Chapter 671: Can the Original Cast Be This Beautiful?!

In the instant the Lurkers appeared, all the Sons of the Phoenix were struck as by lightning, shaken to their cores.

These races, resembling the demon primogenitor Fulgrim in form, were the origin of the Sons of the Emperor’s fall.

The Sons of the Emperor destroyed this race in a month with thunderous force, adding a new gem, forged in honor, to Fulgrim’s crown—but they did not know that the Lurkers worshipped Slaanesh.

Fulgrim drew the Lurker Blade from the temple where the Lurkers worshipped Slaanesh, was possessed and corrupted by the Slaaneshi demon dwelling within it; Fabius Bile also drew inspiration from the Lurkers to begin modifying the Sons of the Emperor’s warriors—entirely, the Legion’s corruption can be said to have begun with the Lurkers’ destruction.

Or rather, the Lurker race itself was the trap set by the Hungering Lord for the Sons of the Emperor, for Fulgrim.

Now Fabius Bile had resurrected the Lurkers and released them before the Sons of the Phoenix—instantly, fury erupted from Sol’s heart, roaring into blazing fire, unbearable—he charged forward a single step and swung the Phase Court Sword toward the nearest Lurker.

The Lurker raised its lower pair of limbs, launching streams of blazing emerald plasma at Sol—suddenly, the dark battlefield was lit by electric light.

Sol flicked his wrist; the Phase Court Sword, gifted by the Necrolord Zandrik, carved a perfect arc before him, its blade meeting the Lurker’s plasma.

Plasma sprayed outward, emerald light enveloping Sol entirely—then in a blink, he leapt from the glow and swung his sword at the Lurker’s head.

But the Lurker’s reaction speed exceeded Sol’s genetic memory.

Its slender yet sturdy upper-right arm gripped a strange blade, writhing like a serpent, thrusting toward Sol’s face.

Sol swung his Phase Sword to block the strike.

The Lurker’s grotesque blade clashed with the Necro’s Phase weapon.

The Lurker fixed its compound eyes on Sol, its mouth opening wide to reveal Cengcengdiedie layers of twisted teeth, filled with corrosive fluid; at the cavernous depths of its mouth, Sol faintly glimpsed mechanical modifications.

Clearly, Fabius Bile had modified and reshaped the Lurkers.

The Lurker standing before Sol resembled its former self externally, but internally it had long surpassed the original Lurker race—in that fleeting instant, Sol even saw on the Lurker’s insect-like face a distinctly human expression.

Sol suddenly understood what this Lurker was, understood the profound malice within it.

This was one of the new humans Fabius Bile sought, as Fulgrim had spoken of—one of Fabius’s attempts to replace the old humanity.

The Lurker’s mouth began to writhe, its mechanical devices exposed before Sol’s eyes—a sonic generator—

Sol lightly triggered the Phase mechanism; his Phase Sword flickered once, Necro Phase technology warping space so that his blade passed directly through the Lurker’s twisted longsword and pierced the sonic generator before the Lurker could react.

The Phase Sword twisted slightly, instantly burning the sonic generator and the Lurker’s brain tissue to ash.

Necro tech is truly beautiful, Sol thought to himself, then immediately shook his head—no, not Necro anymore, but Iron Adept.

The Necrontyr have now been integrated into the Imperium; Lord Guilliman considers them an exceptionally advanced and superior race.

They require no food, no breath, no rest; their bodies are immensely strong, their numbers vast, and crucially, they never quit or drop dead—truly, they are innate Earth-Steel Holy Bodies!

Most planets within the Imperium remain inhospitable, with exorbitant development costs; to develop them, specialized servitors must be custom-built—but now that the Necrontyr have arrived, let those servitors and augurites rest.

Lower-tier Necrontyr have been dispatched to the dead, undeveloped worlds within the Imperium, building factories, mining minerals, producing weapons and supplies.

These lower-tier Necrontyr harbor no complaints; reportedly, during their time as the Undying, they lived even worse—there are even records of low-tier Necrontyr vacationing near hive worlds, mistaking lower hive worker dormitories for palaces.

Sol swung his blade, hurling the Lurker’s corpse aside to block another Lurker lunging at him.

The Lurker, struck by the corpse, slowed for an instant—Sol’s blade followed, severing its head.

“Kill for the Primarch!”

“Kill for the Emperor!”

Sol raised his blade, blazing emerald like a torch, roaring to all around him.

“For the Emperor!”

The Sons of the Phoenix warriors echoed his battle cry, surging forward in a charge, converging around Sol to form a battle formation.

Above, Fabius Bile gazed at the battlefield, his gaze fixed firmly on Sol.

Not only Fabius Bile, but Adron also stared unblinkingly at Sol.

“Taviz,” Adron hissed through gritted teeth, uttering the name.

On Sol, Adron saw the shadow of Taviz, the once-loyal Son of the Emperor.

Taviz was a blemish on Adron’s honor in his own eyes.

It was Taviz who discovered the Warmaster’s treachery, who escaped from Adron’s grasp to the surface of Istvaan III, warning the Loyalists in time to evade the first two waves of the viral bomb, forcing the Warmaster’s plan for a swift purge to fail and trapping him on Istvaan III.

It was Taviz who, during his flight, delivered news of the Warmaster’s betrayal to the Death Guard’s Captain Galra, who in turn passed it to Rogal Dorn and the Emperor.

Without Taviz, the Warmaster could have easily purged the Loyalists within the Legion, quietly diverted all loyal Legions except the Imperial Fists, and struck straight to the heart of the Sol System, above Terra.

Before other Legions could react, Horus could have seized Terra, slain the Emperor, and made all outcomes irreversible.

If traced to its origin, the collapse of Horus’s plan and the failure of the entire Great Betrayal can be blamed on one Son of the Emperor—Taviz—who held fast to his loyalty to the Emperor, and on Adron’s failure to destroy Taviz.

“Let me destroy this false Emperor’s whore,” Adron muttered, his voice thick and slimy.

“No,” said Fabius Bile, expression unchanged: “He has not moved yet.”

Fabius’s gaze rested upon the high edge of the Sons of the Phoenix line.

There stood a warrior clad in purple armor, tall and pale, his slightly violet-silver hair fluttering in the wind of Murder Star—he was calm, his hands resting on the Warhammer of the Broken Hearth, like an immovable mountain amid the storm of battle.

He had never truly entered the fray, as if no enemy on the battlefield merited his blade.

“He didn’t kill you,” Adron said, staring unblinkingly at the clone of Fulgrim, unable to help himself.