The First Manus.
Harlan and Senna, Blazkowicz was not surprised that they achieved this.
The most pleasant surprise was Blazkowicz, the Primarch's eldest son.
His way of thinking was similar to the Sentinels; he diligently studied Argent Nur culture and applied it in practice.
After reading it, Blazkowicz let out a sigh: "It seems I'm the one making the slowest progress."
He shook his head and gave a bitter smile, not truly disheartened, but merely self-deprecating.
"You were constrained by time, yet your achievements are equally remarkable," Sophia said, curtsying slightly and lifting her skirt, as elegant as a lady.
"Indeed, it was a great feat. The fleet suffered no casualties and only minimal material loss, yet it annihilated a race with immense potential."
Gates was calculating, its disc-shaped edge projecting a hologram: "Judging by the battle damage ratio, this operation can be described as 'highly efficient.'"
Blazkowicz said nothing, merely shaking his head. The artificial intelligence's attempts to bridge the gap in progress with various excuses were quite amusing.
He opened the message from Terra. The Emperor had sent two Astropathic messages, urging him to return to the Imperium.
After leaving normal time, three of his brothers had returned to the Imperium, and the Emperor wished him to meet them.
"Target Terra, set sail!"
The fleet's engines roared to life, propelling the ships towards the Mandeville Point, preparing to leave the real universe.
"Target Terra, Warp lane lock imminent," Fransisca's ethereal voice announced. She had been in a stasis pod, rarely moving.
As the illusory voice from the Warp faded, the choir deep within the ship began to chant, assisting the navigators in locking onto the Warp lane.
They were blind, having used Warp powers too many times; a navigator's normal eyes would rapidly go blind, but it didn't affect the use of their third eye.
Perhaps for this reason, Fransisca was reluctant to leave her stasis pod too often, to avoid the backlash of Warp energy.
The Gellar field activated simultaneously, creating a bubble of reality to prevent the erosion of Warp energy.
Blazkowicz could indeed suppress Warp powers and scare away Warp corruption; his path was smooth sailing.
However, protocols had to be established, and the fleet's standard procedures were unquestionable, lest complacency set in and lead to future disaster.
The ships entered the Warp, and all the viewport shutters were lowered; the view outside was entirely simulated by holograms.
Just as Blazkowicz entered the Warp, heading for Terra.
Far away in the underground forge of the Imperial Palace on Terra, a tall man stood before an anvil.
He was tall, with serious and sharp eyes, a dignified square face, and a neat buzz cut.
He continuously swung his fists, striking the iron blank, forging weapons in an extraordinary manner.
Looking closely, the tall man's hands were unusual, glowing with a dull, silver-grey light.
Those iron hands moved freely as if alive; when the man forcefully struck the iron blank, the expansion of blood vessels and veins was clearly visible.
He wore a thick leather apron, his face smudged with carbon ash. He was serious and stern, yet also unkempt and unrestrained.
Ferrus Manus. The Emperor's son, Primarch of the Tenth Legion, the "Storm Walkers."
He continuously struck the iron blank with his iron hands, the sparks telling of his origin.
Ferrus Manus, he landed on the edge of the Halo Stars, on Medusa, planet four of the Medusa system.
The Primarch's amniotic pod detached from the Warp, the impact of its landing was incredibly powerful, smashing through a mountain covered in black snow.
Ferrus crawled out of the damaged amniotic pod, and as he stood in the black snow, he saw a silver-white dragon flying away.
Recalling the impact of his landing and the mountain he had pierced, he immediately realized that he had released the silver dragon.
He swore in his heart to eliminate the dragon in the future to atone for his mistake.
At the same time, the Primarch's innate rationality made him focus on the amniotic pod.
The outer wall was inscribed with numerous mysterious runes, and at the bottom of the front was the numeral "X."
He understood in his heart that there were at least nine other beings like himself.
Ferrus observed his surroundings, finding no other creatures like himself.
All he saw was black snow and rusty mountains in the distance. He looked up, and his superhuman vision pierced through the clouds, seeing a magnificent steel ring.
The Primarch's intellect understood everything; he was in a decaying civilization.
He buried the amniotic pod and walked on Medusa, measuring the world beneath his feet.
When thirsty, he ate black snow; when hungry, he ate scrap metal and dirt to sate himself. A Primarch's body was powerful enough to digest most of the world's matter.
The young Primarch saw creatures similar to himself, whom they called "humans."
A Primarch's growth rate was astonishing; in just a few years, he grew from a human infant into a strong man over four meters tall.
Ferrus did not actively approach humans, hiding in the shadows, diligently observing his own kind.
The humans of Medusa were steeped in ignorance, driving giant land machines left over from a civilized era, traversing the planet in a nomadic lifestyle, living by scavenging.
Humans had lost scientific theory; their understanding and use of machines had become orally transmitted experience.
He secretly learned, comprehending the knowledge of mechanical structures, but did not share it with humanity.
It wasn't selfishness; the Primarch felt the time was not yet right.
On Medusa, technological knowledge was like a sharp blade that had to be used cautiously.
Carelessly sharing knowledge would bring not only revival but also conflict between the various nomadic tribes.
Technology had to be restrained; until he had relatively control, the Primarch would not easily share technological knowledge.
Ferrus was extremely cautious, rarely actively interacting with humans before the time was right.
After a long period of solitary travel, without deliberately concealing his tracks, rumors began to spread among the Medusan tribes.
Human tribes sang legends of a cloaked giant walking on Medusa, seemingly searching for something.
Some tribes considered the giant a threat and sent troops to encircle him, but they were easily defeated by the giant.
The giant did not kill the humans, magnanimously letting them go. From then on, the legends of Medusa became even more mythical.
Star of Calamity, Hunter, Giant of the End, Son of Man, God of Resurrection.
Wherever Ferrus went, numerous legends circulated among the tribes, and his nicknames were countless.
The Primarch did not stop, continuing to walk on Medusa, searching for the right moment to reunite humanity.
What was the "moment"? He knew clearly in his heart.
That silver dragon he had released, Ferrus swore to hunt it down and atone for the mistake he had made.
Finally, the Primarch discovered the silver dragon's tracks, caught up with it in a lava lake, and engaged in battle.
They fought for a long time, the battle between the two monsters shattering hills and breaking rocks, their roars like thunder.
Passing human tribes dared not approach, fearing to be caught in the mythical battle between the two, and stood at a distance, waiting for the fight to end.
Ferrus, with his Primarch's divine power, remained full of stamina after several days and nights of non-stop fighting.
The Primarch knocked down the dragon countless times but could not truly kill it. The monster's silver body was like flowing liquid metal, tough and self-repairing.
In desperation, he looked at the gushing lava lake, seized the exhausted dragon, and pressed it into the lava lake.
The dragon struggled wildly in the lava, its liquid metal boiling from the high temperature, unable to escape the Primarch's embrace.
After several hours of stalemate, the silver dragon slowly died, and the silver-grey liquid metal separated from the dragon, actually climbing onto Ferrus' arms.
At such a bizarre sight, his first reaction was to pull his arms away, but then he considered that it might mean all his efforts would be in vain, so he gritted his teeth and persevered.
Finally, the dragon drowned in the scorching lava, and Ferrus pulled his arms from the lava, his two strong arms fused with the liquid metal.
He walked out of the lava lake, and the waiting humans knelt in worship, giving him a new title—Iron Hands.
Feeling the time was ripe, the Primarch accepted the tribe's loyalty and told them his name—Ferrus Manus.
From then on, the Primarch shared his technological knowledge, armed the nomadic tribes, and conquered the world of Medusa.
Ferrus used his talent for war, precisely calculating every battle, and his iron hands were invincible.
He conquered Medusa at the fastest speed, consolidating the scattered nomadic tribes into nine major tribes.
With the nine major tribes stabilized, Ferrus still did not settle down; he moved around Medusa, periodically inspecting each tribe.
The Primarch encouraged competition among the tribes; their healthy rivalry spurred rapid development and increased their combat power.
Until one day, a golden light descended from the sky.
Ferrus felt a premonition; he dropped his current tasks and went to the golden light's impact point.
In the golden light, the Primarch saw a golden figure.
He stood dumbfounded, carefully considering how to describe the sacredness of the person before him.
The golden figure stood like a lighthouse, and as its radiance fell, one could see the redemptive elegy within it.
He was so sacred, the most outstanding being Ferrus could imagine, the most perfect embodiment.
The one who came was none other than the Master of Mankind, traversing the galaxy to the Medusa system, searching for His lost son.
Ferrus did not know His identity, but felt an inexplicable connection between them, as if their souls were calling to each other.
They looked at each other, the Master of Mankind above like a guiding light, Ferrus below gazing up at His brilliance.
Without a word, Ferrus swung His Iron Hands and charged towards the golden figure.
His Primarch instinct told Him that He must cherish this opportunity, as it would likely be difficult to ever again face such a powerful being.
The Master of Mankind in the golden light responded to Ferrus, also raising His fist to attack.
Two powerful beings who had never met before, now had a telepathic understanding, proving themselves to each other through their strength.
The Master of Mankind and Ferrus Manus, father and son, greeted each other with divine power.
Their battle was earth-shattering, shattering mountains and churning the earth, a fierce sparring that lasted for three days and three nights.
Finally, Ferrus fell, bruised all over, lying in the black snow, breathing heavily as He looked up at the golden figure.
"Who are you?"
The Primarch's voice was deep and rough, a metallic resonance emanating from His massive chest, a simple question landing like a hammer.
The golden figure walked slowly without a word, approaching Ferrus, His golden light sacred and all-encompassing.
Step by step, His brilliance gradually faded, revealing the rugged face of a middle-aged man.
Ferrus was stunned; that face was like a dream, perfectly fitting all His imaginings of humanity.
Resilient and steady as a mountain. His eyes were as deep as the reflected galaxy, His nose like a peak, as if it could bear the weight of ten thousand tons.
"I am also the Master of Mankind; they call Me 'the Master of Mankind'." The Master of Mankind's Adam's apple bobbed, and a voice of contentment emerged from His mouth, His clear eyes radiating affection.
He extended His arm to Ferrus, who lay on the ground, His expression filled with anticipation: "But I am now a father, come to find My lost tenth son."
A father? The Master of Mankind? The tenth son?
Just hearing a single sentence, Ferrus immediately knew that the man before Him was His father.
His resolute, unsmiling face broke into a slight smile, and He reached out to grasp His father's arm.
There was no need to discern the truth of the words; the moment their two large hands clasped, Ferrus knew the truth.
The man before Him was His father, the Master of Mankind, the supreme ruler of the Imperium of Man—the Master of Mankind.
Ferrus embraced the Master of Mankind, feeling His reality, a heartfelt smile appearing on His face.
He immediately knelt, swearing an oath of fealty to the Master of Mankind using a local Medusan vow.
The Master of Mankind was overjoyed, and immediately helped His tenth son up, boarding the Emperor's Dream to return to the Imperium.
Ferrus Manus, Gene-Father of the Tenth Legion, returned from Medusa to Terra to take command of His gene-sons' Legion—the "Storm Walkers" Legion.
During His days on Terra, He rapidly learned about Imperial knowledge, analyzing what He saw and heard with the extraordinary mind of a Primarch.
Ferrus disbanded the Legion, reorganized the Storm Walkers Legion's structure into nine great companies, corresponding to the nine major tribes of the planet Medusa.
And renamed it—the Iron Hands.
As a Primarch, the speed of ordinary Humans and later Space Marines was slow to Him.
With the Legion being reorganized and the Gloriana Queen gifted by the Master of Mankind being refitted, Ferrus, having nothing else to do, felt bored and went to the forge to craft.
He came to the underground forge of the Imperial Palace on Terra, filling His inner emptiness with forging.
Ferrus' fists fell like a downpour, and as the Primarch's iron hands continuously hammered, various weapons took shape.
A pair of silver-grey iron hands not only gave Ferrus powerful unarmed combat abilities but also the capacity to craft high-tech weapons with His bare hands.
Each weapon, astonishing in its quality and power, left the forge masters in awe.
Divine weapons that mortal artisans could spend their entire lives failing to forge were crafted by the Master of Mankind's demigod son with only His bare hands.
How extraordinary was this?
For a time, Ferrus was surrounded by mortal artisans, observing and learning the Primarch's extraordinary skill.
The forge, where the sounds of forging had once been continuous, now echoed with a single sound, as only one tall giant worked.
Just then, another giant walked into the forge.
Ferrus stopped His work, turned to look at the forge's entrance, and met the giant's gaze across the distance.
His thick brows furrowed, and a hint of inquiry flashed in His eyes; the man was too flamboyant, like a showy peacock.
The mortal artisans collectively knelt.
They did not know the identity of the newcomer, but on Terra, only the Master of Mankind and His sons could possess such a magnificent physique.
The newcomer had beautiful silver-white long hair, as smooth as silk brocade, flowing naturally over His chest.
His eyes were purple, adorned with noble and luxurious beauty. His face was as smooth as flawless white jade, exceedingly beautiful, captivating without a word.
His figure was slender and tall, dressed in a sweeping purple robe with gold embroidery, revealing half of His muscular chest.
The newcomer simply stood there, one hand on His hip, His chin raised at a perfect angle.
The forge entrance behind Him was like a painting frame, and the person in the painting was naturally elegant and perfect.
"Brother." Ferrus knew the newcomer was His brother whom He had not yet met. He looked at the peacock's ornate robe, a teasing expression on His face: "This is not the place for you."
"Don't let oil and soot contaminate your splendor."
The newcomer curved His lips into a smile, and the entire factory seemed to brighten for it; the mortals who glimpsed His face were momentarily lost in a daze.
"Brother, I have come here to forge a weapon for myself, to join Father's Great Crusade."
The giant who came to the forge was the Master of Mankind's third son, the Gene-Father of the Third Legion—Fulgrim.
Those closer to Him called Him "Fugen"; He came from the mineral world—Chemos.
Chemos originated in the Dark Age of Technology, famous for its rich mineral resources, and in ancient times exchanged mineral resources for food with other worlds.
Ever since the Warp storms ravaged, cutting off Humanity's Warp lanes, Chemos fell into famine.
Mineral factories were useless, and people fought over food and water.
The once prosperous mineral world had completely devolved into a barren world of endless sand.
Fulgrim's amniotic pod streaked through Chemos' atmosphere, attracting the attention of local workers.
They followed the pod's fiery trail to a desolate plain.
The workers were shocked by the incredible sight before them; they saw a ball of light solidify into a human male infant in the air.
The infant was perfect and flawless; with just one glance, the workers were captivated by the infant's perfection.
But Chemos' living conditions were harsh, and one worker suggested killing the infant, as they had no extra food to feed a child.
To protect the perfect infant, a worker shot his companion.
They brought the male infant back to their camp, naming Him "Fulgrim," a name of profound significance.
Fulgrim grew quickly under the care of the workers; He was intelligent and charismatic.
The workers were quickly captivated by the Primarch's extraordinary charisma; they united around Fulgrim, obeying His commands.
The Primarch did not disappoint the workers of Chemos.
He used His extraordinary intellect to improve Chemos' factories, producing more daily necessities, liberating the people of Chemos who were suffering from famine.
He used technology to transform the barren world, making it more suitable for Human survival.
Soon, Fulgrim embarked on a journey to conquer Chemos, determined to completely liberate the people of Chemos.
For an extraordinary Primarch, conquest and violence were instincts.
However, Fulgrim did not use much violence; He leveraged His strengths, conquering the world with His own charisma.
Wherever He went to a city-state, He would first distribute food to alleviate hunger, and then inspire hearts with His speeches.
The people of Chemos were captivated by Fulgrim's perfection, yearning for the future He described, and anticipating the rule of an extraordinary being.
The conquest was slow, a natural result of rarely using force.
A Primarch, abandoning the instinct for violence, conquered an entire world purely with extraordinary charisma.
From His arrival to ruling Chemos, Fulgrim took fifty years.
During the unification process, He advocated peaceful conquest, almost never resorting to force.
For stable rule, maintaining fairness, and strengthening alliances, He entered into political marriages with every city-state, taking dozens of wives.
Due to the Primarch's efforts, the people of Chemos escaped famine and completely bid farewell to suffering.
Then an Imperial fleet arrived at Chemos, hovering in orbit around the planet, and dropships landed on the planet's surface.
The Master of Mankind had come to take His son home.
When the local people of Chemos brought the Master of Mankind and the Space Marines before the Primarch.
The moment Fulgrim saw the Master of Mankind, He knew He was His father, and was captivated by the perfection of the golden figure before Him.
The Master of Mankind, with a thousand faces for a thousand people, fit Fulgrim's definition of perfection.
He knelt on one knee before the Master of Mankind without a word, presenting His personal sword with both hands, swearing an oath of fealty to His father, and leading Chemos back to the Master of Mankind.
The Master of Mankind brought His son back to Terra and entrusted Him with the Third Legion.
Fulgrim felt a heavy responsibility, and to spread the Master of Mankind's glory across the galaxy, He named the Legion—the Emperor's Children.
The Master of Mankind was deeply moved and granted the Emperor's Children Legion a special privilege: they could adorn their Legion armor with the Imperial Aquila.
When the Primarch returned, the Emperor's Children Legion had suffered heavy losses, with only two hundred members remaining.
After a horrific attack on the Gene-Seed Cultivation Chambers on the Moon, the Third Legion was ravaged by the 'Wasting Sickness' virus.
This terrible gene-plague gradually degraded the Space Marine's enhanced organs, causing the infected to decay in agony.
The infected were in a dangerous state.
The Wasting Sickness could erupt at any time, possibly during the implantation phase, or it could suddenly manifest during combat on the battlefield.
Its unpredictability tormented the Third Legion.
Countless great warriors did not die on the battlefield, but succumbed to the infection of the Wasting Sickness.
With the Gene-Father not having returned and no source of pure Gene-Seed, the Third Legion teetered on the brink of disbandment.
Fulgrim's return was undoubtedly inspiring.
New Gene-Seed could be cultivated, and the Third Legion could be saved.
During the Legion's replenishment period, Fulgrim came to the forge to craft a weapon for himself.
To suit himself and the definition of perfection, the Primarch had to personally forge a weapon worthy of him.
He saw a disheveled giant crafting a weapon with his iron hands.
Through their extraordinary connection and the sensing of their bloodline, Fulgrim knew that the extraordinary giant before him, whose face was smudged with coal dust, was his blood brother.
"This is not the place for you. Don't let oil and coal dust contaminate your splendor."
His brother's words were calm, but his tone held a hint of disdain.
Fulgrim's lips curved into a perfect arc: "My dear brother, we are both sons of our Father, and my hands have also been stained with engine oil."
His voice was as smooth as melted honey, yet it contained the sharpness of steel.
With utmost elegance, he refuted his brother's words.
The implication was to remind his brother not to belittle him.
"Is that so?" Ferrus slowly shook his head, looking at his brother's arms, which were elegant and slender hands.
"Your frail arms cannot withstand the test of fire; the flames of the forge will burn your delicate skin."
Ferrus raised his silver arm, his voice as deep and rough as a forge's bellows, and said to his brother:
"Arms used for forging should be full of strength, not elegant and delicate."
Two Primarchs, two sons of the Emperor.
They seemed like two opposites, one elegant and splendid, the other rough and simple.
"I don't think so." Fulgrim smiled warmly, stepping forward, his gait so elegant it was intoxicating.
"Everyone, rise." He stopped in front of an anvil and gently called for the surrounding smiths to stand up.
Fulgrim pulled down his robe, slung it across his body, and tied up the lower part of his purple robes at his waist.
It was then that Ferrus saw clearly his brother's sturdy chest, perfectly proportioned long legs, and the powerful muscles hidden beneath his magnificent exterior.
Fulgrim picked up the tongs, clamped a piece of iron ingot, placed it on the anvil, and asked his brother: "Interested in a competition?"
The forge fire reflected on his fair skin, as if draping him in a fiery cloak, like a phoenix rising from the flames.
"Of course!" Ferrus naturally wouldn't refuse his brother's invitation, casually wiped the grime from his face, and readily agreed.
His brother, standing elegantly by the forge, inspired him, and he immediately began to craft a weapon.
The crude action made Fulgrim shake his head and smile wryly; his brother wiped the grime from his face with his hand, only to get more coal dust on it.
Coupled with the sweat from the high temperature, his face looked as if it had been painted with a layer of greasepaint.
But he quickly adjusted his state, contemplating the weapon he needed to forge, a weapon worthy of him.
Clang ~ Clang ~
The continuous hammering interrupted Fulgrim's thoughts; his crude brother had already begun to forge a weapon.
Those strange silver-grey iron hands continuously struck the iron blank, shaping it.
His brother's extremely serious demeanor, his immersion in forging, was like a human forging hammer.
His eyes lit up, an inspiration flashed in his mind, and the weapon he was to forge began to take shape.
The two Primarchs unleashed their divine power, using unique techniques to craft their weapons.
Ferrus was uniquely gifted; his iron hands swung in perfect circles, making sparks fly from the red-hot iron blank.
Fulgrim was skilled with tools, handling various forging implements with ease, and his forging technique was equally beautiful and elegant.
Sparks flew and sweat splattered as the two brothers each employed their methods to forge the perfect weapon in their hearts.
The surrounding forge smiths involuntarily knelt; two demigods using the anvil as an arena, competing in their forging skills—such a sight was rare in all ages.
Their skills were extraordinary and sacred, beyond mortal comprehension, a realm that smiths could never reach in a lifetime.
Fulgrim sweated profusely, his silver hair sticking to his face, but he seemed unaware, striking the anvil with all his might.
Thunder flashed above the anvil; the power of lightning was nurtured within it, and the supreme divine weapon revealed its intent.
Ferrus cradled fire from the furnace, his iron hands continuously striking, injecting heat and power into the iron blank.
It was also a divine weapon, full of passion and power; as the flames surged, there seemed to be a phoenix crying out.
His sweat dripped, but he felt no fatigue; excitement surged within him, a powerful weapon was about to be born.
Amidst his excitement, Ferrus looked up at his brother, surprised that his brother's skill was no less than his own, and the weapon within the electric light was equally powerful.
As if by telepathy, Fulgrim looked up, his purple eyes reflecting his brother's face.
His dark eyes reflected himself, containing what seemed like a thousand words, and the most sincere recognition.
The two brothers exchanged a smile; the unspoken understanding of their bloodline and hearts was complete.
As the sparks faded, the quenched weapons were removed from the oil; their radiance shone so brightly that the forge's fires paled in comparison.
Ferrus held a longsword in one hand, scrutinizing it up and down, his eyes overflowing with admiration.
The longsword glowed with a golden radiance, emanating an unquenchable flame; the sword's blade was like a fire phoenix poised to take flight.
Fulgrim held a warhammer wreathed in lightning; its hammer face was flat on all four sides, its head sharply beveled, and its side bore a winged eagle.
"Flameblade!"
"Furnacebreaker!"
The two Primarchs exchanged glances, tacitly announced the names of their weapons, and then burst into laughter.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
The outwardly crude Ferrus Manus forged an elegant longsword, while the elegant and splendid Fulgrim crafted a rough and violent warhammer.
The weapons they forged were inspired by their brother's image, a materialization of their brother's appearance in their hearts.
"A magnificent longsword; your forging skill is superb." Fulgrim clicked his tongue in admiration; his brother's superior skill had earned his recognition.
"It's not just magnificent," Ferrus smiled and shook his head, casually brandishing the Flameblade; a solid iron anvil was cut in half, the cut surface as smooth as a mirror:
"It's very practical, not just a showpiece."
Fulgrim nodded repeatedly upon hearing this, a hint of pride on his face, knowing that his brother was using the object to allude to him.
His brother was praising him, saying he possessed not only a magnificent exterior but also a powerful inner essence.
"Your warhammer is also very good." Ferrus' eyes were fixed on the warhammer in his brother's hand; the Furnacebreaker warhammer pleased him greatly.
"Of course," Fulgrim tilted his head in acknowledgment, never hiding his arrogance: "Only the most resilient warriors have the determination and strength to wield it."
He was also using the object to allude to his brother, praising his brother's extraordinary resilience, the toughness and strength he possessed beneath his seemingly simple exterior.
Spontaneously, the two brothers evaluated each other, their admiration and praise evident in their expressions.
Thus, as their purple and black eyes met, they made a decision as if by telepathy.
The two Primarchs strode towards each other, meeting at close proximity with joyful smiles on their faces.
"My brother, this weapon is worthy of you." Ferrus' rugged face bore a sincere smile as he held up the Flameblade, presenting it to his blood brother.
Fulgrim did not decline, respectfully taking the Flameblade from his brother's hand and gripping it solemnly.
"As a return gift, my brother, this warhammer is worthy of being wielded by you." Fulgrim offered the warhammer, allowing his brother to accept the weapon he had forged.
Ferrus was equally solemn, respectfully taking the Furnacebreaker warhammer and gripping it tightly in his hand.
"Ferrus Manus." He announced his name to his brother, with the most approving tone.
"Fulgrim." The beautiful Primarch's expression was serious, and his melodious voice announced his name to his brother: "My brothers can call me 'Fulgrim'."
"Ha! Ha! Ha!"
As their eyes met, the two burst into laughter again; wildness and elegance intertwined, playing a different melody.
The two blood brothers, after a forging competition, deeply recognized each other and held each other in high esteem.
Just as the two Primarchs were excited, a Golden-armored Custodian entered the forge, walking up to them and performing a formalized salute.
The Custodian's voice from beneath his helmet was cold, like an emotionless machine: "The Emperor requests your presence."
----------
Blazkowicz traveled through the Warp and arrived in the Solar System once again.
In his memory, everything felt like yesterday, but in reality, many years had passed.
The First Fleet had long ago sent out a beacon, allowing the Lion's Gate Spaceport to grant passage into the Solar System.
After many years, the Imperium of Man's administration had become more refined, no longer as crude and brutal as before.
For a vessel to enter the Solar System, it required multiple layers of authorization to prevent terrorists from infiltrating and attacking the Throne World.
The First Fleet was stopped, and only after Blazkowicz revealed his identity was he allowed to enter the Solar System.
"Sir, I think they are humiliating you," Sophia said, holding no fondness for the Imperium, finding it too dark and oppressive.
She felt her Master was being humiliated, and the rigorous verification process greatly angered the digital lifeform.
"There must have been some accident," Blazkowicz slowly shook his head, believing that Terra's high-level security measures must have a reason.
"Great Primarch, I apologize to you," the Space Marine responsible for security knelt in a full-comm transmission, performing the Warrior's Salute to express his sincere apologies.
"What happened?" Blazkowicz asked softly, not blaming the diligent Warrior.
"The gene-seed vault on the Moon was attacked, and the Third Legion suffered heavy losses," the Warrior of the Seventh Legion answered truthfully, clearly informing the Primarch.
"Thank you for upholding your duty," Blazkowicz saluted him, his heart suddenly feeling a bit heavy.
A gene-seed vault, the foundation of a Legion's existence, suffering a terrorist attack was indeed regrettable.
"Thank you for your concern," the Space Marine stood up, sensing the Primarch's regret: "The Primarch of the Third Legion has returned; he should be able to recover the losses."
Upon hearing this, Blazkowicz's eyes lit up. A Primarch's return was indeed a good thing, greatly invigorating the Third Legion.
"I wish you a pleasant journey," the Space Marine offered a final salute and closed the holographic communication.
"The fleet will dock at Lion's Gate Spaceport; we have our dedicated berths there."
Blazkowicz issued orders to Sophia, continuously giving instructions: "During the fleet's docking, close all hatches, and personnel should avoid going out as much as possible."
"Thoroughly check supply materials to prevent stowaways from mixing in, pay attention to Adeptus Mechanicus personnel to prevent technology outflow..."
He listed dozens of precautions in total, trying his best to prevent any incidents with the fleet.
Sophia carefully noted everything. During the docking period, she would be responsible for material resupply and security checks, a grave responsibility.
Over a hundred warships of the First Fleet, following the Royal Majesty, successively docked at Lion's Gate Spaceport. Blazkowicz took the Doom Slayers to the Terra Imperial Palace.
Behind them, anti-gravity platforms carried dozens of boxes.
Materials entering the Imperial Palace had to pass security screening. The Primarch's carried items had special privileges and were personally inspected by the Custodian Guards.
This was a necessary procedure; the Emperor's bodyguards were meticulous, and items dedicated to the Master of Mankind had to be checked even more carefully.
Sophia's projection quietly faded, the digital lifeform choosing to temporarily avoid the Custodian Guards' sharp gazes.
Blazkowicz and the Doom Slayers were queuing. He respected the Imperium's rules and these golden-armored Warriors.
If he wished, he could ask the Emperor or Malcador for a pass and enter the Imperial Palace directly.
But regarding rules and systems, Blazkowicz showed the utmost respect.
Privilege was never a good thing; the more it was exercised, the more was lost.
"Plato!" La waved, and the Doom Slayers saw an acquaintance.
Custodian Plato. She had chosen Blazkowicz from among thousands, facilitating the birth of the Legion's firstborn. The original Doom Slayers all knew her.
"La," the golden-armored Custodian Guard nodded in greeting, responding to the Doom Slayer. To show politeness, she removed her helmet.
As her golden hair cascaded down, the Custodian Guard revealed her true face beneath the helmet: a beautiful woman with golden hair.
"Are there ladies in the Custodian Guard?" Blazkowicz was momentarily stunned, asking La through their psychic link. He had truly not expected there to be female members in the Custodian Guard.
He had always assumed that the Custodian Guard, like the Space Marines, were created from suitable males.
Seeing a woman today indeed overturned his understanding.
"Yes," La replied to the Gene-Father in their psychic link: "Most of the Custodian Guard are male, but there is a small portion of females."
"That's an unexpected discovery," Blazkowicz nodded slightly, giving Plato a kind smile.
"Lord Primarch," Lady Plato knelt on one knee, performing the Warrior's Salute to express her respect.
The Custodian Guard obeyed the Emperor's commands and respected the Warrior King as they respected the Master of Mankind.
Blazkowicz raised his hand, signaling the Custodian Guard to stand: "No need for formalities. Thank you for choosing Junior."
"It was all a coincidence, just a choice of fate."
Plato straightened her face and said, with a serious expression and full voice: "He succeeded entirely through his personal will."
As she spoke, she couldn't help but recall the scene at the time, a hint of embarrassment welling up inside her.
In truth, the situation at the time involved a small personal retaliation from her, a retaliation against disrespectful gazes.
"These are all the same; they are gifts from the Gene-Father to the Emperor," La, clad in gleaming golden-black armor, slightly taller than Plato, explained the purpose of the goods to her.
The Custodian Guards' inspection was too cumbersome for ten thousand shield generators, all from the same batch of production line products.
"You should know our duty," Plato shook her head at La, explaining to her old friend: "To protect the Throne and the Emperor, we must be meticulous in every detail."
"La," Blazkowicz called his descendant, telling him not to disturb the Custodian Guard's work: "Their duty must not be underestimated or neglected."
The Custodian Guard protected not only the Emperor but also the security within the Imperial Palace.
The Emperor's magnificent Imperial Palace contained countless critical points, and no mistakes could be made.
Blazkowicz naturally understood that the Emperor would definitely know of his return. Not being specially summoned indicated the importance of the rules.
He was also happy to cooperate, no longer anxious, content to stop and wait.
He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had such leisure, quietly observing the various things happening around him.
"Thank you for your understanding," Plato was very grateful to the Primarch before her, who understood the difficulties of those in lower positions and respected others' work.
"These are gifts for you," Blazkowicz pointed to the boxes, which contained shield generators, and said to the Custodian Guard: "As for how to arrange them, let the Emperor decide first."
"Thank you very much," Plato smiled, expressing gratitude verbally but not asking what the gifts were.
It was the Custodian Guards' duty; they were never surprised by external things.
The inspection was slow, as the Custodian Guard used various instruments to check each item. The inspection was fast, as the Custodian Guard's movements were quick.
After two hours, all inspections were complete, and the group was allowed to enter the inner court of the Imperial Palace.
"Suffocatingly tedious," Sophia's blue figure reappeared, making an expression like a normal person, exhaling with relief.
Blazkowicz had a super-intelligent chip, so she was always by her Master's side.
"The Imperium of Man is too vast. Without the help of intelligent machines, everything relies on human effort, naturally keeping nerves taut."
Blazkowicz understood the Imperium's difficulties and would certainly not add to its troubles.
"Let's go find Grand Vizier Malcador first," Blazkowicz said to the guiding Custodian Guard. He had some things to hand over to Malcador.
"As you command," the Custodian Guard did not turn back, their voice unruffled, silently turning in another direction.
After several hours of riding, transferring, and walking, the group finally arrived at Malcador's residence. The Imperial Palace area was simply too vast.
Its coverage was constantly expanding, with plans for the Imperial Palace to cover the entire plateau.
Inside the Grand Vizier's residence, staff were as numerous as cattle, and the complex office areas were filled with a cacophony of sounds.
A Primarch walked by without causing any stir; the staff's attention was entirely focused on their current work.
This was nominally the Grand Vizier's private residence, but it was the most complex office area.
The group followed the Custodian Guard into the inner court, entering the relatively quiet backyard to meet Malcador himself.
The backyard was picturesque, planted with exotic flowers and grasses, with a babbling stream in the artificial landscape.
"Elder!" Blazkowicz saw Malcador resting in a pavilion and greeted him with a smile.
He respected this Elder greatly, even more than the Emperor.
In Blazkowicz's eyes, compared to Malcador, the Emperor's personality was slightly immature.
Regardless of ability and strategic vision, purely in terms of personality.
"Blazkowicz," Malcador returned a benevolent smile, pointing to the stone table with his hand, inviting Blazkowicz to sit: "Please sit."
He placed the Aquila Scepter aside and arranged the tea set on the stone table, personally brewing tea for Blazkowicz .
"Your arrival is quite a surprise to me; you are a true 'rare guest.'"
"I am handing over a gift to you," Blazkowicz picked up a small teacup between two fingers. mortal implements were too small for him.
"Oh? Handing over a gift?" Malcador looked puzzled, asking in confusion: "Who is it for?"
Blazkowicz took a sip of the fragrant tea, not answering the Elder, his gaze drifting towards the blue figure.
"Central Law · Lady Sophia?" Malcador turned, his gaze calmly fixed on the blue figure, who curtsied to him.
Lady. Malcador's title was very carefully chosen, containing no disdain or slight, but rather a form of equal respect.