The gene-laboratories beneath the Imperial Palace hummed with the steady pulse of machinery, the air thick with the scent of metal and sterile preservation. The Emperor's golden light filled the chamber, but the tension that had come from his confrontation with the Chaos gods still lingered. The anomaly in Lorgar's pod had been dealt with, but the future of mankind was no less uncertain. Every decision now seemed to echo with the weight of destiny, and even the smallest misstep could lead to ruin.
As the machinery returned to its normal rhythm, Malcador and Valdor entered the chamber once more, their footsteps resounding on the cold metal floors. Both had felt the tremors that had shaken the palace, the disturbance in the Warp that had marked the Emperor's battle with the Chaos gods. Both were filled with the same apprehension, though neither spoke of it directly.
Malcador, his face weary yet resolute, approached the Emperor first. "My lord," he began, his voice measured but laced with concern. "The Warp… it stirs. We felt its tremors. What happened? What was the source of the disturbance?"
The Emperor turned to face them, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held a fire that neither Malcador nor Valdor had ever seen before. "The gods of Chaos sought to thwart me," the Emperor said, his voice a low growl. "They know what I am trying to do. They will not relent. But they are not the true threat."
Valdor, ever the loyal protector, stepped forward, his tone low and calm. "What is the true threat, my lord?"
The Emperor's gaze hardened, and he turned toward a darkened section of the laboratory, where the forgotten soldiers of mankind lay dormant—those who had once been the Emperor's first creation. "The Thunder Warriors," he said, the words heavy with finality. "They are the true threat."
Malcador's brow furrowed in confusion, his mind working quickly to recall the history of the Emperor's early efforts to build a strong, unyielding army. "The Thunder Warriors?" he repeated. "But they were… the first. The precursors to the Astartes, the force that helped unite Terra. They helped build the Imperium."
The Emperor's voice was cold, cutting through the air like a blade. "The Thunder Warriors were a failure, Malcador. They were too unstable. Too filled with rage and madness. They cannot be controlled. I created them in haste, and now they are a liability."
Valdor stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his Guardian Spear, his voice steady. "My lord, they are still your creations. You cannot—"
"I can and I will," the Emperor interrupted. "Their existence endangers everything. They were meant to be a tool for a time, but that time has passed. The Astartes will be our true strength, not these broken weapons of violence and insanity."
Malcador's face darkened, a mix of disbelief and sorrow creeping into his features. "You would… you would command their extinction?"
The Emperor's golden aura flickered for a brief moment, the power radiating from him a reflection of his absolute resolve. "I do not command it, Malcador. I order it."
Valdor, silent but resolute, met the Emperor's gaze. Without a word, he turned and began to move toward the exit. His steps were firm and unyielding—his loyalty to the Emperor unwavering, even in the face of such a grim task.
"I will see it done, my lord," Valdor said, his voice grim.
Malcador hesitated, his gaze flickering between the Emperor and Valdor. He understood the necessity of the Emperor's command, but it did not lessen the weight of the decision. "Valdor…" Malcador said softly. "There will be none left alive, then? Not one?"
The Emperor's voice was final, unrelenting. "None. Their time has passed. The Thunder Warriors must be eradicated. Leave no survivors. We cannot afford the risk."
Valdor gave a brief nod, his mind already set on the task at hand. "It will be done."
The doors to the laboratory sealed behind him, and the Emperor stood alone, surrounded by the silent remains of his first creations. The decision had been made. There would be no turning back.
Malcador lingered for a moment, his gaze heavy with the weight of the Emperor's command. Finally, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "You are the Emperor of Mankind, my lord. But even you are not without a cost."
The Emperor did not respond. He did not need to. He knew the price of his decisions. Every sacrifice had its toll.
In the depths of the Imperial Palace, in the shadowed halls where the Thunder Warriors had once been housed, the massacre began. Valdor moved with the precision of a master, his presence announced only by the haunting echo of his footsteps. The Thunder Warriors, those once-mighty soldiers, were scattered throughout their hidden fortress, their bodies twisted by years of exposure to the gene-forging process, their minds fragile and broken by the unstable power that had once made them great.
With the Custodes at his back, Valdor led the charge. Their golden armor gleamed in the dim light of the fortress as they cut through the Thunder Warriors with ruthless efficiency. Each blow was decisive, each strike delivered with the might of the Emperor's will. The Thunder Warriors fought back with desperate ferocity, but it was futile. They had been shaped by violence and rage, but they were never meant to stand against the might of the Emperor's finest.
The massacre was swift and absolute. The Thunder Warriors were erased from existence, their final cries drowned beneath the sound of steel and slaughter. No mercy was given. Not a single Thunder Warrior was left alive.
When Valdor returned to the Emperor, his armor was spattered with the blood of his fallen brothers. His face was impassive, but his heart remained unwavering, his loyalty to the Emperor unbroken.
"It is done, my lord," Valdor said quietly, his voice betraying nothing of the grim work he had just completed.
The Emperor turned to him, his gaze unwavering. "Good," he said. "We cannot allow the past to haunt us any longer. The future of mankind depends on our strength, and the Thunder Warriors were a reminder of what happens when we lose control."
Malcador stood by, his expression unreadable, yet his mind was filled with questions. He had not questioned the Emperor's command, but the cost of such a decision weighed heavily on his soul. "My lord," Malcador began, his voice quiet but filled with a sorrow he could not hide. "Why?"
The Emperor turned toward him, his face like stone. "Why, Malcador?" he repeated, his voice colder now. "The Thunder Warriors were the beginning of my vision, but they were also its greatest failure. They were too unstable. Too filled with rage. They were born out of necessity, but they were not the future. They were too much of what humanity was. The Astartes, the Primarchs—they are what humanity needs. They are the next step. The Thunder Warriors were a tool for a time, but they could never endure. They were the past."
Malcador felt the weight of the Emperor's words settle over him, each one a nail in the coffin of the Thunder Warriors, his first children. "So, it was necessary?" Malcador asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You condemned them all because they were flawed?"
The Emperor's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice low and filled with a cold resolve. "Yes. They were flawed, and that flaw threatened everything I have worked for. The future of mankind cannot be built on the broken bones of the past. I will not risk it. For the sake of the Imperium, I ordered their extinction."
Malcador stood in silence, the echoes of the past reverberating in his mind. "And what of the cost? Can we truly move forward, knowing that we have erased the first step of your vision?"
The Emperor's gaze softened, just slightly, but there was no hesitation in his tone. "There is no path to the future that is without cost, Malcador. The Thunder Warriors were a necessary sacrifice. They were never meant to last. They were a tool—nothing more. The Imperium's future lies with the Astartes, with the Primarchs. They will be the foundation of a new age. They will build the future that the Thunder Warriors could never have."
Malcador nodded slowly, understanding the logic but unable to quiet the growing ache in his heart. The past could never be erased, and though the Emperor's vision was clear, the burden of his decisions would weigh on them all, forever.