Chapter 539: The Game Begins

Three days passed.

In orbit above Terra, the traitor fleets continued their relentless assault—endless bombardments, followed by wave upon wave of forced drop-pod deployments.

Meanwhile, the battle between the Emperor and the three great foes—Horus, Angron, and Arik—drew closer to its conclusion.

The first to be removed from the field was Angron.

Having ascended into a Daemon Prince, he had unleashed his full warp-infused power across Terra.

The material universe retaliated. Unable to bear the growing rejection of reality itself, Angron was forcibly expelled—dragged back into the warp despite all his fury.

Next was Arik.

His situation mirrored Angron’s. Although stronger and more stable, a Daemon Prince’s presence in realspace is always an intrusion.

Once the Emperor’s counterattacks weakened him and Terra’s metaphysical pressure mounted, he too was forced back into the Immaterium.

Only Horus remained.

He had not ascended. He merely borrowed the power of the Chaos Gods. Five patrons—five streams of impossible energy—burned within him.

And after three days of uninterrupted battle, he had mastered them.

His strength now exceeded anything he had ever wielded.

The Emperor, meanwhile, bore the wounds of facing three champions alone.

Even though He had used reality’s own rules to expel Angron and Arik, each clash had come with a price.

His injuries were deep, old and new compounding each other.

Now, opposed by the last remaining challenger, the Emperor—though still superior—felt the balance shifting.

For the first time in millennia, He was being pressed backward.

Horus noticed.

A thin smile crept onto his lips as he advanced, weapon raised.

“My father,” Horus declared, voice tinged with triumph,

“rest easy in death. I shall replace you. I will forge a new and greater Imperium—one that does not stagnate beneath your outmoded ideals.”

The Emperor regarded him in silence for a heartbeat, then answered with weary sorrow:

“Horus… your greatest mistake was placing your trust in the creatures of the warp. None of them are benevolent. If they granted you strength, it is only because they seek to use you.”

Horus sneered.

He struck with a sweeping blow—one the Emperor parried—and answered dismissively:

“Of course I know. But I needed their power. Without it, what right would I have to stand against you?”

The Emperor’s gaze sharpened.

“Knowing that, you still led so many of your brothers and soldiers into corruption? You condemned them to the warp willingly?”

“So what?” Horus barked a laugh.

“In your heart, we were always sacrifices to be made. What difference does it make who commands us to die?”

“At least this way, they rebel according to their own desires. Is that not more honest than your cold calculations?”

“Foolish child,” the Emperor’s voice was edged with anger.

“Humanity is fragile. Without sacrifice, without unity, we would never have survived the age of darkness—not even long enough to leave the Solar System!”

Horus paused for a moment.

Then his expression hardened.

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“I am not human. I was never human.”

His rage burst forth in every blow—violent, accelerating, brutal.

“You taught me human supremacy. You demanded I bleed for mankind. You shaped me into your perfect tool.”

“But you never once told me the truth: that I was not even one of them.”

“All of my efforts—everything I did—was for others, not myself.”

“Why? Tell me why. What debt did I owe?”

“And even if I once owed something— have I not repaid it?”

His weapon fell again and again, each strike heavier than the last.

His buried resentment, once only a whisper, now roared in full fury.

The Emperor retreated step by step under the barrage.

He had no immediate rebuttal.

For Horus’s words, however twisted, carried a sliver of truth.

“This is my time,” Horus howled.

“Father—vanish with your outdated worldview!”

Warp power flooded into his blade.

A singularity-like darkness swelled within it, warping matter, light, and even space.

Half of Terra fell under a shroud of blackness.

Even the muzzle-flash of artillery vanished, swallowed whole.

Only Horus’s weapon shone—blinding, glorious, catastrophic—like a dying star.

He brought it down.

Countless mortal souls were torn apart instantly.

The planet shook as though creation itself had restarted—sky and ground blurring into chaos.

Voidships in orbit rocked like driftwood on a storm-tossed ocean.

Even the other Primarchs, far across the battlefield, turned pale.

The traitors glimpsed victory.

The loyalists felt dread.

At last, the distortion faded.

The result stunned all.

Horus’s blade lay shattered.

The Emperor’s golden weapon pierced straight through Horus’s torso.

In that instant, many believed the Emperor had concealed His true strength.

But only Horus and the Emperor understood the truth:

The Chaos Gods had abandoned him.

At the decisive moment, they ripped their power away.

They had used him—and discarded him.

“I warned you,” the Emperor murmured,

“those beings cannot be trusted.”

Horus tried to speak, but only blood and torn flesh spilled from his mouth. The Emperor’s strike had destroyed every vital organ.

He died in profound unwillingness—

not defeated by the Emperor,

but betrayed by the very masters he thought he commanded.

And with their Warmaster slain, the traitor forces collapsed.

___

Within the crimson expanse of the Crimson Heaven, Orsaga gazed across time and space with a lazy smile.

“Let the real game begin.”