**Chapter 381: Malachor's Judgement**
**Dagon's POV**
Here I was, standing on the broken surface of Malachor V, thinking about the sheer power of the Imperium of Man.
If they could kill me.
If they *should* kill me.
The thought had crossed my mind more than once since the Thunderhawks tore through that portal. Ten thousand years of relentless, fanatical crusading. Gene-forged super-soldiers in power armor the size of small tanks. Weapons that could level cities. A faith so absolute it bordered on madness.
And yet…
Now that I was fighting them, I finally understood their greatest weakness.
Numbers.
They threw bodies at every problem. They didn't care how many of their own died as long as the enemy eventually fell. In almost every battle or piece of lore I could remember from my old life, their enemies were either savage Orks, primitive xenos, or fractured human rebels. They rarely faced a single opponent who could match their technological and physical might while also wielding the Force with centuries of experience and balanced mastery.
That arrogance was going to cost them dearly today.
The last normal Space Marine fell with a wet crunch as my beskar-vibro katana took his head clean off in a single, perfect arc. The blade — ancient Mandalorian craftsmanship fused with bleeding kyber crystal technology — sang through ceramite and bone like it was cutting air. No more restraint. No more holding back. I had activated my breathing techniques fully.
**Flame Breathing – First Form: Unknowing Fire.**
I charged forward at blinding speed, my body wreathed in invisible flames of the Force. The sword moved in a blazing series of slashes that left burning afterimages in the air. Flesh charred, armor melted, and another Black Templar died screaming as his torso was opened from shoulder to hip.
A blue-armored Ultramarine stepped into my path — Centurion armor, heavy grav-cannons mounted on the wrists, a massive power sword glowing with holy fury. The Force around him was strong, unnaturally so. This one must have been chosen for elevation — perhaps even being groomed as a potential new Primarch candidate by whatever remained of the Emperor's will.
He swung with terrifying strength. I parried the blow, the impact sending sparks and shockwaves across the battlefield. The vibration of our blades meeting created a low, teeth-rattling hum.
"You fight well for a heretic," the Ultramarine growled through his vox-grille.
"And you die predictably for a slave," I replied.
I spun inside his guard, the katana flashing. The beskar edge bit deep into the joint of his armor, severing hydraulic lines and power cables. He roared and triggered his grav-cannons, unleashing a torrent of crushing purple energy fueled by the raw power of the Warp.
I answered with crimson lightning.
The Force lightning — concentrated, balanced between light and dark — struck his arm like a spear. The Warp energy and my lightning clashed violently. His armor exploded in a shower of molten ceramite and superheated blood. The grav-cannon disintegrated.
"No pain… for the Emperor!" he bellowed, raising his massive power sword with his remaining arm.
I didn't give him the chance.
With a surge of Moon Breathing mixed with Flame Breathing, I moved like living fire. My crimson blade flashed once — a perfect horizontal cut. The Ultramarine's torso separated cleanly from his waist. The two halves fell with a heavy thud, sparks and blood spraying across the blackened ground.
"No! Brother Maximus!" a voice roared.
A green-armored Space Marine — Raxor — charged forward, chainsword revving wildly, bolt pistol blazing. Behind him, the surviving Black Templars regrouped, forming a firing line despite their horrific losses.
I exhaled slowly, letting the breathing techniques flow through every cell in my body. No more restraint. No more playing the "balanced Jedi." Today, on Malachor V, I would show them what a true apex predator looked like.
**Sebastian's POV – Marshal of the Black Templars**
Sebastian watched Brother Maximus fall in two clean pieces and felt a cold fury ignite in both of his hearts.
This was no ordinary heretic.
This warrior moved with a speed and precision that defied logic. His blades — one crimson and glowing with unholy power, the other a strange vibrating sword of xenos design — cut through power armor like it was cloth. Worse, he wielded some form of warp-sorcery that crushed and burned his brothers from the inside.
"Raxor! Flank him!" Sebastian ordered, raising his own chainsword high. "All remaining brothers — purge this abomination in the Emperor's name!"
The surviving Black Templars — barely two dozen now — opened fire again. Bolt shells filled the air. A heavy bolter from one of the Thunderhawks added its wrath. Sebastian charged directly at the heretic, chainsword screaming for blood.
Dagon Marek met the charge without fear.
Their blades clashed in a shower of sparks and crackling energy. Sebastian was larger, stronger, and fueled by ten thousand years of martial tradition. Yet the smaller warrior moved like liquid shadow and living flame at the same time. Every strike Sebastian made was parried or evaded by the narrowest margin. Every counterattack from the heretic drew blood or damaged armor.
"You call yourself crusaders," Dagon said calmly as they dueled, "yet you serve a corpse on a throne and murder billions in its name. Tell me, Templar — where is the Emperor's light in the ashes of dead worlds?"
"Blasphemy!" Sebastian roared, swinging a devastating overhead strike.
Dagon sidestepped and countered with a spinning slash that carved a deep gouge across Sebastian's chestplate. The beskar-vibro blade cut through the layered ceramite with terrifying ease.
Sebastian staggered back, feeling warm blood trickle down his torso. Pain was irrelevant. Pain was the Emperor's gift to test the faithful.
He activated his jump pack and launched forward, bringing his full weight and momentum into a crushing blow.
Dagon simply raised his free hand.
An invisible wall of Force energy slammed into Sebastian mid-air, stopping him dead and then hurling him backward thirty meters. He crashed hard into the broken ground, armor cracking on impact.
Around him, more brothers died.
One Marine was lifted into the air and crushed into a ball of mangled metal and flesh. Another had every bone in his body shattered by invisible pressure. Raxor managed to get close enough to fire his meltagun at point-blank range — only for Dagon to redirect the superheated blast back into Raxor's face, melting his helmet and head into slag.
Sebastian pushed himself to his feet, breathing hard.
"You… are no mere witch," he growled. "What are you?"
Dagon twirled both blades once, the crimson one leaving burning trails in the air.
"I am the consequence of your Emperor's failures," he said quietly. "I am what happens when humanity refuses to learn from its past. I am the blade that cuts through blind fanaticism."
He pointed the blood-red sword at Sebastian.
"And today… I am your end."
Sebastian roared and charged one final time, joined by the last seven surviving Black Templars.
Dagon met them all at once.
The battle on Malachor V became a slaughter.
Flame Breathing and Moon Breathing flowed together in perfect, deadly harmony. Dagon moved like a living storm — slashing, burning, crushing, and dismembering with clinical precision. Bolt shells froze mid-air and reversed. Power armor was sliced open. Gene-seed was wasted on the barren ground.
In less than four minutes, the last Black Templar fell.
Sebastian, Marshal of the Black Templars, knelt on one knee, his armor shattered, one arm missing, blood pouring from multiple wounds. His chainsword lay broken beside him.
Dagon stood over him, both blades dripping with blood.
"You fought with conviction," Dagon said quietly. "That is the only reason you are still breathing. Take this message back to your Emperor, if he can still hear anything at all…"
He leaned closer.
"Blind faith is not strength. It is the slowest form of suicide."
With a final, almost gentle motion, Dagon brought the vibrating Mandalorian blade down.
Sebastian's head rolled across the scorched earth.
Silence fell over Malachor V once more, broken only by the distant howl of the wind.
Dagon stood alone among the corpses of ninety Space Marines, three destroyed Thunderhawks, and the echoes of ten thousand years of crusading zeal.
He looked down at the ancient Mandalorian katana in his left hand, then at his own blood-red lightsaber.
"No more restraint," he whispered.
The dark warrior turned and began walking deeper into the ruins of Malachor V, searching for the reason the portal had opened in the first place.
Whatever — or whoever — had sent the Black Templars here was still waiting.
And Dagon was done playing nice.