Chapter 536: Choosing an Opponent

“You still have one last chance. If you let it pass, there will never be another.”

Standing before the gates of the Imperial Palace,

Sanguinius once again heard the whispering voice echoing from the Warp.

And, as before, he gave it no answer.

There was nothing to say.

Beside him, Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, stood silently with his weapon grounded before him.

The thunder of bombardments overhead did not draw so much as a twitch from him.

His eyes were calm and unyielding—an unmoving stone in the midst of a storm.

Sensing Sanguinius’s gaze, Dorn merely nodded and said:

“May we prevail.”

His tone held neither panic nor hesitation—only iron steadiness.

Sanguinius smiled faintly and replied:

“Indeed. The Emperor protects.”

Then he returned his gaze to the sky above.

From orbit, drop-pods rained down like a steel storm,

each carrying a traitor Astartes within.

Their descent lit the sky as every anti-air emplacement on Terra roared to life.

Traitors fell.

Loyalists fell.

The world trembled beneath the sound of war—guns, screams, explosions, the weeping of the dying.

Sanguinius closed his eyes and drew a long breath, his resolve hardening.

Flawed as the Imperium may be… in this brutal age, it remains humanity’s only viable path.

And someone must bear the cost of building such an empire.

As a Primarch gifted with foresight, Sanguinius knew the Emperor’s true thoughts about his sons.

He knew the truth: even if the Great Crusade succeeded completely, few—if any—Primarchs would meet a happy end.

Yet he bore no resentment.

An empire required sacrifice.

Even unwilling sacrifice.

Whether Emperor or Primarch, someone always had to be the foundation stone beneath the weight of history.

Sanguinius understood this.

And though he disagreed with some of the Emperor’s methods, he never once considered betrayal.

Whatever the Emperor’s flaws, He stood utterly devoted to humanity—its strongest champion, its most capable guide, its finest shield.

At that moment, Sanguinius sensed a strange presence descending from the sky.

He and Dorn looked upward simultaneously.

A towering figure with red armor, wings, and a massive sword descended through the bombardment.

Though his form had changed, his features still carried enough familiarity for them to recognize him.

Dorn’s expression darkened.

“Angron! You have fallen this far?!”

As a strict human purist, Dorn viewed becoming a Warp entity as nothing short of blasphemy.

Angron casually swept aside incoming artillery with a beat of his wings and landed before them.

His expression remained calm as he replied:

“What’s the problem?

Why say it like that?

You never respected me to begin with.

Isn’t my fall exactly what you always expected?”

Dorn froze, unable to retort.

It was true.

Almost every Primarch had, at some point, looked down on Angron.

Even Konrad Curze—half-mad, ruthless, and grim—considered Angron little more than a berserk butcher.

Among the Primarchs, Angron had always been at the very bottom of the unspoken hierarchy.

Unloved by all—Emperor, brothers, and mortals alike.

Angron smirked at Dorn’s sour expression, then turned to Sanguinius.

“Sanguinius…

Of all our brothers, you were the only one who ever spoke to me without contempt.

I do not wish to kill you.

You alone never looked down on me.

Surrender.”

Even Angron, in his own violent way, could offer respect to someone who had shown him kindness.

Sanguinius could see that Angron’s body and soul had been reshaped by Chaos,

but his mind—at long last—was clear.

He smiled gently and shook his head.

“I am glad your thoughts are your own again.

But I cannot accept.”

“…I expected as much.”

Angron nodded slowly.

“In that case, to spare you from dying at another’s hands…

I will be the one to kill you.”

He raised his blade.

Before he could strike, another shadow fell from above.

“Angron. Leave him to me.”

Hearing the voice, Dorn’s expression twisted.

“Horus!”

Sanguinius, however, showed only quiet resignation.

For days, his visions had shown him a single, unchanging scene:

his death—at Horus’s hands.

With Horus now standing before him,

Sanguinius understood that the appointed moment had finally arrived.

Horus, too, looked pained.

To him, Sanguinius was his closest friend—more than a brother.

When he had been named Warmaster, he believed Sanguinius deserved the title far more.

As the two Primarchs stared at one another,

Angron noticed the strange tension between them.

…Why does this feel like some tragic lovers’ quarrel?

The thought made even a Daemon Primarch uncomfortable.

With an annoyed huff, Angron spun his blade toward Dorn instead.

“Fine. Then you will be my opponent!”

Dorn felt insulted at being chosen second—like leftovers on a battlefield menu.

He said nothing, but rage surged behind his eyes as he engaged Angron with a snarl.

The two Primarchs collided with thunderous force.

…

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