"I should have thrown you to the dogs!" Guilliman's voice was a low growl, his statesmanlike composure shattering as raw fury surged through him. He glared at the cowering form of Marcus.
He had never given the order. How much of Marcus's story was a lie? The terrifying conclusion solidified in his mind: Marcus was trying to drag Macragge down with him, to make everyone pay for his folly.
At the sight of Guilliman, Marcus froze, his face a mask of terror. He dared not meet the gaze of Macragge's Ruler, his legs scrambling uselessly on the floor as he tried to shuffle backward.
"Ah!!!!"
A shrill scream tore from his throat. In his terror, he had forgotten the laser cage. The high-energy beam seared into his back, and the sound of sizzling fat filled the air as oil dripped onto the deck. In that searing moment of pain, Marcus understood his clumsy lies had been seen through from the start. Everyone, from the figures in the light to those in the shadows, had been patiently watching his performance.
"Lord Guilliman!" With an agility that defied his bloated frame, Marcus rolled and scrambled to his knees. The desire for self-preservation was so strong it squeezed tears from his eyes. "Everything I did," he wept, "was for Ultramar's future! To reach the distant stars! Without a Warp engine, we would be confined here for generations!"
Guilliman turned away in disgust. It was a classic trick: conflating personal greed with noble justice.
"If you truly acted for Macragge," he said, his voice cold iron, "why did you deny it all moments ago?" He shattered the man's pretense with a single question. "You are nothing but a selfish coward, cloaking your despicable actions in a flag of patriotism. Even now, you refuse to accept defeat, willing to see all of Macragge burn for your mistakes. From beginning to end, you have not reflected." Guilliman turned back, his gaze falling on the medals adorning Marcus's uniform. "You have betrayed the honor of your house."
Marcus's face went pale, then twisted into a venomous sneer. "So you are the glorious King of Macragge, and I am just a rat in the sewer?" He shed the last of his disguise, his eyes sinister and fierce. "Are your methods of stripping us of our interests for the sake of the commoners any more honorable than mine? The only difference between us is that you succeeded, and I failed!"
Guilliman said nothing, simply listening to the bitter tirade of a petty man broken by his own ambition.
Behind the partition, Blazkowicz absorbed the details of their argument, a thoughtful expression solidifying on his face. His lost brother, it seemed, was a wise ruler—hated by the nobility for bestowing greater welfare upon the commoners. Yet, he was not ruthless enough. He had allowed the poison of the old guard to fester, leading to this disaster. But it was too soon for any final judgment; a chasm always existed between conjecture and the hard realities of governing. Blazkowicz was certain his brother had considered the threat but was strayed from a purge by practical constraints.
The two Primarchs remained lost in thought, allowing Marcus's delusional rant to continue.
"If I had succeeded, my achievements would have surpassed my ancestors—even you!" Marcus was lost in his own fantasy, his expression one of intoxicated bliss. "Imagine it! The glory of Macragge, carried by a Warp engine to every corner of the galaxy! What a sight that would be!"
"Enough!" Guilliman's sharp growl shattered the illusion, startling Marcus from his reverie. "No matter how brilliant the future you imagined, your path did not lead there. Your madness failed, your cowardice was exposed, and your actions will be nailed to the pillar of shame for all time. You still have one last contribution to make to Macragge: your story will be a warning to all future generations, a lesson in ambition and failure."
"I appeal to the Warrior King," Guilliman declared, rising to his feet. He straightened his torn uniform, a futile attempt to restore his dignity. Facing the partition, he bowed his head. "The truth is revealed. The fault lies with this man alone. I ask your permission to take him and put him on public trial before the people of Macragge." He hesitated, his next words a calculated risk.
"Macragge will compensate you for your losses. We will pay the price for his vile actions. He is, after all, a man of Macragge, and it was I who granted him the power he so foolishly abused."
The chamber fell silent. No response came from behind the partition.
A faint smile touched Blazkowicz's lips as he watched Guilliman. His brother was an exceptional politician and strategist, with an adventurer's spirit. But that same political nature could easily isolate him. He subconsciously adopted the persona, weighing every word even in casual settings. How could others open their hearts to a man who never truly revealed his own?
Guilliman's plea was masterfully righteous, carefully separating the responsibilities. The fault was Marcus's, but Macragge would accept a portion of the blame. His offer to have his entire world pay for one man's actions was a daring political gamble, one suited to an honorable opponent. He was betting the safety of Macragge on the belief that the Warrior King was no tyrant.
Blazkowicz offered no immediate response. The final judgment on Guilliman and Macragge was not his to make, but the Emperor's, who was already en route. He had to be certain this was a Primarch brother. Once that was confirmed, accounts could be settled.
Conflicts between brothers were handled very differently than those with strangers. He sat behind the screen, a strange smile on his face, his thoughts drifting. He could already foresee a future where, if all his brothers returned, Guilliman's guarded personality might lead to his ostracization.
Slowly, the partition lowered. Guilliman's heart leaped into his throat. Then, applause echoed in the chamber.
Clap. Clap. Clap. The giant, flanked by his black-armored warriors, was applauding from his seat, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. He applauded, but made no declaration.
"You are a politician," Blazkowicz said softly, his tone a sincere caution. "But when you face me, or others like me, it is better to be genuine."
Guilliman's golden brow furrowed. He felt no embarrassment at being seen through; instead, he seriously weighed the warning. The tension in his chest finally eased; for now, he was safe.
"Genuine emotion may be crude," Blazkowicz continued, "but it earns sincere friendship." He rose slowly, his gaze bypassing Marcus as if he were furniture. Shaking out his cloak, he departed the prison deck.
The warning was genuine; Guilliman knew it. He sat back down, turning the words over and over in his mind. Such advice was not given without reason; there had to be a deeper meaning.
Blazkowicz knew that even if this man wasn't his brother, his talent would ensure he would one day interact with the other Primarchs; being sincere would earn him more goodwill than any political maneuvering.
For the Sons of the Emperor, power and status were givens. What they truly needed were friends with whom they could speak freely, without pretense.
Shortly after Blazkowicz left, a team of attendants entered the prison deck, carrying fresh clothing and cleaning supplies. As the laser barrier deactivated, Guilliman's first instinct was to escape, but he crushed the impulse. If they were willing to lower the cage, they were not afraid of him running.
"My Lord, you will be permitted to leave shortly," one of the attendants, a palace maid, said with a soft smile, having noticed his fleeting intention.
"I understand." Guilliman nodded and stood, spreading his arms to allow them to clean the grime from his body and dress him in the new clothes. When they were finished, they departed, leaving a single guide behind.
"My Lord, please follow me." The court guide bowed gracefully. "You are permitted access to the garden and reception decks. I must ask that you do not wander, lest you be mistaken as a threat by the patrol warriors."
Guilliman nodded in acknowledgment. He cast one final glance at Marcus, who lay on the floor like a slaughtered pig, before turning his back on the man and following the guide from the cell.
Meanwhile, a faint unease settled over Blazkowicz. He worried what the Emperor and Vulkan would think when they learned he had beaten a brother and thrown him in prison.
Vulkan, especially—his dark-skinned brother was honest and righteous to a fault. In his eyes, abusing a sibling might be a grave sin requiring solemn repentance. To prevent future trouble, Blazkowicz decided on preemptive action, moving to nip the crisis in the bud. He left for the medical bay, his steps quick and slightly disheveled.
Inside the sterile chamber, a Sentinel warrior lay in a stasis medical pod, his body ravaged by melta-bombs. Time was suspended around him as mechanical arms, moving through the frozen moment, peeled away necrotic tissue. Billions of nano-pincers stripped away dead cells, layer by layer, while simultaneously reconstructing his shattered limbs.
The warrior's condition was beyond grim. His lower body was gone, and he was missing most of his vital organs—he clung to life with half a heart and a third of a lung. The skin of his face was a burned ruin, and with the charred flesh removed, the underlying muscle and ligaments were gruesomely exposed.
His unprotected eyes were lightless voids. Such injuries would have killed a Space Marine instantly, yet the pod's life-sign monitors confirmed the impossible: the warrior was alive, his stubborn soul simply refusing to die.
That he had survived for ten days on the battlefield before being recovered was a miracle. The most advanced limb regeneration technology could rebuild his body, but it could not salvage the life within. Only his will sustained him.
Blazkowicz stood by, his face an expressionless mask as he watched the machine work. After a few moments, the Legion's Apothecary entered, carrying a cryogenic cooler.
"Apothecary Hippocrates, reporting." The black-armored warrior was unique. A thermos-like box was attached to his waist, and a dimensional blade, used for cutting through armor and flesh, was mounted below his left arm.
The Legion Apothecaries bore the sacred duty of recovering the Gene-seed from fallen brothers on the battlefield, a task vital to the Legion's survival. They were the harvesters of their future.
Hippocrates walked to Blazkowicz's side and retrieved a single Gene-seed from the cryogenic box, placing it in the Primarch's hand. Blazkowicz had brought a small supply with him as a precaution, and now his foresight was rewarded.
The organ was crimson, like a solidified drop of blood. He still marveled at the Emperor's science; a single Gene-seed, implanted surgically, could transform a mortal into a demigod of war. The process for his Slayer Legion was different—simpler, yet far more demanding. They required only the Gene-seed, but the compatibility rate was punishingly low, and only those with the firmest will could survive the torment.
Clutching the Gene-seed, Blazkowicz saw a bridge. The Doom Slayers were his Gene-sons, while the Sentinels were loyal warriors of his homeworld, Argent Nur. The bond between them was him, and him alone. If he were to disappear one day, the Night Watch would return to their king, but his Doom Slayers would become homeless wanderers.
He had encouraged cultural exchange and forged camaraderie in shared battle, but he knew his efforts at integration were indecisive compared to the thunderous methods of brothers like Russ and Ferrus.
Now, an opportunity lay before him. This grievously wounded warrior, whose will resisted death itself, was the perfect cornerstone to build a true blood connection. His face stern, Blazkowicz stepped forward and personally placed the Gene-seed into the medical pod, setting it within the warrior's reconstructed chest cavity.
"Sir," Hippocrates interjected, "we need to use the restraints."
Blazkowicz turned to see his Apothecary and the other Doom Marines nodding in grim agreement. He gestured, and the medical staff quickly moved to bind the warrior's limbs with heavy leather straps.
"I recommend you leave, my Lord," Hippocrates said gently. "There will now be an adaptation period of about one Terran week. It is a struggle he must face alone. There is nothing we can do, and to watch will only bring you sorrow."
Heeding his son's advice, Blazkowicz reluctantly turned and left the medical bay. "You stay," he commanded Hippocrates. "Care for him."
"It is my duty," the Apothecary promised, removing his helmet to reveal a refined, solemn face.
A week passed. Then, like a bright star igniting in the void, Blazkowicz felt it in his mind: success. A long, slow breath escaped his lips. The agonizing wait was over. The foundation was laid. Now, wounded Sentinel would have more options than death or the cold life of a Dreadnought. They could choose to be reborn.
He rose from his chair, ending the holographic game on the table, and donned his cloak. He was heading for the medical bay when his senses flared. A powerful Warp fluctuation pulsed through the system; a ship had just arrived.
"Terrible timing," he muttered, turning instead toward the elevator that would take him to the reception deck.
On that same deck, Guilliman felt it too. He rose and walked to the viewport. Out in the brilliant, star-dusted void, a new light glowed—the residual energy of a Warp translation. From it emerged a colossal golden ship, its hull so vast and ornate it seemed to capture and amplify the starlight. In that instant, Guilliman knew his destiny was about to change forever.
(T∆N : I'm bedridden so please receive this phone edited chapter)
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