with his brothers having all turned traitor, even though he longed to see every one of them executed, he insisted on ending them with his own hands.
This was loyalty to the Emperor. But it was also a refusal to watch his own brothers die at someone else's hand.
As for Vulkan — there's nothing more to say there. He was simply a brute at heart. You could trust his love for humanity, but you should never trust his methods to be gentle.
The Lord of Drakes had never shown even the faintest gentleness toward xenos or traitors. Never once.
"You will take command in our place. Fleet command is now transferred to you, Barabbas."
Dorn trusted this Iron Warrior completely. Dantiochus had already proven himself, throughout this war, to possess truly exceptional command ability.
If he could choose, Dantiochus would rather not have this command at all — but looking at these two Primarchs whose minds were already made up, along with their brothers, Dantiochus knew he could no longer talk them out of it.
"Then remember to bring plenty of Obliterators. And the Exterminatus Relics, remember to—"
"Leave the Exterminatus Relics here. Titan Legion and Knight Legion forces will be sufficient, in case anyone tries to board us."
Abaddon said.
Dorn and Vulkan nodded as well, and in the end Dantiochus didn't press the point further.
Watching as countless ships disgorged drop pods in dense formations, the entire solar system lit up with a vast field of light, destroying countless asteroids before the pods crashed down hard onto the surface below.
The drop pods alone dealt a devastating blow to the traitors — to say nothing of the Obliterator Legion that emerged from within them.
"Still worrying about them, Barabbas?"
Frix had, unusually, not gone to the front line this time, choosing instead to remain aboard the fleet and command alongside Dantiochus.
There was no one else around, so Frix allowed himself a bit more informality.
"Yes. Even though these traitors can't match our fleet's strength, their methods are bizarre and unpredictable. No one can know what tricks they still have up their sleeves — and now both lords have gone to the ground assault together."
"If the traitors seize this opportunity and execute some countermeasure, the two lords could very well find themselves in real danger."
Dantiochus's concern wasn't unreasonable — but perhaps because he'd been relieved of supreme command, he found himself with fewer reservations now.
"I understand you, Barabbas. In your position, you can no longer afford to think and act on impulse — every decision you make carries the risk of catastrophic losses for the Legion."
"But you also need to understand — this war is unlike any before it. Revenge and suppressing rebellion may be the stated purpose of this crusade, but they are still Primarchs. It's hard for anyone to fully grasp what they truly intend."
"The Primarchs have their own thinking, and their strength right now is nothing like before. They wouldn't be doing this without confidence in their own abilities. All we need to do is guard the rear and hold the line for them."
"Leave the rest to them. Trust the Primarchs — just as Father trusts us."
Frix stood in the command room, watching through the viewport as the Imperial fleet steadily annihilated the traitors outside. This feeling of total domination really was something else — far better than any training exercise.
Dantiochus, though still carrying some weight of worry, found he had gained a fair amount of confidence in Dorn and Vulkan after all.
Because in the end, in this war, they were the side holding the absolute advantage.
Terra's sky burned. The Imperial fleet had nearly leveled the entire planet.
This homeworld of humanity, scarred by suffering since the Age of Strife, had endured yet another catastrophe — once again, the result of humanity's own civil war.
The Imperial Palace lay shattered beyond recognition. The Himalayas had been plowed over repeatedly by the combined firepower of hundreds of Emperor-class Titans.
The splendor and magnificence of old were gone. The Golden Age had been broken.
There was no sanctity left here — only cracked marble floors, collapsed vaults, and acidic dust pouring through every fracture.
The sky burned with smoke — whether toxic gas or Terra's own contamination, no one could say — thick enough to almost block out the sun entirely, leaving only a dim reddish glow filtering through the gaps in the cloud cover.
Dorn arrived. He could feel it — that traitor was waiting for him too.
The Huscarl guard and a portion of the First Company veterans led by Sigismund stayed close at their father's side. Abaddon and Cypher brought a full company of Gal Vorbak with them.
Their father had been killed by the traitor waiting inside. Now, they had come for revenge.
The elite of the Fist of Anguish stepped forward. Sigismund and Abaddon said nothing — they immediately led the charge, engaging these traitors in fierce combat.
Whatever the Luna Wolves felt about it, only a Primarch could defeat a Primarch. With no Obliterator support now, this fight was beyond anything they could intervene in.
Dorn stepped into the ruins, phase chain-sword in hand. This place had endured over seventy-two hours of continuous volcano cannon bombardment, and that it still stood at all proved just how massively "himself" had fortified this palace.
Dorn paid no attention to the rubble underfoot, nor to the bodies. His heavy armor let him crush such things without sensation.
His gaze cut through the falling ash, locking onto the figure at the far end of the throne hall — clad in the same black and gold armor.
Dorn's frame now stood at nearly five meters, but the figure before him matched him in scale entirely, the aura radiating from him every bit as strong.
He wore no helmet. That face — identical to Dorn's own, equally hardened with resolve — showed no expression. But Dorn noticed something: a gold ring on his finger, ill-fitting against the rest of him.
That was the ring the Father had given Horus — commemorating his slaying of the Beast — the only ring of its kind in the entire Imperium.
But Dorn said nothing more. He simply raised the weapon he too had named the Talon of the Storm, the phase field already spinning in rhythm with the chain teeth.
"Dorn" said nothing either, raising the black-and-crimson chain-sword and charging forward.
No words. No exchanged glances. Neither Rogal Dorn had ever had that habit.
Both of them, by unspoken agreement, chose not to use ranged weapons — because they both knew they could dodge each other's attacks within nanoseconds either way.
BOOM!
The two chain-blades collided like a pair of warhammers, sound waves rippling outward visibly to the naked eye, splitting the already-shattered floor further and sending debris leaping into the air.
Both could feel, through their grips, the sheer strength of the other — enough to strain their arms and ribs.
Both used the momentum to spin, sweeping their left legs out at the same instant, kicking into each other's shin guards. The two impacts landed nearly simultaneously, the resulting sound splitting into two notes so close together as to be nearly indistinguishable.
Dorn stepped forward, the Talon of the Storm slashing down viciously at the traitor before him — but "Dorn" did not retreat, stepping forward at the same moment, the chainblade swinging up diagonally to meet it.
This time the sound wasn't a tremor, but a piercing shriek. The floor beneath "Dorn's" feet shattered further still, cracks spreading outward like a spider's web, some stretching as far as twenty meters.
His posture remained perfectly upright. The impact was tremendous, but still within what he could endure.
The gap between them had closed to less than half a meter. The teeth of both chain-swords gnawed continuously against one another, their heads less than half a meter from each other's.
They could hear, with absolute clarity, the low hum of each other's power armor, the faint grinding of joints straining under overload.
The two resolute faces, nearly pressed together, gritted their teeth, each determined to bring the other down.
After the exchange, both pulled back rapidly. This time "Dorn" moved first, the chainblade attacking Dorn's flank from the side.
A familiar move. Dorn knew his own techniques better than anyone alive.
He didn't block. He chose to meet it head-on, stepping forward and driving his left shoulder into the gap beneath "Dorn's" arm before it had fully opened.
It was a dangerous gambit — had his timing been off by even a fraction, or had he misjudged "himself's" strength, the head of that chainblade would have crushed his left shoulder like a warhammer, the razor teeth tearing through his heart and ribs.
But clearly, both of them knew "themselves" too well. Dorn's counterattack failed to land, and "Dorn's" charge was equally neutralized. The two separated once more.
"Your movements are faster than I expected."
"Dorn" said.
"You're not as strong as I imagined either. Without the power of Chaos, you really aren't what you used to be."
Both voices were steady, neither thrown off by the other's words.
"This war's outcome was decided from the moment it began. You have no chance left."
"I know."
"Dorn" did not argue.
Both fell silent. The scene settled once again into a deathly stillness.
Dorn struck first this time, moving with such speed that the area he charged through carried an audible sonic boom in his wake, then leaping into the air, the Talon of the Storm crashing down with tremendous force.
"Dorn" simply stood his ground, raising his chain-sword to brute-force block the descending strike.
The cracks in the floor widened further, even more dramatically — this time even "Dorn's" legs sank partway into the fissures.
But "Dorn" quickly tilted the chain-sword to deflect the force, then closed the distance and drove his hardened left fist straight into Dorn's face.
The fist crashing into a Primarch's flesh still carried a gust of displaced air, but Dorn was unaffected, the Talon of the Storm pressing forward in an unbroken cut.
A spray of blood burst from "Dorn's" chest in that same instant — but simultaneously, the chain-sword in his hand sliced across Dorn's abdomen, though the strike landed slightly off, leaving only a shallow gash.
Both retreated, regarding each other once more.
After a long silence, both drew their ranged weapons at the same instant. Gauss beams and heavy bolt cannon fire reduced the already-ruined Imperial Palace to even greater wreckage within seconds.
Dorn's armor sustained partial damage, scorch marks evident across its surface — that heavy bolt cannon had been modified for considerably greater power.
"Dorn" fared no better. The enhanced Gauss weaponry had stripped his armor away almost entirely, leaving wounds of varying severity across his body, his movements now noticeably sluggish.
This was the moment.
Dorn spotted the opening with razor precision. The Talon of the Storm swept across with unstoppable force, and this time "Dorn" couldn't dodge with his earlier composure, scrambling to evade rather clumsily.
But Dorn gave "himself" no chance to recover. The Talon of the Storm showed no loss of speed at all, Dorn using his body's own momentum to swing the chain-sword with the force of a warhammer.
"Dorn's" body accumulated more and more small wounds. None of them alone meant much — but as they piled up, his body grew steadily more sluggish.
And it was precisely at this moment that Dorn seized his opportunity again, driving the Talon of the Storm savagely into "Dorn's" left abdomen — but to his surprise, even with the phase field active, "Dorn" still withstood the blow.
"Dorn" reversed his grip on the flat of the Talon of the Storm, the chain-sword in his other hand slashing viciously at Dorn's right arm. Dorn was forced to abandon his grip on the Talon of the Storm, but immediately drew his Gauss rifle and blasted the chain-sword from his opponent's grip at close range.
Both of their injuries were now severe — but it was clear "Dorn's" wounds were the more lethal. Now, with both of them disarmed, they cast aside all pretense and began trading blows in raw, savage close combat.
The two greatest masters of unarmed combat now waged what could only be called an epic, no-holds-barred brawl amid the ruins of the Palace.
Every blow carried devastating power and brutal intent. Both men were now covered in wounds, internal organs damaged to varying degrees, blood pouring unstopped from the corners of their mouths.
Both were soaked in blood — impossible to say how much of it belonged to each.
Dorn closed in on "himself" first, fist clenched tight, while "Dorn" showed no sign of weakness, striding forward to meet him head-on with equal resolve.
The distance between them had shrunk to almost nothing. Neither bothered blocking anymore — there was no longer any point.
Dorn's right fist crashed into "Dorn's" face; "Dorn's" fist drove savagely into his left abdomen at the same moment.
Round after round, the two simply traded blows without pause, abandoning all defense, abandoning all technique, reduced to a pure contest of physical endurance and willpower.
Both were so impossibly tough that the force of their fists alone sent the surrounding ruined structures flying apart.
Blood sprayed everywhere, filling the web of fractures crisscrossing the entire Palace floor — silent testimony to the ferocity of their battle.
But in the end, "Dorn," carrying the more severe injuries, could not hold out to the last.
A savage uppercut from Dorn finally sent him sprawling to the ground, unable to rise again.
"You lose."
Dorn sat astride "himself," breathing heavily, his fist raised once more — but this time, he did not bring it down.
He lowered his fist, instead reaching into "Dorn's" already-crushed hand and removing that severely warped and twisted gold ring.
Then he rose slowly and began walking toward the Palace doors.
His kneecaps were partially dislocated, his left ribs shattered by compound fracture, with at least forty other compound fractures across his entire body. Dorn could feel his own weakness — but he did not fall. He simply walked, slowly, out into the open.
"Father."
"My lord."
Sigismund and the others had already finished off the Fist of Anguish outside — they simply hadn't been able to intervene, as the violence of the two Primarchs' battle had been far too overwhelming, and so they had waited.
Dorn said nothing. He simply threw the warped and twisted gold ring toward Abaddon.
"Go avenge your father."
Abaddon caught the ring with a trembling hand, his bloodshot eyes brimming with tears.
At Dorn's signal, Abaddon and the Gal Vorbak charged immediately into the depths of the Palace.
A short while later, Abaddon and the Gal Vorbak emerged carrying a head covered in wounds, and knelt on one knee before Dorn.
"Thank you, my lord."
Dorn watched as the Imperium's Storm Birds and Thunderhawks descended onto Terra. The war, at this moment, was declared over.