Chapter 473: Kahn: Praise the Emperor

Airebas fell heavily to the ground, his skull mostly shattered, his chest pierced by two bowl-sized wounds, and in an instant the Thirsting Water drained him into a desiccated corpse.

His mangled remains lay broken on the ground, and the runes binding Calain and Titus vanished with them.

"Dead?" Calain gasped, staring at Airebas's corpse.

Logically, no Space Marine could survive an attack of this magnitude.

Airebas, the most grievously sinful being in the entire galaxy, the mastermind behind the Horus Heresy, the prime traitor—was dead.

Calain snatched his bolt pistol from his belt and fired.

Six bolts exploded across Airebas's body, sending a cloud of pale dust rising from his shriveled, desiccated remains.

No reaction. Airebas was truly dead.

"Kahn will be delighted—yes, the entire galaxy will be delighted," Calain said with a faint smile. "Celebration dinner tonight?"

Calain had always loved the duck blood vermicelli soup conjured by the Holy Doraemon food tablecloth.

He vaguely remembered Titus preferred sweets—chilled blueberries soaked in yogurt were his favorite.

Titus turned his head slightly toward Calain.

Calain's face twitched sharply.

He suddenly realized: if Airebas was truly dead, then the task of desecrating the corpse wasn't his to perform—Kahn wouldn't still be lurking in the shadows.

Feathers—blue feathers—suddenly seeped from Airebas's power armor.

"AIREBAS!!!!"

"You betrayed me!!!!"

A sharp, birdlike shriek erupted from within the armor.

A monstrous avian head, terrifying and grotesque, writhed free from Airebas's armor, spreading vast, muscular azure wings as if trying to flee.

This was a Chaos Daemon of Tzeentch—the Lord of Change!!

But before Calain and Titus could react, half the daemon's skull suddenly exploded.

For a moment, both thought the Raven Guard hidden in the shadows had fired his death-dealing sniper rifle again.

But they quickly realized something was wrong.

There was no gunshot. The daemon had been wounded as if by invisible force.

In a brief instant, the daemon's psychic energy first weakened, then violently surged, attacking its own physical form, then withering—his body rapidly dried out, becoming grotesquely desiccated.

This was identical to the injuries Airebas had just suffered—the effects of high-caliber steel needles, Unseen's Ash, the Lighthouse's Cinders, and the Thirsting Water all manifested simultaneously upon the Lord of Change—he could not resist, could not block, could not deny the fate that had come upon him.

Finally, two bloody gashes appeared on the daemon's chest, and searing golden psychic energy gushed forth.

Only then did Calain and Titus notice: the two steel needles the Raven Guard had last driven into Airebas's chest contained no Unseen's Ash, no Lighthouse's Cinders, no Thirsting Water—only two thin sheets of parchment.

But on the parchment, written in blood and ink, was a golden name, radiating searing, scorching psychic energy.

This was a twist of fate in the darkest, most treacherous corner—a sudden reversal of destiny, a clever alteration of what was ordained.

It was a complex ritual: a Lord of Change had been prematurely bound within his own flesh, used as a sacrifice, so that at the moment of death, the daemon would take his place and bear the fate of death.

It had been a perfect ritual—after all, death does not exist for demons; bearing the fate of death merely meant temporary loss of the physical form, a return to the Warp.

But who could have foreseen that Sharokin's bullet had been laced with the Emperor's own blood-written signature, inscribed with psychic power? The Emperor's psychic energy was the absolute antithesis of demons—capable of utterly annihilating them, bringing true death.

The Lord of Change shrieked in agony as the Emperor's psychic energy ignited his entire body; every muscle forged from Warp energy burned.

He hurled at Airebas the foulest, most vile curses imaginable, condemning his betrayal and deceit—but could not defy the fate of death.

This was destiny, unchangeable—merely shifted from Airebas to the Lord of Change.

Airebas had done nothing futile—he did not attempt to save the daemon; he could simply contract a new one from Tzeentch later.

The Warp had no shortage of demons; he was dead, but others would still work.

He swiftly tore himself from the daemon's body, using its massive form as cover, drew his ritual dagger, and slashed through the air, rending the veil of reality.

Airebas plunged into the rift without pause, fearing the death-dealing rifle might fire again.

As for corrupting Titus?

Airebas believed he had done enough—he could justify it to the Blood God. After all, had he not been cautious, and had his ten-thousand-year accumulation not been so vast, he would have died right there.

Thinking this, Airebas stepped into the rift. He was cautious—not teleporting directly to the bridge, lest Holy Doraemon had already located it and laid an ambush—but instead chose a dark, cold cargo hold.

After safely escaping, Airebas exhaled sharply—the rift behind him snapped shut. But Airebas did not notice: in the final instant of the rift's closure, in his blind spot, a shadow slipped inside.

Airebas picked up his ritual dagger, forged from obsidian, and reached to slide it into the sheath within his power armor—

His psychic foresight screamed a warning; instinctively, he swung his ritual dagger toward the direction his vision had shown.

Blood-screams roared, flesh was severed—the hand gripping the ritual dagger was cleanly sawn off by a chainsaw, landing in a far corner.

"Kahn!!!!" Airebas shrieked. He had sensed nothing of Kahn's presence until the final moment, when his foresight revealed Kahn's figure.

Kahn made no further concealment. He removed his Blindspot Star and revealed himself before Airebas.

He wore power armor fused entirely with his flesh, his bloodstained rabbit-eared helmet resembling demonic horns, his bare arms grotesquely distorted, crimson as a blood-mad demon.

"It's a pleasure to see you, Kahn."

Airebas's lips curled into a gentle smile:

"You should thank me—I cleared the obstacles for you, allowing you to walk so deeply along the Eightfold Blood Path—"

"Shut up and die, dog," came the voice—not Kahn's, but Lorm's, possessing him.

Kahn's only response was the roar of the Blood-Scourge at full throttle.

Ten thousand years—this chainsword, passed down from Angron's hand, once again felt its master's true fury.

Not the false rage fueled by the Butcher's Nail, but the rage born of hatred, accumulated over ten thousand years.

This rage nourished the Blood-Scourge, making it roar as it had when wielded by Angron.

"Do you think I'm the same as ten thousand years ago?" Airebas raised his staff in reply.

Ten thousand years ago, Kahn had nearly killed Airebas with three swings.

Airebas's staff shattered on impact; the mica dragon-teeth embedded in the Blood-Scourge revealed their power, shredding the weapon that had served Airebas for ten millennia.

"Same," Kahn said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Exactly the same."

Airebas spat a rapid stream of blasphemous incantations; instantly, the air between him and Kahn crackled, Warp winds poured into reality, swirling and swelling into three colossal forms—red, green, and purple.

The Keeper of Secrets, the Great Unclean One, and the Bloodthirster summoned by Airebas's pact burst into reality, their monstrous jaws gaping, their bestial eyes fixed on Kahn with hatred.

Then Airebas turned and fled—toward his own severed arm, reaching for the ritual dagger to slice open reality and escape.

Kahn was strong, yes—but Airebas was the Hand of Fate, the favorite of the gods, capable of enslaving four of the Four Great Daemons.

Even Kahn could not face three daemons at once.

Even if he could withstand them, wouldn't he need time?

Before Kahn could slay the three daemons, Airebas would have already drawn the ritual dagger, torn open the rift—Wait?

Airebas had taken only a few steps when a grotesque, crimson beast's head, dripping blood, whipped past him and slammed onto the ground.

It was the Bloodthirster's head.

Airebas froze, slowly turning his head.

The Great Unclean One's body had been torn into chunks, piled into a rotting mound of flesh, slowly dissolving into reality.

Kahn stood atop the mound, his body grotesquely swollen to three or four meters tall, bloodied flesh-wings unfurling from his forearms; their massive shadows fell across Airebas's face.

Kahn's bare arms, exposed beyond his power armor, were now indistinguishable from demons—chains fused with flesh, connected to the Blood-Scourge; his other hand had sprouted claws, gripping the Keeper of Secrets by the throat.

The Blood-Scourge swept through, effortlessly severing the Keeper's head.

The Chosen of Khorne turned his head slightly toward Airebas, his distorted arm pulling the trigger of the Blood-Scourge.

The chainsaw, its blade adorned with the thin parchment bearing the Emperor's blood-written signature, roared to life—the Emperor's name spilled searing psychic energy; as the blade spun, flames of the Emperor's wrath erupted along the Blood-Scourge, roaring like a blazing vortex.

Kahn's helmet cracked open, revealing a grotesque, bloody grin.

"Praise the Emperor," he said. "This time, sincerely."

"Holy shit." Airebas gasped.

(End of Chapter)