This thoroughly transformed military command hub now perfectly met the Human Empire's—more precisely, the Imperial Fists'—most stringent standards.
Adamantium armor plating, forged in layered honeycomb structures, covered the walls entirely, its surface shimmering with a ghostly blue metallic sheen beneath cold-toned lighting. The entire eastern wall was occupied by a tactical holographic starmap that continuously updated the current strategic situation.
Thousands of azure-blue light dots sparkled like stars, delineating the grand arrangement of every Human Empire warship across Universe 17 (Star Wars).
Various strategic interface projections floated in the air, their quantum computation hums intricately suppressed by advanced systems, leaving only faint tremors in the atmosphere.
Dozens of Imperial Fist officers clad in Titan-class power armor stood around the circular tactical platform like statues. The campaign ribbons on their pauldrons gleamed faintly with dark-golden light under the holoscreens.
The servo systems of their power armor emitted a low whir, and the occasional soft clink of hydraulics echoed as they subtly shifted—like warriors stretching their limbs before battle.
These veteran warriors, battle-hardened and disciplined, exchanged words in hushed tones as streams of tactical simulations pulsed around them. They stood ever ready to carry out the Primarch's orders and judgments.
At the center of the control room—
Dorn stood like a mountain, his armored fingers sweeping through the air. The holoprojection shifted with his gestures, unfurling like a scroll in the sky, its data-light casting rippling patterns across the floor.
Behind the gene-Primarch stood a figure both elegant and fierce—
Aoi Loslian, an elf from Terrailia. Her light-golden hair was neatly tied, with soul-bone ornaments glinting between strands.
She wore form-fitting silver-white armor with a liquid-metal luster. Wing-like layers guarded her joints, and at her waist hung a crystal rapier glowing a deep blue.
Though not an Astartes, the Imperial Fists ring on her left ring finger—and her experience assisting Dorn with legion affairs—lent her an aura increasingly akin to that of a queen, adding an intangible sense of majesty to the command chamber.
"Communications link established."
A deep mechanical voice echoed through the command nexus.
The next instant, the central console's hard-light projection matrix activated with a sharp buzz, blue-white particles weaving in the air, forming four towering figures.
Their images solidified from streams of data, emerging like gods stepping from the void—
Logar, Prophet of the Word Bearers, draped in a robe embroidered with Chinese scripture, golden runes flowing along the fabric like living things.
Magnus, red-haired son of the Thousand Sons, his eyes flickering with psychic fire. The air around his image warped faintly, as if reality itself trembled under his psychic pressure.
Konrad Curze, shadow king of the Night Lords, his pale face half-hidden beneath a black hood. Shadows danced across his features like living creatures. A faint, unreadable smile hung on his lips—cold, detached, predator's calm.
Perturabo, War-Smith of the Iron Warriors, his expression concealed behind a cold metal mask, only his mechanical eyes gleamed with ruthless logic. He stood unmoving, like a sculpture cast in steel.
"Brothers."
Magnus spoke first, his voice magnetic, carrying a subtle psychic resonance that stirred the very air.
As the Father's chosen temporary Warmaster, his tone carried indisputable authority.
"The war has entered a new phase." Magnus raised his hand, and the holomap changed. A 3D model of the Death Star appeared before them.
The massive battle station bore scorched scars. The energy core's readouts flickered erratically, clearly still unstable after its last engagement.
"My legion has secured initial control of the Death Star, but its power matrix remains volatile." Magnus swiped across the projection, revealing the station's inner architecture—glowing red within complex energy conduits.
"To field it on the front lines now would be too risky. I intend to relocate it to the Jedha system, using the local space gate to facilitate in-depth engineering maintenance."
The projection shifted again, showing Jedha's strategic map, its space gate coordinates glowing in eerie blue.
"In addition—" Magnus raised his voice slightly, "we seized forty-seven Star Destroyers in the Battle of Scarif, thirty of which are still combat-capable."
In the projection, rows of jet-black Star Destroyer models formed an array. Their turrets bristled like forests, hulls bearing scars that spoke of fierce battles.
"Rather than let them idle, I propose forming a 'local defense fleet' within Universe 17."
His gaze swept across each Primarch. "The fleet would be led by auxiliary officers from our legions, crewed by vetted prisoners of war, local rebels, and newly conscripted soldiers. This would both strengthen our control and maximize use of current assets."
He paused, letting the information settle. "Your thoughts?"
Silence lingered. Only the faint hum of holograms echoed in the chamber.
The four holographic Primarchs flickered in the data stream. A subtle sense of maneuvering filled the air.
Magnus's gaze swept his brothers, reading intent from their silence.
Dorn spoke first, voice cold and precise as adamantium: "No major objections. But the fleet's allocation needs additional oversight."
He traced a line on the projection. "Each vessel must be assigned a commissar to ensure command integrity. Given the expansion scale, supervision and command should be shared—and the crews must have decision-making authority for emergencies."
At that, Logar's robe stirred despite no wind, scripture rippling, as he gently added:
"Stability of faith is equally critical. The Word Bearers can dispatch priest delegations to accompany the fleet, preaching Human Truth and the Imperial Creed—guiding the hearts of both troops and civilians, and shielding them from heresy."
His voice was devout toward the Father—but not without ulterior motives.
Every priest was his ear. Every sermon, an expansion of the Word Bearers' influence.
Then Curze's shadow twisted and he too spoke: "We Night Lords can also 'assist' in governance. We are very skilled at ensuring obedience."
His eyes met Logar's. In that brief glance, a tacit agreement formed.
The Night Lords would rule through fear. The Word Bearers through faith. One in shadow, one in light—both vying for control over the fleet.
Magnus had no interest in his two younger brothers' petty schemes. His image shimmered faintly in the data stream, twin eyes reflecting each of their faces.
On any other day, he might've mocked their subtle ploys—for all inter-legion intrigue ultimately sprang from human nature.
Even as gene-Primarchs, hailed as gods by mortals, they were not beyond emotion.
The Emperor could burn away selfishness for the sake of mankind. But they were not the Emperor.
Even the Father had once known love.
As the crystal-clear hololight flowed over his crimson armor, Magnus recalled how his foster mother Alexia used to tell him and Horus old myths and legends.
How the Greek gods quarreled over golden apples, how the Norse gods fought over dominion.
How ironic that they, called demigods, maintained surface harmony only because of their father. Without that restraint, they too would descend into mythic farce.
But the mantle of Warmaster was a shackle.
Though not as adept at political maneuvering as his brother Guilliman, even Magnus found Logar and Curze's implications painfully transparent.
"Your proposals are insightful,"
Magnus spoke with that signature psychic resonance, causing a quantum tremor to ripple through the chamber.
Each syllable rang with golden gravitas: "The local defense fleet shall be jointly overseen by the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors."
The holomap burst into dozens of dark-blue veins, like capillaries stretching through the galaxy—linking directly to Dorn and Perturabo's spheres of control. Their armor glinted coldly in the light.
The two Primarchs—known for iron will, uninterested in power struggles—were thus made the balancing weights.
"As for discipline and morale..." Magnus tapped his finger, and the projection summoned both the Word Bearers' scripture symbol and the Night Lords' spectral fanged insignia. "Let the Word Bearers' priests and Curze's appointed officers share the task."
"Additionally,"
Now, Magnus raised his psychic frequency. The lighting system flickered in response.
"The Emperor has decreed that the World Eaters are to join the war. Once Angron and his legion finish assembling via the space gate—"
A new red-white projection appeared, the snarling insignia of the World Eaters burning in virtual flame.
Magnus had deliberately imbued the display with the savage aura of an arena.
"They will lead the ground forces of the fleet."
At this, Dorn's brow twitched, barely perceptible—clearly an unexpected development.
Perturabo's armor joints emitted their signature click, as if recalculating.
Logar and Curze showed no visible emotion.
Ultimately, all dissent dissolved beneath the Warmaster's crown of authority.
Magnus studied his silent brothers, his psychic vision scanning the starfields for emotional ripples.
Dorn's bluntness gleamed like his gold armor.
Perturabo's buried jealousy was tightly sealed inside—but Magnus understood. Every brother had someone or something others envied.
Dorn had an elven fiancée and was accepted as son-in-law by Terrailia's elves. Perturabo's envy likely stemmed from this steadfast sibling.
As for Logar and Curze's ambitions, they lingered like shadows beneath stained glass.
The balance of power shifted subtly—but had not yet tilted.
Seeing this, Magnus continued, "Then, any further proposals?"
Logar spoke first: "Though Coruscant is destroyed, Chaos corruption still strangles the surrounding sectors like poison ivy."
The starmap morphed. Coruscant's remains were marked deep purple. Three neighboring sectors lit up in crimson alerts, tagged High Risk Zones.
"The Word Bearers will continue purging these regions until the last trace of warp miasma is burned by holy flame."
"And the remnants of the Galactic Empire who sided with Chaos—"
Curze picked up the thread, pale fingers gliding across the map. Several systems turned deep blue. "They're good at hiding. But the Night Lords are better at hunting. I'll lead the pursuit personally—and ensure they don't even get a chance to beg."
Dorn's gaze passed over his brothers. "Remember—our goal is unification, not indiscriminate slaughter. Those untainted by Chaos can and should be repurposed—to serve as the foundation for the Empire's growth."
Curze's grin widened but gave no clear answer. "Worry not, brother. I know the line."
"Fral was only the beginning," Perturabo's voice rang like tempered steel from a forge.
"The Iron Warriors will continue fortifying key systems with the Imperial Fists. We'll ensure Chaos finds no ground for counterattack or spread."
The starmap updated again, now showing a string of fortified systems linked by iron bastions.
"Jedha, Tatooine—these nodes must be impregnable." His armor flashed coldly. "Once the line is built, Chaos will find no way in."
Dorn nodded. "If needed, the Imperial Fists will support you in all aspects."
"Good."
Magnus nodded as well. "Then let us proceed according to current plans. Continue the Unification War in Universe 17 until it is fully absorbed into the Empire.
In the name of the Emperor, let the fire of unification burn across this galaxy."
As his voice faded and ripples spread, the holograms gradually powered down. Only the command dome's cold ambient glow remained.
The Primarchs' images dissolved into data flow, leaving only traces of light on the tactical table.
The "summit" had concluded.
"…"
After his brothers vanished, Dorn gave a near-imperceptible sigh.
Even he, it seemed, could not hide his fatigue from all this scheming and politicking.
Noticing this, Aoi immediately approached, gently brushing her hand over the back of Dorn's armored hand and asked softly:
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
Dorn answered while pinching his temples with thumb and middle finger.
"Just minor issues. Nothing serious. Also—prepare yourself. Once Sigismund's fleet completes repairs, I'll head to Tatooine personally. Until then, Yavin IV and the surrounding sectors' defense will be in your hands."
"Understood. Don't worry."
(End of Chapter)
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