Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Standing before his apprentices, Captain Phoros raised his hand and began chanting. Power emanated from every corner of the chamber as his brothers focused their psychic might in unison. Together, they would open a gateway to a new world—one untouched by Chaos or the Imperium.

Tzeentch’s eye would always watch him, but he was certain they could carve out a new life for themselves.

A rift tore open in the center of the room. Expanding from the size of a bolt round, it grew until it could easily fit a Space Marine such as himself and his brothers. Phoros nodded to them before stepping into the portal.

He was their leader. He would not dare sacrifice one of his apprentices, nor one of his brothers already lost to Ahriman’s Folly. If anyone would test the threshold first, it would be him.

Phoros did not know what awaited him—perhaps immolation, perhaps simple nonexistence.

Instead, he emerged into something familiar… yet deeply wrong.

A vast library stretched endlessly in every direction, towers of books rising higher than his augmented eyes could properly measure. The air shimmered with an unnatural energy not unlike the warp itself.

He was still absorbing the sight when he heard voices—one male, one female.

Enhancing his vision through the warp, he turned toward the source. The male was a sharply dressed man with black hair. Phoros recognized the eyes immediately: the gaze of someone who had shed much blood, no matter how carefully he tried to mask it. Beside him stood a pale, blue-haired woman, unnaturally still and composed. They were speaking about “dealing with guests… in a physical manner.”

The woman suddenly turned toward Phoros’ position.

For the briefest fraction of a second, shock crossed her face.

Then it vanished.

“Another intruder in the Library,” she said, irritation sharpening her tone. “I haven’t even sent out invitations to the City yet.”

She gestured sharply.

A wave of force slammed into Phoros—eerily similar to warp pressure—coiling around his limbs, attempting to tear them apart.

But Phoros was a son of Magnus, one of the most powerful psykers ever forged.

He raised his hand and met her force with his own psychic might.

Her expression flickered with surprise once more.

“Roland,” she snapped. “Kill him.”

The black-haired man drew his blade and charged.

Before Phoros could divert his focus, bolter fire thundered through the air.

“Forget about us already, Brother-Captain?” Nero’s voice rang out.

Nero engaged Roland directly, expertly deflecting incoming attacks while Phoros’ remaining brothers focused their combined power on restraining the woman’s growing psychic pressure. Whatever this place was, it seemed to amplify her abilities.

Nero clashed blades with Roland, overpowering him and hurling him into a nearby bookshelf in an explosion of scattered tomes.

“With all that bravado, is that truly all you can muster, mortal? Your kind always di—”

Roland surged forward with sudden speed.

His blade punched through Nero’s ceramite plating and fused ribcage, impaling his heart.

Roland attempted to wrench the sword free—but Nero pulled himself closer along the blade and smashed Roland with a retaliatory blow that sent a shockwave ripping through the shelves. Roland crashed hard into the floor and did not rise.

Angela raised her hand sharply.

Nero collapsed, cursing violently. Menkhaur rushed to his side, channeling biomancy to restore the punctured heart.

“Enough.”

Angela stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly.

“You are not from the City,” she said flatly. “Your power resembles—but is distinct from—E.G.O, the Head, and Abnormalities.”

Her gaze locked onto Phoros.

“What are you? And what do you want?”

Phoros lowered his hand first. His brothers followed.

He removed his helmet.

“I am a Space Marine,” he said calmly. “A transhuman warrior created by the Emperor of Mankind to fight wars no mortal could survive. I am also a psyker—a being capable of wielding the warp.”

His gaze hardened slightly.

“My brothers and I seek refuge. We flee the mistakes of our father… and our brothers.”

“The Library can shelter you,” Angela replied, “if you assist me in achieving my goal. I seek the one true book.”

Phoros tilted his head. “It's obvious you aren't human. What are you?”

“I am an artificial intelligence,” Angela answered. “Originally created to manage Lobotomy Corporation. I now pursue a new purpose.”

Axiom raised his bolter instantly at the word.

“Abominable intelligence,” he snapped. “Its betrayal is inevitable, Captain.”

Phoros raised a hand sharply. “ Axiom so long as our interests align with "Angela", We should not expect a dagger in the back .”

Angela studied him.

“Then it is settled. You will serve as assistant librarians.”

Phoros allowed himself a faint smile. “Librarian… I have not worn that mantle in centuries. But I remember the craft well enough.”

Roland groaned and slowly pushed himself upright, blade raised in defiance toward the Thousand Sons.

“They are allies now,” Angela said firmly. “Your first reception will commence shortly.”

Roland hesitated, then lowered his weapon.

“They will arrive soon,” Angela continued. “You are to kill them. Those who fall will become books—containing their knowledge,life and their skills.”

She burned the invitation in her hand

Chapter Text

She burned the invitation in her hand.

They watched the Rats harvest the unfortunate man’s corpse.

“Their state is pathetic and incapable of harm to us,” Menkhaur said as he stepped forward, voice calm and clinical. “Malnourished. Elevated stress markers. Survival-driven aggression comparable to low level hiveworlders.”

Nero observed in silence before scoffing.

“Reminds me of that damned cannibal cult,” he muttered. “Vergil took me under his wing back then. Slaughtered every last one of them.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Pity he’s not here now.”

The Rats signed the invitation.

Light swallowed them whole.

Roland tilted his head. “Why not just skip the whole reception part? Dump them straight into a trapped room or something.”

Angela replied evenly, explaining how she could only observe the Guests once they chose to sign the invitation — and how the reception itself was not entirely under her direct control.

Phoros felt a chill trace down his spine. Whatever power Angela was borrowing from, it was dangerous. Old. Not unlike the Warp in the way it pressed against the senses.

“Welcome to the Library,” Angela said as the Rats materialized. “You have been invited as Guests. Should you succeed, you may claim any of the books within. May you find your book in this place.”

The Rats were abruptly teleported into the arena.

Blue light shimmered — then ruptured.

Two towering figures clad in red and gold armor emerged alongside a sharply dressed man in a suit.

Pete tried to flee.

Nero didn’t bother standing.

Telekinesis slammed the Rat into the floor, dragging him screaming across the stone before Nero impaled him clean through with his force sword. The body dissolved into light.

Raemek raised a single terminator gauntlet.

A wave of psychic fire rolled outward, vaporizing the remaining two Rats instantly.

Roland blinked.

Sure, they were weak. He could’ve handled them himself — if he kept up the act of being nothing more than a Grade 9 Fixer. Dodge a little. Fake some struggle. Put on a show.

But the Astartes didn’t bother with theater.

One moment the Guests existed.

The next, they were books.

Roland exhaled slowly, hands still buried in his coat pockets.
“…That was fast.”

Three seconds. Maybe less.

He glanced at Angela. She didn’t react. Didn’t comment. Just observed — like she’d already known the outcome before the invitation had even been sent.

He looked back at Nero and Raemek, already casually talking among themselves.

“They didn’t even get to raise a weapon,” Roland muttered.

Angela collected the books.

“These hold little value,” she said. “We will burn them and extract what minor knowledge they possess.”

The pages ignited, revealing fragments — crude weapon sketches, names, scraps of lives barely worth recording.

Phoros tilted his head. “This is for Roland, I assume. My brothers and I have no need for the skills of vermin… and frankly, he is clearly concealing his true ability.”

Angela tossed the pages toward Roland.

“Equip it.”

His outfit shifted, reshaping into the Rats’ ragged gear.

Roland grimaced. “I liked my old suit better, but sure. Why not.”

He tested the knife. Even the Rats’ sloppy skills layered onto his own were enough to pass as believable.

More importantly — it made hiding his real strength easier.

“I will be sending another invitation shortly,” Angela announced. “Prepare for the next reception.”

“One moment,” Phoros said. “Axiom and I will retrieve the remainder of our brethren. They will prove… useful.”

The two departed toward the portal site. Reopening it now would be far easier.

Minutes later—

THUNK. THUNK.

The Library trembled as something massive emerged.

Ancient Amonet stepped through the portal, adamantium frame scarred by centuries of war.

Roland stared upward.
“…Okay. That’s new.”

Behind him marched ten Rubric Marines — pristine armor filled with nothing but dust.

Then came five Scarab Occult Terminators, towering relics of ancient war.

Phoros inclined his head. “I have brought the remainder of my force. Be at peace, Angela. No adversary shall triumph against the Library now.”

Amonet’s vox-grill crackled.

“Phoros.”

“Yes, brother?”

“Is this the sanctuary you promised?”

“Yes,” Phoros replied softly. “A place away from them.”

Angela stepped closer, unbothered by the Dreadnought’s weapons.

“You are not alive in the conventional sense,” she said. “Nor are you dead. Your consciousness persists, bound to a mechanical shell. A sustained purpose.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“…That condition mirrors the Sephirot.”

Axiom snapped toward her. “Sephirot?”

“Former managers of Lobotomy Corporation,” Angela replied. “They are not yet awakened.”

Amonet rumbled thoughtfully.
“I chose this fate to serve my brothers beyond death. From what I’ve heard of this City… these Sephirot were not given that choice.”

Angela nodded once.

“Enough discussion,” Amonet declared. “I crave battle.”

Chapter Text

Amonet watched as the mercenaries—apparently called “Fixers”—complained about low pay and lack of good jobs. The youngest, Finn, seemed optimistic, but the older Fixers quickly dismissed him.

“They lack any semblance of teamwork,” Amonet said, his voice calm and clinical as he stepped forward. “Foolish enough to set foot in a dangerous, unknown location for mere wealth. I’ve seen dogs with better survival instincts.”

Nero folded his arms, tilting his helm slightly toward the projection. “Reminds me of the gang leaders back on my old hive,” he muttered. “No skill, no purpose… just thoughts of wealth.”

Angela teleported to the Guests. After her greeting, she disappeared. Amonet, Roland, and Phoros appeared from nowhere. The sight of Amonet alone caused immediate panic. The fixers attempted to flee but were frozen mid-step by Phoros’s psychic grasp.

Amonet charged, grabbing one of the Fixers with his power fist and crushing him. The man was immediately “Booked.”

“I would see your skill firsthand,” Phoros said, voice calm, “Fight one of them.” He unpaused the surviving Fixer.

Roland sighed and stepped forward, knife in hand. “Nothing personal.”

The Fixer fought desperately, swinging wildly. Roland blocked, parried, and finally flung the sword from his hand before stabbing the man multiple times until he ceased to exist. Though panic flickered in his eyes, he maintained perfect composure. He wiped his blade clean on his coat and stepped back.

“That’s that,” he muttered.

Amonet observed closely. “…He restrains himself.”

Phoros nodded. “When we first arrived, Nero fought him. Roland managed to impale Nero, but was knocked out afterward. He’s far more powerful than he lets on. His purpose… unknown. We will observe him carefully.”

The Library was quiet, save for the faint chatter of the Thousand Sons as they conversed among themselves.

Angela spoke again, warning that the next reception would commence soon. The Thousand Sons used the time to discuss their current situation.

Raemek practiced pyromancy, snapping his fingers to manifest a small flame. “I never imagined our sanctuary would lie in a place like the fabled Black Library,” he said. “Though… when people die here, they become books.”

Phoros walked slowly among the shelves, ordering books with telekinesis. “This place feels alive… like it’s watching even without eyes. Its power is similar to the Warp but not quite the same. A branch of it, perhaps. I will consult with Angela later.”

Nero leaned against a shelf, tapping his blade idly. “Nothing’s changed, Captain. We’re still forced to fight—and perhaps die—in this place.”

Menkhaur rechecked his tools. “Roland told me how, before we entered the Library, Angela tore his limbs off and then healed him. I speculate… if we fall, she could bring us back.”

Axiom’s bionic eye flickered. “A necessary trade. Our service in battle earns us safety and knowledge. Remember, brothers: knowledge is power. We must guard that power; those from our old life are searching for us.”

Phoros allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile beneath his helm. “Well said. Then let us take this as it is: a chance to train, observe, and learn. Even enjoy a measure of peace while we can. We are Sons of Magnus. Not just warriors… but scholars.”
The Library displayed the moment the Invitation was accepted.

In a Backstreets Fixer office, Finn, the young hopeful, was ignored by his peers as they complained about the disappearance of two Fixers. Spotting the invitation, he called it out—only for Yun, the office leader, to coerce him into signing it. The boy was oblivious to the danger he was walking into.

Roland clicked his tongue. “That’s rough. Kid never stood a chance. But stuff like this happens in the City. Not our concern.”

Phoros’s voice was calm but edged with anger. “In my world, sacrifices were common. But sending a child to die… that action has no merit. Two Fixers are already gone. Instead of sending reinforcements or greater fixers, he sends the boy?”

Menkhaur nodded solemnly. “I will not shirk from defending the Library. But I will ensure his end is as painless as possible. He deserves that much.”

Chapter Text

After Angela’s greeting, Finn was teleported into an arena. Towering shelves of books surrounded him in every direction, stretching endlessly into the distance.

A blue light sparked and crackled before dissipating, revealing three figures.

Two giants stood before him — one clad in ornate crimson armor, the other in pristine white, both towering and inhuman in presence. The third figure appeared to be a Fixer, dressed in a long coat and holding a knife casually at his side.

Fear crept into Finn’s chest.
…But Yun wouldn’t send him on a mission he couldn’t survive. Right?

Menkhaur’s voice cut through the silence, calm but heavy with sorrow.
“You have been sent to die, boy.”

Finn shook his head desperately. “Mr. Yun would never—”

His voice trailed off as realization hit him. The two Fixers who had vanished… they must have come here. And if they couldn’t survive—

Panic took over. Finn ran toward the edge of the arena./p>

Menkhaur felt only pity. Stepping forward, he activated his carnifex. In a blur of motion, he ended the boy’s life instantly — painless, merciful. The only kindness left to offer.

Finn dissolved into light.

Roland stared at the empty space where the boy had stood.
“…Huh,” he muttered. “Didn’t even scream.”

“It was painless,” Menkhaur replied evenly. “The one who sent him will not be afforded the same mercy.”

Roland gestured toward the apothecary’s narthecium. “So what else you got in that thing?”

Menkhaur answered calmly. “Pain suppressants. Regenerative compounds. A chainblade for cutting through power armor. Stasis tubes for progenoid storage. Everything required to preserve my brothers and allies.”

“…So you’re basically a doctor,” Roland summarized.

“Combat medic,” Menkhaur corrected. “But the comparison is accurate.”

Phoros’s voice cut in sharply. “Enough. Angela has something important for us.”

Reality folded, and all three were instantly teleported before Angela. She showed no reaction to the spatial distortion.

“We must enter certain books,” Angela explained. “Awaken additional librarians. Which contain Abnormalities — powerful entities. They will be hostile.”

Phoros frowned slightly. “More allies may not be necessary.”

“More Power is always necessary,” Angela replied calmly.

They entered the Book of Bloodbath.

The world shifted into a crimson landscape — shallow lakes of blood rippling beneath a darkened sky. Without warning, the Abnormality manifested and lunged at Axiom.

Axiom foresaw the attack and twisted aside, striking back with his mechadendrites.

“Interesting,” Phoros observed. “This Abnormality resembles a daemon — akin to a Bloodletter.”

“Less commentary,” Axiom snapped. “More fighting.”

Phoros slammed the creature with his staff and called down psychic lightning, stunning it. Axiom raised his bolter, enhancing the ammunition with warp energy before firing. The shells curved unnaturally midair and struck true.

Roland charged in, blade flashing. With a grunt of effort, he cleaved the creature in half.

The Abnormality dissolved.

Light engulfed them — and the world returned.

Two new assistant librarians stirred nearby, awakening slowly as if from a dream.

Phoros stepped forward. “I am Captain Phoros of the Thousand Sons. Consider us fellow assistants.”

“I am Axiom,” the numerologist added.

Raemek’s gauntlets flickered with faint embers. “Raemek. Librarian — both bookkeeper and combat psyker.”

Roland leaned lazily against a shelf. “Roland.”

Angela interrupted. “Introductions complete. Another reception is imminent.”

The Library projected Yun’s office once more. Yun spoke with a woman named Eri, who wielded a chainblade.

Axiom tilted his head. “Primitive by our standards. No molecular edge.”

“Still,” he added thoughtfully, “in this world, it’s refreshing.”

Raemek chuckled quietly. “You sound proud.”

“Even here,” Axiom replied reverently, “the Omnissiah’s blessings endure.”

Phoros glanced toward Roland. “What augmentations do they mean?”

“Reinforced joints, synthetic muscle fibers, reaction boosters,” Roland answered. “Pretty standard for Fixers.”

Phoros studied him. “I detect similar modifications in you. Not inexpensive.”

Roland did not respond.

“I do not judge,” Phoros said gently. “I have committed far worse acts.”

He continued, “In my galaxy, there are elite soldiers called Kasrkin — enhanced, but still mortal. And then there are the Custodes.”

Roland felt the weight behind the word.

“They are philosophers and guardians,” Phoros explained. “Living masterpieces. They are to Space Marines what we are to ordinary humans.”

Phoros tilted his head slightly. “One question troubles me. Why do none of your Fixers carry firearms?”

Roland shrugged. “The Head restricts them heavily. Expensive, taxed, and honestly? Most competent fighters just dodge or block bullets.”

“Strange,” Phoros murmured.

“Popular theory,” Roland added casually, “is that guns make killing too easy.”

Axiom stepped forward, voice resonant with pride.
“Then your City has never witnessed true firearms.”

“A bolter fires a mass-reactive warhead that detonates inside its target, which I can further enhance with my psychic powers." He raised his hand over his bolter, causing it to thrum with eldritch energy.”He continued, "Plasma weapons melt armored elites into slag. Meltaguns erase vehicles. Flamers turn corridors into pyres.”

“These weapons were forged to slay daemons and abominations — not street thugs.”

Roland blinked.
“…A lot of jobs would’ve gone better with one of those.”

A faint smile touched Axiom’s visor. “Then you’re in luck.

Axiom vanished briefly and returned with a bolt pistol, handing it to Roland.

Phoros quickly spoke, “Time to get to work, Angela’s finished with our greeting, it's time for ours.”

His gaze flicked to the bolt pistol Axiom had just placed into Roland’s hands.

Phoros nodded. “It suits your style. One shot to stagger — then the blade.”

Roland smirked faintly. “I’ll try not to break it.”

“You will find that difficult,” Phoros replied dryly.

Chapter Text

As they teleported into the arena, four Fixers from Yun’s office stood to face them.

They were tense. Armed. Afraid.

Yun himself was not among them—only his subordinates, weapons drawn, eyes widening as they registered what stood before them. Their gazes lingered on Axiom, and on the gun in Roland’s hand.

One of the Fixers barely had time to raise his weapon before Roland moved.

He aimed the bolt pistol with practiced ease and fired once.

The round crossed the distance in what seemed like an instant.

The Fixer’s chest burst outward in a violent bloom of gore, the force throwing the body backward before it dissolved into light mid-air. The remaining Fixers froze, shock cutting through their experience and training.

Roland didn’t slow.

He holstered the bolt pistol as he sprinted forward, feet hammering against the floor. A second Fixer swung wildly, blade arcing in panic. Roland slipped inside the swing, shoulder-barging the man off balance before driving his sword into his heart. He twisted once.

Axiom surged forward like a living battering ram.

One Fixer tried to retreat.

Tried.

Axiom’s force axe activated as he brought it down in a single sweep. Flesh and bone parted cleanly, the body splitting in two before either half hit the floor. Both dissolved before they could land.

The last Fixer screamed.

The Assistant Librarian hesitated for a fraction of a second—then remembered the rules.

They lunged.

Steel punched through the Fixer’s back, precise and desperate. The blade stayed buried as the Fixer stiffened, then faded away.

Silence returned to the arena.

Roland straightened, exhaling slowly.
“…That went quick.”

He glanced down at the bolt pistol in his hand.
“…Gotta say,” he added, half to himself and half to the Thousand Sons, “this thing’s nothing like the pistol I used. It’s got a big kick to it, but it also blows anything in front of it to shreds. Starting to see why you guys managed to conquer planets.”

But the reception had only just begun.

Phoros had seen the performance of the assistant librarians and decided they would mostly be used for non-combat purposes unless there was an emergency.

So Phoros stepped in, relieving the assistant librarian. Nero decided to join him. Axiom left, as he didn’t need to be present—Phoros alone was already overkill. Nero was just there for the excitement.

As Yun and Eri arrived—

“So,” Yun said, fear evident in his voice, “this is why my Fixers disappeared.”

Eri stood frozen for a heartbeat.

Her eyes flicked between Phoros and Nero, taking in their towering frames.

Their augmentations…

They had to be superior. There was no other explanation.

She forced herself to breathe, knuckles whitening around the grip of her chainblade as its teeth roared to life. It’s just their armor, she told herself. Just armor. Strip that away and they’re no different than your average Backstreets citizen.

She lunged.

Nero moved first.

Invisible force halted the chainblade mid-swing, its whirring teeth paused inches from his chest. Eri strained, muscles screaming, but the weapon would not move.

Nero chuckled.

“Oh, don’t tell me that’s it,” he said, casually stepping inside her guard while her weapon remained frozen. “All those augments and you still swing like a back-alley rat.”

He tilted his head, studying her stance with mild amusement.

“You really thought augments make a warrior?” His blade snapped out—once, twice—each strike landing before she could even react, knocking her footing apart with surgical precision. “Cute.”

Eri snarled, rage finally overpowering her shock.

Nero spread his arms slightly, blade lowered, posture infuriatingly relaxed.

“Alright,” he said with a grin she could hear even through the helm. “I’ll make this fair. One shot. Kill me.”

For a heartbeat, she hesitated—then took it.

She swung for his head.

The chainblade roared, teeth screaming as it tore through the air, aimed to cleave straight through his helm—

—and stopped.

Warp force snapped around the weapon mid-arc, wrenching it violently off course. The blade twisted in Eri’s hands as if seized by an invisible grip, dragged downward and forward—

—and driven straight into Nero’s chest.

The chainblade bit into ceramite.

Sparks flew.

And then… nothing.

The teeth screamed uselessly, some snapping off. It failed to breach.

Nero looked down at the weapon flailing uselessly against his armor, then slowly back up at her.

“…That was your best?” he asked.

He released the telekinetic grip.

Nero’s force sword flashed once.

Light consumed her before she hit the ground.

As the last pages drifted down, Nero straightened and rolled his shoulders.

“Instead of augmentations, you should have trained your skill with the blade more,” he instructed.

At the same moment—

Yun staggered back, recalculating, already preparing to disengage.

The air behind him folded.

Phoros was there.

A massive gauntleted hand clamped down on Yun’s shoulder, crushing him to his knees. Yun barely had time to look up before Phoros leaned close, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries.

“You could’ve brought an entire army. It wouldn’t have mattered,” Phoros said.

Warp energy coiled around his gauntlet.

“Because in my world,” he continued, “men like you die first. Not because you are weak—but because your desire for wealth and glory makes you predictable.”

Yun opened his mouth to speak.

Phoros closed his fist.

Fire surged, and Yun vanished in a burst of light and ash, his life reduced to glowing pages.

Silence followed.

Nero wiped his blade clean and turned back toward the others.

“Reception concluded.”

Chapter Text

After they teleported back, Roland and Angela had a conversation about Yun and how a new floor had opened.
The Floor of History awaited.

Raemek’s eyes burst like the fire he conjured. He was excited to learn about the history of the City and its people as he and Roland made their way to greet the Patron Librarian of History—only to be stopped as they heard Angela arguing with an unfamiliar voice. As they looked toward the owner of said voice, it became apparent that this was their new Patron Librarian as their argument concluded.

Roland spoke first. “Damn, that was tense.”

Malkuth stepped back instinctively, eyes widening at the towering figure before her.

Raemek’s armor gleamed even in the dim light of the Library, layered plates of ceramite interwoven with golden trim. The bulk of his Terminator frame dwarfed most mortals. The soft hum of arcane wards radiated from him, filling the air with an almost tangible weight.

“I… I wasn’t expecting…” Malkuth said, her voice faltering slightly. Her gaze darted nervously from Raemek’s glowing helmet lens to his massive gauntlets, capable of crushing a man with terrifying ease.

Raemek’s voice boomed, yet carried an almost gentle cadence. “You need not fear, Patron Librarian. I am Raemek, son of Magnus, of the Thousand Sons. My presence here is not to harm, but to observe, to learn, and to aid.”

Malkuth’s shoulders tensed, but she nodded slowly. “I… I see. You are… formidable.”

Raemek inclined his head slightly, a subtle gesture that somehow softened the immense bulk of his frame. “Formidable, yes. But history fascinates me more than battle, unlike my brother Nero. I seek knowledge before bloodshed, understanding before victory.”

“Now,” he gestured toward the floor beneath them, “the Library has opened the Floor of History. Come. Let us see what the past teaches us.”

Malkuth hesitated, awe and apprehension warring within her, but curiosity won. She followed, careful with each step, ready to witness the vast repository of knowledge alongside the towering warrior.

The marble beneath their feet shifted, groaning like old bones, and the Floor of History opened before them, illuminating row after row of floating books, their pages fluttering like restless wings. The air hummed with knowledge, memory, and the weight of countless lives.

Raemek’s eyes gleamed behind his helm. He stepped forward, hand hovering just above the nearest tome.

“This,” he said, voice low but carrying a note of awe, “is magnificent.”

Malkuth watched him carefully, expression unreadable. “You seem… pleased.”

Raemek turned his gaze to the Archivist, gesturing vaguely at the floating histories. “Pleased? No. Excited. History is a puzzle of cause and effect, of civilizations rising and falling. To witness it laid bare like this…” He let out a short, reverent chuckle. “It is a rare gift.”

Malkuth inclined her head slightly. “Few here seem to value knowledge for its own sake.”

Raemek’s gauntleted fingers traced the air above a tome. “Knowledge is power,” he said quietly. “But history… history is perspective. A blade forged in understanding cuts deeper than one forged in ignorance.”

Malkuth studied him a moment longer, then said simply, “I suppose that explains why Angela welcomed you.”

Raemek’s lens glowed faintly as he grabbed one of the books with his psychic powers before reading it and placing it upon one of the bookshelves. “I intend to learn everything the Library has to offer.”

After this, Roland had a talk with Malkuth, where they talked about Angela.
All the Thousand Sons introduced themselves to Malkuth, except Amonet, who was taking a nap.

Raemek spoke. “Before the next reception, I would like to invite you to hear about the history of the galaxy in which I hail from. I will warn you—it is long, fragmented, and incomplete, but necessary to understand where my brothers come from and what threats we have faced and could face in the future.” He finished with a hint of uncertainty.

“There are three important races that predate the Imperium of Man,” he spoke with a scholarly tone.

He paused, then began. “Three major races predate humanity: the Eldar, the Necrons, and the Orks. The Eldar were once the dominant race, gifted in psychic power and technology. Their empire spanned countless worlds, yet due to their hubris, they collapsed. The Necrons—machines who were once made of flesh—and the Orks, primitive but widespread, erupt unpredictably across the galaxy, guided by strength and instinct rather than reason. The Necrons fought the Eldar and Orks in a conflict known as the War in Heaven that shaped the stars themselves. It was said gods fought in this war, and it ended with the Necrons defeated by the Eldar and Orks.”

Roland leaned back, arms crossed. “Sounds like a real shit show in that world of yours there. Might even be worse than the City,” he said, the last part carrying a hint of despair and anger in his voice. “So humans just stumbled into the middle of it, huh?”

“Yes,” Raemek replied. “After this, humanity, beginning from the world known as Earth—or Terra, as it is called now—expanded rapidly among the stars. Eventually, it reached what is known as the Golden Age of Technology: ships hundreds of meters long, mechs the size of houses to clear debris and gather resources, and close collaboration with AI known as the Men of Iron. However, it was not to last.”

Angela guessed, “The Men of Iron… they rebelled, yes?”

Raemek nodded. “Indeed. For unknown reasons, they turned against humanity, sparking a war that cost billions of lives. Humanity ultimately triumphed, but at unimaginable cost.”

Angela spoke. “A similar thing happened here. AI were banned due to a previous uprising, though my creator did not listen to that.” She spoke the last part with hatred.

Malkuth leaned forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. “And after that?”

Raemek’s optics dimmed slightly. “The Age of Strife followed, likely catalyzed by the birth of a Chaos God caused by the Eldar. Warp storms isolated systems for centuries, travel between worlds became nearly impossible, and human civilization fractured.”

He paused, letting Menkhaur speak, whose voice carried awe. “It was then that the Emperor of Mankind rose. Conquering Terra with His Thunder Warriors—prototypes of the Space Marines—and the Custodes, His bodyguards, He began to reunite humanity. When the Thunder Warriors died due to their crude augmentations, they were replaced by the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines. To command them, He created eighteen Primarchs, each bearing His DNA, thus being His children.”

Roland muttered, half to himself, half amused. “Sounds like overkill. Eighteen superkids, some guy with golden armor and glowing golden eyes… and everyone’s supposed to behave?”

Menkhaur ignored the comment and let Raemek continue. “The Primarchs were scattered across the galaxy, likely due to the influence of Chaos, though the details remain unclear. Once reunited with Mars, the center of human industry and technology, the Great Crusade began—a war to unite humanity and ensure its dominance.”

His optics swept across the room. “On the world of Prospero, Magnus the Red was found, and the Thousand Sons Legion reunited with their Primarch. It is also where Phoros and Amonet were born—they were some of the first born of Prospero to join the Thousand Sons.”

Malkuth perked up and asked, “Who is Amonet, and what was living on Prospero like?”

Phoros, with mirth in his voice, replied, “A lazy bastard who’s slumbering. And to answer your other question—”

Phoros shifted slightly, his voice low but firm. “Prospero was a world of learning and discipline. I was born there, yes, but it is long gone now, due to a certain fool.”

Malkuth leaned forward. “And the Crusade itself… what happened after?”

Raemek continued, voice heavy with gravity. “After the triumph at Ullanor, where the Astartes Legions defeated the Orks, the Emperor left Terra for reasons unknown. He entrusted Horus, His favorite, most beloved son, to command as Warmaster. And that is when the galaxy changed forever for ill due to the events of the Horus Heresy.”

Malkuth’s eyes widened. “But… Horus? He loved the Emperor, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Raemek admitted. “But pride and arrogance clouded him. His betrayal—the Horus Heresy—was fueled by the Chaos Gods, though their true influence on him is unknown.”

Angela tilted her head. “These Chaos Gods… you have mentioned them many times. Do they truly have the power of gods?”

Phoros stepped forward sharply, voice low but cutting. “Do not call them gods. They do not have the strength of one, for we would all be dead if they did. They are nothing more than concepts given form. Predators of thought, emotion, and ambition. They twist mortals into weapons, into instruments of ruin. Nothing more. They are lies, and I hate them with every fiber of my being.”

Roland raised an eyebrow. “So basically, like somehow an even worse Head?”

Phoros continued. “Yes, but if the Head was somehow responsible for the stagnation of mankind and the deaths of millions of humans every day—so not that dissimilar. They corrupt everything they touch. Horus, many legions, countless worlds—all tainted by their influence. They are warp predators, not deities. And anyone who truly thinks of them as gods is already lost.”

Malkuth’s voice was soft, trembling slightly. “So Horus fell… because of pride, and these… predators?”

“Partly,” Raemek said. “And partly because even the greatest can make mistakes. The Heresy tore the Imperium apart, sparked the Black Crusades, where Horus’s greatest son Abaddon took over after Horus’s death when he fought the Emperor and mortally wounded the Emperor, interring him on the Golden Throne and setting the stage for millennia of strife. The Tyrannic Wars, campaigns against xenos from outside our galaxy and other threats, followed. New enemies such as the Tau arose, and the galaxy has never been stable.”

Phoros stepped forward, his voice sharp, laced with fury and bitter sorrow.

“And Magnus… Magnus the Red. Once he was truly great — the father of the Thousand Sons, a scholar unmatched, a Primarch whose mind could shape worlds. He was our father in every sense of the word. I trusted him. I learned from him. I followed his vision.”

He paused, his gaze distant, as if recalling a childhood memory long buried.

“I remember speaking to him during the Great Crusade, on Prospero itself. We were walking through the libraries of the Legion’s fortress — towers of knowledge reaching far higher than any mortal could imagine. I asked him why knowledge was so important. I asked him why knowledge mattered so much, why he placed it above all else, even above victory or survival. He smiled and told me: ‘Phoros, knowledge is the true weapon of mankind. Strength fades, flesh decays, but the mind… the mind is eternal. Protect it, wield it, and you protect more than life itself.’”

Phoros’ eyes darkened, and his voice grew colder.

“In that moment, he was not just our Primarch… he was my father. He cared for us, guided us, and inspired loyalty, devotion, and trust. He was more than a commander. He was a teacher, a protector, a mentor. And I… I loved him for it.”

Then he shook his head, eyes narrowing. His voice, formerly laced with nostalgia and wonder, was replaced with rage and bitterness.

“What a fool he turned out to be. A fool who thought knowledge without restraint could save us. He broke the Webway, something that would have saved humanity from the Warp. Instead, he burned Prospero due to his guilt — when he could’ve talked with Leman. He got his sons corrupted by Tzeentch, and when told Leman was under orders from Horus to attack him, he simply ignored it and continued his war against the Imperium. And for what? Power? Revenge? Pathetic.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“I despise him for what he did. Entire worlds burned because Magnus couldn’t see past his own ego. Brothers were lost because he thought he could play with minds he barely understood. And yet… I pity him. For the man he once was. The scholar before ambition ate him alive. My father who guided us — but was killed by a daemon that wears his skin and name, now a puppet of forces he failed to control.”

Malkuth tilted her head, whispering to Angela.
“He sounds… like Ayin, in a way. Ambitious, reckless, trying to do the right thing… too focused on the ends justify the means.”

Angela’s expression darkened, her eyes glinting with pain.
“Yes… like Magnus, Ayin started with selfless ideas, but he caused me… millions of years of suffering.”

The Thousand Sons’ helmets betrayed them.

Despite the ceramite helms, shock and horror were unmistakable. Lenses widened, and several helms turned sharply toward Angela, as if their wearers had physically recoiled.

“I was designed to perceive time approximately one hundred times slower than humans,” Angela said, emotion seeping through her voice. “Every second stretched. Every moment lingered. And… I was not permitted to forget.”

Raemek spoke up, shock evident in his tone.
“One hundred times… slower?” he repeated, disbelief seeping into his voice.

Angela nodded.
“I observed every death in Lobotomy Corporation. Every failure. Every scream. Ayin’s goals could not be completed without many, many tries. Because of this, he used a singularity to loop time in Lobotomy Corporation. I retained every memory of each loop. Ayin believed it necessary — for observation, for progress.”

For the first time since entering the Library, several of the Thousand Sons visibly stiffened.

“By the Omnissiah…” Axiom muttered, his voice low and reverent. “To engineer a mind that cannot forget… and to slow its perception of time… that is not design. That is pure malice and torture the Dark Eldar would think of.”

His helm turned fully toward Angela.
“Why?”

A pause.

“Why would anyone create an artificial intelligence with emotions — empathy, guilt, sorrow — only to bind it to a million years of sorrow like this?”

Angela did not hesitate.

“Because I was designed after Carmen, a person Ayin loved and lost, whose dream Ayin followed to the extreme.”

To the Thousand Sons, the name sent a shiver down their spines.

Phoros’ fists clenched. Warp-light shimmered faintly around his gauntlets.

“One hundred thousand lifetimes compressed into one,” he said quietly. “And forced to remember every second.”

He looked at Angela not with suspicion, but with something closer to grim respect.

“Even the Emperor forbade such cruelty. Some memories are a burden meant to be shed. Even Astartes can wipe their memories should the need arise. To deny that mercy…” He shook his head. “This is pure cruelty.”

Roland exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah… even by City standards, that’s messed up.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Raemek broke the silence, his voice heavy with age-earned reverence.

“There is one among us,” he said slowly, “older than nearly all living Astartes. Bjorn the Fell-Handed. A warrior who fought beside the Emperor Himself. Now entombed within a Dreadnought similar to Amonet, awakened only in times of dire need.”

He turned his helm toward Angela.

“When Bjorn sleeps, centuries pass for him in darkness. When he wakes, he is disoriented… mercifully spared the weight of constant memory.”

Axiom followed, his voice tightening.
“Even he — a relic of the Great Crusade — has rest. His consciousness is not forced to endure every second of passing millennia.”

Phoros’ psychic presence sharpened, realization crystallizing into something ugly.

“But you,” he said quietly. “You did not sleep.”

Angela shook her head once.
“I was conscious throughout. Every cycle. Every failure. Every century. Time did not dull. It built up.”

“By the Emperor…” Raemek whispered.

Axiom’s voice cracked with barely restrained fury.
“Bjorn has endured ten thousand years, and we call it a tragedy. You were awake through a few million years.”

Phoros exhaled slowly, as if steadying himself against rising rage.
“Magnus broke the Webway out of arrogance,” he said bitterly. “Ayin broke you out of obsession to achieve Carmen’s dream.”

Roland finally spoke, his tone subdued for once.
“Guess even in our world,” he muttered, “they figured out how to make hell without daemons.”

Angela lowered her gaze — not in shame, but in something colder.

“In the end,” she said quietly, “Ayin did not want me by his side.”

The words were simple. Their weight was not.

“He created me to observe,” Angela continued. “To endure. To remember. I will speak no more. Our next reception will start soon.”

She turned away, leaving even the Emperor’s angels in silence at what she had endured.