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[Ding! Host has successfully witnessed "The Defection of the Voskanyan Ironclad Regint"]
[Quest Issued: Alter the tragedy of the defection, end the mutiny ahead of schedule]
[Reward Points: 10,000]
The system's chi echoed through Kaelen's skull, and the absurdity of it hit him imdiately.
That counts as witnessing?
But this was no ti to argue with a notification.
Kaelen grabbed the Commissar off the ground, grip firm, voice harder.
"The mutiny has already started! Commissar — contact every friendly unit in the area and organize a counterattack. My 'Ogryn' attendants and I will buy you ti to rally your forces!"
"What are you going to do, Sergeant?"
The Commissar was still reeling, the question coming out hollow.
"Kill the enemy!"
Kaelen released him and charged out of the tent, Horus and Kullen flanking him on either side.
The Commissar watched the three of them go. Sothing clicked back into place behind his eyes. He started bellowing.
"Contact all surviving friendly units in the vicinity! Organize a counterattack!"
Outside, the air tasted like burning tal.
Landing Pad Three had beco a at grinder.
Half an hour ago, the Cadian Astra Militarum had been cheering for the Voskanyan Ironclad Regint. Now they were falling in rows under heavy fire from those sa guns.
The traitors had shed their disguises. Blasphemous eight-pointed stars were daubed across black carapace armor. They scread the true nas of the Dark Gods as they advanced, rifles raised, stepping over the bodies of their forr comrades, fanning out in tight tactical formations.
Kaelen crouched behind an overturned Chira. He pulled out the lta-gun he'd redeed from the system earlier and poked his head out just far enough to read the situation.
"Thirty thousand elite soldiers defecting at once." He scanned the carnage. "Caught the Imperium completely off guard."
His gaze settled on the bodies in ornate uniforms scattered across the pad.
"And they've already killed the Castellan Pri, the Castellan Secondus, and every other senior commander in reach."
"A decapitation strike," Horus said. "They exploited the Imperium's trust to gut its entire command structure on Cadia in a single blow."
"They've also severed communications with the other infantry regints," Kullen added. "The Imperium can't coordinate a response."
"Our recomndation: flank them, eliminate their senior officers, and shatter their organizational cohesion. That buys ti for friendly forces to regroup."
Kaelen looked at Horus, frowning. "But you're not wearing power armor. Is that wise? What happens if you get hit?"
"Seizing the mont is what matters," Kullen said. "Don't forget what's standing in front of you, Kaelen. That is a Primarch."
"The ti it would take to suit up could cost us the window entirely. By the ti we're done buckling on armor, these heretics will have punched through every defensive line on this pad." He paused. "Lord Lupercal's safety is my responsibility."
Horus laughed.
It was a deeply incongruous sound in the middle of a firefight.
He tilted his head toward Kullen, a glint of amusent in his eyes. "Are you certain it won't be protecting you, Knight Kullen?"
The remark landed like a blade. It pierced right through the old First Legion knight's pride. But the truth was the truth.
When a Primarch fought in earnest, perhaps only the Custodes could barely keep pace, and the Astartes were a step below even them, for all their superhuman speed and strength. Before a Primarch, the gap was simply too vast to bridge.
Kullen was quiet for a mont. Then he lowered his head.
"Then I will do my utmost to follow you on the battlefield, my lord. I will protect you with my life."
It was the stubbornness of the old-school Dark Angels. A code of honor that belonged to the knights of Caliban.
"I am honored by that, Knight Kullen." Horus's broad palm ca down on Kullen's canvas-wrapped shoulder. "In you, I see the finest knightly virtues of my brother, Lion El'Jonson."
Kaelen watched the two of them and couldn't help himself.
"So once you two go charging in — what exactly am I supposed to do?"
The words had barely left his mouth before Horus reached out with his left hand. He stripped a standard-issue lasgun from the body of a dead Astra Militarum soldier nearby, then plucked several frag grenades from the man's tactical vest.
He pressed all of it into Kaelen's hands.
"Stay in the rear." Horus's voice was quiet. "Truthfully, your safety concerns more than my own. I need you back here providing fire support for Kullen and , and holding on until reinforcents arrive."
Even in the plainest pre-battle instructions, the Primarch radiated sothing that couldn't be faked. He understood people. He knew how to reach the fighting spirit buried deep in a soldier's bones, and he knew, without seeming to try, how to make the person beside him feel valued. Needed.
He was a lighthouse in a freezing dark, and Kaelen felt the unease in his chest ease without quite knowing when it had happened.
"Alright." Kaelen gripped the lasgun. It was still warm from the dead man's hands. He nodded. "I'll hang back, take potshots, and buy ti until reinforcents show."
No lengthy rally needed. Kullen activated the disruption field on his master-crafted power sword with a quiet click.
Horus rose from behind the Chira.
His silhouette was enormous. It swallowed the distant firelight and cast a long shadow over Kaelen.
He rolled the joints of his bare arms, unhurried. Then he drew the ritual power shortsword from the leather sheath at his hip, his close-combat weapon of choice.
The energy field activated. The blade humd.
"For the Emperor."
Horus didn't restrain his voice. He let it out fully, a battle cry that tore through the noise of the firefight like it had been waiting ten thousand years for this exact mont.
Pure. Exultant. It drowned out the grinding engines of the armored vehicles. It drowned out the explosions. It drowned out everything.
Kullen's hand tightened on his sword hilt. Kaelen raised his lasgun.
Both of them shouted at once.
"For the Emperor!"
---
The perspective pulled back.
High on the ridgeline fortifications above, Ursarkar Creed stood with magnoculars raised, watching the inferno below with cold, steady eyes.
The Aquila battle standard, symbol of Imperial glory, had been torn apart and thrown into the mud.
In its place, the Chaos eight-pointed star.
A frigid wind cut across the ridge.
Beside him, Color Sergeant Kell's knuckles had gone white around the grip of his chainsword.
"Sir... the Voskanyans have lost their minds. Their entire defensive line has defected."
The commander was portly, unhurried, a cigar clenched between his teeth. His face showed nothing. No panic. No hesitation.
His blood ran cold enough. His spine was forged iron.
"Since they've shed their human skins," Creed said, "we'll butcher them like the animals they are."
He exhaled a thick plu of smoke. His calloused hand chopped forward.
"Eighth Regint, heed ! All units, advance!"
"In the Emperor's na, grind these bastards into the dirt—"
The charge order was still leaving his mouth when sothing caught his eye. A flicker of movent at the flank of the landing pad below.
Two massive "Ogryns" were crashing through the traitors' flank line at terrifying speed.
Like a red-hot blade driven straight into the enemy's main artery.
➤ Next: You Rebels Face the Three of Us, Master and Disciples
— .—— .—— .—— .—— .——
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