Chapter 537: Intervention

Watching Angron and Rogal Dorn locked in brutal combat, Horus felt genuinely pleased—Angron had shown him respect by choosing Dorn instead of Sanguinius.

Smiling, Horus extended his left hand toward Sanguinius.

“Sanguinius, abandon your stubbornness. Join me. If it’s you, I am willing to share power equally.”

Sanguinius shook his head, unmoved by the offer.

“This has nothing to do with benefits.

I simply have my own convictions—and I will not betray them.”

“…A pity.”

Knowing further persuasion was pointless, Horus let out a weary sigh and finally raised his weapon.

Thus began the fatal duel between two of the closest brothers among all the Primarchs—a battle that would decide not only victory and defeat, but life and death.

—

Across war-torn Terra

Everywhere on the planet, loyalist and traitor Primarchs clashed.

Some had no ancient grudges but fresh wounds;

others, like Angron and Dorn, had long harbored mutual disdain.

With the exception of two Primarchs who had died earlier in the Great Crusade, and Roboute Guilliman, who was currently imprisoned by Lorgar, every surviving Primarch had gathered on Terra.

—

Deep within the Imperial Palace — The Laboratory

Seated upon the Golden Throne’s Warp Suppression Apparatus, unable to move freely, the Emperor sensed the situation through His unmatched psychic perception.

He understood clearly:

Despite Terra’s defensive firepower, the loyalists were vastly outnumbered.

Most loyalist Primarchs were already wounded due to earlier betrayals.

At this rate, the defense line would not hold for long.

He would have to intervene personally.

Beside Him, Malcador the Sigillite examined the hololithic projections of the battle spreading across Terra.

His expression grew increasingly grave.

Without outside interference, the loyalist defense would inevitably collapse.

The consequences of Terra’s fall flashed before Malcador’s mind, and his expression hardened with resolve.

“Your Majesty… the Imperium needs you. Allow me to maintain the suppression field in your stead.”

The Emperor was silent for a moment, then nodded.

“…Very well.”

He knew—and Malcador knew—that anyone who sat upon the Warp Suppression Throne in His place would not survive.

Malcador had already accepted his fate the moment he volunteered.

The Emperor did not offer empty consolation.

He could not.

Even though Malcador was His regent, His most trusted friend, and the Imperium’s second-greatest pillar…

Compared to Terra—the heart of humanity—no life, not even Malcador’s, could outweigh it.

Private sentiment held no place against the survival of humanity.

Soon after, preparations were complete.

Malcador seated himself upon the golden suppression apparatus.

The instant he did, he felt his vitality, psychic essence, and even fragments of his soul being devoured by an all-consuming force.

His once-healthy face grew pale, almost corpse-like, as if he had been bedridden for months.

His formerly robust body withered at visible speed.

The Emperor stepped down from the device.

Though His condition was far better than Malcador’s, fatigue was etched upon His features.

After the earlier crisis, He had first fought a full confrontation against Arik Tararnis, a Daemon Prince of significant power, and then spent nearly two years sustaining the suppression field alone.

The toll was immense—even for the most powerful human psyker in history.

He would not recover in merely a few days.

But time was a luxury the Imperium no longer had.

Any further delay, and key regions of Terra would fall.

Several loyalist Primarchs were already on the verge of death.

After consuming several enhanced restorative vials, the Emperor armed Himself and strode out of the laboratory to personally crush the rebellion.

—

At the Palace Gates

The once-majestic, pristine walls of the Imperial Palace—designed to withstand even the heaviest bombardments—had been shattered into rubble.

The corpses strewn everywhere were mangled beyond recognition, soaked into the ground like spilled paste.

Loyalists and traitors alike—

all of them killed for the same reason:

they had stepped too close to battles between Primarchs.

Astartes and mortals had been slaughtered like wheat before the scythe.

Sanguinius lay collapsed in a pool of blood, struggling to rise.

His once-radiant wings were soaked crimson.

Dorn fared little better—reduced to a mangled wreck after taking several blows from Angron.

His organs spilled from torn armor; only his faint breath proved he was still alive.

Angron lifted his blade, appraising Dorn with a casual tone:

“Your strength is impressive. Without the power of the Ascension Ritual, our odds would have been… what? Sixty–forty?”

He raised the blood-dripping weapon high, ready to behead Dorn—

for Primarchs were notoriously hard to kill, and decapitation was the safest method.

Nearby, Horus had likewise overpowered Sanguinius and was preparing to deliver the final strike.

—

But before either blade could fall—

Two golden beams shot from afar at unbelievable speed.

Before Angron and Horus could even turn their heads, the blasts struck them squarely, hurling both Primarchs thousands of meters away as if they were weightless dolls.

Dorn and Sanguinius were saved in the instant before death.

Every loyalist and traitor nearby—Astartes and mortals alike—turned toward the direction the golden light had come from.

There, a towering figure in radiant golden armor strode forward.

He needed no introduction.

Even without words, His presence pressed upon the battlefield like the weight of a collapsing star.

“The Emperor…”

In that moment, countless traitors felt their courage collapse, their resolve evaporating.

Their strength fled them.

For the Master of Mankind had arrived.

___

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