"Are all you Wolves always this barbaric?"
The voices of Cadia's Lord Castellan, Ursarkar E. Creed, and a Space Marine officer clad in deep green power armor and a winged helm overlapped almost perfectly.
The latter moved first.
A khaki robe nearly concealed the dark green power armor beneath. The Imperial Aquila upon his chestplate gleamed faintly through the fabric, while intricate runes and purity seals adorned the exposed plates of his armor.
At his side hung a massive, rune-sealed tome bound in metal clasps, its seals etched with countless scriptural inscriptions. As he moved, the weighty chains clattered softly. His right hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his power sword—not fully gripping it, but enough to convey restrained warning.
It was a gesture of protest—and of control.
He reached out and pressed down the arm of the Space Wolves Rune Priest whose hand still crackled with psychic lightning. The crimson lenses of his helm flickered. The deep-green-clad officer glanced briefly at Dubois before turning his head aside. Through the external vox of his helmet came a resonant, measured voice.
"If Lord Dubois truly hails from the age of the Great Crusade, granted Warrant of Trade by the Emperor… then your crude display of psychic recklessness is beyond foolish. Should your undisciplined methods damage or destroy the ancient knowledge carried from the Primarchs' era—can you bear that responsibility?"
"You—!"
The Rune Priest bristled, ready to retort—but the Dark Angels officer spoke over him calmly, almost to himself.
"No. You cannot. Not even if you offered your life, nor the blood of your entire Chapter upon a penitent crusade."
Dubois, who had been silently assessing this apparent imitation of an Astartes, suddenly froze. His expression shifted sharply as his gaze fixed upon the emblem on the green warrior's chest—the sword and wing motif.
"…The First Legion. Dark Angels."
Hmm. No connection to Honkai Energy at all. A degraded copy, then?
"The Dark Angels' cow—"
"Enough! Stand down!"
Before the Rune Priest could finish his insult, a voice like thunder silenced him. It came from a towering figure clad in grey power armor adorned with wolf pelts and beast bones. His power pack was draped in the hide of a great white wolf. He wore no helm, his brown-red hair wild like a storm, and his braided beard thick enough to weave chains through.
"You shameful whelp! If your tongue's sharper than your claws, you should admit defeat. The enemy is at our gates—save your strength for the traitors of Chaos!"
He growled, then turned sharply toward the Dark Angel officer. "We can't afford mistakes, aye—but don't think your kind are saints. You think the sons of Russ bear all the blame, while your precious Dark Angels walk free of sin?"
Though he had chastised his own young psyker, the old Wolf had not missed his chance to jab at the Dark Angels. His words carried both rebuke and challenge.
'If not for this invasion, I'd have tested your blade myself, little crow.'
"Humph."
The Dark Angels officer snorted coldly but said no more.
He understood as well as the old Wolf—now was not the time. Whatever rivalries burned between Chapters, the true enemy was not each other, but Abaddon and his accursed Black Legion.
"Ah…"
Creed exhaled wearily, rubbing his temple as he surveyed the scene. The tension between the Space Marine Chapters was a constant headache.
Two newly founded successor Chapters, each with the pride of their forebears—it was a miracle they hadn't come to blows outright.
Even among the Astra Militarum there was friction enough. Between the Astartes, whose cultures, traditions, and temperaments were as different as night and day? Such conflicts were inevitable.
Though all Space Marines professed unwavering faith in the Emperor and absolute loyalty to His Imperium, harmony was rare. Rivalries had festered for millennia, born from competition, from pride, and from wounds too deep to ever heal.
The Space Wolves and the Dark Angels—textbook examples of that ancient, bitter divide.
The rift between the two Chapters dated back to the ancient days of the Great Crusade. Though the exact origin of their animosity had long since faded into unprovable legend… it was said to have begun with a duel—between two demi-gods, two Primarchs.
Over the millennia, that rivalry had evolved into obsession. The mutual mockery, the jabs, the endless competition—all of it had become sacred tradition.
Whatever the truth of its beginning, neither Legion, nor their successor Chapters, ever forgot the feud between them.
From the parent Legions to the Chapters that descended from them, whenever the Space Wolves and the Dark Angels met, it was an unspoken rule: the challenge would be issued, the arena chosen, and a "friendly" bout would be fought.
Someone always left on a stretcher.
Though their Chapters often fought side by side across the stars, the oaths sworn by their forebears demanded that, whenever they met, each would send forth a champion to duel the other—a test of honor that, while rarely fatal, was never without blood.
A tradition of pride, duty… and stubbornness.
This time, however, the custom had been delayed. The Wolves and Angels had arrived at the Cadian Gate in haste, summoned under urgent circumstances. The Chaos assault was too fierce, and the summons from Lord Castellan Creed—bearing a secret that could not be ignored—had left them little time for ceremony.
"Gentlemen, this is the matter I summoned you to discuss," said Ursarkar E. Creed, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he tapped ash from his cigar. His fist struck the table lightly, his expression hardening. "It concerns something beyond my authority to decide."
In the command hall at the heart of Kasr Kraf Fortress, the air hung heavy with tension. Creed's gravelly voice filled the silence.
"Abaddon must have received direct counsel from the Dark Gods themselves. His assault is unlike anything we've seen before—no longer the cautious probing strikes of his previous crusades. This is a full, unrelenting offensive. The fortress worlds of the Cadian system have nearly all fallen."
"The Cadian fleet has been crippled. Admiral reports confirm the worst—they can no longer maintain orbital dominance or secure the surrounding warp lanes. When the orbital bombardment ceases, the Black Legion's assault barges will descend into planetary orbit. Ground invasion is imminent."
"According to the astropathic choirs, the Corona Fleet and Gothic Fleet encountered the Chaos vanguard head-on. Heavy losses. Their advance has been stalled—they cannot reach us in time."
"The supporting forces from the Nakarus, Agripinaa, and Solar sectors, as well as the Paratus and Bakka subsectors, have all suffered severe warp storm interference. Their movements are delayed."
"And now… we have confirmed reports from voidsmen who claim to have sighted the Vengeful Spirit entering the Cadian system."
"So urgent… so reckless…"
The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the servo-skulls drifting overhead and the metallic thud of armored boots against the deck.
Creed approached the central command platform. With a soft hiss, the servomechanisms of the cogitator arrays came online. A low whirr filled the chamber as the hololithic projector activated, casting a dim red light.
Before them materialized a vast star map—the Cadian Gate defense zone.
A crimson line of blight crept across the chart—representing the encroaching forces of Chaos. The Black Legion's fleets had followed close behind the returning Cadian expeditionary force, obliterating all resistance in their path. Their advance was relentless, a burning spear thrust toward Cadia itself.
"My judgment," Creed said gravely, "is that Abaddon's true objective—or rather, the objective of the powers that command him—is Lord Dubois."
"Therefore…"
Creed clenched his cigar between his fingers. "My proposal is to verify this. The Adeptus Astartes, led by the Dark Angels, will escort Lord Dubois to Terra. Quietly. Without announcement. Let Abaddon's sorcerers seek their answers as they will."
"Your reasoning is flawed."
Clad in the red, gold, and black regalia of the Inquisition, his armor gleaming beneath the shimmer of a refractor field, a senior Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus—one of the three great branches of the Inquisition—regarded the Lord Castellan of Cadia with a cold, dissecting gaze.
Those eyes, so frigid they made the skin crawl, were like frost descending from the void of winter itself. Even the faint click of his bionic lenses adjusting focus carried judgment.
The Inquisitor lowered the psy-linked servo-skull scanner in his hand and spoke in a clipped, formal tone.
"With all due respect, Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed—your conclusion is unsound. I can understand your desire to seek truth, to grasp any fragment of the Emperor's holy word from the age when He still walked among men—but that does not justify recklessness."
He trusted no one. Not even the Adeptus Astartes.
There was every reason to suspect that Dubois was nothing more than a bold and cunning Rogue Trader who had somehow stumbled upon forbidden knowledge—ancient records he should never have found—and now flaunted them here on Cadia as though he were some divine messenger.
"This is a waste of Cadia's already precious manpower. Hand him over to the Inquisition. I assure you, within an hour, Lord Castellan, you will have every answer you seek…"
"No." Creed's voice was sharp. "Can you guarantee not a single neuron will be damaged? Your interrogation methods are not suited for an individual of such potential value."
"A necessary sacrifice," the Inquisitor replied coldly.
As the mortals argued, the assembled Astartes remained still—watchful, but detached. Representatives of the Dark Angels, Space Wolves, Ultramarines, Salamanders, White Scars, Black Templars, and other Chapters stood in silence, their expressions unreadable behind their helms.
They would not interfere.
Most of the Space Marines currently on Cadia were those already stationed in rotation—only a few strike forces had arrived as reinforcements when Abaddon's offensive began. The Ultramarines' Honor Company was among them—a specialized detachment drawn from the parent Chapter and its successors to defend the Cadian system.
The true strength guarding Cadia, however, remained the billions of Cadian Shock Troopers and Astra Militarum regiments arrayed across the fortress world.
The Astartes were here merely to witness—to verify what Creed had called a 'hope,' a 'revelation.' None of them had expected to find a living relic from the Great Crusade.
And a mere human, at that.
Under the watchful gaze of the Emperor's Angels, Dubois calmly lifted his case from the floor. Even as dozens of gene-forged warriors stared him down—some with curiosity, others with suspicion or veiled hostility—he moved without fear. Straightening his coat, smoothing a crease, he met their stares with quiet poise.
Impressive, a few Astartes thought begrudgingly. For a mortal, he carried himself well.
"Do you take issue with the insignia on my pauldrons?" The Dark Angels Company Master stepped forward, his tone level but edged.
Dubois hesitated only briefly before replying. "The Dark Angels Legion… when did you change your colors? As far as I know, the Legion's armor was always black."
"Black—yes," the Company Master said. "That was our color in the early years of the Great Crusade. After the Lion's return, our heraldry was changed to Calibanite green. Tell me, then… are you truly from that age, Rogue Trader? The Second Legion, the Lost Legion—'General Budo,' was that truly the name of your Primarch?"
"And what of them?"
Dubois turned his gaze, pointing out each Chapter in turn. "Thirteenth Legion—Ultramarines." Then to the grey armor marked with a yellow-and-black wolf's head. "Sixth Legion—Space Wolves." Then the bone-white plate and crimson lightning bolt. "Fifth Legion—White Scars."
"…And the XVIII Legion—Salamanders." Dubois recognized them all. But the others—their strange heraldry, their unfamiliar colors and sigils—he did not.
"I have never heard of the God-Emperor founding so many Astartes Legions…"
"The age of the Legions ended long ago," the Dark Angels officer replied. "These are not creations of the Emperor's own hand."
"What?!" Dubois' voice rose sharply, his expression darkening. "Who dares? Without the God-Emperor's sanction? That is madness—treason against the Throne itself!"
His anger was genuine—not an act. The reverence in his eyes, the way he invoked the God-Emperor's name, the raw indignation in his tone—none of it was feigned. He truly believed, heart and soul, in the Emperor's (Empress's) divinity and the sanctity of His (Her) order.
The Dark Angels officer, unwilling to continue that line of conversation or to allow the mortal to dominate it, shifted the subject. "Your Warrant of Trade—was it signed by the Emperor, or by one of the Primarchs?"
The question barely registered for Dubois. To him, such titles were commonplace—Selene had many as well. He frowned slightly, answering honestly.
"The God-Emperor would not personally involve in something so trivial as trade permits. Such authorizations were issued by the planetary governors or by the Astartes Legions stationed nearby—they carried equal authority."
After a pause, Dubois even ventured to ask in return:
"The First Legion is one of the God-Emperor's founding three, the mightiest of all. Lord Astartes, I do not understand—how could the Dark Angels allow such arrogant heretics to persist? To attack the Imperium itself? Unless… this is part of some deeper stratagem, perhaps to draw them out—"
Then, realizing he might have spoken out of turn, Dubois bowed his head. "My apologies… if this touches upon classified matters, I have overstepped."
Silence followed.
Whether they believed his words or not, the pride that shone through them struck something deep within the gathered Astartes. His conviction—his faith in the invincible Imperium of old—was unshakable.
And for the sons of the Imperium who stood before him, who had known only the slow decay and ceaseless war of the 41st Millennium, that faith burned like a wound.
When one who had walked beside the Emperor asked, in all sincerity, why the Imperium had fallen so far… how could they answer?
Shame crept into their hearts, even if only for a moment.
"Abaddon's filth! By Russ and the Allfather, I'd rather die fighting!" a young Space Wolf roared, slamming his armored fist into a nearby console. The machine crumpled inward with a crash, sparks flying.
It stung. Deeply.
Even the transhuman warriors of the Adeptus Astartes—who cared little for mortal opinion—felt the bite of his words. If Dubois truly was from the age of the Great Crusade, then his question cut like a blade across their pride.
Because they had no answer.
No denial. No justification. Only the bitter silence of truth.
The Dark Angels Company Master drew a steady breath, then removed his winged helm. With a soft hiss of decompression, the servo seals released. A stern, lined face appeared beneath.
"One final question, Dubois… how did you avoid corruption in the Warp, having spent so long adrift within it?"
"Corruption? You mean…"
The memory struck him suddenly—of that surreal void within the warp, filled with silent, ever-shifting colors. The whispering murmurs, the unseen voices that had brushed against his mind—until the flicker of violet-red light from the Honkai Crystal had broken the trance.
Only now did he realize the horror of what he had escaped.
"It was this."
His eyes glimmered as he set his gaze upon the reinforced case he carried—the containment vessel of the ship's Honkai Cube.
"What is that?"
The Dark Angel's voice hardened, his eyes fixed on the faint purple-red motes swirling across the alloy surface of the case.
That light—it was dazzling, radiant, like the sun itself.
Dubois spoke with conviction: "A crystallization of the God-Emperor's divine power—the universal source of creation itself. The Honkai Energy Cube. It protected me, and my vessel, from that infernal realm."
"Praise the Omnissiah!"
At that, the Tech-Priest who had stood silently like a crimson statue in the corner stirred. Metal feet clanged against the marble floor as he approached, his vox-speakers bursting into a cascade of binharic prayer.
The massive figure loomed taller even than an Astartes, his body a patchwork of iron, tubing, and sacred machinery. "The source of all creation… such blasphemy, and yet—such holiness…" he intoned, switching rapidly between Binary Cant and High Gothic.
The commotion drew every eye in the chamber. Even Creed and the Inquisitor paused their argument.
"It is the gift of the Machine God!" the Tech-Priest declared, cables writhing like serpents as his mechadendrites extended toward the case in Dubois' hands.
"Magos, control yourself," came a deep, resonant voice.
A towering figure in dark green armor stepped between them. Behind him, Astartes from every Chapter followed suit, forming a line before Dubois.
"This is the Emperor's relic!" cried a Black Templar officer, drawing his power sword with a fervent roar. "It must not be defiled!"
The tension spiked instantly—bolters hummed, servo-motors whirred, and in an instant the hall was one breath away from bloodshed.
Creed abandoned his quarrel with the Inquisitor, striding forward to intervene—
But before he could speak, the fortress itself screamed.
Sirens blared, crimson lights flashed, and the command deck shook with the roar of impact.
"Report! Lord Castellan—huff—Chaos forces! They've gone mad! They're ramming their battleships into our void-shield bastions—!"
The words barely left the soldier's lips before the world erupted.
WHHRRRRRRRR—BOOOOM!!!
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