Urian woke from his slumber, his injuries already healed.
He donned his robe and immediately set off, taking a shuttle from the Indomitable Truth to the Royal Majesty.
The Grand Master knew the war was over, but his own culpability had yet to be judged.
He had fabricated an excuse to move troops without authorization, leading the Legion into an xenos trap. Had the Primarch's rescue not been timely, the First Legion might have suffered heavy losses.
On the brightly lit bridge, Blazkowicz dismissed everyone else, his gaze scrutinizing the Grand Master.
Urian's muscular body was wrapped in coarse linen, his head bowed, his expression hidden by his lowered gaze.
Blazkowicz held a scroll of confession in his left hand, in which the Grand Master took all the blame upon himself.
"Urian Bendegre." He called the name of the kneeling man, asking in a deep, slow voice: "Was it all your doing alone?"
His eyes narrowed with a sharp glint, like blades, cutting through the Grand Master's flesh, sinews, and bones, examining his inner self.
Urian felt naked; in the Primarch's gaze, there were no secrets he could conceal.
Despite this, the person responsible for the First Legion stiffened his neck and said in a low voice, "It was all my doing alone."
As he spoke, his body involuntarily tensed, and his fists clenched slightly, masking the tremor in his heart.
The Grand Master, accustomed to hiding his emotions, now lied before the Primarch, but his attempt was clumsy and poor.
"Heh heh." A laugh came from the throne, but it was cold and devoid of emotion.
The Primarch chuckled, clearly amused.
Hearing the emotionless laugh, the Grand Master's head drooped even lower, his strong body contracting and tensing, not daring to show any emotion.
He knew very well that his lie was childish and ridiculous in the Primarch's eyes, and had been seen through the moment it was uttered.
But Urian chose to conceal it, not to deceive the Primarch, but to convey an attitude—
That the Grand Master of the First Legion was willing to bear the blame alone.
Blazkowicz was not angry about the deliberate concealment; he continued to ask, "Who was the mastermind behind the unauthorized deployment of troops?"
"It was I," Urian quickly replied, "To gain temporary authority over the army, I had the Legion's battleships impersonate Zandan vessels and trespass into the Shana Star System."
This time, he answered very quickly, without any hesitation in his words.
Blazkowicz nodded from his throne; he detected no lies from the Grand Master's physiological changes.
It seemed the plan to seize power was indeed led by the Grand Master.
Blazkowicz pondered for a moment, then finally spoke softly: "Then I shall consider it your doing alone."
Hearing the Primarch's words, Urian's head drooped even lower, a sigh of relief escaping his heart, and his tone instantly relaxed a few points: "Thank you for your mercy, great scion of the Emperor, Primarch."
"Your doing alone." These words from the Primarch meant he would not delve deeper.
All sins and faults would be borne by him alone.
The glorious honor of the First Legion would not be stained by ignominious punishment due to this transgression.
"No. I think you've misunderstood." Blazkowicz's voice sent Urian into an icy abyss, his relieved worries resurfacing.
"You will be punished, relieved of your duties as Grand Master, choose a suitable successor, and then stand guard in the Morse Solar System, vigilant against another Zandan attack."
"Your life will be spared, so you may reflect deeply on your mistakes. Atoning for the fallen warriors, who sacrificed their vibrant lives for your personal desires."
The authoritative voice delivered the verdict; this was not a court, but the Primarch's words carried more authority than any court.
Urian had no objection to his punishment, and even thanked the Primarch for his mercy.
Instead of destroying his guilty body, his life was spared, allowing him to continue to shine and contribute for the rest of his days.
"Thank you for your mercy." Urian's voice was full of gratitude, thanking the Primarch for his magnanimity.
Urian accepted this personal punishment completely; he would guard the Morse Solar System with his guilty body.
"Regarding the First Legion..." Blazkowicz's voice faltered slightly here.
Although he had the authority to punish the First Legion, he was not, after all, the Legion's Gene-Father.
The Primarch's hesitation made Urian's body tremble; the fate of the Legion was far more important than his personal safety.
The Grand Master was willing to die ten thousand deaths to secure a lighter punishment for the First Legion.
After deep thought, Blazkowicz announced the punishment for the First Legion: "The First Legion will proceed to Shana, docking at the Forge World for two years, during which time they are not permitted to participate in the Great Crusade."
"Two years is enough time for you to repair your ships, and also enough time for you to rest and reflect on whether the Legion's path has gone astray."
"The First Legion was once the most glorious Legion, but you know its current state better than I do. Your excessive pursuit of glory has led you away from the true path of glory."
"To the outside, I will declare that the First Legion is recuperating from battle wounds. Internally, it is a suspension for reflection on your mistakes."
Having stated the First Legion's punishment, Blazkowicz looked at the Grand Master: "Urian Bendegre, do you have any objections?"
"Absolutely no objections." Urian knelt, bowing low and exclaiming, "Again, thank you for your mercy, for allowing the First Legion to preserve its honor."
His words were sincere, and the great weight in his heart finally lifted.
The Primarch's punishment was comprehensive, punishing the Legion while preserving its honor.
Keeping the Legion out of the Great Crusade for two years was roughly the time needed to repair the warships, and indeed, it would allow the Legion to rest.
Even before Urian took over as Grand Master, he was aware of the various issues within the Legion.
It was time for the Legion to pause, for its warriors to reflect on themselves, and to escape the vortex of error.
"You may go now. Let the First Legion reflect well." Blazkowicz waved his hand, dismissing Urian.
Urian rose from the floor, bowed, and slowly retreated.
"You are still too merciful." After Urian left, the secret chamber behind the throne opened, and Russ slowly emerged:
"If they dared to fool me like that, every single high-ranking officer of the First Legion would be thrown into the Fenrisian ice wastes to feed the wolves."
Though he spoke such words, Russ' demeanor showed respect.
He had arrived on the Royal Majesty earlier, but not wanting to embarrass the Grand Master, he had simply hidden in the secret chamber.
Blazkowicz shook his head: "Urian will live the rest of his life in guilt for his brothers, and the First Legion will have its behavior curbed, halting its quest for glory to reflect on its mistakes."
"Let's go." He stood up and looked at Russ, inviting his brother to the garden deck: "Let's sample the fine wines of Argent Nur."
"Go, go, go." Russ grabbed Blazkowicz's arm, intimately pulling his brother away from the bridge: "I couldn't wait any longer."
The two walked shoulder to shoulder through the bright, simple corridor, taking an elevator to the garden deck.
"Your flagship is indeed better than mine." Along the way, Russ exclaimed in wonder, his golden beast eyes taking in the decorations of the Royal Majesty.
This Glory Queen-class Battleship had been reborn; its corridors were exceptionally wide, always illuminated by soft light. Various intricate high-tech devices and different types of robots moved about, maintaining the ship's normal operation.
In contrast, the Imperial warships felt somewhat lifeless, with countless steel and pipes, and relatively cramped and narrow corridors.
Blazkowicz quickly shook his head, humbly pointing out the difference between the two: "It's just a difference in style; the Hrafnkel has a strong Fenrisian aesthetic."
"That's true." Russ' lips curved into a smile.
A child does not despise its mother's ugliness, nor a dog its poor home. Fenris was his homeworld, and his pride.
"However," Blazkowicz's expression turned serious: "If you want some artillery upgrades, you can send the Fleet to Argent Nur."
He was very grateful for Russ' assistance, and naturally, he wanted to reciprocate.
"Really?" Russ' golden beast eyes gleamed with excitement; he had coveted Argent Nur's ship weapon systems for a long time.
Argent Nur's weapons not only had a long range but also far surpassed the power of equivalent Imperial weapons.
If used on the Space Wolves Fleet, the firepower would more than double.
Effectively enhancing the Fleet's combat power would be a huge boost to the Crusade.
"Indeed!" Blazkowicz affirmed, never stingy with his repayment. "Good! Good! Good!" Russ broke into a wide smile, slapping Blazkowicz's broad back with one hand, repeating "good" three times:
"The Fleet is severely damaged; I won't go to the Forge World for repairs. I'll head to the Nur Stars to upgrade the Fleet's firepower and repair the Fleet at the same time."
"Once this matter is settled, we can go together." Blazkowicz nodded in agreement; the First Fleet was severely damaged and had to return to port for repairs and resupply.
Russ was overjoyed, raising his arm to embrace Blazkowicz's shoulder, a fanged grin on his face.
Coming to assist this time, though the losses were considerable, the gains were also immense.
Not only had they annihilated the xenos fleet and gained great honor, but they could also elevate the Fleet's combat power to a new level.
Now, thinking it over, the sacrifice of his sons was worth it.
With the enhancement of Argent Nur weapons, more of his wolf cubs would survive in future battles.
The two Primarchs walked into the Garden Deck, signaling the official start of the banquet.
The Garden Deck, twenty kilometers long, five kilometers wide, and one hundred meters high, was the most magnificent deck on the battleship.
The ceiling was a holographic projection of a blue sky, offering an incredibly open view, and the artificial light was soft and warm, as if one were bathed in natural sunlight.
Looking around, the banquet area in the garden was filled with tables and chairs, with ten thousand gilded dining tables scattered like stars, delicate porcelain plates resting on their surfaces.
Blazkowicz surveyed the garden's layout from the transparent elevator, nodding in approval; Sophia's arrangements were very reasonable.
A thousand Custodians, rarely out of their battle armor, wore golden silk robes, their expressions relaxed with a hint of arrogance.
Their seats were in a corner of the garden's core circle, to highlight the Custodians' extraordinary status.
The Doom Slayers sat alongside the Custodians; this arrangement did not seem out of place.
Their gene-surgery was handled by the Custodians, and the two had deep ties, so this arrangement was both logical and held a hidden meaning.
The Sentinels sat next to the Destroyer Warriors; both were Blazkowicz's warriors, and it was fitting for them to be so close.
Nearby were high-ranking members from the Space Wolves and the First Legion, with fine wine and fresh fruits laid out before them.
Finally, there were members of the Adeptus Mechanicus, with several Mechanicus Sages attending the banquet.
They looked around, whispering to each other as they observed the garden's layout.
In the center of the core circle stood a massive table. This giant table was paired with two enormous chairs, and extending from their sides were twenty high chairs,
occupied by the true high-ranking officials.
Water flowed gently in the garden, a faint floral scent permeated the air, and fountains sprayed water in varying heights to the accompaniment of soothing music.
Despite such a relaxing environment, the atmosphere was incredibly serious.
The First Legion Space Marines polished their armor, which gleamed black, and sat upright in their chairs.
Even the boisterous Wolves lowered their voices when conversing.
The two Primarchs appeared in the transparent elevator, descending amidst the gazes of all, and entered the garden banquet.
With a rustle, everyone present stood up, showing their respect for the Primarchs.
One hundred thousand Space Marines stood, the clatter of their armor perfectly synchronized, as the warriors did not want to lose face in front of their kin.
Before the round table, the two Primarchs stood with their tall physiques.
"Today, we gather here," Blazkowicz's deep voice resonated through the audio system, reaching everyone's ears.
As the host of the banquet, he needed to state the theme.
This was a necessary courtesy, intended to clarify the purpose and significance of the banquet to the guests.
"The war of Rangdan has achieved a phased victory, and for this, we celebrate."
Blazkowicz and Russ leaned down to accept the wine glasses presented by the attendants, raising the rich red liquid: "Let us toast to victory!"
Russ bared his fangs, raised his glass, and roared skyward: "Victory!"
"Victory!" Everyone followed the Primarchs with fervent cheers, their combined voices making the wine glasses vibrate.
"For this victory, we have sacrificed too much." Blazkowicz's expression carried a hint of solemnity as he placed his wine glass before him:
"To those who sacrificed."
With that, the two Primarchs poured wine onto the floor, the first sip dedicated to those who sacrificed for victory.
"To the sacrificed." A heavy, low chant, and many eyes welled up at the thought of their fallen brothers and comrades.
"Please be seated." Blazkowicz gestured with a raised hand, indicating for Russ to sit first.
As the host of the banquet, one needed to show courtesy and guide the distinguished guest to be seated first.
Russ, not standing on ceremony, made a "please" gesture with his hand, walked to the large round table, and took his seat on the right.
A rustle ~ ~ ^
Another round of seating sounds, as the banquet attendees sat down along with the Primarchs.
The music resumed, and attendants dressed in white silk garments emerged from all directions, arranged in neat rows.
They moved with light steps and graceful postures, standing in pairs before each table, serving the victorious army with courtly etiquette.
Robot dining carts entered, bringing in delicious dishes, which the attendants then placed on the tables.
"This is truly good, I'm starting to look forward to the trip to Argent Nur." Russ couldn't help but nod; the magnificent court etiquette was indeed well-suited for important occasions.
With his brother's affirmation of Argent Nur's culture, Blazkowicz couldn't help but smile: "It will surely satisfy you."
He involuntarily puffed out his chest; the thoroughness of Argent Nur's etiquette was a profound heritage unbroken for thousands of years.
"These foods are also excellent." Russ, with his keen sense of smell, twitched his nostrils continuously, catching the aromas in the air.
Blazkowicz introduced them to him: "Meat beasts cultivated on agricultural worlds, carefully raised, uniformly slaughtered, then placed into stasis field warehouses to lock in their most exquisite flavor."
The delicacies served by the attendants were all premium products from Argent Nur's agricultural worlds, used to entertain the most distinguished guests.
For this banquet, Blazkowicz specially allocated a ship to transport food and hospitality supplies.
"That's too extravagant, it must require a lot of material resources, right?" Russ licked his lips, marveling at the food while sensing his brother's thoughtfulness in preparing the banquet.
"These are normal material provisions." Blazkowicz shook his head and explained to him: "The Nur Stars are now rich in resources; there used to be little difference in food, clothing, and daily necessities between royalty and commoners."
Russ' eyes widened in shock, and he turned to his brother to ask: "This is normal provision?"
"Yes," Blazkowicz nodded and said: "The people of Argent Nur, if they contribute enough, can enjoy these material guarantees."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Russ shook his head, clicking his tongue; he truly hadn't expected that even ordinary people could enjoy these provisions.
He was deeply moved and increasingly yearned to witness the Nur Stars under his brother's rule with his own eyes.
"Heh heh." Russ cleared his throat, and said to the attendant beside him: "Madam, please inform the kitchen that we need a large amount of wine and meat."
"Especially for those people." He raised his hand, pointing towards the Space Wolves, "Bring plenty of good wine and good meat."
Knowing that his brother was rolling in wealth, Russ had no more reservations, intending to eat back all the physical energy expended in battle.
"As you command, my lord." The attendant's voice was soft and pleasing to the ear, and she performed a courtly bow before leaving.
"You wouldn't mind, would you?" Russ feigned an air of seriousness, asking earnestly: "Don't be pained."
"You can eat your fill." Blazkowicz didn't mind at all, generously waving his hand for his brother to do as he pleased.
"Then I truly won't be polite." Russ smirked, stood up from his chair, and shouted, pointing at the Space Wolves' position:
"Space Wolves!"
"!" The Space Wolves responded with a howl to their Gene-Father.
"Eat your fill! Drink your fill!" The Wolf Lord's wild roar ignited the atmosphere of the banquet: "There's plenty of wine and meat here."
"To the Primarch." The Space Wolves raised their glasses towards Blazkowicz, offering sincere blessings.
"To the Space Wolves." Blazkowicz filled his glass with fine wine, raised it to the Wolves, and drank its contents in one gulp.
The banquet atmosphere immediately relaxed, shedding some of its seriousness, and the feast officially began.
"This is truly comfortable." Russ gulped down the wine in his glass, narrowing his eyes to savor its mellow taste: "I've been looking forward to this sip for a long time."
"Oh?" His brother's words made Blazkowicz somewhat curious: "Could it be that you've tasted it elsewhere?"
"My lord." Sophia appeared at the opportune moment, leaning close to his ear to explain: "In the Gateway Star System, Argent Nur's fine wine is very popular, and Rogue Traders vie to purchase it."
"So that's it." He suddenly understood; Russ must have purchased it from Rogue Traders.
"Those unscrupulous merchants!" Speaking of Rogue Traders, Russ gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath: "They actually tried to trade a transport ship for one crate of wine from me."
Hearing this price, Blazkowicz's heart also trembled, and he turned to ask Sophia: "Are our goods that expensive?"
"Not yours." Before Sophia could speak, Russ answered for her: "It's the Rogue Traders reselling goods, turning them over for thousands of times the price."
"Such things are hard to stop." Blazkowicz shook his head helplessly; merchants have always pursued profit, and hoarding goods for speculation is common.
"You didn't trade for it, did you?" His eyes flickered with a strange light as he observed Russ, who was drinking heartily.
One crate of wine, one transport ship.
Russ couldn't possibly have traded for it, but how did he get to drink it?
"Heh heh." Russ grinned, stroking the wolf's mane under his jaw: "The galaxy is dangerous, and pirates are everywhere."
"You really are…" Blazkowicz paused for a moment, shocked by his brother's cunning: "So you robbed them."
"I didn't, I didn't, you're talking nonsense." Russ shook his head, with a touch of roguish charm: "Don't slander your brother."
"Drink, drink." He quickly urged Blazkowicz to drink, changing the subject: "Today, we must drink until we drop."
Just as the two brothers were clinking glasses, a massive fleet was traveling through the Warp, arriving at the Morse Solar System.
A Gloriana-class Battleship led the way, with the ancient Roman numeral "II" carved on her side.
"Gene-Father, ahead is the Morse Solar System." A warrior of the Second Legion reported to the tall figure standing by the viewport.
The man did not speak, the mottled patterns of the Warp reflected in his eyes; he merely nodded in silence.
The tall figure remained silent, yet his paint black eyes seemed to hold a myriad of words. He stared intently at the Warp, his thoughts drifting to an unknown place.
"My Lord, should we inform our allies of our arrival?" The Legion Commander hesitated, not daring to presume the Gene-Father's thoughts.
"No need, they already know," the tall figure finally spoke, his voice slow and heavy.
Indeed, as the giant said, Blazkowicz and Russ knew of the fleet's arrival.
"My Lords, a fleet is approaching in the Warp," Fransisca's soft voice echoed in the ethereal space. The Navigator rarely left her stasis pod, constantly monitoring the Warp's movements.
Hearing her report, Blazkowicz's large hand, holding a wine glass, paused. He did not clink glasses with Russ.
The latter's golden eyebrows furrowed as he pondered who would arrive at such a moment.
The representatives seated at the Primarch's table immediately fell silent, simultaneously ceasing their actions, awaiting the Primarch's move.
Blazkowicz waved his hand, and Russ nodded, indicating that they need not be nervous and the banquet should continue.
They never doubted it was an enemy; the Rangdan could not possibly return so quickly. The approaching fleet could only be an allied force.
"It's an Imperial ship," Sophia's projection slowly approached, holding up an image of the warship: "Second Legion markings."
"Second Legion?" Russ' brow relaxed, and he raised it slightly, pouring wine into his mouth as he spoke: "A rare guest indeed."
"What's wrong?" Blazkowicz continued to drink, detecting a flatness in his brother's tone, an unusual flatness.
He asked Russ: "Do you know anything about him?"
"Not much," Russ shook his head and shrugged helplessly: "I've never met him, but I've heard many rumors."
"Horus fought alongside him and spoke highly of him, saying our never-before-met brother had the talent of a 'Warmaster.'"
"Isn't that a very good evaluate?" Blazkowicz was slightly puzzled as to why Russ was so cold towards his Second Legion brother.
"His behavior is a bit strange," Russ put down his wine glass, refilling it as he spoke: "I always feel like he doesn't fit in with us."
"After he returned, he rarely communicated with outsiders and was very indifferent to everything around him."
"Hmph," Russ snorted, his eyes looking at Blazkowicz as he said indignantly: "Once, when I returned to Terra on business, he was also on Terra. I sent an invitation to visit, but he refused me."
"Such a thing happened?" Blazkowicz's thick eyebrows furrowed; that brother was indeed a bit excessive.
To refuse a visit from a blood brother without considering any consequences was indeed somewhat inhuman.
He believed Russ' invitation was not problematic. His brother's roughness was superficial; his heart was warm and delicate, far surpassing those seemingly elegant nobles.
Russ pointed at his own nose and scoffed, stating a reason with displeasure: "Perhaps he was afraid I'd smell his strange odor."
Blazkowicz chuckled, amused by him, and shook his head helplessly. It seemed Russ had quite a few opinions about that brother.
"That man is very strange," Russ didn't mind, continuing to list various anomalies: "Before and after his return, the Second Legion's military system and style remained completely unchanged."
"The paint scheme hasn't changed, nor has the Legion's emblem. He hasn't even given his offspring a proper name."
"It's as if everything has nothing to do with him, isolating himself outside the Imperium."
The more Blazkowicz listened, the more solemn his expression became. He placed his wine glass on the table, realizing the seriousness of the issue.
His never-before-met brother, his actions were indeed puzzling.
Not changing the paint scheme might be excusable, perhaps he found it troublesome. The Legion emblem could also be explained as not having found anything suitable yet.
But the matter of the Legion's name made Blazkowicz feel incredible.
A Primarch is the Legion's father; the Legion is his child and needs to be given a proper name.
Just like a mortal father naming his child.
It is not only responsible for the Legion, but the Legion's name is one of its important honors, a symbol of strengthening the Space Marine's cohesion and sense of belonging.
A father not naming his offspring is too bizarre and unbelievable.
Russ saw his brother thinking, stuffed a mouthful of meat into his mouth, and his eyes showed strong disdain: "He probably doesn't quite recognize the Imperium, making himself out to be a clean person, unwilling to participate in our dirty business."
"How did the Emperor find him?" Blazkowicz quietly asked Russ. All signs indicated that his brother's origin should be the root of the problem.
"A ship," Russ immediately responded, having clearly investigated. He also had some suspicions.
"A ship?"
"Yes, a ship," Russ nodded emphatically, his tone slightly hesitant: "Then Father killed all the crew and brought him back to the Imperium."
Blazkowicz leaned towards Russ, asking in a voice only they could hear: "Xenos?"
Though it was a question, he was already certain in his heart.
Besides Xenos, there was no other reason to make the Emperor furious enough to kill all the crew.
Even if it were an artificial intelligence, the Emperor would examine it, then hand the hot potato to Argent Nur, and then leisurely extract some benefits.
"Yes," Russ also leaned towards Blazkowicz, the two Primarchs whispering: "He was with Xenos at the time, aimlessly exploring in the cosmos."
"Aimlessly?" Russ scoffed again, asking Blazkowicz: "Do you believe that?"
Blazkowicz slowly shook his head; he naturally wouldn't believe that a Primarch would be aimless.
Most likely, he was exploring the universe with Xenos when he was unexpectedly encountered by the Emperor, interrupting his original plan.
Perhaps to protect the Xenos, the brother chose to remain silent.
"I cannot understand," Russ continued to lower his voice: "Why he chose to associate with Xenos, yet alienated us, who are bound by blood."
"Even if our upbringing was different, the hatred for Xenos is etched into our genes by Father. Why would he abandon his dignity?"
Blazkowicz said nothing, only shaking his head repeatedly.
Having not met the person himself, he could not presume to judge a brother, even if the initial impression was conveyed by another close brother.
"Later, be discreet and don't reveal too much Legion information," Blazkowicz pondered deeply, reminding Russ: "I feel things aren't that simple."
"You know, I'm a barbarian," Russ smiled knowingly, asking softly: "What have you noticed?"
"Nothing," Blazkowicz denied Russ' question, slowly telling him: "Our brother is shrouded in an unfathomable shadow. Until we understand it, it's best to be reserved."
Russ listened and said no more, nodding in deep agreement.
"Sophia," Blazkowicz thought for a few seconds, then finally summoned his most trusted person: "Have Urian come to see me."
He gave Russ a look, asking his brother to cover for him.
Russ understood, picked up his wine glass, and stood up, drawing everyone's gaze to him.
"Let us toast to victory!" he shouted, drinking the fine wine from his cup with a look of exhilaration.
The Space Marines raised their glasses, all standing to toast the Primarch.
The Primarch's sudden movement left the Space Marines puzzled; they only thought the Wolf King was in a good mood from drinking.
As for why the other Primarch was gone, that was not within their scope of consideration.
Blazkowicz moved quickly, leaving the moment Russ stood up, so fast that the Space Marines couldn't react.
In a secret room, Blazkowicz quickly issued instructions: "Prepare a path to the garden that doesn't expose our important information."
"Secretly inform our people to be more careful and not reveal too much in conversations."
Sophia nodded silently, jotting down all her master's instructions, and the data center began issuing commands.
Amidst the clinking of glasses at the banquet, Doom Slayers who received psychic communications sent coded messages to the Sentinels, covertly relaying instructions.
They remained inconspicuous, merely mentioning a few secret codes in their conversations with comrades and colleagues.
The Grand Master quietly excused himself and came to meet the Primarch in the secret room. He didn't know the meaning of this sudden summons.
Blazkowicz looked at Urian, who had not yet stepped down, and asked with a serious expression: "Grand Master, do you trust me?"
Urian's knees buckled under the weight of the topic, and he immediately knelt on one knee: "I trust you immensely."
Blazkowicz squatted down and pulled Urian up, indicating that the Grand Master need not be nervous: "If you trust me, then try to expose as little specific information about your Legion as possible in front of the Second Legion Primarch."
Urian had a million questions in his heart and was about to ask, but the Primarch interrupted him.
"There is no why, just pure trust," Blazkowicz did not explain, looking down at the Grand Master: "How you interpret it is entirely up to you to consider; I will not force you."
Wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, Urian nodded, realizing that the First Legion seemed to be caught in a vortex.
Blazkowicz nodded, said no more, turned, and left the secret room, returning to everyone's view.
The Primarch's return quickly drew attention.
Odysseus' brows furrowed, his handsome face suddenly solemn, as he cast his gaze towards the Primarch and the Grand Master behind him, thoughts swirling in his emerald eyes.
He turned his body and lowered his head, whispering to his Custodes colleague in an imperceptible manner.
The atmosphere among the Custodes seats subtly shifted, their conversations quietly tinged with something unusual.
Urian returned to the Legion's seating, and as he spoke with the Legion's high-ranking officers, he subtly conveyed information using the Legion's secret language.
Blazkowicz sat back down, and Russ immediately offered him a drink, inviting him to continue drinking.
"I don't know if this is right or wrong," Blazkowicz murmured softly, a hint of hesitation in his voice.
His brother's origins and intentions were a mystery, and it might not be wrong to be a bit more cautious strategically.
But it was always too far-reaching, involving the First Legion in this; if one day his brother learned of it, he would surely harbor resentment.
And he himself would eventually feel guilty for this extra vigilance and worry.
"You and I are accomplices," Russ said, putting an arm around Blazkowicz's shoulder with an indifferent expression. "I think there's something a little off about him."
"An isolated person, someone who stands apart, might either try to please everyone or please no one."
"He can distance himself from the Legion and the Imperium; we can't be blamed for being wary of him."
Blazkowicz sighed inwardly; among the twenty Primarch brothers, it was impossible for him to get along well with everyone.
Human nature tends towards groups, and even the extraordinary Primarchs could not escape factionalism.
Now, with few brothers having returned, as more returned in the future, various complex relationships would gradually become entangled and difficult to resolve.
What he could do now was try to maintain brotherly affection, at least superficially.
Blazkowicz raised his goblet and clinked it with Russ', and the banquet continued, awaiting the arrival of their brother from the Warp.
The banquet on the Royal Majesty lasted a long time, and the Legion warriors gradually relaxed, moving around more frequently to deepen the bonds between cousins.
As the banquet was in full swing, the glow of the Warp suddenly appeared outside the porthole, a sign that the fleet was exiting the Warp.
Most people noticed it and immediately recognized from the fleet's insignia that the Second Legion had arrived.
The atmosphere grew even more lively; the arrival of a Gloriana-class Battleship indicated that another Primarch had arrived.
"Let's go," Blazkowicz said, pulling Russ up from the blanket on the floor; he had been drunk for a long time. "Let's go greet our brother."
The latter immediately opened his golden eyes, extended a hand, and grabbed his brother's arm, pulling himself up from the ground.
As white mist emanated from his body, the alcohol was immediately expelled, and his consciousness instantly cleared.
Russ opened his large mouth, yawning and exhaling a strong smell of alcohol: "He's quite late."
Blazkowicz nodded, gesturing for him to take the clothes held by the nearby maid; Russ' arms were covered in filth.
Russ squatted down, took the clothes from the maid's hands, and grinned with a friendly smile: "Lady, you might need to step away for a moment."
With that, ignoring the blushing maid, he tore off his robe, revealing his powerful physique, and changed his clothes in front of everyone.
The chronicler of the Argent Nur fleet's eyes lit up, and he immediately began to draw, recording the Primarch's artistic body with his agile brushstrokes.
Many mortal female officers blushed, covering their mouths to suppress their gasps.
They stood on tiptoes to watch, their eyes shimmering with admiration; the robust body, filled with masculine hormones, made the cheeks of the women present flush crimson.
"This outfit suits you better," Russ said after changing his clothes. Blazkowicz offered a fair assessment: "Like a beast scholar."
Russ' golden hair gleamed, and his golden eyes were extremely wild, his wolf's mane neatly combed by the maid.
He wore a winter-colored robe, adorned with light blue ice points, as if he had dressed himself in winter and snow, adding a touch of elegance to the Wolf King's wildness.
A bit unaccustomed to the wide sleeves, Russ spread his arms, rotated them a few times, and rolled the wide sleeves up his arms: "It's alright, not too embarrassing."
"Let's go, to greet our brother." Blazkowicz raised his hand and pointed to Sophia, who held a holographic projection of a boarding request.
Russ nodded, casually selected ten Wolf Guards, and went with Blazkowicz to greet their blood brother.
Blazkowicz, however, chose ten Doom Slayers, not sending the Sentinels to greet him; he had deeper considerations.
The Sentinels came from the Nur Stars, and at the moment of their brother's arrival, they had already departed.
The Iron Men invited to the banquet had also left; they were hidden away.
It was no secret that Argent Nur had Iron Men, but the specifics were not widely known.
The difference between a general statement and specific details was vast.
The two arrived at the landing pad just as the Second Legion's shuttle arrived, the timing perfectly precise.
The shuttle settled on the deck, its hatch slowly opening, and a tall figure emerged.
Blazkowicz and Russ' eyes lit up; the brother before them truly lived up to the name of Primarch.
He was as tall as Blazkowicz, and though his physique was obscured by his specialized steel-colored power armor, his face was slightly thin.
His black hair reached his cheeks, a little messy with a hint of melancholy, his gaunt face exuding a unique majesty.
Most striking were his silver-gray eyes, which added a touch of noble mystery.
As he stepped out of the cabin, his silver-gray eyes moved, naturally spotting his two brothers.
In the galaxy, only Primarchs possessed such tall, humanoid figures.
As Blazkowicz watched his brother emerge from the cabin, a barely perceptible hint of surprise flashed in his eyes; he sensed another presence at the rear of his brother's retinue.
Among the Primarch's guard, clad in MK power armor, a "disguised one" was mixed in.
His gaze quickly locked onto the disguised one, who was hiding third from the last in the Primarch's guard, indistinguishable from a regular Legion warrior.
Alpharius, holding his banner, distinctly felt a gaze sweep over him. He looked with his peripheral vision, but Blazkowicz had already averted his eyes.
Had he been exposed?
Alpharius was very unsure; he didn't believe his brother's gaze was an accidental coincidence.
As a professional agent, the most excellent infiltrator, his senses were exceptionally keen, and he never believed in so-called "coincidences."
"Moribus Solas."
Just then, a steady voice broke the subtle moment.
The sternness on the tall figure's face dissolved, revealing a friendly smile, as he introduced himself to his brothers in a calm voice.
"Blazkowicz Novick."
"Leman Russ."
The three Primarchs approached each other, their expressions showing the joy of meeting brothers, and a hint of blood-kin affection.
Russ' nose twitched a few times, as if he had discovered something, but he quickly concealed it.
"Brother, please come with us, there's a banquet being held here," Blazkowicz said, warmly welcoming Soras and leading him towards the garden.
The three Primarchs did not embrace; wearing power armor made intimate gestures inconvenient.
The two stood one on each side, with Soras in the middle, showing great respect.
"It seems you have achieved a great victory," Soras said with a smile, congratulating his two brothers.
The wreckage of warships in the star system indicated the brutality of the war here, and the ongoing banquet proved that humanity had achieved victory.
These clues could be caught by ordinary people, let alone a Primarch.
"Yes," Blazkowicz said, puffing out his chest proudly and declaring grandly, "A glorious great victory."
Russ almost laughed out loud; his brother's body language was just right, his actions and expressions very deceptive.
An uninformed person might think he was slightly arrogant and prone to boasting.
"Congratulations to you both," Soras said noncommittally, simply congratulating Blazkowicz on his victory in the war.
Inwardly, he wondered if his brother was truly vain or merely feigning vanity.
Words could lie, but the war situation would not disguise itself.
The warships anchored in the Morse Solar System were almost all damaged, and the fleet's composition was entirely incomplete; anyone with a bit of observation could see the cruelty and hardship of the war.
The victory was unquestionable, but it was certainly not a "glorious great victory."
Blazkowicz naturally knew this, but he put his little trick out in the open; whether others believed it or not, he believed it first.
The three Primarchs led the way, walking down the bright corridor towards the garden to join the banquet.
Soras initially paid close attention to the differences in the warship, carefully observing everything he saw, but later lost interest.
The monotonous bright corridors made one feel as if walking in a mirror, layer upon layer, very long.
But it also revealed something peculiar; when one started to feel annoyed, a corner or bulkhead would appear, instantly dispelling the excessive visual fatigue.
The Primarch brothers walked and chatted, talking about everyday matters, discussing someone's drinking capacity, their thoughts immersed in the banquet.
Regarding the specific process of the war, the information revealed was ambiguous, two perspectives on the same event, making it hard to distinguish truth from falsehood.
"How interesting," Soras said with a slight smile, looking at his two blood brothers, sighing deep inside.
Soras felt a sense of wariness, a feeling of estrangement from his blood brothers.
The feeling of being excluded was clear, without any disguise; his brothers were wary of him.
Yet, he was not angered by this, nor saddened by his brothers' alienation.
It was normal for someone who didn't fit in to be ostracized; he had brought it upon himself.
With their own thoughts, the three Primarchs entered the garden banquet, and everyone present, except for the Custodes and the Destroyers, knelt.
To gaze upon the glory of the three Emperor's sons, and to drink fine wine with them at the banquet, was a proud moment worth remembering.
"Rise," Blazkowicz's voice echoed throughout the hall, allowing the warriors to stand.
A massive chair had been added to the main table, placed alongside the original ones, showcasing the Primarchs' rightful status.
Blazkowicz sat in the middle, with Soras and Russ on either side of him, their gazes able to see everyone.
"Brothers," Blazkowicz greeted, picking up an exquisite wine bottle and personally pouring fine wine for his brothers, "Please taste the fine wine from my homeland.
Wine brewed in Argent Nur, with a recipe from the Golden Age, specially blended for the discerning palates of the Golden Men.
Its color is as vibrant as pigeon's blood, its taste mellow and sweet, lingering on the tongue, leaving an endless aftertaste.
In terms of taste alone, among all the fine wines Blazkowicz had tasted, only The Undying Trazyn's Necron collection and the secret wine brewed by the Old Ones could steadily surpass it.
The Necron's needs no further explanation; as the dominant race of ancient times, the treasured tastes of their royal nobility could conquer the taste buds of all living beings.
The wine brewed by the Old Ones used the essence of the universe as its material, with every drop containing a myriad of transformations.
That was not wine to be drunk, but a nectar to be held in the mouth to experience truth.
As for Fenrisian Mead, its taste was too violent, violent for violence's sake, truly not fit for polite society.
Soras did not refuse his brother's kindness, raising the wine glass and swirling the crimson liquid, his nostrils flaring slightly to inhale the rich aroma.
"Good wine," his eyes lit up, and he exclaimed with genuine admiration, "This is the best wine I've encountered since my return to the Imperium."
"Of course, it's good wine," Russ then recounted his encounter, "Otherwise, the Rogue Trader wouldn't have dared to trade a box of wine for one of my transport ships."
"There's such a thing?" Soras was slightly surprised, looking down at the wine glass in his hand, and said with a humorous tone, "Then am I not holding a part of a spaceship?"
"Hahaha," Blazkowicz and the other laughed at this, amused by the humor that shone through his brother's seriousness.
"You're right to say that, its value is considerable," Russ laughed heartily, grabbing the wine bottle and tilting his head back to guzzle it down.
"Ah, comfortable ~" He let out a satisfied grunt, shaking the empty wine bottle at his two brothers, "You see, the spaceship's engine has been swallowed by the Great Wolf."
Russ' boisterousness livened up the atmosphere, immediately making the table's mood more active.
At a wine party, one needs people like him to drive conversation and foster camaraderie.
Blazkowicz and Soras exchanged a smile, clinking their glasses, and, unlike Russ, unceremoniously drank the fine wine in their cups.
The three Primarchs enjoyed each other's company, very intimate, their status as blood brothers an unbreakable bond.
Beside the inner circle, at the seating area of the Second Legion Primarch's Guard, Legion warriors clinked glasses and enthusiastically chatted with their other Legion cousins.
Alpharius was hidden behind a flower bed, seemingly focused on the wine in his cup, yet his ears were perked, catching the topics his brothers discussed.
His current appearance was very ordinary; he was the Primarch's most trusted warrior, a member of the Primarch's Guard.
Sipping his wine in small amounts, Alpharius suppressed the smile in his heart, coldly observing this performance of blood brothers.
The three brothers at the giant round table, seemingly very intimate, were in fact testing each other.
The topics they discussed revealed no crucial information, only insignificant trivialities.
Blazkowicz's words were watertight, his kingly brother's conversational skills irreproachable, showcasing his kingly demeanor, cleverly deflecting and pulling the conversation back and forth.
Soras spoke little and revealed little, but his grasp of the conversation's boundaries was exquisite, his evasions and deflections incredibly skillful.
As for Russ—
Alpharius' peripheral vision glanced at his Fenrisian brother, who was eating and drinking well, oblivious to the eloquent veiled attacks next to him.
He shook his head imperceptibly, unsure if his brother was truly foolish or merely feigning it.
Alpharius knew very little about the current situation of the Space Wolves.
Since Russ' return, the agents he had planted in his brother's Legion had found it increasingly difficult to remain undercover.
The recruits from Fenris, due to the unique 'Wolfen Helix' gene in the local population, had extremely keen senses of smell, allowing them to distinguish outsiders by scent.
Left with no choice, Alpharius had his sons withdraw from the Space Wolves Legion through means such as feigned death.
Now he was on the Royal Majesty, an observer, watching his brothers engage in word games.
Alpharius was very satisfied with the performance at the banquet.
As a seeker of secrets, his mind was sharp, and he had long detected the hidden undercurrents of the banquet through subtle clues.
The First Legion seemed normal, but their coded language was too simple for a Primarch specializing in such things.
The Space Wolves were the same, communicating secret information through savage gestures like baring teeth and glaring.
The Custodes' secret language was complex, yet still traceable; they were observing the Primarchs.
As for the Destroyers, Alpharius' gaze quickly swept over them; the black-armored warriors were as silently unsettling as ever.
Throughout this banquet, he repeatedly found himself immersed in the secret itself, every cell of his body filled with pleasure.
Enjoying the pleasure of uncovering secrets, Alpharius was even more satisfied with Blazkowicz's caution, a better sense of vigilance than Horus.
Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Sixteenth Legion, was too enthusiastic about his returning brothers.
His tolerance for all his brothers made him unconsciously overlook that Primarch brothers could also be different.
Moribus Solas, Primarch of the Second Legion, the second son of his father, the Emperor.
Mists surrounded him, and an unspeakable secret lay hidden beneath his serene countenance.
Alpharius had come precisely for this reason.
As the most secretive seeker, the Primarch of the Twentieth Legion, he infiltrated the Second Legion, where the Primarch, skilled in disguise, killed a Legion warrior, took his armor and name, and quickly integrated into the Second Legion.
Using his unique talent for disguise, the Primarch masqueraded as an ordinary Astartes, gradually rising through the ranks of the Legion.
After several years of advancement, Alpharius became a member of the Primarch's Guard, allowing him to better investigate the secrets of his blood brother.
He found his brother's behavior odd.
For most of the time, Soras would not show himself, locking himself in his warship's quarters, allowing no one to enter.
He never interfered with the Legion's affairs, big or small, letting the Legion's original high command continue to be responsible for its operation, without any changes.
During the days he fought alongside Horus, he always offered constructive strategic advice, yet rarely participated in tactical planning.
Soras' strategic vision was unique, and on this point, Alpharius agreed with Horus; he indeed had the talent of a Warmaster.
But precisely because of this, Alpharius felt Soras was very dangerous.
A brilliant strategic genius, if his heart did not recognize the Imperium, the destruction he could wreak would be terrifying.
He infiltrated the Second Legion precisely to understand what his blood brother was thinking.
A few months ago, Soras suddenly ordered the Legion to change course, deviating from its planned route, and head to the Morse Solar System.
This abnormal move made Alpharius sense something unusual.
Was it his brother's strategic thinking that made him perceive a great threat in the sector? Or was he driven by other unknown reasons to come here?
Or neither?
So Alpharius perked his ears, using his Primarch's extraordinary hearing to gather his brothers' conversation.
He hoped to catch clues from the trio's dialogue, to glimpse the truth behind the mist.
Unfortunately, the three were very wary.
They talked about romance and beauty, interesting experiences and magnificent scenery encountered while traversing the universe.
But Alpharius was not in a hurry; he had ample time to delve deep into secrets.
"My lord, I will pour your wine," a soft voice came from behind him as a handmaiden approached with a wine jug to refill his drink.
Such a scene was common; on the vast garden deck, a thousand mobile attendants moved about, always ready to serve the Astartes.
Alpharius remained composed, turning to face the handmaiden and extending his wine glass, "Thank you, beautiful lady."
The keen Primarch noticed something amiss; the handmaiden's heartbeat quickened for a moment, which he clearly detected.
"It is my honor to serve you," the lady filled his glass and then departed, without any other abnormality.
Alpharius swirled his wine glass, and a string of tiny characters appeared in the cup, vanishing in an instant.
His pupils suddenly constricted; he knew he had been exposed.