Chapter 39: The Target is Horus!

This was the first time Aaron had seen Malum use the weapon known as a bolter.

In his experience, such things were merely for lighting fires. After all, the way Malum could snap his fingers and spark flames with his own bare muscle was truly terrifying. Aaron had always assumed the small laser aperture on the side was the most useful feature—it could sew clothes and roast meat with equal ease. He never expected the dark, cavernous opening in the center to be capable of spewing tongues of fire like a roaring dragon. The explosions caused by the rounds hitting the steel-boned hippo were even more baffling; he wondered if what was being fired was an manifestation of Zeus’s own divine power.

The gargantuan beast, a creature rivaling any mythical monster, retreated in a panic, and one could hear the man-shaped figure atop it chirping away in a stream of gibberish.

"What kind of weapon is that?" Aaron asked curiously. "It looks like a crossbow that explodes."

Anda, having finished dressing, stood with his arms crossed, looking refreshed—finally free from the need to hold his skirt together. "It is a bolter, Astartes VB. The ammunition is essentially a bomb, designed to deliver explosive damage." He looked at Aaron. "You don't need to concern yourself with such things. You won't live to see that future anyway; in that regard, you're much luckier than your brothers."

Anda was, as always, speaking in riddles—or perhaps his way of thinking simply wasn't human. But at least he was willing to explain things, which, in Aaron’s eyes, was likely the result of yesterday’s "father-hugging" success. He instinctively moved a bit closer to his father, hoping for a sign of further affection. When a father’s baseline is set so low, any anthropomorphic behavior is perceived as a miracle.

Then, Anda disgustedly flung a severed demonic hand into Aaron’s face. "Burn this. Why are you playing with that garbage?"

Fine, fine. Deep breath. He was used to it.

Aaron carried the severed hand of Uster and sat on the spectator stand, watching the battle in the arena. Under the suppressive fire of the bolter, even the steel-boned hippo—a creature that could be considered an elite unit—was powerless to resist, pinned into a corner by the heavy firepower. The flesh covering its bones was blown apart before it could even fully knit together. As Malum approached with the air of a god, the sound of his heavy armor shifting against the ground was like a rumble of thunder from the heavens.

These were the guardians of the Celestial Palace, the ones who called themselves the Angels of the Father, locked in an eternal war against demons. According to Malum’s own explanation, he was just an unremarkable Ultramarine, and there were over two hundred thousand more just like him. They weren't even qualified to guard the Father’s palace; there were far more powerful beings stationed at the Father’s throne. Malum had once even begged Aaron not to call him a "Guardian of the Celestial Palace."

If the Custodes had received these data logs when they contacted Archmagos Cawl, their attitude toward the Astartes would not have been very favorable. Though, to be fair, it wasn't great to begin with.

After the suppressive fire reduced the enemy's range of attack without landing a lethal blow, the chainsword came into play. Malum stood firmly before the steel-boned hippo and unleashed a relentless verbal assault: "You filth! How dare you offend my Lord! Did you not look in a mirror when you crawled out of your foul cesspit with this ugly hide? You mongrel, I will hack you to pieces myself!"

The roar of the chainsword mingled with the endless, piercing shrieks of the steel-boned hippo, sounding like a brutal slaughter. The demon’s voice wailed in agony; the "painless blessing" they had researched only worked on mortals—it was useless for them!

Anda frowned. Here it came again—those strange, disjointed scenes erupting in his mind, causing the very reality before him to become blurry and pixelated.

Aaron was dumbfounded, his jaw working as he stammered, "Fa-father, when did Malum learn to talk like that? I know he’s a chatterbox, but I thought he was the rigid, by-the-book type like Guilliman."

Anda clutched his forehead and sighed, "If you knew that every foul word he uttered was being replayed in my mind, you would understand how much I am suffering." And that was not even counting the prayers of trillions of humans in the future. "But that is a matter for the future. The 'me' of today is still 'me.' To hell with what the future looks like."

Anda slumped on the ground and waved a hand, causing some fruit wine to float over. He took a sip of the ancient ale, his expression shifting. "Too bitter. Here, take it." He shoved it into Aaron’s arms.

Aaron pulled a long face, sulking. "You were Jupiter in Rome; surely you’ve had wine brought from the deserts east of Asia Minor?"

Neither of them cared how badly the demon was being thrashed; they were far more focused on debating which wine tasted better. Anda insisted that fruit wine was the purest, and that ale was nothing but swill. Erda liked fruit wine too. They mentioned an old friend named Ollanius Persson—a sort of uncle to Aaron—who liked ale, but he hadn't been seen in centuries, and Aaron would likely never see him at all.

When Malum, busy with his dismemberment work, had nearly hacked the demon into spare parts, Anda finally found a moment to interject.

"Stop, Malum. Cleaning your power armor is a hassle. The Warp rift is too small right now; you won't be able to knock it back through. Drag it over here; it’s time for some questions."

Malum instantly switched out of his berserker state, dragging the ball of flesh and gristle by its neck, leaving a trail of intestines and shredded lung tissue across the floor. "My Lord," he knelt on one knee, one hand resting on the hilt of his chainsword, "a son of Guilliman, mission accomplished."

Aaron squinted, let out a soft "eugh," and scurried behind his father. He had never seen such a gruesome sight. Were all the battlefields that warriors like Malum experienced like this?

Anda nodded and stepped on a spherical skull before him. "Let me think, your name is..." His eyes opened wide, and a brilliant golden light surged forth. "Ah, found it. Byleth. That’s the one good thing about the Inquisition and the Grey Knights—they record the names of the demons they track down, and they don't hide them in those Imperial archives, saving me a lifetime of searching. You were supposed to die in some Grey Knight purge, living a life of mediocrity."

"That feathered bird sent you here and wiped your memory personally, just to amuse himself and catalyze human war."

Byleth struggled to open its mouth. The Emperor permitted it to repair its throat enough to speak. "Who... who are you!" Byleth tried to stab him with a dagger, but the blade failed to even pierce the skin of the Emperor’s foot.

"I am not a god right now, so why are you bringing a dagger that can kill a god? Besides, the one in your hand is a fake; the real one has been lost God knows where. That feathered bird really went to such lengths just for a laugh?"

Anda simply crushed Byleth’s brain, absorbing all its memories. "Boring. The future me only gives me the information I need; everything else is a chaotic mess, and there are no memories of the future in this dead lizard's head." He stood up. "However, we have found our next target."

Aaron stood up as well, asking curiously, "Father, you said you were a god yesterday, and today you say you aren't. Are you always this flexible? Where are we going next? Is it still the Egyptian capital?"

Anda was busy picking at his foot, as some grime had gotten stuck under his nail from the crushing. "Correct. We are going to kill the Pharaoh those priests talk about. We are going to kill Horus."