Chapter 582: Brother, May You Find Father's Forgiveness in Hell (Patreon)

Boom—BOOM—!!

With a heavy strike from Curze, the colossal gate forged from thousands of skulls shattered into pieces.

Bone fragments flew like a storm but were deflected by the Black Guard's defensive fields before reaching their armor.

Dong, dong!

Heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber as over three hundred Lords of Midnight Honor Guard surged into the desecrated sanctuary like a tide.

What lay before them was the grandest and most terrifying hall yet—

The vaulted ceiling was held aloft by interwoven bone arches, each "beam" formed from hundreds of spiraling spinal columns. The floor was covered with a carpet of still-twitching flesh, oozing thick black blood with every step.

The walls bore embedded reliefs of screaming, still-living souls, and the only illumination came from floating, flaming skulls suspended in mid-air, their eye sockets spitting crimson fire that dyed everything an unnatural hue.

At the hall’s far end, stairs seemingly forged from countless weapons led up to a terrifying throne—an iron mountain formed from hundreds of broken power swords and chainblades, each crevice leaking blood.

From that throne, a figure over ten meters tall slowly rose—

Its "metal dreadlocks" were woven from hundreds of brass chains, each ending in a blood-dripping Astartes helmet. Its body bristled with bone horns like curved cleavers, every inch engraved with ancient records of slaughter.

Its massive frame was clad in brass armor, lava-like blood coursing beneath, and claws sharp as forged steel.

"Heh heh..."

The voice of this Daemon Prince echoed like the screams of countless massacres. As it opened its mouth, rotating sawblade teeth came into view—no longer a biological maw, but the internal workings of a living meat-grinder.

Dong, dong!

With equally heavy steps, two lines of heavily armed warriors emerged from the shadows flanking the throne. These warriors—or rather, World Eater Terminators—wore armor painted a sickly crimson, bone spurs protruding from every joint.

Their pauldrons bore not chapter insignia but Khorne runes woven from fresh intestines. The dual chain-axes in their hands were spinning at overdrive speed, emitting an eerie shrieking buzz.

There were exactly as many World Eater Terminators as Black Guard—three hundred and some—Khorne’s idea of a “fair fight.”

At this, the Black Guard needed no orders from Curze. They immediately split into three squads.

One group activated Terminator stealth systems and vanished into the shadows—perfect for the Midnight Lords’ favored ambush tactics.

Another formed a wedge formation for frontal engagement and to hold the enemy’s attention, while the third group took rear-guard positions for heavy fire support and securing retreat routes.

“Hahaha—HAHA—!!”

Suddenly, the Daemon Prince threw its head back and laughed even more maniacally, as eight massive flesh sacs rose behind the throne.

SPLORCH—SPLORCH—!

The pods burst instantly, spilling forth eight twisted horrors—five giant flesh-dolls sewn together from multiple Astartes bodies, and three flying daemon engines with massive power claws.

Battle erupted the moment after.

CLANG—CLANG-CLANG—!!

The melodic report of bolters rang through the “throne hall.”

Ri~WHOOSH—WHOOSH!!
SHRR—SHRR—!!

Then came the roars of melta guns, plasma cannons, and micro-missile salvos.

Explosions and flames rippled across floors of skull and meat, scorching waves of heat across the chamber.

The Black Guard’s vanguard quickly spread out into triads, engaging the advancing daemon constructs with tight tactical precision.

Two of the stitched giants were blasted in the chest by plasma volleys, but still staggered forward, their dangling limbs snapping like whips and slamming a Black Guard into a spine pillar.

“Hahahaha!!”

“DIE! DIE!!”

Five World Eater Terminators burst through the front line in a storm of fire and blood, massive figures unflinching in collision, their power claws and chain-axes flashing arcs of death, immediately crushing two Black Guard squads.

These were at least millennia-old veterans, perhaps ten thousand years old.

In response, a squad of Black Guard leapt into the enemy ranks, using their jump-assist thrusters to tear a daemon engine’s wing clean off.

One of the flesh constructs lunged at a Black Guard sergeant, but the warrior—whose helm bore a skull crest—waited for his moment and slammed his power hammer home—

BOOM!!

Electric fields flared as the hammer struck the giant mid-air.

WHUMP—CRUNCH!!

The monstrosity flew backwards, collapsing half a dais in its fall.

Smoke, gore, and burning ozone choked the air.

The battle had devolved into savage melee, an orchestral riot of shredding armor, cracking bones, and screaming steel—blue and crimson chaos in motion.

But at one corner of the battlefield, time seemed to freeze.

“...”

Curze, standing at the rear, silently stared down the unmoving Daemon Prince.

His helmet remained quiet, save for the hiss of air filters as he studied the giant form—dreadlocks dangling, horns twisting, and muscles bulging under brass.

By all appearances, it was a pure avatar of Khorne.

But Curze’s eyes pierced the illusion.

He saw deeper—within that twisted body remained the warped but still-living essence of a Primarch.

In a flash, Curze’s mind returned to the Primarch chambers in the Imperial Palace.

Their father, the Emperor of Mankind, Samuel Young, sat in shadow, his golden eyes shining as psychic images revealed a tragedy from another universe.

Angron stood in a lake of blood, butcher’s nails jutting from his skull, roaring silently to the sky.
Another universe’s Lorgar extended the Lex Wordica toward him, eyes shimmering with strange light.
In the ritual of ascension, Angron’s body was torn apart and reforged—made into Khorne’s pet.

“The saddest of traitors,” Father’s voice echoed in memory. “The enslaved made into a slaver.”

Now, standing before Curze, was the embodiment of that tragedy.

Through the cracked brass crown, he could see the butcher’s nails on Angron’s face. In the depths of those burning eyes, a sliver of lucid pain still flickered.

“Brother…” the ascended Angron rasped, his voice like a thousand grinding chainblades, “you… will…”

As Angron struggled with his words, both World Eaters and Black Guard fell into a synchronized silence, as if sensing the gravity of the moment.

Black Guard tightened their grips, target locks chirping softly in their visors—but Curze raised a hand to halt them.

No war cry. No declarations.

The two Primarchs took their first steps—

Angron’s brass boots crushed skulls.
Curze’s magnetized soles kicked up flecks of blood.

Second step—

The Daemon Primarch’s axe began to whine with overdrive.
The Midnight Wraith’s claws shimmered with violet light.

Third step—

The air tore as two Primarch-level forces collided, unleashing a shockwave that hurled back the nearest warriors from both sides.

When the blood fog settled, they saw it: Curze’s claw had pierced Angron’s gut, while the chain-axe hovered three centimeters from his throat, halted by the Midnight Wraith’s field.

“I see it now,” Curze spoke, his voice carrying warmth for the first time—a quiet, suppressed fury. “How they deceived you. Used you.”

The Daemon’s eyes narrowed. Some ancient memory flickered in its depths.

ROAR—!!!

But Khorne’s will reclaimed control, the beast bellowing with such force that bone walls shattered and blood rose in waves.

WHAM—!!!

Its headbutt smashed into Curze’s helm, shattering his shield. Sparks flew like stars.

Curze staggered but did not fall. He responded with a venomous claw to the Daemon’s throat.

CLANG—!

The chain-axe intercepted it, the screech of metal-on-metal shrieking through the hall as sparks rained down.

Their duel bent reality. Air warped visibly, and nearby bone pillars collapsed.

Three World Eater Terminators saw an opening and leapt from the flanks, weapons screaming.

But Curze didn’t even glance at them.

SPLURT—!!

His left claw lashed out, decapitating the first. Gold holy flame poured from the stump.

His right leg swept like a war-axe, caving in the second’s chest, the crack of spine breaking loud and clear.

The third swung—his axe mere inches from Curze’s neck—

And then his upper torso vanished.

It seemed a single elbow shattered him mid-strike.

“BACK OFF!!”

Suddenly, Angron flew into a frenzy, hacking down even his own would-be allies with his chain-axe.

The rotating teeth tore through armor like paper, blood and shrapnel splashing everywhere.

“I SAID… MINE!!”

Even the World Eaters recoiled at their Primarch’s wrath.

The Black Guard, too, had tried to assist.

Five elite members attempted to use heavy bolters with 1.0cal rounds to cripple the Daemon.

But—

CRUNCH!

Angron’s left arm twisted impossibly, grabbing one warrior by the head.

With a sickening squelch, helm and skull were flattened into pulp.

WHOOSH—SHRED—SLICE!!

The axe swept again, and the remaining four were sliced clean through, their armor folding like paper.

“Fall back,” Curze’s voice cracked like ice over the comms. “This is not your battle.”

The Black Guard obeyed, retreating to engage the remaining World Eaters elsewhere.

Now, they understood. A fight between Primarchs was not something mortals could interfere in.

Suddenly, Angron’s axe shifted, sweeping up toward Curze’s chest.

The Midnight Wraith leaned back just enough—millimeters—to avoid fatal damage. The axe burned through the shield and grazed his armor.

Curze spun, aiming for the armpit.

SHINK!

Claw in three inches—but Angron’s muscles clamped tight as steel.

The daemon grinned and smashed its forehead into Curze again.

BOOM—!

The visor display shattered—but Curze grinned too, as if this was all part of the plan.

In a flash, his left claw drove into Angron’s throat.

!!!

Angron reeled back, molten blood hissing on Curze’s shield.

ROAR—!!

He raged with wild swings, shaking the throne hall.

But Curze no longer met him head-on—he weaved like a wraith, each dodge a blur.

When an opening came, Curze struck again—

SCHLUK!

His claw punched through Angron’s abdomen, bursting out the back.

But Angron didn’t flinch—he raised his left fist and slammed it into Curze’s temple.

CRACK—!!!

Curze dropped to one knee, the skull-shaped floor buckling beneath him.

Angron lifted the axe to finish it—

But Curze surged upward, ramming into him.

He headbutted Angron’s jaw, then reached inside and wrenched the daemon’s spine—

CRACK—!

A sickening sound of vertebrae snapping.

Angron’s scream became a roar of pain. He dropped his axes and tried to rip Curze’s throat out—

“It’s over.”

Curze’s voice was soft, final. His claws now burned with golden psychic fire.

With perfect precision, he drove his left claw deep into Angron’s skull. The blade tip burst from the back.

The daemon froze.

Its eyes cleared—not with madness, but a deep, ancient sorrow.

“Curze…” Angron spoke—not as Khorne’s monster, but as a long-forgotten brother. “I… I…”

His body began to collapse from within.

Curze watched silently. At the final moment, he whispered:

“Rest now, brother. May you find Father’s forgiveness in Hell.”

As the last ash drifted away, the throne hall began to collapse, and the battle between Black Guard and World Eaters concluded.

The result: a bitter victory.

Nearly two hundred Black Guard had fallen. But to have triumphed against veterans who had served beside the ascended Angron for millennia—if not tens of thousands of years—was itself an extraordinary feat.