After the return of Lion El'Jonson, Primarch of the Dark Angels, he reclaimed the Chapter's deepest vaults—hidden sanctuaries laden with truths buried for over ten millennia.
There, he unearthed many of the galaxy's long-held secrets.
Thus, the revelation of a cloned Primarch did not surprise him.
He already knew that Fulgrim, Ferrus Manus—and even Horus—had been resurrected through profane science.
But nothing could prepare him for the grotesque scene in the chamber before him.
Bio-tanks stretched wall to wall, hundreds of them—most now vacant. The nutrient fluids inside bubbled quietly, disturbed only by the twitching of malformed creatures suspended within. Aberrant, human-shaped things drifted listlessly, shaped by heretical hands.
And then the Lion saw it—and his breath caught.
A young boy floated within one tank, his blonde hair weightless in the viscous fluid, his body half-formed—flesh knitting itself together with an unnatural cohesion.
The child's brown eyes pierced through the distorted organic matter, steady and focused. Curious.
His eyes met the Lion's.
El'Jonson froze.
Rage—visceral, sacred—surged through him.
It was his clone. A mockery of his legacy. A blasphemy carved in flesh.
Nearby, in another vat shrouded in shadow, a different child slumbered. Skin pale as snow, hair black as pitch, eyes darker still—curled like a raven in its nest. A shadowy reflection of Corvus Corax, Lord of Shadows.
Another failure. Another profanation.
And still, the obscenity did not end.
Behind Fabius Bile, the arch-heretek, stood twenty monumental gene-forging machines. Each was labeled in sequence from One to Twenty. Only the Second, Eleventh, and Seventeenth tanks were inactive.
The rest pulsed with life—raw, nascent, unnatural.
The Lion could hear the heartbeats.
Fabius turned and noticed the Lion's glare. Instead of shrinking from it, he stepped aside with theatrical flair, his mutated face contorted into what he imagined was a smile.
"Great King of the First Legion," he said, mockingly reverent. "Behold a miracle. Ten thousand years I have labored for this. I sought perfection... but could not grasp the essence."
His voice slithered like a serpent through the sterile air.
"It was only recently I understood—your forms are flesh, yes. But your essence, your true divinity, is of the Warp."
He spread his arms like a prophet. "Gods and daemons—illusions! Manifestations of thought and passion. We live inside a collective dream. But I will tear it open. I will seize the Anima Mundi itself. And with it—I shall accomplish what even the Emperor could not."
His voice trembled with madness.
"I will forge heroes. Better than before."
He licked cracked lips and leaned forward eagerly. "Perhaps... many. The Emperor erred when he confined his vision to one half of the species. Every predator knows—the female of the species is deadlier still."
The Lion said nothing. His eyes narrowed as he studied the heretek's armor—Third Legion colors, faded and cracked. Once the proud livery of the Emperor's Children, now nothing but a deranged husk's garb.
Fabius continued rambling, his voice growing distant as he fell into ecstatic monologue.
"If we could breach the veil—open the portal to the Immaterium itself—what would we find? Is it the soul of the universe that gives rise to us? Or are we the ones who dream it into being?"
The Lion tuned him out.
This man was far beyond reason.
There would be no salvation here. No compromise.
And then he saw him.
Standing silently beside Fabius was a towering figure—the Warmaster himself.
Horus Lupercal.
No hair now, just a smooth, pale scalp. But that face—etched in marble—was burned into the Lion's memory.
He had once been the Emperor's chosen. His closest son. His mightiest general.
And also his most bitter betrayer.
Ten thousand years had passed, but the wound Horus left on the Imperium had never healed.
The Lion could not understand it.
Why had his brother returned?
Why again?
But even more painful than his reappearance… was the truth.
From what El'Jonson could see in his eyes, the reborn Horus had not changed.
He was walking the same path.
The same damnation.
And that filled the Lion with a sorrow deeper than rage.
"Horus," he whispered.
The Warmaster looked at him, and something soft flickered in those eyes.
"Lion," he said. "My eldest brother."
His voice was warm. Familiar.
Just like the first time they'd met ten millennia ago.
Confident. Charismatic. A born leader.
After the disappearance of the Second Primarch, Horus had taken up the mantle of Warmaster. The Second had been radical, brilliant—some whispered his genius rivaled even the Emperor's.
But Horus? Horus was balance incarnate. Not the best at any one thing, but perfect in all things. He had once united them all.
El'Jonson looked into his brother's eyes and saw the past.
A time when they had stood side by side.
When hope still lived.
"Horus… you can still be saved," the Lion said, unable to stop the words from escaping.
But Horus only shook his head, slowly.
"I need no redemption, brother. One day, you'll see. What I did… I did because it was right."
He extended a hand.
"Join me, Lion. As we once did, long ago. Together, we can redeem this broken galaxy. I will undo the mistakes of the past. I will bring light to this sea of stars—even if it destroys me. Come, brother. Stand beside me. Let us become what the Emperor never could."
His voice was deep, resonant, persuasive.
He meant it. That much was certain.
But sincerity does not sanctify sin.
The Lion stood in silence, hand unmoving.
Horus had returned.
But the war was not over.
But the Lion scoffed.
"Set aside your arrogance, Horus. No one asked for your salvation."
El'Jonson's voice was calm, yet laced with contempt. "You're always like this—believing you alone can fix what others cannot. Every time you've thought this way, you've led us into ruin."
"But this time is different." Horus did not react with anger. His tone remained patient, almost pleading. "You've been deceived by Dukel. He is the true harbinger of annihilation. He doesn't understand what it means to make humanity strong again—only how to drag all things into mutual ruin."
"He will destroy everything—from the stars above to the tiniest mote of dust, even the tides of the Immaterium. Only I can stop him, Lion. And I know how. Then, I will lead humanity to rise once more. I will atone. I will not fail again."
"Believe me, brother. I never wanted to raise arms against you again."
Lion shook his head slowly, his voice cold. "Beasts fall into the same traps. So do humans. The only thing we ever learn from history… is that we never learn anything."
Horus lowered his head in silence, like a lost child. When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. "Please, Lion. The power to save the galaxy is in your hands. With your consent, we could redeem the stars themselves."
He extended a hand—just as he had ten thousand years ago.
But the Lion remained still. Unmoved.
"Dukel never explained himself to me. Not once. Perhaps out of arrogance—or maybe he simply thought it unnecessary. But still, I chose to believe him."
"Do you know why, Horus?"
"Why?" Horus asked, voice hushed.
"Because I stand with no one. My faith lies only with our father—the Emperor of Mankind."
El'Jonson's tone hardened. "If you believe yourself righteous, go to Terra as Dukel did. Face our father. Prove your worth."
The Lion's gaze grew heavier with each word. His hand moved to his side, drawing forth a blade forged of Argentum—not the Lion Sword, but a weapon gifted by Dukel. Not just to him, but also to Sanguinius, Guilliman—though bound to the throne—and even to Clarks, who would not return to the material realm. Dukel had spared no effort for his brothers.
"If you won't even face the Emperor," Lion said, voice like a cold wind, "then I'll break your limbs and carry you to Him myself."
"What makes you think the Emperor is always right, Lion?" Horus's eyes flared. "You've become old-fashioned. Stagnant."
He lifted his warhammer—an impeccable replica of Worldbreaker, the weapon once gifted to him by the Emperor himself when he was named Warmaster. It was shaped like a black and gold maul, its pointed head nearly the size of a Space Marine's torso. The true Worldbreaker had long since passed to Abaddon, but this copy was masterfully made, with an active disintegration field humming across its surface.
Despite the copy, its craftsmanship rivaled the original.
Horus had once wielded the hammer to shatter tanks with a single blow. To him, it was as light as a dagger. To any other Astartes, it would be almost immovable.
As the two Primarchs raised their weapons, the temperature in the chamber plummeted.
Lion gripped the hilt of his sword in one hand, the Emperor's Shield raised in the other.
"Horus," he said, voice firm, "you're still as arrogant as ever."
Horus didn't respond. He lunged.
For the path he had chosen, he would destroy anything that stood in his way—even his kin.
His massive frame moved with terrifying speed, blurring like a predator in mid-sprint. Even El'Jonson struggled to follow his motion. The hammer cleaved the air with a thunderous roar—
BOOM.
The Lion raised his shield just in time. The impact exploded in golden light, hurling shockwaves across the chamber. The Space Marines nearby staggered, dazed—then were flung back like rag dolls.
Lion motioned for them to fall back.
And then he turned, meeting Horus again with sword and shield.
The Lion's arms tingled with the force of the blow. He's stronger than he should be... A cold realization crept through his thoughts.
He looked at Horus. "Your arrogance has always blinded you. You never truly learn. You fall, again and again, believing the universe is wrong and you alone are right. You think you can bargain with the warp and bend it to your will."
The shadows deepened.
Fog, thick and dreamlike, rolled across the laboratory. The dense jungle of Lion's psychic projection consumed the space around them—shrouding Horus's vision.
Still, the Lion stood in the mist, armor glinting like a knight of legend.
"Is this your new trick?" Horus growled, swinging his hammer at a ghostly figure in the fog. It dissolved, incorporeal.
Lion struck back.
With the weight of the Emperor's Shield, he slammed into Horus's side—taking advantage of the brief moment when the hammer had overextended.
Horus's massive form was hurled backward, crashing through the haze. When he rose, the Lion had already vanished into the mists once more.
Yet Horus did not panic.
His breathing was steady, his gaze sharp. He turned slowly, scanning the dense fog, his mind calculating. The battlefield had become a labyrinth of shadow and illusion—but his confidence, near-delusional in its intensity, did not waver.
Lion struck again—faint as a whisper, fast as lightning. Slash, vanish, slash again. He weaved through the fog like a phantom, each blow precise and calculated.
Within this forest of dreams, Horus felt a bitter reversal: he was the prey, and the Lion was the hunter—experienced, relentless, patient.
Horus didn't know when Lion had mastered this ability, this manipulation of mind and shadow. But he hated it. Even when he struck back, the Emperor's Shield would rise at the perfect moment, denying him again and again.
But Horus was not without resolve.
"This isn't unsolvable," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
He believed in himself with near-fanatical certainty—an echo of the arrogance that once shattered the Imperium. No matter how powerful the opponent, no matter the odds, Horus always believed he could overcome.
When the Lion lunged once more from the mist, Horus unleashed a sudden storm of raw psychic energy.
Lion braced, raising the Emperor's Shield instinctively—but the shield remained still. No pressure. No impact.
That was when he realized—he wasn't the target.
The psychic storm tore outward, not toward the Lion, but the forest itself.
With a deafening crack and howl, the warp-fueled tempest shredded the fog, dispelling the illusion and revealing the broken remnants of Lion's psychic terrain.
There was no time to react.
Horus struck—one massive foot driving forward in a brutal kick to Lion's chest.
The blow landed with catastrophic force. Even the Lion's advanced Argentum-forged armor, crafted by Dukel himself, could not withstand the impact. It crumpled inward with a metallic shriek.
Lion was launched across the lab, his body slamming into the foundation of a towering bio-chamber.
He coughed violently, blood streaming from his mouth. Each breath was ragged.
His vision blurred. Pain flooded his nerves.
Even after ten thousand years, facing Horus once more, Lion had not anticipated this. The sheer power radiating from his brother now—this was not the Horus he had once known.
And it terrified him.
...
TN:
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