Emperor's Bane

Chapter 1016 Horus vs. Dorne (Part 2)

Horus raised his warhammer high.

This attack was unavoidable.

But Rogdorn did not give up the fight. He gritted his teeth, reached for his sidearm at his waist, and prayed to take one more step toward victory in the final moments.

But soon, he noticed something was wrong.

His movements were no longer agile.

His fingers are no longer flexible.

His surroundings were no longer vivid.

Whether it was his own limbs or the Astartes warriors at the edge of his vision, they all seemed to be in some kind of slow motion: he could even clearly see the fleeting satisfaction and sorrow on the face of a Gastalin as he killed a Templar.

But the one thing that hasn't changed is Horus.

In this world where everything has come to a standstill, the Wolf God continues to walk as always.

The black flames in his hand and the psionic fluctuations in his eyes were enough to explain the reason for all of this.

Time, at least within this realm, is now in the grasp of Shadowmoon Wolf's original form.

A gust of wind howled past as the Worldbreaker's warhammer slammed heavily into Rogdorn's face and chest. It was an attack that showed no mercy or restraint; he tore through the Terra Guardian's power armor as easily as tearing paper, exposing his naked flesh to the wrath of the Wolf God.

The gold fragments were covered in blood.

Rogdorne fell heavily to the ground. This blow was not enough to kill him completely, but it was enough to deprive him of the right to continue fighting for a short time: because the real damage did not come from the Worldbreaker, but from beneath the wound, where the psionic energy of the Wolf God was wreaking havoc within Dorne's body, burning away faster than the Primarch could regenerate.

To outsiders, the horrific wound on the Primarch's chest was enough to devour his life.

Horus watched Dorne, the undisputed victor, as his brother tumbled to the ground in a wretched state, his mouth gaping open, blood gushing out like a stream, the rising heat scorching the air and shrouding everything in a hazy mist.

Horus pondered whether to stop there or deliver a second blow.

He knew that one blow wouldn't break Dorn: at most it would only make him lose the battle.

But just as the Wolf God was considering his next move, someone made the decision for him.

"Father!"

It is unknown which imperial fist uttered the first cry of agony.

In the next moment, everyone present witnessed the outcome of this Primarch battle.
Two voices rang out simultaneously: the triumphant howls of the Shadowmoon Wolves and the blood-soaked cries of the Imperial Fists.

"Primarch! Get to the Primarch!"

Captain Akamus of Dorne's guard let out an unprecedented roar that echoed across the entire battlefield and roused all the surviving Imperial Fists. They disregarded everything and fled the battle, even if it meant exposing their backs to the enemy.

As Dorn lay on the ground, his senses shattered, but his hands still instinctively sought support, as if he wanted to stand up and continue the fight, his offspring were rushing to the heart of the battlefield at all costs. A dozen Imperial Fists were killed in the process, but many more successfully protected their Gene Father.

They shielded Rogdorath behind them, and many began desperately searching for a way out, dragging their Primarchs along, hoping to fight their way out of the Shadowmoon Wolves' encirclement.

And some of the braver ones looked with despair at Horus, who was so close at hand, even though the Wolf God had never tried to stop the Imperial Fists: if he had wanted to, probably none of Dorne’s offspring would have been able to get close to their genetic father.

But in fact, Zhan Shuai hesitated; he seemed ashamed of hurting one of his brothers with his own hands.

This shame came from within, and also from the imperial flame that had always given him strength.

Whether blinded by rage to avenge the Primarch or prepared to sacrifice their lives to delay the immense threat of Horus, the ten best Imperial Fists raised their weapons and charged fearlessly toward the Wolf God who was right before them.

Horus looked at them with some annoyance.

He was still troubled by Dorn's fall, and the faces before him only intensified his unease.

He could even name some of the people.

He didn't know what was wrong with him, or why this sentimentality had suddenly struck his heart.

He wasn't like this before.

But this kind of thing... tsk!

Frustrated, he still swung Horus's Claw.

Death came cleanly and swiftly; an invisible wave of psychic energy instantly sliced ​​the golden warriors into a bloody mist, ensuring they felt no pain in their final moments.

In that short time, the Imperial Fists had formed an iron wall, perfectly protecting their father from the Shadowmoon Wolves' spying, and were advancing towards their only escape route at all costs.

This line of defense was right in front of the Primarch. Horus could easily cross it with a single step. He only needed to swing his claws or Worldbreakers slightly to crush the last hope of the Imperial Fists into dust.

But he didn't.

He allowed his vulnerable nephews to protect his brother from within five steps of him.

He simply watched, as if he had nothing to do with the war.

Because right before his eyes, a war even more intense and brutal than the one before was unfolding.

All the Shadowmoon Wolves are surging towards this place; they will never give up the honor of capturing a Primarch alive.

This final stage of the battle was more brutal than any before. With every step forward, someone would fall. Every breath, every battle cry, every plea and inquiry to the Father of Genetics meant the flow of blood.

Bolt muskets and sonic weapons relentlessly reaped the joy and sorrow of the crowd. Those Imperial Fists who were unfortunately left behind on the outside of the ranks launched a death charge against the surrounding enemies without hesitation, trying to buy even a second of time for the Father of Gene with their own lives.

The Sons of Horus, too, were driven to madness, charging the lines of the Imperial Heart with even greater fervor, yearning to seize Rogdorath. They were blinded by the great honor, and dozens of elite Shadowmoon Wolves fell in the final moments before victory, their faces still bearing the marks of ecstasy, devoid of any remorse.

It was as if the god of war was roaring on the distant horizon.

"..."

Horus saw all of this.

For some reason, he just felt irritable.

He defeated his most stubborn brethren and destroyed the absolute core of the Seventh Army. This victory was enough to determine the end of the entire Minerva War.

But joy did not come to him.

On the contrary, when he saw the Imperial Fists taking Dorn at such a heavy price, when he saw the Shadowmoon Wolves who had already won die without any connection in order to gain a little more honor, a bitter feeling arose in the Primarch's heart.

He realized that this was not what he wanted to gain from this war.

He remembered Dorn's words.

He has the power to make them bleed less.

"..."

Horus blinked.

He didn't recall the mental journey he had just gone through. By the time he came to his senses, he had already raised his claws and held them upright in the air. The sharp-eyed Shadow Moon Wolves had already seen this, and their faces showed bewilderment and undisguised disappointment.

Every descendant of Horus knew what this gesture meant.

Cease fighting, cease pursuit.

Let them leave.

The Shadowmoon Wolves exchanged glances. They were undoubtedly the victors of the battle, and they faced even more Imperial Fists than they had at the start of the fight, not to mention they had a Primarch in excellent condition: if Horus had been willing to continue organizing this pursuit, not a single Imperial Fist would have left here alive.

They will achieve an absolute victory; the capture of Rogdorn will utterly destroy Terra's morale.

Horus knew this as well.

But he had a thought in his mind, or rather, something more like an instinct.

He instinctively sensed that if he chose to trap Rogdorn here, slaughter the Seventh Legion, and in this way destroy his most steadfast brother, he would be in serious trouble.

He'll definitely regret it later.

This is not something he should be doing.

The Emperor's flames were warning him of this. Although, in the shadows, there were other voices...
A voice from a more distant, purer, and more chaotic ocean encouraged him to act according to his most vile thoughts, but their influence was too weak before the psychic power bestowed by the Lord of Mankind himself.

Watching those desperate arms drag Dorn up the steps they had come from, and hearing the Terra Guardians groan in pain as they struggled to continue their war against him, the Wolf God felt as if he were living in a somewhat absurd dream.

At that moment, he asked himself a question.

A question that seems to be too late.

How did things get to this point?

Why did they... come to this?
"Retreat! Retreat!"

At the edge of the horizon, the Imperial Fists are weeping.

He had never heard such vivid emotion from these strong Invites: the bravest warriors holding high their shields, staying behind to hold off the Shadowmoon Wolves who were still in pursuit; not all of Horus's sons received their father's orders immediately.

Even so, a considerable number of Shadowmoon Wolves stopped their pursuit. They looked at their father with some confusion, their eyes filled with both bewilderment at not being able to reap the greatest victory and pride in the Primarch's powerful strength.

Horus did not issue any new orders, just as he did not stop his sons who continued to pursue him.

He knew they wouldn't succeed.

Despite the fact that the pursuing Shadowmoon Wolves outnumbered the Imperial Fist far more, and despite the Seventh Legion temporarily losing their father, they would not become so vulnerable.

Similarly, they will not be a threat to Shadowmoon Wolves on Minerva for the foreseeable future.

Fewer than a hundred Imperial Fists were able to cover their Primarchs and return alive to the Eternal Expedition, a number less than a tenth of the number Dorn brought to Vox Keep.

This is the Seventh Legion's most valuable elite force; each of them is irreplaceable.

Without them, the Imperial Fist will not be a threat for the foreseeable future.

Dorn would weep for his recklessness.

But he will never admit defeat.

This idea had no basis in fact, but Horus firmly believed in it.

As the last sounds of pursuit, howling, and firing faded from his sight, the Shadowmoon Wolves who had gathered around the Wolf God gradually dispersed. They were still immersed in the glory of a great victory, but the sorrow of losing their comrades slowly crept in at this moment.

Abaddon and the others came out to maintain order, leading their brothers to clean up the battlefield and dispose of the corpses, but almost every Son of Horus would spare a glance for their Primarch.

They all realized that the Wolf God was acting strangely after personally defeating his brother.

After withdrawing his gaze, the Warmaster stared intently at his outstretched Claw of Horus.

A black flame burned on it.

Horus looked at it.

Then he slowly shook his head and retracted his claws.

"This is not a controllable force."

He said to himself in a low voice.

"It's powerful: but I can't rely on it."

"It makes me feel dangerous."

“Perhaps…perhaps I could defeat Makado and his followers even without it.”

“Father…”

"I don't know why, but I shouldn't have doubted you."

"But I always feel that not all the power you give me is safe."

"For example..."

"grown ups."

Abaddon came to the side of his genetic father.

His voice was hoarse, as if he had been crying.

"I just received a report from Malhohurst that the Imperial Fist Legion's front lines are contracting across the board. They appear to have abandoned the outer defenses of the Sunwall: the fall of Rogdoryn has shaken their morale."

"We have won this battle."

"Um……"

Horus nodded.

There was neither joy nor emotion.

Abaddon paused for a moment, then boldly continued to ask the father of genetics questions.

Do you think they will admit defeat?

"The Fist of the Empire?"

"That's right: they've suffered too many losses here: they can't win the battle on Minerva."

"I know."

Zhan Shuai nodded.

“But that’s Dorn, Azekel.”

"You saw what he did just now."

Abaddon fell silent.

"Are you saying this battle will continue?"

"What? Are you scared?"

Shepherd's gaze shifted to his company commander.

"I'm not afraid."

Abaddon shook his head.

"only……"

He looked around at the corpses scattered all over the ground, the burial ground of thousands of the best Shadowmoon Wolves and Imperial Fists, the most painful victory since the Empire's Great Expedition: the implications of which need no further explanation.

Yes, they defeated the Imperial Fist.

Yes, they dealt a heavy blow to the Seventh Army.

Yes, a great victory.

But how many more such great victories can they themselves endure?

Horus was well aware of his sons' thoughts.

"Go."

But he could only sigh and suppress all his thoughts and ideas, whether his own or Abaddon's, under the smoke of war.

"Direct them to get things done."

"Then, tell them."

"The war is far from over."

"The road to Holy Terra is still long and bloody."

(End of this chapter)