Chapter 136 - Fulgrim Soul Fragment, but Apocrypha
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The fleet eased away from Blacksable's orbit. The planet shrank in the observation window, smaller, dimmer, until it was just a gray speck swallowed by the void.
The Lion had been recovered. The most important objective of Horus's mission was done.
Next, the Wolf would turn his fleet back toward the Imperial Sanctus, returning to help Guilliman shoulder the Indomitus Crusade that had already consumed half the galaxy.
The bows swung in unison, cutting toward Vigilus, and the long voyage began.
Long enough, at least, for four brothers who hadn't shared the same ship in ten thousand years to sit down, have a few arguments, share a few drinks, and slowly pay back every word they'd owed each other.
Four gene-primarchs on one vessel. That had been rare even during the Great Crusade. Now it was something else entirely.
For Kaelen, watching yet another primarch step back into the living world was apparently the trigger the System had been waiting for. The notification surfaced in the back of his mind like a bubble rising through still water.
[Congratulations, Host, for witnessing the return of Lion El'Jonson.]
[Reward issued: One new salvage opportunity.]
[Note! This salvage will not produce a new gene-primarch individual.]
Kaelen stared at the bolded line on his retina and said nothing.
No more new primarchs. He sank deeper into the sofa chair, fingers tapping the armrest without thinking, the mental abacus already running.
Six loyalist primarchs back and accounted for. Every single one of them a T0 or T1-tier monster on any reasonable power ranking.
The traitor side? They had the numbers, on paper. But dig a little deeper and the picture got ugly fast.
Lorgar was pinned at his own doorstep by Corax, who had awakened his Warp nature, the man couldn't step outside if he tried. Generous count put the traitors at five who could actually go toe-to-toe with the loyalists.
Knock off Fulgrim, who was too busy drowning in pleasure to function. Knock off Magnus, personally banished and not coming back anytime soon. Knock off Perturabo, that unaffiliated Chaos wildcard whose allegiances changed with the wind. What you were left with were two: Mortarion and Angron, one running the Dark Imperium, one running the Sanctus, both at maximum threat level.
And even those 2 workaholics didn't exactly get happy endings in the original timeline.
Mortarion got Emperor-possessed Guilliman's boot and flew straight back into the Garden of Nurgle. Angron got the Lion beating him half to death with weapons the Emperor himself had forged.
Right now, the Dark Imperium had the Lion and Sanguinius holding the line. The Sanctus had Guilliman, Horus, and Curze. And that wasn't counting Senior Sister Fei of the Shackled Legion, who bounced freely between both theaters, or the entire undying, on-call E-Magic corps.
The more Kaelen thought about it, the more he pitied the traitors.
You tell me, how exactly were they supposed to fight this war?
As for Abaddon? Brother Hundred-Losses didn't even register in an era of returning primarchs. Unless he found serious partners fast, Vashtorr the Arkifane, maybe, or Old Apothecary Fabius, he wouldn't just lose the arm-wrestling match. He wouldn't get a seat at the table.
That little craving for something new quietly faded.
If the System couldn't produce another primarch, a jaw-dropping Astartes warrior would do just fine. Failing that, any decent item wouldn't be a loss.
He tipped the last swallow of top-shelf liquor down his throat, the kind that used to be reserved for High Lords alone, and flicked a single word toward the System.
"Draw."
[Drawing, please wait.]
The chime sounded. Kaelen didn't rush. He sank comfortably back into the sofa and poured himself another glass.
These days he was a personal friend of the Human Imperium and the Emperor himself, and the treatment reflected it. Everything he ate, everything he used, top-tier goods he wouldn't have dared dream about before. He'd made a point of critically sampling the luxurious habits of the Imperial aristocracy: fine wine, fine food, served without limit. Comfortable, certainly. But only that.
Because when you got down to it, the adrenaline of combat and the moment you watched a miracle actually happen, those were the only things that made his heart move.
The whole mess with Slaanesh? Dead and buried.
He raised his glass and let the freshly poured wine slide in.
The instant the liquid passed his throat, the System's cold chime sounded.
[Salvage complete.]
[Congratulations, Host, for obtaining a Warhammer Apocrypha item: Soul Fragment of the Imperial Living Saint, Phoenix Lord Fulgrim.]
Kaelen went still for one full second.
Then the mouthful of very expensive wine left his mouth in a perfectly straight jet and hit the floor without a shred of dignity.
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"Where'd that kid Konrad get to?"
The Lion shouldered the lounge door open, toweling his still-dripping golden hair.
He'd just finished a sparring session with Horus in the training hall. Post-shower, his muscles still carried that deep, pleasant ache, and his voice had a lazy rasp to it.
"Where else?" Horus followed him in and pulled the door shut. "Accompanying his son Sevatar for the Primaris upgrade."
The lounge had been purpose-built for primarchs. The Imperium's sculptors and artists had spent considerable effort designing furniture that actually fit beings of their scale.
Neither Horus nor Sanguinius had any love for the deep-cushioned sofa chair. Too soft. Sit in it long enough and your focus dissolved.
Which was exactly why Curze had recommended it. And the moment the Lion sat down, he hadn't moved since.
Age did things to a body. The lounge was quiet. Drowsiness was inevitable.
But this time the Lion wasn't dozing. He lay curled in the cushions, mind still running back through the duel on the training ground.
"If Father hadn't gifted me those weapons, if it had been bare hands, stamina, and focus alone — Lupercal, I think you might have beaten me."
"You're too modest, Jonson." Horus laughed and shook his head, pulling an amber bottle from the liquor cabinet and pouring for both of them. "The Lion of ten thousand years ago only knew how to hit harder. You've learned to use technique where brute force falls short. Knowing your strengths and working around your weaknesses — there's no shame in that, brother."
The Lion took the glass.
The amber surface reflected his face back at him.
White threading through his temples. Lines at the corners of his eyes. Features that had lost the blade-sharp edge they used to carry.
He studied the reflection for a few seconds, then muttered.
"I still miss being young."
He drained it.
He set the glass down and looked at Horus.
"The weapon Father had Sevatar bring you. How does it feel?"
The Wolf's eyes lit up.
"Almost identical to Worldbreaker on the outside, but the core is different. The hammer carries Father's own power worked into it. Curze's lightning claw is the same craftsmanship. I never expected Father to forge weapons specifically for the two of us — during the Great Crusade, that was the highest honor he could give."
The pride in his voice was completely unguarded.
The Lion gave a short, cold snort.
"Then don't you dare disappoint his expectations again."
"I won't." Horus grinned. "This time I've come prepared."
"Prepared how?" The Lion frowned.
The Wolf raised his glass and answered with a perfectly straight face.
"13 stasis fields. This time, even if I get run through again, I can hold on long enough, Guilliman's Primaris do that part very well."
The Lion stared at that completely serious expression for 3 full seconds.
Then a laugh burst out of his nose.
➤ Next: Thoughts on the Return of Clone Fulgrim
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