Warhammer: Saving Humanity Begins with the Resurrection of Horus

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The Lord of the Red Sands tossed the spear aside and rose to meet its wielder. Horus descended in silence, exuding the stench of hypocritical justice—as if he were such a civilized being that he felt no anger whatsoever.

A sinister grin spread across Angron's face. He gripped a spear in one hand and a black blade in the other, staring at his brother who held only a power sword. A low growl, like that of a wild beast, escaped his throat.

The next moment, he moved.

The Primarch's power was so great that when he charged, he felt like an absurdly large war chariot. He wielded his weapons recklessly, abandoning defense this time and focusing solely on offense.

The two brothers gripped their weapons and charged at each other, becoming mere afterimages in the eyes of both mortals and Astartes. The speed of their clash was so great that the metallic clang of their weapons formed a continuous, incessant sound, showing no sign of stopping. The ringing of their swords was like a beautiful lament, a perfect demonstration of what it means to defy the laws of physics.

However, only one of them had already achieved immortality. At this moment, Horus was, after all, only a mortal being, and weakened by the war, his movements began to slow down.

His thrust became defense, his slash became parrying. The Wolf God began to retreat: at first only a few centimeters, then several steps. Through his focused, fighting eyes, Angron saw him retreating step by step toward the graveyard that represented death.

Metal clashed, their battle raging on, each impact unleashing powerful shockwaves and explosions. Time itself seemed to slow down. They fought relentlessly, each trying to find an opportunity to take the other's life, and then...

Angron deliberately loosened his grip, allowing Horus's power sword to pierce through his chest. The blade disappeared into his body, but it felt as if it had pierced not the body of a demon, but the heart of a sacrifice on an altar.

A sinister smile appeared on the Red Angel's face.

This was the opportunity he had been looking for.

Anglom hissed through his teeth, blood trickling from his wound. But it was all worth it. A large hand released the spear, then instantly gripped the Wolf God's throat, while another large hand thrust the blade forward.

Great Terra, my hometown

The wind blows across the throne, and the corn shines.

The Tower of Hegemony nurtured our emperor.

Every day, the ashes of the ashes fly in the air.

In the lively parliamentary session, they chatted about everyday matters.

A divine bird floats in the blue sky.

Clear spiritual energy flowed slowly.

Terrans love to eat that dried bacon.

People are overjoyed when the national religion is invoked.

Grand Terra is my hometown.

"Little Ma" made that lovely phone call.

My buddies were nine hours late for their get-together.

The dead angel warmed my heart

Grand Terra is my hometown.

I was born and raised in this remote corner.

Terran people's love

Terran love

I love my hometown so much!

Chapter 194 The Death of Angron

Horus looked at the blade approaching his throat, but there was no fear in his eyes.

San Giuliano, San Giuliano.

Horus was unclear about the specific relationship between the two, but he could feel the depth of their connection, so much so that when he received the psionic wings from the former, he could still clearly receive a memory.

A memory belonging to his brother, Saint Gilles.

That was during the Siege of Terra, outside the Gate of Eternity, amidst the clash between the two Astartes legions, a memory of the battle between the Archangel and the Lord of the Red Sands.

Why should I give myself this memory?

Horus initially thought that Saint Gilles wanted to give him some combat experience, but at this moment, he finally understood.

Because at this moment, this scene is so similar to that of ten thousand years ago.

Angron held the black sword, which originated in a distant time, from a planet that has been annihilated in the present empire, a world called Salem deep in the Far East.

It was an incredibly bizarre world, or perhaps it couldn't be called a world at all, but rather a sphere formed from countless fragments.

Beneath the shattered outer shell of the sphere, surging aetheric energy seeped deep into it. This broken, barren place was liberated by the World Eater and, in the time that followed, provided the entire Legion with weapons and equipment for the Great Crusade and the Great Rebellion.

The best description of Salem is: it is a planet-like prison where a terrifying demon lives deep within, and it is the source of corruption on this planet.

The image of this abominable being is scattered across the planet, forming countless reflections. These reflections can be considered fragments of this demon, but because of the secrets of the underground Mechanicus, it is tightly bound and unable to break free, at most only able to exert influence on the planet's surface.

Ten thousand years ago, amidst a series of grand plans, a sword—a sword that would one day slaughter countless lives and bring bloodshed to the material universe—was forged in the sacred and solemn underground hall of the Sarcorax Foundry.

This was a plan that couldn't be known to the outside world. At that time, Macador's agents hadn't yet spread their influence throughout the galaxy, but their senses and vision were still terrifyingly sharp. If they discovered that within the adamantite-forged blade of this sword, a large group of demons had been bound by runes from a technological ritual used by the forger, then the entirety of Salem would be destroyed.

Fortunately, the forging was successful. The blackened blade was incompatible with everything in the material universe, unable to blend in. This was the magic of demons, and one of the most powerful among billions of magics. The moment this sword was born, it stirred up the surrounding world, and with each subsequent killing of living beings, it grew ever stronger.

To complete it, several skilled craftsmen of the Cult of Mechanics sacrificed their lives, and hundreds more slaves died in the subsequent quenching.

The Mechanicus gifted this sword to Angron, and it subsequently became their signature weapon. Its name is Blackblade, just like its jet-black blade. During the Siege of Terra, this sword drank the blood of over a million lives, and in the years that followed, it slaughtered hundreds of millions more, turning their blood into its sacrifice.

Among these beings were adults, children, the elderly, mortals, Astartes, the legendary Grey Knights, the Imperial Guard, humans, Eldar, dwarves, orcs...

Just like its master's master, this sword is completely indifferent to where the blood comes from.

But now, knowing that he was about to drink the blood of a Primarch, Blackblade began to stir and become excited.

The blade pierced Horus's body at an incredibly tricky angle. Angron chose a cruel method—one that wouldn't kill his brother quickly, but rather torture him. The broad blade churned at his opponent's internal organs, causing the small body to convulse violently, contorting his handsome face.

Blood trickled from Horus's mouth, and his psionic wings began to dim, along with his soul fire. He was already mortally wounded, and was about to be taken by his own brother ten thousand years later, who would devour his soul and turn him into a sacrifice to some damned god.

Angron was ecstatic, reveling in the thrill of about to kill one of his brothers, so much so that even the roar of the Butcher's Spike seemed to soften. Not only him, but even the God of War himself began to cheer; chuckles echoed continuously from within his massive shadow.

He didn't care why the Primarch could be resurrected; to him, it was nothing more than another conspiracy by the Cursed. Long, long ago, hadn't the apothecary under the Prince of Pleasure created something similar?

He only cared whether the battle would excite him or satisfy him.

Then, the battle unfolded just as it had craved.

"kill him."

The voice appeared once again.

"Kill him, devour him, and you will become even stronger."

The sound echoed in Angron's ears, along with the buzzing of the Butcher's Nail. His nostrils filled with blood, bits of flesh gushing from his body with each breath, the thick, stench of which assaulted Horus's face.

He tightened his grip, squeezing Horus's neck, gradually increasing the pressure until Horus's face turned pale, then purple. The black blade's churning force also increased, shattering Horus's internal organs and causing endless blood to gush from his mouth.

Horus's face was contorted with pain. Angron was no longer the Angron he once was. Corrupted by the power of Chaos, he had become a demon prince, far more powerful than any Primarch. Not to mention that his master was Khorne, the Blood God, who was especially powerful, bloodthirsty, and warlike in the realm of Chaos.

Angron's power is now vastly different from what it used to be. To be able to fight like this is arguably the best Horus can achieve with his current physique.

But it's not enough.

Horus's eyes revealed an indomitable spirit.

not enough.

he thought.

not enough.

On the battlefield, the warriors of Star Claw fought desperately, and the Terminator veterans charged forward without regard for anything else. They wanted to go to their fathers' side and fulfill their duties as members of the Honor Guard.

But they couldn't do it. Before them, the red demons and the Chaos Astartes blocked their way. They were like an incomparably high wall and an incomparably wide sea, separating them from their fathers and forcing them to watch helplessly as their fathers' lives were slowly taken away.

Horus's mouth opened a crack, and he breathed rapidly, but he could no longer utter a single word.

He could only manage to squeeze out a single word with blood stuck in his throat.

"brother........."

After becoming the Demon Prince, Angron rarely spoke except for roars. But looking into those eyes, into the emotions they held—pain, death, struggle, and pity—all the emotions of his life surged into his heart. He gripped his sword tightly, allowing the black blade to pierce through his entire body, leaving only the hilt inside.

Their faces were so close, nose to nose, eyes to eyes, that blood gushed out and stained Horus's face.

“Angron........”

Horus called out Angron's name, a name that made him ashamed, and indeed many others, especially the Emperor, his beloved father. Only now could he truly understand how much pain and sorrow his father, himself, the Great Crusade, and the Great Rebellion had inflicted on his brother before him.

But the Red Sand Angel didn't hear the emotion in the words. He forced his jaw to move, forcing himself to force out the words that weren't meant to be spoken, forcing his throat to utter them.

“My brother… Horus…”

A smile graced his face, and the sound of the butcher's nail echoed throughout the heavens and earth.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

Horus stretched out his hands to his brother, weak and powerless. Who could imagine that a human hand could be so fragile? How pathetic, how pitiful, a feeble gesture, like the last struggle of a dying man before his death. But the Lord of the Red Sands was indifferent. He didn't care what his brother wanted to do, even though the scene was so familiar, his mind was no longer capable of recalling these things.

"Angron!"

Horus suddenly roared, in a voice he had never heard before. An unprecedented power erupted from his fragile body, and his outstretched hands gripped the cables on Angron's head, the exposed part of the Butcher's Nail that formed the metal braid.

It's too late.

Angron remembered when this scene was from ten thousand years ago, outside the Gate of Eternity, there was an angel who did the same thing that Horus was doing now.

Pain, a strong pain, a familiar pain.

The Red Angel let out a deafening roar, the immense sound even causing the Void Shield of the distant Titans to tremble. He pulled the Black Blade from his brother's body, intending to sever the arm gripping his head, but Horus skillfully positioned himself so that he and Angron were pressed together, causing the arm to swing wildly but unable to strike Horus.

Angron roared as he felt an unprecedented pain, an indescribable essence. He felt threatened, and he felt the golden flames spreading little by little in his brother's hands.

He felt death, and that feeling terrified him.

Crimson energy emerged, clashing with the golden flames. The Blood God would not allow his hound to die so easily. Even if it meant more pain for the hound, even if it meant the hound would wail in humiliation, he would not allow it to die.

Horus's hands strained relentlessly, his gauntlets scraping against the skull with a piercing, screeching sound. The red angel flapped its wings and soared into the sky, carrying its brother with it. During this flight, their eyes met.

Horus's eyes held only two emotions, two conflicting emotions.

Indifference and pity.

This does not meet the Blood God's requirements; it is not the emotion the Blood God craves. Such an emotion contains no glory, no power, no anger, and no killing.

Such emotions are like a ruthless machine, driving a terrible creation to unleash its power and utterly destroy everything.