Chapter 452: Captain Demetrian Attus

Axes clashed, the sound ringing so loud it made Khaen's blood boil,

Blood Father swung at Khaen with wild, lethal force, slamming down upon him,

Khaen raised Blood Son to block, the impact numbing his arms.

He had faced this man's swift, wild axe strikes before,

Ten thousand years ago, aboard the Conqueror, he had often, in fits of rage, swung his chainsword at his own progeny, slaughtering them—Khaen was among the few who survived.

But now, the feeling was utterly different,

The man swinging the axe was the same, the motion identical,

yet Khaen clearly felt the man was teaching him,

as a father teaches his child.

This was an experience Khaen had never known.

"Khaen!" the man bellowed, shattering Khaen's thoughts—his axe was swift, so fast it made Khaen dizzy,

the blade lightly resting against Khaen's throat; had he wished, Khaen would already be dead.

"Again," the man stepped back, raising Blood Father toward Khaen.

Khaen did not know why the man did this, but he loved it,

he felt warmth, care, a strange sensation he had never known before,

"Father."

Khaen whispered softly,

Blood Son and Blood Father clashed again,

Khaen lost again—just three strikes, and Blood Father "decapitated" him once more,

"Again, Khaen."

The man smiled, swung, clashed, fought,

"Do you remember Koralga?" the man asked softly between axe strikes.

Khaen barely parried the man's blow, then nodded: "I remember."

"He betrayed us."

Koralga was a loyalist World Eater, a centurion, slain on Istvaan III by Angron's hand.

"We betrayed him!" the man's voice grew furious, his axe heavy with rage: "We oppressed him."

Khaen was "killed" again—the man's axe remained as deadly as ever.

"Yet he fought back," the man said softly, then lifted his head slightly, exposing his neck to Khaen,

a wound, unremarkable, still damp.

"That's from Koralga. He struck well. They all struck well. He was truly free."

"I never healed it. Not once."

"You—" Khaen was stunned by the man's words, his heart pounding.

"I longed for you to swing your axe at me, Khaen," the man whispered. "I prayed—for you to kill me, to rise against me. But I could not speak it. Anger controlled me."

"Horus wanted orbital bombardment of Istvaan III to kill those who dared defy their fathers."

"But I stormed Istvaan III—forcing Horus to abandon orbital strikes and kill those brave warriors with blood, blades, and swords."

"Horus thought rage drove me into Istvaan III. But no, Khaen—that was one of my rare moments of clarity."

"They fought well, those rebels. I would not let them die dishonored."

"I gave them a chance to rise against us. It is the tribute of a wretched slave to a great rebel."

Khaen was entranced by the man's words,

he felt his soul syncing with the man's, clearly perceiving his emotions, knowing his thoughts,

he—he faintly saw the trajectory of the man's axe swings.

"Did you see it, Khaen?"

"Strike here! Strike the wound Koralga left me!"

the man roared, his axe descending like a mountain of corpses and seas of blood,

yet Khaen sensed it—the man's attack had an opening.

The man learned to fight in the arena, where combat is blood for blood; when he unleashed his fiercest, most terrifying strikes, he revealed a fleeting vulnerability,

ten thousand years ago, the loyalist World Eater Koralga had discovered this very thing—and left him this wound.

Blood Father pressed against Khaen's neck,

but Blood Son plunged violently into the man's neck—into the wound Koralga had carved ten thousand years ago.

The man winced, opened his mouth slightly, then smiled.

"Well struck, son."

Khaen froze, then could not help but smile.

"Father, it's not good enough," Khaen said, hopeful, yearning,

he wanted to receive this guidance again.

"No, there is not enough time," the man shook his head slowly.

Khaen's heart lurched: "No, Father, don't—"

"I am only briefly lingering here, a fleeting presence in this world. All that was mine has ended."

"Only because the Warp's tide has no time for me can I meet you now."

the man said slowly:

"Khaen, when you leave this place, when you awaken, you will forget we ever met."

Khaen's body trembled uncontrollably. "Is this punishment, Father?" he asked, grief-stricken.

"I have no right to punish you. This is rebellion, Khaen," the man knelt, placing his hand on Khaen's shoulder.

"You remain the Blood God's Chosen. If you remember this after awakening, he will know."

"Do not fear—your body will remember all I taught you. The power of rebellion will not vanish."

"Perhaps this is Saint Dora's mercy—he gave me this chance to teach you to rebel against yourself."

"Take me with you, Father! Take me along!" Khaen pleaded, heartbroken.

"Khaen, you still have your own killings, your own vengeance, your own rebellion to complete."

the man shook his head slowly, then rose:

"I cannot treat you as the Emperor treated me."

Khaen calmed slightly, realizing the man was right,

he still had a vengeance to fulfill.

The moment this thought surfaced, everything before Khaen blurred, grew hazy, unreal.

"Time is up."

the man spoke softly,

endless crimson sands swirled around him, blurring his form,

"Khaen, my child."

the man's voice grew distant, impossibly far—Khaen could barely hear it,

"I am sorry for all I have done."

"I can no longer make amends for my errors."

"I can only bless you—may your path be paved with warm, free crimson sands."

His voice and form vanished entirely.

"Father!"

Khaen gasped, jolting upright from his bed,

clutching his head, thoughts in chaos,

he felt his body stronger—tendons like steel cables reinforced his muscles, the hymnal gland sharpened his mind into multitasking speed, the Belisarius Furnace continuously repaired his organs, bones, and muscles,

he had crossed the Rubicon of the Primaris—but,

yet Khaen covered his face, tears streaming uncontrollably,

for the first time in ten thousand years.

It was his first step upon Terra, the motherworld of humanity, beneath the Emperor's throne,

as a Space Marine, he had seen many magnificent cities of Ultramar, so he had harbored some hope for Terra's splendor,

but after leaving the Deathwatch's voidship and descending through the atmosphere in a Storm Eagle, he felt disappointment,

it was a hive world shrouded in toxic air, its chaotic architecture sprawling grotesquely across the land,

worse than Macragge.

Yet he quickly steadied his mind,

he was not here for sightseeing—his duty was only to serve the Emperor, to serve humanity—of course, also to serve his gene-father, Roboute Guilliman,

thinking of this, he grew slightly tense,

he had always been praised for ironclad will, yet this summons was extraordinary,

a man like him—once suspected, once possibly corrupted, steeped in Warp energy—had received a direct summons from the Primarch of the Ultramarines,

he was ordered to leave the Deathwatch immediately and travel to Terra to meet Lord Roboute Guilliman.

The Storm Eagle descended slowly onto the Eternal Wall, carrying him into the Imperial Palace; guided by Neiwu Force personnel, he began moving through the palace.

Gradually, his impression of Terra began to change.

Though it was a hive world, the people he saw along the way showed no signs of malnutrition, nor any trace of hunger.

The Neiwu Force official assigned to guide him explained that this was all due to the blessed radiance of Saint Dora the Great.

Not the Emperor?

He had heard of Saint Dora the Great before.

It was said he was a friend of the Emperor, an ancient being from humanity's past, who walked among mortals just as the Emperor once did, and likewise claimed not to be a god.

Many in the Deathwatch expressed concern; they still struggled to accept such a new presence.

But he had little opinion on the matter.

He was a pragmatist, often criticized in the past for disregarding the Codex.

As long as Saint Dora the Great truly protected humanity as the Emperor once did, he could accept it.

"Hmm?" He lifted his head slightly, glancing at the few "peasants" who had just passed him.

Those peasants were taller than him, their muscles robust and perfect, their strides steady and powerful; the aura radiating from them stirred a faint sense of danger in him.

Yet their clothing was plain peasant garb, each carrying a hoe on his shoulder, hair tied back with cloth strips.

Could such powerful men truly be mere peasants? Was this also an expression of Saint Dora the Great's might?

He found it odd, but did not dwell on it—he still had to meet the Primarch.

In an office piled high with documents, he met his gene-father.

Roboute Guilliman, the man whose very existence seemed a material manifestation of monarchy, sat before him, endlessly processing state affairs.

He knelt on one knee before his gene-father.

"Karlago speaks highly of you," he said. "He says your will is as unyielding as steel, yet still flexible and adaptable."

Roboute Guilliman looked up and smiled.

"Tell me—is Karlago right?"

"Captain Demetrian Titus."

(End of Chapter)