While the convoy travelled through the darkness of the tunnel, inside the Praetor Suit, Sefirot drifted through the souls of the killed, rifling through their shattered echoes like a scholar flipping through half-burned tomes.
He saw bloody trials for their genetic enhancements and their enhancements. The Astartes is more than human, reforged by nineteen sacred implants into a warrior without peer. Beneath his skin, the secondary heart beats with relentless force, ensuring his blood flows even when his primary heart fails. The ossmodula thickens his bones into unbreakable pillars, while the biscopea swells his muscles beyond mortal limits. His hematophage enhances his blood, clotting wounds instantly, while the Larraman's organ seals injuries with bio-reactive cells, making blood loss a fleeting concern.
His preomnor is a living crucible, dissolving poisons before they reach his stomach, and his oolitic kidney scours his system clean of any lingering toxins. The multi-lung allows him to breathe in the filth of warzones, inhaling even the deadliest fumes as if they were fresh air. The catalepsean node grants him wakefulness beyond exhaustion, slipping into half-sleep without ever closing his eyes. The occulobe sharpens his vision beyond human ken, while the Lyman's ear grants balance that no fall can break.
Beneath his armor, the sus-an membrane offers the cold embrace of suspended animation, allowing him to sleep through centuries if needed. The melanochrome shifts his flesh to resist searing radiation, while the neurono-glottis tastes the air itself, detecting poisons unseen. The mucranoid secretes a protective film, shielding him from extremes of heat and cold, and the Betcher's gland arms him with acid, spitting death at will, and the Omophagea allows them to consume the flesh of others to absorb memories and knowledge.
The progenoids, sacred above all, seed new generations of warriors, ensuring his brotherhood never fades.
And then, the black carapace—the final ascension. A sheath of synthetic nerve endings bonding flesh to ceramite, making his armor a second skin, his will flowing through its circuits like blood through veins. He is not a man. He is an Astartes. A solider who could endure and serve in centuries of war.
But fact remained that most of them were young by their own standards. Barely a century old. Children of a galaxy where the Long War was all they had ever known. Raised to see the False Emperor who designed them as a false rotting god, the Imperium as a prison of weaklings, and Chaos as the only truth of the cosmos.
They were nothing.
But their leader?
Skchalick.
His soul was old.
Ancient.
It burned with the memories of a time before the madness.
A time before Chaos had consumed the galaxy.
Sefirot followed the echo, diving deeper, pushing past the rage and slaughter—back to the beginning.
The Emperor.
A name that once meant something.
A name that once commanded absolute loyalty.
To Skchalick, He had not been a god—the Emperor had despised such titles—but He had been more than a man.
The Conqueror of Terra.
A being of impossible power, who had unified the broken remnants of dying decaying mankind, forged the first galaxy spanning empire for mankind in ten thousand years, and raised up warriors like no others.
The Legiones Astartes.
The Space Marines.
Sculpted by His will, created from His own flesh, each Legion designed to be the ultimate warriors—His weapons of conquest.
"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘸. 𝘐𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥," the Emperor had decreed. "𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦; 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘚𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴... 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘯𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳."
Back in 30th Millennium, Skchalick had been from the XIIth Legion, known then as the War Hounds.
They had been ruthless, efficient, disciplined.
A blade, sharp and honed.
But the Emperor had not been content with just warriors. He had made something greater. Something that these warriors were modeled after. A breed of leaders who could command the Legions of these warriors, who could rule in His stead.
The Primarchs.
Eighteen god-like beings, each made from the Emperor's own genetic code, and from the genetic code of these beings each of the Eighteen Space Marine Legions were born. Each crafted to be His son, His general, His heir.
"Primarch Dorn's genes made builders, and Primarch Magnus made thinkers. Primarch Guilliman raised bureaucrats, while Primarch Lorgar made priests and Primarch Khan vagrants. Of all the Legions, we are the only ones who are exactly what the Emperor wanted, all that the Legiones Astartes were ever meant to be. Conquerors. We aren't meant for the world that is coming, the new world that will rise from the ashes. We are only meant to burn this one down. We are the War Hounds."
But in their infancy the Primarchs had been stolen.
Before they could grow under His guidance, they had been ripped from Terra, cast across the warp by forces unknown.
And so, while the Emperor had waged his crusade to reclaim the stars, His lost sons had been raised by other hands, in other worlds, shaped by other beliefs. And when He found them, He did not re-made them if he intended to do so. He had used them as they were. No matter how twisted, broken, or unwilling they were…
He had made them lead. Even when they hated Him for it. Even when they refused Him. Even when it led to ruin. And of all those sons, there was none more broken than Angron.
Skchalick had heard the stories, whispered through the ranks of the Legion. Their Primarch's past was legend. It was unlike all other Primarchs who were great heroes of the worlds they were raised in.
Angron had been found not on a throne, but in chains. Not ruling an empire, but fighting and dying as a slave. A world of red sands. A sky filled with ashes and screams. A world known as Nuceria.
Angron had been a gladiator, one of thousands, forced into endless battle for the amusement of cowards who would never fight themselves. And in his skull, they had driven the Nails. The Butcher's Nails. A neural implant device of agony and rage, a machine parasite that fed on anger— pushing down all other emotions. It gave him power, but only when he killed. If he stopped, a hellish pain would consume him. And so, he never stopped.
Not until he led a rebellion. Not until he and his fellow slaves stood atop the broken palaces of their masters, weapons in hand, free men for the first time in their lives. But it was not to last. The armies of the slavers came for them. Millions strong. And then the sky split open. And the Emperor came.
With a wave of His hand, He could have burned the enemy to dust. He could have saved them all. But He did not. Instead, He just saved Angron. Ripped him away from his brothers, from his final stand. And He let them die.
Angron had screamed, had begged to be returned, had cursed the Emperor with words that should have seared the soul from his body.
But the Emperor had only looked at him and said: "No."
Accounts from then on became more varied but some sort of accommodation was reached and Angron agreed to take charge of his Legion. Skchalick remembered the former appearance of Primarch Angron when the Emperor had left him alone with many of the then War Hounds alone sake of familiarising of reunited Gene-Father and Gene-Sons. It wasn't an easy meet and greet however, the Primarch called the Legion's captains into his chamber and bludgeoned many of them death for no reason of Skchalick's own understanding, it continued until the then captain and now mortal champion of their God, a marine named Khârn entered the chamber.
The walls spattered with the blood of his brothers Khârn walked, calm and composed, never flinching even as the looming shadow of Angron rose up from where he sat upon a pile of power armoured corpses. Angron immediately fell upon him, and both warriors engaged in a brutal hand-to-hand brawl. Khârn, who like the other officers had sworn before the Emperor they would not fight against their primarch no matter how provoked or ordered, did not resist and was severely brutalised by his gene-father.
And yet, for all his inactivity, Khârn fought, perhaps the hardest battle of his entire life; against his own body that wanted to give in to the pain and surrender to oblivion; against his training that urged him to defend himself; and against his very nature that demanded he bow down to his gene-sire's will and accept his fate. In the end he found himself supine, battered and broken at Angron's feet. Despite this, Khârn remained defiant, neither yielding nor begging mercy, but talking about the battles he'd fought, about the War Hounds, about the other Legions and about the Emperor. With this show of courage, he managed to reach out to Angron, who stayed his hand, realising that the Space Marines of the XII Legion were not the honourless rabble of worthless warriors he originally believed them to be.
"A warborne man can adjust to any diet, including one of violence," Angron said. "When presented with choices of submission, humiliation, or a beating. You should pick the beating eveytime. It's the most nutritious option..."
Only after all that Angron emerged and formally took command of the Legion.
Wiry, copper-red hair curled away from a high brow, pale eyes sat deep behind cheekbones that angled down like axe-strokes to an aquiline nose and a broad, thin-lipped mouth. It was the face of a general to follow unto death, the face of a teacher at whose feet the wise would fight to sit, the face of a king made for the adoration of worlds: the face of a primarch. And rage made it the face of a beast. Rage pulsed and distorted the features like a tumour breaking out from the skull beneath. It made the eyes into yellow, empty pits, debased the proud lines of brow and jaw, peeled the lips back from the teeth.
Angron renamed his Legion the World Eaters as soon as he assumed command. And he did so in honour of the gladiator force he had led in rebellion on his homeworld whose warriors came to be known as the "Eater of Cities" for their wrath and ability to takeover an entire city within a day. He chose the new name for his Legion when Dreagher, a Terran-born War Hounds Astartes who served as captain of the Legion's 9th Company, promised Angron after meeting his primarch for the first time that under his leadership the War Hounds would become "...the eater of worlds."
And so the War Hounds had transformed into the now World Eaters. And then Angron had given them his curse. The Nails. The same brain implants. The same torment that ate at him. And when they felt that agony, when the pain never ceased, when it only faded when they slaughtered… the Emperor did nothing to help except sending in his dogs, the Space Wolves Legion and their Primarch Leman Russ to reprimand Angron, but by then it was all too late.
Horus.The greatest of the Primarchs. The Warmaster. The favored son of the Emperor, given command over all the Legions. When he turned against the Emperor, half the Imperium burned. To the World Eaters, the Heresy had not been a choice. Not truly. The Warmaster had called, and Angron had answered. Some said it was because Horus had promised Angron vengeance against the Emperor for what had been done to him. Some said it was because the Butcher's Nails left him incapable of reason, of loyalty to anything but war and bloodshed. But to the warriors of the XIIth Legion, it had never mattered.
They had followed their father. Even if most of them hated him for what he had done to them. Even if, before the Nails, many had been loyalists at heart. Even if some still whispered of betrayal long after they had joined Horus's war. But they fought. On the planet Istvaan III. The culling of their own. Thousands of World Eaters who refused treason, burned alive by virus bombs, butchered by their own kin. Some had sided with the Emperor, some had merely wanted to be free. It hadn't mattered. Istvaan V. The drop site massacre. The annihilation of the legions; millions of marines of the Iron Hands, the Salamanders, the Raven Guard. The turning point.
Terra. The final war. The last stand of the Emperor. They had fought their way across the galaxy, but it had been on Terra where they lost everything. Angron had been there, transformed into a Daemon Prince of Khorne, leading the charge against the Imperial Palace. The World Eaters had slaughtered their way through the walls, through the defenders, through the Custodes. And then—Horus died. And it had all meant nothing. The Emperor struck him down, the traitor fleet shattered, and the Legions fled into the warp.
The war was over. The dream of the Warmaster was dead. And the World Eaters? They had no purpose left.
The Legion had died the day they became the World Eaters. Angron had given them his curse, but he had given them nothing else. Not a future. Not purpose. Not a dream worth fighting for. He had abandoned them to their hunger. And when they had lost, when the Heresy had failed, when their Primarch fell screaming into the warp, they had been left with nothing but the pain.
That was when Khorne, one of Four Gods of Chaos, took them. The Nails had always driven them to slaughter, but now there was a voice in the bloodshed. A force that welcomed them. A god of battle, of rage, of endless war. They had lost their Father. They had lost their future. But Khorne gave them meaning. Blood. Skulls. War eternal. That was all that remained.
The Nails demanded war. Khorne rewarded it. The Nails screamed for blood. Khorne drank deep. Where the Emperor had used them and cast them aside, where Angron had led them into damnation without care, Khorne promised eternity. A throne built from the skulls of the slain. A purpose without end. And for Skchalick, for his warband, for the remnants of the XIIth Legion, that was enough.
The echoes of agony crash over Slayer's mind like a tide of molten iron. A storm of suffering—raw, unrelenting. He felt everything Skchalick had felt throughout his life. All at once. The Butcher's Nails hammer into his skull, gnawing at his mind with the rhythm of war, demanding blood. Khorne's call rumbles through his soul, a bottomless abyss of slaughter and violence, promises of power, of dominion, of eternal conquest.
The void churns. A sea of screaming echoes, bound in iron and soaked in centuries of slaughter. It is the memory of Skchalick, but it is more than memory—it is a prison of pain, an offering of torment, a throne room of suffering built for a god that only demands few things.
Blood. Blood for the Blood God. Skulls for his throne.
The Slayer feels it all. The agony of the World Eater, the burning lash of the Butcher's Nails, the hunger clawing at the soul, begging for carnage. Khorne's call is not a whisper—it is an all-consuming storm, a force of existence itself. It does not ask. It does not plead. It does not seduce.
It demands.
It promises.
It would make him eternal. It would make him SLAUGHTER itself. He would never stop, never rest, never falter. He would be war incarnate, stripped of all weakness, every thought a weapon, every breath a slaughter.
He feels the pull. The weight of it, the sheer inevitability. Nothing resists. Not Astartes, not daemon, not god. The Skull Throne has room for all.
But the Slayer is not 'all.'
He does not resist. Resistance implies struggle. And he does not struggle.
He simply denies.
The war-tide crashes against him, a hurricane of will, of rage, of promises and power—and it does nothing. It breaks around him like mist against a mountain. He does not flinch. He does not waver. He does not hear the call, because the call has no power here.
His gauntlet tightens. The world trembles. His rage is his own, his war is his own, and his strength is not taken—it is made.
A flash of red. A fist wrapped in defiance. A punch that shattered reality.
The memory-scape implodes. Khorne's call fades like a dying ember.
The Slayer stands alone.