Time is endlessly malleable, deep within the Great Eye; those without and most within have no precise idea of its meandering flow. And I have spent countless aeons deeply immersed in the myriad colors of powerful aetheric radiance. Others would have been driven mad, succumbing to the howling vortex of emotions clawing at their souls. They would have given themselves to one of the Yaksha Kings, kneeling, grovelling at the feet of those uncaring tyrants. It is so much easier to bend the knee, to beg and scrape for attention, for a small measure of power, for slaves and pawns to make the life easier. And those who debase themselves so dare to claim themselves worthy warriors, glorious champions.
They know nothing.
Those who bend the knee have forgotten, or perhaps never learnt the lesson the Khagan has taught us - never to trust a Tyrant, no matter if it calls itself Emperor, King, or God. All rulers are tyrants, growing fat and complacent on the blissful ignorance of the massed belief of their sheeplike subjects. Our own so-called brethren have forgotten the betrayal of the Thirteenth, when they so bravely ran from the most important battle. They ran with their tails between their legs, on the cusp of victory, just because their vaunted Primarch died. And for all their cries about courage and honor, they showed not a scrap of either - they did not honor their oaths to us and the others, they did not show the courage needed to finish what their genefather began, and for which he laid down his life. We fought, we bled, we died to ensure the Khagan's will, and to burn away the Emperor's veil of lies. Alone, unsupported, we could not prevail, and had to retreat as well, only to have the accursed Fourth seal us away within the Eye for an eternity - long enough that even the myths of our memory faded from the minds of the ignorant masses.
They know nothing.
The Imperium has grown fat and complacent, forgetting their ancient foes. Those sycophantic, deluded kinsmen who sided with the Carrion Tyrant have grown lax in their vigilance. Soon, the precious illusion of gossamer-thin lies will shatter, and their eyes will finally see the truth, hidden for so long by skilled propaganda and fearful ignorance. Soon, their nightmares will rise again, the calling for the Hunt echoing far in the nonexistent distances of the warp. Soon, the stars themselves will echo the laugh of the betrayed sons of the Khagan, the last scions of destroyed Chogoris, as we once again carve the truth deep within the flesh of the rotting, unaware carcass of the Imperium.
They know nothing - but I will make them remember. So vows Batu, Khan of the urdu of Jaghatai, loyal son of the Fifth Legion.
The city around them burns, fire raining from the heavens as the orbiting White Scar vessels commence their bombardment, lance strikes and cannon barrages obliterating troop concentrations, fortifications, defensive emplacements. The planetary vox is alive with the careless, joyful laughter of craftsmen plying their trade, as the Imperial defenders are put to death one after the other; no strongpoint, no Guard formation can resist the whirlwind of blades and death brought to bear on them. The defenders are confused, lashing out blindly, seemingly without coordination - small surprise, since their commanders were amongst the first casualties of the assault, their skulls taken for goblets by the laughing killers.
Panic reigns on the streets of the hive cities, as jetbikes race along the main concourses, strafing the milling throngs with bolter fire, fading into the sun or the darkness of service tunnels whenever measurable firepower is brought to bear against them. Assault marines with meltabombs pounce on the tanks still looking for the evasive raiders, turning the symbols of Imperial might into burning, half-molten wreckages, grim mementoes of the futility of the resistance.
The clouds above swirl and darken, as the zadyin arga of the brotherhood reach out with their power to vent their fury on the ignorant sycophantic cattle bowing to the Carrion Tyrant. Lightning strikes batter Guard formations, Arbites strongpoints, power plants and comm relays with pinpoint precision, reaping a tally of chaos in the storm's wake. Cold, pure winds from the steppes howl within the sheltered walls of the hive cities, their siren song calling people to embrace the wind, to join the hunt, to cast off their chains, and be as they were meant to be. The madness of unfettered, ultimate freedom sweeps up the millions of prisoners entombed under the false faith of the distant, glorified corpse of the tyrant; they vent their never-before tasted feelings with great gusto, drowning the cities in an unholy orgy of sex and violence, as desires run rampant. Free from the oppressive norms of society, of the hidebound dogmatic teachings of the faith, of the restraints of self-control - only their wants and basic urges remain. It is the ultimate gift that the White Scars are all too gleeful to share.
The whooping, ululating raiders of the Fifth Legion are, of course, not without opposition - sure, the Guard can mount some measure of defense at several locations, being led by capable, courageous, disciplined officers, or terrifying commissars, but those brief flares of resistance are snuffed out by the storm of blades and lightning clad in red-marked white power armor. The Scars even take a handful of unlamented losses - no surprise, confidence always veers close to arrogance, and that can lead a warrior like them to foolishness, which in turn serves to make a good example for the rest. Also, a scant few rivalries are settled discreetly during the chaotic hit-and-run assaults in the labyrinthine confines of the hive spires. So what if an errant bolter shell takes off the head of an unmindful, unworthy Legionary? Or a too-wide swing from an immense glaive bifurcates a power armored weakling too slow to move when the Astartes wade into the mass of humanity? Trifling matters, all in all.
No, the real opposition, the real threat, the real aim is slow to manifest itself. As expected, really - the sons of the Hydra ever shy from direct confrontation, when they can. Especially if they have to deal with the descendants of murdered Chogoris, who come to call the traitors of the Twentieth to account for their ancient crime. They were the worthy prey the Scars sought on this world - and while this was not their preferred type of engagement, they fought with all the cunning, tenacity, and skill that Batu expected from his kin, even when they knelt before withered, chained tyrants.
"You have grown slow, cousin." Not even the inhuman growl of the vox can mask the smile and joy behind the words, as Batu throws himself against the Alpha Legionnaire, the sword and halberd singing a tune as old as time. "You seem to have forgotten your past - as if you never thought we would come for you."
His opponent answers only with a flurry of strikes, the attack routine gouging a deep furrow in the white chestplate before Batu spins away.
"Now you're starting to remember." He lunges forward, his blade almost untrackable even with transhuman senses, as he drives the loyalist back. A kick sends the Alpha stumbling, a blade seeking his throat. The legionary dodges with serpentine fluidity, his halberd lancing viper-quick for the Khan's exposed throat. The White Scar parries with a growling laughter, before pushing the attack, his blade a storm of steel hammering away at the desperate defence of the Alpha. Feint against feints, parry and riposte, the two transhuman warriors weave a symphony of death and steel in ever-increasing tempo, but they are both aware that the outcome is not in question.
The loyalist buckles, when a kick snaps his knee. He falls when the follow-up slash cuts deep into his other leg. Two more strikes are parried before the White Scar bisects the halberd, then with a lightning-quick slash, cuts off both the Alpha's hands at the wrists. Quietly chuckling, he strides to the fallen Astartes, and rips away his helmet, before taking off his own. Two pair of eyes meet - one filled with pain and determination, the other with merriment and purpose. The air grows colder around them, the wind crooning its siren song in their ears. Neither of them pay attention. The White Scar's eyes flash with lightning.
"Do you see?" The voice is but a distant thunder, as the vast engine of war that was the Imperium unfolds before the Alpha. The Crusade drowns civilizations, races in blood and fire if they dare to stand up against the golden tyrant. The mighty fleets are always spearheaded by lightning-fast ships liveried in red-marked white, the scouts ranging before the might of the urdu, the warhawk let loose on the endless vista of the plains. The Scars charge forwards with laughter on their lips and freedom in their heart, certain that the Imperium will follow their path. Yet they are left alone, in the darkness of the void, their conquests forgotten, their path forsaken, their glory unnoticed.
"Do you see?" The time of retribution sears vistas of bloody destruction in the Alpha's mind, as the Scars hunt with unchained, merciless ferocity on those who betrayed them and shunted their fate to the darkness. Bereft of their gene-father, exiled by the lying would-be godling clawing for the heavens, the Fifth Legion vents its hatred alongside the Archtraitor's forces.
"Do you see?" The swirling, maddening Eye, the nightmarish planets of ever-changing whims, the solitude of ultimate freedom where the Carrion Tyrant and its blinded sons banished the Scars, for the crime of pointing out their hypocrisy. Watching, waiting with all the patience a true hunter can muster, the Scars bide their time until they are once more forgotten - distant wraiths even to Astartes like the Alphas. And when they return, they are all too eager to show their mettle, to proclaim their superiority, to boast of the truth they alone are not blind to.
"Yes, I do see." And the wounded Alpha Legionnaire grins with bloody satisfaction, as the dark depths of the hive cities come alive with serpentine quickness, the agents of the Twentieth Legion seemingly stepping from the very shadows, as they set upon the White Scars. Imperial ships emerge from the warp, racing towards the planetary orbit, to trap and hammer the traitor vessels.
And Batu laughs, an eager, satisfied sound.