Chapter 1188 Magnus's Burning

Magnus' pupils suddenly contracted, and a dazzling blue light burst out from the depths of his pupils, like billions of stars on the verge of exploding.

His spiritual energy no longer just flows through his flesh and blood, but completely boils and burns, turning into a torrent of destruction.

His skin began to crack, and fiery energy veins appeared under his red muscles, like the earth's crust before a volcanic eruption, pure power seeping out of the cracks.

The next second—

The entire Comoros was torn apart.

Magnus's psychic energy is no longer a stream of energy, but a storm that sweeps across everything.

His arms suddenly spread out, and the scepter containing tremendous power collapsed in his palms. The last rune chain broke, releasing the imprisoned ancient power.

A pure white column of psychic light burst out from his body, rushing straight into the sky, piercing through the warp and reality, and splitting the scarlet sky of Commorra.

The demons didn't even have time to wail.

The bodies of the terrifying monsters evaporated the moment they touched the light, leaving no ashes behind.

The bloodletters' great axes and swords melted into molten iron in the high temperature, and their brass armor melted like wax.

The bloated and festering bodies of Nurgle's plague bringers burst directly, and the pus was purified into nothingness before it even hit the ground.

The succubi of Slaanesh tried to resist with their enchanting bodies, but their fragility turned into ashes the moment the sound waves touched the psionic energy.

Reality within a thousand light years was rewritten.

The ruins of Commorros, those once towering spires, broken webway nodes, and mountains of alien corpses.

All of these collapsed and decomposed in the wave of psychic energy, and matter was reduced to the most basic particles.

The ground was like fragile glass, shattered and lifted up by the impact of energy, and then thrown into nothingness.

The air itself was set ablaze, a hurricane of burning sweeping over everything, not even the filth of the Warp could survive the sheer destruction.

Magnus stood in the center of the storm, his figure blurred by the energy, only his single eye remained bright, burning with cold anger. His consciousness expanded in the torrent of psychic energy, sensing every inch of purified space. He saw the fear of the demons - real fear. These Chaos creatures, who should not know fear, were now retreating, screaming, and trying to escape back into the cracks of the warp.

But they can't escape.

Magnus' will locked onto every demon, and his psychic energy descended with the precision of divine punishment.

Khorne's berserkers were crushed by an invisible force, their skulls exploding into the void.

Tzeentch's doppelgangers were pierced by psychic lightning, their plots meaningless in the face of absolute power.

Nurgle's corrupted behemoths were broken down into rotting chunks of flesh and then burned.

The delight-bringers of Slaanesh writhe in agony, their bodies torn to pieces.

This was the wrath of the Primarch, this was the true power of the Primarch - the demigods forged by the Emperor himself.

Magnus's thoughts wandered in the intervals between destruction. He thought of Terra, and of the silent figure on the Golden Throne.

"Father……"

This thought flashed through his mind, and was immediately replaced by a stronger determination.

He couldn't let these filths defile the human home, and couldn't let his father's efforts go to waste.

So he stopped restraining himself.

His psychic energy exploded, expanding outward like a supernova. The fabric of reality wailed under his power, cracks in the Webway were forced shut, and the tides of the Warp were reversed. Daemons were dragged back into the Chaos Realm, their forms shredded by the psychic storm, their souls annihilated.

And then—silence.

The ruins of the Comoros disappeared.

In its place was a purified void, no corpses, no debris, not even a speck of dust.

Only Magnus still stood, his body charred from excessive energy release, his skin covered with cracks, but his single eye still burning.

He slowly lowered his head and looked at his palms - the fingers that were once strong enough to crush the stars were now trembling slightly.

Countless demons pounced again, and then they were swallowed by a golden light.

........................

The moment Ahriman stepped out of the portal, the air of Terra filled his lungs - dry, thick, with the smell of metal and sulfur.

The breathing grid on his helmet filtered out most of the dust, but he could still smell the tension.

That feeling of tension before the great war.

The sky of Terra was no longer as bright as in memory, but was cut into pieces by the shadows of countless warships.

The engines of the orbital defense platforms flickered above the clouds, like the sword of Damocles hanging over humanity's heads.

In the distance, the spires of the palace reflected cold light, and the energy fluctuations of the golden throne made the air tremble.

"Where is your Primarch?"

A deep voice came from the side. Ahriman turned around and saw Sigismund, the Chapter Master of the Black Templars, standing like a dark statue.

His armor was heavier than he remembered, with battle prayers engraved on his shoulder armor, and a power sword hanging from his waist, with dried blood still on the scabbard. Behind him stood twelve Space Marines with the symbol of the Black Templars, each with a cold red light in their eyepieces.

Ahriman's fingertips unconsciously stroked the trigger guard of the bolter.

His lips were pressed into a straight line under his helmet, and his voice, when transmitted through the voice changer, carried the unique calmness and aloofness of the Thousand Sons.

"Father ordered us to defend Terra." He paused for a moment, as if he could see the battlefield in Commorragh through the distant void. "He will delay the enemy as much as possible."

Sigismund did not respond immediately. His eyes swept over Ahriman's armor, noticing that the psychic runes were still glowing slightly, as if they had just experienced a fierce battle.

His brow furrowed beneath his helmet; the psykers of the Thousand Sons Legion always made him instinctively wary, but at this moment, they were allies.

"Is that so?" Sigismund's voice remained steady, but Ahriman could sense the implicit assessment in it.

The warriors of the Black Templars never trust others easily, especially those who deal with the forces of the Warp. But in the face of war, there are limited options.

"We still need soldiers for the third line of defense." Sigismund finally said, raising his hand and pointing to the distance - there, countless fortifications were rising from the ground at a speed visible to the naked eye, and the construction machinery of the Imperial Fists roared, pouring steel and concrete into a new city wall. "If you can, go over there."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left, followed closely by the Black Templar warriors, their footsteps moving in unison, like a funeral procession.

Terra had never been so crowded.

Ahriman led the Thousand Sons through the makeshift camp, feeling the ground shaking beneath their feet with every step.

The roar of countless transport ships taking off and landing, the calibration of heavy artillery, and the footsteps of hundreds of millions of soldiers all intertwined together, creating a suffocating feeling of oppression.