The last of the cities called his war unholy.
That was no surprise. It was a religious citadel devoted to Primus, a safe place for His worshippers. A holy oasis in the midst of war.
Megatron had left the city alone for many vorns. Not because he felt any religious devotion. If Primus did exist, he owed the god nothing. It did not matter to him how he or any other Cybertronian had come to exist, or why sparks gave life and sentience to otherwise lifeless metal, or how Vector Sigma or the Allspark bestowed them. It mattered only that they did.
And he of all mechs disliked vows of pacifism. War was the crucible that forged metal riddled with weakness and impurity into something that would not buckle or warp or fatigue or rust. Those who refused it only ensured they remained untempered.
But he had no particular reason to destroy the peaceful. They were weak, yes, but they were no threat as long as they remained contained. Let them stay in their spires and feed energy to useless systems as they repeated devotions and genuflected. It mattered little to him.
But the Decepticons had swept Cybertron in the flames that would remake it once and for all, and for that, any remnant of the old world had to fall.
Long ago, at the beginning of the war, some Decepticons might have said that the citadel had it exactly wrong: that their war was a holy one. That they were the scourge of Primus, rooting out the impure and destroying it in a wave of cleansing flame.
Few felt that way now. They believed in their cause, of course - but they razed worlds because they must, not because this was a crusade.
Some had even taken to believing, after watching their world itself charred to a cinder in their wake, that they were servants not of Primus but of Unicron himself, bringers of chaos, harbingers of a new aeon of death.
Megatron scoffed. The Decepticons were neither champions of Primus nor demons in thrall to the Chaos Bringer. They were themselves.
And that was exactly why Cybertron itself burned for them, and why, when they had finished searing away the old, rusting remnants of their decaying world, galaxies would fall to their might.