Fulgrim.
The Primarch of the Emperor's Children.
At this moment, he sat with perfect poise aboard his flagship, directing his expeditionary forces as they assaulted an alien species.
These xenos resembled serpents—though they might not actually be related to any true serpent species, they were still commonly referred to as Serpent-kin.
Individually powerful and technologically advanced, the Serpent-kin possessed knowledge surpassing the Imperium in certain fields.
Moreover, their homeworld was rich in water and rare resources—
a jewel of a world, one the Imperium very much desired.
Thus, once they were discovered, Fulgrim immediately ordered a relentless pursuit.
He intended to claim this precious world for mankind.
Now, watching the Serpent-kin's defenses falter on the tactical display, Fulgrim allowed a satisfied smile to grace his flawless features.
Victory was inevitable—
but to hasten the end and minimize losses among his sons, he chose to intervene personally.
Before departing, however, he made a small adjustment to his appearance.
As a perfectionist of the highest order, Fulgrim's standards for attire, speech, manners, education—every aspect of himself—were extreme.
Even when heading into battle, certain things could not be neglected.
After all:
A head may be severed, blood may be spilled—but one's hairstyle must never be disordered.
He normally devoted over an hour each day to caring for his silver hair and pale, flawless skin.
Under his influence, the entire Emperor's Children Legion had developed similar habits.
Combat ability was important—
but glamour, grace, and style were essential.
Their power armor often looked more like ceremonial masterpieces than instruments of war, and their manners were refined to aristocratic precision.
Of course, their combat efficiency remained unquestionable,
which was why the Emperor had never attempted to curtail their eccentricities.
(Except in cases like Lorgar's obsession with religion—that was another matter entirely.)
With Fulgrim leading from the front, the tide shifted dramatically.
The Serpent-kin, already strained, now collapsed into total defeat.
Their anti-gravity island-fortresses fell one after another,
their populations exterminated without hesitation.
Since the Great Crusade began—and humanity had seen countless worlds ravaged by xenos—
the Imperium harbored only one policy toward alien species, particularly those most unlike humans:
Extermination without mercy.
After much slaughter, Fulgrim's gaze fell upon a unique floating island.
Upon it rose a magnificent temple—so beautiful, so exquisitely crafted, that even Fulgrim was momentarily stunned.
It was unmistakably a masterpiece, the culmination of the Serpent-kin's greatest artistic efforts.
There must be something valuable inside.
Driven by excitement, Fulgrim led an elite detachment into the structure.
Hours later, after cleaving down a massive serpent guardian with his blazing Fireblade,
he finally reached the temple's inner sanctum.
There, embedded in a block of dark stone, stood a breathtakingly crafted rapier.
A flawless violet gem adorned its hilt, shimmering with irresistible charm.
From the instant Fulgrim saw it, he was captivated.
He had never seen a weapon so perfect.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward and pulled it free.
The act was smooth—effortless—exactly like the moment in a myth when the hero receives a destiny-forged blade.
If only the weapon did not contain a daemon of Slaanesh,
perhaps the moment would have remained a blessing.
But Fulgrim, admiring his newfound treasure, sensed nothing.
And thus, tragedy took root…
---
— The Death Guard Legion —
Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard, was in his laboratory, experimenting with plague cultures.
Raised on the toxic world of Barbarus, Mortarion had always harbored a complicated fascination with diseases—
both fear and admiration.
In the midst of adjusting a viral compound, he suddenly heard a faint voice.
"You yearn for greater power… do you not?"
Mortarion froze.
Then glanced around, puzzled.
This laboratory had been constructed under the highest containment standards.
No intruder should have been able to enter—
and no stray sound should have existed.
After searching thoroughly and finding nothing, he began to suspect he had imagined it.
He returned to his experiment.
"I can give you what you desire."
The voice returned—
clearer, calmer, as if the speaker now stood right before him.
Yet no matter how Mortarion probed, he found no presence.
Even after sealing off his hearing with psychic energy, the voice continued effortlessly:
"I know your frustration and your quiet ambition. You believe your rightful place should be higher. You crave greater authority, not merely endless warfare."
"Serve me.
Swear yourself to me…
and everything you seek will be yours."
Silence fell.
The words hit too close to Mortarion's inner truth.
Finally, he spoke:
"Then prove it.
Prove that your promises are real."
"Of course I can…"
The voice answered confidently.
....
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