Emperor's Bane

Chapter 1014 Horus vs. Dorne (Part 1)

Rogdorn faced countless opponents throughout his life.

From kings to slaves, from humans to aliens, the most terrifying nightmares in the galaxy have screamed wildly before the roaring fangs of the storm: that is often the last thing they can do before Dorn.

Before this agonizing torment ends, their ugly or arrogant heads will become the Primarch's prey.

Rogdorn was not a bloodthirsty man.

However, he wouldn't refuse a head with commemorative value as a prize.

The chainsaw sword of the Emperor Fist Master is merciless; his ruthlessness on the battlefield is perhaps only comparable to that of Zhuang Sen.

He is undoubtedly a highly efficient killer.

Although, he was not a powerful killer.

Of all his blood brothers, Rogdorn was never known for his formidable fighting prowess.

The most magnificent swordsmanship belongs to Fugrim.

The most flexible bottom line comes from Conrad.

The swiftest strike was Chagatai Khan's specialty.

The crowns of extreme physical and extreme mental achievements were won by Vulcan and Morgan, respectively.

Of all the honors of war, none could be reserved specifically for the Invites.

Even compared to his most common rival, the Iron Lord, who is considered by the world to be on par with him, few intelligent people would believe that Rogdorn's will could withstand Perturabo's cannonballs: an iron will can never defeat an iron will.

Even so, even though Dorn never achieved any outstanding individual victories in the Great Crusade, no one among the Primarchs would consider him an easy opponent.

The Imperial Fist's trump card may simply be their long-standing stubbornness, tenacity, and caution.

But that's enough.

Extreme stubbornness, unwavering resilience, and an ever-present caution: defeating such a combination is no easy feat.

Unless you possess greater power: great enough to crush the noble Rogdorne, turn his golden armor into dust, and saw his unyielding head off his neck, thus proclaiming your own bloody, absolute victory.

This is almost impossible.

But the Wolf God possesses precisely this power.

Rogdorn faced countless opponents throughout his life.

But none of them are qualified to be compared to Horus today.

……

"Your sword feels unfamiliar to me, brother."

When the two Primarchs begin to collide, the eyes of the entire world will inevitably be drawn to them.

When Horus raised his Worldbreaker, everyone knew the outcome of the negotiations: they were not surprised by the swift defeat, everyone was anticipating the moment to fire their bullets at the other side, and the murderous intent of a Primarch was the perfect war horn.

Surprisingly, although it seemed that Warmaster was the first to lose patience, it was actually Rogdon who had remained silent who launched the first attack.

As Horus finally revealed his ferocity upon hearing the Emperor's question—whether unintentional or deliberate—he raised his warhammer, Worldbreaker, high in one hand. Before the Claw of Horus in his other hand could even rise, it naturally revealed an excellent opening for attack.

Rogdorn did not give up the opportunity.

Or to put it another way: this is exactly what he's been waiting for.

In that brief moment, which might have been less than a second, Dorn suddenly moved, leaping forward in a stark contrast to his long-standing composed image, his solemn armor, and his broad shield: neither the Warmaster nor even the Imperial Fists behind him had anticipated this.

The blow struck the Warmaster's ribs with pinpoint accuracy, causing Horus to stumble. However, the Wolf God's reaction lived up to his Primarch's reputation. Without hesitation, he brought down the Worldbreaker he had raised high, smashing it head-on into Dorn's head, which was still within his attack range.

The master of Emperor Fist wasn't wearing a helmet.

But this ruthless counterattack only hit the large shield that the Terran Guard had already erected: as he charged out, Dorn bent his body slightly and successfully hid his vitals under the shield. Seeing that he had succeeded, he did not intend to delay any longer and instead quickly retreated, leaving only the conspicuous gap in the Warmaster's breastplate.

The attack didn't draw blood, but the Imperial Eagle on Shepherd's chest was cleaved in two, which was inexplicably ridiculous.

Horus glanced down, not annoyed by the trivial setback, but instead focused on an unexpected problem.

He looked at the chainsaw sword in Dorn's hand.

It was a good sword, but not Stormfang.

Where is your Stormfang?

Horus raised his claws and asked Dorn.

"It serves the Emperor in another place; that's not your concern, Horus."

"Another place?"

The Wolf God laughed.

"Okay, I can probably guess who you're going to give him to."

He murmured softly.

“You are a demanding person, Dorn. There are very few lucky people who can get your luck.”

"And among these candidates, there is probably only one left who is qualified to use that sword."

At this point, Zhan Shuai narrowed his eyes, as if the question had piqued his great interest.

"Seriously, Dorn."

Don't you think that's a bit presumptuous?

“Although I never thought highly of Mortalian, he is, after all, our brother and a Primarch.”

"This kind of status is not something that just any champion swordsman can shake: even with Storm Fang."

“I don’t think he can meet your expectations.”

"This is none of your business, Horus."

Dorn silenced the Warmaster's long-winded speech with his cold words.

“I gave Sigismund a task, not an expectation.”

"Similarly, what he needs to do is not respond, but execute."

Do you see any difference between them?

Horus frowned and asked.

Dorn remained silent, only letting out a disdainful snort from his large nostrils.

"If you can understand."

"You wouldn't be standing here: traitor."

"..."

Even though he was mentally prepared, the Wolf God's face still twitched involuntarily when the title came from the mouth of his most respected brother.

He did not continue the topic.

"I love your enthusiasm, Dorn."

When he started smiling again, the meaning of that smile had completely changed.

"I hope you'll like me too."

With that, he bent the Claw of Horus into the shape best suited to pierce flesh, then raised his warhammer and charged.

Like a thunderbolt, the Worldbreaker tore through the dimensions of space and time in the hands of the War Master, and in the blink of an eye, it was close to Dorn's hair. If the Lord of Emperor Fist had not already raised his shield further forward, he would have had almost no chance of blocking this powerful and heavy blow.

A shockwave originating from the High Heavens swept across reality due to the collision of the two demigods. With unstoppable force, it flung away those Astartes warriors who were unfortunate enough to stand too close to the Primarch. The power armor weighing several tons whistled through the air, and the neatly arranged battle lines were torn to pieces in the blink of an eye.

However, these unexpected setbacks did not dampen the fighting spirit of Shadowmoon Wolf and Imperial Fist. When they saw their respective fathers of genes begin to fight, they immediately threw themselves into the struggle for victory: dozens of people died the instant the battle began.

The Shadowmoon Wolves have more troops, enough to surround the Sons of Dorn from three directions and calmly reap lives with their bombs and plasmas. However, the Imperial Fists' positions are more organized. Compared to the Sons of Horus, who were temporarily summoned and whose coordination is not yet perfect, the Seventh Legion is undoubtedly better at fighting side by side.

Like their genetic father, the Haskar Guard and the Templars were summoned to the battle in an emergency, but even so, they still loyally carried their shields. Although this had slowed their advance to some extent before, now, the shields that could protect both themselves and their brothers in battle allowed the sons of Dorne to deal with the war with ease.

One after another, massive shields were erected, covering the flanks and overhead of the Imperial Fist, rendering the Shadowmoon Wolves' encirclement tactics useless. Both sides were once again pulled back to the same level, futilely unleashing their explosive bombs and plasmas until one after another warrior who had charged too far forward fell, buying time for their brothers behind them to approach the enemy.

As if by telepathy, after several rounds of exchange of fire and firepower, the elite troops of both legions simultaneously stopped firing their guns, drew their swords or sabers, and charged forward with a roar.

In this universe, melee combat is still the most effective.

The Sons of Horus crashed against the Imperial Fist's shield like waves, some weak points crumbling under their onslaught, but most remained unmoved amidst the pearly white tide: power armor clashed violently against power armor, the roar of chainsaws and the sound of blades piercing bone mingling with the dying screams.

In this grand hall built on the foundation of unity, the best warriors in the entire galaxy are falling one by one. With each fallen soldier, another immediately takes their place. This war seems to never end, until one side has bled to death, or until there is no longer any place for life in this vast hall.

Even though the situation was extremely chaotic from the very beginning, certain unspoken rules still existed on the battlefield: even the most fanatical warriors would not approach the very core of the storm, and any reckless person who dared to get too close to the two Primarchs would be torn to shreds by the golden and white storm in the blink of an eye.

Wherever the bloodlines of the two emperors stand, that is the very heart of the battlefield. Their battle is enough to instill fear in the bravest warriors and cause even the most renowned fortresses to crumble in the blink of an eye. They are unleashing the raging fury of their immortal souls, pouring all their resentment and discontent with the war onto each other.

Every strike was delivered with all one's might.

Each strike could easily kill any monster in this galaxy except the Primarch.

Each strike was like the god of war personally playing a bronze drum, accompanied by countless unseen silver instruments in this blood-soaked banquet hall, allowing everyone to witness the Primarch's heroic figure and hear the Primarch's war cries as the warriors threw themselves into this meat grinder destined to devour them with even greater selflessness.

It was as if it were a curse; the existence of the Primarch was like a seductive, bewitching melody that even the most composed warrior could not control his mind.

And they themselves wouldn't either.

"I should say, Dorn."

"I've been looking forward to fighting you for a long time."

Horus raised his warhammer and struck again, each attack heavier than the last. The wolf god, like a giant as massive as a mountain in legend, was dismantling the mortal castle with his purest violence.

And now, this castle, or rather, the shield in Rogdorn's hands, is teetering on the brink of collapse under the relentless onslaught of the Imperial Warmasters: yet it always seems to be able to hold out until the next wave of attacks arrives.

Horus was not surprised at all; in fact, his face beamed with excitement.

He seemed to be stating a statement to Dorne, or perhaps just talking to himself, but in any case, when the emperor's sons begin to fight each other, their desire to express themselves always becomes exceptionally strong.

"I had this thought more than once, long ago, during the Great Crusade, Dorne."

"Believe me, this is not malicious."

"But sometimes..."

Horus's fingers paused slightly as he adjusted his warhammer to the optimal angle, gathered his strength, and slammed it down: this blow was enough to completely crush even the most robust Terminator armor into dust.

"You're really infuriating!"

"boom!"

Instead of continuing his passive defense, Dorn swung his shield and collided violently with Horus's charged attack in mid-air, sparks flying everywhere.

"I'm not surprised at all, General."

The Invites returned a smile to his brother as if Horus had spoken a sincere compliment.

"Yes, how could you be surprised?"

The immense force forced even the Wolf God to take a half-step back, but on his side, Rogdorn was the one who had actually lost: an overly obvious dent appeared on his indestructible shield, ruining its overall harmony and beauty. Upon closer inspection, one could also see that this shield, which had been as unshakable as a mountain, was now trembling slightly.

The tremor came quickly and went quickly, but anyone with eyes could tell what was happening.

The heavy blow from the Warmaster had made it difficult for Rogdorn to hold his weapon steady.

In terms of strength, the Primarch of the Imperial Fist was far, far weaker than his brothers.

This incident was also observed by Zhan Shuai, but he did not take it to heart, nor did he press his advantage.

For Horus, the current battle with Rogdorn is more like a game: apart from that one moment, he hasn't used his full strength.

Although it sounds very unfair, even though the Lord of the Imperial Fist had just ruined his plans, and even though Rogdorn's swift reaction had indeed caused heavy losses to Gastalin and caused Horus to lose at least several hundred elite offspring, he still did not intend to settle the score here: at least, he did not intend to kill Dorn directly here.

In a war of this magnitude, even if Astartes suffers many deaths, it is still just a tragedy.

But the death of the Primarch would cross the line.

“You’re always like this, Dorn.” Horus turned the Worldbreaker around. This renowned warhammer had not disappointed him. Even after such a hard-fought battle, not a single scar appeared on it.

Compared to it, the Claw of Horus seems rather cumbersome and impractical.

"You're always so stubborn and inflexible, never considering other people's feelings, even when you know it."

“You always have a knack for provoking people. Even though you know better than anyone how much damage your words can cause, you never care. Whenever you open your mouth, we have to be on high alert, like Prometheus on the mountaintop, to face another day of judgment, as if it were your birthright.”

He sighed, his voice sincere.

"So, you know what, brother?"

"I've wanted to fight you for a long time, Dorn."

"This is not out of personal grudge, but an emotion that no normal person can suppress."

"I don't want to hurt you, nor do I want to defeat you. I just want to release the pent-up anger in my heart: about you."

"Believe me, anyone who talks to you will have this fantasy, Dorn, they want to fight you."

"And I am so lucky because I was able to turn this fantasy into reality."

"I'm almost crying with joy, brother: do you know when was the last time I shed tears?"

"When they found out you weren't an only child?"

"boom!"

Another blow knocked a large chunk off Rogdorn's shield, leaving it unsightly damaged. But before he could adjust, the Wolf God's relentless, storm-like attack was already on its way.

Like a roaring beast, Horus unleashed six consecutive strikes at unimaginable speed. Each attack was a brilliant and deadly move, so swift that even the most discerning Astartes warrior could not see it.

Amidst the clash of metal, Rogdorn swiftly raised his shield to block the first blow, then barely dodged the second, deflected the third with his sword, and then had no choice but to take the next three blows head-on.

Cracks began to appear on his armor.

Dorne finally couldn't take it anymore, and under Horus's relentless onslaught, he had to retreat a few steps to a safer rear while struggling to hold on.

Shepherd Wolf immediately pounced, giving his brother no time to catch his breath. His attacks were as sweeping and powerful as ever, but this boldness came at a price.

Rogdorn bent over, shield in hand, his grip on the sword's edge tight, never giving up the chance to counterattack, even when the battle was going badly.

A sword mark clearly pierced through the neck armor, leaving an ugly charcoal-black stain on the flawless pearl-white armor, reminding the war commander that his opponent was not an insignificant nobody who could be easily manipulated.

But this obstacle was no match for the Warlord. He stretched his slightly sore and numb arms, watching as Dorn wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, and then launched another fierce attack.

And Dorn, without hesitation, charged headlong into it.

Like enraged stags, the two Primarchs launched one desperate charge after another, disregarding their own safety and lives. Inspired by them, or perhaps spurred by the fact that the Father of Gene was in a dangerous place, the battles between Astartes became increasingly brutal.

Nearly eighty Imperial Fists have fallen, and they have killed far more Shadowmoon Wolves, but they have not been able to reverse the vast disparity between the two sides: the sons of Horus continue to launch attacks, chainsaw axes and power swords clashing under the same dome, heads, limbs and severed arms rolling around corpses everywhere, but they cannot stop more and more fanatics from joining the battle.

As blood flowed, this unique battlefield drew all the combatants within the fortress: the Imperial Fists, originally scattered across various locations, used every means to break through the obstacles in their path and rushed to their Primarchs and comrades-in-arms as quickly as possible, allowing the disadvantaged Seventh Legion to receive valuable reinforcements.

These brave and fearless warriors charged towards the Shadowmoon Wolves' forces in twos and threes from the perimeter, greatly relieving the Imperial Fist's encirclement. At the same time, they also completely diluted the last bit of order left in the battle: all formations and tactics had become ineffective, and the war had turned into a massacre of everyone by everyone.

Everyone was fighting alone. While each person was able to stab the other in the back, they also exposed their own neck to another blade. Killing and being killed danced in unison. Champions were crowded together, with no room to even swing their swords. The pride and skills they had honed over hundreds of years were wasted in the chaotic battlefield, which resembled a quagmire.

Calmness, resilience, and wisdom—these more complex qualities are almost useless here. Only the purest courage and the faintest luck can save a person's life: anyone can die, the strongest warrior can be taken from behind by a newcomer in his eyes, or he can behead ten or even twenty people without being hurt.

Every second someone dies, every breath symbolizes a head falling. Those who fight, those who are qualified to stand here and fight beside the Primarchs, are all the absolute elite of the Legion. The Golden Legion is the result of the life's work of the Primarchs Horus and Dorne.

Every person fighting here deserves their own stage, and should die on the most important and grandest battlefield. Every loss of theirs should cause their Primarch great pain.

But now, they have become the footnote to a sudden battle in the Blood Hall, dying in droves like cheap recruits on a chaotic and even worthless piece of land.

Gastalin and Haskar's corpses piled up like mountains, the Wolf Brothers and the Templars fell one after another, and those champions who had been invincible for two hundred years before this died in droves less than a hundred paces from their Primarchs: these losses were irreplaceable, and every head broke the bones of two legions.

Without a doubt, whoever is the victor today, whatever they gain in this battle, it will never make up for what they have lost today.

But the loser's fate will be even more tragic.

The fate that will befall them does not depend on the bloody battle fought by the thousands of Astartes present, but solely on the final two demigods, on who will fall first between Horus and Dorne.

The answer seems obvious.

Horus was like a giant, like a windmill, and the Don Quixote before him was so ridiculous.

Horus blocked another thrust from the Terran Guard with the Worldbreaker. The Warmaster smiled, then with a sudden twist of his wrist, Dorne's sword was involuntarily deflected backward. A tooth-splitting sound came from his shoulder and elbow, while the Worldbreaker smashed through the shield from below, sending golden shards flying and slicing across the Terran Guard's face.

For a moment, blood flowed like a torrent.

Horus smiled with satisfaction at this scene, but he was not mocking his brother. In his heart, the Warmaster of the Empire still held Dorne in high esteem, but that did not prevent him from enjoying the thrill of battle.

Horus, the Wolf God, was like a teacher in complete control. He did not unleash his full power, but gradually increased the pressure on Dorne's shoulders. Horus was certain that he had not used his full strength, at least he had not used his most important trump cards, but with only pure physical strength and more experienced experience, Roguedon was gradually losing the ability to resist him.

Terran Guards on the battlefield are much easier to deal with than those in the command center.

Seeing Rogdorn, who was panting heavily and constantly retreating under his fierce attacks, Horus was not in a hurry to launch his own new offensive.

He spoke again, as if he cherished this opportunity to talk face-to-face with his former brother.

He knew there was a possibility that this might truly be the last chance for him to speak with Dorn.

Dorn cherished it immensely, and so did he.
"You did a good job, Dorn."

A forced smile appeared on the face of the Wolf God: looking at the corpses of his offspring piled on the ground was extremely difficult.

"To be honest, brother, your counterattack has indeed caused me a lot of trouble. In order to take this fortress from you, I used all my strength. Whether it was the army that launched a full-scale attack or the fleet that was fighting your warships in near-Earth orbit, their losses were no less than those of a real war."

"And you, with just a flash of inspiration, have greatly diminished my originally perfect gains."

"In my plan, I don't intend to sacrifice so many elite troops for this fortress."

"This is not what I want."

"No, Horus."

Dorn simply but firmly rejected his brother.

Compared to when the battle had just begun, the current Emperor Fist Master was in a rather miserable state. His face was covered in blood that he couldn't stop, his armor was tattered, his once reassuring shield was now only about three-quarters intact, and even his sword had many dents.

But this was nothing compared to his trembling arms and his retreating figure before Horus.

What could keep Dorn going was perhaps only his nerves, which were more resilient than stone.

Even so, his eyes, when he looked at the Wolf God, still held only unwavering fighting spirit and courage.

His words were deliberate and sharp, like daggers.

"Is this what you want?"

“You had the chance to end all of this. You had the chance to agree with me and Makado.”

"Regardless of the final outcome, at least this current battle will absolutely not happen."

"Who do you think killed your offspring?"

"It is yourself, Horus."

"The Shadowmoon Wolf that died before you died because of your arrogant and ambitious response just now."

"Sometimes I really don't understand what you're thinking, brother."

The Wolf God raised his claws.

"You don't really believe that the Seal Bearer and the High Lord are sincerely asking for peace, do you?"

"One year?"

"Humph!"

"Who knows what they'll say a year from now?"

"Don't forget how many years we gave them before the war even started."

"They couldn't even be bothered to give a formal response!"

"And now? War has broken out, blood has been shed, their throne is beginning to crumble, and now they're in a panic, they're begging us for a year's worth of aid?"

"You don't think we're making demands, do you, my dear Brother Dorn?"

"All of this has reached the point where it can no longer be tolerated."

The Wolf God slowly tightened his grip on his claws, and the sound of metal scraping against metal was so grating.

Dorn did not respond to that statement. He was seizing every opportunity to gather his strength, catch his breath, and get his body back into coordination and tension.

But something always interrupts his thoughts.

Because not far from him, the bright yellow lines of the Imperial Fist were teetering on the brink of collapse amidst the pearly white waves. Even though the entire Seventh Legion soldiers still active within Vox Fortress were rushing here at the cost of their lives, the absolute disparity in numbers and their small, scattered groups made this reinforcement look more like a moth drawn to a flame.

After wave of brave moths, more of Horus's offspring fell, but the overall battlefield remained unchanged. The Imperial Fist's front line was shrinking again and again, and the Shadowmoon Wolves were advancing steadily, even though every step came at the cost of blood and death. But everyone on the battlefield knew this.

If things continue like this, the defeat of the Imperial Fist is inevitable.

"If you ask me, Dorn."

Horus saw this as well.

"You have one last chance, brother."

He extended his hand to Dorn: the scene might have been even more heartwarming if it weren't for the five claws still attached to that hand.

"I don't expect you to agree with my ideas, nor do I expect you to go back on your choices."

“You are Rogdorn. Once you make a decision, you will never turn back, even if it means suffering a bloody defeat.”

"That's what I admire most about you."

"But I also want to tell you, Dorn, you also have a chance to stop your offspring from bleeding."

Horus glanced into the distance, ignoring Rogdorn's quiet accumulation of power.

"Let your offspring cease fighting."

“I also made my children stop.”

"No one will be a winner or a loser, and no more blood will be shed."

“Take your men back, brother.”

“You know, once the outer walls were breached, you were never going to be able to hold this fortress anyway: there’s no need to keep bleeding.”

“You can go back and return to the Eternal Expedition via your teleportation array: then, we’ll have a fair fight on the land of Minerva.”

"how?"

The Wolf God smiled and made a suggestion to his brother.

A sentence was added at the end.

“I know, it sounds ridiculous.”

“Then you should have heard about what I did back in Lemanrus’s hometown, Dorn.”

"Believe it or not."

"In any case, aside from the necessary battles, I don't want to see any more Astartes die here."

"This is our war against the High Lords."

"Not a war between us and you."

"You can... think about it carefully."

------

This is the update that was supposed to be posted last night.

As for today's update, I actually wrote 15,000 words in one go about the Horus and Dorne part, which completely finished this part of the story. But I haven't finished revising the rest yet, and I'm too sleepy right now, so I'm going to sleep first. I'll revise it when I wake up and then post it. The next chapter will be today's update.

(End of this chapter)