On the black sands of Istvaan V, a storm was brewing, while on the bridge of the flagship in orbit, an argument over life and Death was erupting among the Loyalist Primarchs.
Beside the holographic tactical table, Ferrus Manus was like an erupting volcano. His silver bionic hand slammed heavily onto the surface, nearly punching through the thick metal plate.
His cybernetic eyes burned with an uncontrollable fury—a hatred born from the betrayal of his closest brother, enough to incinerate all reason.
"Attack! Attack now!"Ferrus roared, his voice as harsh as the grinding of steel.
"Don't you see? They haven't secured their footing! Horus's fortifications aren't even finished yet!"
"That damned Fulgrim is right down there, mocking me! Every second of waiting is an insult to the Empire and to me personally!"
Opposite him, Vulkan looked grave; the merciful lord of the Salamanders tried to calm his brother's rage with his deep, steady voice:
"Ferrus, calm down. Scans show that the terrain of the Urgall Depression is extremely unfavorable for us."
"It's a natural pocket, surrounded by mountains on three sides. We can't just dive headfirst into it."
"We should wait for the second wave—wait for Perturabo, Lorgar, and the others to arrive and establish a solid rear position before advancing. There is no need for such haste."
Corax, who had been standing in the Shadow, also issued a warning, the voice of the Raven Guard lord sounding like ice:
"My scouts feel that something is wrong."
"It's too quiet. Horus's deployment has gaps; this looks like... bait."
"Ferrus, we are here to quell a rebellion, not to throw our lives away."
"Bait?"
Ferrus sneered, drawing the Warhammer 'Forgebreaker' from his back. It still bore traces of his friendship with Fulgrim, but now it had become the deepest pain in his heart.
"In the face of absolute power, there are no traps, only obstacles to be crushed!"
"If you are afraid, if you want to stay here and watch that traitor go free, then eat my dust behind my tracks!"
"The Iron Hands never wait!"
Without giving his two brothers any further chance to dissuade him, or even waiting for detailed tactical coordination, Ferrus cut the communication.
Minutes later, the Iron Hands' Drop Pods fell like a black rain, recklessly smashing onto the surface of Istvaan V.
Watching that determined silhouette charging toward a place of certain Death, Vulkan and Corax exchanged a helpless glance. They could not watch their brother die alone.
"For the Emperor." Vulkan sighed and issued the Order to attack.
Thus, with the Salamanders and Raven Guard acting as flank cover, they were also forced into this assault that had been out of control from the start... Horus Lupercal was watching it all coldly.
He watched that black tide of steel rush into the lowlands, a cruel smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"He took the bait." Horus's voice was so steady it was chilling, as if everything were on his chessboard. "Ferrus's rage is his greatest strength, and also his greatest weakness."
"Warmaster, Angron is already becoming somewhat uncontrollable."
Abaddon reminded him in a low voice.
"Let him out."
Horus ordered, his eyes flashing with calculating light.
"Let him act as a reserve force and offer some symbolic resistance on the flank."
"Make sure Ferrus feels he has crushed the World Eaters; let him taste success. And then... pull that mad dog back."
"The entire army is to retreat. Make the collapse of the first-echelon defensive line look 'natural'."
"Understood." Abaddon nodded, then asked again,
"What about the Emperor's Children? Do they need to be notified to retreat?"
Horus turned his gaze toward the noisiest and most chaotic area of the battlefield—the Emperor's Children's positions.
Eerie purple light flickered there, and even nauseating music could be heard.
"No need."
Horus waved his hand coldly.
"Fulgrim is still over there practicing his 'art'.
Besides, leaving those degenerates there is perfect."
"Ferrus hates them most of all. Leaving them there to draw fire will pull that magnet in even tighter."
"As for whether they live or die... that is the price they pay for pursuing 'perfection'."
On the battlefield, an eerie scene unfolded.
As the Sons of Horus, the Death Guard, and the forcibly recalled World Eaters began to "retreat" in an Orderly fashion toward the rear fortresses, the Emperor's Children's positions remained steadfast on the front lines.
But this was not because of bravery, but because of madness.
This once-noble Legion now displayed its new, fallen face—the Noise Marines.
Holding strange, instrument-like Sonic Weapons, they performed a brain-boiling, devilish music on the battlefield.
They seemed to have fallen into some kind of delirious hallucinatory state, completely failing to notice that their allies had retreated. Instead, they were addicted to the sensory stimulation of slaughter and noise, laughing wildly while pouring fire onto the Iron Hands.
However, not everyone was insane.
Behind a ruined cover, Chief Apothecary Fabius Bile was keenly observing the situation.
The extremely shrewd "Spider" suddenly noticed something wrong with his surroundings—allied banners were disappearing, Horus's flagship was changing orbit, and the entire battlefield seemed to have become a giant bear trap, with the Emperor's Children as the bait.
"Something's wrong..." Fabius narrowed his eyes, looking at those Noise Marines who were still playing self-indulgently and were high as kites, and cursed,
"Those idiots. Horus, that bald head, sold us out."
The extremely self-preserving Apothecary did not hesitate for a second, nor did he have any intention of notifying his comrades.
He turned and took his precious experimental samples and his trusted followers, slipping away toward the extraction point without looking back.
Ferrus did not notice these details. In his eyes, there was only Fulgrim.
"Kill! Wipe them all out!"
The Iron Hands Primarch brandished his Warhammer, moving through the enemy lines as if in an uninhabited land. He believed he was winning, and that the rebels' retreat was due to fear.
Just then, the thunderous sound of engines echoed from the sky.
The second wave of support troops had arrived.
The Iron Warriors, Night Lords, Word Bearers, and Alpha Legion. The Drop Pods of four Legions fell like rain, their warships blotting out the sky.
For the loyalist faction, who were running low on ammunition and whose vanguard had pushed too deep, this was like salvation from a descending God.
"Ferrus! Come back! The reinforcements are here!"
Vulkan shouted anxiously over the vox channel.
"We'll hand the position over to Perturabo; we need to resupply and reorganize!"
But Ferrus refused; he was already nearly in front of Fulgrim.
Having no choice, Vulkan and Corax could only begin to provide alternating cover, slowly retreating as they prepared to rotate with the "brothers" behind them.
They did not know they were turning their backs to the God of Death. On the ground, Perturabo strode out of his Drop Pod.
He looked at the unsuspecting Salamanders and Raven Guard warriors saluting him, a cold light flashing in his eyes.
He opened a wide-band communication, his voice as cold and hard as iron:
"This is Perturabo. The Iron Warriors are taking command of the landing zone defense."
"All Gunships and Transports in the air are to return to their orbital motherships immediately for resupply and refitting."
"We need to clear the airspace to deploy Heavy Artillery."
This was an Order that perfectly matched the logic and combat style of the Iron Warriors.
Most of the Loyalist pilots had no suspicions.
Even though they were from different Legions, they trusted the professional judgment of this Siege Master.
Thus, most of the Salamanders' and Iron Hands' air forces began to leave the atmosphere and return to orbit.
Only a few Raven Guard pilots refused to comply.
"We only take Orders from My Lord Corax."
They replied, continuing to circle at low altitude.
Perturabo did not argue; he simply looked coldly at the remaining aircraft and sentenced them to Death in his heart.
With the departure of most of the Loyalist air force, the lid snapped shut.
And in the void outside the atmosphere, another eerie drama was unfolding.
The Alpha Legion fleet was mixed within the Loyalist battle group.
The moment Perturabo prepared to act on the ground, the Alpha Legion ships suddenly launched Boarding Actions against their nearby allies.
Inside a Salamanders cruiser, a group of Alpha warriors in cyan-scaled Power Armor rushed into the bridge like ghosts.
Their movements were precise and lethal, quickly slaughtering all the Space Marine guards who tried to resist.
But strangely, once they controlled the bridge, the Alpha Captain looked at the trembling mortal Captain and crew. He did not kill them.
"This ship is now under the control of the Alpha Legion."
The Captain opened external communications and sent a "Suppressed" signal to the rebel fleet, causing the other rebel warships to stop their bombardment of the vessel.
Then, he turned to the mortal Captain and said,
"Now, start the engines and jump. Leave here. The further, the better."
The mortal Captain was terrified and confused: "Wh... why? Aren't you traitors?"
From beneath the Alpha Captain's helmet came an inscrutable voice, speaking their Legion's famous, mystery-shrouded battle cry:
"For the Emperor."
The ship was allowed to escape.
In other corners of the battlefield, the Alpha Legion acted in a similarly confusing manner, efficiently slaughtering Loyalist Astartes on one hand, while intentionally or unintentionally letting some mortal ships and important seeds escape on the other.
The view returned to the ground.
Just as the last Salamander warrior walked into the "defensive cover" constructed by Perturabo, preparing to wave to his "allies" before turning to deliver the final blow to Fulgrim.
The Vengeful Spirit in the sky fired a bright red signal flare.
On the ground, Perturabo's arm snapped down.
"Fire."
In that instant, the entirety of Istvaan V seemed to turn into a purgatory.
The thousands of cannons originally meant to "cover" their brothers spat out fire-tongues of Death at zero distance into the backs of the unsuspecting loyalist faction.
There was no warning, no honor.
There was only the crisp sound of tens of thousands of bolter shells tearing through Ceramite Plating, and the shock and despair of being backstabbed by those they trusted.
Iron Hands, Salamanders, Raven Guard.
The warriors of the three Legions fell like mown wheat.
Simultaneously, Horus's army in front turned back to strike.
The loyalist faction was caught in a deadly pincer.
Ferrus Manus turned back amidst the chaotic battle, looking at the Iron Warriors banner behind him—which had originally represented hope but was now spitting Death—and let out a roar of despair and fury.
The trap snapped shut.