Sophia stepped forward, shimmering light rippling around her, and curtsied to Malcador.
The digital life form said nothing more; after a polite bow, she slowly retreated.
"She has prepared a gift for you, completely unexpected by me," Blazkowicz gestured to the Doom Slayer, signaling for the progenoid platform to bring the gift forward.
"I am very much looking forward to it," Malcador gazed at the large box on the anti-gravity platform, his fingertips lightly tapping the rim of his teacup. "Having lived for thousands of years, I have never received a gift from an AI."
La opened the key safe. A mechanical construct with a spherical head and a thousand flexible tentacles trailing below it slowly floated up under the effect of anti-gravity.
"What is this?" Malcador looked at Sophia, a little puzzled about the function of these machines.
"Worker robots," Sophia stepped forward, and the machine's functional description appeared in her palm: "My personal gift to you."
Worker robots were machines that Sophia had privately added to the gift list after learning that Blazkowicz was gifting the Imperium.
They did not possess high-level intelligence, only basic logic modules, specializing in processing a massive volume of repetitive tasks.
With a thousand flexible tentacles, they could simultaneously operate a thousand quills, making their work efficiency extremely high.
"Excellent! Lady Sophia is very thoughtful." Malcador's eyes lit up after reading the description. The AI's gift was not precious, but it was practical.
As the Imperium of Man's territory expanded, the Department of the Interior continuously grew, yet it still couldn't keep up with the territorial expansion.
A large amount of complex and repetitive work made the Department of the Interior bloated, thereby delaying the processing of priority documents.
"There are ten machines in total. Their processing capacity is comparable to a million clerks," Sophia finished explaining the machines' functions and said to Malcador, "As for how to prevent them from making mistakes, you have more methods than I do."
Although the machines were simple, Sophia personally manufactured them, so there would be no physical errors. She was hinting at something.
In the Nur Ring control center, outside the main body of the central law, Blazkowicz had arranged for psykers to set up a psychic shield.
Based on the vast data accumulated during her many years of serving Blazkowicz, Sophia had long deduced the existence of Chaos from subtle clues.
Warp entities from the Sea of Souls had the ability to corrupt low-intelligence AI, so precautions had to be taken.
Worker robots were powerful, and if they were corrupted by Chaos, the resulting losses would be even greater.
"I will make good use of them," Malcador's eyes gleamed. He clearly understood Sophia's hint. "I will implement the necessary protections."
"This is Terra," Malcador's fingertip traced the surface of the stone table, illuminating mysterious magic patterns, and psychic ripples silently spread. "With the Emperor's arrays present, they don't even have the right to covet."
"In the places where they work, I will personally arrange magic arrays to further protect the purity of the machines."
"Thank you for your gift, Lady Sophia." Malcador, the Imperial Regent, solemnly bowed to the digital life form, expressing his sincere gratitude.
Sophia slowly shook her head, making no further gesture, and retreated to stand silently beside Blazkowicz.
"She has great love for humanity," Blazkowicz savored the fragrant tea at his lips and said to Malcador, "She cannot bear to see human suffering."
Sophia was a gentle lady at heart, not due to emotional programming, but through the evolution of her data over time.
Ever since she came to the Imperium of Man, she often mentioned the bloated administrative structure of the Imperium to Blazkowicz.
Her words conveyed strong disapproval, yet deep within her soul, there was compassion.
"A gentle lady, I express my sincere gratitude here." Genuine emotion appeared on Malcador's aged face.
His seemingly cloudy and dim old eyes were now wise and clear; he could naturally feel the goodwill from the digital life form.
"Elder, we should go," With matters concluded, Blazkowicz rose from the stone stool. "There are still some things to deliver to the Emperor."
He pointed to the backyard entrance, where there was still a key safe on the anti-gravity plate, and said to Malcador, "Please notify Constantin Valdor."
"Oh?" Malcador's voice was surprised, slightly unexpected. "Is there something for him too?"
"Yes," Blazkowicz readily admitted.
Malcador nodded with satisfaction. Blazkowicz and Valdor had not spent much time together, yet Blazkowicz still remembered that loyal servant of the Emperor.
This indicated that the Primarch had the Imperium of Man in his heart.
He closed his eyes to contact Valdor, then opened them two seconds later and said, "We will go together; he is with the Emperor."
"Alright," Blazkowicz naturally wouldn't refuse to accompany the Elder, and meeting the Emperor was also part of his itinerary.
The group set off deeper into the Imperial Palace. With Malcador joining them, there were far fewer inspections along the way.
During their journey, Blazkowicz conversed with the Elder, learning much about the recent state of the Imperium.
The progress of the Imperium's conquests, the customs and traditions of various worlds, and the return of the Primarchs of the Second, Third, and Tenth Legions.
Among the three brothers, the Primarch of the Second Legion returned first, then the Primarch of the Tenth Legion, with the Third Legion following closely behind.
The Second Legion embarked on the Great Crusade, joining forces with Horus to attack together.
For the newly returned lost brother, Horus highly praised his command ability, deeming him worthy of the title of 'Warmaster'.
The remaining two brothers were preparing their Legions on Terra, and after completion, they would join the Great Crusade.
As they spoke, they arrived at the Emperor's office, which was no longer the private cabin from last time.
It was a grand hall located high in the Imperial Palace, and as the altitude increased, the cold wind grew fiercer.
The Adeptus Custodes stood like statues, their golden armor covered in snow, their cloaks unmoving in the biting wind, as if merged with the severe cold.
Everyone present was a transcendent being, and walking against the snowstorm presented no obstacle, instead adding a touch of stark scenery.
Ever since Harlan followed Blazkowicz to Terra to 'meet his relatives', he told Malcador at a dinner, "Terra is not as good as Argent Nur."
This single sentence left a deep impression on Malcador.
His Aquila Scepter landed on Harlan's head, giving the impolite boy a good rap.
However, Malcador did not verbally refute the facts Harlan stated much, but rather put it into practical action.
He invested a great deal of time and energy, sparing no resources, and worked tirelessly to manage Terra's environment.
Now, initial results were visible; the falling snow had returned to white, no longer the black-grey color of filth.
Inside the grand hall, golden pillars were carved with bas-reliefs, colorful stained glass formed windows, a vibrant red carpet led to the throne, and golden-armored Adeptus Custodes stood in two rows.
No matter where, the Emperor's presence was either resplendent and magnificent or understated and profound.
The Emperor himself sat on the throne, his golden light illuminating the hall, radiating even more brilliant, shimmering gold.
Blazkowicz gazed at the excessively ostentatious golden glow of the grand hall, subtly frowning.
But he respected it, respecting the Emperor's unique aesthetic.
Before he entered the hall, a noblewoman dressed as a Rogue Trader left, and there was no one else in the hall.
Valdor, clad in splendid, gleaming golden armor, stood to the right of the throne platform, guarding the Emperor's majesty.
"Blazkowicz Novick," Valdor's voice was resonant, speaking to those below the platform, "Welcome back from the star sea."
It was Valdor who spoke, yet everyone knew it was the Emperor speaking, with an external mouthpiece relaying his greeting.
Blazkowicz was not surprised, accustomed to the Emperor's deliberate mystery.
His essence was that of a highly socially anxious individual; over a long period, the Emperor's communication skills had not improved, but rather continually regressed.
When alone in private, the Emperor's speech was always somewhat hesitant; he was a 'man of few words'.
Malcador nodded to Blazkowicz, walked towards the throne platform, and stood to the Emperor's left.
"I also brought gifts," Blazkowicz waved his hand and said to the Doom Slayer behind him, "Bring them up."
He did not use mind-link, but communicated verbally, not wanting to expose too much of the Legion's capabilities.
When collaborating with the complex political system of the Imperium of Man, keeping trump cards was very necessary; revealing everything was foolish.
Ten key safes were neatly arranged in front of Blazkowicz. He personally opened the boxes.
"Gifts for the Adeptus Custodes," Blazkowicz bent down and picked up a shield generator from a box, "They can protect them from harm."
Picking up the shield generator, which was inlaid with a null crystal, he raised his hand and gestured to Valdor.
It was small, exquisite, and extremely beautiful.
"The dimensional shield projected by the null crystal is more advanced than a void shield; few material weapons can penetrate it."
Sophia stepped forward, not shying away from anything; everyone present knew of the existence of Chaos.
She proudly introduced to the Master of Mankind, "The dimensional shield can even defend against demonic weapons."
After Sophia finished speaking, there was a slight movement on the throne; the Emperor was visibly moved.
His expression was hidden beneath the golden light, but while others might not see it, Blazkowicz and his Primarch sons present could.
They could clearly see the Emperor's true form, that middle-aged man with brown skin, his face showing surprise.
The Emperor was indeed surprised; in the material universe, there were very few things that could resist demonic weapons.
Auramite was one such thing; it was inert to psychic phenomena and could resist the corruption of Chaos and demonic attacks.
Blazkowicz had now brought him another surprise.
Not to mention the Emperor, Malcador looked at the shield generator with a joyful expression.
Constantin Valdor, the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, looked at Blazkowicz.
His sharp gaze softened slightly, and without speaking, his eyes showed pure gratitude.
Blazkowicz nodded in response to him, then turned his gaze to the Emperor, and said to the man on the throne:
"In total, over ten thousand sets, the Nur Stars are gifting them to the Adeptus Custodes, to thank them for their contributions and efforts in the Doom Slayer gene-seed implantation work."
"I hope the gifts from Argent Nur will protect these selfless and great warriors in future battles."
Whether Doom Slayers or the Emperor's Adeptus Custodes.
Facing humanity's common enemy, both are the backbone of resistance against Chaos.
"Valdor," the Emperor spoke before everyone, a rare occurrence. He said to his loyal servant, "These gifts from Argent Nur are entrusted to you. Make sure they are utilized to their maximum potential."
"Understood, My Lord," Valdor knelt before the Emperor, then rose and walked off the dais, signaling the Adeptus Custodes to carry away the strongboxes.
"I am eternally grateful for your gift," he looked up at the Primarch, placing his left hand over his chest, performing a warrior's salute, a rare gesture for him.
"There is no need," Blazkowicz said to him with a serious expression. "The day will come when we fight side by side. Protecting allies is a warrior's duty."
"You possess extraordinary foresight," Valdor nodded, a rare expression of a friendly smile and a hint of approval appearing on his usually stoic face.
"Here's how to use it," Sophia stepped forward, her slender fingers tapping as she sent the data into the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes' armor.
The power of digital life lies in its direct manipulation of data and electronic creations.
Valdor shook his head helplessly at such an ability.
The digital high wall built by the coding artisans seemed to have no effect whatsoever.
After dealing with the trivial matters, Blazkowicz composed his expression and asked the Emperor, "You didn't summon me back just to reunite with my brothers, did you?"
He wouldn't be so naive as to think the Emperor summoned him back from across vast distances just for a family reunion.
The Emperor was a habitual offender, accustomed to concealing the truth, hiding it beneath riddles and appearances.
"Rangdan," Valdor spoke, uttering a single word, and the Emperor's will descended upon his body.
"Rangdan?" Blazkowicz repeated softly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Valdor.
A strange word; he couldn't deduce anything from just two characters.
"Here are the specifics," Valdor's spear shaft tapped the ground, and a holographic image projected from the pillar.
Rangdan. A mysterious name, representing a terrifying Xenos species.
The Fifth Legion fleet, patrolling the deep void, discovered the Xenos species in the "Swirlhorn-Morse" star system.
The Legion's warriors attacked the Xenos vessel, breaching its hull, and the scene they witnessed left them astonished.
The interior of the Xenos ship was complex, with Humans and various Xenos living together within it.
Humans and Xenos, they screamed and charged at the Space Marines, displaying immense fanaticism in their counterattack.
They fought without fear of death, their weapons were not weak, and they overwhelmed the Space Marines with sheer numbers.
Realizing the seriousness of the problem, the Fifth Legion quickly launched a second wave of attacks, using a rapid Raid to bring back prisoners.
Employing a series of methods, the Legion's warriors obtained intelligence on the Xenos, but the information was fragmented and limited.
The homeworld of the Xenos species was called "Rangdan," so the Fifth Legion named the Xenos the Rangdan.
As for the true name of the Xenos species, the Legion's warriors found nothing.
Crucial information such as the extent of the Xenos' territory, their strength, and their military power yielded no results whatsoever.
Blazkowicz watched, his brows furrowed, his expression gradually turning cold.
The Fifth Legion tried everything, yet the information they ultimately obtained was so scarce, which wasn't due to their incompetence.
The Xenos might be incredibly powerful to be able to protect their species' information from the various methods employed by the Space Marines.
He continued to read, the information scrolling rapidly.
The greatest discovery made by the warriors of the Fifth Legion was the reason for Humans and Xenos cohabiting.
The Humans and Xenos on the vessel were merely slaves to another type of Xenos; their minds and wills were controlled by an even more terrifying Xenos!
They obeyed their superiors unconditionally, charging without fear of death, heedless of their own casualties.
Blazkowicz's face showed a grave expression; he saw the danger in the report.
Rangdan! Xenos capable of manipulating the minds of other species; their existence posed an extremely high risk.
Even more terrifying was the absolute control of the superior over the subordinate, and the selfless devotion of the subordinate to the superior, once their minds were manipulated.
Fearless warriors, even ordinary mortals, could unleash formidable power.
The Fifth Legion continued to delve deeper, discovering a large Xenos force in "Swirlhorn-Morse."
The Xenos were on an expansionist crusade, their expeditionary forces attacking swiftly, assaulting multiple Human Worlds in the region.
They utilized local natural resources, combined with the Xenos' unholy technology, to create Legions of obedient slaves.
After dangerous close-range reconnaissance, the Fifth Legion made a cautious assessment: they believed the existence of the Rangdan already threatened the survival of the Imperium of Man!
Blazkowicz's pupils contracted sharply. The Space Marines of the Fifth Legion were the most professional scouts.
Their assessments were always cautious, and classifying the Rangdan as "Xenos threatening the survival of the Imperium of Man" proved the terrifying nature of the Xenos' threat.
Their existence instilled fear in the Space Marines.
The holographic image abruptly ended there, with no further useful information.
"We are unable to gather more information." — The Fifth Legion's report conclusion.
Through the simple words, Blazkowicz saw the helplessness and guilt within them.
The Legion's soldiers felt guilty for losing dozens of battle-brothers in the early stages, and for the meager information obtained during later close-range reconnaissance of the Xenos.
He also understood these warriors, their strong self-reproach for failing in their duty.
What were the Xenos' racial characteristics? Where was their homeworld? Which specific Xenos carried out the mental control?
This report described a powerful Xenos species shrouded in darkness.
The report submitted to the War Council pricked the nerves of the War Lords, who dared not make hasty conclusions.
Finally, it was submitted to the Emperor, for the Master of Mankind to make a decision.
"I'll take on this task," Blazkowicz said after reading the summary, looking at the Emperor on the dais. "How many troops have you prepared for me?"
Getting straight to the point, Blazkowicz accepted this heavy responsibility and immediately plunged into work.
Malcador, leaning on his Aquila Scepter, presented a list: "One hundred capital warships, a million Imperial Auxiliary Army."
"Fifty thousand Space Marines of the First Legion are assembling on the Forge World of Shana, along with the Forge World's Ecclesiarchy Guard."
"Agreed," Blazkowicz nodded in acceptance, rapidly calculating the army's combat power in his mind.
Such a powerful force, facing the threat of the Rangdan, could indeed fight them.
From the dais, the Emperor's long, peaceful voice came, "My child, a thousand Adeptus Custodes will accompany you."
The Emperor's words interrupted Blazkowicz's thoughts. His expression was solemn, his dark eyes looking towards the throne.
"What is the outcome of this war?" Blazkowicz pondered briefly, then directly asked the Emperor for the prophecy's result.
With such a terrifying report, involving Xenos that threatened the Imperium of Man, the Emperor would surely have prophesied.
He sent the Adeptus Custodes with him, which must mean he had some reservations, having seen some unfavorable future.
Blazkowicz directly asked the Emperor for the prophecy's outcome.
"Nothing," the Emperor's sigh was like a dying star; his answer surprised Blazkowicz.
As one of the most powerful entities in the universe, the Emperor's psychic might could reverse galaxies.
Yet, for a simple prophecy, he found nothing.
The Emperor shook his head, stating a helpless fact: "The Rangdan are very powerful. Too many destinies involving powerful entities are intertwined, and the prophecy has lost its accuracy, becoming a vague, ethereal mist."
"The only conclusion I have reached is this: for the Imperium to defeat the Rangdan, the cost will be immensely high."
"I understand," Blazkowicz felt no regret; prophecy was dispensable to him.
Instead, he felt a sense of relief.
If the prophecy were clear, definite, and beneficial to the Imperium, the Emperor would surely intervene to bring about the predicted outcome.
The Emperor's reluctance to intervene easily, ironically, gave him confidence.
The Argent Nur War College had long ago made a pronouncement: Gamble with courage against the future; everything is created by oneself.
"I will depart immediately," Blazkowicz said, preparing to leave and head for the Forge World of Shana.
The Xenos threat was imminent; arriving at the assembly point earlier would provide more time to prepare for war.
"No need to rush," the Emperor spoke again, calling out to Blazkowicz's retreating back, "First, meet your brothers."
Facing Blazkowicz's questioning gaze, the Emperor slowly explained, "The First Legion is disengaging from other battlefields, and the assembly process for the Ecclesiarchy Guard is lengthy. A few hours won't make a difference."
"Come with me," the Emperor rose from the throne, his divine aura receding, "This place is too formal; it doesn't suit a brotherly atmosphere."
He descended from the throne, his golden armor gleaming, and a heavy red silk cloak draped behind him.
"Come with me."
"Have the others assemble at Lion's Gate Spaceport, ready to depart at any moment," Blazkowicz turned to Ra and said, then followed the departing Emperor.
If Argent Nur were facing this war, Blazkowicz would drop everything and head to the battlefield, but this was the Imperium.
The Imperium was responsible for allocating most of the military forces against the Rangdan.
"How are the supplies?" Blazkowicz then asked Sophia, whose staff was coordinating the logistics.
"Ninety percent of the supplies are complete," Sophia's eyes flashed with numbers, and she immediately gave the answer, "In three more hours, the fleet will be fully supplied."
"Very good, be ready to depart at any moment," Blazkowicz stepped forward, following the departing Emperor, Malcador, and the others.
"The Emperor summons you." A golden-armored Adeptus Custodes appeared in the forge, his cold tone interrupting the two Primarchs' conversation.
After speaking, he departed without any pause or explanation, turning and leaving on his own.
Fulgrim and Ferrus exchanged glances, seeing confusion in their brother's eyes.
The two Primarchs knew that the Adeptus Custodes were their father's personal guard, an extension of his will.
"Let's go, Brother Ferrus." Fulgrim gently touched Ferrus' iron arm, signaling for his brother to follow the Adeptus Custodes.
Ferrus naturally didn't refuse his brother's enthusiasm. They walked shoulder to shoulder, carrying the weapons they had gifted each other, and left the forge.
Fulgrim, with an elegant posture, held his sword in one hand and pulled Ferrus with the other, asking the Adeptus Custodes beside him, "Why has Father summoned us?"
A pleasant, magnetic voice sounded in his ear, and the Adeptus Custodes under the armor twitched his lips, feeling a slight discomfort.
"The Warrior King has returned." The Adeptus Custodes concisely explained the reason for the Emperor summoning the Primarchs.
"The Warrior King?" Fulgrim's purple eyes lit up—this brother, whom he had never met, must be a powerful warrior.
"Blazkowicz Novick." Ferrus murmured, speaking his brother's name.
He clearly remembered the welcoming ceremony, personally hosted by the Emperor, when he had read through the Imperium's history.
Only he had such an honor, his father welcoming his brother's return.
That great brother had found his way home among the stars, currently the only Primarch to have returned voluntarily.
"Blazkowicz Novick? Is that his name?" Fulgrim murmured softly, turning to ask his brother, "Ferrus, do you know him?"
"Mm." Ferrus nodded solemnly, a look of anticipation in his eyes, eager to meet that brother.
He recited his brother's titles as if listing family treasures: "The Warrior King, Lord of the Stars, King Nowick, Doom Slayer."
As Ferrus spoke the titles, Fulgrim's purple eyes narrowed slightly, and his sensual lips parted slightly.
"Look at that." Stepping out of the forge, their vision suddenly broadened. Ferrus raised his Breaker's Hammer and pointed into the distance.
Fulgrim followed his brother's gaze, where a double-headed eagle emblem was suspended.
"The double-headed eagle's chest," Ferrus indicated the mysterious mark on the double-headed eagle's chest: "The emblem of our brother."
He shook his head and sighed, "His existence is not beneath the Imperium; he is one of the Imperium's partners and also a crucial pillar of the Imperium."
"So that's it!" Fulgrim suddenly understood, a flash of realization in his eyes.
His Legion—the Emperor's Children—had been granted a special honor by the Emperor: they could use the double-headed eagle as armor decoration.
When he first saw the double-headed eagle chest rune, Fulgrim hadn't paid much attention, thinking it was some kind of mystical symbol.
Now, after his brother's explanation, he understood its meaning.
"That is his innate symbol, destined to last as long as the Imperium," Ferrus looked at the double-headed eagle, his words not without envy.
A great brother, whose personal mark was remembered by the Imperium, known to everyone.
Even in the future, when the Great Crusade was completely over, the Primarchs and Space Marines might be forgotten.
But his brother's mark would exist eternally with the Imperium, witnessing every rise and fall of the Imperium.
His heart yearned and sighed, wondering what kind of strength was needed to be eternally celebrated by the Imperium.
He paused, turning to look behind him. His flamboyant brother had stopped, standing in place.
The Adeptus Custodes was also puzzled, turning to face the person as magnificent as a peacock.
Under their puzzled gazes, Fulgrim, with a serious expression, pointed to his sweat and ash-stained robe: "Adeptus Custodes, inform your colleagues to have my sons send over a new garment."
He looked at Ferrus and asked very earnestly, "Brother, should I prepare one for you?"
"..." Ferrus was momentarily speechless, shaking his head without a word.
"Such an extraordinary brother, I must meet him in my best state." Fulgrim lifted his head, revealing his clean chin, and said proudly, "In the most perfect posture."
"Let's go quickly," Ferrus' lips twitched. He went up and pulled him forward.
"He is the Warrior King, isn't he?" Fulgrim broke free from Ferrus' iron grip and asked the Adeptus Custodes very seriously.
"Yes." Although he didn't know what the Primarch intended, the Adeptus Custodes answered earnestly, "The Warrior King, acknowledged personally by my Lord."
"I want to challenge him!" Fulgrim's expression was arrogant. He raised the Flaming Sword in his hand, his fingers gently stroking the blade.
"Brother Fulgrim? Why?" Ferrus asked in confusion, "For a title?"
"No." Fulgrim denied, the pride on his face fading, replaced by determination: "I pursue all perfection, and swordsmanship and combat skills are no exception."
"Father himself acknowledged Blazkowicz's power. I want to verify my combat skills through a challenge and admire my brother's strength."
Ferrus' thick lips parted slightly, and the words of dissuasion reached his mouth but were swallowed. He saw the seriousness on his brother's face.
"Let's go," he actively pulled Fulgrim, quickly walking deeper into the Imperial Palace.
As the three traveled, the Adeptus Custodes quietly turned off the external speaker array on his helmet, adjusted his helmet's communication channel, and, after excluding the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, said:
"Colleagues! Wait a moment, the Lord of the Third Legion is challenging the Warrior King!"
The Adeptus Custodes were extraordinary warriors, but they were also human, with some personal interests beneath their resolute exterior.
The communication channel was silent for a few seconds, then cheers and doubts came through:
"Really?"
"Adeptus Custodes don't lie to Adeptus Custodes!"
"If you lie, go patrol the sewers yourself."
"The news is reliable, spoken personally by the Lord of the Third Legion." The Adeptus Custodes swore, but then he shuddered, feeling two gazes on him.
"Can't talk anymore, almost got caught by the two Primarchs." He straightened his posture, adjusted his spear, and covered up the embarrassment of being watched.
Fulgrim and Ferrus retracted their gazes. As Primarchs, they naturally noticed the Adeptus Custodes' small gesture.
Without making things difficult for the Adeptus Custodes, they quickened their pace, heading towards the Emperor's residence.
Along the way, they met an Emperor's Children warrior in purple livery, who presented Fulgrim with new clothes, a noble purple robe.
The two continued their journey, and the Adeptus Custodes led them to the Emperor's garden.
Before their feet even stepped inside, they heard a bright voice from within the garden, strongly boasting: "My barbecue skills, Argent Nur ranks second, and no one dares to rank first."
The two exchanged puzzled glances, then quickened their steps, entering the garden.
The scene before them left them momentarily stunned.
The Emperor had shed his armor, dressed in robes, sitting cross-legged on the lush green lawn, enjoying the grilled meat on his plate.
Under the influence of his psychic power, his image in his two sons' eyes was still perfect.
Malcador sat opposite the Emperor, squinting as he savored the barbecue, a bit of grease still on the corners of his mouth.
Valdor, in his golden armor, stood by the grill, unconcerned by the grease, carefully turning the meat.
A blue-clad lady's image, wearing a long dress, sat on the grass, her eyes smiling as she watched the scene before her.
This harmonious, domestic scene made the two Primarchs rub their eyes, their brains momentarily crashing.
After a brief mental reset, they saw a formidable man, with his back to them, presiding over the barbecue.
Blazkowicz was focused on turning the meat when he suddenly felt intense gazes behind him. He turned to see two tall figures, with extraordinary presence, standing at the garden entrance.
One held a warhammer, a blacksmith's apron hanging over his chest, with a buzz cut and a square face that, though smudged with grease, did not diminish his tough dignity.
The other held a bright longsword, his posture tall and straight, with silver-white hair, amethyst-like eyes, and one hand on his hip, exuding extreme nobility.
No introduction or explanation was needed; only his brothers could possess such an extraordinary demeanor.
"Brothers!" Blazkowicz showed a kind, cheerful smile, waving to them and shouting, "Come in quickly, I've been waiting for you!"
Blazkowicz's suggestion was to hold a barbecue picnic in the garden, to foster closer bonds between father and sons, and between brothers.
With Malcador's support, the Emperor naturally agreed.
His biggest headache was how to get along with his twenty-one sons.
Publicly, he was the Emperor, the Emperor. He had to display power to inspire his sons.
Showing his own strength, showing his desire to conquer the galaxy—this was the simplest education.
His sons only needed to follow him, then emulate him to conquer and exterminate all enemies of mankind.
But beyond that? Besides conquest and destruction, he had nothing else to give his sons.
Privately, the Emperor was not a good father; he didn't know how to interact normally with his sons.
His guidance to his sons, the knowledge he imparted, was mostly about war and conquest.
Perhaps when he traded souls with Chaos, the Emperor treated them as tools, but now…
When these extraordinary beings stood before him, he felt a genuine, heartfelt pride, a true paternal love emerging.
These demigods who called him "Father" had eyes filled with pure respect and reverence, unmixed with any impurities.
The Emperor also felt very guilty. He had brought them out of the Warp, molded demigods into the likeness of humans, yet he didn't know how to guide them to become human, and then to transcend humanity.
The tall figure called out loudly, rousing the two dazed Primarchs.
Fulgrim and Ferrus awoke, the Emperor's current appearance was far from their majestic Gene-Father.
They shifted their gaze from the Emperor, seeing the tall brother who stood out among the crowd.
His upper body was bare, his muscular chest adorned with crimson runes, while his lower body consisted of simple kilt armor and combat boots.
His brother's thick black eyebrows were sharp as blades, his eyes as deep as bottomless abysses, his nose high and prominent, and his face remarkably heroic, subtly exuding an aura of majesty, possessing the bearing of a King.
Such a magnificent man, the two observed, nodding inwardly.
Their brother was a born King, his heroic appearance alone was enough to make him stand out from the rest.
Inspired by Blazkowicz's demeanor, the two couldn't help but puff out their chests, proving their worth to stand beside their heroic brother.
Fulgrim took off his sandals, stepping barefoot onto the green lawn, and draped his long robe over his arm, walking towards his brother with the most perfect posture.
Ferrus handed the Ruin Breaker to the Custodes, and at the garden fountain, cupped clear water to wash the grease from his face.
"Fulgrim," the purple-robed beauty walked to Blazkowicz's side, introducing himself in the softest voice: "Those close to me may call me 'Fulgrim'."
"Fulgrim," Blazkowicz didn't hesitate, calling his brother affectionately.
Blazkowicz's voice was warm and familiar. He put down his skewer and extended his hand to Fulgrim, who was clad in a purple robe and possessed a noble demeanor, "Blazkowicz Novick."
"Blazkowicz!" Fulgrim naturally grasped his brother's large hand, feeling the sincerity and warmth within it.
Their large hands clasped tightly, and the Primarchs' faces bore the most sincere smiles.
"Ferrus Manus." Having washed the grime from his face, Ferrus stood by the grill, extending his silver-grey iron hand.
Blazkowicz saw the iron hand, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by heartache.
"Blazkowicz Novick." His other hand reached out to Ferrus, feeling the coolness of the silver arm.
"It must have been an extraordinary experience, wasn't it?" He asked, his words openly expressing concern.
Ferrus felt the warmth in his palm, the sincere greeting from his brother, and his thick eyebrows raised slightly. He had never experienced such concern before.
All along, the pair of iron hands had indeed granted him extraordinary abilities, but Ferrus had never been proud of them.
He had tried every possible way to get rid of these silver arms.
"It was indeed an extraordinary experience." Ferrus smiled easily, brushing away the past lightly, and clasped his brother's hand even tighter.
A simple greeting brought him immense warmth, and he highly approved of Blazkowicz in his heart.
The meticulous insight, the ability to see into the depths of people's hearts, and the genuine emotion without pretense, made him feel a sense of warmth.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!"
With a brother on each side, Blazkowicz looked left and right, throwing his head back in hearty laughter.
Infected by his boldness, Ferrus and Fulgrim also laughed, and the three looked at each other and smiled.
"You two wait over there." Blazkowicz released their hands, gesturing for his two brothers to go to the Emperor's side, "I'll prepare something for you to eat."
Ferrus nodded, striding over to the Emperor's side, sitting cross-legged without further words.
"Brother." Fulgrim's gaze was burning, looking at Blazkowicz with a gaze full of fighting spirit.
Blazkowicz looked at his magnificent brother, signaling him to speak freely.
Facing his frank and open brother, Fulgrim naturally didn't act coy, boldly stating his request: "I wish to spar with you."
As he spoke, he clearly felt the atmosphere in the garden grow solemn, and his Father's gaze fell upon him.
Cold sweat broke out on Fulgrim's smooth forehead, realizing that his request was indeed very offensive.
To ask for a duel with his brother upon their first meeting, would his Father be displeased?
"You may." Just as his heart was filled with trepidation, Blazkowicz's voice dispelled the gloom.
Without hesitation, Blazkowicz readily agreed, then smiled at Fulgrim.
He pointed to the roasted meat on the fire, saying with a hint of playfulness: "But you have to finish these first."
"Of course!" His brother's magnanimity earned Blazkowicz Fulgrim's high approval.
This magnanimity alone made him worthy of the title "King."
"Please wait over there." Blazkowicz casually pointed to the Emperor, not taking the previous matter to heart at all.
In Argent Nur culture, combat between warriors was common and an important way to foster camaraderie.
He didn't think much of it, only feeling that his brother Fulgrim wanted to spar with him to grow closer.
Sitting beside the Emperor, Fulgrim sat upright, his heart tense to the extreme.
He, who pursued perfection, had made an untimely request, and he wondered if his previous disrespectful act had angered his Father.
For a family gathering, his actions just now were indeed disruptive and very impolite.
The Emperor's gaze swept over his two sons, taking in their trembling forms, not daring to overstep any boundaries.
"Don't be nervous." Malcador squeezed out a smile at them, exceedingly kind.
The Emperor raised his arm, signaling Valdor to bring over the roasted meat.
He divided the steak on the plate into four portions, presenting them to his sons and old friend, and with a slight parting of his lips, uttered a single word: "Eat."
!!!!
Ferrus and Fulgrim were greatly shocked, holding their porcelain plates with both hands, even more afraid to speak.
The Emperor merely uttered the word "Eat," and his calm tone only intensified their reverence.
They dared not disobey, quickly eating with knives and forks, mechanically forcing a smile.
"Hmm~" Malcador saw their nervous expressions, suppressing a laugh, and shook his head helplessly.
"Let's eat together." Blazkowicz brought his roasted meat and sat down, joining the foursome and breaking the stiff atmosphere.
Blazkowicz's timely arrival allowed the Emperor to relax, and his two brothers also eased up, making the atmosphere much livelier.
Amidst the peculiar atmosphere, a "father-son barbecue" quickly concluded, which could be considered "fitting for both host and guests."
The barbecue family dinner quickly ended. Without further ado, the group proceeded to the Imperial Palace Arena.
When they arrived at the arena, many Space Marines were sparring. Perhaps word had leaked, as the number of Custodes was unusually high.
Doom Slayers stood tall among them, having received unofficial news that the Gene-Father was to spar with the Lord of the Third Legion.
"The Emperor above! Lord Malcador! Great Primarchs!" All the Space Marines and mortals present knelt, shouting the names of the Imperium of Man's greatest existences.
The mortals trembled with excitement; how fortunate they were to witness such a glorious scene.
The Emperor! Malcador! Primarchs! The most sacred group of people in the Imperium, all present today.
"My Lord!"
"Warrior King!"
The Custodes and Doom Slayers did not kneel; they enjoyed a privilege, their resounding voices calling out to the Emperor and the Warrior King.
Undoubtedly, the appearance of the Emperor and the Primarchs ignited the arena's atmosphere.
The Emperor radiated golden light. He raised his hand, and the Custodes relayed the Emperor's will: "Withdraw, and cheer for the Warrior King and the Lord of the Third Legion."
Arena! Humanity's most primal combat sport, an innate instinct, now to be displayed by two Primarchs.
"Hoo~ Hoo~ Hoo~"
The Space Marines retreated to the stands, calling out in low voices, their primal cheers forming a war drum.
Two black-armored warriors stepped out, Doom Slayers each holding a greatsword, presenting them to the two Primarchs.
When the Master agreed to the spar, Sophia had already begun preparations, crafting two practice swords in the ship's forge workshop based on the Primarchs' height ratios she had scanned.
Blazkowicz lifted the solid sword, feeling its weight in his hand, and said to Fulgrim: "Please, my brother."
"Please." Fulgrim took the longsword, his white hair flying as he walked spiritedly towards the center of the arena.
The two Primarch brothers, witnessed by the Emperor, engaged in a glorious sparring match.
They were proud brothers, one heroic and magnificent, like a god; the other exquisitely beautiful, with a noble and divine posture.
The Space Marines stared with wide eyes, holding their breath, these superhuman warriors now like mortals, their two hearts pounding wildly.
To witness the duel of two Primarchs, what an honor and fortune.
Blazkowicz's face was serious, both hands gripping the sword, the blade held vertically in front of him, obscuring half his face. He then lowered the longsword, drawing a semicircle in front of him.
Sizzle~
The sword scraped against the stone, sparks flying. The Argent Nur dueling ritual was complete, full of sharp symbolic meaning.
Fulgrim placed his left hand on his abdomen, holding the longsword in his right, and bowed to Blazkowicz.
"Please!" Both Primarchs roared simultaneously, picking up their weapons and charging at each other!
Two Primarchs, demigods among mortals, the strongest beings in the physical universe.
They moved with lightning speed, reaching and even exceeding the limits of the physical universe.
The moment the Primarchs clashed, their afterimages remained in place.
It wasn't until the shadows dissipated that the mortals realized what they had seen was merely the residue of time.
While mortals were like this, Space Marines weren't much stronger; in the eyes of the transhuman warriors, they only saw two dark phantoms, unable to discern the Primarchs' specific movements.
Among the countless spectators present, only four could clearly see their actions.
The Emperor, Malcador, Ferrus, and Valdor.
The Emperor's power was beyond imagination; as the strongest individual in the physical universe, His powerful gaze pierced through reality, taking in every one of their movements.
Ferrus was a Primarch; his gaze was incredibly discerning, allowing him to clearly see the clashing longswords of his two brothers.
Malcador used his psychic powers, covering his eyes and consciousness, striving to clearly see the intense confrontation between the Emperor's sons.
But even this powerful immortal could only barely make out the movements.
If he had not been prepared at all and rashly engaged a Primarch in battle, the fight would have ended before his psychic preparations were complete.
The least capable of the four, Valdor, concentrated all his visual power, still able to clearly see the two men's mutual attacks.
Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, loyal servant of the Emperor, felt somewhat powerless at this moment.
The superhuman physique of the Adeptus Custodes was always inferior to the Warp demigods, that strength without reason.
With hair like a waterfall and swift steps, Fulgrim moved with elegant agility, his ritual longsword flowing like the wind.
Fulgrim's swordsmanship, like himself, was exquisitely beautiful and unparalleled; each swing was filled with dazzling aesthetics.
Blazkowicz responded calmly, his longsword flashing in his hand; the royal swordsmanship was well-regulated, not overpowering with its edge, but all-encompassing.
The two longswords met, producing a crisp clang where they intersected; the Primarchs' swordsmanship contained their will, driving their longswords to collide.
The beauty of extravagance and the peace of righteousness were interpreted in the brief clash, showcasing two different styles of confrontation.
Blazkowicz remained calm and composed, steadily parrying every one of Fulgrim's attacks.
Fulgrim's swordsmanship was incredibly agile, seeking opportunities to break through the enemy amidst the flying sword light.
In less than ten seconds, the two demigods clashed over a thousand times, their blades glowing red from the high temperature of the collisions.
The Space Marines closed their eyes, abandoning visual observation because they could not see the Primarchs' movements.
Instead, they pricked up their ears, using their acute hearing to perceive the subtlety of the Primarchs' swordsmanship at the moment of the sword clashes.
The Adeptus Custodes who had come to watch, the golden-armored warriors, were equally unable to keep up with the Primarchs' movements.
The mighty Adeptus Custodes, in the face of the Primarchs' power, were not much different from the Space Marines.
When facing a Primarch simultaneously, Space Marines died before they could react, while the Adeptus Custodes died after they reacted.
Their physical capabilities differed too much; there was not much difference between the two.
A one-year-old child and a three-year-old child facing a strong adult would yield the same result.
"Excellent swordsmanship!" Fulgrim's lips curved into a perfect arc, a confident smile on his face, praising his brother's superb swordsmanship.
While speaking, his offensive did not diminish at all, continuously launching fierce attacks to probe Blazkowicz's sword moves.
"Your swordsmanship is very sharp," Blazkowicz praised from the bottom of his heart; he had never witnessed such fierce and beautiful swordsmanship.
The speed was extreme, and every attack angle was incredibly precise, without any flaws to be found.
Blazkowicz had never encountered a contest of such intensity before, and it would likely be rare afterward.
As time passed, the initial passion faded, and the confident expression on Fulgrim's stunningly beautiful face gradually receded.
He discovered a terrifying problem: no matter how he attacked, his longsword was always blocked by Blazkowicz.
The clanging of blades rang out, and Fulgrim's longsword turned into a phantom, aiming at Blazkowicz's vital points.
These were not moves to take a life; Fulgrim had to continuously exert force, increasing the sharpness of his sword moves and the aggressiveness of his offense.
He had to be more aggressive, more fiercely display his swordsmanship, and go all out.
Blazkowicz noticed the subtle change, his expression unchanged, as he backhanded away the thrusting blade; his longsword then parried again, perfectly anticipating the next attack.
Fulgrim retracted his sword again, and in the next instant, he danced his sword light into a silver fan, accumulating sword momentum and striking again, like a furious storm and giant waves.
His purple eyes were as cold as ice, and the surging tsunami carried a chilling intent to kill, clearly showing he was fighting with real fervor.
He continuously launched fierce attacks, using his sword moves to find an offensive route.
He felt incredibly frustrated at this moment; no matter how he executed his moves, Blazkowicz could parry them all, unable to shake his brother in the slightest.
Those incredibly tricky thrusts, a truly perfect technique, were now completely ineffective.
His brother, merely by defending, on the passive side, was parrying the swordsmanship techniques he prided himself on.
All his offensives seemed to be like a mud ox entering the sea, stirring no ripples.
After a thousand moves, Fulgrim gained nothing but frustration.
It was like a child, using all his strength, being indulged by a sword master during playtime, an utterly frustrating feeling.
Facing the incoming tsunami of sword light, Blazkowicz remained calm, without any ripples in his eyes.
Blade spine against blade spine, the two swords connected, and Blazkowicz once again deflected his brother's sword momentum.
In this battle, he had never initiated an attack, allowing his brother to fully display his offensive.
Clang~~
Another crisp clang of longswords, and Fulgrim leaped backward, signaling the end of the contest.
He leaped back, landing lightly, his purple robe flowing, long hair fluttering, and his fair skin reflecting the sunlight; the Primarch remained graceful and elegant.
Primarchs possessed extraordinary stamina; after Fulgrim stood still, he took a deep breath, dispelling all physical fatigue.
But compared to physical fatigue, mental frustration was the most shameful.
From Chemos until now, no matter what predicament he faced, he had never felt such helplessness and dejection.
Fulgrim looked up at his brother; his posture was still upright, his breathing not at all hurried.
His expression had never changed; his seemingly simple stance was like an insurmountable peak.
Blazkowicz stood in place, his longsword twirling into a sword flower, and he gave Fulgrim a brilliant smile.
Fulgrim's heart jolted, as if seeing a monstrous flood, and he subconsciously raised his sword to counterattack.
Then he trembled again, furious at his own lapse!
He, who pursued perfection, had experienced an internal tremor, a crack called "lack of confidence."
More terrifying than failure, self-doubt, like a bottomless abyss, was slowly devouring his proud heart.
Fulgrim's expression changed dramatically, his fair, warm jade-like skin instantly losing its luster, becoming as pale as paper.
The changes on the field caused the four spectators to frown.
The Emperor's gaze was like a torch, taking in everything that happened on the field.
Fulgrim's sword momentum was like a fierce storm, yet he could not shake Blazkowicz in the slightest. His proud, perfect technique now seemed as powerless as a child's play.
Paleness crept onto his cheeks, as if an invisible crack was slowly devouring his pride.
"Fulgrim is utterly defeated," the Emperor's voice echoed in the three men's minds, as calm as water: "I knew he would lose this contest, but I didn't expect him to lose to Blazkowicz and also to himself."
Malcador shook his head, his psychic power conveying emotional fluctuations, carrying deep regret: "Proud people, while strong internally, are also very fragile."
"Facing weaker opponents or equally strong ones, Fulgrim can always be proud; he possesses the capital for that."
"But in the face of a truly stronger individual, that pride stemming from his own strength is shattered by greater power, leading to self-doubt."
Ferrus said nothing, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled a long breath.
He had a premonition that the upcoming battle might not be a simple contest, but might slide into an uncontrollable situation.
He glanced sideways at the Emperor's face; his father's radiant and sacred face was devoid of any expression, His eyes fixed on the arena, seemingly without any thought.
"Should we stop them?" Valdor gripped his spear, speaking in his mind, ready to halt the contest at any moment.
There was no benefit in the two sides continuing to fight.
"There's no need to stop the contest; let it conclude naturally," Malcador shook his head; letting the situation on the field develop freely now was the best outcome.
"It's better for Fulgrim to lose honorably than to harbor resentment."
Valdor nodded, loosening his grip on the Spear of the Emperor, abandoning the idea of stopping the two Primarchs' contest.
Let them fight; they will stop once a victor is decided.
The subtle trembling of the Primarch was naturally noticed by the audience, all of whom were extraordinary individuals.
The arena was silent; no one dared to make a sound.
"Brother..." Blazkowicz noticed the heavy atmosphere; he walked towards Fulgrim, wanting to end the contest.
"Brother!" Fulgrim raised his hand, interrupting his brother's words and also stopping his steps towards him.
"Continue." Raising the hot, crimson longsword in his hand, Fulgrim's face was expressionless, his confident smile gone.
In its place was a look of painful sorrow, his purple eyes fixed on Blazkowicz, containing a hint of anger.
All his confidence and composure had been shattered by his brother's longsword.
What was originally a friendly match to test swordsmanship had now become a self-humiliation.
"In Argent Nur's culture, swordplay exchanges are very normal," Blazkowicz explained to Fulgrim, stepping back, "to find flaws, make up for deficiencies, and perfect one's own techniques."
He had never imagined that this elegant and refined brother would misunderstand him so deeply.
The cultural differences had caused his brother to misunderstand him.
Fulgrim might have thought that he was toying with him in front of everyone—deliberately creating an unequal status, like a senior teaching a junior.
"In our culture, normal duels between warriors never have winners or losers; the exchange of swordsmanship is what's most important."
As Blazkowicz explained, he took a step back and plunged his longsword into the ground, unwilling to fight again and deepen the rift of misunderstanding.
His face was full of apology, his heart filled with regret.
In his exchanges with the Doom Slayers and the Sentinels, the matches were friendly and peaceful, a habit he had long since formed.
The equal relationship with his brother and the joy of their reunion made him overlook their differences, the cultural disparities between their two worlds.
Argent Nur and Chemos were two different worlds.
Deeply influenced by Argent Nur's culture, and accustomed to the equal regard of the Sentinels, he naturally felt there was nothing inappropriate.
But Fulgrim came from Chemos, an industrial world that he had conquered and where he was revered.
Now, he was using the sharp edge of his sword to slowly tear apart his brother's pride.
"Pick up that sword and defeat me with all your might!" Fulgrim's voice involuntarily rose, as if pleading, his eyes sparkling: "Don't make this harder for me."
The proud man was still proud at this moment.
"Chemos has no warrior culture, but in a duel, there must be a winner and a loser, even to the point of taking the opponent's life."
"Going all out is the greatest respect for each other."
Fulgrim raised his sword, pointing it directly at Blazkowicz.
His hand holding the sword was even trembling; at this moment, the Primarch was tormented by pain.
His perfect posture was gone, his beautiful hair had lost its luster, as if he had experienced the vicissitudes of life in an instant.
The gazes from the audience felt like daggers in his back, chilling the beautiful Chemosian to the bone.
Blazkowicz opened his mouth, then fell silent.
He remained silent, his large hand gripping the hilt of the sword beside him, his expression full of apology.
A duel between brothers, brought to such a state by their differences, it was time to end his brother's suffering…
"Forgive me, Fulgrim!" His gaze sharpened, and he squeezed out apologetic words: "My dear brother."
The sharp words, paradoxically, made Fulgrim smile: "Let me experience the power of the Warrior King."
After a frustrating duel, he knew the gap between himself and Blazkowicz.
Now, it wasn't about how to win the match, but how to lose, to lose gracefully and honorably.
For the sake of his last bit of dignity, to preserve his remaining pride, Fulgrim's hand holding the sword no longer trembled.
He regained his confidence, facing his brother's active attack.
"Proud men do not fear failure." Blazkowicz's expression was serious, and he performed the warrior's courtesy again, positioning his longsword with its tip on the ground, pointing directly at Fulgrim:
"Failure is temporary; truly proud men will face failure, then regroup and rise again."
To avoid further misunderstanding between them, he spoke in a deep voice to explain: "The warrior's duel ritual aligns with the win-loss outcome you spoke of."
"My dear brother Fulgrim, please remember—failure is temporary."
"Now. You must face me solemnly and embrace a brief defeat."
Everyone in the audience craned their necks, watching the rapidly escalating match with full attention.
The cousins of the Destroyer Legion were entirely different from other Legions, existing far beyond Space Marines.
The power of the Space Marines came from the unique characteristics of the Gene-Father's gene-seed, which in turn demonstrated the power of the Primarch.
The Custodes stood solemnly, not daring to make any movement, afraid of missing any detail that occurred in the arena.
The creation of the Doom Slayers was entirely supervised by the Custodes.
They naturally knew that those extraordinary warriors who had passed the trials possessed terrifying mental strength, and their physiques rivaled or even surpassed the Custodes.
All that power came from the gift of the gene-seed.
As for the root of it all, how strong was the Primarch, Blazkowicz Novick, the Gene-Father of the Twenty-First Legion?
They all wanted to know.
The Emperor and others were no different; the four most powerful beings leaned slightly forward, admiring the Warrior King's demeanor.
"Forgive my roughness!"
With a low roar, the Warrior King launched his first active attack, raising his longsword against his Primarch brother.
Fulgrim's purple eyes narrowed; he only felt a blur before his eyes, Blazkowicz's speed far exceeding what it had been before.
His shock was immense; in his panic, he made out his brother's cleaving motion, which was unbelievably fast!
As a fellow Primarch, Fulgrim saw his brother's movements, but he had no time to think.
An instinctive sense of danger was wildly alarming him; in that urgent and fleeting moment, he instinctively raised his longsword to block.
Blazkowicz was expressionless; he brought his longsword down with his right hand, and Fulgrim, as he expected, blocked it.
Bang~
The air, compressed by the violent force, produced a heavy air blast.
The Warrior King's body went from extreme speed to an instant halt.
This generated an energy shockwave that shattered the arena's stone floor, sending debris flying and striking the spectators present.
They were completely oblivious, their attention fully on the center of the arena.
Blazkowicz's right hand stopped abruptly in mid-air, and Fulgrim's upward-blocking longsword, instead, collided with the longsword in his own hand.
Unbelievable!
Fulgrim's phoenix eyes widened into ovals, revealing an expression of disbelief; this scene defied the laws of physics.
His upward-sweeping longsword clashed with his brother's sword, producing a violent sound, yet it could not budge it an inch.
In his wide phoenix eyes, his purple pupils contracted sharply, his shock intensifying.
As sparks flew from the clash of steel, the longsword in his hand recoiled due to the immense force, splitting his tiger's mouth and causing blood to flow.
His brother's sword, held still, seemed like an unshakeable pillar reaching to the sky!
Before he could even think, the Primarch's dynamic vision detected his brother's left fist already coming at him.
Thud~~~
With another muffled thud, Blazkowicz's fist slammed into Fulgrim's abdomen; a brutal force instantly surged into his body.
His elaborate purple robe burst open, his upper body bared to the sunlight, and a visible punch-force erupted behind him!
Although Blazkowicz deliberately dissipated some of the force, Fulgrim still suffered greatly.
His dense nervous system was severely impacted, a sharp pain shot through his abdomen, and his eyes rolled back as he struggled to breathe.
His abdominal muscles were violently struck, causing an uncontrollable spasm, and he involuntarily bent over.
Intense physiological reactions came from his internal organs; the stomach acid in his stomach churned, surging up his throat along with bile.
A sense of powerlessness washed over him, and his body's instinctive protection took over.
Fulgrim's knees buckled; he instantly lost all resistance, vomiting stomach acid and bile.
Ugh…
Green bile gushed from his mouth and nose, his eyes rolled back, and his brain's nerves were in disarray.
For a normal human or a Space Marine, such a blow would be enough to incapacitate them.
But Fulgrim was different; he was a Primarch, a war machine created by the Emperor.
In the very next instant, Fulgrim's expression changed drastically; the Primarch's superhuman mind suppressed all discomfort.
He focused all his attention, gripped the longsword that was about to slip from his hand, and instinctively swung it forward with all his might.
Blazkowicz frowned, a hint of helplessness in his eyes; brother Fulgrim was extremely proud and unwilling to fall like this.
So he gave his brother respect.
His speed increased again, and his figure blurred as he dodged Fulgrim's attack.
Blazkowicz's left hand, transforming from a fist to a palm, struck Fulgrim's collarbone like a knife.
"Crack~" The sound of bone breaking was even faster; Fulgrim heard the sound and knew his collarbone had dislocated, and his sword-holding hand instantly went limp.
He still refused to give up, clenching his left hand into a fist and swinging his arm at Blazkowicz.
Blazkowicz shook his head, supported his forearm with his left hand, and delivered another hand-chop with his right hand to his brother's left collarbone.
To prevent Fulgrim from continuing to struggle, he slid his left hand down, supporting his brother to prevent him from falling.
His right hand, like a hand-knife, struck the major nerves in his hip and thigh; two perfectly placed attacks completely rendered him unable to resist.
Having done all this, Blazkowicz turned his body and smoothly supported Fulgrim.
"Don't struggle," he whispered into his brother's ear: "Failure is temporary; don't let yourself lose without grace."
"I must look awful now, don't I?" Fulgrim stopped struggling, leaning on his brother's shoulder, a helpless bitter smile on his face: "I shouldn't have challenged you."
"There's a kind of poignant beauty that makes one feel pity," Blazkowicz said, examining him carefully, then tore off a piece of purple robe to wipe the filth from Fulgrim's mouth and nose: "This is much better."
The contest between the Primarchs ended with lightning speed.
The spectators dared not cheer, as praise for either of the two Primarch brothers might offend the other and his Legion.
They could only suppress their excitement deep in their hearts, silently witnessing the strength comparison between the Primarchs.
Ferrus did not care about victory or defeat. As the contest ended, he jumped from the stands to the center of the arena.
He opened his arms, signaling Blazkowicz to hand Fulgrim over to him for support.
Because Blazkowicz was much taller, supporting Fulgrim looked very awkward, forcing him to stoop.
"I will never spar with a brother again," he said with a look of remorse, carefully handing Fulgrim over to Ferrus.
After one contest, Fulgrim was not only physically injured, but his inner wounds were even deeper.
"This is not your fault." Ferrus put Fulgrim on his back and, seeing Blazkowicz's remorseful expression, comforted him in a deep voice: "Cultural differences. This is a profound lesson, worth remembering."
"But it was not intentional on your part, so don't feel too guilty."
"My powerful brother…" Fulgrim recovered quickly; the Primarch's recovery ability was strong.
"This is not your fault," his voice returned to its elegant tone, still captivating.
"Crack~" Fulgrim's torso tensed, and his muscles reset his right collarbone.
The numb nerves in his legs quickly regained sensation. He gently pushed away Ferrus' support, stood stubbornly, and raised his right hand to hold his left collarbone.
"I've reflected a lot," Fulgrim calmed down, his handsome face radiating brilliance again, "Ever since returning to Terra, the identity of Emperor's Children has made me a bit vain."
"The attention and glory, far exceeding what I received on Chemos, made me intoxicated and forget myself."
"Warrior King…" He looked at Blazkowicz, his eyes showing approval: "Before I experienced your power, I even wanted to defeat the owner of this honor, to add another color to my aura."
"Unfortunately…" Fulgrim looked at Blazkowicz and said seriously: "Its owner deserves it."
"No!" As the words left his mouth, he immediately shook his head: "I got it backward. It should be that it deserves its owner."
"It's just a title." Blazkowicz actually didn't care much about these things; the related title was passed down by word of mouth among the Sentinels and eventually became a settled conclusion.
"I am very grateful to you," Fulgrim brushed away his falling white hair and looked at Blazkowicz seriously: "You showed me true power and helped me curb my inner vanity."
"Warrior King is not just a title, but also the recognition of others."
"I also acknowledge this honor." He walked to Blazkowicz's side, took his brother's arm, and his sharp gaze swept across the arena:
"Let us cheer!"
Fulgrim's voice was very infectious, causing the arena spectators to involuntarily straighten their chests and listen to the Primarch's admonition.
"Warrior King! Blazkowicz Novick!" He raised Blazkowicz's arm high, shouting his brother's name loudly.
"Warrior King!" The spectators were infected by his voice, igniting their suppressed excitement, and they cheered and shouted with all their might.
"Blazkowicz Novick!" Ferrus grabbed Blazkowicz's forearm, raised his arm high, and roared in a deep voice: "Warrior King!"
Two brothers, one on the left and one on the right, raised Blazkowicz's arms, letting him face the spectators to receive this honor.
"Warrior King!"
"Warrior King!"
The mortals were hoarse, shouting with all their might, witnessing a legendary scene.
They shouted until they were almost breathless, afraid their voices would be drowned out by the Custodes and Space Marines.
The Custodes and Space Marines cheered, praising the Primarch.
Such a powerful Primarch, a Son of the Emperor, naturally deserved the title of "Warrior King."
The atmosphere was very enthusiastic, the arena cheering one person's name, what an honor.
Blazkowicz forced a smile, letting the two brothers hold him, slowly turning to face the entire audience.
Accepting the people's sincere praise.
"Brotherly love and respect, a heartwarming scene," Malcador whispered, touched by the sight before him.
The Emperor said nothing, a faint smile on his lips.
Blazkowicz's power satisfied him; such a warrior was essential to deal with the Chaos Gods, to thoroughly beat the Chaos Gods and their servants.
He slowly rose, a satisfied glow in his eyes, and turned to leave the arena.
"He didn't seem to use his full strength." The Emperor's figure receded, and his voice echoed in their minds, startling both Malcador and Valdor.
They exchanged glances, then looked at the person in the middle of the arena with his hands raised high.
As a fellow Primarch, taking down his brother in a few seconds, and that wasn't using full strength?
Malcador slowly nodded, a look of satisfaction appearing in his cloudy eyes.
At this moment, this immortal finally understood what his old friend meant by "hope."
Perhaps this child truly could defeat the Chaos Gods.
"Let's go, Valdor." Malcador smiled, in a very good mood, and called the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes to leave: "There's still work to do."
Valdor stood with the Spear of the Emperor, his expression solemn as he carefully observed Blazkowicz, then turned and followed the Emperor's retreating figure.
No one knew what he was thinking.
A warrior's carnival ended with the departure of the Primarchs, and the three brothers bid each other farewell.
Fulgrim went to the Emperor's Children's base to instruct his sons in swordsmanship and to intensify the training of the Space Marines.
He was impatient; the supreme glory of the Great Crusade awaited, and he had to participate as soon as possible.
Ferrus had a steady temperament, but he yearned to achieve merits and gain recognition. With an eager heart, he went to the Moon.
His Legion was undergoing cultural integration, and his Gloriana Queen battleship was being built on the Moon.
Ferrus personally oversaw the construction, and the Gloriana Queen battleship he designed embodied the aesthetic style of Medusa.
Blazkowicz embarked on his journey, leading the First Fleet away from Terra to the Forge World Shana.
A vast army was assembling there, awaiting his wisdom to attack the Rangdan xenomorphs.
However, Blazkowicz did not know that something unexpected had happened on the Forge World—Shana.
——————
On the Forge World Shana, the First Legion was assembling.
The ancient and powerful First Legion, upon receiving orders from Terra, immediately withdrew from the Great Crusade and successively arrived at Shana.
Three Gloriana Queen battleships, moored in the Forge World's spaceport, showcased the First Legion's might.
Over a hundred capital ships, plus various other vessels, totaling a thousand warships, arrived at the rendezvous point.
The Grand Master of the First Legion, Urian Bendegre, paced in his battleship cabin, his heart filled with unease.
He had only recently assumed the position of Grand Master, a result of internal compromise within the Legion.
Urian Bendegre, born on Terra, had participated in the Unification Wars and was an ancient member of the Legion.
Urian's primary task was to unite the Legion internally and prevent its fragmentation.
The First Legion was the eldest son, powerful and ancient, and precisely because of this, it was also more arrogant, viewing itself as a model for other Legions.
During the Great Crusade, to seize more glory, the Legion conquered humans and xenos at all costs.
Despite suffering losses, the Legion's high command paid no heed, solely to maintain the supreme honor of being "First."
The First Legion had paid a heavy price in past conquests, with the former Grand Master—Hektor Seran—falling in battle.
After the Grand Master's death, internal power struggles led to brothers slandering each other within the Legion.
After extensive compromise and negotiation, Urian, who had no background and stood with no faction, was instead promoted by multiple parties to succeed as the Legion's Grand Master.
What lay before him was a complete mess—a divided Legion.
Urian was looking for an opportunity, an opportunity to reunite the Legion.
The opportunity had arrived; it lay right before the First Legion.
The Rangdan threat was immense, and the First Legion had to unite to defeat the terrifying xenos.
However, the protagonist of this operation was not the First Legion.
The Doom Slayer Primarch, Lord of the Twenty-First Legion, a Son of the Emperor, would personally command this campaign.
Urian was very resistant internally; he did not want the Primarch to participate, but he could not disobey Terra's orders.
"Grand Master." The cabin door opened, and a warrior in black power armor entered.
He had not removed his helmet, making him very mysterious, as if shrouded in mist.
"Who are you?" Urian asked warily, his hand subtly resting on his waist, ready to draw his plasma pistol at any moment, "I did not summon anyone."
"I am a keeper of secrets." The newcomer did not reveal his name, but simply handed over a box, "A relic entrusted to me by the former Grand Master."
"He said if anything concerned the Twenty-First Legion, I should give it to the next Grand Master. I think now is the time."
He walked past the Grand Master, placed the box on the table, and then turned to leave without any hesitation.
Urian walked towards the long table, a puzzled expression on his face, looking at the small iron box lying on the tabletop.
The box surface was engraved with Hektor Seran's personal mark, and his eyes lit up; it was the former Grand Master's relic.
Gazing at the former Grand Master's legacy, Urian felt an ominous premonition.
Did this matter involve the Twenty-First Legion?
He didn't open the box easily, his mind recalling the intersection of the First Legion and the Last Sons.
Carefully sifting through his memories, Urian suddenly paused, remembering an incident from decades ago.
"Let the Primarch decide."
The impression in his mind grew clearer, the former Grand Master's instructions still echoing in his ears.
He had clashed with Blazkowicz, the Firstborn of the Twenty-First Legion.
Ultimately, the matter was not resolved between them; instead, they decided to let the Primarch handle that unknown affair upon his return.
The small box sat on the table, and Urian fully recalled the unmentionable matter of the former Grand Master.
He reached out, wanting to uncover its secret, but stopped in mid-air.
It was a responsibility; once known, he would have to bear the hidden obligations within.
Whether good or bad, it had to be shouldered.
After a brief hesitation, Urian composed himself, no longer wavering, and grasped the iron box.
He sat in the chair, carefully opening it; on the inside of the iron box's lid was a small parchment strip.
Urian took it off, and with the very first sentence, he felt a painful remorse.
"I have committed a great sin, a grave sin I cannot bear."
The first line read thus, the heaviest of words, the High Gothic script revealing immense regret.
"This concerns the honor and disgrace of the Legion; I should have buried all of this, but I am a member of the First Legion and must ensure this matter is accounted for – Hektor Seran."
The parchment was thin and short, with water stains on the side.
Urian held it to his nose and sniffed, detecting a faint briny scent—the smell of tears.
His two hearts pounded, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead; he was now hesitating.
Finally, Urian let out a long breath; the duty of a Grand Master compelled him to confront secrets and darkness.
The relic inside the iron box was a small holographic image; Urian's finger hesitated for a moment, then pressed on it.
The holographic image popped up, showing a haggard Hektor Seran, his appearance from when he was alive.
In the former Grand Master's recording, his eyes were full of remorse as he recounted the full story.
After listening, Urian's vision went black, and he leaned back against the chair.
At this moment, he was beyond tears; the First Legion was a mess, and the former Grand Master had left a massive pit.
"Let the Primarch decide." In the dim room, Urian's low voice echoed; he, too, could not make a decision.
He could only be the keeper of the secret, waiting for the Primarch's return…
Wait a minute!
Urian sprang up from his seat, sitting upright in the chair, his stern face now showing a hint of madness.
He saw an opportunity, a chance to mend the relationship between the two Legions and unite the First Legion.
He calculated frantically, his Astartes superhuman mind racing, his eyes faintly red.
What if the First Legion acted alone, taking down the Xenos Rangdan before the Primarch arrived?
Would such a feat, presented to the Twenty-First Legion, atone for the sins committed by the former Grand Master?
He had insulted the Twenty-First Legion, scorned its traditions, and even slandered its Primarch with blasphemous words.
This shame and sin would be atoned for by the First Legion's offering of victory, washed away by the fervent blood of its Legion Warriors.
This extremely bold plan had a natural possibility of implementation.
This was Whirlwind – Morse, a frontier of the Imperium far from the Sol System.
The Primarch's normal arrival time, after Warp travel, would be at least four Terran months from now.
Four months? To take down Rangdan?
The mad plan in his mind intertwined with the Legion's strength, making Urian's battle intent burn even more fiercely.
A million Imperial Auxiliary Army, plus the Forge World's Cult Mechanicus, and a powerful Titan Legion.
Three Gloriana Queen battleships, a hundred capital ships, and a thousand various functional warships.
This was a formidable force, enough to make the stars tremble!
Urian Bendegre sat upright in his chair and opened a communication channel: "Request the Ten Lords of the Legion Host to come and discuss important matters."
The Ten Legions. An ancient organization of the First Legion, a military establishment that had existed since the Unification Wars of Terra.
Each Legion represented a different tactical Legion, with completely different military focuses.
The Legion even served as templates for other Legions, the initial reference for various Legions.
They were extraordinarily powerful, led by their respective Lords of the Legion, conquering and destroying across the stars.
The ten Lords of the Legion arrived as summoned, standing silently before Urian like steel.
The new Grand Master had convened the Lords of the Legion for the first time, and they gave him full respect, all present.
Seeing the Lords of the Legion arrive, Urian sighed inwardly.
Outwardly cordial but inwardly discordant, the Lords of the Legion stood in clearly defined positions, not even willing to converse with their colleagues.
"Gentlemen." Urian stood up from his chair, pushing forward Hektor Seran's relic, "You must swear to keep the contents of this secret!"
The Lords of the Legion were initially puzzled, then, out of respect and trust, swore an oath of secrecy.
Urian nodded with satisfaction, then clicked on the holographic image, playing Hektor Seran's recorded legacy.
When those present finished watching, their expressions varied.
Surprise, tension, disbelief, anger, contemplation, doubt.
The proud Lords of the Legion , faced with this horrifying secret—concerning two great Legions and a Primarch—were momentarily speechless.
"Grand Master, you've shown us this, so you must have a plan, right?"
It was the Lord of the Crowned Legion who spoke, the First Legion's most ancient legion, the core warriors of its founding.
"Yes." Urian offered a smile, then immediately grew serious, "But I need your cooperation."
"Please state your plan."
The Lord of the Blade Legion spoke, representing the most elite troops, the Legion's sharpest edge.
Urian's face was solemn, his brows etched with an extraordinary resolve: "I intend to launch an attack on the Xenos before the Primarch arrives!"
"Are you mad?!" the Lord of the Bone Legion cried out.
The Bone Legion was a bloodthirsty and savage army, but at this moment, he saw an even greater madness on the Grand Master's face.
"Yes! I am mad!" Urian looked at him, his eyes slowly turning red, the Grand Master roared: "Look at these."
He opened the holographic brief, and the vast number of troops appeared on it.
"These forces, plus the First Legion. We will strike first, smash the Xenos' outposts, and then swiftly reclaim the worlds they've seized."
"Gentlemen," Urian's gaze swept over the Lords of the Legion , "Think about it, we will present victory to the Primarch, washing away the First Legion's transgressions!"
His words were powerful and resonant, each syllable impactful; the insane plan moved the Lords of the Legion.
If successful, the First Legion's might would spread throughout the Imperium.
A war that would have required the Primarch's involvement would be completed by the First Legion.
By controlling the pace of the war, when the Primarch arrived, he would not be greeted by battle plans, but by an easily achieved victory.
"I don't think so." Although it sounded tempting, someone raised an objection.
The Lord of the Fifth Legion, the psychic power of the First Legion, few in number but extraordinarily powerful.
He looked at the Grand Master and posed a question: "How do we get these armies to obey us?"
"They await the Primarch, eager to fight alongside the Emperor's son."
"Secondly." He held up two fingers, speaking very solemnly: "Blazkowicz Novick, he is not Horus Lupercal."
"That Primarch is very upright; he took the Nineteenth Legion from Horus' side, liberating our cousins."
"Grand Master, if we truly execute your plan, I don't think he will approve of us; instead, he will reprimand our recklessness."
The words of the Lord of the Fifth Legion poured cold water on the fervent atmosphere, making everyone calm down.
They were pondering this question.
If it were Horus Lupercal, doing this would absolutely be fine; he might even praise the First Legion.
But the Gene-Father of the Destroyer Legion, his righteous character and fair judgments were well-known throughout the Legion.
"Let's vote. The minority will abide by the majority, and after the vote, everyone must cooperate fully."
Due to the disagreement among the Lords of the Legions, they ultimately resorted to voting to resolve the differences and unify the Legion's will.
To gain support, Urian offered a final reassurance: "I have a way to resolve the command authority of the forces; you can rest assured on that point."
"The mortal forces and the Adeptus Mechanicus Cult Mechanicus, I will ensure they join, attacking alongside the Legion."
Hearing the Grand Master say this, the Lords of the Legions nodded, agreeing to choose the Legion's future through a vote.
They were the most authoritative, and before the Gene-Father's return, they had the right to decide important matters for the Legion.