Chapter 672

The sonic wave roared like a midnight tide, crushing the air, shaking the ground, and making the gray-white sand grains on Murder Star pulse rhythmically as they slammed toward the Primus Castigatus, who advanced step by step.

But the sonic wave shattered the instant it touched the Primus Castigatus, like waves breaking into fragments against a reef.

The Primus Castigatus slowly lifted his head, his pupils contracting sharply beneath his helmet.

The five Rippers froze mid-motion, an inexplicable fear surging in their hearts, locking them in place; Murder Star fell utterly silent.

Then, the Rippers’ lead singer’s head exploded—the Primus Castigatus appeared before him in an instant, his power fist driving forward, crushing the singer’s skull with a single blow.

The remaining four Rippers shrieked in rage—the guitarist strummed his strings, the keyboardist hammered the keys, the drummer pounded the drums, the bassist emitted a sound no one cared about.

A lethal sonic wave stabbed toward the Primus Castigatus at point-blank range.

But the Primus Castigatus vanished from his spot, like a shadow dissolving into darkness.

The sound of a power blade severing a throat rang out—the Primus Castigatus’s weapon had somehow changed into a combat blade, slicing cleanly through the guitarist’s neck.

The guitarist collapsed; behind him, the keyboardist frantically struck the keys, and countless distinct sounds erupted into the air, like countless different weapons piercing toward the Primus Castigatus.

The Primus Castigatus let out a bestial roar, the scent of blood radiating from his body—he seemed to transform into an extreme bloodthirsty ghoul.

Yet his speed now surpassed sound itself, effortlessly dodging the keyboardist’s sonic assault, his hands gripping the man’s skull.

The Primus Castigatus exerted force in opposite directions.

Bone cracked—the keyboardist’s head was torn cleanly in half, brains and blood spraying everywhere.

Seeing this, the drummer frantically struck his drums—but before he could strike, the Primus Castigatus flicked a finger, launching a combat blade that pierced straight through the drummer’s brow.

In the blink of an eye, all the Rippers lay dead before the Primus Castigatus.

A wind-splitting sound came—the Rippers’ bassist swung his bass, one edge sharpened like an axe, slipping silently behind the Primus Castigatus and bringing it down upon his back.

The Primus Castigatus turned his head slightly—a bolt of psychic lightning erupted, tearing through the air and striking the bassist, reducing him to ash in an instant.

On the orbiting ships, Aedron stared at this scene.

“Which Legion does this Astartes belong to?” Aedron asked Fabius Bael.

Fabius smiled.

“All of them,” he replied. “Belisarius Cawl—you are a genius.”

“Is it time for me to strike?” Aedron opened his mouth slightly, a thick, foul odor and bloodlust clinging to his breath.

He had begun to resent Fabius—this petty apothecary had continually blocked him from seizing new glory.

That Primus Castigatus resembling Taviz, that inexplicably powerful unknown Astartes, that clone—all were prey that could enhance his glory.

A cold sneer crossed Fabius’s lips: “Then go hunt, Commander-in-Chief.”

On the sandy ground, brilliant light from the Warp suddenly erupted—so sudden the Sons of the Phoenix had no time to react.

And when they saw the figures within the radiant light, every Son of the Phoenix’s eyes filled with fury.

The Chaos Space Marines wore opulent armor of purple, pink, gold, and silver, their faces lewd, vacant, mad, and arrogant, their bodies embedded with grotesque ornamental additions, their forms wildly distorted—some clad in heavy armor wielding weapons shaped like instruments, others bare-skinned, gripping long, bizarre blades.

The Emperor’s Children—the former Third Legion—now twisted followers of Slaanesh, stood before the Sons of the Phoenix.

They were opposites: one perfect, one twisted; one pure, one fallen; one loyal, one traitorous; one devoted to the rebirth-bringing Phoenix, one enslaved to the profane, lewd serpent-god.

The Sons of the Phoenix raged at the Emperor’s Children’s fall—their fallen posture pierced their hearts, shaming them, staining their honor.

The Emperor’s Children raged in turn—at the Sons of the Phoenix for resembling their former selves; the Sons’ posture felt like mockery, triggering a fleeting shame that erupted into furious rage.

“For the Emperor!!!”

“For the Emperor~”

Both Sons of the Phoenix and Emperor’s Children roared simultaneously—and realized their battle cries were identical.

The Emperor’s Children had preserved the “For the Emperor” cry to mock it; ten thousand years had passed, and they had grown accustomed to it.

“For the Primarch!”

“For the Primarch!”

Both forces roared again—similar cries, another awkward silence in the air.

“Traitor!”

“Traitor!”

Both sides shouted at once.

Another silence filled the air—then both sides unleashed bestial roars and charged at each other.

Saur held his Phase Court Sword tightly, ready to join the fray—when a piercing scream reached his ears.

He saw a pale, bloated, grotesque Astartes—one hand gripping an ornate warhammer, the other lifting a Son of the Phoenix.

A slit opened along the grotesque Astartes’s neck, and a sharp sonic wave erupted from it, instantly shattering the Son of the Phoenix into pulp.

This was the Emperor’s Children’s commander—the figure echoed in Saur’s gene-memory; he remembered the Emperor’s Child’s name.

“Aedron!!!!” But someone shouted it before him.

Alcines, clad in old Mark IV power armor, stepped forward and lunged toward Aedron.

He had once been the Grand Marshal of the Phoenix Guard—the last surviving member of the Phoenix Guard; after Aedron destroyed the Guard, he chose to survive, joining Aedron’s Phoenix Conclave.

Yet Alcines still upheld the old Legion’s ways—he never mutilated himself, never altered his body, never suffered physical deformity, never indulged in excess.

Aedron despised him, and sent him to Fabius, hoping Fabius would kill him—or he would kill Fabius; in the end, Alcines met the Clone-Forgemaster and was both taken into Tarasyn’s collection.

“So it’s you, Alcines!”

“Cowardly Alcines, Hesitant Alcines, Blind Alcines, Drifting Alcines, Outcast Alcines.”

Facing Aedron’s mockery, Alcines laughed.

Aedron’s taunts were true—Alcines was indeed that man: hesitant, inept, indecisive, drifting, never finding his place in the galaxy.