Not long after, inside the Meditation Hall—
The golden psychic light around the throne slowly faded. Samuel Young opened his eyes, the molten-gold irises returning to a deep, abyssal black.
Morning sunlight from the Prime Earth of the main universe filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Meditation Hall, casting dappled patterns on the stern face of the Emperor of Mankind.
His consciousness had just returned from a multidimensional "inspection" across the heavenly sanctuary and the infernal abyss. The incense lingering in the air had condensed into pale white mist, swaying gently with the rhythm of the Emperor's breath.
"…"
A barely audible sigh slipped from his lips, vanishing instantly into the hall's silence.
After all, in a short span of time, he had opened a galaxy-spanning portal, directly possessed Athena to confront the chaos-puppet Darth Vader, and simultaneously maintained a psychic barrier covering the entire domain of the Imperium—
Even for this immortal being, it was a rare moment of exhaustion.
A faint pulse throbbed at his temple—a side effect of psychic overexertion.
Samuel Young rolled his neck, stiff from prolonged meditation. His black-gold armor resonated softly as his movements stirred the stillness. He could feel the tide of pure psychic energy slowly returning, like the ocean swelling again after the ebb.
Despite the excessive consumption, the situation remained firmly within control.
A holographic projection unfurled before the golden throne, condensing the vast galaxy of the Star Wars universe into a radiant matrix of starlight.
Samuel Young touched the void with his fingertips, and the star map responded to his will, spinning gently. The battle statuses of various systems were represented in color-coded blips.
Tatooine's coordinate marker had gradually shifted—from the deep crimson of extreme danger to a burnt orange denoting a manageable threat, like a wound just beginning to scab.
When the data stream finalized, a cold number flashed before the Emperor's eyes—
317.
This represented the number of Astartes permanently lost under Sigismund's command of the Imperial Fists on Tatooine's dunes.
That number made a barely perceptible crease form between Samuel Young's brows.
Such a slight expression was already a significant display of emotion for an immortal.
However, those valiant fallen souls were now resting peacefully within the "Hall of Heroes" in the celestial realm.
There, freed from the constraints of power armor, the warriors had at last laid down their eternal vigilance—some fished by illusory shorelines, others relived former glories in reconstructed coliseums.
Though their bodies had perished, the bonds of blood and covenant they held with the Emperor had never severed.
Their names, engraved in vibrant Chinese characters on the Hall's Wall of Oaths, remained ever-active and glowing.
When daemons tore reality's veil or xenos threatened humanity's existence, these runes would transform into summoning beacons.
Then, warriors unshackled from flesh would return as pure psychic avatars, their attacks infused with mortal terror of death, their war cries echoing with the purging flame of heaven.
The support troops, Helljumpers, and elven warriors who fell on Tatooine were also welcomed into paradise. When needed, they too would join these "bound Astartes" in reentering the physical universe.
Anakin Skywalker had begun his duties as "Gatekeeper of Hell," and Obi-Wan's soul now taught among the spirits in the heavenly realm.
And while the casualties were heavy, Sigismund and the Imperial Fists had successfully rescued nearly ten million humans and friendly xeno civilians.
More critically, they had bought enough time to activate the warp gate, preventing the desert world from becoming the Star Wars universe's second "Chaos Holy Land."
Samuel Young's gaze swept over the casualty reports floating in the air. Those cold numbers reflected a faint golden glow in his eyes.
The data scrolled, displaying updated progress. Imperial Fist reinforcements from Yavin IV were still traveling through the warp lanes—at least one standard Terran day away from reaching the battlefield on Tatooine.
With a tap of his finger, the hologram shifted to Tatooine's real-time star chart.
While technology couldn't establish immediate communication with the fleetless Sigismund, Samuel Young's psychic vision had long pierced the veil of reality. At a deep consciousness level, he clearly sensed Sigismund's spirit—unyielding like a torch in the dark.
At a level beyond mortal perception, he also saw a golden column of light shooting skyward from somewhere on Tatooine.
It was the sign of a Primarch's birth.
No instruments were needed. Instinct alone told him—another of his sons had safely arrived in the mortal realm. And with Hera's divine nourishment, this newborn Primarch was growing at a remarkable rate.
In his psychic vision, the life signals burned like a rising sun—vibrant, full of vitality.
The resonance of their shared psychic link—father and son—was more reliable than any communicator.
To Samuel Young, this new child was like a carefully planted seed taking root in Tatooine's sandy sea, nurtured by Hera's divine grace like spring rain.
No visual confirmation was required—he already knew the newborn matched the Primarch of the 10th Legion from the Warhammer 40k universe:
Ferrus Manus.
"Headless Ferrus," "Sister Ferrus," and other internet nicknames referred to this father of the Iron Hands Legion—the same Primarch decapitated by Fulgrim.
Ferrus Manus's name in Latin translates directly to "Iron Hand."
Like his brothers, Ferrus was swept away by Chaos as an infant, his incubation pod crash-landing on a brutal world called Medusa.
That planet was like a tempered blade—its eternal metal storms ripped apart the atmosphere, radioactive deserts roamed by mechanical beasts, and molten rivers surged through tectonic fractures.
The young Primarch survived alone in such a hellscape, hunting like a wild beast in rusted canyons, fighting biomechanical predators for every drop of clean water.
There was no warmth of human civilization—only the ceaseless whisper of death from Medusa itself.
Later came the legendary battle between young Ferrus and the silver dragon, Asirnoth.
The winged mech-dragon, over a hundred meters long, was armored in self-repairing alloys and could melt stone with its breath.
After a prolonged and brutal fight, Ferrus pinned the dragon's head beneath the lava lake. The molten metal surged up the beast's scales, encasing his bare arms.
When the metal cooled, those gleaming iron hands became a permanent part of him—
Not a curse, but a coronation bestowed by Medusa upon its strongest.
Armed with the "Iron Hands," Ferrus chose to seek out humanity. He knocked on the gates of the remaining human clans.
The scavenging tribes of the mechanical wastelands swiftly submitted to his strength and wisdom.
Ferrus taught them to forge star-metal, rebuilt shattered technologies, unified warring factions into the Iron Federation, and encouraged internal merit-based competition. In short order, Medusa rose from barbarism to an industrial world with orbital defenses.
In Warhammer 40k, Ferrus soon encountered Fulgrim, Primarch of the Emperor's Children.
Their first meeting nearly froze the air between them.
Fulgrim's purple armor gleamed with pearl inlay, opulent beneath the bridge lights. Ferrus's rugged iron hands glinted with a cold gleam in shadow.
Their gazes clashed like drawn blades—
To Ferrus, Fulgrim was a vain dandy obsessed with embellishment. Fulgrim, with poetic cruelty, compared the Iron Lord to the hideous Medusa of legend.
Only after they challenged each other to a forge contest, did a genuine friendship spark. They exchanged the mighty hammer and sword they had each crafted for the other.
That "draw" forged a legendary bond.
But beyond Fulgrim, Ferrus showed little warmth toward anyone.
To rebellious worlds, his solution was always the same: orbital bombardment, legionary suppression, total cleansing—a brutal trilogy.
When word of the Warmaster's selection spread, the Iron Hands prepared to celebrate. Ferrus was as dependable and deadly as any forged weapon.
Yet after one strategic miscalculation led to the destruction of a planet that could have become a human bastion—and a verbal rebuke from Roboute Guilliman—Ferrus realized he was unfit for the role and withdrew.
It was one of the few times he acknowledged fault. Like Medusa's metals needing a thousand folds to purge impurities, Ferrus tempered his soul through failure.
When the Horus Heresy erupted across the galaxy, Ferrus's Iron Hands had already clenched into a fist.
Fulgrim's betrayal struck him like a poisoned dagger through the mind.
The typically stoic Ferrus burned with fury. He had to end this treachery with his own hands—to wash away the shame in Fulgrim's blood.
Against all warnings, he led his elite veterans in a headlong assault on Isstvan V.
On the ash-covered battlefield, he advanced like a mechanical god of vengeance. Each swing of his warhammer turned traitors into twisted pulp.
But such recklessness left him isolated from support.
When Ferrus finally reached Fulgrim—his old friend now clad in Chaos-tainted armor—he stood among corpses of his fallen brothers.
Fulgrim, possessed by a daemon, laughed a distorted laugh. His once-elegant voice now echoed with Warp corruption.
Their duel was brutal but short.
Ferrus gripped Fulgrim's throat with his Iron Hands—but the daemon blade slashed his neck at an impossible angle.
His head spun through the air—last sights: the traitor picking up his severed head, Iron Hands burning behind him.
The Legion never recovered.
The seeds of this tragedy had been planted long before.
When Fulgrim first hinted at rebellion, Ferrus's response wasn't rage—but cold self-doubt.
"He dares try to sway me?"
"Does he see my loyalty as so fragile?"
These doubts were like grit in a machine—grinding away at Ferrus's core.
His charge on Isstvan wasn't just vengeance—it was self-proof. Only absolute sacrifice could erase the shame of having been tempted.
This stubbornness highlighted how rare it was for Primarchs—aside from Guilliman—to be truly balanced.
Samuel Young gathered his thoughts. The psychic glow of the Golden Throne settled into stillness.
Ferrus's fate was now rooted in Tatooine's sands. With Hera's nurturing, the newborn's early growth needed no interference.
The milk of Olympian goddesses was far superior to any nutrition serum from the Bio-Department. It wasn't just sustenance—it carried the power to elevate mortal flesh toward divinity.
And Athena, too, could now act as Ferrus's foster mother, alongside or even in place of Alexia and Queen Tinas of the elves.
The Spear of Victory would become a "discipline rod" beneath Tatooine's moons.
The Goddess of War and Wisdom would personally forge Ferrus's combat skills. Her teachings would be like crafting a sacred shield—Spartan rigor as the hammer, the Trojan War as quenching fire, and Olympian lore as the final honing stroke.
As the shadows of Chaos stirred on Tatooine's horizon, the growing Primarch would learn the ultimate truth of war in the fires of real battle:
For the Imperium of Man, fighting against the Warp's corruption is not an elective—it is a required course of eternal survival.
Of course, Star Wars still held many matters warranting the Emperor's attention.
Foremost: the fallen Coruscant.
The screams of billions still echoed in its upper atmosphere. The despair unleashed during their soul-rending deaths had forged the galactic core into a profane gateway to the Warp. Countless daemons now poured through its dimensional wounds.
Once-glorious orbital rings now lay wrapped in twitching flesh-thorns. Every inch of metal bore twisted reliefs of screaming faces. Chaos energies bled from these tears like pus from a rotting wound.
Even without Darth Vader as the perfect vessel, the Dark Gods still summoned "reinforcements" from other dimensions.
What was once a beacon of civilization now stabbed reality with a dagger of corruption—infecting the galaxy system by system with Warp decay.
Thus, when Magnus learned of Coruscant's fall, dispatching Lorgar and Khârn to respond immediately—
That was, without question, the right move.
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Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 391)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 471)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 677)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 1059)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1418)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1422)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1452)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1504)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld!(Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 703)
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