40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 819, Section 16: Walking with Fire (Part 8)

Combat is an instinct for the Primarchs, a fact established long before they were embryos.

Even without being taught, they are born knowing how to fight, how to use violence, and how to kill.
The Emperor created these answers one by one according to his needs for war. If things went as planned, and the Primarchs grew up in laboratories and were educated by the Lords of Man from a young age, the galaxy might have been a different place.

Unfortunately, this was just a fantasy. The Primarchs, who grew up separately in various worlds, did not grow up as the Emperor had envisioned. Interestingly, regardless of their different personalities, backgrounds, and experiences, they were all top-notch killing machines in this world.

Horus Lupecal was among the top of the list.

And now, under this blazing sun, two giants, identical to him in the portrait, are fighting.

unarmed.

Horus swung his right fist, which struck his enemy like a cannonball. The enemy's eyes were different from his; there was no anger in them, only calm and weariness, as if a man who had experienced too much was looking at a naive child who was much younger than him.

It was precisely this attitude that ignited his anger; he simply couldn't understand what the other person was thinking.
From the beginning until now, his enemies have never retaliated, only dodging or defending. This has left him almost bloodied and battered, already covered in blood.

But this did not diminish Horus's ferocity—a quality instilled in him by his life in the Krona underworld, never truly gone, and deeply ingrained in his character. Subsequent honors and achievements merely reinforced this spirit.
Horus roared and pounced, his hands gripping the enemy's throat like pincers.

Blood rushes to the head, making it difficult to breathe.
He could see that his enemy was going through these hardships, but his eyes remained calm, as if he were detached from the life-or-death situation.

But can we really say that?
Beneath those countless titles, within the majestic body of a demigod, Horus Lupecal was merely a common, short-sighted gang leader.
The answer is obvious: absolutely not.

Anyone who looked down on him in this way paid the price.

Horus released him in a fit of rage; he could no longer deceive himself.

"Why?" he asked with difficulty. "What is it that sustains you? What makes you so contemptuous of this battle? I really might kill you, do you understand?"

“Because it’s utterly meaningless,” his enemy said, wiping the blood from his face. “And even if I die here, it doesn’t matter.”

Even though Horus had received an answer, his expression grew even more somber.

"I'm tired of this kind of rhetoric. Even if you really want me to know something, why not just tell me the truth from the start? This kind of nihilism is only for cowards!"

Even if I tell you the truth, will you listen?

"Can't I even tolerate a few harsh words?" Horus frowned and retorted. "When you told me those lies before, did I ever interrupt you?"

The person who looked exactly like him smiled slightly; this was the first time he had shown an expression that could represent goodwill.

“Lies, okay, you’re right, those things don’t exist for you,” he said. “And you’re certainly not that kind of paranoid person.”

“So, what are you trying to tell me?” Horus replied with a deep breath, completely unaware that he had calmed down. “What exactly are you trying to tell me? I can tell you’re evasive.”

Under the blazing sun, the man slowly lowered his head. His shadow, gathered at his feet, was pitifully thin, disproportionate to his stature. A few seconds later, Horus heard him sigh.

"The War General you know, the Son of the First Return, has been dead for a very, very long time." He stared at the ground and said in a very soft tone, as if he had just woken up from a dream, his throat dry.

"On Davin, he was already dead when Eugene Tamba hurt him with that sword corrupted by chaos. And it was all planned."

As he spoke, the surrounding scenery suddenly began to change. Horus had experienced this once before, but he still couldn't help but observe his surroundings.

Soon, the world transformed from that small village under the scorching sun into a temple—no, perhaps that's not the right word to describe it; it doesn't deserve it.

Despite its grandeur and elaborate carvings, the winding patterns and interspersed bronze artifacts ironically lend this grandeur a strange and cruel quality.
And then there are those spiral patterns that are almost everywhere.

Looking at them, he felt a primal force, ancient and powerful, yet incredibly evil, that almost made his bones itch.

"Where is this place?" Horus asked gravely. For some reason, he already knew the answer.

“The temple of the Davenman Serpent Society,” another person replied softly.

He looked up at the sky.

In an instant, they entered the temple, where a scene of ruin and desolation contrasted sharply with its exterior. Torches, fueled by the grease of some unknown animal, burned silently on the moss-covered walls, emitting a foul stench. They had done their utmost, yet still failed to illuminate the darkness.

A moment later, footsteps sounded, and the Daventons filed in.

Judging from their appearance alone, they are quite different from humans: the distance between their facial features is too strange, they have eyes without pupils, and they have thick hair like primitive creatures.
They entered and then silently dispersed, allowing a tall figure in a long robe to proceed to the center of the room.

His face was illuminated by a lucky ray of firelight as he walked.

Erebus.

Horus instantly felt a surge of murderous intent.

“I think you understand a little bit now,” another man said, his voice echoing in the darkness. “You believe you are the soul of Horus, and assuming that’s true, then this is where his body and soul were forcibly separated. But in reality, this is where he first died.”

As if to confirm his words, a blasphemous ritual began. The Daven was in charge, not Eribas. He essentially just stood outside the eight-pointed star circle drawn in blood, gazing until the offering was placed in the center of the circle, at which point he turned his head to look at the other side of the darkness.

There, a giant clad in armor lay quietly on a stone platform.

It fit his body perfectly, even though he was wearing his own power armor. The precision was so perfect that it seemed like an absurd joke.

Horus walked over to the giant, his gaze sweeping over the horrific wound on the shoulder, finally settling on the hideous lines on the face smeared with the stench of blood of the Daven.

“A spiral?” he murmured.

“A spiral,” the other affirmed. “In the metaphysical world, symbolism is a very important element.” He didn’t elaborate, but instead somehow transformed the world once again.

Horus could sense that he was the one driving all of this.

In a frenzied spectacle where colors were torn apart and light danced wildly, the Wolf King's Court appeared on the Soul of Vengeance, but it was no longer the grand and majestic place Horus remembered; instead, it had become utterly corrupt. Mortal crew members in uniforms were hanged from the once pristine white ceiling, like a twisted mountain range lifted upside down.

A decaying wind blew by, and their empty, swollen eyes eerily followed the towering giant below, as if watching him.
No, that's not right, it's watching over him on behalf of something.

Horus looked at him.

The once pristine white armor has now turned dark, with gold remaining only ironically, creating a false air of majesty. The face, once noble, now swollen and pale, is no longer the same as before, surrounded by fur and a cloak.

Blood, black as paint and thick as mud, flowed naturally from his seven orifices as he walked, yet he remained oblivious to it, continuing to speak at length to the dead, recounting his vision for war, his plans for the duties of the Astartes and the Primarchs—and most importantly, how he intended to kill the Emperor.

He was completely unaware of how ridiculous he looked at that moment; he simply said that he was waving his arms passionately, as if trying to infect the dead with his own emotions.
Horus clearly heard some snickers.

fling in teeth.

"How could this be?" he asked himself, clenching his fists.

“It’s easy to lie,” the other person replied.

"Moreover, sometimes it's easier to fool a king than a mortal, because kings are incredibly proud. They have millions of ways to mold Horus Lupecal into their desired form, a plan that has been quietly underway for millennia, awaiting only the right moment. They will not stand idly by while humanity rules the galaxy, ventures outward, and establishes a progressive, civilized, and hopeful peaceful world."

Horus wrote down his words, but did not reply. Instead, he strode over to the black-armored giant.

He finally began to observe the man closely, but the conclusion he reached made him wish he had never gotten close to him at all.

Time slipped by unnoticed, and the giant's speech drew to a close. He arrogantly raised his hands, claws and fists gleaming, facing the unseeing eyes of the dead. Then, with a low growl, he proclaimed with the air of a monarch the changes he would bring to the galaxy. His voice was so reliable, his tone so resolute, as if he could already see the world where his promised deeds would be accomplished.

The laughter became almost impossible to conceal.

At that moment, a hint of doubt appeared on the giant's face. It was subtle, but still a hint of doubt, but it only lasted for a moment before being completely erased, like a flame being extinguished.

Horus turned around.

"You're saying that the hellish place on Da Vinci is where he first died, and he's not dead now?"

"Only a last bit of deliberately preserved remains are locked inside the body."

"Then why didn't anyone save him?"

The man almost laughed.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course people come.”

The world spun again, but it was still the scene of the Wolf King's Court, only now the ground was covered in blood, and the traces of battle were like those of a hurricane that had swept through, leaving the place in ruins.

A black-armored giant wielding the Worldbreaker clashed with a one-armed man wielding a blood-red giant axe; the two were locked in a fierce battle. Not far from them, a man lay on the ground, his injuries so severe they were almost unbearable to look at. Beside him was another person urging him to leave.

Horus recognized them in an instant.

“Angron? Fugen? Corax?” he cried out their names in shock, his throat tightening as if wound up, silencing any further words he was about to utter, leaving only a faint whisper.
"Fogan was lured by Horus, then severely wounded and imprisoned in the Soul of Vengeance. His legions were thrown into the deathmatch arena, first fighting the Sixteenth Legion, then his own brothers. In this way, the sons of the emperor were reduced to less than one-tenth, all just to shake Fogan's resolve so that those who had already taken control of him could have one more puppet."

"The Butcher's Nail that tormented Angron housed the souls of his brothers, sisters, and father. They helped him remain calm, eased his pain, and allowed him to smile and express kindness. But now, they are all gone. Horus, who is almost a god here, has dragged these souls out one by one and killed them again in front of Angron. He does this for the same reason he did to Fugen: to make Angron be consumed by rage."

"The only one who escaped these horrors was Kolus Corax, but there was nothing he could do but persuade Fugen to leave so as not to waste Angron's sacrifice."

He pointed to the giant axe, and Horus looked over blankly at the handle.

In an instant, he felt a chill run down his spine—how similar that so-called axe handle was to a human arm bone?
“In the realm of the Blood God, the demons call it Determination with awe,” another person said solemnly.

Silently, Horus raised his hand to cover his face.

He knew this was neither a lie nor an illusion; it was something that had actually happened, something a man named Horus Lupecal had done to his brother. It was naked betrayal, bloody and utterly irreversible.

Only death can resolve a blood feud.

After seeing so much, he finally began to question the memories in his mind. Coincidentally, the longing that arose in his heart when he held that embryo not long ago could provide a small support for his doubts about his memories.
His voice, hoarse, rang out from beneath his broad, calloused hands.

Why did I feel that longing for that child?

“Because that’s how you exist,” the other replied sadly. “Without a vessel, you cannot exist in this world for long. Ritualistically, you must have a vessel to fulfill the purpose for which you were created.”

Horus lowered his hand.

"Made?" He stared at the man with bloodshot eyes. "Who made me? And you...who made you?"

The man didn't answer, but simply raised his hand and pointed to the gate of the Wolf King's Court.

Soon, someone started knocking on the door and calling out.

"Father!"

(End of this chapter)