Imperium Ascendant

by Jayfiction19

We all know the tale, The Emperor of Mankind creates Twenty Primarchs to conquer the Galaxy. Nine Fall to Chaos's taint and Let the Galaxy Burn. What if this was not the case? What if the Ruinous Powers never got their claws into the Emperors Sons? What if the Imperium Ascended instead of falling into darkness and suffering? This is the story of that possibility

25. Chapter 20: The Lunar Crusade

Chapter Twenty: The Lunar Crusade

Location: The Tri-Legion Fleet in Luna Orbit
Date: 813.M30 ( Nine hours since the battle for Luna began)

The XI, XIII and XVI Legions had smashed through the pseudo-blockade of Chaos vessels and charged to Luna. The VII Legion had helped them punch through the enemy fleet, and were now busy keeping it from attacking the three legions rear and defending Terran Void-space. Safe from tainted raiders. Luckily for the Imperial Invaders, the civil war within the Moon prevented any meaningful orbital defense. Once separated from the Chaos Hordes the full might of three Astartes Legions could be easily unleashed upon the traitors.

While they had directed their fleet, the Primarchs telepathically communicated in order to create a strategy. The psionic-link connecting their souls did not simply protect them from Chaos, but allowed the Brothers to mentally communicate over vast distances easily. A powerful boon in Void-Warfare.

Each Legion would play to their specialty in the battle. The XIII would form the main bulk of the offense, their numbers, and tactical flexibility would allow them to wage war across the entire Moon. This offense would be complemented by XI Legion strike forces inserted into the XIII battle lines, providing the main force a powerful sword and shield against Maleficarum. Horus had subdivided his legion for two similar roles. Half would deep strike into loyalist-held territory and assist the defenders until the main force arrived, then add their numbers to the pacification. The other half would engage in decapitation strike against the Enemy leadership, splitting off from each other the Legion vessels entered orbit all across the Moon. Lacking any atmosphere to speak of, the Ships could safely anchor only a few kilometers above the Lunar surface. By now, a few Cultists had managed to scramble together Void-Defenses. Opening fire with powerful batteries, and even launching into Space within stolen imperial transports. They barely had time to launch the first volleys before their doom arrived.

As one the three fleets opened fire upon the Lunar surface, Kinetic and Energy projectiles obliterated weapon emplacements. The stolen transports barely left Lunar ground before shot-cannon blasts of Flak pulped both them and their occupants. This thunderous display of firepower was a small percentage of the Fleets destructive potential. They wanted Luna intact once the battle was over after all. So the second barrage was of a far more precise and deadly variety.

Almost a million Astartes rained down upon Luna. The combined might of three Astartes Legions arrived in a rain of fire and iron. Drop Pods and Stormbirds descended in wave after wave of Imperial Fury. The sheer number and intensity of the Assault was not strictly necessary, yet the images recorded by lunar loyalists and fleet remembrancer would echo for generations. Propaganda can be as effective as bolter or blade if used correctly.

Among the Stormbirds was a unique vessel. A custom made stead for a demigod. The Quadriga-Maxius was the personal Dropship of Marcus Augustio: The XIII Primarch. Backed by his Praetor Guards and Four Hundred Thousand Astartes, he marched to War. Arriving at the gates of Port Luna the XIII Legion had come and nothing could stop them.

The first goal of the Lunar offense was taking control of Port Luna. The massive naval base took up most of Kepler Crater. If conquered the Rebels would lose total Void control. The Docks and fortifications would provide the Loyalists the ultimate beachhead if they could take it. Under normal circumstances the idea of sieging something like Port Luna would be an absurd idea. These were not normal circumstances. Demi-Gods clothed in transhuman flesh battled the forces of insanity.

The XIII Legion stood before the Gates. Thousands of Astartes and accompanying vehicles stood ready for the order to attack. Their sinister equivalents stood atop the Ports battlements and Fort-Spires. Legions of Flesh-Beasts, Daemonhosts and Lunar Cultists baying for blood. The maddest and most violent warriors of Luna had been sent to the Port. The elite of the Four Phases had expected the Assault and herded their most vicious members here. The turrets and fortifications would exhaust the Emperors thralls. Then once they broke into the fortress the feral Chaos hordes contained within would butcher them.

It was a simple but effective strategy that relied on two factors: The durability of Port Luna's defenses, and a powerful Champion of the Gods. The Champion would through fear, fury and charisma keep the feral servants from diving into the battle to early. Some of the more vicious and insane Chaos-Berserkers would have happily dived off the mountain sized battlements, chasing foul glory.

The Champion selected for this honor stood above the massive gate. Peering down at the invaders like so many Warlords and Tyrant-Kings before him. He was a Daemon Prince of power and pedigree. Known to his foes and allies as Zaubernox. Chosen of all Four Gods of the Warp. He had ended his entire species to walk the path of glory. Summoned forth into the body of an eager servant he had corralled the chaos hordes and was eager to test his mettle against the Primarch.

Unfortunately for Zaubernox the Demigod he faced was not one for glorious duels. Marcus Augistio was a practical man who understood that a siege would be costly. While he was confident the Daemon Prince would fall to his Power-Gladius, he felt it was unnecessary and a waste of precious time and resources. So, when the Warp-traitor howled psychic challenge and curses down from the battlements, he simply contacted his flagship. After a few moments of calculation and assessment he settled on a course of action.

Horus and his Legion teleported deep into Luna and was rapidly drawing much of the defenders attention. XI Legion pilots from their Eighth Formation were busy distracting the orbital and anti-void defenses so the rest of their Legion could make their move. This gave Marcus an opportunity to complete his objective efficiently. Arrangements were made and he approached the Super-Titan sized gate. Neither side opened fire as the Primarch raised his hands and mustered his psychic power. Being an average Psyker among the Primarchs, he knew what he was about to do would be rather draining. Ironically, the thinning of realspace allowed him to draw additional power from the Warp. Further proving his father's teachings that the Warp belonged to mankind, not the False-Gods.

Glancing up to Zaubernox Marcus responded to the Daemon Prince for the first time. "The Gate can be Replaced"

Before the infernal lord upon the battlements could understand the messages meaning, his doom struck. A single Lunar Class Cruiser of the XIII Legion fleet had positioned itself above Port Luna's main gate. It fired a super-charged Lance Beam upon the Gate. In the exact moment it struck, the XIII Primarch used his incredible power to evaporate the Void-Shield protecting the Gate. Like the wrath of the Emperor himself, the Lance beam seared the Gate into nothingness. Its metal and stone structure became ash, then atoms. Zaubernox was cast screaming back into the Warp before he could even register what happened. Where once a mighty Bastion-gate stood was now an dusty crater.

Panic, confusion and blood-rage filled the minds of the Ports defenders. Their master was gone in a blast of searing fire. Where once the gate stood was now a pillar of lunar dust. They had little time to gather themselves when judgement arrived. Through the rapidly cooling breach the XIII Legion charged. With their Primarch at their head they were unstoppable. They flooded into Port-Luna in a tide of blue armor. A that fought with transhuman efficiency. The chaos defenders were smashed apart with ruthless precision.

Gene-Bulked beings that had once being kin to Ogryns leapt at the Thirteenth Legion's phalanxes and were cut down by bolter fire. Swarms of cultists in stolen void-suits were eviscerated beams of volkite energy and some met their fate when they were sucked into the freezing, unforgiving void. Factory farmed Chaos Spawn mobbed Mech-Suit wearing Astartes and were pummeled by thunder hammers. At every turn the XIII Legion smashed aside the corrupted defenders.

Even through the dust filled chaos that was becoming the battle of the Gate Marcus Augistio noticed a peculiar pattern. A scant number of enemy combatants were scurrying from the fight. This was not outside the Primarch's theoreticals. Servants of Chaos were cowardly by nature. What worried the Primarch were the pattern of mutation and markings the cowards shared. Even while dueling multiple Flesh-golems simultaneously, Marcus assessed the situation and realized what was about to occur. The runaways were Tzeentch Cultists preparing a ritual.

This suspicion was quickly confirmed as the Primarch felt a swelling of dark power. 99 Sorcerers all around the battlefield that was once the Ports antichamber and gate were calling upon their patrons might. Marcus did not know what hex they intended to cast and did not care to find out. His sons had been selected for this duty thanks to their purity and numbers. Even so they had suffered from the Chaotic attack and were fighting at sub-standard levels. Marcus was not going to risk his gene-sons or victory. The Sorcerers must be stopped.

Kalib and his Legion had not arrived yet and the XIII Librarius could not handle what was coming. This left Marcus with a singular option. He was loathe to enact his trump card this early in the battle, but it was the most practical option. Sending a telepathic warning to all allied Psykers he prepared to use The Hand of Dominion.

Executing the golems with efficient thrusts of his Gladius Marcus gained a scant amount of precious breathing room and lifted his free hand up into the air. The power-fist encased hand spread its fingers and he brought it down onto the cracked stone of Luna, like he was swatting an annoying insect. As he did this the Primarchs psychic power rippled out from him. Forming a massive field of warp-energy that extended kilometers in diameter. It was not noticed at first, for its nature was not of the kind many know exist. Instead of twisting the rules of the material or ripping open the veil it strengthened the barrier between material and immaterial.

Marcus's Hand of Dominion nullified or weakened all but the mightiest psychic power within its radius. As a youth the Primarch had found Warp-craft messy and unpredictable. It was not reliable or efficient enough for his taste. After an encounter with a Blank in Malcador's employ an idea struck the young demigod. If psykers use their emotions and willpower to harness warp-energy to bend reality, could it also be used to enforce reality? Consulting with his father provided the information needed and Marcus Augisto set to work enforcing sanity upon the universe. His brother Tengri Khagan once remarked to Marcus "I guess you are obsessive for all rules, even cosmic ones."

Tengri did not know the half of it. Marcus had witnessed the horrors of the warp even from a young age. He had seen what the monsters hiding in the immaterium had done to his brother Konrad. Watching a friend and a brother who similar to him slowly go mad and almost be damned had a major effect on the young Marcus. Law, justice and unity kept mankind from becoming playthings for the false-gods. It was only logical for Marcus to apply his mental skill set to his psychic one. Enforcing righteous order upon a chaotic universe.

Once enveloped in the Hand of Dominion, the Tzeentch Cultists found their ritual rapidly collapsing. Like an inferno starving for oxygen the dark power sputtered and died. Confusion filled the Dark-Sorcerers hearts. They only had moments to savor the emotion before the second wave of the Imperial assault arrived.

From the void the XI Legion arrived. Not in drop pods but through gravity. They had jumped from their vessels and drop-ships into Luna's skies. The Eight Formation assault on Lunar void space was to distract the Cultists from this Assault. Like a gentle snowfall of Ceramite they had arrived all across Port Luna. This process took longer than the bombastic arrival of the XIII Legion but started at the same time.

With the attention of the Port Luna defenders on the massive army marshaling at their front gate. It was rather easy for the XI Legion to burrow into the massive fortress and conquer it piece by piece. By the time the XIII Legion had entered the Port and Marcus used the Hand of Dominion the majority of important systems within Port Luna were under Imperial Control.

Kalib Kraad the XI Primarch had lead this phantom-blitz himself. Using his own psionic abilities to muffle any psychic or material distress calls. The traitors and Daemons were locked in their fortress with a being designed to be their ultimate foe. Kalib lived up to this. He was a storm of blades, psychic fire and vicious instinct. Zaubervox was not the only Daemon Prince within Port Luna. The other one was considerably less lucky than him. Where Zaubervox was cast back into the warp and soundly humiliated, the other was not so lucky.

Kalib had impaled the Tzeentch-Slave on a spire of Iron. Before vivisecting it spiritually. Peeling away layers of corruption and dark magic to find the last bits of mortal within the Daemon Prince. Kalib Kraad allowed himself a vicious grin as the creature's tiny shred of soul was plucked from its Daemonic self and locked away. Adding to his growing collection of damned souls. The husk of warp-energy that had once been a Mortal bound to Tzeentch was then burned away with silver fire. True Death was merciful compared to what was in store for this fallen Daemon Prince. Cut off from his patron god its identity and name were erased. The remnant of this once proud "ascendant" champion of chaos was now locked away within the the XI Primarchs gift from the Emperor.

An obsidian cube, carved with countless glyphs of sealing and protection on even the microscopic level. This "Rubi-Carceron" as Kalib's father called it was an ancient relic that in his hands could imprison souls, Daemons, and worse. The lost Daemon Prince would spend the rest of time within the cube. If Kalib did not find a use for the soul scrap as test subject or ritual fodder.

So when the XIII Legion pushed the Chaos berserkers and fanatics back to the Ports interior they did not find allies and security but another force of Astartes. Then as a final nail in the cultists resistance another mass of XI Legion warriors arrived from the void. Surrounded by Transhuman warriors and neutered of their dark blessings and stolen fortress-port the defenders of Port Luna were exterminated.

With the beachhead claimed, Imperial Auxilia could be ferried to the surface. They would support and hold the territory claimed by the Imperial offense. Regrouping the XI and XIII Legion prepared to set out. The Lunar Crusade would purge any and all remnants of Chaos from Sol. Spreading out the twin Legions formed up into multiple hundred thousand strong armies to march across and within Luna. Nothing would or could stop this. With the number and adaptiveness of the XIII, supported by the XI's viciousness and psionic expertise, the Creed of the Four Phases was doomed. Even so their foul patrons had a few other strings to pull. Fate is a funny thing and some puppets of the Dark Gods are doomed to dance to a familiar tune no matter what. Even if death had already claimed them.

Location: Hazardous Specimen Storage Alpha, Mare Ingenii.
Date: 813.M30 (Shortly after the murder of Zamora and unleashing of Chaos)

The walls of existence became dangerously thin throughout Luna. Warp Energy crackled and roiled through the natural satellite. Rifts were constantly splitting open. Leaking Daemons and lesser warp-vermin into the tunnels that criss crossed Luna. Blasphemous rituals and dark wards protected them from most of the Astronomicon's light. Creating a domain of shadows and corruption. Here, the elite of the Lunar Cult drank deep the power of the Warp. Growing swollen with the Gods favor, and becoming ever madder.

The beings that had once been the Creed of the Four Phases would have been horrified and disgusted by what had become of them and Sacred Luna. Now they revelled in damnation. Protected from sanity and decency by the first boon of Chaos. All who walk the path of glory are slowly stripped of what is Anathema to Chaos: control. They became literal lunatics, seeking greater and greater heights of insanity to earn the Gods favor. An eternal cycle of self-destruction that fed the Gods and let them affect the Materium.

This feeding frenzy of Chaos attracted the attention of countless Daemons. All seeking to enter the warp-soaked materium of Luna through the various gateways created by the cults. The warps power was becoming a part of Luna and if the gods had their way it would join the celestial family of Daemon Worlds. Teetering on the edge of material and immaterial Luna could host some of the elder fiends of the Warp. One of these ancients of cursed Pedigree slithered through Luna on the hunt for an old friend. This Daemon took the form of a crow, or rather the idea of something a crow symbolizes. It had once been bound to a true-son of the Anathema. A wise Sorcerer who bound 72 Daemons to him in ancient times.

Now it scutteled/flew/swam towards a hidden Vault within Luna. A place where the most dangerous artifacts and specimens on Luna were stored. This facility was were the Imperium dissected creatures and horrors it encountered. Most of these specimens had been slowly siphoned to the growing Imperial Palace. Where they met their fate in the Emperor's lab or the Dark Cells. Only a few items remained, those the most difficult to transport. Zamora the Squat had actually been sent on a mission to retrieve them when the Creed of the Four Phases had ambushed him.

The most important of these artifacts was the Daemon's goal. The corpse of an impossible man. A captain in a Legion that did not exist, sent on a mission by a fallen Primarch. Along with his brothers he had been dissected and analysed by the Anathema himself. Improvements to the Astartes and their equipment could be traced to this. Now the Daemon mortals called Raum opened up the stasis coffin holding the body and poured himself into the dessicated flesh.

The dark energy that filled Luna provided the power needed to knit the broken body back together. Armor plates were welded to rapidly mutating skin. Bolt-wounds were repaired and infused with putrid muscle. Neurons were rewired and pieces of a long lost soul were plucked from the warp by Raum. Its once and future symbiotic nature with the lost soul allowing this act. Then with a howl of dark Laughter the thirsting gods breathed life into a fallen servant to-be. The revenant Astartes lurched back into life as its Daemon ally welcomed him back to the land of the living: "Hello Argel Tal."

With a roaring scream of agony, confusion and misery Argel Tal sucked in the stale oxygen of the vault and felt his flesh finish healing. Jerkily he rose from his casket and came to his senses. Everything was pain, his flesh was being remodeled as well as rebuilt. The Daemon Raum had melded into his body and soul. A perfected form of possession where mortal and spirit became more than the sum of their parts.

That was at least what the Chaos Gods told Tal and other followers of the False Word. In truth this form of supposed symbiosis was simply a more evolved parasitism of the Warp. The mortal would be slowly and certainly assimilated by the Daemon. Feeding and strengthening it till the last fragment of their soul was used up.

This transformation and resurrection was extraordinarily painful. As it continued, Argel Tal was blind to the world, existing in a undead state of misery. Guided by primitive instincts and the whispers of Raum he sought out sustenance to fuel the process. In the barren cryo-tomb where his remains were stored the only food to be found was his fellow Pilgrims.

The Battle-Brothers of the Serrated Suns Chapter were ripped from their caskets and messily devoured. Flickers of memories stolen from their long dead minds added to the torment that Argel Tal was experiencing. After hours of feasting and mutation Argel Tal was reborn. Ceramite plates, mutant muscle and Daemonic energy had become one. Matching a Primarch in both bulk and size, the Possessed had become a terrifying champion of darkness. It was only when this metamorphosis ended that some level of consciousness returned to Argel Tal.

Raising himself up to his massive height Argel Tal blinked away the pain and confusion that had ensnared him. Now he sifted through the memories that drifted through him. Some were distinctly Alien, those belonging to his consumed brothers and a few filtered through from Raums own history. Yet most of these memories were familiar.

* Kneeling before a tattooed chaplain, receiving blessings as he was anointed. Becoming a more than a mortal. Becoming God's messengers. A Bearer of the Word.*

*Laughing and talking with a white armored Captain. Cousins and friends. Sons of failed sons, and leaders of men and supermen*.

* Guided by a purple eyed prophet to the womb of the Fourth. Where the once-rulers had violated existence and rebirthed another aspect of Madness. His soul sold to the Warp-Gods, destiny to die in shadow set in stone.*

* Man and Daemon became one. Daubed in bloody crimson. Leading his damned brothers to betray and savage their cousins. Making the fields of Istvaan run red with offerings to the Four true gods.*

* Being torn to pieces by the vengeful claws of the Deliverer. Dying in the shadow of Korvidine Pinions*

* Impaled by Destiny's hand upon the burning fields of a Slave Kingdom. An adamantium Aquilia forged onto a walking cathedral marked his demise. *

* Into the breach! Leading the charge into the Anathema's lair. Butchering the Sons of Dorn. Before the Angel of Vengeance cast him down with a bloody Spear. The light of battle and fury hidden behind angelic feathers.*

* Dragged into the Shadows where a monster made of grief, vengeance and what was once a Primarch sunk its claws into him. Torn to ribbons by a murder of crow-spirits. His head, delivered to the XVII. A taste of things to come*

*Accompanying the Warmaster himself to Mackan. Reaping a grim toll among the cursed sons of the Angel. Until he was brought low by a bloody Warrior-Priest leading an army of fallen heroes. The Reclusiarch's Crozius crushed his skull as the ornamental wings of his killers Jump-pack flickered through Tal's sight *

Familiar, yet jumbled. The memories of every single Argel Tal to fall under the Dark God's spell were crammed into the mutant Astartes mind. Part twisted joke, meant to mock their servant. Part warning and lesson for him to do better. Destiny decreed Argel Tal would fall under the shadow of Great Pinions. Until then the Gods would not let him rest.

Twisted in body and mind the Astartes tore itself out of the Specimen storage. Desperately trying to make sense of the contradictory and foul memories. Argel Tal was all at once, an Idealistic Bearer of the Word, a Daemonhost Pilgrim, Traitor to the Anathema, Veteran of the Long War, and a lost soul, consumed by thirsting Gods. He did not know who or what he truly was until he was greeted outside his tomb.

A troop of tainted Cultists of high pedigree awaited his arrival, their gods had told them of the coming of a Champion from this forbidden vault. Even at their most brazen, the Creed of Four Phases had avoided these chambers. The Anathema's touch lay heavy upon them and rousing his attention would spell their doom. Now that the rebellion had reached its full terrible magnitude. Such concerns were pointless. So a group of the most devout and skilled servants of the Four had been selected to guide the risen Warrior.

Peering down at the kneeling Mortals before him the being that had once been Argel Tal asked: "Who are you, where are we and…. Who am I?"

Religious rapture filled the face of the lead cultist as she stared up at him. He was an icon of her faith. Fusion of spirit and sacred flesh. Standing three meters tall and cloaked in blood-crimson plates of armor-bone. Beautifully inscribe with scripture and occult imagery. His head was a mix of battle-helm, and a snarling Daemon. Where ceramite gauntlets had once been were now mighty talons. The dark majesty of Chaos itself poured off of him in phantom waves. Drinking in the sight of the champion, the leader of the cabal spoke first.

Lady Gienah-154 had been born for this duty. Sculpted from the finest genestock to fulfill this divine order. Guide and serve the fallen chosen who was locked away in the Tyrant-Emperor's vault. Superhumanly beautiful, with skin paler than ancient Luna-stone, and long black hair streaked with silver. A living embodiment of Selenar ideals of feminine perfection. This lovely and seductive shell held a mind and soul that matched Luna's dark side in shadowy intensity. Sinister and utterly devoted to her warp-born masters, a fitting replacement for the half forgotten blind-confessor that Tal had once cared for.

Her silken voice lilted with a Lunar accent answered her new masters questions: "We are the Scions of Sacrifice. A sect of the Creed of Four Phases born to serve you, The Eversacrifice of Chaos."

The Eversacrifice, a title as dark and sinister as any given to the Gods Champions. This new identity suited the man once known as Argel Tal. The mutilated state of his soul, allowed the gods to mold their servant into something new. Just as Raum's influence had twisted his body the words of Gienah-154 finished the process of transforming his mind. The memories and madness that formed his mind latched on to this title and molded themselves to it. Finally, the Astartes known as Argel Tal was gone. In his place was Korban the Eversacrifce.

Looking into Gienah-154's eyes The Everscarfice asked: "What do the Gods require of me?"

A twisted smile marred Gienah-154's perfect face as she responded and set a saga of horror into motion. "What you have always done, illuminate the Galaxy to their wonder. Reveal the Primordial Truth to mankind and save the Anathema's spawn from him."

Nodding in agreement the Korban the Eversacrifce mustered his dark power and prepared to make his way to Luna's now corrupted heart. Destiny called, and he would answer. Yet the Eversacrifce did not know he was not the only warp-infused demigod heading to Luna's core.

Location: High Altar of the Four Phases.
Date: 813.M30 (Ten hours since the battle for Luna began)

The combined attacks of the XI and XIII Legions were making brutal headway across Luna, sweeping away the forces of Chaos like a tide of fire. Port Luna and most of the surrounding habitats and subsurface zone had been reclaimed, letting next phase of the Imperial Assault beguin. Regiments of Solar Auxilia, Martian Knights, and a few of the more tame specimens of the Titan Legions had arrived. Even so, the Cultists put up a vicious. mass-produced Daemon-Hosts and fell psi-weaponry backed by seemingly infinite hordes of maddened cultists proved a vicious combination.

Though the Astartes who fought on the surface of Luna had won a great victory over the corruption fighting to consume their soul, they had not emerged from the conflict unscathed. In purging the taint of Chaos from their bodies and souls, their organs and bone were marred and would take time to recover. Subconscious fears and stresses had been brought to the fore. The effects of the geneblight would have crippled mortals, but the Emperor's genius would not be bested by such foulness easily. The Legionaries fought on, through pain and damage. Luna would be redeemed, and the enemies of Mankind would fall.

Even with the higher than calculated casualty rate and the level of preparation by the Creed of Four phases, the dual assault of the XI and XIII Legion would succeed. The XIII's number, flexibility and adaptiveness was perfectly complemented by the vicious intensity of the XI Legion. Chapters of Marcus' sons formed the frontline while companies of Kailb's children acted as shock-troopers. Combining their natural ferocity and psychic boons to overwhelm the foe. So far both Primarchs leading the surface assault had personally killed three Greater Neverborn (or Second Born) each. Kalib lightheartedly mocked his brother that the one on top of the gate did not count to the tally.

With Port Luna claimed and Luna Voidspace under Imperial control the final stage of the assault could beguin. The XVI Legion would deepstrike into Luna's innards. Striking the traitors off guard. A combination of teleportation beacons and burrowing drop-pods would allow Horus Lupercali to lead a vicious decapitation strike.

Unlike the XI and XIII Legions that started the campaign unified the XVI Legion has been scattered across Luna. Positioned to attack command centers and assist surviving loyalists. Orbital scans allowed for efficient deployment. The more Warp-Taint and energy discharge the more Astartes were deployed. So fittingly the XVI Primarch struck the foulest and most entrenched citadel of the Creed of Four Phases.

This High Altar as its creators called it was a massive complex burrowed into Luna's flesh. Located near the Moon's north pole the citadel of Chaos now occupied what had once been the Emperor's Luna Laboratories. Sealed away at the Eternal Tyrant's orders, the massive complex had gathered dust and shadow until the Creed scavenged it. Once they cracked open the gate hidden at the Laboratories heart. The now barren structure was hidden from the Emperor's eye by Belakor's power. Forming a perfect sanctuary for the Creed to grow.

The symbolic value also enhanced the Cult's standing. By occupying what had once been the Emperor's and declared forbidden without repercussion. The Creed of Four Phases showed their power and influence. In their ignorance and insanity, they assumed the Emperor was blind and impotent. Willful ignorance blinded them to the terrible truth. They had not succeeded in defying the Imperium. Instead, they had been cultivated like prized livestock, fattened up for the slaughter. Now, just as the Emperor planned, the harvest had beguin.

Horus Lupercali and an elite cadre of First Formation Astartes struck the High Altar from Lunar Orbit. Adamantium rain of Drop Pods punched through the Lunar Surface. The experimental Kharybdis Assault Claw could punch through meters of bedrock and steel. Depositing the Astartes directly into the outer halls of the High Altar. Here the XVI Legion's war began.

The High Altar's defenses were congregated at various choke-points throughout the temple. Expecting the Emperor's Angels to smash through the main gate and be easy prey to their weapon emplacements. So when a storm of adamantium and plasma broke through the first three levels of the complex, turning the frontline defenders into a slurry of ash and paste, the Cultists were caught completely guard. Before the soldiers of the Creed could rally, the Drop Pods opened up. Armed with the best wargear the Lunar Elite could acquire and blessed by the Gods themselves. The army that dwelled within the High Altar could have matched any Solar Auxilia regiment. The Astartes ripped through them with practiced ease.

Leading from the front, the Primarch smashed apart enemy formations with each swing of his mighty Power-Mace. With god-like precision, Horus Lupercali blew apart enemy commanders with careful bolter fire. Abaddon stood at his side, fighting through his injuries to assist the Primarch. Although Sigismund of the VII was a better duelist and Blood-Jarl Önundr of the VI was certainly more ferocious, Abaddon combined a level of grit and righteous fury that let him fight on a similar level. That was on full display as he hacked through Cultists and roared oaths of vengeance. Inspiring his battle brothers and setting a glorious example.

After almost an hour of steady offense, the XVI Legion strike force reached their first real challenge. A massive gate that blocked entrance to the inner sanctum of the Altar. The titanic structure was inscribed with thousands of sigils and runes that hurt the eyes to gaze upon. It was one of the four entrances into the Inner Sanctum. Each gate lead to a temple to one of the Four Gods. Which in turn held entrance to the High Altar itself. The theology being one must prove their worthiness to one or all of the Gods before they could enter the holy of holies.

This Gate lead to the Warrior Temple, where the Blood God was worshipped in rituals of combat and gore. As they approached the gate, its defenders charged, hulking berserkers that matched Astartes in both size and might. Armed with savage tools of butchery and blessed with the madness of Khorne, they collided with the Astartes frontline in a wave of carnage. The enemy was mighty, and the Astartes were tired from their experiences. The curse inflicted by the Lunar Cultists and the damage accumulated during the battle was taking a toll. Berserkers and Angels died in droves. Soon the stone floor was slick with shed blood. A befitting offering to Khorne.

Gifted with his superhuman intellect and senses, Horus was the first to notice a peculiarity that affected the battlefield. The pools of blood were slowly but surely flowing towards the Gate. Droplets that formed into streams, then to rivers, and eventually into a subtle tide. This current pressed against the foot of the gate, and through occult witchery, flowed upwards. Blood pooled in runic grooves, forming a dread pattern, acting as fuel for a horrid Chaotic Ritual.

Swearing in his Assa-Matrari's Terran dialect, Horus charged the Gate, smashing aside all who tried to stop him. Holstering his Bolter and drawing upon his psychic might, the Primarch became a charging storm of pyrokinetic flames and energized Adamantium. Berserkers were burnt to ash and swatted aside by crushing blows. Laughing madly and chanting the mad battle cry of "Maim! Kill Burn!", the Berserkers threw themselves into the Primarchs path. Horus smashed aside the charging pack with a single blow. He watched in horror as the blood pouring from a pulped enemy defied gravity and flowed towards the Gate in an aerial stream.

With every drop of blood soaking into the blasphemous inscription, its magnetic draw on spilled ichor increased. The moment the battle started this outcome was inevitable. These berserkers who guarded the Gate of Blood were not simply its wardens, but a sacrifice to bring forth its true defender.

The XVI Legion's fighting pace was too slow, and had arrived too late to stop the completion of the ritual. The blood created a pattern, one that looked like a many armed horror. Soon the inscription congealed into a Daemonic outline. Like a leviathan breeching from the ocean's surface, a massive Warp-Predator pushed through the pool of blood that covered the gate. The Warden of the Bloody Gate had arrived.

The Daemon matched a Warhound titan in bulk and height. Its skin was the reddish black of clotted blood and its very being radiated a controlled psychotic fury. Its head possesed eight faces that circled all the way around its skull, each a ghastly visage born from mortal nightmares. A swarm of sixteen arms, marked with ritual tattoos and bulging with supernatural muscle jutted from its torso. Each limb held a weapon of bloodshed, wicked things of beaten brass and iron.

The moment it's clawed feet touched the chamber floor, the tide of the battle shifted. Its foul blessings empowered the surviving berserkers and filled them with a mad desire to impress the emissary of their patron god, driving any and all semblance of reason from them. The Astartes could barely hold the line and defend against the resurgent cultists. Horus knew the monster had to die, and fast. Which was easier said than done. The rift in reality the Lunar Cultists had unleashed provided a font of power for neverborn to draw upon. So in this blood soaked chamber the summoned fiend could draw upon far more of its power than it should be able to in the Materium. Let alone so close to the Astronomicon.

Marshalling himself, Horus Lupercali prepared to charge the horror. Sensing the killing intent and corona of psychic power that was the Primarch. The Daemon spoke: "I am Kha'aksha. Bloodthirster of the Third Host. You shall die by my blade, Anathema-Spawn"

All eight faces delivered there challenge in dreadful harmony. Its weapons whirled in a storm of metal, preparing to face the Primarch. The Demigod of Order and Archfiend of Chaos stared into each other's eyes. Sizing up their opponents strength and weaknesses. Taking in a deep breath, Horus gripped the pommel of his Power-Mace, and with a simple psychic pulse, he unlocked a hidden compartment. As the artifact inside was exposed, the ritual chamber was bathed in glowing white light. The daemon and its minions recoiled from the searing corona.

Horus held up what appeared to all as a miniature Sun. It was the Emperor's gift to his child. It was the tip of an ancient spear. which had pierced the Emperor's side many millennia ago. Over time, due to the potency of the blood and the adulant worship of millions, it had become infused with the Emperors psychic power. As Horus revealed more and more of the ancient weapon, its shoddy metal core slowly encased in crystalized light. Ages of reverence along with the Emperors growing power turned it into a shining blade of psychic might and a truly formidable weapon if in the right hands. This Speartip of Destiny was one of the most powerful tools against Warp-Corruption in human history. Suitably given to the Primarch whose corruption in another timeline had damned existence.

While far less harmonized with the artifact that his father's soul was, Horus began to pour his psychic power into the Spear-tip, which soon grew a shaft of white psi-crystal. Now the Primarch stood equipped with a weapon worthy of him. Testing his gift he twirled between his hands. Bolts of psychic lighting stabbed out from the spear and burned whatever they touched on both material and psychic planes.

Leveling the blade at his foe Horus Lupercali proclaimed: "In the name of the Emperor, the human soul and the Imperium. I sentence you to death."

Moving faster than his bulky Terminator armor should have allowed Horus charged the Bloodthirster. It counter charged him, roaring a bloody war-cry and swinging its storm of weapons. Kine-Shields flared into being around the Primarch as he weaved between the attacking blades. Horus moved through the Daemons guard and slashed across its chest with the Spear of Destiny. The wound did not bleed from the deep cut Horus had inflicted, but instead burned with white light, forming a searing scar on the creature's flesh.

Horus tried to back out of the Daemon's reach while parrying attacks with both Spear and Kine Shield. He was a fraction too slow and a salvo of six arms smashed into his left flank. The blow would have killed an Astartes and it tossed the Primarch a few meters. Superhuman agility and a bit of telekinesis allowed Horus to land on his feet. Spinning to face the monster Horus snarled and leveled his weapon. This was the first time he had used the Spear in combat and did not fully understand its capabilities. Now was as good of a time as any to test his gift.

Guided by some intuitive insight, Horus channeled his psychic energies into the weapon. A Primarch is a being of both realms of existence. Each brother was a Soul of unfathomable power inhabiting a superhuman body. Capable of channeling huge amounts of Warp-Energy into a body that could handle it. Now, a fraction of that godlike potential was discharged from the Spears tip.

Like the bastard child of lighting and a Lance Battery, its struck. The blinding flash forced battle surrounding them to stop for a moment. The Astartes helmets compensated for the blast, the Berserkers were not so lucky. Most were blinded, a few of the unlucky outliers had their eyes and exposed skin burned away. The Spear's Beam struck the Daemon square in the chest, obliterating most of its torso and continuing through the fiend. It blasted into the meeting point of the Bloody Gate and the chamber walls. Ripping open the entrance to the Khornate Temple and gouging a hole in the outer parts of the temple complex. The psychic might of a Primarch focused through a resonant artifact proved utterly devastating, beyond even Horus' expectations.

Horus staggered back, shocked by the destructive force he just unleashed. Despite being mutilated beyond reason the Daemon staggered forward. Blood and gore leaked from its catastrophic injuries. Leaving a grisly trail as it staggered towards Horus. The Bloodthirster's host body was rapidly falling apart. It growled curses and threats in the dark tongue of its native language as it stumbled forward, desperate to get close enough to spill the Primarchs blood. Horus channeled a few sparks of psychic energy into the spear. Letting the blades psi-crystal edge grow into a great mass of spiked warp-matter. Instead of a spear, he now held a massive mace. Like a headsman of old he lifted his weapon up and brought it down on the Daemons head, and with a resounding boom that reverberated through both the material and immaterial planes, the Bloothirster was banished.

Though Horus lacked the control and knowledge to fully kill the monster, he did manage to maim it. The saga of its defeat became etched into its being. Now it's bloody banishment became as part of its story as the ancient massacre that birthed it. If Kha'aksha the Bloodthirster were to ever gain the strength to enter the material realm again, it would be a broken crippled thing.

With the Daemon destroyed, the Berserkers were quickly finished off. The battle had taken its toll. Apothecaries worked to harvest Geneseed and patch up the wounded in the battles lull. Even the Primarch felt the toll of what he had done. Horus was young, lacking the control and endurance he would gain in the ensuing centuries. His body had barely withstood the energy he unleashed and his mind was taxed. The Primarch actually used his weapon as a makeshift walking stick for a few moments as he recollected himself. Soon his remarkable regenerative abilities started to kick in. It would take days for him to return to prime condition, but for now, he could fight.

The new form his weapon had taken suited Horus better. A mighty cudgel to crush the foes of mankind. Learning to change its form and function would be valuable tool. Hammer, Spear, lance, halberd. Many weapons of war to slay the foes to come. Holding up the Longinus and facing his sons Horus let out a roar of triumph. Then he pointed the hammer head at the Gate and issued the order to continue the assault.

The Gate door damaged by Horus's energy burst required only a few gouts of plasmas to final come off its hinges. With a wail of broken and stressed metal, it collapsed, opening the path to the XVI Legion. Before them was a pitch black tunnel, filled with a darkness that seemed to stare back at the Astartes as they gazed into its abyssal depths. A pack of Terminators quickly assembled. They would be the first into the breach with the rest of the strike force following close behind. The chorus of metal boots echoed through the dark hallway, forming a rolling wave of sonic thunder that prophesied doom for the enemies of mankind. Then a new sound was added. A sickening squelch as the Terminators stepped into something that covered the floor before them. As far as the Astartes could see, the chamber floor was covered in a horrid film of blood, broken flesh and shattered bone.

Thousands of people had died horribly in this chamber, and now their remains carpeted the chamber. Horus ordered a Mind-Magi from the legion Librarius to inspect the remains. Kneeling down to commune with the layer of broken meat. After a moment the Librarian jolted back and swore. Gathering his power and prepping wards the Mind-Magi frantically called "Prepare for Battle, Neverborn incoming!"

The fleshy detritus filling the chamber had been left to chum the Sea of Souls. Along with giving bodies to those from beyond. Shadowy tendrils of energy materialized from the Warp, slithering into the broken bodies and knitting them together, giving form to the incarnation of bloodshed and fury. The Daemons of Khorne entered into the Materium. A host of Bloodthirsters howling for Transhuman blood. The cultists of Luna had found many ways to use the power of the warp effectively. Blasphemously using the wonder of human curiosity and scientific understanding to assist the Predators in the Immaterium. The Creed of Four Phases walked a path where ritual and the occult was refined from superstition to an art and science. If these techniques could be further refined…. The Galaxy would burn.

But first the Creed would have to survive the Emperor's Wrath. Which came in the form of Three Legions and their Primarchs. Horus lead his sons in cutting down the Bloodletters. They were empowered by the Warp and could each match two Astartes in might. Any other day this battle would be a bloody and brutal affair for the Astartes. Today it would be a different story. Horus gripped the mace-head of his weapon and dissolved the Psi-Crystal. Now, the bare metal of the Spear-tip was visible. Without the crystalized energy to mask it, the Speartip glowed like a purifying Sun. The power of every myth and legend regarding it, combined with a drop of the Emperors own life-blood made it a thing of light, fire and destruction of all that is evil.

Lifting up the Spear so the light at its tip formed an Anathema-Star of righteous power, Horus let a wave of psionic light fill the Chamber, scalding the Daemons and driving them back. The Astartes charged the howling Daemons and cut through the weakened neverborn. These great fiends of Khorne were cast back into the abyss easily, their connection to the warp muffled and expunged by the radiating light of the Primarch's weapon. The XVI Legion continued onwards, down the dark chamber. The Emperor's Light guiding their blades and bolts against the Neverborn who dared stand against the Imperium of Mankind.

From the moment they stepped on Luna, the sickening sensation of Warp Taint had been felt in the Astartes souls.. Describing it in mortal words, like all Warp phenomena, was not quite possible. A member of the ancient Sigillite order came close though with this description: "Imagine the smell of rotten flesh and the sharp feeling of breathing in bitterly cold air. Now combine those feelings along with the instinctual revulsion a mortal feels upon seeing an atrocity. Such as cannibalism, mutilation, rape, pointless butchery or worse. Then instead of feeling it like you would a sensory input it suddenly exists unprompted in your mind."

The Hypno-Indoctrination that helped make the Emperor's Angels Superhuman protected them from this to a degree. Where mortal soldiers would have become sick and panicked they were simply annoyed. They were his Space Marines and they knew no fear. That would hold true, but as the oppressive aura of Taint worsened the deeper the XVI Legion went. Slowly but surely, they started to feel the gut-wrenching wrongness that was coming from within Luna.

This was best seen as they reached the end of the long and blood soaked hallway. A great adamantium door capped the end of the hallway. The foul sensation of corruption oozed off of it. So thick and vile it was almost visible to even the most psychically deaf Battle-Brothers. Beyond was the Heart of Darkness. Where the Chaos ritual that unleashed the Warp-Horror on Sol had been performed. The Holy of Holies, the Creed of Four Phases High Altar and Inner Sanctum, which in turn was built directly above the Warp-Rift that the God-Emperor had once sealed away. Truly a place of Chaotic power and evil.

The Astartes felt a vague sense of discomfort and apprehension as they marched closer and closer. The instinctual terror that would reduce any mortal to fouling their undergarments and losing their sanity had little grip on the Transhumans. The Armor of Contempt held strong but an ancient animal-voice in the back of each Astartes mind whispered to them "Whatever is beyond that door can, and will kill you"

Still they had a duty. To fight and die for mankind. So when Horus Lupercali gave the order for them to blast the door down and charge into whatever awaited they obeyed.

Location: The Bucephalus, Approaching Luna
Date: 813.M30 (Thirteen hours since the battle for Luna began)

The Emperor of Mankind stood at the edge of his command deck onboard the Bucephalus and watched the newly christened Lunar Crusade unfold. The titanic and ancient mind that was Revelation pulled information and senses from countless sources, ranging from his fine-tuned superhuman ones, to more esotetric links with the Cognatu Ferrum and Astronomicon. He absorbed and understood this data at speeds only the mightiest Golden Age A.I.s could have possibly rivaled. The Emperor directed fleet movements and shared strategy with his sons, doing everything he could to minimize damage to the Cradle of Mankind.

While he engaged in this material war the Emperor also fought an immaterial one. The hideous weight of the Primordial Annihilator pressed on realspace. Like storm smashing into a break-wall, the Dark Gods desperately tried to smash through the Emperor's light and swallow Sol. Each swarm of Daemons and tainted ships that poured from the cracks in reality was fraction of the horde that was broken and banished when faced with the Emperor's might.

The Emperor did not know exactly where the ramshackle fleets of Daemon Ships and Damned pirates was coming from. This was not a loosely organized assault of some chaotic empire. Like the Black Crusades of the God-Emperor's time. Instead it was more like the Warp violently ejecting material refuse through the rips in space/time. Millions if not billions of vessels had been lost to the Warp in the millions of years since the War in Heaven. Space Hulks and more bizarre phenomena were often the result of this tragic state of Warp-Travel. The scrap-fleets and Daemon ships appeared to be another collection of tainted material matter that rode the tides of unreality. Jetsam and Flotsam on the Sea of Souls. Broken and possessed vessels crewed by lunatics, Daemons and worse.

So the Imperium dueled the cursed fleet all across the Void. Each Primarch leading a different front of the battle. Octaviar Perturabo the IV Primarch had turned the void-space around one of the larger rifts into a three dimensional kill box. Anything that spat forth from the yawning void located near Venus was reduced to its base elements by a storm of fire power. Phillip Lot rallied the newest members of the Imperium with his sheer charisma. Turning the wavering hearts of the Saturnyne Ordo to iron-strong believers of the Imperial Truth.

With his sons crushing the forces of Chaos the Emperor ordered the Bucephalus to head towards Sol. The Emperor would broadcast his presence across Terra. Letting his subjects know he had not abandoned them. Then as planned he would arrive on Luna seal the prime Warp-Rift. The details had shifted here and their but it so far things were going just as planned. The lunar taint would be purged, the Legions would be reborn, and mankind would be girded against the Warp. The knowledge gifted to him by his fouler counterpart alongside his own insight gave the Emperor an unmatched understanding of fate.

Unmatched did not mean perfect however, and the Chaos gods are clever and cruel beings. So when the Bucephalus left Terran orbit after reassuring the masses and headed for Luna, it encountered something truly terrible. The Emperor of Mankind would not fight beside his sons on Luna or work to shut the rift. Instead, he would fight for his life against an unborn nightmare.

Just as the Imperial fleet clustered around Luna became visible as pinpricks of light, existence shook once again. Unlike the system spanning wave of madness the Creed of Four Phases had unleashed this convulsion of the veil was limited to lunar orbit. A great warp-leviathan was stirring directly in the flight path of the Bucephalus, a titan of the deepest reaches of the immaterium. Something that should not and could not exist had been summoned. The blood and misery of Zamora the Squat's death lured this horror out. The ritual the creed used had cast Zamora's soul deep into the warp. Like a meteor of torment it, struck the sea of souls and caused a tidal wave of insanity that surged through Sol.

Zamora had been chosen for this role not simply because he defied fate and stayed loyal to the Anathema however, he was chosen because his soul and existence called out to one of the ancient and unborn monarchs of madness. Roused from its slumber, this dark god devoured Zamora utterly and traced the Squat's fall up to the materium, where the blinding cursed light of the Anathema shone. Incensed and wrathful, the god saw the Sol system and coveted it. Slaves to be claimed, worlds to be exploited, the fires of industry would burn!

With an otherwordly wail, the materium ruptured and the warp began to overlap with realspace. The warp levithan was pulling itself into reality. Every soul-bearing being in Sol felt insticutal pain as the god attempted to force itself into real world. The psionic and daemonic energy the Creed of Four phases were utilizing through the Rift into the future was consumed at a startling rate. Thousands of cloned brains that existed only to suffer and feed the warp were shredded under the strain. Dozens upon dozens of latent psykers across Sol suddenly felt the calling of the Warp and were driven insane by the leviathan's presence.

Despite all the schemes of the Creed and its sibling gods, this lesser Chaos God could not fully materialize. Such an event would have turned Sol and a decent chunk of Segmentum Solar into a new Eye of Terror. Instead, a horrid aspect of the God climbed into the materium. Its body was composed of dozens of Space-Hulks, all reforged into a blasphemous bull-headed image, and powered by the madness and warfare in Sol. An Avatar of Chaos unborn ripped into the void. It sought to break the Anathema and devour mankind in its eternal greed.

The Emperor watched this unfold from his flagship, unable to stop it. Only ensuring it did not further rip open the material. It would pass into realspace, but he would not let it permanently scar the Solar System. Rising from the command throne the Emperor sent an urgent message to all the Primarchs. They were on their own for now. Continue the battle plan and follow Malcador's instructions until the Daemon King was banished. On both planes of existence the Emperor stared into the furnace-fire eyes of the Monster and spoke one of its accursed names. "Hashut…. God of Greed, Fire, Industry and Tyranny."

The God whose number was Four had yet to achieve dread apotheosis and if the Emperor succeeded it never would. Hashut was the name given to one of the Great Daemon Kings of the Warp. Beings who were not Chaos Gods but could be. The God whose number was Four would be the God of industry, machinery and creation. The Squats feared it as Hashut. The Kai-Smiths Sa'a'ram and the Forge of Souls called it patron. Humanity encountered it during the Iron War as Valchocht. The Dark Mechanicus and similar groups through the paths of fate would birth this Daemon King into a new chaos god.

Until that traumatic recreation it should have been confined to the Deep Warp, sealed there along with the other horrors of the War in Heaven, only able to influence the universe in subtle ways until it's rebirth. Yet, in an act of desperate spite, the Primordial Annihilator had unleashed this lesser aspect of itself, defying the laws of time and space to destroy the Anathema.

Using his psychic Aura to brace the Bucephalus and its escort fleets crew, the Emperor prepared for battle. Pouring energy into the Cogantu Ferrum, he ordered the Psionic Intelligence to use everything available to banish the Daemon King. It might be powerful, but its grasp on realspace was tenuous. With a strong enough push it would be cast into the pit. If it survived long enough to feed and cement its place in the materium, the end of actuality would be vastly accelerated. The End of all things that the Emperor sought to avoid would occur when the barriers between material and immaterial came crashing down. An unborn god incarnating even partially would hasten the rise of madness.

The Bucephalus opened fire on Hashut. Gouts of plasma and more exotic substances smashed into the Hulk-Daemon. Lances of energy focused through the Emperor's Psi-crystals and struck the thing in both planes of existence. Titan-sized shells of silver and adamantium were fired at relativistic speeds. Flights of Custodes and Astartes piloted attack craft were launched. Hashut let loose a piercing roar that defied physics and echoed through the void in response. Its cavernous maw opened up and let loose a blast of superheated and tainted metal. Void-ships worth of Daemon possessed forge-slag flew towards the Bucephalus. The Cognatu Ferrum strained the mighty vessels thrusters and spun the Flagship out of the stream of fire.

The Bucephalus fired broadside after broadside at the Daemon King. It retaliated with a storm of missiles cannibalized from the Space-Hulks component vessels. The jagged black-metal instruments of death smashed into the Bucephalus's shielding. The torpedoes were too slow to trigger the void shield but the Cognatu Ferrum's control of the vessels Ion-Barriers and Kine Shields protected the hull.

Soon the Fighter wings of the Imperial Flagship found themselves facing a new danger. Flocks of Heldrakes poured from cracks in Hashut's form. The possessed attack craft were summoned/built within the Daemon King and now joined the battle. The Bucephalus and Hashut dueled each other above Luna. Like sea monsters of ancient myth they clashed in the Void, the very fate of existence hanging in the balance. Imperial firepower dueled the techno-sorcery that constantly reforged the Space-hulk body. The Cognatu Ferrum desperately tried to do more damage than the Daemon-King could repair. Its artificial soul struggling under mental burden of coordinating the Imperiums Flag Fleet. The Emperor had given it two orders. Hurt Hashut and buy the Master of Mankind time. Even as Hashut's claws racked the ships side and made the Cognatu scream in pain the Psionic Intelligence fought on.

As his servants sought to best the Daemon King on the Material plane the Emperor dueled it in the Warp. Golden Light and dark fire clashed as Anathema and Chaos God-to-be battled. The Emperor faced the near undivided attention and power of Hashut. The patron of the Forge of Souls wielded horrible powers. Soul Grinders from every pantheon flocked to its side. Fighting and dying to fulfill their oath. For Hashut was as much the Forge of Souls as its patron. Just as the Four and their Realms were the same monolithic and horrid entity.

The Emperor did not face this legion of Neverborn alone. The souls of all who fell in the God Emperor's name fought alongside him. Firestorms of Gold and Black dueled each other. Embers that had once been Guardsmen held the line against Daemon Engines and Render Daemons. Angels of Death clad in holy light dueled K'daai Fireborn. All while the Master of Mankind faced Hashut.

With every passing moment, the Daemon King was pushed further on the defensive. The righteous fury of humanity channeled through its Emperor was more than a match for the God of Tyranny. Atham the Revelator had faced down all Four of the Primordial Annihilator's reborn aspects multiple times. On Moloch, during the lighting of the Astronomicon, and at the very moment of his creation when the Shamans had become one and drunk deep from the Well of Eternity. An unborn ghost of a possible god would not best him. It knew this, and the other powers of the warp did as well. Hashut would not succeed in slaying the Anathema, but he could delay him.

Forcing the Emperor to deal with the God whose number was Four. Instead of standing beside Horus when he entered the Inner Sanctum. The XVI Primarch and Legion would face the Darkness alone.

Location: The Heart of the Inner Sanctum, Luna

Date: 813.M30 (Thirteen hours since the battle for Luna began)

Gouts of Plasma fire cut the Adamantium Door leading to the Inner Sanctum. Its hinges turning to slag and its bulk toppled over. The metal wailed a sad song as it crashed into the ground. At that exact moment Hashut ruptured into existence in the void above Luna. That traumatic event echoed in minds across Sol. For the XVI Legion, it was barely registered as a distinct element to the mind-breaking wave of malice that smashed into them. The gate had been warded, sealing the worst of the corruption into this "sacred" chamber. The stomach turning foulness that had seeped through it was nothing compared to this new discharge. Multiple battle-brothers had to fight down the urge to vomit. Nearly all of them flinched at the sensations bombarding them.

The Warp's insanity overlapped with realspace here in an unbearable way. By some horrid means, the Creed of Four Phases had turned the temple into a hellmouth. The heart of Luna was no longer a thing of steel, stone and dust. It had become a miniature Daemon World. A impossibly corrupt thing, more akin to the psychotic Crone worlds within the Eye then anything native to Luna.

Even to the Astartes enhanced senses, the inner sanctum looked like a void of hungry darkness. A yawning abyss that oozed evil and stared into their very souls. They were lucky, being blind to the Immaterium meant that the true horror while lay within escaped them. All but one of the strike forces librarians had the sense too mute their witch-sight and supernatural senses when the door came down. The fool who believed himself mighty enough to resist whatever came next died badly. His neurons overloaded from the impossible stimuli. Like a star flung into a supermassive black hole the Librarian's soul was devoured by the darkness.

Yet the mental burden weighed the heaviest on the Primarch. Horus did not look away from the abyss. He stared into it and let out a silent scream. For the many gifts his body and soul possessed let him see the truth. The inner temple itself was an eight sided chamber large enough to hold thousands of worshippers. Its walls and floor were slick with black blood. Bolts of energy flashed around the chamber, carrying psionic discharge that emitted blood-curdling screams with each eruption. The energy bursts lit the room for microseconds, casting shadows in Daemonic form and illuminating its occupants.

Twenty cultists, all super-charged by dark-energy sat prostrated around the central altar. Horus could see their souls flicker and twitch. Walking the tightrope between Daemonhood and spawndom. These were not the mere cultists they had butchered by the thousands. The twenty were the masters of this rebellion. Each a sorcerer and champion of the gods. Now, they sought the reward for their betrayal: to ascend and join the pantheon of Daemon Princes, empowering their masters to do this by drawing in warp-energy from the centerpiece of the chamber.

This was the source of the madness that tortured Horus and his sons. A crack in reality that stretched from the chamber's roof to the Primarch's gestation chamber a level below it. Nearly a meter wide it was a direct conduit to the Warp's foulest reaches. Yet the aura of insanity, the repulsion, the sheer wrongness it produced was not the source of Horus's pain. What made his soul spasm in revulsion was what happened when he stared into the rift. That occured because when Horus looked into hell, it looked back. The attention of the Dark Gods pressed on the rift. The eyes of the 1/4/8/16/64/108 Gods of Chaos were all focused on him. The Primordial Annihilator peered into the materium, and into Horus.

Horus Lupercali had seen the majesty and terror of his father many times. He had stared into the Astronomicon, even touched the galaxy of divine fire that composed the Emperor. Those blinding, borderline traumatic experiences were nothing in comparison to what he now encountered. Sheer utter madness crashed into Horus. In the Primarch's mind, a trillion terrible images scraped at his sanity. The suffering and torment of more mortals than he could ever count, feelings of betrayal and gut wrenching misery, shock and disbelief that only a victim of fratricide could understand, screaming billions fed to the primordial annihilator by its wretched servant. Gritting his teeth and gripping the Spear like a lifeline. Horus attempted to return the monsters stare.

That was a mistake for in that instant the horrific truth of the visions violated the Primarchs brain. A single horrible thought.

"You did this."

"NOOOOOOOO!" Was all Horus could manage as the full terrible consequences of his twisted equivalents actions played out. How Horus, the Warmaster of Chaos set the Galaxy aflame. Cancerous whispers oozed from the rift and flitted around Horus, spreading more of their despair and corruption.

"You are damned to this. The destiny of the XVI is written into the tides of fate itself. You shall destroy all your father strived for. Become our greatest servant and reveal the primordial truth to all!"

The Primarch frantically gripped the Spear-tip like it was a rock to cling to as he was buffeted by the waves of pure, cosmic horror, his superhuman grip cracking its crystalline coating as fast as it could regenerate. What could best be called a seizure tore at Horus' mind and body. More information and emotion than even his mind could handle slammed into his consciousness. The suffering of every single innocent butchered from Istavaan to Cadia dueled for his attention. A drumbeat of warp-energy thrummed through him. Its message simple and terrible:

"Submit to your fate and the agony stops. Surrender to the Truth and be free!"

Horus Lupercali screamed and screamed until his throat was bloody and raw. Twitching and frothing at the mouth, he fought with his entire soul against the evil. The psychic fire of his gift anchoring him ever so slightly. His sons clustered around him, shock and panic painted across their faces. Horus was aware of them, of every thought and feeling. Responding to his emotions the Chaos Gods whispered another threat.

"I wonder, how long your sons will last under the weight of your sins? Which one do you think will die first? Do you think he will die proud? Or will he feel nothing but shame and regret for the path you would lead him? Embrace us! Submit and be what you were made to be! The ultimate conqueror! A master of the Stars. The Everchosen champion who starts the next chapter in the Eternal War!"

Visions of Horus Lupercali clad in dread power. Marching at the head of Black Legions. Casting down the Emperor and ruling as the Dark Emperor of Mankind. Elected by the Primordial Truth to rule in their name for all eternity. Horus resisted the temptation. He fought it better than any being could be expected too. He knew though, at the back of his mind, he knew a terrible truth. Eventually, he could crack. It might take days or even years but eventually he would fall.

Desperately he reached out to his father. Hoping against hope the Master of Mankind would be his salvation. It was only then when the Chaos Gods let the Emperor's message through. A simple warning meant to help sons. He could not aid them due to the Dark Gods interference. It could not have come at a worse time. To the Primarch's tortured and maddened, mind it was the ultimate abandonment. Horus was crushed, his fate sealed.

Using the last ounce of sanity and willpower he possessed Horus made his decision. He would not allow himself to become a tool of evil. His tenure of duty would be short but it would end in the only acceptable way. For only in Death Does Duty End.

With a single shaking hand, Horus unlocked his breastplate and let the massive slab of Adamantium and machinery fall to the chamber floor. Gripping the Speartip by its jagged edge he let out a roar of defiance before ramming the blade through his primary heart. The Longinus had struck down a living god once before. It could do it once again.

Light erupted from the wound as the blade was pushed deeper and deeper into the Primarch's chest. In a detonation of sacred energy it erupted. A wave of Anathema-Flame roiled through the Chamber. Disrupting the ritual and breaking the Darkness' hold power over Abaddon and his Battle Brothers.

The light faded and the Astartes looked upon their Gene-Father. Slumped to his knees and with a rictus of agony distorting his face. Horus Lupercali had fallen, slain by his own hand. The Speartip of Longinus erupted from his chest like a beacon of light. The Lupercal had been damned by an Unholy blade. The Lupercali was instead saved by a Holy one.

Shock and grief filled his sons. They knew what their father had done. He had sacrificed himself to save them all. Raising up his Power-Sword and crying tears of righteous fury, Abaddon charged the twenty cultists. His anger was a pure thing, not the mindless bloodlust of Khorne. His grief was untainted by Nurgles touch. His desire for vengeance was not perverted by Slaanesh. Pure hope for redemption and salvation clean of Tzeentch's machinations. His emotions were purified by control and purpose. Untouched by Chaos, Abaddon the Redeemer struck down the evil.

Bound into the ritual and focused on controlling the immaterial energy that was becoming increasingly wild, the twenty cultists were weak things. Easily hacked apart by the XVI Legion. Like a tumor exposed to searing flames, the cult leaders boiled away to a black sludge. Panting slightly, Abaddon looked around the Chamber. He did not know how to shut this gate but he knew he would guard it until the Emperor could arrive. Horus would not die in vain, he would not allow it.

Wracked with grief and combat-haze, the Astartes started to relax and absorb the shock of what occured. This was a mistake. It provided an opening for the Twenty First Cultist. A lance of warp-energy that sorcerers called a Doombolt lanced out from the Rift. It struck Captain Hastur in the chest. Searing his organs to ash and rapidly mutating his body. Where the noble Astartes once stood was now a foul Chaos-Spawn.

Before the new threat could be addressed by the surviving Astartes, the rift shimmered. Out of it walked the leader of the Creed of Four Phases. Soaked in corruption and empowered by the Gods themselves, Sagitari-17 had arrived to crush the heretics.

Snarling at the Astartes the Lunar Fiend spoke in an unearthly voice. "So the False-Emperor's bastards come. You fools defied the gods and rejected ascendance when we offered it. I wove the secrets of divinity into your flesh and you repay me with bolt and blade. No matter. My ascension is at hand. Luna shall join the constellation of Chaos, just as I shall join the pantheon of Princes!"

Igniting his Power Sword and leveling his Bolter Abaddon growled in response: "You will die painfully and I swear that your False Gods will follow soon enough."

Smiling cruelly, Sagitari-17 raised his hands. Clasped between them was a blood-stained goblet. Lifting the blasphemous artifact to his lips he drank its content. The blood of a Daemon King filled him. The essence of Be'lakor acting a the final component in his ritual. After drinking his fill, Sagitari-17 cast aside the empty vessel and laughed. "The gods granted me twin tools too ensure your demise" he laughed. "Witness the power of Chaos!"

A storm of dark, hateful energy poured from the rift. An inky tidal wave of malice that flooded into Sagitari-17. A legion of demonic voices laughed as Sagitari-17 roared in pain. His flesh twisted and bent as the Dark Master entered him. Great obsidian horns and ragged wings erupted from his head and back, oily scales rippled across his skin. Be'lakor the first Daemon Prince possessed Sagitari-17 and walked the materium once again.

Location: The Emperor's Laboratory, Terra.

Date: 813.M30 (Ten hours since the battle for Luna began)

The Emperor's Laboratories were arguably the most fortified and hidden location within the entire Sol System. Designed by the Warmasons and the Emperor himself to keep anything unwanted from getting in and anything uncontrolled from getting out. Theoretically, it was the safest location to be during the nightmarish battle that rampaged across the Void and celestial bodies of Sol.

This in no way calmed or reassured Arik Taranis. When Malcador had pulled him away from the War council and down into the labyrinth of scientific and occult equipment. He felt nothing but stress and worry. This was unusual to the old warrior, very unusual in fact. The fact that it was unusual gave him no solace, for he knew the reasons for his concern were warranted. First, whatever was news important enough for Malcador to journey down here during the worst of the fighting and bring to him had to be bad. Secondly, this, or an earlier rendition of it, had been his birth place. The place where he had been brought into existence screaming and in agony.

Malcador had been tight lipped about the reason for this journey, only that it was an utter necessity ordered by the Emperor himself, and that Arik was needed. So the Lighting Bearer and First Lord of Terra marched past nervous technicians and frantic Adepts, headed to a certain vault hidden within.

It was a massive and ugly thing, more fit to be in the Shadow Cells than the Laboratories. This was intentional of course. From Arik's knowledge, this vault was used by the Emperor to conduct experiments on the Shadow Cells occupants or create things that would soon join them. A squad of Shadowkeeper Custodes opened its Adamantium door and accompanied them into it. Within were many apparatus that defied knowledge and in the center of the chamber a very large sarcophagus.

It was layered with inscriptions and wards that glowed white hot. Its metal surface seemed to shimmer with heat. Something very powerful was locked within it. Malcador approached it and gestured for Arik to follow. The two of them stood before it and the Lighting Bearer could feel the inferno of psychic energy trapped within.

At Malcador's instruction Arik held his hand above the engraved lid. It was a beautiful thing, portraying an Angel made of fire. That was what not caught Arik's attention, however. What did was what was carved where the Angels heart should be. An ancient numeral Zero. Disturbingly similar to his own.

Before he could ask a lash of telekinetic energy cut his palm. A few drops of crimson fell onto the numeral before Arik drew his hand back. The Lightning Bearer whirled on Malcador and asked: "what is the meaning of this Sigillite?"

Malcador quickly retreated from the casket and gestured to it. The thing shook with thunderous energy and one by one, the glowing runes adorning it faded. Arik moved away as well and again demanded an explanation.

As the seals became undone the ancient Sigillite started to speak: "You are a prototype. A first attempt to create a Primarch. Your body was crafted in a near miraculous process unrivaled by any attempted in human history. Due to your experimental nature you have suffered many biological failings. Yet you still live and have survived the impossible. This was not simple luck. Physically, you are extremely similar to the finished product. Aside from a few adjustments and modifications, you are a Primarch."

Pausing as the sarcophagus started to glow white-hot. Malcador erected a powerful Kine-shield around it, to protect the vault and its current inhabitants. "Do you know why you are different from the Twenty?" continued Malcador.

Arik shrugged: "I always figured I was incomplete, a rushed product. A blunt instrument for a brutal era."

Increasing the power of the Kine Shield as the last few seals broke Malcador spoke: "There is some truth to that. Yet that is not the true reasoning. A Primarch is a being of incredible power, a perfect body of transhuman might coupled to a Soul of god-like brilliance. You were the prototype for the that body. Spiritually, you are barely psychic. More akin to a mortal of extreme willpower than a physical god."

Finally, the lid of the sarcophagus blew off. Malcador caught it telekinetically and worked to shield the chamber from the brilliant light that erupted from rest of the container. Arik reached for his blade and prepared for whatever came as Malcador spoke: "You are the prototype for the physical aspect of a Primarch. The weapon sealed within this crypt is your other half. The prototype of a Primarch's soul."

The eruption of flame died down. The sarcophagus settled momentarily before a Star floated out of it. Arik's transhuman sight adjusted and he could see the true form of the light: a human women, clad in fire. She was naked, and would have been beautiful if not for the pattern for vicious burns marring her flesh. She was being burned and healed constantly by the psychic flames, a vessel not fit to contain a Avatar of Mankind.

Slowly, the women landed on the chamber floor. Her eyes opened and Arik was reminded of the Emperor. The womens eyes were balls of golden flame, just like when the Emperor's wrath was piqued. The flames surrounding her solidified. Forming a pair of massive wings and a blazing sword.

It floated towards Malcador and Arik and spoke. "THE ANGEL OF VENGEANCE RISES! WHAT SHALL BURN IN THE EMPEROR'S NAME?"

Malcador responded. "Luna is tainted by the Warp. Cleanse it with fire and save those loyal to HIM."

Arik tensed as it looked over him. This "Angel" was a great and terrible thing. Of all the things the Emperor created, this alone rattled the Lighting Bearer. This was a weapon meant to burn trillions. An insane living weapon of exterminatus, akin to the countless horrors of Old Night. Mankind's wisdom and power turned to extinction. For Arik, it was like looking in a mirror. All his flaws and sins magnified for the galaxy to see.

The Angel grew brighter and brighter as Malcador spoke to Arik. "Once the Emperor finished crafting the Angel within the Warp he attempted to summon it. Originally we hoped to use you as its host, to test that process but were unable too. So instead it was bound to a truly lovely women. A compassionate and loyal mortal who strove to help mankind."

The thought that he had almost been used in this experiment and that this Angel of Vengeance had once been an innocent women sickened Arik.

"Why didn't you just seal it away or put it into a warriors body?" Asked Arik.

"We discovered it was simply too useful. Terra was infested with neverborn horrors beyond your legion to fight and too numerous for just myself and the Emperor to deal with. And for its host… well the Angel is thoroughly mad. It is a vengeful and terrible being. By letting a pure hearted sacrifice contain it we hoped to control its more destructive tendencies. As the unification wars died down the Emperor locked it away. Only his or a Primarch's blood can unlock its wards. Hence why you were needed. Now we can only hope it will bring us salvation."

With that the Angel lifted from the chamber floor. In a gout of fire it disappeared. The Unborn Primarch journeyed through the Warp. to cleanse the Solar System in holy fire.

Location: The Iron Gold, Flagship of the VII Legion (Terran Void Space)

Date: 813.M30 (Eleven hours since the battle for Luna began)

Rogal Mauer, the Primarch of the VII Legion, had been given command of Terran Defense. Protecting mankind's cradle was an important duty, one he embraced. Mauer was a skilled Void-Admiral. Not quite at the level of Alexio or Tengri, but skilled nonetheless. Under his command Terra and its Void-space had been protected from the hordes of cultists and Daemons, forming a final invincible bulwark around Terra. He would Protect Terra and try to distract as much of the enemy away from his Father's duel with the Hulk-Daemon.

His legion acted as the Imperium's shield as the XI, XIII and XVI struck as its sword. This duty was palatable to Mauer. He was a dutiful son, and would stand against the Imperium's enemies. Defending Terra was his purpose after all. The Primarchs were built for War but they were more than simple weapons. Even after the galaxy was safe for mankind they would have a role to play. Rogal Mauer knew his and happily embraced it. The heart and soul of the Imperium were his to fortify. The Solar System and the other Capital Systems of mankind would be sheltered by the Emperor's Praetorian.

Even as the Imperium's shieldbearer, his Legion was not fangless. The VII Legion's Champion, Sigismund, led the VII Sword Brethren who even now rampaged through the enemy ships. A mighty sword to cut down the enemies of mankind. So far the battle had gone well. Enemy battle group after battle group were crushed. Their maddened attempts to attack Terra crumpling on Rogal's bulwark.

An urgent Astropathic relay pulled the Primarch's attention from the battle. It was straight from Malcador the Sigillite. "A new weapon against the darkness has been unleashed. It flies for Luna. Ensure its arrival and continue your duties."

Before Rogal Mauer could inquire more, he suddenly felt the presence of whatever the Sigillite had let loose. A new star of psychic fire appeared above the Palace. A spark of light flitting away from the Astronomicon and up into the Void. It burned bright in the firminant before becoming a comet of golden flame shooting away from Terra.

Every warp-sensitive soul from the Palace to Luna felt it. An unstoppable desire for vengeance and destruction, the Emperor's wrath made manifest. Following Malcador's orders, a shard of the VII Legion Fleet entered parade formation around the Star. They were not the only ones to notice this new being. A massive battleship of dubious origin broke away from the Chaos fleet. The possessed slab of metal and corrupted machinery charged to intercept the new Star. The near-space-hulk roared a fearsome challenge through the void. A daemonic asteroid to counter the divine comet.

At Rogal's command, the Imperial fleet opened fire on the Battleship. Macro-shells and lances smashed into it, desperately trying to shatter it before the hulk collided with the Emperor's new weapon. The Primarch gripped his sentinel blade's hilt tightly as he watched. He was about to give the order for one of the escort crafts to ram the enemy battleship. Anything to slow it down enough to let the new weapon escape.

Before he could, the Angel-Star accelerated, moving to counter charge the possessed battleship. Shock rippled through the Iron Gold's bridge. They could do nothing more, impact was iniement. When the Angel struck it did not detonate or flatten against the battleships armored prow. Rather, it punched through it like a drop of molten metal hitting parchment. The Angel ripped through the cultist ship, leaving scattered debris and a gaping hole into the void that greedily swallowed the wailing demonic crew of the now doomed battleship. The Imperial Fleet tracked its progress with each bulkhead and deck detonating in a shower of molten metal and psychic fire.

Then, as easily if it had been passing through hard vacuum, the Angel cut through the battleship. Burning it out and leaving a drifting hulk in its wake. The VII Fleet was left to mop up the Chaos Horde as the Angel of Vengeance entered Lunar orbit. It blazed a flaming arc along the moon, heading towards its north pole. Once it reached its destination the Angel descended. A meteor of holy flame ready to strike into the Heart of Luna.