The Leonine Heresy

by Sharrowkyn

Inspired by the Roboutian Heresy, this is the tale of Lion El'Jonson's fall to Chaos as he leads half of his brothers (and not necessarily the ones you might think) in rebellion against the Emperor. All Index Astartes entries have been completed, and now we are journeying through the various War Zones of the 41st Millennium.

18. Index Astartes: Emperor's Children

Chapter 18: Index Astartes- Emperor's Children

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Index Astartes- Emperor's Children: Sickness Unto Death

Beset from all sides, the Imperium of Man faces many foes, but perhaps the most deadly is that which comes within, for there lurks the hidden, creeping rot of despair. Should the morale of its armies finally give out, all hope of survival, much less victory, would surely vanish. Such is the goal of the disease-ridden Emperor's Children, foul traitors who have plagued the galaxy for ten thousand years as they seek to infect all reality with their putrid ideology. Once the noble Third Legion, these Bubonic Astartes who once inspired hope now invoke only despair after selling their souls to the Plaguefather Nurgle in exchange for a cessation of pain. The Emperor's Children are a chronic blight, an unholy etiology proliferating from the Plague Planet deep within the Eye of Terror, a realm of death and decay ruled by their Daemon Primarch Fulgrim, the Ashen Phoenix. They are the slow creeping pestilence, living vectors of illness empowered by entropy and hopelessness who have seeded the galaxy with a cancer, withering away the Imperium's strength with each passing century. This terminal decline becomes ever more obvious as its people desperately struggle for survival, a creeping realization regarding their stagnant empire's mortality looming ever larger, for it, like everything else, must eventually die, a slow agonizing demise stemming from the wounds inflicted by its own traitorous Children.

Origins: Incubation

Hope deferred becomes hope forgotten. -Proverb of Old Earth

From their very beginning, the Astartes who would one day be known as the Children of the Emperor seemed destined for greatness. As the Master of Mankind subjugated Terra to his will, he took tribute from every region he conquered. From the mining peoples of Abyssna, valuable metals; from the Terrawatt Clans, advanced weaponry and technologies; and from the nobility of Europa, their very sons, both tribute and penance for defying the Emperor's will. Many thought these scions of ancient houses would be hostages, but the Master of Mankind had a grander vision. Transforming them into mighty Astartes, these young aristocrats would form the core of the III Legion. Their prior upbringing in an environment that fostered greatest quickly created success on every battlefield to which they were deployed, and the legion soon found a niche for itself in commanding the troops of the nascent Imperial Army.

Though somewhat haughty, the Astartes of the III Legion inspired men by their very presence. Their devotion to excellence in every field won them the respect of all, and their skill at swordplay was the envy of their cousin legions. Even legendary fighters such as Abaddon of the Luna Wolves or Sigismund of the Imperial Fists respected the dueling prowess of Akurduana and his flashing pair of Charnabal sabres, forged from the blades of those he defeated. Many of the greatest victories of the nascent III Legion were those attributed to other forces, for while it was their tactics that were the root cause of dozens of compliances, the Third themselves were content in simply doing their duty. First of these stunning successes was the Antarctic Compliance, where a single cohort proved enough to secure an entire continent. Not content to rest on their laurels, they remained on the advance, following this up in a lightning strike against the Vapor-Wraiths of Jupiter, monstrous xenos which had long terrorized the Jovian Void Clans.

As the Emperor's forces spread across the galaxy in the Great Crusade, the III Legion were on the front lines, chivalrous knights fighting beside the mortal men and women who made up the bulk of the Crusade forces. They gained new allies in every engagement, for their selfless heroism and innate charisma won them countless praise, and their humility even more so. It was not long before their heroic virtue earned them the attention of the Emperor himself, in what might be considered their finest hour. Fighting alongside the Legio Custodes, an entire cohort led by their legion master, Thrallas, gave their lives to hold back the enemy, whose assassination attempt had wounded the Emperor through the use of a vortex weapon. Touched by their sacrifice and selfless heroism, the Master of Mankind awarded them the use of the Palatine Aquila, his own personal symbol, upon their chest, an exclusive dignity which would not be seen again for centuries to come until after the Great Betrayal, along with a name of their very own to symbolize their devotion. Thus from that day on, the III would forever be known as the Emperor's Children.

However, the brightest stars cast the longest shadows, and it was in those shadows that treachery lurked, for the doom of the Third Legion had begun before they had even left Terra. Decades earlier, during the midst of the Unification Wars, the Emperor's forces had turned their attention toward Luna, it being the natural first step in securing the Solar System. At that time, Luna was ruled by the Selenar Gene-Cults, a religious order whose knowledge of genetic engineering was among the most advanced in human history. As such, their skillset and laboratories were one of the Emperor's top priorities, but his offers had been met with silence. Thus the Master of Mankind unleashed the Sixteenth Legion against them, who achieved compliance in six solar hours in what was the first off-world victory of the Great Crusade. The surviving Selenar were put to work producing repositories of gene-seed for future use, but more caution should have been taken, for the gene-wrights were not so obedient as they appeared.

As the Emperor and his armies completed the Unification of Terra and turned their attention to the wider galaxy, the watch upon the Selenar decreased with every month. With casualties mounting ever higher, the gene-wrights became more and more involved in creating the next generation of Astartes. Decades of Selenar sabotage unleashed dozens of minor flaws across the genetic templates of many different Astartes legions such as the III, XV, XVIII, and XIX, to name just a few. This sabotage went unnoticed for many years, and it was only an overt act of treachery which finally revealed their schemes. Decades into the Great Crusade, a Lunar defense laser shot down a vessel carrying a large store of III Legion gene-seed, while two others crashed upon reentry, followed by the last reserves disappearing without a trace. Almost simultaneously, Martian scientists discovered a heretofore-unknown viral Blight in their own repositories, undoing half a century of effort in as many hours. Even their best efforts to undo the damage only partially succeeded in halting the spread to other gene-seeds.

A thorough investigation soon revealed the origin of the Blight to have been a flaw introduced by the Selenar, one especially targeted at what they saw as the Emperor's favored legion, whose template had been one of the first handed over to them. Despite weeks of torture, the Imperium was never able to break their spirits, and the gene-witches eventually committed suicide in their cells rather than create a cure. An enterprising novice apothecary, Fabius of Ingolstadt, managed to create a method of testing for this Blight, mapping out his legion's genome in the process. However, this depressing process only revealed that these seeds of destruction had been sown across nearly the entire Third Legion save for the veterans. In response, Imperial High Command discussed pulling the Third from active service, but in the end decided to keep them in the field, for they were deemed too useful.

Thus at the height of their glory, the Third Legion began to wither. Supposedly-healthy Astartes would keel over unexpectedly, their tumor-ridden organs suddenly failing as their immune system shut down. Others had a more lingering death, screaming in agony as their nerves deteriorated in ways too painful for even a posthuman Astartes. Over the course of a century, the Emperor's Children were slowly whittled down, their decline triaged only by the recovery of Progenoid Glands from the dead. This was a process they pioneered, but they would not be the last, for this technique soon spread to other chronically-undermanned legions such as the XVIIIth, and eventually to all the legions. However, despite this, the Emperor's Children continued to decline both in numbers and morale. Where once they had been beacons of hope, the exemplars of the Emperor's might who looked toward the future, now they turned their gaze to the past. A macabre and nihilistic streak took hold of the legion, who began to transform the interiors of their ships into sepulchers, a morbid reaction to how short and uncertain their lives had become.

Soon enough, their normal operating losses began to threaten the integrity of the legion. The legionaries knew full well that High Command had written them off as a lost cause, and were merely using the Third for what little time they had left before they died out completely. Perhaps the only thing keeping them going, aside from their innate sense of duty as Astartes, was the hope of discovering their primarch, the legendary warriors crafted by the Emperor designed to lead the legions. However, these genetic superbeings had been stolen away before the Crusade had even left Terra, and while most legions had found theirs, the Third was not among them.

Thus their hope remained unfulfilled for well over a century, by which time the Third dwindled to almost nothing. This paltry force which included a handful of veterans and dozens of short-lived recruits who had been scavenged from many different worlds in hopes of finding some natural immunity. They now had little hope of ever fighting on their own again, for they were no longer permitted to fight at the side of mortals, as it was deemed too damaging to Imperial Army morale to witness their deterioration. Instead, they waged wars under the command of the Luna Wolves as a supporting force, an ironic reversal of their former role as commanders. The primarch of the Sixteenth, Horus Lupercal, did his best to aid them, even going so far as to bargain with his brother primarchs so that they would donate aspirants from their worlds to help grow the numbers of the Third, but it was of little use. There seemed to be no cure for the Blight, and after a century of losses, the Emperor's Children numbered a little over two hundred Astartes in total. Though Lupercal refused to countenance such disrespect, rumors of disbanding the Third completely were beginning to spread even outside of legion circles. Such a fate probably would have been much kinder for the galaxy compared to what awaited the Children of the Emperor in the years to come.

The Golden Empire

Long ago, before the first proto-Astartes ever picked up a bolter, the Master of Mankind crafted twenty super-beings known as the Primarchs. Forged from his own genetic code, they would have been his generals, leaders all Mankind could rally around. However, these sons were stolen away in the midst of their development, hurled into the Warp by malign forces who sought to use them for their own designs. The pod labeled III was, as its numeral suggests, one of the first to be taken, trapped in the Immaterium while its abductors decided where to send it in order to best serve their plans. The dark visions of maddened seers regarding this time present it as a battle between gods over the fate of the soul within, as Golden Order clashed with Lilac Excess. As the two juggernauts clashed in a battle whose scale was incomprehensible to mortal minds, just as it seemed one would win, a third Power entered, stealing the pod just as it had cheated Excess once before. Thus the pod was hurled in another direction entirely, sent far across the galaxy to be deposited on the other side of the galactic core.

The region of space through which the pod tumbled would one day be known as the Yasan Sector by Imperial explorers. However, as the small object descended from the heavens, there were no advanced craft to meet it, no scientific instruments to accurately track its meteoric descent. Those who did observe its arrival could never have guessed the ruin it was to bring to their world, a quiet backwater known to its inhabitants as Qogoris or Chogoris. A veritable paradise planet, Chogoris was a world of stunning natural beauty: vast oceans surrounding a single continent which was covered in lush greenery, magnificent mountains, and rolling plains stretching as far as the eye can see. Settled long ago by Terran explorers from the Xinic Empire, the Age of Strife had seen the society of Chogoris regress to a feudal level, barely mastering black powder weapons. It was densely populated, numbering in the hundreds of millions, a number far exceeding any of the worlds on which the other primarch pods landed.

However, most of these teeming masses lived in densely-populated river valleys, for only the natural defenses of the mountains could protect them from the savage nomads which held sway over the vast plains known as the Empty Quarter. A place of bandits and outcasts, the rolling plains known as the Altak were patrolled by nomadic horsemen who lived in tribes, fighting amongst themselves as they followed the migrating herds. On the edges of the plains, a semi-barbarian society known as the Khitan held sway, led by a ruler named Ketugu Suogo who titled himself the Palatine. However, the kingdom of the Palatine was in reality no more than a buffer state between the savage tribes and the true power of Chogoris, the Qo Golden Empire. Founded long before memory, the Middle Kingdom of the Qo was the source of culture and power across the world which derived its name from it, and everyone knew it. Only the nomads rejected their rule, a state of affairs which suited the Qo just fine, for they were able to exact tribute and fealty in exchange for protection.

Astronomy had long been a treasured field of study for the Qo, and so many curious eyes observed the meteor descending on the border of the steppes. However, the first to arrive were outriders of the Talskar Tribe, whose keen senses had spotted it even without the astronomic equipment of the Qo. As the nomads sat waiting for the meteor to cool enough to approach, they found themselves beset by a garrison of the Palatine who sought to claim it for themselves. By the time the meteor had cooled, only one wounded man still lived to learn it was no rock, but rather a gleaming metal pod. Though he was a member of the tribes, this man, whose name has been lost to history, knew he would not survive a trip through the Empty Quarter, and so decided to take the pod to a nearby town in the hopes of trading it for supplies. Tying the pod to his horse, the tribesman dragged the pod for many miles until he came near to the nearest outpost of the Palatine. However, as he attempted to enter the town, he was ambushed by a patrol, who killed him and took his prize for themselves.

Recognizing the high artistry of the pod, the local commander ordered it be taken to Zijincheng, the Forbidden City at the heart of the capital of the Golden Empire, to serve as part of the tribute owed to the Qo by the Palatine. Within a few weeks, the cargo made its way through the densely-populated river valleys, eventually coming to be presented before the Huangdi himself. After hearing the tale of its discovery recounted to him, the intrigued sovereign ordered his eunuchs to split the pod open. However, as the silver frame came apart, the treasure they sought proved to be something far different than any had expected. Inside the pod there was a beautiful infant, his features glowing a brilliant gold except for his eyes, which were a violet so deep they were almost black. The Huangdi, or Yellow Thearch as it is rendered in Gothic, was a young man, without an heir of his own, and so took the young primarch into his own household, naming him Fu Lu Gureimu, which means 'Gray Blessing', gray being a color associated with humility, the result of being found near the plains, and blessing because he came from the sky.

Raised at the heart of the Forbidden Palace, Gureimu had a very formal upbringing compared to the rest of the primarchs. It seems hard to imagine how he might have turned out had he been raised by the Talskar or even the Palatine. Originally blond, the primarch's hair was dyed in pools of quicksilver to mark him as one of the royal family. He had an intellect far beyond even the most learned eunuchs and scribes, a learning so swift it was matched only by his physical growth that saw him grow to the height of a man atop a horse. Naturally, this size gave him an overwhelming advantage in contests of strength, so in order to challenge himself, Gureimu began to master the martial arts, especially fencing. His imposing height made it quite the struggle to avoid being hit, even with his enhanced reflexes, giving him a lasting challenge as he represented the imperial house in contests against other noble families. However, Gureimu's true appreciation lay in the arts and culture, especially the forms of poetry the Qo were known for. Where other primarchs spent their youths in battle, Gureimu sat cross-legged in flowing purple robes, praying at shrines and learning of the astromancy of his people, whose mystical techniques were one of the few subjects to elude him.

Within a few decades, the reigning Emperor had passed, less than forty years old. Life was short on Chogoris, even in the Middle Kingdom, but Gureimu knew better than to let his emotions show, and so kept a serene countenance as his father was buried. Content to be left to his own devices, Gureimu's peace soon came to an end after the funeral. Though he was nominally the Yellow Thearch's eldest son, succession to the throne was based on blood tanistry, a system where the most capable, or ruthless, would rise to inherit over the bodies of any challengers. Though he did not openly seek to claim the throne as they did, all of Gureimu's step-siblings knew the threat he presented to their ambitions. Thus they agreed to deal with him first, conspiring to kill him before turning on each other.

An opportunity soon presented itself to the imperial claimants. In every past succession, civil wars had erupted as the heirs sought to eliminate their rivals by force. These struggles occupied the attention of the entire empire for years at a time, during which the nomads of the Empty Quarter would descend upon outlying villages in search of plunder. Reports had already begun to filter back to the Zijincheng, but this time, things would be different. Giving no heed to the disadvantage it put himself in, Gureimu rallied to the defense of his people, readily abandoning the capital in order to lead an army to protect the outlying villages. Soon enough a great host had formed, flocking to the banners of the charismatic primarch, who led them from village to village, routing the opportunistic invaders with ease. Soon the nomads had given up, fleeing back into the Empty Quarter, but Gureimu would not relent. He led his host deep into the wilderness, seeking to subdue and punish the tribes.

However, the nomads were more wily than any had given them credit for. After losing several skirmishes, the nomads refused to give battle to such a host, and so the grand army began to starve in the plains, constantly under attack by outriders. Even burning their villages would not draw them to battle, for the tribesmen were used to this tactic from other would-be conquerors, and had long ago learned to simply build them anew elsewhere. After several years with little progress to show, the primarch began to lose his patience, for he was not used to dealing with this level of setbacks. However, where a lesser commander might have given up, Gureimu was a primarch, one trained in the ruthless court of the Yellow Thearch, and so devised a plan to deal with the tribes once and for all. Rather than continue to fruitlessly chase the mounted horsemen on foot, Gureimu ordered the population of the plains to be rounded up and placed in fortified camps where they could be concentrated and contained, establishing an ever-growing forbidden zone under pain of death that gradually pushed the tribes into smaller and smaller areas.

Rapidly losing their space to operate, the tribes of the Empty Quarter turned on themselves, some fighting for dwindling resources while others chanced their odds against the armies of the Qo. Within a year or two, the tribes were fully slain or subdued, eking out miserable lives as near-slaves in appalling conditions overseen by the vassal Palatine as they labored on behalf of the Golden Empire, while Gureimu returned a conqueror to the Forbidden City. However, his home had changed much while he was away, for while he had battled the tribes, his step-siblings had fought each other, for they were certain the nomads had slain Gureimu. By the time he entered the Zijincheng, only two still survived, the most powerful and cunning of the Yellow Emperor's children. Though surprised to see him, both immediately sought to use Gureimu against the other, promising him the world in exchange for his aid in overcoming their rival.

However, what they did not know was that Gureimu had changed. During his time on the plains, the primarch had gathered many followers to his side, including a coterie of soothsayers and alchemists known as the Fangshi. Through the use of ritual magic, these sorcerers had divined the future, and Gureimu used their advice to lure both step-siblings and their armies outside of the protective walls of the Forbidden Palace. There he and his experienced armies fell upon them, slaughtering both of his kin and seizing control of their armies for himself. Now master of the Middle Kingdom, Gureimu began a series of conquests which would see the Golden Empire encompass the entirety of Chogoris in less than twenty years. From ocean to ocean his armies marched, utterly unstoppable due to his brilliant generalship and unique military formations, a revolutionary combined arms warfare that merged the armies of the Qo with the forces of both the nomadic and settled tribes.

As the years passed, Gureimu ruled unchallenged as the Golden Emperor of all Chogoris, a realm of a thousand kingdoms and clans unified through the countless political alliances he had forged by marrying princesses from each conquered land in an ever-growing harem, though he never produced any children. His reign lasted for decades, seemingly untouched by age or the diseases which had killed so many previous rulers, and the population of the Qo exploded, now able to farm and settle the plains without fear of the nomads. The tribes which had once ruled the Empty Quarter dwindled to a tiny fraction of their former strength, often worked to death in appalling conditions, but no punishment ever came to Suogo or his descendants, who continued to serve as the camp overseers.

However, while Gureimu was unchallenged militarily, his empire was not immune to that dreaded foe which overcomes all men: entropy. Life began to lose its luster as Gureimu outlived his wives, and his dueling skills soon outpaced even the greatest masters no matter what handicaps he gave himself. His true feelings were always kept hidden away behind a mask of disinterested courtesy, for etiquette meant he could never express himself. After decades of loneliness, ruling without anyone even close to a peer, this facade became reality, leaving only apathy and scorn inside him. Such detachment was only increased by repeated bouts of plague, a perennial problem for a feudal world such as Chogoris. Entire villages were left empty as disease spread from the wretched camps all the way to the Zijincheng itself, where the last of Gureimu's concubines perished, though he himself remained untouched. Now single, the primarch did not bother to remarry, instead spending most of his time reading ancient texts and works of philosophy, immersing himself in myths of a time when the universe held more than just the neverending plains of Chogoris.

Though it would take over a century, Gureimu's prayers would eventually be answered by the arrival of a bronze ship descending from the sky. The people of Chogoris had never seen such a wonder before, a vast artifice designed to traverse the stars that was accompanied by a coterie of lesser craft, the smallest of whom was taller than the largest buildings of Chogoris. In a grand ceremony, these behemoths disgorged even more craft, which came down from the sky to land just outside the Forbidden City. From their holds marched giant warriors armored in bright red and lustrous bronze, giants one and all who towered over the men and women of Gureimu's court. Seated on the Phoenix Throne at the heart of his Forbidden Court, the Golden Emperor received these visitors with due ceremony, for it was clear they were representatives of a civilization that might even equal the splendor of the Qo.

Somewhat daunted by the size of the strangers, Gureimu's herald read out his many titles. The Imperial Court waited for the giants to perform the customary bows and kowtow, but to their amazement, the outlanders remained on their feet. Signaling to his eunuchs, Gureimu watched impassively as they issued the customary demand for tribute. To his surprise, their leader, a man called Magnus, began to laugh, a display of emotion not often seen in the stiff and formal halls of the palace. His levity did not seem to be shared by his companions, who remained unmoving behind the alien features of their ornate helmets that were so unlike the dragon masks utilized by Gureimu's Forbidden Guard. The Golden Emperor's herald announced the demand again, but Magnus shocked the court by announcing he would not bow. The tension became palpable as Magnus announced himself to be royalty, titling himself the Crimson King of Prospero. He began to walk toward the Golden Emperor, but stopped as Gureimu's bodyguards pointed their pikes at him. Magnus smiled once more, before removing his helmet to reveal what had initially appeared to be the crest of his helmet was actually his natural hair.

+Hello, brother. Your world is very lovely compared to the deserts of my homeworld. However, no matter how deeply you bury it, I can tell you desire more than this. Wouldn't you rather explore the stars than live out your life as despot of a pitiful backwater?+ Gureimu flinched, for the man's words came not from his mouth, but rather echoed inside his head. The man's words sparked curiosity, as well as resentment. Who was this foreign barbarian to criticize all that he had accomplished?

After a moment of contemplation, Gureimu nodded. Rising up, he descended the steps of his throne. Up close, Magnus was even larger, but there seemed to be no guile in the man who called himself his brother. The two shook hands, sealing their pact, before Gureimu found himself wrapped in a hug for the first time in decades. As Magnus boomed out joyous laughter to the entire court, Gureimu remained uncertain, unwilling or perhaps unable to completely believe these words of fraternal affection were truly genuine.

Great Crusade: Prodromal

Despite what seemed to be impossible claims, Magnus's tall tales quickly proved to be reality. Using nothing but his words, the Crimson King conjured in the minds of everyone present images of incredible splendor: vast ships crossing the expanses of the heavens, of mighty armies of giant armored warriors similar to the ones accompanying him, and of a colossal Palace stretching from horizon to horizon atop a mountain range whose peaks made those of Chogoris appear miniscule in comparison. Suitably convinced, Gureimu agreed to accompany his brother back to his ship, leaving the plains as they soared into the heavens. Once aboard Magnus's ship, a strangely-shaped but colossal vessel he named the Photep, the two primarchs quickly became close friends. Magnus was the first real peer or equal he had ever had, and the Crimson King's talent for sorcery made it easy for him to see behind the mask of politeness. The two spent many hours conversing as they spoke about each other's respective pasts, and Gureimu was astounded to learn of his nature as a primarch, that he too had a legion forged from his bloodline to call his own.

However, in this case, Magnus's talent for stretching the truth had outstripped reality. Where Magnus had tens of thousands of Astartes under his command, Gureimu learned with disappointment that he was master over less than two hundred. The Phoenix of Chogoris listened numbly as the Crimson King related the tale of the Blight, a carefully-guarded secret that he had divined during his exploration of the Warp. The agonized echoes of a century of suffering had resonated with Magnus, whose own legion had suffered a similar malady, and Gureimu couldn't help but be grateful to learn that the Crimson King had taken the company under the auspices of his own legion. He asked his brother if there was anything he could do to aid them, to which Magnus replied in the affirmative. However, Gureimu was filled with horror at the proposed solution of siphoning his blood in order to create more gene-seed. Such a proposition was particularly offensive to one whose body had been untouchable when he was Emperor, and thus when Magnus brought up an alternative path, Gureimu was quick to seize upon it.

The air was thick with incense as the oneiromancers, thaumaturges, and zadyin arga rattled the bells, wailing and beating hand-drums as they finished their rituals. As one, they cut their palms, allowing blood to drip into the pools of liquid mercury in which the primarch reclined. The chief Fangshi, a tribal barbarian in the process of becoming an Astartes named Targutai Yesugei, approached the primarch, his steps aligned to keep a constant flow of qi throughout the chamber while his eyes remained fixed on the vaulted ceiling, whose tiles bore symbols of the heavens. Fu Lu's eyes were closed, and as Targutai spoke, visions of the Great Ocean filled his mind, too vivid to be mere imagination.

Down and down he sank, the weight of the universe pulling him down until suddenly it was not, and the Phoenix King stood on an empty plain. Far in the distance, a golden sun illuminated the world around him in crepuscular splendor, a heavy haze concealing its true radiance. On the opposite horizon, a ruddy moon whose presence was that of Magnus lurked, seemingly unable to come close or truly perceive what was occurring.

Looking around, Fu Lu realized with a start he was not alone. Four creatures surrounded him, each standing in front of a steaming pond whose fumes only partially concealed their animalistic features mixed with the bodies of men. The first was a white tiger, snarling, furious, its mouth covered in dried blood; the second was a vermillion bird, akin to a phoenix, seemingly wise but with the sly look of a scavenger. Third was an azure dragon, regal, majestic, but it too made Fu Lu wary, for in its eyes was a lascivious hunger that could never be satiated. The fourth was a black tortoise, its yellow eyes rheumy, placid and passive to the point of indifference.

"Behold, my lord, the Hundun Sishen, or Yaksha Kings, as they are known on the plains." came the familiar voice of Yesugei, ringing out from a small cloud fulminated with lightning. "Kong Nue, Jian Qi, Na Gou, and Se Nie come to you, the true gods known by a thousand different names. Each offers a way to the knowledge you seek, though not without a price. You must hurry, for they must go before the sun rises." The constellation of stars in the sky began to wail in the voices of his sons, while the beasts beckoned, each eager to have him drink from their pool.

However, Fu Lu had already decided: why pick the beasts which were outwardly hostile? Thus cupping his hands, the Phoenix King drank of the tortoise's pool, a foul, stagnant puddle blooming with algae. The tiger, bird, and dragon howled in fury as the tortoise wheezed out a hacking cough, but they made no move to attack him, and when Fu Lu raised his eyes, he was alone on the plains, the first rays of sun peeking over the horizon.

Waking from his trance, the primarch found three quarters of his Fangshi dead, their blood and qi torn from their bodies to sustain the ritual. Nonetheless, Yesugei had survived, though unnaturally aged, and he informed the primarch that weeks had passed but that the ritual had been successful. He claimed the curse had been broken, and while Gureimu did not feel any different, he trusted the wisdom of his Fangshi. Thus assured once more, the primarch and his sons left Chogoris, returning to Magnus the Red to thank him for his aid. The Crimson King seemed doubtful that it had actually succeeded, but decided to take the Phoenician at his word. With their work on Chogoris thus complete, Magnus and Gureimu returned to the transport, which lifted them back up into orbit.

However, rather than the sprawling bulk of the Photep, the transport instead docked with a smaller cruiser, where Magnus introduced Gureimu to his legion. All could see and feel the connection between the father and his sons, for despite their different cultural backgrounds and physical features, they could both recognize each other's inherent nobility. The Golden Emperor found it easy to relate to these scions of aristocracy that bore his bloodline, and was impressed by what they had accomplished despite their small size. Because they had maintained their sense of duty regardless of setbacks, Gureimu confirmed their name, for it only made sense as he himself was an emperor, along with their heraldry. The legion retained its purple livery, for such was the imperial color of the Qo, but added to it the phoenix wing banner as their legion icon upon their shoulders, a natural complement to the Palatine Aquila upon their breastplates.

Despite such a promising beginning, the memory of their near-extinction had left deep scars in the Third Legion that were unlikely to disappear any time soon. As Magnus had suspected, the Blight was still present, but the afterglow of reunion made the danger seem less present. The two primarchs spent several weeks together, observing the many thousands of aspirants competing in a series of trials, designed by the Crimson King and overseen by the original Two Hundred, to select the best possible recruits for the legion. This process quickly bottlenecked, both from the limited amount of gene-seed, and so Gureimu was forced to overcome his personal abhorrence. He submitted himself to the ministrations of the Chief Apothecary called Fabius, who quickly began the process of extracting the gene-seed from Gureimu's blood.

Other difficulties soon began to present themselves to this effort, most notably the cultural differences between the Imperials and the people of Chogoris. While rich in genetic diversity and potential levies, the vicissitudes of fate and millennia of separation had rendered Gureimu's homeworld incredibly foreign. The languages of Chogoris had few if any cognates in Gothic, a problem which had not been immediately apparent as Magnus had initially spoken to him psychically, a method which had bypassed the language barrier entirely. For those that Gureimu would not allow into his mind, such as the thousands of baseline humans and Astartes that made up the Crimson King's entourage, they were forced to make do. Imperial linguists and historians attempting to record the events of this time have resorted to bastardized transliterations of names and titles, and thus outsiders came to know the Primarch of the Third Legion by the name of Fulgrim.

For the next few years, outsiders continued to pour into Chogoris while Fulgrim laid the foundations of his legion's future. He was assisted in many of these efforts by his brother Magnus, though the Crimson King was not always present, occasionally leaving for months at a time to pursue his own agenda. Each return brought new changes and new faces to Chogoris, advisors such as the strange machine-men calling themselves the tech-priests of Mars, who came bearing the armaments needed to join the Great Crusade. Magnus gave Fulgrim access to a veritable library of tomes whose contents would be of use to the Golden Emperor and his sons in their preparations to join the Great Crusade in earnest. Fulgrim had high expectations for his legion, and thus the Two Hundred immersed themselves in the culture of their new homeworld. These men who had once been only warriors now pursued fine arts such as calligraphy, poetry, and painting, learning from the Qo and their vassal states even as the new recruits learned the skills they would need to become Astartes.

Soon enough the legion swelled to ten times its original size, fully immersed in Chogorian culture and was now ready to join the Great Crusade. The Third had never been so strong, for even the savage ways of the tribes had brought in, though Fulgrim suspected it was simply another self-centered attempt by his vassals to pacify their own realms by removing the strongest and most warlike populations. Equipped with ships of their own, the Golden Emperor and his Children joined their cousins on their first real campaigns, pacifying the two moons of Chogoris before moving on to the nearby systems. The two primarchs fought side by side on many worlds, and the time soon came for Magnus to reveal Fulgrim to the rest of the Imperium in a grandiose ceremony aboard the Bucephalus, where the Phoenician met his father for the first time, the Emperor of Mankind.

In the early days of the Great Crusade, the Master of Mankind had spent decades with the firstfound of his sons such as Horus Lupercal, Leman Russ, or Ferrus Manus, but with each new son found, the duration of attention had decreased. Fulgrim was the sixteenth-found, and as such, Magnus warned his brother not to expect much of a reception. It quickly became apparent that both father and son were equally inscrutable, and the ambience became positively icy after Fulgrim's title of Golden Emperor was announced by his heralds. The words of the Crimson King quickly rang true, for the Emperor spent less than a week with Fulgrim, confirming his authority over the Third but ordering him to never refer to himself as an emperor again. With this tense meeting out of the way, the Master of Mankind departed to return to his own affairs, leaving Fulgrim to travel to Terra.

Over the next few months, the Phoenician met with many dignitaries along with more than a few brothers. However, this was no time of joy and wonder for the Phoenix King. The Blight had led many in Imperial Command to write off the Third as a lost cause, and behind their masks of politeness, Fulgrim could tell they harbored doubts whether he and his sons would ever amount to much. The legion medics, led by Chief Apothecary Fabius, had spent countless hours in the past in their attempts to reverse the disease, but no matter what extreme methods they had countenanced, they remained unable to cure it, or ascertain why it plagued even aspirants who received fresh genetic stock from the primarch himself. Fulgrim spent many hours brooding on the issue, pessimism weighing heavily upon him and keeping him from truly bonding with his sons, an ironic echo of his relationship with the Emperor.

However, Fulgrim did not care for the opinions of these brothers, for he knew who his allies were and retained a contented indifference toward the rest. As the Emperor's Children joined in the Great Crusade, equally disappointing were their meetings with the other legions, nearly all of whom had an advantage in size and experience. Resentments began to simmer between Fulgrim and his brothers just as it did between the Third and the other legions, for the Emperor's Children had long resented their cousins for their condescending pity. Thus most joint campaigns were short-lived, their time together lasting as briefly as that of the Emperor. While some respected this drive, others were irreconcilably offended, such as the ever-proud Guilliman, who became infuriated to learn that Fulgrim believed his own sons to be superior to his Ultramarines. Many saw such beliefs as pointless hubris, a desire which blinded them to the opinions of others. Relations between the Third, Seventh, and Eighth legions were permanently soured after Fulgrim refused to intervene in a brawl between his brothers Konrad Curze and Rogal Dorn during a joint campaign on the world of Cheraut.

However, other relationships fared better. Horus Lupercal, the firstfound, spent almost as much time as Magnus had with Fulgrim, while Lorgar of Colchis took great interest in the religious practices of Chogoris. His closest relationship was the one he shared with his brother Ferrus Manus, whose honesty and bluntness was refreshing to one such as Fulgrim, who was long used to others hiding how they felt behind many layers of politeness. Their initial encounter came during a chance meeting beneath Mount Narodnaya in the Urals of Terra, where the Phoenician's initial remarks had led his brother to challenge him to a smithing contest. Though he had only ever crafted decorative pieces back on Chogoris, Fulgrim was not one to back down from a challenge, and so the two brothers worked day and night to craft weapons. In the end, the Phoenician recognized he was outmatched, but to his surprise, Manus felt the same way, and so the two settled on a tie, swapping weapons to seal their partnership, which in time would grow in closeness to rival that of the legendary Achillus and Patroclys. Now wielding Manus's gift, the perfectly-balanced golden sword he named Fireblade, Fulgrim next crafted a pistol, a volkite charger he named Firebrand, and thus the Phoenix of Chogoris became armed with tools of fire, a living embodiment of the legends of old.

The two brothers fought side by side for over a decade, both legions forming close bonds with each other as the Third adapted and learned new ways of war. By the time the Iron Hands had departed, the Emperor's Children had changed dramatically. The Old Two Hundred, whose numbers had always been precarious due to both battle and Blight, were now far outnumbered by their new brothers, many of whom had been promoted to lead brand new companies composed entirely of the sons of Chogoris. Fulgrim was well aware this trend would only continue as the years passed, and so he did not hesitate to restructure his legion according to his own preferences. Now rather than a single legion master like the other legions had, the Third were reorganized into an idiosyncratic system implemented swiftly after the former First Captain, a Terran named Rylanor, became incapable of command due to being placed in a dreadnought sarcophagus. In his place, the Third Legion were now to be led by three Lord-Commanders: Eidolon, Qin Xa, and Vespasian, who each commanded a third of the legion, divided into various formations whose titles remain difficult to translate. The legion's thirty companies essentially governed themselves, dispersed amongst the stars across dozens of campaign fleets, for any desire on Fulgrim's part to know his sons' names or quirks had vanished after their numbers had climbed into the tens of thousands.

This distance between father and sons only served to further increase their perfectionist tendencies, for they sought ever-greater challenges in the hopes of impressing both him, and the rest of the Imperium. Perhaps had the primarch been raised elsewhere, he would have been more open, more charismatic or inspiring to the men under his command, but the formal court culture of the Qo was too deeply rooted in him to change, producing an ever-worsening melancholy in Fulgrim. Thus were the Emperor's Children destined to be disappointed, regardless of their successes and state of perfection. So too were his brothers snubbed, for Fulgrim remained indifferent to the resentment of others, even when he met them in person, such as at the Grand Triumph of Ullanor, where he ignored Dorn's pointed stares the entire time. His attendance had been on a whim, for he cared little for public relations, and while initially indifferent to his brother's new title of Warmaster, in truth it destroyed any relationship between them, for Lupercal soon became far too busy to give any attention to the Phoenician and his rapidly-growing dysphoria.

In truth, Fulgrim's confidence in the Imperium as an institution had waned over the decades, and he would not waste his time attempting to mend his brother's relationships. Nor did he bother to attend the Council of Nikaea, for he cared little for the question of psykers. Even a personal request from Horus for a company to commit his forces to something called the Legion Auxilia merited little attention, and it was one of the Lord-Commanders rather than the primarch himself who dispatched Centurion Azael Konenos and his company to join the Warmaster. Fulgrim remained on the fringes, ignored by most and disliked by almost all the rest; his brothers knew he would not abandon his duty, but they did not realize how little hope or enthusiasm existed in him. The Phoenix King grew less and less attached to the Imperium, his initial excitement of exploring the stars having long since worn off after just under a century of near-constant warfare.

The last vestiges of hope in Fulgrim were finally dealt a mortal blow as a result of the debacle of the Murder Campaign. As was the case in almost every other legion, many companies of the Third Legion operated on their own, dispatched to conduct their own campaigns apart from the main fleet. The 28th Expeditionary Fleet was one such company, larger than most as it was led by Lord Commander Eidolon, which responded to a distress call from one Captain Frome, a Blood Angel whose detachment was apparently stranded on a world designated One-Forty-Twenty. However, when Eidolon and his forces arrived, all that remained was a recorded transmission: "This. World. Is. Murder." Regardless of such grim tidings, the Emperor's Children landed on the planet in force, and quickly came under assault from hideous arachnid xenos. Despite their martial prowess, the sheer numbers of these Megarachnids proved too much, and the Third took heavy casualties before they were ultimately rescued by the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet led by Warmaster Horus himself. Unwilling to face his primarch after such humiliation, Eidolon attached his forces to the Legion Auxilia, and was present at Interex when Lupercal fell. The Lord Commander would not rejoin his primarch for several years, during which time both had changed dramatically.

The weak cries of agony finally petered out as the Kinebrach fell to the ground, its innards spilling out from where it had been pierced by the hissing energy-field of the power sword. The sons of Fulgrim glanced over, retaining their composure while his allies whooped, a motley assortment from multiple legions that had joined together to pursue the war against the treacherous Interex and their xenos allies. One of them approached him, clad in the distinctive teal of the Twentieth.

"Telemachon Lyras, is it? And I believe you go by Hasik Noyan-Khan." The warrior asked, not removing his helmet.

"That is my name, yes. And you are?" Lyras answered, glancing over at his Chogorian counterpart, who shrugged. The other Astartes cocked his head in bemusement.

"Why, I'm Alpharius, of course. Would you two mind coming with me? Your skills with the blade are very impressive, and I think you could be greatly of use to my patron."

"Oh? And who would that be?" Hasik asked, intrigued despite his annoyance at such temerity.

"That's on a need-to-know basis, but I suppose I can make an exception. I'm sure you've heard of the Sigillite before."

Relapse: Fall of the Third Legion

To say Fulgrim had become disillusioned with his life and the state of the Imperium as a whole would be an understatement. Almost a century of warfare had made his life upon Chogoris, a time when he had been master of all he surveyed, seem much better in retrospect than it most likely was. Once the Golden Emperor, the Fulgrim of the 31st Millennium was no more than a cog in a machine, conquering planets more by habit than by desire. The Astartes of the Third Legion were, like their father, accustomed to perfection, and to slack off in their duties was unthinkable, regardless of their personal opinions on the tasks they performed. Thus contrary to other brothers such as Perturabo or Guilliman, Fulgrim did not necessarily desire recognition or glory for its own sake, but rather, harbored a subconscious desire for some sort of change to his situation, a future which even he could not envision. This malaise, shared by father and son alike, was a drain on their morale, and was compounded by the hidden but ever-present threat of the Blight, an unspoken threat looming over their heads ceaselessly.

Thus in the radiance of the Late-Era Great Crusade, when all eyes were upon the Warmaster, the ennui of the Emperor's Children passed unnoticed. Even their closest allies did not pick up on any changes, for over the past several years, Fulgrim and his sons had been fighting alongside Ferrus Manus and the Tenth Legion against a human empire known as the Auretian Technocracy. It was during this time that a missive arrived, whose sender bore an unusual title: 'Voice of the Warmaster', along with an ever stranger command to not open it in the presence of others. When opened, the missive contained a single star chart, whose coordinates showed a system on the far fringes of Ultima Segmenta, along with a short note from Lion El'Jonson, who claimed to have discovered nothing less than a cure for the Blight.

Fulgrim had no idea how Lion even knew of the ailment which had afflicted his sons, but was not about to let such an opportunity pass. He did treasure this time with his brother Manus, but he could not afford to let this pass by. Making excuses, the Phoenician gathered his forces, departing abruptly to make for the coordinates shown in the message. The storms in the Warp had grown worse over the prior decade, but in the end their fleet made it through. There on the dark outer edges of the system, now tentatively cataloged as Twenty-Eight-Three, hung the pitch-black splendor of the Invincible Reason, flagship of the First Legion, which quickly received Fulgrim and his entourage aboard with due ceremony.

Eager to cut straight to the heart of the matter, the Phoenician's initial inquiries were soon frustrated, for the Lion seemed reluctant to speak of such matters. The two brothers had never been close, for the Lord of Caliban had been discovered over fifty years before him, and the two legions had never fought a joint campaign together. The Lion proposed to change this, asking Fulgrim to join him against a race of xenos known as the Laer, who inhabited the single world in this system. Left with little choice if he wanted to obtain the information, Fulgrim agreed, and so the two legions went to war. Within a month, the primarchs had made a mockery of the Laer's claims of perfection, shattering their fleet in quick succession before landing their forces on the xenos' homeworld. Laer itself was an ocean world, their capital built atop a colossal coral landmass floating atop anti-gravitic generators, and as such, nearly their entire population and strength was concentrated there.

The fighting was intense and brutal, for the Laer had been backed into a corner. Their bodies were utter fanatics whose bodies had been modified into countless different forms, showing a mastery of genetic manipulation that made it clear why the Lion believed the cure for the Blight may exist here. However, for all their strength and conviction, they could not hope to overcome the might of two legions. As the last of the xenos died fighting, the two primarchs found themselves fighting their way into the Laer capitol, a temple whose darkened chambers were choked with incense and smoke. Nearing the center of the complex, the Lion's sharp eyes spotted a circular block of stone, in which was embedded a silver sword. In a gesture of apparent humility, the Lord of Caliban offered it to Fulgrim, telling his brother he ought to take it as a prize. However, Fulgrim merely scoffed: he had no interest in such trophies, for he already had a sword from no less a smith than Ferrus Manus, and from the short time they had spent together, he knew Lion to be too prideful to give away a trophy without some ulterior motive.

Tired of being deceived, Fulgrim demanded the Lion reveal what he knew about the Blight, for that had been the only reason he agreed to come on this campaign. His expression inscrutable in the smoky darkness, his brother admitted that he had been stalling, revealing that he had discovered that the information Fulgrim sought lay not here, but in the nearby Aurelia Sub-sector, only a few dozen light years away. His patience for such theatricality depleted, Fulgrim quickly departed, leaving the First behind as his true goal was now in sight. However, this proved to be no easy task, for the multiple worlds of the Aurelia Sub-sector were one and all guarded by a foe far more fearsome than the Laer: the Hrud. These loathsome xenos were known for their dangerous manipulation of time, their stellar migrations capable of withering to dust entire starships caught in their midst. According to Imperial reports, the xenos had relocated to this sector decades ago; since then they had had nothing but time to reproduce.

However, the Third had not come this far to give up, for as the Third entered the system, Fulgrim had announced to his sons that the cure for the Blight rested upon Aurelia. Thus the legion fought as never before to seize the system, landing in full force on every planet, matching the strength of one hundred thousand Astartes against countless millions of Hrud. From the arid deserts of Calderis to the feral jungles of Cyrene to the withered buildings of Typhon Primaris in which survived not even the bones of its previous inhabitants, the Emperor's Children died in their thousands, turning over every metaphorical stone in the hopes of discovering any source of information to cure the ailment which had afflicted them for so long. Even Fulgrim himself joined in this grisly task, his bodyguard at his side as they fought through the icy hives of Aurelia itself, their armored boots crunching through layers of calcified skeletons as they purged the corrupted hive blocks.

In response to this sudden attack, the Hrud struck back with all their strength. Their time-dilating auras of decay struck the Third Legion with unimaginable potency, rotting limbs and rusting armor by their mere presence. The Blight gene, which may well have remained dormant in many legionaries, became active with horrifying regularity, forcing squads to put down their own brothers as they screamed in pure agony. Even the sudden arrival of a Warp storm did not lessen the intensity of the campaign, the Emperor's Children simply continuing to unleash slaughter without heed to casualties. Now trapped in the Aurelia System, the men of the Third began to report strange whispers in their minds and dreams, though whether this was the Hrud or something else entirely was uncertain. Time began to unravel, subject to the ravages of both the Hrud and the Immaterium, and the death toll rose ever higher until reality itself began to splinter.

On and on the hooded monsters came, flowing like a river of filth out of every crack and crevice as they fired their archaic fusils which made a mockery of Astartes power armor. Fulgrim's custom armor proved no more immune, now pock-marked with rusty holes, but he fought on regardless, for the end goal was in sight. Here at the heart of their warren, stacks of tomes were strewn across a vast librarium, their pages somehow immune to decay but not to the blizzard of a crossfire between Imperial and xenos. The Phoenician roared his fury, memories of the past playing unbidden through his thoughts, of his family, his brothers and his sons. Of the vision Yesugei had shown him so long ago that had never borne any fruit.

On and on he fought, killing and killing without any respite. How long had he been doing this? A day? A month? A year? Decades? Time itself was nothing more than a cruel joke, a tale told by an idiot that had been compressed and stretched into unrecognizable patterns by incomprehensible forces. The Blight had claimed all his sons, and none of them, or maybe even him, the mutative energies tugging at the edges of his sanity. Fulgrim screamed in that moment, begging for a respite, a cessation of the agony which he felt at every moment as he died countless deaths, from old age, plasma burns, rusty knives, and myriad other afflictions that vanished as soon as they were perceived.

+What will you give?+, a new thought entered his head, entirely unbidden as yet another of the whispers.

"Anything, I will give anything. Destroy the Hrud, remove the Blight, or even just kill me, I can't go on like this." A snarling mix of scream and sob forced its way out of Fulgrim's ravaged throat.

+Very well. The Grandfather has heard your pleas, oh Blessed Phoenix King of Longing. He has felt the sublimeness of your despair, old sport, and has sent me, Ulkair, to offer you and your sons the gift of life, if you will have it. + came the voice again, more insistent and real than anything had been in an eternity.

"Yes, I accept your bargain. I give myself to your Grandfather." No reply came other than a baritone rumbling, a hacking sound identical to the one in the vision so long ago which he now recognized as laughter.

Like a whirling twister slowly dissipating into nothing, the time loop finally came to an end. Fulgrim now stood alone in the ruins of the librarium, its contents nothing more than moldering sludge like the corpses of countless Hrud. His body was a withered shell of its former self, the ravages of age only now beginning to reverse themselves by the supernatural healing abilities of a primarch. As the primarch returned to the surface, his wounds gradually closed, leaving long puckering scars all across his body, along with a trio of red boils upon his chest. His sons gathered to his side, and when the legion had fully assembled, it became clear barely seventy thousand still lived. The remaining third were nothing but rotting corpses, their gene-seed and armor rendered as unsalvageable as the sludge of the dead Hrud that surrounded them.

While Fulgrim was uneasy at the prospect of the bargain he had made, the voice of Ulkair seemed to be gone, and so the primarch put it aside for now. His attention quickly turned to the state of his sons, for as the legion recovered their wounded, the apothecaries made the startling discovery that the Blight seemed to have gone totally dormant. Even Eidolon's forces noticed the change thousands of light years away, though neither they nor the legionaries present at Aurelia suspected the true nature of the bargain their primarch had struck. While the bulk of the legion were busy fighting on Laer and Aurelia,, the Lord-Commander and his forces had remained occupied as part of the Warmaster's Legion Auxilia. It was there that Eidolon first met the Dark Angel known as Corswain, and the two quickly became partners as both were part of the Mournival Majoris, the governing body of legionary commanders that helped the Warmaster decide his strategies. The Paladin had much to teach Eidolon, and over the course of many years slowly corrupted the Terran, persuading him that to honor the culture of his primarch's homeworld, such as giving devotion to the Yaksha Kings, would help win him the favor of the Phoenix of Chogoris that Eidolon felt he had lost during the debacle at Murder.

Eidolon's gradual corruption was very much in line with the gradual descent into treachery experienced by the rest of the Third Legion during this time. Compared to the sudden and violent betrayals of other traitor legions, the fall of the Emperor's Children was slow and hidden, like a man caught in quicksand gradually sinking into the mire until it was far too late to undo it. The wiles of the Ruinous Powers are subtle indeed, and so over the course of several years, the apathy of the Emperor's Children was twisted to more sinister ends. Most did not even notice the change as they began to care less and less, paying more attention to their warrior lodges known as Tongs that had been introduced to the Third by the Dark Angels just as they had in the other legions. Soon their rate of conquest slowed to the verge of stopping entirely as their once-resplendent wargear started to bear the stains of rust and corrosion, while small altars and personal shrines began to proliferate throughout the fleet.

Fulgrim himself experienced these changes as well. While he experienced no pain from it, the strange marks on his body from Aurelia refused to heal. He found himself dreaming each night of a fetid garden, a swamp at whose heart was a crumbling manse that he could not enter due to the chains barring the gate. Other legionaries began to report similar visions, especially those who had once been librarians before the Edict of Nikaea. In the tongs, legionaries increasingly voiced treasonous sentiments regarding the Imperium, while the fleet officers began to report higher rates of minor diseases beginning to infect the mortal crews. These aches and poxes caused no end of minor irritations and pains to both baseline and Astartes alike, but all could sense their suffering now had a higher purpose, that taking steps to change things would have no purpose in the long run. Fixation on the concept of entropy became their overriding focus, and so their hope in the Imperium slowly disappeared, replaced with a disgust at those who would bother to make the effort to slow the descent of the galaxy into chaos.

However, all this remained hidden from the wider galaxy, whose lines of communication were increasingly choked by more and more violent warp storms. Years later, when Lupercal fell upon the world of Davin, Eidolon took the chance to abandon the Legion Auxilia, hurling his forces into the darkness to seek out firsthand knowledge of the Yaksha Kings. Not even Fulgrim knew Eidolon's reasoning, nor where his sons had gone, and he said as much to the representatives of Lupercal who came to discover where they had gone. By this time, the minds and souls of the Emperor's Children had been irrevocably twisted by the daemonic voices in their dreams and by the agents of the Lion. As the last remaining loyalist sympathizers amongst his sons were being snuffed out, Fulgrim began to experience different dreams.

Over the previous few months, during that time when Horus found himself increasingly isolated on the world of Davin as he tried to ascertain the position of his forces, Fulgrim's understanding of the Warp increased dramatically. Through dream-trances induced by Fangshi Yesugei, the Phoenician learned of the plans the Hundun Sishen had for him, for he had been marked by the one known to the people of Chogoris as Na Gou. Hailing from a culture which took the existence of the afterlife for granted, Fulgrim had never been fully comfortable with the rationalistic atheism of the Imperial Truth, believing it to be too simple to be true. Thus he had little difficulty in accepting the existence of beings in the Immaterium who offered aid in exchange for appeasement. The desires of Na Gou and his representative Ulkair seemed easy enough to fulfill, requiring no great effort on his part to aid in the continuation of the universe's natural cycle of entropy.

Thus as the last of the Alpha Legion spies in their ranks were finally found and eliminated, the enlightened Fulgrim followed the call in his dreams to return alone to the world of Aurelia. Alone save for the whispers, the Phoenician descended far beneath the planet's lifeless surface, discovering an ancient prison which held Ulkair captive. Through dark rituals, Fulgrim freed the creature, revealing its true nature as that of a monstrosity known as a Great Unclean One. However, so apathetic and steeped in corruption was Fulgrim that even the horrific bloated form of the Greater Daemon did not dismay him. In those dark caves, Fulgrim sealed his fate, bargaining away his soul and the souls of his legion to the putrid embrace of the Plaguefather in exchange for power and an end to their suffering. Their covenant now sealed, Ulkair gave his pestiferous blessing to the Phoenician. The Great Unclean One imbued him with unnatural might, prophesying with his phlegm-filled voice that Fulgrim's pain would come to an end upon the world of Nostramo.

As Fulgrim returned to the surface, he noticed the world changing around him. Now freed from his prison, Ulkair's influence began to wash over Aurelia. The foul energies of the Warp poured down across the entire planet, the sludge and rot left over from the Hrud solidifying into a deep freeze as a thick layer of ice covered the surface. Ulkair's promises quickly began to bear fruit, for even before Fulgrim reunited with his sons, a dark transformation had already begun to come over them. The favor of Na Gou descended upon the Emperor's Children as fresh outbreaks of disease swept the ranks, new plagues which empowered them as much as it debilitated those around them. However, the Astartes of the Third felt no horror at their new condition, for apathy had infected them as surely as any pestilence. The Emperor's Children had found a new patron, unified in purpose as the chosen instruments of the Grandfather to carry out his will in the wars to come, for the Leonine Heresy had now begun.

Metastasis: A Plague Upon the Stars

While Fulgrim had been occupied on Aurelia, events had proceeded apace in the rest of the galaxy. The Lion's machinations had finally reached a crescendo upon the world of Davin, where the Dark Angels and Blood Angels had inflicted a devastating loss on the Warmaster and his forces. The loyalist legions were now isolated and scattered across the galaxy, either trapped or hunted by the traitor legions. In celebration of their initial victories, the Archtraitor called his brothers and their forces to join him for a Dark Triumph upon Davin. Unlike the rest of the traitor primarchs, the Lion seemed unsurprised to see the state of the Emperor's Children, though he kept his distance.

Once they had gathered together, El'Jonson gave them new orders, dispersed the traitor forces across the galaxy to carry out his will and that of his patrons, the Chaos Gods. Fulgrim and the Emperor's Children accepted his commands without complaint, joining Rogal Dorn and the Imperial Fists to form the northwestern thrust toward Segmentum Solar. The Phoenician had not seen his brother since Ullanor, and it was clear Dorn had not gotten over the events of Cheraut, but such petty grudges mattered little. Thus over the course of several years, the Emperor's Children unleashed rot and death on every world they visited, spreading the love of Na Gou to all that they met. The Seventh Legion seemed to grow increasingly disgusted with the changes wrought on the bodies of the Emperor's Children, and soon enough departed without warning to pursue their own agendas.

This did not bother the Phoenician, for he knew the work they were doing was serving not only the Lion but the Grandfather as well. They continued to unleash death and decay across dozens of systems, empowering the Plaguefather with the despair they evoked. During this time, the forces of the Third Legion had formed into three main bodies, each composed of dozens of company-sized Vectoriums overseen and administered by one of the three Lord-Commanders. Due to the continued absence of Lord-Commander Eidolon, Fulgrim had finally yielded to necessity, naming another Terran, Solomon Demeter, as his replacement. As the most junior of the Lord-Commanders, Demeter often fought alongside Fulgrim himself, while Lord-Commanders Qin Xa and Vespasian prosecuted their own campaigns independently. All three however were true exemplars of the legion's new philosophy, leading their men against the loyalist defenders of Bastion Omega with ruthless and methodical brutality.

Over the following several years, the Emperor's Children continued their descent into the embrace of the Plaguefather. Those who had once lived their lives under constant threat from the Blight now spread disease and despair across dozens of systems. Where the other legions sought to extract tribute and supplies, or killed for the sake of it, the Third instead focused on densely-populated worlds, taking a perverse joy in shattering the anti-spiritual creed of the Imperial Truth. Such conquests were slow and methodical, starvation and disease becoming rampant on every world as the legion tainted food supplies with Warp-spawned illnesses that reanimated those that consumed them. Oftentimes the planets would be left with but a seventh of their original population, the survivors now eagerly worshiping Grandfather Nurgle alongside the Third Legion that served as his heralds. Their work complete, the Emperor's Children would depart once more to spread their foul creed to new worlds, though not before herding the shambling hordes of undead into the holds of their ships to use as cannon fodder for future engagements.

Across dozens of systems, these engagements played out over and over again as the Third clashed with the Imperial loyalists who fought to maintain their vast defensive network known as Bastion Omega. Where other legions strayed from the path to pursue their own agendas, the Third remained committed to pushing on Terra, for the Grandfather's wishes coincided with the Lion's. Where the Thousand Sons were riven by ambition, the Ultramarines fractured by pride, and the Blood Angels blinded by fury, the apathy which had been passed down to the Emperor's Children by their father made the legion far more harmonious and unified. However, while the tenets of Nurgle had removed most of the possibility for inter or intra-legion conflict, the nature of Chaos meant this could never last.

Perhaps the most divided host of the Emperor's Children was the one led by Lord-Commander Demeter. Once merely the captain of the Second Company, Demeter had been placed over many other companies after being promoted due to First Captain Eidolon's disappearance. Demeter lacked the illustrious record of his predecessor, because of which he harbored persistent self-doubt regarding his aptitude for such a position. It was to his misfortune that the foes he faced lacked such inner turmoil, for the legionaries of the Iron Hands were one and all unified in their hatred and repugnance toward the disease-riddled monstrosities the Emperor's Children had become. The heavily-entrenched forces of the Tenth Legion hurled back every assault Demeter threw at them, and after a year of punishing losses with little gain, the Emperor's Children had had enough, seizing and imprisoning Demeter. Led by one Captain Lucius, the mutineers executed their own Lord-Commander before splintering their forces.

Where once there was once one great host of the Third Legion battered against Bastion Omega, now there were dozens, each of these splintered warbands led by a captain or other prominent legionary, such as the one led by Chief Apothecary Fabius. Such a breach in discipline normally would have warranted the direct attention of the primarch himself, but Fulgrim was nowhere to be found, having taken half the legion to the northeast under the orders of the Archtraitor. Thus it was left to the other Lord-Commanders to reforge legion unity. In place of the primarch, the forces of Lord-Commander Vespasian came to reassert control. Long renowned for his charisma, Vespasian attempted to negotiate with the mutinous captains. However, the anarchic nature of Chaos had sunk too deeply into the Third Legion, for within a matter of weeks, the rhetoric of Lucius and the other traitorous warbands had sunk into Vespasian's force.

Thus in the midst of a skirmish between Vespasian and one of the rebel warbands, the Lord-Commander met a violent end, stabbed in the back by his lieutenant Marius Vairosean. With Vespasian gone, the unity of his forces dissolved just like those of Demeter's, fracturing into a squabbling mess wracked by internecine conflict. It seemed that despite their unity of faith and purpose, the nature of Chaos had infected them as much as any of the others, and without the primarch to maintain the peace, there would be only war. The remaining Lord-Commander, Qin Xa, had no wish to share the fate of his comrades; thus he remained engaged against the loyalists. His companies, entirely Chogorian compared to the mixture of Terrans that were present in Demeter's and Vespasian's hosts, retained their unity, and did not suffer the repeated setbacks that now faced the other warbands whose disunity made them outnumbered.

However, Qin Xa's host was not the only force of the Emperor's Children unleashing havoc against the loyalists. In the midst of the chaos gripping the Third Legion, those who were lost now returned, an illness once thought gone by the name of Eidolon. The Lord-Commander had resisted Nurgle more than any of his companions, for which his body had been cursed and blessed like no other. He had died countless times, each time being resurrected with a new malady, a growing resentment of the Plaguefather, and a diminished soul. Now a living embodiment of the cycle of life and death, Eidolon had become all but unrecognizable, for where he had once been a graceful duellist, he now lurched with rigor mortis, his swollen bloated body host to countless plagues. However, what drew the most attention were his rheumy eyes, which constantly blinked back a stream of acidic crocodile tears.

Though Eidolon had resisted Nurgle to the bitter end and then some, the Astartes under his command had not. Changed and corrupted by their time in the Sea of Souls, his lieutenants had sold their souls in exchange for power. Now one and all they had become host to a multitude of plagues, a foul combination of diseases which reduced unprotected foes to nothing more than a slurry of pus and slime as their bodies literally came apart from their sickening presence. This warband, now going by the name of the Children of Blight, had pioneered the use of sound weaponry, attaching dirge casters to their shoulders which broadcast discordant noise to invoke despair and disorientation in those unfortunate enough to fight them. Even more deadly was their use of the foul affliction known as the Doubtworm, a Warp-spawned plague spread not by bacteria or virus, but by a heretical phrase: 'The Emperor isn't real." Those who heard and processed this foul message were corrupted on the spot, condemned to rise upon death to become a plague zombie no matter how long it had been since they had originally heard the message.

However, what made the Children of Blight the most dangerous was their presence far beyond Imperial lines, a foreign tumor deep in the heart of Segmentum Solar that had somehow bypassed Bastion Omega entirely to wreak havoc on the worlds within. Guided by the will of Nurgle, Eidolon's fleet had emerged from the reality-scar known as the Catullus Warp Rift. Located far away from the Imperial frontlines, it should have had few defenders, yet as the Children of Blight emerged, they were immediately fired upon. A long crystalline station, whose flanks were covered in heavy black iron plates, spat molten death at the mutated semi-living starships, which reacted sluggishly now that they were no longer nourished by the energies of the Immaterium. Scanning the station for the optimal place to strike, Eidolon's sensors reached out through the void, discerning the structure of the orbital platform amidst the blackness of deep space. Nine hangar doors quickly revealed themselves, once hidden on the opposite side of the station, and thus the Children of Blight went to war.

An entire swarm of spiked drop pods hurled themselves into the void, crashing into the heart of the station hangar bays to unleash their boarders. Data terminals revealed the name of the station, Dark Glass, as well as its purpose as a research facility. What its scientists had sought to discover died with them as the Children of Blight slaughtered them by the dozens, but their advance was soon halted by the arrival of Astartes in unmarked grey power armor. These strange warriors, who wore no legion symbols, proved a mighty adversary, unyielding in the face of the foe as they defended Dark Glass against all the Warp-spawned horrors that the Children of Blight threw at them. However, in the end, they perished to the last man, unable to stop Eidolon's forces from seizing control of the station.

Now in control of Dark Glass, Eidolon's forces quickly turned it to their advantage. Obeying the whispered commands of daemonic patrons, the Fangshi Yesugei and his familiars descended into the depths of the station. There they seated themselves upon the vast throne that formed the heart of Dark Glass, powering the Warp batteries with sacrificial offerings. The station began to shudder, emitting a psychic wave that transformed the Catullus Warp Rift into a portal for Eidolon's fleet to enter. Such an effort killed Yesugei, and as his soul was taken into the putrid embrace of the Grandfather, the Children of Blight were hurled deep into the heart of Segmentum Solar to wreak havoc. There they unleashed slaughter on unprepared worlds, roaming the heart of the Imperium and pursued all the while by forces of the Salamanders who sought to eliminate the threat they posed.

As the loyalists were pushed ever further back, their defenses had become more and more resilient, bastion worlds fortified over the course of years. These fortresses would require great effort to overcome, for they were the linchpins of Bastion Omega, the last lines of defense before the Solar System itself. However, by this time, the Children of Blight were no longer alone, for they had been joined by other Traitor forces as the noose around Segmentum Solar gradually tightened. With no shortage of potential allies, Eidolon's host decided to join forces with the armies of First Captain Sigismund, who had been tasked by the Archtraitor himself to deal with the Trisolian System. The Black Knight and the Soul-Severed became close allies during this campaign, tying up the Sixteenth Legion while other forces pressed in on other fronts.

However, Lupercal's sons refused to retreat, for they were led by their primarch, the Warmaster himself. They fought for every square meter in a hopeless struggle that evoked admiration in what little remained of Eidolon's heart. As always, Eidolon led from the front, his very presence poison to those he faced as his men filled the skies with ash and soot, leeching life from the ground with every step they took. Thus when he was challenged by one of their commanders, the legendary Torgaddon, the Soul-Severed humored him, for they had once been companions on the Mournival together. Eidolon smiled a death's-head grin as he fought, his eyes as ever filled with tears at such pointless defiance while his body absorbed all of Torgaddon's blows without complaint.

In the end, Torgaddon fell, his ruined form wracked with fast-acting plagues and riddled with wounds and parasites. Yet even the death of their leader did not stop the Sons of Horus, for every loyalist slain was replaced by two more stepping into his place. Thus Eidolon found himself facing a new foe, a company captain by the name of Loken whom he had met once before during the Murder Campaign. However, there was little sentimentality in the tumor-ridden hearts of the Soul-Severed, and he slew him without remorse along with everyone else who crossed his path. In a way he almost admired these Sons of Horus for their dogged refusal to yield or betray their oaths, but Eidolon knew it was their deeds, not their words or beliefs, which determined their worth, for in the end, all were part of the Grandfather's cycle.

The Trisolian Campaign proved an overwhelming victory for the forces of Sigismund and Eidolon. While they had not been able to break Lupercal, for they had been unwilling to commit the forces required to kill a primarch, such had never been their main goal. By pinning down the Sixteenth Legion at Trisolian, they had been prevented from reinforcing the other loyalist strongholds at Beta-Garmon or Verzagen, which were now both in traitor hands. Trisolian had become a salient, surrounded on nearly all sides by the Lion's forces, and thus rather than be cut off, the Sons of Horus chose to retreat, falling back to Terra. Their objective complete, Eidolon's forces departed, returning back to Chogoris to reunite with the rest of the legion and their primarch, for all could sense the call of their primarch.

Necrosis: The Death of Hope

Since the Dark Triumph of Davin, Fulgrim and his chosen forces had been engaged against Bastion Omega. However, this was to change during the latter years of the Leonine Heresy. After several years spread out across the stars prosecuting such engagements, the Phoenician had received new orders, for the Lion now desired them to continue the war out in the Ghoul Stars. Fulgrim hastened to obey, gathering half of his sons to take with him while leaving the rest under the three Lord-Commanders.

Such a campaign was certain to be difficult if it required the attention of a legion, for many horrors lurked in the outer darkness of this realm on the galaxy's edge where the Astronomican was faint at the best of times. During the Great Crusade, the Ghoul Stars had quickly become the source of many rumors regarding the abominable creatures that lurked there. It had once been the domain of the Rangda, but even after their destruction at the hands of the Dark Angels, it was still home to many monstrous races that did not hesitate to assault the legion fleet of the Third as it sailed through their domains. It was a realm of the macabre and aberrant, such as the bizarre ossuary that was the world of Drazak, home to macabre automatons draped in grotesque costumes fashioned from the flesh of the slain.

However, these abominations were nothing more than a sideshow, for the true foe in the shadowy abyss of the Ghoul Stars was far more familiar: the Eighth Legion. While the Emperor's Children had been fighting against the loyalist forces making up Bastion Omega, the Dark Angels had been occupied battling the sons of Konrad Curze in what had come to be called the Thramas Crusade. What had provoked the Lion to turn over this theater of war to his brother Fulgrim was uncertain, but whatever the case, any hope the Eighth had for victory was now gone. Where the Dark Angels had only tepidly and partially embraced the Ruinous Powers, the Emperor's Children positively reveled in it. Fulgrim's men were among the most corrupt of their kind, for the Grandfather had bestowed many favors upon them, and the Night Lords struggled to match their unholy resilience in battle.

Little by little, the Third boxed the Eighth into a corner, gradually pushing toward their homeworld of Nostramo. Each defense was overcome in a steady, unrelenting wave of decomposition, leaving behind nothing but putrid rot and corpses to be raised up. Both sides knew it was only a matter of time before the Eighth could withstand it no longer, slowly strangled out on the edge of civilization in a shadowy realm lit by the fires of a dying empire. The sons of Curze had put up a valiant defense, drawing out the conflict for several years, but even they knew time was not on their side. Where once they had hoped to make their way to Terra, now they found themselves trapped on the northeastern fringes, as far from Terra as could be. As Astartes, the Night Lords would never surrender, but their despair was plain to see, an aura of hopelessness that the warriors of Nurgle feasted on as they kept up the pressure.

However, even as his sons marched ever closer to victory. Fulgrim himself did not partake in their sadistic joy. His mind remained occupied with the prophecies of Ulkair, whose promise of his suffering coming to an end upon Nostramo continued to weigh upon him. More and more blessings of Nurgle had been bestowed upon Fulgrim after every victory he obtained, a series of newly-acquired lingering pains that seemed to show up just as the old ones went away. Thus as the fleet of the Emperor's Children engaged the Night Lords above their homeworld of Nostramo, the primarch's attention was upon himself and his own misery rather than the battle outside. The outcome was never in doubt, for the Third Legion greatly outnumbered their loyalist counterparts, and any hope of success vanished along with the Nightfall, the Eighth Legion flagship that was driven off after a brief but fierce battle with the Pride of the Emperor, Fulgrim's personal flagship.

As the Emperor's Children took to their drop pods and began to rain down upon Nostramo, Fulgrim remained secluded, allowing his warriors to break the defenses while he prepared for the final push. He was confident in his skill with the blade, for only the Lion had ever been reported to be a finer duellist than the Phoenician, but the Lord of the Night was sure to have tricks and stratagems to use. Throughout the Thramas Crusade, Fulgrim had yet to see his brother, but he was certain he was simply directing it from the shadows like he usually did. As befit the Lord of the Midnight-Clad, Nostramo was a world in perpetual gloom, all life concentrated into five hive cities. While this meant there were certain to be many ambushes in the hives themselves, the barren wastelands beyond the city walls were completely undefended, and thus the Third had been able to land all but unopposed.

Meter by meter, the shambling hordes of the Third Legion began to surround the five hives. The Emperor's Children had emptied the holds of their ship, filling the tundra with millions of walking corpses gathered over the course of the Heresy. These served as the perfect cannon fodder, covering the advance of not only the Bubonic Astartes themselves, but the engines of war they had brought with them. Clouds of noxious smog added to the perpetual twilight of Nostramo as daemonic siege-towers rumbled across the plains, hungry for prey as they smashed through the outer defenses of the hives one by one. Surrounded on all sides, the desperation of the civilians trapped within grew to a fever pitch, an aura of despair that empowered the sons of Fulgrim as it joined with the potent cloud of hopelessness that had bathed Nostramo for thousands of years. Disease and pestilence swept through the beleaguered defenders, forcing them ever-backwards as hopeless misery filled the Hive from top to bottom.

One by one the hives fell, their spires tumbling down as fresh hordes of Poxwalkers shambled out from their ruins. Home of the Eighth Legion, Hive Quintus was left untouched until the other four hives had fallen, its people forced to listen helplessly as their doom marched ever-closer. Its defenders were few and isolated, barely enough to hold the inner hab-blocks as they fought a losing battle amidst the gutted ruins of their city. Now in this, the final hour of the Eighth Legion, did Fulgrim finally deign to join the battle. Like the swift, inexorable fall of a guillotine's blade, Fulgrim descended from the skies, accompanied by his elite bodyguard, the Phoenix Wardens. Where his sons were slow, the Golden Emperor moved with the speed of a viral infection, Fireblade an incandescent streak of death swung faster than the eye could see. Curze's men tried to ambush him dozens of times, inflicting wound after wound at great cost to their own lives, but the Phoenix King could not be stopped. All the while, the Emperor's Children spread throughout Hive Quintus, foreign pathogens that corrupted and killed all in their path as they brought down critical infrastructure.

Before long, Fulgrim and his retinue forced their way into the innermost sanctums of Hive Quintus, lightless warrens where his brother, the creature known as Night Haunter, had once held sway. Even Curze's own sons rarely entered these abattoirs, still festooned as they were with the cadavers of criminals from nearly a century before. However, the Night Lords were not about to let him enter unopposed, and as the Phoenician walked through past gruesome trophies, they launched their ambushes. Erupting from beneath piles of flayed corpses and from doors hidden cleverly within walls, the Eighth Legion hurled themselves at those who would defile their city. Attuned to the Warp as he was, Fulgrim quickly picked out their leader, his eidetic primarch memory instantly recalling and identifying him as Zso Sahaal. Lightning claws met power sword as the First Captain hurled himself at a primarch, fully cognizant he stood little chance but defiant nonetheless.

As the two dueled, the terminator elite of both legions clashed around them. The narrow corridors echoed with the crackle of power weapons and the sonorous booms of crumpling power armor as the Atramentar battled the Phoenix Wardens in a crowded melee. The Night Lords had chosen their ambush well, for Fulgrim's men were armed with cumbersome power spears, whereas Curze's sons were armed with a variety of flensing daggers and instruments of torture. As Fulgrim lazily dueled Sahaal, confident in his ultimate victory, his sharp eyes picked out small details about those around him. From what little he knew of the Eighth, it seemed these were the condemned, their gauntlets already red before even entering battle, and they all fought without regard to the foe they were facing. It quickly became evident that the Night Lords had conserved their strength for this moment, and despite their supernatural resilience, the Phoenix Wardens were all slain, leaving half a dozen Atramentar to turn their fury upon the Phoenician himself.

However, Fulgrim would not fall so easily as his men. Even the genewrought might of Astartes could not stand up to the speed of Fireblade, nor the virulent plagues which were part of the Emperor's Children now, the caustic stench filling the air burning and choking at the Night Lords even through their sealed helmet. One by one, the Atramentar were slain, each death accompanied by a fresh chorus of daemonic voices, all promising him power beyond imagining once he killed his brother. Sahaal was the last to fall, his archaic lightning claws chipped and shattered by the time the First Captain choked out his last breath from his broken body. Stepping over the corpses of those foolish enough to get in his way, Fulgrim gently opened the door.

How had it come to this, he wondered. All his achievements, all the time he had spent studying the blade, all for nought. Here was the end he had so craved, and while his face remained impassive, on the inside Fulgrim found himself caring for the first time that he could remember. Curze stood above him, his heavy boots pinning each of the Phoenician's arms to the ground, utterly unscathed. As he stared up at his brother's blindfolded, snarling face, suddenly oblivion seemed a lot less appealing than before. Time slowed down, and Fulgrim found himself before Ulkair once more, the daemon's putrid bulk wobbling obscenely as the creature heaved with laughter.

"What's wrong, oh Blessed Phoenix King of Longing? Death is a natural part of life, and you've lived longer than most!" Ulkair chortled, rancid bile leaking from the gaping wound where his intestines threatened to spill out.

"You promised an end to my suffering, creature!" Fulgrim yelled inside his head, his saturnine composure now completely vanished. "I did what you asked. I embraced your Grandfather, my sons and I spread his word and received his plagues."

"I said your torment would come to an end, and it will. Chin up, old sport, surely you knew I was referring to your mortal life when I mentioned your affliction? Don't worry, it will all be over soon. You won't even feel the final blow, and then Immortality will be yours. You can't have life after death if you don't die after all." Ulkair's smile grew ever-larger, the doomsday bell in his hand clanging sonorously as the buzzing of flies intensified. "Rejoice! Nurgle loves you!" Fulgrim could not so much as scream as his brother's lightning claws descended.

Nostramo shuddered with barely-contained energies as the Primarch of the Emperor's Children Ascended to daemonhood. His soul was plucked from his mortal shell, snatched away to be molded anew in the rotting Manse at the heart of Nurgle's Garden. Termite-infested floorboards creaked as the ponderous bulk of the Plaguefather hurled new ingredients into his Cauldron, focusing all his foul attention on transforming the unfortunate soul trapped within into something more pleasing to him. A Daemon Primarch was created that day, the third of the Emperor's sons to merit that blessing, though damnation or curse might be a more fitting term.

In contrast to the obese mass of tumorous flesh that Ulkair was, Fulgrim's new form was that of a famine victim, skeleton-thin and constantly flaking off dead bits like ashes. All hope, all enjoyment, and any positive emotions were taken away, replaced with infections such as Nurgle's Rot, binding his soul with metaphorical chains which ensnared him like a puppet on a string. Even the perception of feeling was taken away from him: the daemon's words had proven true, but as is so often the case with daemons, it was only a half-truth. The pain was gone, along with all sensation itself, his new limbs as numb as a leper's. His will was hollowed out from the inside only to be filled once again with Nurgle's own, whose influence stretched out to blight those of his sons as well.

Thus even as they retreated from the rapidly-crumbling Nostramo, the Emperor's Children remained calm, or rather apathetic, resigned to what fate had in store for them. All could sense the Blight reawaken in them once more, a latent force waiting to transform them in accordance with the designs of Na Gou, eldest of the Hundun Sishen. Eager to protect his new toys, the hosts of the Plaguefather began to spill out through the rents in the tortured fabric of reality around Nostramo, further sundering it in the process by their unnatural presence. Thus the fleet of the Third fell back from Nostramo without incident, for the Night Lords had taken such great casualties as to be unable to properly pursue them, returning to Chogoris to regroup.

Led by the Pride of the Emperor, the Third Legion returned to their homeworld, and were soon joined by the rest of their brothers. The petty infighting which had plagued them over the last few years was now gone, for all were curious what had become of their father, whose presence had vanished from the material universe. As might be expected of a planet hosting tens of thousands of Bubonic Astartes, plagues began to sweep the plains and valleys of densely-populated Chogoris. This torture of reality was furthered by the foul rituals of the Fangshi, increasing the rate of decay until everything was covered in putrid filth like the Plaguefather's Garden in miniature. Once-clean waterways were choked with effluents, transforming into channels of pus and bile. Swarms of insects filled the air, feasting on the unburied corpses of those who had succumbed to illness. Where other legions would have spent this time healing from wounds, the Emperor's Children encouraged the spread of infections upon themselves, allowing rust and gangrene to creep over them and their wargear.

However, their voluntary quarantine soon came to an end with the arrival of the Lion's agents, who called the Third to join the rest of the legions at Verzagen. When they arrived, the Emperor's Children remained aboard their ships, for they knew full well that the contagions which empowered them were as deadly to their allies as they were to their foes. Now able to take advantage of the thin barriers present on Verzagen due to the great slaughter which had taken place there mere months before, the Fangshi were finally able to summon their Daemon Primarch once more back into realspace. However, even their plague-marked bodies proved unable to remain in the same room as their genefather, whose aura of death and decay proved fatal to mortals and Astartes alike as he strode through the corridors of his flagship.

Seemingly only half-aware of the material realm around him, Fulgrim was now far more distant, his cataracted eyes now gazing into the past and the future more than the present, for he had learned many things in the Garden. Thus he knew where the Lion sought to meet with him even before the summons had even arrived. Their meeting did not last long, for the Lion seemed unwilling to risk his health by remaining in Fulgrim's presence for too long. The Archtraitor cut straight to the point, ordering the Phoenician to give him his pistol, Firebrand. Though his brother gave no explanation for this strange demand, Fulgrim duly obeyed, indifferently giving over one of the last remaining ties he had to his former mortal life.

After their meeting had concluded, Fulgrim called Eidolon to his side. The First Captain was not wholly unaffected by his primarch's corrosive aura, but after proving he was able to withstand it, Fulgrim ordered him to pilot a shuttle down to the surface of Verzagen, where the other primarchs were gathering to hear the Lion's commands. As the summit began, the Phoenician watched without any emotion or satisfaction as his brother spoke, idly twirling his pallid, lifeless hair as the Lion told each primarch the role they and their legions would play in the battle to come. As their meeting concluded, the Phoenican impassively watched as the Archtraitor sacrificed Corswain atop the sacrificial fane, silently observing before vanishing back into the Immaterium once more.

Apoptosis: The Solar War and the Hives of Xin

Gathered aboard their vessels, ships whose hides were as pockmarked and disfigured as the legionaries they carried, the Third Legion readied itself for battle. The insides of their ships now resembled that of some great beast, the men inside no more than parasites infesting the viscera of an apex predator. The mortal crews had long since died, but their suffering was far from over, for even as their decaying bodies succumbed to their myriad illnesses, their souls remained trapped inside, forced to eternally man the positions they had once held in life. So too had many of the Astartes undergone similar transformations, their half-dead bodies now covered in the gifts of the Grandfather that had finally erupted out from their festered souls after seven years of incubation. The genetic illness of the Blight, written in every strand of their gene-seed and DNA, now manifested like never before, coaxed into new and more debased forms by the Fangshi. Thus by the time the fleet arrived in the Solar System, they had sunk ever deeper into the Plaguefather's fetid embrace.

In recognition of their increased resilience, the Emperor's Children had been selected by the Lion to be part of the first wave under the direction of Perturabo. In place of Fulgrim, whose new daemonic form made him unable to remain in realspace for long, Lord-Commander Qin Xa led the fleet, and so watched from the heart of his rotting flagship as the first of his vessels entered battle. While the rest of the fleet had entered the Solar System through the Khthonic Gate located near Pluto, the Third Legion had been chosen to enter through the Elysian Gate, whose ingress was tied to the gas giant Uranus. Their arrival was preceded by three colossal space hulks, whose craterous hides absorbed catastrophic firepower before finally detonating silently in the vacuum, as well as hundreds of Imperial Army vessels, and even a few gunmetal-gray slabs belonging to the Iron Warriors.

Thus by the time the Third Legion joined the battle, the immune system of Imperial defenses had already been strained near to breaking point. Forcing their way into reality like pus from a lanced boil, the putrid fleet opened fire on the Imperial stations surrounding them on all sides. The beleaguered defenders attempted to counter this new threat, but their shots were absorbed without much effect. Even the machine-spirits of the Emperor's Children vessels were torpid and lukewarm, merely groaning in pain rather than show any defiance as they ought to. However, the automated defenses crewed by mortals were merely the first line of defense. Like lymphocytes responding to an invasive pathogen, Astartes came to counter Astartes as the unadorned ships of the Death Guard maneuvered into position to oppose the Emperor's Children.

Over the course of the following seven hours, the two fleets slugged away at each other, neither side willing to concede. In the lifeless vacuum of space, Nurgle's blessings were significantly weaker, for they had few vectors through which to transmit. Forbidden weapons from the Dark Age of Technology incinerated dozens of vessels along with the very moons of Uranus as the Fourteenth Legion hurled themselves into the heart of those who would attempt to gain entry into their domain. For this they paid a grievous price, thousands of legionaries perishing silently in the void as their ships were boarded, infected from the inside by breacher teams of heavily-armored traitors. It was not until Mortarion's own flagship, the Endurance, was destroyed that his sons finally conceded defeat.

While the hosts of the Emperor's Children had been busy seizing the Elysian Gate, the other traitors had made great progress as well. Perturabo and his forces had taken Pluto, while the sorcerers of the Thousand Sons had filled the gaseous skies of Neptune with the daemons of their patron. Where once the Third and Fifteenth Legions had been close allies and even friends, the two could now be nothing but sworn foes, the vendetta between their respective patrons more important than any kinship. Thus the two fleets kept far apart as they pushed deeper into the Solar System along with the rest of Perturabo's forces. With Uranus now in traitor hands, the Emperor's Children were free to move with the rest of the traitor armada toward Sol itself. At Jupiter they were joined by the rest of the traitor armada, tens of thousands of vessels led by the Lion himself. This unstoppable armada swiftly seized the Asteroid Belt and Mars before smashing what was left of the Imperial defenses above Luna.

The conquest of the Solar System had taken but three weeks, blitzing through Vulkan's defenses by means of overwhelming numbers, brute force, and the will of the Ruinous Powers. However, Terra itself remained unbowed, defiantly hurling shots up at the tens of thousands of vessels which blotted out the sun above her. Only the will of Lion El'Jonson, Everchosen of Chaos, held them in check, a Sword of Damocles dangling directly above the Imperial Palace. For the most part, their guns were silent, that is, save for the Emperor's Children, who had been specially chosen for this task. The plague-barges of the Third began to vomit down bile and effluents across the Throneworld, unleashing a putrid emesis of tiny cysts that slipped through the defensive batteries. As the pods entered the atmosphere, they burst with concussive force, venting their suspicious contents to disperse dozens of strains of plague across the jet stream.

This grisly work quickly began to take its toll, for while Astartes were untouched by plague or disease, the mortals they protected certainly were not. Anarchy began to fill the crowded hive-cities, billions succumbing to every disease imaginable as the desperate defenders struggled to maintain ordered quarantines. Weeks passed while the traitors waited for their plagues to do their work, and as their vigil entered its fourth week, a new bombardment began to fall upon the Throneworld. Countless regiments of the Lost and the Damned spilled down onto the surface of Terra, their ramshackle dropships now able to slip through the anti-air defenses whose crews had been decimated by illness. Though they had had no hope of breaching the Palace walls, they served as a useful distraction, for with the remaining Imperial defenders now occupied clearing the chaff, the heart of the traitors was free to descend.

On the Fifteenth of Tertius, the third wave began, tens of thousands of drop pods landing all across Terra like so many hailstones. The eastern flanks of the Imperial Palace, that sprawling mega-structure spanning hundreds of square kilometers atop the Himalazian Plateau, had been given over to the Emperor's Children, but as the smoke cleared, the defenders on that stretch of the wall found themselves without any targets. Rather than join their allies in an immediate assault on the Palace, the Third Legion had landed far to the east, in the heart of the crowded Xinic river valleys which stretched for thousands of kilometers east of the towering Himalazians. Long ago, in a time lost to the mists of history, Terran settlers from this region had left the cradle of Mankind on generational vessels, making the long journey to land on, among other places, the windswept plains of Chogoris. Their culture had formed the root of a new civilization there, and every millennia later, the legends of Chogoris still spoke of this stellar exodus.

However, the cruel universe had created a terrible irony, for the armies of Chogoris had returned, not as explorers like their ancestors, but as conquerors and ravagers who sought to wreak death and destruction like the nomads of old. More than any other region on Terra, the Xinic Hives were the most crowded and miserable region on Terra. A substantial percentage of the quadrillions who called Terra home occupied these hives, packed into wretched squalor as they eked out their brief existences far beneath the surface. The urban landscape of Xin was unimaginably dense, spanning from the foothills of the Himalazians all the way to the edge of the Asian continent where an ocean had once been. The plagues had hit this land like no other, and with the coming of the Third Legion, new waves of suffering began to wash over the hives as the traitors began their march toward the Palace.

As might be expected of a campaign pressing into the heart of Terra's populace, heavy defenses slowed the urban combat to a crawl, but the sons of Fulgrim did not mind. Vast haulers harvested the bodies of the slain, collecting them into vast alchemical cauldrons in which the Fangshi brewed inventive new toxins and potions which empowered their brothers as much as they hurt the Imperial defenders. Vast smokestacks were fashioned from corpses of hives, towering constructs known as miasmic malignifiers which belched thick polluting fumes into the atmosphere, killing still more as countless innocents choked out their last breaths of noxious air. As the Emperor's influence waned, slowly throttled by the weight of the Immaterium pressing down upon Terra, the Emperor's Children grew ever stronger as the blessings of Na Gou empowered them like never before.

Tens of billions, those who had lived their entire lives in squalid conditions with little to no hope of ever improving their lot in life, fell and rose again, reborn in the fetid embrace of the Plaguefather's minions who feasted on their despair. Entire hives came crashing down, burying their inhabitants alive as the numberless hordes of the unquiet dead sabotaged foundations and defenses alike. Against this vast array of horrors, the loyalist legions did their best to punish the trespassers, battling for each hab-block even as their mortal allies succumbed to illness. Thousands of Fulgrim's sons perished as the Alpha Legion and Salamanders ambushed the Third Legion from all sides of the urban hellscape at ruinous cost to themselves.

Perhaps the only thing enabling the loyalists to hold out was the forces the Third held in reserve. The elite of the legion, most notably the Children of Blight, had yet to commit themselves to the battle. Nor had Fulgrim joined in, unable to manifest on Terra while the Emperor's psychic wards still held. Thus he remained in the Garden of Nurgle, his attention elsewhere as he communed with his patron, unaware all the while that what he took to be his own will was in reality the desires of his master. The Phoenician's mind had been torn asunder by his rebirth, and while the majority of it had coalesced and been reborn in the Garden of Nurgle, other splinters existed elsewhere, such as his homeworld of Chogoris. The power of the Plaguefather had tied him to his sons as never before, and thus he was able to sense that several had rejected the gifts of Na Gou, though their identities remained hidden from him. The prognostication of the Fangshi, many of which had made the unholy pilgrimage to join their master, occupied what remained of his attention, watching them sacrifice and entreat the Warp for visions of the future, their rituals more potent than ever due to the added ingredient of Fulgrim's own poisonous vitae.

As his sons filled the Immaterium with the countless souls they slew down below, the astrological omens began to call the Phoenician to battle, and so with a groan, Fulgrim roused himself to prepare for battle. With reality now sufficiently thinned by the death of countless billions, the Daemon Primarch manifested on Terra for the first time. Now able to contact him, the Lord of Iron began to issue out a stream of commands, which Fulgrim dispassionately assented to. Though Perturabo did not know it, there was a reason Fulgrim had waited so long to manifest: during his time in the Garden, the Daemon Primarch had foreseen a chance to settle a score, a reunion between him and the brother who had once been closer than any other: Ferrus Manus.

Saturnine: The Phoenician and the Gorgon

Though they had taken heavy casualties during their mass slaughter of tens of billions, the Emperor's Children were still a force to be reckoned with. Hundreds of transport craft swiftly ferried the Third across the smog-choked skies, carrying them across lands which had once been thick jungles in millennia past. Up and up they flew, across the Gangetic Plains, rising through the towering mountain passes until they finally came to a halt on the southern flank of the Imperial Palace known as the Saturnine Wall. Once they had gathered, the Emperor's Children began to establish siege camps, seven in total, from which they prepared to launch their assaults. This section of the Outer Palace Walls had only seen sporadic fighting, its sheer immensity too daunting for the scattered hosts of the Lost and the Damned, whose ragtag assortment of firepower proved unable to harm the Aegis. Thus the rabble had turned to ravaging the slums that had sprung up like weeds on the Katabatic Plain before descending to assault the comparatively-undefended Indic Hives at the base of the mountains.

Far to the east and north, the Crimson Fists and Iron Warriors had established their own camps, whose encirclement of the Palace was now far more secure with the arrival of the Third Legion. Saturnine had been hand-picked for them by the Lord of Iron, as it was situated precisely opposite the Raven's Gate and Eternity Wall Spaceports. Both of those fronts had been invested far more heavily, pulling away defenders and resources from this quiet front as the other traitor forces intensified their assault. Thus just as Perturabo predicted, the Imperial response was muted, merely firing its guns while its defenders remained within their fortifications, unwilling or unable to commit a force large enough to sortie out and take the seven camps, now strongly defended by tens of thousands of Bubonic Astartes.

Soon the bones of towering siege engines began to take shape, fashioned from mutated flesh and corroded iron, rising up and up far in the sky until they rivaled the Outer Walls themselves in height. Their size made a mockery of gravity, for such colossal engines should never have been able to retain their cohesion. Yet they did not collapse, for the power of the Warp sustained them, the same power which seeped into reality as the barriers between the Materium and Immaterium thinned in direct proportion to the death toll. As the last of the seven towers had been completed, one in each camp, Fulgrim signaled to his brother their assault was about to begin. The Lord of Iron gave his acknowledgement, updating the Phoenician on the simultaneous assault of his other forces, which included the forces of his own men, as well as the White Scars and Blood Angels.

The Warp surged with the defenders' despair as they caught sight of the massive engines beginning to move, creaking and groaning as their towering wheels lurched into motion. The hosts of Nurgle began their assault as Daemonic behemoths pushed and heaved at colossal battering rams, over two hundred feet in length and fashioned into the shapes of monstrous boars and wolves whose mouths drooled with acid and glowed with infernal fire. Fleshy orifices yawned wide, belching forth thick black clouds made of flies and locusts that had been summoned into existence by sorcerers chanting Chogorian curses. These swarms bit and stung, overwhelming the hapless Imperial Army soldiers in the trenches at the base of the Saturnine Wall while at the same time interfering with the incoming fire sent toward the towers.

Atop the constructs, rusty catapults hurled canisters of gas as large as land raiders toward the Palace, which burst open to unleash billowing clouds of pestilent miasma and corrosive gas. In the shadow of these great constructs, the Emperor's Children and their cultist attendants marched to war, roaring in anticipatory fury as the engines lurched ever closer. Their advance was inexorable, shrugging off the shots hurled their way with desultory ease, feeling no pain even as their limbs were blown clean off. The favor of Nurgle protected them from all but the deadliest shots, keeping up a relentless pace as they trudged ever forward. Their return fire was equally fearsome, sending shudders through the flagging protection of the Aegis energy shield protecting the Palace, which flickered with every new pulse reverberating from the reality-warping sound of the Dirge Casters.

Dirge Casters

In the days of the Great Crusade, most Astartes legions had preferred to stick to conventional weaponry. However, the ideological motivations of the Heresy quickly led several traitor legions to embrace new methods of slaughter in order to gain an edge over their former brothers. Seeking to lessen their logistical constraints, many Emperor's Children had begun to utilize sonic weapons, forcing their New Mechanicum allies to modify the vox-casters of their tanks into devices capable of broadcasting nonstop walls of deafening sound.

Though the dirge casters are entirely useless in a vacuum, their utility elsewhere has seen their widespread adoption across the Third Legion. When faced with the endless and disturbing screeches of discordant noise produced by these daemonic casters, many opponents resort to clawing out their own eardrums just to gain a modicum of quiet. Commanders are driven to despair as their army's cohesion disintegrates around them, unable to issue or receive orders. Many end up taking their own lives rather than live with the constant despair induced by these devices, but death is not always an escape, for some warbands have cursed their dirge casters to infect the soundwaves with corruptive Warp diseases which condemn their victims' souls to an eternity in Nurgle's Garden.

Trundling unstoppably through the shattered slums, the siege engines began to roll over the outermost trenches surrounding the wall, their spiked wheels grinding everything beneath them into gore-choked sludge. However, it would be some time before they would reach the edges of the Wall, for they had been designed with resilience rather than speed in mind. The armies of decay slowly surged forward, all eyes facing forward toward their enemy as they passed through the earthworks protecting the base of the walls. They had no reason to look anywhere else, for their camps lay behind them, while thick clouds of smog choked the skies. Had they peered upward, had they known or cared about the battle in the void, perhaps the Emperor's Children would have been astonished to witness the spectacular explosions filling the skies, the colossal detonations signaling the death of entire fleets at once.

However, the Third Legion remained focused only on the task that lay before them, and thus they were caught in total surprise when they were assaulted from above. Thousands of drop pods and transports, a veritable fist of iron, struck the two outermost siege camps with the force of a meteor. Spilling out like shrapnel from as many frag grenades, thousands of Astartes marched in mechanical lockstep, bearing the unmistakable white hand upon their matte black power armor as they fired with cold, machine-like precision. The pollutant-choked air was filled with the crackle of power weapons and the boom of bolters as the Iron Hands hurled themselves at the Emperor's Children in the outermost siege camps, a colossal pincer move which cut deep into the traitor lines. Despite being outnumbered, Ferrus had attacked at such an angle for each half of his force to only deal with one camp at a time, thus achieving results far in excess of their actual strength.

Hundreds of traitors were cut down in the opening seconds, the Tenth Legion firing mercilessly into those who had once been as brothers to them. However, the Emperor's Children were Astartes, and thus they did not react with fear and panic as a mortal army would have. Where the Iron Hands fought with the white-hot rage of brothers betrayed, the Emperor's Children were motivated by festering resentment, stubbornly clinging to life in order to climb back to their feet and punish their would-be killers. Though they had once been as close as brothers, in truth the Third had always resented their cousins and their heroic primarch. Ferrus Manus had been found many years before Fulgrim, and as such had led his sons to countless victories, his legion festooned in glory and untainted by the genetic flaws which so plagued other bloodlines such as that of the Third.

In contrast, Fulgrim and his sons felt they had never been more than an afterthought for the Imperium. To them, it seemed abundantly clear the Master of Mankind did not favor them, for why else had the Blight been allowed to fester? Why hadn't the Emperor been the one to discover them like he had his other, more favored sons? Thus the relentless optimism of the Iron Hands had become nothing but an affront to the spiteful and sullen Emperor's Children, whose hatred only grew as the Tenth forced their way through the siege camps like twin sledgehammers crushing inward from both sides. Booming detonations accompanied by deafening crashes began to signal the destruction of the siege engines, which splintered and shattered as they crumbled to the unyielding ground below, victims of well-placed melta charges courtesy of the sons of Manus. The Immaterium surged to new heights of frenzy, the fury of the Iron Hands and the hope of the loyalists on the walls observing this primordial struggle crashing against the tides of despair and misery surrounding the Emperor's Children.

Sensing the ripples of this sudden Immaterial upsurge, more and more daemonic predators began to turn their attention to the Battle of the Saturnine Wall, eagerly waiting for the barriers of reality to thin enough for them to pass through and join in the slaughter. Meanwhile, in the centermost encampment, the will of Nurgle began to tug at his favored champion, the Daemon Primarch and his companions who had yet to enter the battle. Thus as Fulgrim roused himself to meet these interlopers, he was soon joined by his Phoenix Warden bodyguards. In truth, he had little confidence in their abilities, for they were but substitutes for the veterans who had been killed back on Nostramo, but he would need all the forces he could muster in order to halt the Tenth Legion's assault.

With the slow inevitability of death, Fulgrim left his tent and began to walk towards where he sensed Ferrus Manus. He had no doubt that his brother would be headed for the last remaining tower, which by now had reached the Saturnine Wall. Peering out with the Warp-enhanced sight granted by his daemonic eyes, Fulgrim observed dispassionately as hundreds of Emperor's Children, led by Lord-Commander Qin Xa, began to pour out onto the ramparts. Kilometers below, thousands more legionaries gathered to watch as the colossal battering rams smashed cavernous holes in the thick masonry at the base of the Saturnine Wall. However, Fulgrim did not feel any satisfaction at the sight of his forces entering the Palace; nor did he relish in the prospect of humbling Manus, for his positive emotions had vanished with his physical sensation. The Phoenician was confident in his victory over his brother, for the Fangshi had foretold this encounter long before. Their visions of the future foretold victory would come through fire, no doubt a reference to Fireblade, the sword he had long carried, which glowed with barely-contained heat.

With his victory assured, the Phoenician strode toward his brother, slow and purposeful as he idly cut down those foolish enough to stand in his way. Soon the Iron Hands began to fall back before him, preferring to concentrate their fury on those they actually had a hope of defeating, and soon enough, only Manus remained, a small hill of corpses at his feet. The Gorgon's expression was one of pure disgust as he caught sight of the Phoenician, a loathing expression Fulgrim returned fully as he beheld his self-righteous brother. Manus spoke briefly, as blunt as ever in his condemnation, but his words had no effect, for Fulgrim could no longer feel anything, and so battle was joined. The duel of the two primarchs was fought with an intensity that put to shame the colossal destruction occurring all around them. The titanic struggle of their bodyguards clashing around them, Morlock against Phoenix Warden, seemed pitiful and slow in comparison to the speed and ferocity of the demigods. Fireblade sang as it struck Forgebreaker, the massive warhammer which he had given Manus so long ago, a synecdoche of the entire Leonine Heresy as two brothers gave everything they had in an attempt to kill each other.

However, in the end, there could only be one winner. Even before his daemonic ascension, Fulgrim had always been the more skilled duelist, and now with his unmatched resilience, he could outlast his brother as well. Fulgrim had hoped to feel something, anything, the slightest bit of anticipation at this foretold moment, but it seemed his heart remained unmoved. Manus staggered, caught off balance by a sudden blade flurry, and the Phoenician seized the opportunity to end it. Fireblade sang as it swung in a decapitation strike aimed directly at Ferrus's neck, and a resounding clang filled the battlefield, audible even over the buzzing of the clouds of flies. To his surprise, Fulgrim learned at that moment that he could feel something: disappointment. Ferrus's helmet had stood true, keeping his head on his shoulders, but as the Astartes around them slowly comprehended what had occurred, Manus had already begun to move.

Pistoning his arms upward to shatter the sword he had given his brother long ago, Manus unleashed a flurry of blows into Fulgrim's body. His metallic arms hooked and jabbed, each punch leaving deep dents and cracks in the Gilded Panoply, Fulgrim's once-beautiful armor. However, this was but the beginning of his onslaught. Fulgrim screamed in fury as his brother's servo-harness vented white-hot plasma directly into his face, melting through his helmet and setting his long white hair on fire. However, he did not attempt to swing back, for the Phoenician's attention was elsewhere, his mind occupied with plotting the terrible retribution he would inflict on his Fangshi advisors for failing to foresee this outcome.

Now tired of this charade, Fulgrim revealed his true daemonic form, hurling his brother backward as vast leathery wings sloughing ash and soot unfurled from his back. The Ashen Phoenix in all his terrible glory was revealed, towering over the battlefield and inspiring his sons to renew their efforts. The morale of the Tenth seemed to finally break as the Iron Hands began to flee, leaving their dead to molder and rot as they ran back through the hole in the Saturnine Wall. Soon only Ferrus Manus remained, who stomped his boot into the shattered remnants of Fireblade as he hefted his mighty hammer, Forgebreaker . Fulgrim raised his gauntlets, which simmered with molten heat as he prepared to strangle his brother, to rip his ugly head clean off with his bare hands, and the ground trembled as the Phoenician took a step towards him.

However, that was as far as he got, for before Fulgrim's unbelieving eyes, Ferrus grinned, before turning to run headlong after his sons. The Emperor's Children roared in anticipatory triumph, armor groaning and clanking as they began to give chase. It was then, in their moment of victory, when suddenly everything began to go terribly wrong. Vast explosions engulfed the battlefield as hundreds of shells rained down, a mirror of the Iron Hands drop pod assault which had occurred barely an hour before. The majority of these struck Fulgrim himself whose daemonic form struggled to remain coherent in the face of such firepower. Forced flat on his face by the concussive force, the Phoenician rose to one knee, only to collapse once more as his body was engulfed by living green flames, his own fires impotent in the face of ever-burning phosphex.

Raising his head, Fulgrim was smashed down yet again, this time by Forgebreaker. Ferrus had emerged from the Palace once more in the wake of the bombardment, unleashing his full might into banishing his brother. The Phoenician struggled to rise several more times, but in the end, he simply gave in, deeming the struggle not worth care or effort. His animating energies yielded to the fury which battered him again and again, dissolving to leave behind only soot. The pestilence which had filled the air since his arrival began to dissipate, burned away by the unnatural green flames. When the Emperor's Children beheld Manus standing proud, wounded but triumphant atop a pile of ash, when they felt their father's absence once more, they too yielded to the reality of defeat.

With their father's soul now gone to join the Grandfather in his Garden once more, the Third Legion recognized their chance for victory had vanished with it. The legionaries on the ramparts began to fall back, leaping back onto their siege tower, which had already begun to crumble without the energies of the Warp to sustain it. As the last of the Third fell back into total retreat, it came tumbling down, crushing thousands of plague zombies who had been left behind as chaff to slow the vengeful loyalists. As the dust cleared, silence reigned over the Saturnine Wall for the first time in weeks, for the last of the dirge casters had been crushed when the tower fell. Only rubble, corpses, and discolored patches of fast-drying rockcrete poured into the breaches marked the location of the Emperor's Children assault, who had fallen back to their camp in disgrace.

With the Primarch now gone, command now fell to Eidolon and Qin Xa as the sole remaining Lord-Commanders. Thus it fell to them to inform Perturabo of their failure, but to their surprise, the Lord of Iron did not react with the fury he was known for. After listening to their account, he dismissed them from his considerations, discarding them like a broken tool that could no longer be of use as he turned his attention back to the wider battle. Their vox was soon routed to one of his adjutants, who revealed the Lord of Iron had viewed them as nothing more than a distraction. Had the assault on the Saturnine Wall succeeded, the traitors would have been able to push into the heart of the Inner Palace, bypassing the need for the other assaults entirely. While the Emperor's Children had not achieved their objective, the chaos it had caused and the resources it had used up enabled the traitor titans to create a breach in the Mercury Wall, through which the traitor armies now entered the Inner Palace.

Weighing their options, Eidolon and Qin Xa ordered the legion to fall back for now, and as the last transports took off, artillery shells flattened the last siege camp. The Emperor's Children took advantage of the transport time to ready themselves for battle once more as their dropships carried them across vast distances, navigating solely by instruments in the smoke-filled skies. Now on the opposite side of the Palace, the Third returned to what they did best: unleashing despair and slaughter, set loose to wreak havoc in the heart of Imperial defenses in the crowded districts between the Outer and Inner Walls, where their unnatural resilience made them perfect for the grueling task of clearing the dense streets. As the days passed, the hosts of the Third drew ever-closer to the Tower of the Hegemon, an infection inching its way into the metaphorical heart of the Imperium. They had suffered grievously, as had all the legions, but they were finally on the cusp of victory.

Post-Heresy: A Temporary Convalescence

However, just as before, it was in their moment of triumph that hope was taken away. Their slow and steady advance had not been quick enough, and now Imperial reinforcements had arrived. Already the ships of the Night Lords and Word Bearers had begun to clash with their traitor counterparts, including those of the Emperor's Children. Eidolon and Qin Xa both attempted to contact Perturabo, but no response was coming, and they quickly realized they were on their own. Despite their untenable position, the Emperor's Children remained calm, for the blessings of Nurgle meant none of them feared death. Rather, of all the Traitor Legions, they alone saw the setback at Terra as the chance for a new beginning. The twisted ideology of the Plaguefather filled their hearts with perverse joy at the knowledge this was but the beginning of a new campaign, the Long War.

Thus in good order they retreated to their transports, rapidly shuttling back up to their ships in orbit. The void above Terra had become a confused melee as thousands of ships fired blindly into each other, traitors scrambling to flee while loyalists attempted to break through to relieve the Palace. Already the colossal fleets of the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors had broken away, leaving the Emperor's Children and the other traitors to fend for themselves. The Third had never had a particularly large fleet, but the ships they did have were durable like no other due to the blessings of the Grandfather. Nor did they particularly fear death, and so they remained undaunted despite the chaotic mess the void had become.

Fighting their way through the tumultuous scrum, the Emperor's Children escaped back to Uranus, departing the Solar System the same way they had come in, taking but a few casualties before passing through the Elysian Gate on their way back to Chogoris. Upon arriving at their homeworld, the Third Legion fell back into the same pursuits which had occupied their time prior to the muster at Verzagen. Thus they began to concentrate on remaking their homeworld in their own image as never before. The seeds of ruin which had been planted years before sprouted and spread as the Fangshi resumed their rituals, once more rending the already-abused fabric of reality. Chogoris began to tumble down the path into becoming a Daemon World as the Immaterial barriers thinned, a process aided by the reappearance of Fulgrim. Though his mortal avatar had been destroyed by Ferrus Manus upon Terra, a shard of him had remained, trapped upon their homeworld as some lingering aspect of his attachment to the planet he had grown up on borne from memories of the past.

The Emperor's Children were delighted to have their father join them once more. The Fulgrim-shard served as a conduit for their patron, bathing the world in the energies of rot and decay as the Neverborn clawed their way into reality from the depths of the Garden. The Forbidden Court became a den of nightmares, an abattoir filled with the undead and dying and mutants of every sort. Sickness radiated outward, contaminating the other worlds of the Yasan Sector as new strains and contagions began to appear, empowering the tens of thousands of Bubonic Astartes with such might that even the most desperate dared not intrude into their realm.

Thus when the forces of the Imperium finally appeared, the Emperor's Children were ready for them. Seven whole sectors comprising dozens of different systems were now inundated with plague, unholy beacons radiating sickness and despair for many light years which corrupted the many unfortunate populations which had previously been unaffected by the Heresy. Scouts and raiding parties were easily dealt with, while the initial Imperial assaults quickly stalled, for their usual methods of Exterminatus proved not only ineffective, but actually counterproductive. Rather than scour their planets as intended, the warheads containing the Life Eater Virus empowered worlds which had bathed in the power of the Plaguefather. Thus the Imperium was forced to utilize slower alternative methods, pyrrhic victories bought at high cost as they scoured each world one by one.

However, the Emperor's Children were not about to give up so quickly, and soon the loyalists were forced back, their grand campaign stalling in the face of concerted resistance from the Bubonic Astartes. The presence of the Fulgrim-shard empowered his Children to new depths of resilience, a daemonic apparition appearing to his scattered hosts like an angel of death. The Shard carelessly waded into battle regardless of the odds, a fearsome sight which sent many mortal armies fleeing in terror. Thus stymied, the Imperium resorted to more drastic measures: the Corpse-Emperor had sent his Executioners. Once more Astartes clashed with Astartes as the Sixth Legion arrived to box the traitors in. Now spread out across dozens of systems, the Emperor's Children began to suffer losses as the Space Wolves isolated and destroyed their garrisons one by one.

Seeing the writing on the wall, Lord-Commander Eidolon abandoned Chogoris, leading a grand exodus into the dubious safety of the Eye of Terror, a colossal Warp-storm located far to the northwest. The remaining legionaries soon wished they had followed their kin, for accompanying the ferocious sons of Russ were forces which horrified even them: the Sisters of Silence. For the first time since their corruption, the sons of Fulgrim were confronted with their own mortality, apathy transforming into agony as they felt the true nature of the gifts bestowed upon them. The vermin and illnesses which suffused their bodies and lairs were revealed as the curses they truly were, and many begged for death rather than be forced to live as they had been, a boon swiftly granted them. Nor could their daemonic allies aid them, for they could not stand the presence of the psychic voids that were the Sisterhood any more than the Bubonic Astartes could.

Within a matter of weeks, Russ and his forces had pushed them back to the Yasan Sector itself, still clinging on to reality as its energies were periodically drained to maintain the presence of the Fulgrim-shard inside the Forbidden Court. With vengeance in their hearts, the Wolves of Fenris descended upon the disease-wracked plains to purge the world in righteous fire, howling in disgust at the sight of the abominations which called it home. The few thousand Emperor's Children remaining after Eidolon's departure mounted a desperate last stand, their putrid hearts gripped by the same fatalism that marked their gene-sire. Thus they fought and died in silence, as mute as the Sisterhood which accompanied the loyalist forces.

The forces of the Sixth Legion came in their tens of thousands, forcing their way into the Forbidden Court as they sought to disable the planetary shields which protected the fonts of corruption from orbital retribution. Russ himself led this army, the first enemy force to ever breach the hallowed recesses of the Forbidden Court. There he dueled the Fulgrim-shard, his elemental fury proving too much for the aspect of his brother which had remained behind. However, the Wolf King did not stay to savor his victory, for the daemonic creature had sent him fleeing with its final taunts regarding the fates of his loyalist brothers Horus Lupercal and Lorgar Aurelian. The vengeful Russ passed a sentence of execution before departing, shattering Chogoris into countless fragments, a fiery death which saw the end of the Emperor's Children in that region of space. Indeed, it may well have been the end of the Third Legion entirely had Eidolon's forces not enacted their premature exodus. The Imperial forces had no way of knowing what had happened to the rest of the Third Legion, and thus declared them extinct along with the rest of the traitors as they fled into the Eye of Terror..

However, they were later proven wrong, for but a millennia later, the putrid forces of the Emperor's Children emerged once more as part of Sigismund the Destroyer's First Black Crusade. The Soul-Severed and his putrid kin had managed to endure, blighting the galaxy with their continued existence for ten thousand years now. They cling to a substantial portion of territory within the Eye of Terror, fighting amongst themselves and the other Traitor Legions which call that Warp-storm home. At other times they slip from their immaterial prison to raid nearby worlds, kidnapping entire populations to utilize as test subjects in their foul experiments.

As the 41st Millennium draws to a close, rumors abound the legion gathers together in numbers unseen since the Scouring. Some say their raid is aimed at the homeworld of their ancient foes, the Iron Hands, while others claim Eidolon seeks to join his forces with those of the Destroyer, who even now prepares his hosts to launch the Thirteenth Black Crusade. Should the Destroyer manage to break free of the Cadian Gate, his forces, the Emperor's Children included, would be free to bring ruin and sow Chaos across the entire galaxy. Sigismund's victory would be a victory for the Third Legion as well, for it would unleash despair on a galactic scale, one which would crush the hearts of those who defend an Imperium rotting from the inside out. The fires of hope and courage grow ever dimmer as the Emperor's Children march to war, a cancer about to reach its terminal stage.

Homeworld, Recruitment, and Gene-seed

Of all the countless Daemon Worlds that exist within the Eye of Terror, perhaps the most lethal is the so-called Plague Planet, homeworld of Fulgrim. This is but a conjectural title, for so virulent is its disease-riddled atmosphere that only those invited by the chosen of Nurgle have any hope of survival. In contrast to the towering fortifications which ring the worlds dedicated to the other Ruinous Powers, the Plague Planet has no defenses, for none are necessary when it holds nothing of any value. The air itself is a toxic miasma, riddled with pollution and smog formed from the Immaterial echoes of the hopeless toil of those living on industrial worlds. Endless expanses of swamps and wetlands cover most of its surface, fetid bogs which conceal the ruins of ancient cities in which lurk daemons and other monstrosities in various stages of death and rebirth. Impossibly-deep sinkholes riddle the surface, the so-called Plague Pits that shift and move at random. In some areas, icy winds blow constantly, freezing the bubbling surface in tumoresque formations, while in others, boiling geysers of pus scald those who stray too close. Acid rain is a near-constant occurrence, save for the desert regions whose surface is a rotting epidermis covered by dunes composed of dead skin cells. Towering cypresses and bamboo forests provide rotting timber for the few structures which cling stubbornly to existence on this miserable world, housing the pitiful mortals which live without hope. Their lives are constant toil, dying in countless numbers to shore up their squalid insectoid hovels from sinking into the muck. Even amongst the maddened devotees of Chaos, the mutants which call the Plague Planet home are particularly insane, for worship of this world's master is the only source of distraction from the miseries of the Plague Planet.

As foul as the surface is, it is but the crust atop more layers, each more foul than the last. Descending into these sinkholes, one discovers entirely new ecosystems in which the air quality and light level decreases with each passing layer. Intercepted communications have overheard epithets spoken by the Emperor's Children which suggest this world has eighteen layers, all based on a corrupted version of Chogorian mythology. On various levels, warbands of the Third Legion have scraped out lairs, putrid sanctuaries from which they plot their schemes to corrupt and sicken the rest of the galaxy. The Plague Planet is a Hive World in more than one sense of the word, for on other layers, monstrous swarms of rot flies make their nests, migrating between the Plague Planet and the Garden of Nurgle. Their great speed given them by their leathery wings makes these monstrosities ideal mounts for Plaguebearers, the lesser daemons of Nurgle which can also be seen roaming through the various biomes of the Daemon World.

Rather than a molten core like a normal planet would have, the center of the Plague Planet is host to the lair of the Daemon Primarch Fulgrim. Not even the Emperor's Children know the layout of their father's dwelling, which has been fashioned from the colossal dying corpse of a celestial drake. The tortured flesh of this gangrenous godbeast is the perfect example of Nurgle's vision of the universe should he ever overcome his equally-foul siblings in their Great Game, for it is nothing less than pure bitterness made manifest. Nothing ever changes in the Court of the Ashen Phoenix, a stagnant society locked in perpetual decay and hopelessness. Just like the Phoenician, it is constantly looking inward, focused on its own misery as its people stew in their own filth and hate. As their leader, Fulgrim is no different, and he spends most of his time offering alkahestry and sacrifices to a god which he despises in exchange for visions of the future.

Accompanying him in this fruitless endeavor are not his sons, who as mentioned before are barred from entering, but rather mutants, the so-called kingdom of the Rotfray. These beastmen are riddled with parasites and decay, their twisted bodies sporting self-inflicted wounds which never heal. These wretched creatures subsist on a diet of worms and fungus which feed on them in turn, though there is never enough food for them to be truly content in the decaying hellhole they call home. It is said Fulgrim fashioned these creatures from the muck and slime of the Plague Planet, for they have never been seen to leave his Ashen Court, which he himself rarely leaves. The only time the Phoenician has been seen is when he emerges from his lair to carry out some new atrocity in the name of Nurgle, and while his sons join him on these endeavors, it is of their own will, for he does not call them to his side.

Above the smog-filled skies of the Plague Planet exists the world's only defense, the rusting orbital docks which house the Plague Fleets of the Emperor's Children. These stations are biomechanical monstrosities, half-sentient abominations which pump effluents into the warships which cling to them like leeches. Vast chains connect it to the surface below, pockmarked with rust and caked in filth, and some say these are anchored to Fulgrim's lair itself, keeping his corpse-manse from sinking into the muck forever. It is on these prison-like stations that the only true humans can be found, kept within chambers whose air quality is only just survivable. These wretched slaves tend to the fleet, operating the forges which supply the Third with the wargear they need. All the material they use is scavenged and recycled, stolen from space hulks and other ships trapped in the Warp which periodically appear above the Planet Planet. It is from the ranks of these slaves that the Emperor's Children take their recruits, for the mutants on the planet's surface are unsuitable to join the ranks of Nurgle's blessed. While it is theoretically possible for those displaying minor mutations to become Astartes, the Third retains a deep-seated loathing for deviations from the human form. However, there is one warband who has put aside this ancient instinct, along with any loyalty to Nurgle, inducting new recruits from all walks of life: Fabius Bile.

Fabius Bile

Primogenitor. Manflayer. Clone Lord. These are but some of the titles worn by the oldest of the Emperor's Children, who has been a part of the Third longer than any other save perhaps Eidolon the Soul-Severed. Born in Ingolstadt in northern Europa during the Unification Wars, Fabius was selected to become an Astartes, quickly finding a niche for himself in the Apothecarium. It was he who devised the procedures for extracting progenoid glands from the Fallen, a practice still in use amongst even the loyalist legions, along with a variety of new surgical techniques. After becoming Chief Apothecary, Fabius interpreted the legion's credo of perfection in his own way, taking it upon himself to become the greatest surgeon in all the Legiones Astartes.

However, though his skills could not cure the Blight, he refused to give into despair as had all others before him. Casting aside any semblance of morality, Fabius began to experiment upon his own brothers, starting with the fallen and progressing to vivisection on those about to be implanted within dreadnoughts, such as the former Legion Master, Rylanor. Though he received the permission of Fulgrim to perform any action in the name of curing the Blight, in truth Fabius had begun to experiment regardless of anyone's approval. His endeavors were carried out in the pursuit of knowledge, a mad quest to surpass the Emperor himself in the field of gene-craft.

During the Leonine Heresy, Fabius captured Astartes from every legion, extracting and mastering their genetic templates and improving upon them in his own twisted way. Even the forbidden science of cloning became part of his repertoire, obtaining samples from the primarchs themselves which were used to create pale imitations of the Emperor's masterpieces. This act earned him the surname 'Bile', for all who beheld him are driven to revulsion. Since the Siege of Terra, Bile has focused only upon his own twisted ideals, claiming to uplift mankind into his own foul image. He has even rejected the Ruinous Powers, clinging to a perverse form of the old Imperial Truth that spurns the concept of gods and daemons, and even rejects Fulgrim as nothing more than a creature pretending to be the father he once admired.

Such defiance angers the powers of the Warp, but Bile has become very skilled at evading death, leveraging his priceless knowledge as a bargaining tool, though he has failsafes should things go south. Protected by legions of experiments known as the 'New Men', Bile has carved out his own realm in the Eye, a Crone World known as Urum the Dead-Alive, a sprawling marketplace frequented by fleshwrights and heretics and even xenos such as the Haemonculi Covens. From there he ventures out aboard the Sepulchritudinous, a floating laboratory of a vessel, along with dozens of others filled with his many Creations, for as his final line of defense, the Clone Lord has created countless copies of himself to carry on his work should he perish, each wearing the same cloak crafted from the flayed skin of Astartes he has experimented upon.

Aside from the putrid swamps of the Plague Planet, the Emperor's Children maintain multiple strongholds on worlds across the Eye of Terror. From there they project their influence, seeking to topple and decay the fortresses of their legion rivals. The most prominent of these is the world of Eidolon, a Daemon World that the Soul-Severed named after himself and claimed for his warband when they first entered the Eye of Terror thousands of years ago. Once a Maiden World ruled by the Aeldari Empire, Eidolon knows only war now, constantly in a state of flux as rival powers attempt to claim it from the putrid grip of the Soul-Severed. The Lord-Commander himself invited three rival daemon princes to establish their own empires upon the world, using their never-ending wars to train his forces which are overseen by his ally, Lord-Commander Archorian. Such stagnation pleases the Plaguefather, who bestows many blessings upon the Children of Blight, whose fortress blares out his praises from grandiose dirge casters.

Though often degraded by the plagues which mark them as Nurgle's chosen, the gene-seed of the Emperor's Children is more stable than it has any right to be. Before the Great Crusade, the gene-seed of the Third was perhaps the purest of them all, marked by elegance, a noble bearing, and an unearthly beauty which matched the perfection they demanded of themselves. They had no missing organs or mutated genes, a side-effect which meant the legion had almost no psykers. It was perhaps for that reason, or for the favor shown to them by the Emperor, that the Selenar introduced the Blight, an artificially-induced defect which ravaged their bodies and devastated their numbers. Even after the reunion with their Primarch, the Blight continued to plague them, a curse kept at bay but not destroyed, and their embrace of Nurgle meant they no longer wished to remove it. Even Bile has been unable to undo the dying curse of the Selenar, developing only stopgaps and workarounds to continue his work. Only the power of Nurgle can help legionaries who reach the terminal stage of the Blight, transforming it into more-beneficial mutations such as dulling the pain or surface-level changes.

Aside from the Blight, the Third bears remarkably few mutations, for the Plaguefather is loath to bestow such gifts, for that is the province of his eternal rival, the Changer of Ways. Recruitment waxes and wanes in accordance with Nurgle's influence in the Warp, but on the whole, the Emperor's Children have remained around the same size since the end of the Scouring, around seventy thousand Astartes in total. Their bodies reveal the corruption festering in their souls: bloated and infected, covered in sores and wounds and caked in unclean filth. Fulgrim himself is similarly corrupted: a towering giant whose form is wreathed by his bat-like wings, from which slough off soot and ash. Each time he is summoned in realspace, he bears a new weapon to replace the destroyed Fireblade, from twin bone sickles, to whips fashioned from bronze chains, to a trident whose tips had been dipped in the cauldron of Nurgle. His most common weapons are his gauntlets, which glow with a sullen red heat capable of dissolving adamantium in seconds.

Combat Doctrines and Organization

The Emperor's Children are an offense-oriented, elite legion. Their numbers have never been very large, but they more than make up for that in the quality of their troops. Before their corruption, the Third Legion focused on perfection, making each legionary as good as he could possibly be by mastering every facet of war. A trace of this ideology still shows in their combat doctrines, but only in a debased form, twisted by the ideology of Nurgle. Rather than inspire those around them, the Emperor's Children seek to provoke despair by any means necessary. The only hope mortal armies have against these disease-ridden monsters is a swift victory, but few forces can bring enough firepower to bear to halt the Emperor's Children before they can get a foothold. Whether by shrugging off mortal wounds, walking unscathed through hailstorms of fire, or simply existing in the most toxic environments imaginable, the scions of Fulgrim seek to show their foe that they are as close to unkillable as can be.

Many Imperial Guard regiments can attest to this resilience, recording Plague Marines tanking lascannon and other anti-tank rounds with little to no effect as they relentlessly advance. However, it is in close combat where they truly shine. Save for the creations of Bile, all sons of Fulgrim are infected by the countless contagions of Nurgle, foul gifts from their patron which weaken and sap the strength of those around them. Flesh withers, metal rusts, and plastics begin to dissolve as the Emperor's Children stride across the battlefield, increasing with potency the longer the war continues to the point where even the gene-wrought might of Astartes immune systems struggle against such virulent poison.

These daemonic contagions are effective even in the void, not needing atmosphere to travel unlike their sonic weaponry, and thus few forces are brave enough to continue an assault after their initial barrage has failed to uproot a force of the Third Legion. One such example of this occurred during the Third War for Armageddon, where alongside other traitor forces, an entire Sepsis Cohort descended upon the industrial world in the midst of an orkish invasion. As the battered Imperial defenders struggled to hold onto the hive cities against the greenskin hordes, the Emperor's Children, led by Captain Lucius, ravaged the water supplies and spread virulent plagues across dozens of minor settlements.

The Emperor's Children are highly fond of using terminator armor, favoring it for the faceless aura of invincibility such armor bestows. Such armor is also proof against flame weaponry, a common recourse of foes who seek to burn out corruption wherever it takes root. Many terminators utilize baroque weapons which have either fallen out of use, such as flails and scourges, or have twisted existing designs to a more foul purpose, such as the plague spewers, which launch acidic slime which dissolve the flesh of those unfortunate enough to be caught by it. So too do their tanks and daemon engines erupt into fountains of mucus and pus when struck, rapidly stripping all life from the spots it lands. Their armored vehicles are slow but deadly, blessed with supernatural toughness, and the infamous Plague Fleets are perhaps the most resilient starships to ever ply the void.

During the Great Crusade, in the days before the legion was reunited with their primarch, the Emperor's Children were renowned for their orderly formations. The initial favor shown them by the Emperor enforced a rigid devotion to his precepts as laid down in the Principia Belicosa, the tome which laid out the Master of Mankind's vision for his legions. However, the ravages of the Blight whittled their numbers down to less than a single company, barely two hundred marines in total by the time of Fulgrim's discovery. Thus the Phoenician had free rein to reorganize his sons in the manner of Chogorian armies, introducing a number of formations whose names derive from Qo culture, many of which have been translated for the sake of outsiders. The influx of new recruits brought with it for the first time the opportunity to utilize massed assault techniques, though the legion's emphasis on perfection meant their lives were valued far more than in other legions such as the Iron Warriors who favored brute attrition warfare. Each squad was to be entirely self-sufficient, able to fight on extended operations without resupply or support, and so large formations of armor never gained much traction. However, each of these squads was also expected to play a precise role in the intricate battle-plans devised by their officers, and on multiple occasions, an unexpected setback or delay proved to be enough to offset the entire plan.

However, after the Leonine Heresy, the combat doctrines of the Emperor's Children were almost completely overhauled. Where they once fought as a unified whole, now the Third Legion is a legion only in name. The absence of their primarch has led them, as it has all the other traitor legions, to fragment into seven Plague Companies, each composed of dozens of warbands who are aligned into one of three factions. In place of captains at the head of companies, now Lords of Contagion now lead Sepsis Cohorts, accompanied by hordes of the undead known as poxwalkers. Other warbands serve foul sorcerers known as Malignant Plaguecasters, who channel the gift of plagues into packs of Pestigor beastmen, empowering them with putrescent vitality as they rampage through the streets seeking to bring ruin and decay to every vestige of civilization. Each company, and the legion as a whole, is structured around the numbers seven and three, both sacred to Nurgle. This can be seen by the fact most squads have seven members, as well as the existence of seven Lord-Commanders.

The Children of Blight, led by Legion Master Eidolon, are perhaps the most powerful warband. The Soul-Severed has many forces at his disposal, and possesses the greatest number of daemons and daemon engines at his beck and call. The Soul-Severed has died countless times in service to Nurgle, but is reborn anew from the muck of his titular daemon world, more powerful and less human with each rebirth which sees different and varied plagues bestowed on him depending on the whims of the Plaguefather. His power is further augmented by the tenuous alliance he maintains with his fellow Terran Lord-Commanders Lucius the Eternal and Archorian the Cacophonous, whose warbands the Neverdead and Putrid Choir have brought ruin to many Imperial worlds. This alliance is known as the Mantle of Poxes for their emphasis on plagues, and sonic weaponry is a common tool in their arsenal.

It is all but certain that Eidolon's forces have killed more people than any other: Ahriman's sorceries are limited to the times he strays from his master's side, while Aeonid Thiel's worship of himself keeps his attention turned inward. Even Nassir Amit, long renowned as one of the greatest military minds to ever exist, cannot hope to match his butcher's tally against the sheer virulence unleashed by the Children of Blight, whose poxes ravage entire sectors in the time it takes other warbands to slaughter a single world. Eidolon has become a walking experiment, killing countless trillions as he carries out his own plots in the name of Nurgle, and the galaxy shudders when he turns his attention away from his own empire toward the realms of Man.

However, this does not mean Eidolon's forces are the only threat to derive from the Third Legion. Another power bloc, made up of the Chogorian Lord-Commanders, seeks to oppose him, creating a stagnant balance of power which greatly pleases Nurgle. Known as the Mantle of Contagion, this alliance, led by Qin Xa the Poxmonger, Kyublai the Pallid Hand, and Shiban the Corroded, seek to seize total control of the Eye of Terror, including their own legion brothers. Rather than relying on cultists or daemons to do their dirty work, the forces of Qin Xa emphasize infantry and tanks, their formations interspersed by officers on jetbikes. Alchemical weapons and destroyer squads are common sights, which are utilized to devastating effect against even the most hardened foes. Many times have these warbands ventured out from the Plague Planet, bringing ruin and despair to other worlds in the Eye of Terror, including those of other legions. They have clashed most often with the Thousand Sons, for the chosen of Tzeentch are their patron's greatest foes, and in this pursuit, they have managed to summon their daemon primarch to their side on multiple occasions. The sons of Chogoris still love their father even though he does not return their affection in kind, and enjoy crafting gory statues in his likeness from the mangled corpses of their victims.

Standing apart from both factions is the final Lord-Commander, Fabius Bile. The Mantle of Virulence is his to command, though he himself calls it his Consortium, a diverse group of apothecaries from various traitor legions dedicated to the pursuit of science and fleshcrafting. The Consortium is based out of the Crone World known as Urum the Dead-Alive, and serves as a neutral ground when the other two Mantles wish to speak. Those warbands sworn to the Manflayer, known as the Creations of Bile, are often accompanied by mobile meat-wagons and alchemy-stations on which they experiment on the hapless prisoners they take in battle. There are few fates worse than being taken alive by the sons of Fulgrim, who delight in crafting foul concoctions made from those they experiment on. Bile in particular has experimented on his own brothers, such as the twins Abranxe and Heliton, whom he fused with a Beast of Nurgle to create a hulking monstrosity, or Mordrac, Castellan of Castle Sublime, who has been given Perpetual life to the point of regenerating from ash.

Akali

After swearing their allegiance to the god of pestilence, the men of the Third Legion became known as Bubonic Astartes. Since then, their bodies have become riddled with diseases and illnesses of various strains. This is not a condition limited to the Emperor's Children, for Astartes from other legions who swear themselves to Nurgle also begin to show signs of his favor. However, there were those whose devotion to Nurgle outstripped that of their brethren, those whose suffering truly caught his rheumy eye. Such monsters are known by a different name: the Akali, or Plague Marines. Home to the most foul agues such as the Sanguous Flux or Nurgle's Rot, they are perhaps the ultimate warriors, for Nurgle's foul favor has endowed them with disgusting levels of resiliency. It takes an inordinate amount of firepower to lay low even a single one, for their rotting flesh is capable of simply reshaping itself back together after sustaining traumatic damage. Even death cannot hold back the Akali, for on multiple occasions, their patron has been known to raise them from the dead.

It is from the ranks of the Akali that the Noise Marines come from, the dreaded Kakophoni. Music has long been valued in the melancholy souls of the Third Legion, but only those Astartes who have lost all sensation and hearing can withstand the unholy noise which their dirge casters can produce. A deal with the Iron Warriors resulted in the potent combination of small arms with the dirge casters once mounted only on tanks to create weapons known as doom sirens. Though only a few dozen of these devices exist, mostly within the warbands allied to the Soul-Severed, they make the Kakophoni incredibly deadly. A squad of Noise Marines is capable of creating deafening walls of sound, leading many of their victims to claw out their own eardrums rather than listen any longer. The tolling of bells and the buzzing of flies follows them everywhere they go, even when the dirge casters aren't playing, but amidst the screams and cries for help, all the Kakophoni hear is the sweet laughter of their patron, who is well-pleased with the chaos they wreak.

In a similar manner to the slow, methodical nature of the Daemons of Nurgle, the Emperor's Children often move with the unstoppable force of a tsunami. Rather than rush headlong into battle, the sons of Fulgrim slowly march into battle, reveling in how little pain they feel and offering up praises to the Plaguefather. Then without warning, they will retreat, only to strike once more before their enemy can recover. Just like the plague knives they wield, the forces of the Emperor's Children prefer to plunge into the body of their foe dozens of times, weakening their resolve until they become too weak to defend themselves. Oftentimes these attacks will be accompanied by a variety of support weapons such as choking clouds of poisonous gas, swarms of infected flies, or deafening walls of sound.

Death Korps of Krieg

In the early centuries of M40, the world of Krieg was a prosperous Hive World, no more remarkable than any other. As is so often the case, hidden heresies festered like a canker sore, tumors of rebellion which eventually saw its ruling Autocrats declare independence over the issue of tithes. However, there were still loyal sons of the Throne upon Krieg, and soon the planet fell into a civil war. Led by the now-infamous Colonel Jurten, the city of Ferrograd launched a preemptive atomic strike upon the rest of the planet, killing billions in one fell swoop. Now the master of nothing more than endless radioactive chem-wastes haunted by ghouls, Jurten turned to the Adeptus Mechanicus for answers, but few were coming. However, a chance encounter with a derelict cruiser would change Krieg forever, for aboard the listing vessel was a withered old man with extensive knowledge of eugenics.

Though the mysterious stranger quickly perished from some unknown blight, over the next five centuries Jurten and his allies transformed Krieg into a realm of nightmares. The ruined cities became cloning factories equipped with 'Vitae-Wombs' which pumped out entire regiments of fanatic soldiers, their bodies protected from the radiation by gas masks and other such equipment. The despair radiating from Krieg soon attracted the attention of Nurgle, who dispatched one of his daemon princes to whisper new additions to the Vitae-Wombs to Colonel Jurten in his dreams. Soon enough they fell into the embrace of the Plaguefather, and have since been spotted fighting alongside warbands of the Emperor's Children, whose limited numbers are greatly aided by the endless ranks of the Death Korps, as they soon came to be known. The sons of Krieg represent the horrors of gas warfare, of the diseases which are endemic in the trenches and which so often accompany the endless conflicts which plague our galaxy.

Of all the traitor legions, the Emperor's Children are perhaps the most open toward working with their fellow traitors in pursuit of a goal. However, this does not mean their sentiments are returned, for their foul stench and corrosive aura is dangerous even to their allies. They are quite affable toward the other traitor legions which vie for dominance within the Eye of Terror, forming alliances and betraying them as the situation demands with the understanding that such treachery is just business. Thus the Emperor's Children have been observed fighting beside the Dark Angels, Black Templars, the Iron Warriors, the Blood Angels, and even the Ultramarines.

However, all three factions of Emperor's Children categorically refuse to ally with the Thousand Sons, whom they despise for being the puppets of Tzeentch the Deceiver. Like all Astartes, the Emperor's Children generally dislike xenos of any species, and as traitors they take great pleasure in destroying the worlds of the Imperium. As the minions of Nurgle, they seek to destroy all Eldar Wraith Constructs as a perversion of the cycle of life and death, and they also have philosophical disagreements with the Children of the Stars as unworthy inheritors of the Mandate. The Third see themselves as gardeners, only intervening when necessary to further the decay. Thus they prefer to leave the Imperium and such other galactic powers to rot on their own, slowly crushed under its own weight, and helped along the path to death by the envenomed cuts they deliver with surgical precision.

Attempts made to hasten the Imperium's demise have brought the Emperor's Children into many conflicts with the Imperium's defenders, especially the loyalist legions. The Grey Knights remain a persistent foe, for the sons of Titan are sworn to destroy all minions of Chaos. So too is there a deep hatred between the Emperor's Children and the Iron Hands, a rivalry which has persisted since the Leonine Heresy. The Third and the Tenth were once as close as brothers, but their fateful clash at the Saturnine Gate transformed any attachment into bitter resentment. The hope and devotion which the sons of Ferrus Manus inspire disgusts the envious sons of Fulgrim, who envy them more than anything, for they serve as living reminders of what they always wished to be. The Iron Hands' emphasis on resilience provokes the Emperor's Children, who pride themselves on being the toughest, and so too are the Death Guard hated for similar reasons. The Creations of Bile have their own set of rivals, generally those whom the Clone Lord has stolen from and experimented upon. Bile takes great pleasure in unleashing armies of twisted doppelgangers against those who would bring him to justice, savoring in the irony and confused expressions of those who are forced to fight what appear to be their brothers.

Beliefs and Warcry

"The most painful state of being is remembering the future." -Proverb of ancient Danemark

Though divided into various squabbling warbands, the Emperor's Children are united in the worship of the Plaguefather, especially in his aspect of despair. While disease and decay are still valued, it is in destroying the hopes and dreams of all they meet that truly drives the sons of Fulgrim. Once they believed in the beautiful lie of the Imperium, that all humanity would one day be united under a single, galaxy-spanning Imperium of Man ruled by a beneficent Emperor, but now they know better. Disillusioned by the cruel vagaries of fate, which saw their brotherhood nearly snuffed out through no fault of their own, the Third Legion was quick to take an easier route when one presented itself, to believe the promises of eternal life without suffering which had beguiled so many before them. The Third quickly learned to resent the Emperor, who hid the Warp from them and its promises of a cure.

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The Emperor's Children's desire to bring the ruin of all things can be traced not only to the Plaguefather, but to Chogoris itself. The ideology of the Qo Golden Empire can perhaps best be summarized in the concept of the Mandate of Heaven, the belief that fate ordains a nation and people to rule until such time as the divine retribution strikes them down for becoming unworthy of favor. This philosophy held sway throughout all the many dynasties that ruled over Chogoris, and helped its people make sense of the seeming randomness of the universe, which continues to hurl disasters at them such as barbarian invasions or natural disasters. As the adopted son of the Qo, Fulgrim was raised in this environment of ennui, where the constant weight of heaven's favor and the glories of past rulers weighed heavily upon the current generations. Thus the glory of conquering the planet under one empire was simply another step in the cycle of empires which had occurred before and would occur again, for Fulgrim was far from the first person to unite the realm. As the Golden Emperor, Fulgrim lived in constant dread, watching the signs and auspices to ensure he had not failed, for perfection was a requirement rather than something to be aspired to.

Even after rejoining the Imperium, this ennui followed the Phoenician, which is perhaps why he gave credence to the lies of Ulkair which spoke of a far older state of affairs than the evanescent Imperium of Man. Now the Emperor's Children, who have been indoctrinated into the same set of beliefs as their daemonic father, apply this concept of the Mandate to the galaxy as a whole. They view both the Aeldari Dominion and the Imperium of Man as having rejected the heavens themselves by refusing to embrace Chaos, and as such suffer the wrath of the gods. The Third Legion revels in their role as the instruments of Chaos in bringing about the transition of the cycle, to act as the decay and ruin which will sweep away the old order to bring about something new. Whether this new rule is a kingdom ruled by Nurgle, or Chaos Undivided, or even the end of reality is a matter of debate amongst the Emperor's Children, but they all joyfully seek to hasten the end of the cycle through the countless atrocities they commit on a daily basis.

The Emperor's Children believe they alone see the universe for what it truly is. They have embraced Nurgle's vision of a cyclical universe, that all living things must proceed down the road to death so as to continue the cycle. The sons of Fulgrim see life itself as simply a stage, and not necessarily one with a higher priority than any other. Thus they believe it perfectly acceptable, and even moral, to subject uncounted trillions to an agonizing death so as to enlighten them and spare them the malicious falsehood of hope. They see the trials they undergo as actually being occasions for joy, for they truly believe that the agonies they themselves feel are only temporary, necessary sacrifices to bring the word of Nurgle to unbelievers. This is why many legionaries laugh and relish in the pain and suffering they cause, a stark contrast to their morose father as they display the same twisted mirth which marks other daemons of Nurgle such as the Great Unclean Ones.

In contrast to this levity, their daemonic father Fulgrim displays the opposite demeanor. From the time even before he joined the Imperium, apathy weighed heavily upon the Phoenician, who was raised to believe the glories of the past had long since vanished, that all that was left was the decaying of the cycle. His rash promise upon Aurelia continues to haunt Fulgrim, who has long since realized that Ulkair's promises were true only from a certain point of view. While he cannot feel physical sensation, he most definitely can still feel the emotional weight of ten millennia of unbridled misery upon his empty soul which is clenched tightly in the Plaguefather's gangrenous grasp. The Grandfather's love for him can be best described as psychotic obsession, for Nurgle cannot comprehend why Fulgrim does not enjoy his attention and affection as the rest of the legion does. This misery is continually reinforced by the visions he receives as a reward for endless sacrifice, for with much wisdom comes much sorrow.

The reverence and envy his sons display toward the 'blessings' Nurgle has bestowed upon him disgusts Fulgrim, who desires nothing more than an end of his pain, a cessation of existence which will likely never come as he is now immortal. Perhaps this is the reason he refuses to fight by their side, gnawing on his own misery at the heart of his putrid domain where there are no mirrors to reflect the monster he knows himself to be. Fulgrim more than any other being understands that apathy is not a blissful absence of concerns and pain, and has come to learn it is nothing less than a vacuum of joy, an ever-empty existence devoid of satisfaction. Eidolon is perhaps the only legionary who feels the same as his Daemon Primarch. He is a lachrymose being, his eyes constantly weeping acid tears. Though he serves the Plaguefather willingly, he nurtures a deep resentment towards him, for he recognizes the changes made to his body for what they are. Where other traitors see the blessings of their patrons as gifts, Eidolon knows they are debts, for they come with a price that is always collected with interest. It is for this reason he has refused to become a Daemon Prince, recognizing it for the eternal slavery it is. Thus he has been permitted to venture further into Fulgrim's lair than any other legionary would dare, though even he has not entered its corrupted heart.

However, the rest of Fulgrim's enamored sons refuse to leave him alone, not only because of the twisted love they bear for him, but because of the unbridled power he represents. As a creature of the Warp, the Phoenician's might fluctuates along with that of his patron, and remains easier to summon within the Eye of Terror than without. Many times the Emperor's Children have summoned their father to destroy their enemies, an action enforced by the Plaguefather who finds himself pleased by their sacrifices enough to bestow his servants with powerful blessings and allies. The debilitating diseases suffusing the Phoenix King are enough to kill many foes outright, while his aura of despair is enough to cripple many more, and it is through summoning their father that the outnumbered Emperor's Children are able to maintain the boundaries of their realm more or less unchanged for ten thousand years.

Outside of the Eye of Terror, it requires far more effort to summon the Daemon Primarch, but Nurgle is generous enough that it has occurred more times for them than any other Traitor Legion. Though it is always unwilling on his part, Fulgrim the Ashen Phoenix can be summoned into realspace every 777 years, each occasion heralding a time of unprecedented catastrophe for those he faces. Most often his presence is enough to doom a world, but on other occasions, he and his sons have been repulsed, for Nurgle's power is subject to waxing and waning much more rapidly than the other Chaos powers, as evidenced by the case of the Battle of Kornovin.

Battle of Kornovin

In the early centuries of M41, the forces of Shiban the Corroded succeeded in summoning their father into realspace, an attempt made more for the purpose of winning renown rather than any real necessity. Without any true threats, the Phoenix King was thus left free to ravage multiple sectors rather than be banished back in the midst of battle as is often the case. When word of this rampage reached the hallowed halls of Titan, the legendary Grey Knights knew they had to act, for the suffering and death Fulgrim inflicted would only enable him to remain in realspace longer. Gathering the largest Grey Knight strike force in millennia, Supreme Grand Master Geronitan led an entire Brotherhood alongside thousands of their Exorcist auxiliaries into battle, coming face to face with the Daemon Primarch upon the world of Kornovin.

As the Grey Knights battled the daemons of Nurgle and the Emperor's Children, the Supreme Grand Master and his bodyguard confronted the Daemon Primarch. One by one the Ashen Phoenix struck them down, his molten hands dissolving the runic wards engraved on their Aegis armor while ignoring the feeble blows from their nemesis force weapons. Soon only Geronitan remained, his squire watching helplessly as his master's holy body withered to nothing in the putrid grasp of Fulgrim. As the Daemon Primarch tossed aside the lifeless corpse of the Supreme Grand Master, his squire prayed to the Emperor as never before, bravely picking up the fallen Titansword in order to attack his foe. It was in that moment that the Master of Mankind bestowed his favor upon the Astartes, thus beginning the legend of Kaldor Draigo.

Filled with holy purpose, Draigo leapt at the Daemon Primarch, plunging the full length of the Titansword into Fulgrim's back. In that moment, he spoke the daemon's True Name, which the Emperor had whispered to him in response to his prayer. Struck both physically and metaphorically, Fulgrim's hold on reality was severed, and though he struck Draigo a fearsome wound, in the end he was banished back to the Warp. For his heroism, Draigo was named the new Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, and has earned the eternal enmity of the Emperor's Children in the process.

The Emperor's Children bear a unique obsession with numerology and the power of language. Contrary to the phonograms of Gothic, the languages of Chogoris were uniformly logograms, their syllabaries consisting of thousands of symbols and characters which baffled Imperial scholars attempting to analyze them for the first time. Each word could be written in multiple ways, their component strokes each containing several meanings which could be combined in various ways. In addition, the spoken language of the Qo is tonal, meaning that the same word could change based on the way it was pronounced. As such, the battle-cant of the Emperor's Children was all but indecipherable even before codes and ciphers were added. The culture of Chogoris took on new significance after the planet's destruction, imperfectly passed down through various generations but mostly preserved due to the fact many legionaries still exist from the time of the Leonine Heresy.

The Emperor's Children give special attention to the numbers 3 and 7, both of which had significant connotations on their homeworld as well as being sacred to the Plaguefather. For example, the number 3 is not only connected to the concept of life, but in the very numbering of the Third Legion, which has been divided into three factions. The number 7 has even more significance, being the most sacred number of Nurgle, and appears everywhere from the number of Lord-Commanders to the Gothic spellings of 'Fulgrim' or 'Huangdi/Thearch/Emperor', all of which have seven letters. Even in ancient cultures, 7 symbolized perfection, which, as with all things touched by Chaos, has been corrupted and debased. What the children of rot see as perfection is in reality more akin to the concept of stagnancy is, for they believe things are perfect as they are and reject the prospect of hope and change as being diametrically opposed.

As an extension of this belief system, the Emperor's Children have tried their best to link their numerical obsession to the very warcries which they utilize. These are most often spoken in Ancient Chogorian, bearing multiple meanings and allusions beyond the literal meaning, and so comparatively few have been recorded compared to the more simple warcries used by the other traitor legions. One example of this is this phrase shouted by the members of the Children of Blight: 'Your souls shall rot in the Garden for all eternity!' The letters of this phrase add up to 42, a number valued for being divisible by both 3 and 7, and thus many chants are spoken in word-groups of three or seven. In their spare time, many legionaries enjoy writing poetry and composing twisted hymns, while others craft horrific sculptures made from gore. These practices and beliefs are not held by the atheistic Bile and his Creations, who prefer to focus on ending battles quickly and gathering samples rather than honoring what they regard as fictional deities with chants or prayers. Nor do they subscribe to the ideology of the Mandate, for Bile is a Terran, not a Chogorian, and thus cares little for his former brothers' beliefs in decay and the cycle of empires.

The armor of the Emperor's Children has changed dramatically in appearance, if not in color. From the time they received their name, the Third Legion wore purple, a color with ancient connotations of royalty. As corruption set in, this violet became more sickly, darkening to a livid hue reminiscent of a bruise, while soot and ash obscured its exterior. So too did their skin change, becoming riddled with pockmarks and various diseases which disfigured their once-perfect physiques. As the centuries pass, the bodies of the Emperor's Children continue to bear the marks of Nurgle's favor. New mutations occur, growing mouths and eyes upon their armor, while others sprout flaking horns and give off putrid odors. However, these are relatively few in number, for while it is an inescapable part of Chaos corruption, in general mutation goes against the Plaguefather's desire for stagnancy. Those fully corrupted by the Blight have shed their armor altogether, becoming nothing more than a unique variant of Chaos Spawn, while the Creations of Bile often wear armor scavenged from other legions and appear much more diverse than the relatively-uniform warbands of the true Emperor's Children, which usually only vary by symbols and shades of purple.

For the first time in many years, Fulgrim stood before his scrying pool, filled to the brim with the libations of his mortal devotees. What had brought him here was the same persistent tug on his will from the Grandfather, one that he had learned long ago not to ignore. Peering down into the iridescent cesspit, Fulgrim watched emotionlessly as the scum twisted to form images, eventually resolving themselves into the shapes of his sons. These were no tableaus of glory, but rather a series of violent deaths, at the hands of both the Corpse-Emperor's minions as well as nominal allies. Whether they were past or future mattered not, for time and causality was irrelevant here in the Sea of Souls.

First was Lucius, arrogant Lucius who had always believed himself to be eternal. It seemed his pride had gotten the best of him, for this vision was of Lucius screaming as he burned to death. Next came Kyublai, youngest of the Lord-Commanders, his head mounted on a pike in Sigismund the Destroyer's throne-room, no doubt for opposing him. Quickly following this vision were ones of Archorian and Qin Xa, slain not by outsiders but by their own kin seeking to consolidate power. The visions of death transitioned into ones of carnage and battle, and Fulgrim felt some confusion at this latest phantasm, one of Fabius, faithless Fabius, his staff interlocked with another wielded by some sort of metallic skeleton while his creations fought more of the same all around them. The Phoenician frowned, for he had never seen such a foe, even during the Great Crusade, but his attention soon shifted, for new images replaced the old in his scrying pool.

As expected, the last of the Lord-Commanders soon appeared: Eidolon the Soul-Severed and Shiban the Corroded, the Terran and the Chogorian, the two halves of the legion. However, they were not opposed, as they had been for millennia, but rather fought side by side against the forces of the Imperium. Accompanying them were Astartes clad in the steel-gray of Perturabo's get, along with offensively-bright colors of the Ultramarines, who were led by a mechanical monstrosity robed in the black of the New Mechanicum. The vision widened, revealing dead gray deserts overshadowed by a colossal iron ring in the sky. The Ashen Phoenix rose, scattering the cloudy mere and the images it contained.

Tears began to fall from Fulgrim's eyes, hidden both by his hood and the utter darkness in his realm. These were not tears of repentance, but rather hate, for already he could start to feel the tugging at his essence. No doubt his sons were attempting to summon him to aid in their war upon Medusa once more. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why must the Grandfather keep dragging him into battles that he no longer cared about? As more and more of his essence vanished from his lair, dragged unwillingly into the Materium, Fulgrim found his attention diverted. As the last of his poisonous tears hit the viscous endocardium that served as the ground, the entire lair began to heave. It seemed the celestial drake could still feel pain, the godbeast still clinging to life. What would happen if it finally died, Fulgrim found himself wondering as the last of his daemonic form vanished from the Plague Planet.

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A/N: I tried to warn you all before, there are no happy endings in the grimdarkness of the far future. Nor happy beginnings, at least in this story. However, that does not mean I did not enjoy writing it. On the contrary, between the Emperor's Children and White Scars, those legions who swapped planets and cultures, I think the Third were definitely more fun to write. Chemos really doesn't have anything interesting going on, whereas Chogoris has lots of background for me to choose from when deciding what to incorporate into the story.

As I mentioned in a comment quite some time ago, I don't think anyone foresaw the Qo, considering they're mentioned a basically single time in a single book (Qin Xa's helmet comes from them). Thus I had free rein to make them how I wanted, and I'm particularly proud of the pun Qogoris. I knew they would be the perfect thing to make this story unique: the Talskar/nomads have been done in canon, the Palatine (whose canon version, being European, doesn't much fit the setting) was done in the Roboutian Heresy. Ancient China just has so much history to fit in, and the release of Cathay for TW3 gave me not only lore ideas for how the Chaos Gods are seen in a pseudo-oriental culture, but actually gave me the accurate names for them as well.

I would just like to thank everyone who has stuck with the story, for all the comments and reviews. I never imagined it would reach this many people so quickly. Next month, we have the Dark Angels, the biggest and baddest legion themselves, who started all this. The return of the Lion in the Arks of Omen campaign has given me lots of material to work with, so I think you'll be pretty surprised when you learn his true motivations for starting the Leonine Heresy.

Thank you once again for sticking with me. As always, please leave reviews and comments.

Sharrowkyn, out.