News of the victory spread across Nocturne like a wildfire. The victory itself was even more exhilarating, a triumph of courage over fear. Nocturne may be a planet of ceaseless lava rivers, erupting volcanoes, and countless obsidian lakes, but for humanity, it was a small world.
People lived in concentrated highland cities, dedicated to farming and forging. The story of a giant warrior who defeated the raiders and protected his home was carried by merchant caravans to every corner of the planet.
From all directions, people gathered to admire the warrior's demeanor and witness his great feat with their own eyes. In the town center, they saw the raider, a beautiful yet dangerous female xeno, still arrogant despite her imprisonment. Next to her cage, forged from refined steel, hung a sign detailing her origin: a Wych from the Aeldari, an ancient race who took pleasure in plunder.
When visitors from other cities asked why they hadn't simply killed the xeno to humiliate her arrogance, the natives would proudly tell them about Vulkan's magnanimity. The foreign guests were greatly astonished, and after meeting the giant, they were even more impressed by his power and benevolence. Some were so moved that they refused to leave, building houses outside the town and settling in Vulkan's city, unwilling to return to a life of fear.
Over several months, the town grew larger and larger, becoming Nocturne's first city. People admired Vulkan's benevolence and willingly accepted his leadership, choosing to live under the light of his humanity. A Primarch full of compassion had unified Nocturne without bloodshed, making mortals willingly accept him as their king. The time had now come to hold a grand ceremony for the great Vulkan and to judge the guilty xeno.
"Aren't you going to see him yet?" Blazkowicz sat cross-legged by a lava river, grilling the meat of a creature the locals called a 'Salamander.' He was a frequent diner on Nocturne's local fauna, having spent the past few months with the Emperor, avoiding detection.
The Emperor didn't answer. He bit into the sizzling, oily meat before walking aside to close his eyes and divine. From his robe, he produced a deck of tarot cards and threw them before him, quickly selecting three. "Tomorrow is a good day for a reunion," he said, a rare smile gracing his face. "It's time to bring him home."
"Hmph." Blazkowicz snorted disdainfully at the Emperor's theatricality, taking a large bite of his skewer. An evil, charming smile spread across his face as a mischievous thought occurred to him.
"Tell me," he asked, his smile deepening, "will my brother respect his foster father more, or you, his biological one?" He knew this would annoy the Emperor, who held a genuine and undisguised affection for this benevolent brother.
The Emperor had diligently nurtured Horus and saw Blazkowicz as an important partner, but his love for Vulkan was pure, uncomplicated affection. Blazkowicz felt no jealousy, only the satisfaction of repaying the Emperor for months of "camping."
The Emperor's finger trembled, his eyebrow twitching as he stared at the smiling man. He remained silent, his dark face growing even darker in the dim light of the lava.
The celebration began as scheduled, grandly opening on a day when the dust clouds had momentarily dispersed. Vulkan, feeling deeply uncomfortable, was bound to a throne by the crowd's enthusiasm, his face held in a stiff smile. He, a simple blacksmith, had been embraced as the chosen king.
"Great King Vulkan!" The host's impassioned voice boomed from a megaphone on the stage. "His benevolence brings tears to the star river, his power makes the universe tremble!"
Vulkan tried to maintain his composure, praying for the awkward ceremony to end. Unlike him, the crowd took every word to heart, nodding in agreement.
"Wait!" A discordant voice cut through the cheers. The crowd turned with angry eyes to the end of the street, where two men stood. One was tall and cloaked, his powerful physique visible, with only his bright, piercing eyes showing.
Upon seeing him, the people involuntarily compared him to Vulkan and were relieved to see the stranger was of comparable size. The other man was shorter and fair-skinned, wearing a neat white robe, his face exuding an air of nobility.
It was the shorter man who had spoken. He looked at Vulkan on the throne and said with immense arrogance, "Your benevolence is evident, but your power is not great. I can easily defeat you."
A low, contemptuous uproar swept through the crowd. Ignoring their reactions, the two men advanced, walking with unhurried steps. The townspeople automatically made way. Vulkan sat up straight on the throne, his face no longer stiff with dignity. He sensed a threat; the two were very strong, though not a danger to him. Their strange attitude was what made him wary.
As they passed the Aeldari Wych's cage, she saw the mark behind the tall figure's cloak. She trembled all over, her demeanor changing instantly. She tidied her haggard face, combed her hair, and rose to her feet. Using the most ancient and sacred Aeldari etiquette, she bowed to the tall figure, her voice no longer venomous, but as melodious as a nightingale. In the Aeldari language, filled with the highest respect, and said "It is an honor to behold the great Slayer in this life."
The Aeldari fell with the birth of the Dark Prince, but the hatred of their ancient past remained. The roar of the Sea of Souls and the God-Slayer's oath were etched forever into their memories, a crimson mark in the Warp. The Wych knelt on the ground, offering a reverence normally reserved for the Aeldari gods. Blazkowicz merely glanced at her and continued walking towards the throne.
The Wych's reverence, however, made the people of Nocturne wary. Over the past few months, the xeno had only revealed her origin and race, treating them with utter contempt. Now, she showed such reverence. Could the two have some connection? Could they be reinforcements? These questions filled their hearts with hostility, and the crowd retreated, ready to retrieve their weapons.
"Where do you come from?" Vulkan's voice boomed like a bell, questioning the newcomers. He knew they were not from Nocturne, not just from their attire, but from their fair skin. This was an environmental mutation for Nocturne's people, whose dark skin resisted the heat, and whose crimson eyes captured faint light.
"We come from the stars," the Emperor said, his face showing disappointment. "We heard there was an extraordinary king here, but we instead heard boastful flattery. It turns out to be nothing but self-aggrandizement; you are far less powerful than I am."
The crowd's expressions grew complex, but they began to close in.
"Stop!" Vulkan's low shout came from the high platform. He stood and raised his hand, stopping them. His crimson eyes looked down at the shorter man. "Then what would you have me do?" he asked.
"Compete with me," the Emperor smiled, "to prove that what your people say is not false."
"Very well." Vulkan nodded, accepting the challenge. "However, I want to add a condition: the loser must swear an oath to serve the victor for life."
Vulkan walked out of the town, his agile figure descending the high ground, but the outsider was nowhere to be seen. Shaking his head, he gazed into the distance at the continuous chain of volcanoes spewing thick smoke, then adjusted the pack on his back and began his hunt. His powerful, dark body was clad in scale armor made from Salamander hide, designed to resist the stifling heat of the flames.
He put on a respirator from his backpack, its design modeled after a Salamander's lungs to ensure he could get enough oxygen in the thin air of the volcanic region. He looked up one last time, searching for the outsider, but to no avail. He placed the spare respirator back into his backpack, even with the added weight, he wished to preserve a sliver of hope for the other person, just in case he ran into danger.
The volcanic region was intensely hot, with lava flowing down gullies and converging into rivers of magma, which then formed lakes in flatter areas. Fierce Salamanders lived in these lakes, hibernating with low metabolisms while waiting for prey.
The jagged landscape was harsh, and Vulkan moved nimbly, dodging obsidian shards that could easily slice his armor. He quickly passed the outer lakes, ignoring the juvenile Salamanders that surfaced from the magma. He was headed deeper, for the outer lizards were too young to win him the competition.
Salamanders had a strict sense of hierarchy; the more powerful ones inhabited hotter magma lakes. Their size and strength increased with age, and older Salamanders were far more dangerous.
To win, Vulkan needed to take a risk: he would enter the core of the volcanic region to hunt an ancient Salamander that had lived for thousands of years. This was a perilous endeavor. Normally, even a town's combined strength was only enough to hunt juveniles, but he was alone.
The volcanic winds of Nocturne carried ash and embers through the air as Vulkan crested the obsidian ridge, his crimson eyes scanning the hellish landscape below. There, in the heart of a bubbling magma lake that stretched like a molten sea, lay his quarry, a Salamander of the deep chambers, an ancient Salamander whose midnight scales had witnessed the birth of mountains.
The beast was colossal beyond mortal comprehension. Thirty meters of prehistoric fury slumbered in the lava, its body a living island of armor and death. Horns like twisted spears crowned its massive skull, each one capable of goring a Land Raider. The creature's hide rippled with an otherworldly luminescence, as if the very fires of creation burned beneath its scales.
Vulkan set down his pack with reverent care, the leather worn smooth by countless hunts. His hands found the familiar grip of his warhammer. The weapon sang with barely contained power as he lifted it, runes of fire and craftsmanship blazing along its head.
With fury coursing through his veins, Vulkan emerged from concealment. The massive hammer arced through superheated air, striking a towering obsidian spire with inhuman force.
The mountain peak exploded in a shower of volcanic glass and ancient stone, each fragment whistling through the air like shrapnel. The thunderclap of impact rolled across the lava fields.
The Salamander's eyes snapped open, its serpentine head rose from the magma with terrible grace, rivers of lava cascading from its scales like a waterfall of liquid fire. To the ancient predator, Vulkan appeared as nothing more than a speck of defiance, a mortal daring to challenge a force of nature.
Vulkan was no mortal.
The Primarch hefted the shattered obsidian peak as if it were a mere javelin, his genetically-enhanced musculature straining against his scale-wrought armor. Veins stood out like cables beneath his skin as he hurled the mountain fragment with enough force to level a fortress.
The makeshift projectile struck the Salamander's flank. The beast's roar of rage shook the very foundations of the volcanic chamber. Magma erupted from its body as it surged from the lake.
Lava became weaponized plasma as the Salamander charged, each footstep creating explosions of molten rock that painted the cavern walls in liquid light. Its maw gaped wide, revealing rows of crystalline fangs each the size of a power sword, while deep in its throat, fire began to build.
The Salamander's breath weapon erupted, the inferno washed over Vulkan in a tide of destruction that would have vaporized a company of lesser warriors. But the son of Nocturne stood unmoved, his gene-forged flesh proof against temperatures that could melt ceramite. His Salamander-scale cloak, gifted by the tribal elders, turned the killing heat aside like morning rain.
Through the blazing torrent, Vulkan's eyes burned with purpose. He waited, patient, until the beast committed to its final charge. Then, with movements too swift for mortal eye to follow, the Primarch struck.
The warhammer swept upward in a perfect arc, its passage creating a sonic boom that shattered stalactites throughout the cavern. The hammer's head met the Fire-Salamander's lower jaw with the force of a thousand meteors. The impact was cataclysmic, bone splintered like glass, ancient scales exploded in showers of emerald fragments, and the beast's own momentum became its doom as its massive skull snapped backward with enough force to break its neck.
But Vulkan was far from finished.
As the stunned Salamander reeled backward, spraying ichor and shattered teeth across the cavern floor, the Primarch launched himself skyward with a leap that defied gravity itself. For a moment, he hung suspended in the superheated air like an avatar of vengeance, his hammer raised high above his head in both hands.
The Salamander's golden eyes, now wide with the terror of the prey, reflected the Primarch's descent. In that instant of recognition, the ancient predator understood that it faced something beyond its comprehension.
Vulkan brought the hammer down with finality that brooked no argument.
The sound of impact was the sound of worlds ending. Lightning—real lightning—split the volcanic skies above as if the very heavens wept for the passing of such an ancient life. The Salamander's skull caved inward like crushed parchment, its brain matter flash-boiled by the kinetic force of the blow.
The great beast collapsed with earth-shaking finality, its death throes sending waves of lava cascading across the chamber floor. But even in death, its hide remained intact, a testament to Vulkan's surgical precision and the mastery that marked him as the greatest smith in the galaxy.
Shouldering his pack with the satisfaction of a craftsman completing a masterwork, Vulkan grasped the Salamander's massive tail and began the journey home. His voice rose in an ancient forge-song of Nocturne as he dragged his prize across the hellscape, the melody echoing off canyon walls like a hymn of triumph.
But Nocturne was not finished testing her son.
The obsidian suspension bridge stretched before him like a blade of volcanic glass, its surface gleaming with deadly beauty. Forged in the planet's youth and tempered by millennia of thermal stress, it had carried countless hunters safely across the Pyroclasm Gorge. But none had ever tested it with the weight of a thirty-meter Salamander.
The first crack appeared as Vulkan reached the bridge's center, a sound like breaking crystal that cut through his victory song with ominous clarity. His enhanced senses immediately catalogued the structural failure spreading through the ancient construction. The bridge was dying beneath him, its obsidian span fracturing under impossible weight.
Below yawned the Pyroclasm, a river of magma that flowed directly from Nocturne's molten core, so hot that even his enhanced physiology would be consumed in seconds. To fall meant death. To abandon his prize meant failure in the eyes of the tribal elders who had set this trial.
For the son of the forge, there was no choice at all.
Crimson fire blazed in Vulkan's eyes as he made his decision. With a war-cry that would have made his future Legion proud, the Primarch gathered the Salamander's massive corpse in his arms and leaped, not across the remaining span of the bridge, but in a single, impossible bound that carried him and his burden through the superheated air to the far cliff face.
Behind him, the ancient bridge finally surrendered to entropy. Thousands of years of volcanic glass tumbled into the magma below with a sound like the world's last sigh, sending gouts of lava splashing against the canyon walls.
Vulkan's armored fingers found purchase on the cliff face, forged talons biting deep into solid rock. His other hand maintained its death-grip on the Salamander's tail, the massive corpse swaying like a pendulum above the lethal river below. Even for a Primarch, the position was precarious, suspended by fingertips over certain doom.
"Damnable fire!" The curse tore from his lips. His phenomenal strength was bleeding away under the relentless assault of volcanic heat, sweat evaporating from his skin almost before it could form. The choice crystallized before him with brutal clarity: his life, or his honor.
The Salamander's corpse swayed beneath him, thirty meters of prehistoric majesty reduced to deadweight that threatened to drag him into the molten depths. He could release it, cast away his prize and save himself. His people would understand.
"Alas," Vulkan sighed, preparing to let go of his prey. "If this is fate, then I will calmly accept defeat."
Just as he was about to let go, he heard footsteps, accompanied by a heavy dragging sound. He turned his head and saw, on the other side of the river valley, the clean-faced outsider dragging a giant Salamander. Vulkan saw at a glance that the outsider's prey was far larger than his own. His heart had already conceded defeat, and he was preparing to save himself, when the outsider's actions deeply shocked him.
The Emperor naturally saw his son hanging from the cliff edge. He casually threw the Salamander he had captured into the magma, using it as a stepping stone to reach the opposite bank. He stood at the cliff edge, looked down at the exhausted Vulkan, and reached out to grasp his son's dark arm.
"Why?" Vulkan looked up, asking in confusion, not understanding why the outsider had once again given up victory.
The Emperor's expression was relaxed, a slight smile playing on his lips, love sparkling in his eyes, and tender compassion in his voice: "If you died, my victory would be meaningless."
Vulkan's whole body trembled. He lowered his head, no longer speaking, allowing the outsider to pull him up onto the cliff. When the two reached a safe area, they looked back, and the Salamander, thrown into the magma as a bridge, had already disappeared.
"If you die, my victory will be meaningless." The stranger's sincere words lingered in Vulkan's ears, a powerful echo in his mind. The two walked in silence, dragging the massive Salamander's corpse back to the town, a testament to the trial's outcome.
At the town gates, the people saw two figures, one tall and one short, returning. The crowd grew noisy, then erupted in cheers as they saw the outcome: Vulkan dragged an unprecedentedly large Salamander behind him, while the stranger had nothing. The great king chosen by the people had won.
Blazkowicz was also surprised. His first thought was that the Emperor had stumbled in the final trial, but his vision, sharper than a falcon's, quickly noticed something unusual. Vulkan, though he had seemingly won, showed no joy.
His silence seemed to be brewing some momentous decision. The Emperor, however, looked relaxed, a strange anticipation on his face. Blazkowicz's lips curved into a smile, hidden beneath his cloak.
As the two drew closer, the crowd swarmed around Vulkan, celebrating the son of Nocturne's victory. Eight days of trials had exhausted their spirits; their taut nerves finally relaxed. In their cheers, they released their tension and stress with tears. They surrounded him, stroking his dark skin, feeling his warmth and strength.
Vulkan, the center of attention, remained silent. His brows furrowed in shame.
"Quiet!" he roared. The low sound shook the entire scene, overpowering the cheers. The crowd froze, staring blankly at the standing black giant. "This victory and honor do not belong to me."
He sighed, his roar deep yet carrying a sense of relief. Regardless, Vulkan could not go against his conscience. The false victory and the stranger's rescue tormented his kind heart. He knew the people had to know what the stranger had done.
"This victory and honor should belong to him." Vulkan bent down, using his huge black arm to pull up the stranger's arm, letting him receive his deserved honor. "In the volcanoes, the suspension bridge collapsed, and I was hanging by the cliff. He threw his prey down as a stepping stone, saving my life."
The people of Nocturne were astonished, disbelieving. Their crimson eyes were fixed on the stranger whose arm was raised. Vulkan put down his backpack, took out a skinning knife, and expertly peeled back the Salamander's hide to reveal its soft throat. He walked to the stranger's side, draped the hide over him, and sincerely told the crowd, "He sacrificed his rightful honor for my life. This is true nobility, worthy of respect!"
The people of Nocturne erupted in cheers, casting aside their prejudices and celebrating the stranger's victory from the bottom of their hearts. Vulkan knelt on one knee before the stranger, bowing his Primarch's proud head, and swore an oath of loyalty in a booming, majestic voice: "From this day forward—"
No sooner had the oath left his lips than the stranger stepped forward, placing his hand on Vulkan's body, gently helping the kneeling giant to his feet. Amidst the crowd's confused gazes, with the Salamander skin—a symbol of victory—draped over him, the stranger's actions were perplexing.
It was here. Only Blazkowicz knew that this was the Emperor's most glorious moment, manifesting before his son. His lips twitched slightly, and he instinctively turned his face away, watching the Emperor's performance from the corner of his eye.
The Emperor helped Vulkan up, nodding with appreciative affirmation, proud of his son's honest actions. "You possess sufficient humility and honesty, which is excellent, Vulkan. You are the humanity I expected; I wished you to be so."
As the stranger spoke, his small body gradually grew, emitting a golden radiance. The people of Nocturne and Vulkan stepped back, stunned, staring dumbfounded at the transformation. His body grew taller and taller, reaching eight meters in height, radiating a warm, benevolent golden light.
His appearance transformed, becoming so perfect and flawless that it filled people with longing. Benevolence, compassion, majesty, beauty, purity, radiance, greatness, and affability. Every person present saw the image they most desired, the one mortals most hoped to see.
The people of Nocturne unhesitatingly fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before the golden figure, tears of emotion streaming from their eyes. They knew now who the stranger was: the Emperor! With his appearance, it was as if the sun had risen over the land, its golden light illuminating every face.
The people had never seen such radiance. They instinctively squinted, yet forced their eyes open. They dared not blink, using every thought to remember this great being. In the golden sun's radiance, only one person saw the truth: a spirited middle-aged man, his face full of pride.
"Vulkan, my son" the Emperor's voice was peaceful and kind, yet imbued with greatness and harmony, as he softly called his son's name. "I have crossed the stars to bring you home."
Vulkan stood frozen, the golden figure reflected in his crimson eyes. From the touch, he received all the information. He was a scion of the Emperor, a Primarch inheriting his genetic bloodline, one of the twenty-one Primarchs.
"Father," the low call was awkward. Vulkan had called his adoptive father this countless times, but now he spoke the sacred word to another. He looked back, searching for his adoptive father in the crowd, and saw him kneeling among the people, his expression agitated, tears in his eyes.
Vulkan walked to his adoptive father, lifted him, and brought him before the Emperor. "He raised me and taught me kindness and benevolence," he said.
"He shall receive the reward due to a Primarch's adoptive father." The Emperor gently raised his arm, tracing a sacred arc, and took the blacksmith's arm. He bowed and kissed the mortal, bestowing the blessings of the Emperor: peace and benevolence. The Emperor's divine power dispelled the blacksmith's fatigue and illness, granting him new life. He thanked this mortal, who had inspired the Primarch's kindness and illuminated the demigod's humanity.
"Son, will you not invite me to your home for a visit?" The Emperor's face smiled, asking in a loving voice.
"Please follow me." Vulkan understood that this was not the place for conversation. He carried his adoptive father and led the way. The crowd consciously made way for the Emperor and his son, silently forming a line that led directly to Vulkan's home.
Vulkan's home was tall and prominent. To accommodate his large size, he had expanded the house. As soon as they entered, Vulkan placed his sleeping adoptive father on the bed, then invited the two to sit. The Emperor casually cast a psychic bubble, enveloping the three of them, creating a quiet environment for conversation and avoiding disturbing the sleeping blacksmith.
"And this is?" Vulkan sat down to pour drinks for the two, his gaze falling on Blazkowicz. Since his appearance, this man had rarely spoken, always standing on the periphery, observing. Seeing his imposing height, Vulkan already had a guess: he might be one of his brothers.
"This is your strongest brother," the Emperor introduced. Blazkowicz removed his cloak, giving him a friendly smile. "Blazkowicz," he said, introducing himself and generously stating his name.
"Vulkan." The black giant's face showed joy. Compared to the father who descended from the sky, he was more willing to accept the brother he was mentally prepared for. His face was extraordinarily heroic, and the power hidden beneath his physique was not to be underestimated. The Emperor's designation of him as "the strongest" must have stemmed from his extraordinary strength.
After their identities were revealed, the conversation naturally opened. The three giants sat by the hearth, chatting for a day and a night. Most of the time, Blazkowicz and the Emperor introduced the Imperium, the Imperial Truth, and the Astartes Legion to Vulkan.
Upon learning that there was a Legion in the stars, composed of his genetic progeny, Vulkan expressed surprise, followed by deep sorrow. The kind giant worried whether the conquests and wars of his genetic progeny had caused massive population loss.
"I will entrust them to you, so that you, as their Gene-Father, may lead them in conquest." The Emperor immediately declared that he would give the Eighteenth Legion to his son.
"No," Vulkan shook his head, refusing. "I have never been a general or a commander. I am merely the son of a blacksmith."
He raised his large, dark hand and pointed towards the plaza directly outside the window, where the silhouette of a Wych could be faintly seen between the gaps in the crowd. "Facing invaders, I choose to protect, rather than conquer them with violence like a general or a warrior," Vulkan said. "I am a blacksmith; my specialty is forging and smithing. I use violence only for protection."
Vulkan shook his head, reiterating his identity in a firm tone, unwilling to join the Imperium's expedition. Blazkowicz remained silent, knowing he was not a persuader and respecting his brother's choice. The consequences of forcing a Primarch with no desire for war onto a battlefield he detested were unimaginable.
"Vulkan," the Emperor called his son again, his tone more solemn. "When judgment comes, no one can remain aloof; everyone must play their part in the final outcome. I am your father, and I created you and your brothers to conquer the galaxy, assigning you different roles. You are different from your brothers; they may excel in warfare, be skilled in strategy, and conquer world after world, but they need your guidance."
The Emperor's eyes burned, his words piercing Vulkan's soul. "You possess a unique quality—humanity. When your brothers bring destruction and trauma, your humanity, and the actions of the Eighteenth Legion, will be their enlightenment."
After hearing the Emperor's words, Vulkan fell silent, staring at the flickering furnace fire for a long time. Inside the quiet psychic barrier, there was only dead silence and the crackling of the fire, awaiting Vulkan's answer. This was a choice that required deep consideration, an important decision concerning his future destiny.
"Sir, our reconnaissance vessel has encountered a human civilization in the Ultima Orientis Segmentum." As Blazkowicz was adding firewood to the furnace, Sophia's image popped out of his left arm armor, reporting the obstruction encountered by the reconnaissance vessel.
The rational female voice attracted the attention of the three, who looked at the floating lady. Blazkowicz stood up, offering his brother a regretful smile. "I must leave now; we can only talk later." He had to know the severity of the situation; Sophia would not contact him proactively unless it was urgent.
The Emperor also stood, his face extremely serious, and he quietly asked Blazkowicz, "Could it be the Rangdan?"
He knew that Blazkowicz had been traversing the void in recent years, searching for traces of the Rangdan, trying to find their alien homeworld. Conflicts with Argent Nur fleets were strictly forbidden by the Imperium, and the Rangdan's characteristic was enslavement and manipulation; controlling mortals was simple for them.
"Probably not," Blazkowicz shook his head in denial. The possibility of finding the Rangdan was small; the distant reconnaissance vessel most likely encountered a powerful lost civilization.
He had to leave; even if the other party was a human civilization, prolonged separation could lead to conflict. Currently, the focus of the Nur Stars was the Rangdan, and conflicts with human civilizations should be avoided as much as possible.
Vulkan also stood, his gaze lingering between his brother and his father. He understood some of their conversation, but not all of it. He could not comprehend what was happening in the distant stars, which seemed to involve a grand war. And what were the Rangdan?
It seemed to be a great enemy of the Imperium of Man, which was why the Emperor was so concerned. After careful thought, the black giant could no longer remain calm; his father's words and his brother's urgency pressed him to make a decision.
"Take me with you." Finally, Vulkan accepted the destiny given by the Emperor and chose to step into the stars. Even though he knew this journey's return date was unknown, he resolutely embarked on the expedition.
Blazkowicz and the Emperor saw the determination in his eyes; once decided, he would not go back on his word. Vulkan was kind but not hesitant; indecisiveness did not belong to him. The two nodded silently, quietly leaving the room, giving Vulkan and his foster father space.
The Emperor gently raised his arm, and amidst the worship of the Nocturne people, he held the cage imprisoning the Dark Eldar Wych in his hand. "What do you intend to do with her?" Blazkowicz's gaze swept over; the Wych dared not look directly at the Emperor, trembling in her cage like a fish about to die of thirst.
The Emperor shook his head, lifting the alien lady in the cage and explaining, "I have no interest in her; I want to give her as a gift to Malcador; he needs someone to confide in."
Blazkowicz's eyes showed pity as he glanced at the poor Eldar; her future was bleak, filled only with madness and idiocy. Malcador's dark secrets had already driven many "friends" insane.
After a while, Vulkan walked out of his home, carrying his warhammer and the travel bag prepared by his foster father, and nodded to the two waiting. The Emperor raised his hand to the sky, and a golden light shot from his fingertip, piercing through the thick volcanic ash, allowing the sunlight to reappear on the earth.
The mortals knelt again in worship, praising the miraculous means and shouting the greatness of the Emperor. Seeing this scene, Blazkowicz understood where faith came from. The Emperor manifested in the galaxy, coupled with his psychic disguise that appeared differently to each person; it was hard for people not to regard him as a god.
"I think it's best if you restrain yourself a bit," he advised the Emperor, or perhaps it was a warning.
"I am not a god," the Emperor re-emphasized his identity as a mortal.
Vulkan listened to their conversation, offering no comment, but secretly noting it down to understand later. The shuttle descended like a golden eagle from the light hole in the sky, carrying golden sunlight, like a divine eagle descending from the heavens. The mortals remembered this sacred moment: the Emperor descended upon Nocturne, taking away his extraordinary son.
Back in space, Blazkowicz hastily bid farewell to Vulkan. "Brother, forgive my hurried departure; there is important intelligence in the distant stars that requires my decision."
"Brother, we will have plenty of time in the future; there's no rush now." Vulkan embraced Blazkowicz, understanding his brother's urgency with warm goodwill. He, in turn, urged his brother to leave quickly. "Please go quickly; the future of billions of lives may depend on your decision."
"When my fleet refits, we may meet again." Blazkowicz clapped his brother's shoulder, exchanged glances with the Emperor, and then turned and hurried away, boarding a shuttle to leave the Emperor's Dream and head for the Royal Majesty, setting sail immediately without delay, bound for the distant reaches of the Ultima Orientis Sector. The spaceship entered Warp travel, heading to rendezvous with the Argent Nur fleet.
In the depths of the Warp, a divine will lingered outside the Crystal Labyrinth, because destiny had deviated.
"Blazkowicz has found the Thirteenth Primarch and is rushing to contact him. Don't you intend to give an explanation?"
The Blood God's roar shattered the Warp storm, its will surrounding the Crystal Labyrinth, demanding an explanation from the Lord of Change. According to the original plan, the next Primarch to be found by the Emperor should have been the Seventh, followed by the Thirteenth.
"How... deliciously unexpected," came a silken whisper that caressed the edges of reality. Slaanesh's essence coiled through the Warp currents like perfumed smoke, "Such exquisite deviation from the ordained path. I can taste the confusion already—it is... intoxicating."
A fetid wind carrying the stench of decay stirred around the Crystal Labyrinth. "Mmm, yes... change brings rot, and rot brings renewal," wheezed the Nurgle. "The mortals scurry about their little plans, never knowing how beautifully they will fester and transform."
"Hee hee hee~"
From the depths of the Crystal Labyrinth came a chilling, eerie laugh, full of pleasure and joy.
"Destiny is not immutable, it flows like a river shaped by countless tributaries of choice and chance. Each twist in its course reveals new beauty, while the deeper currents of fate carry us inexorably toward our destined end."
The Tzeentch shrieked with excitement; Blazkowicz's existance had influenced the trajectory of others' destinies, gradually shifting the predetermined fate.
"And about us?" Khorne's rage pressed against the crystalline structure like a battering ram. "This deviation serves your schemes, but what of blood? What of war? How will this bring me the skulls I am owed?"
"Patience" Tzeentch's laughter rippled through dimensions, "Every piece moves according to my design, even when they believe themselves free. Especially then."