The Emperor's boarding procedure was a masterpiece of Imperial pageantry, each movement choreographed with the precision of a military campaign and the grandeur of a coronation ceremony.
The Custodian Guard emerged first from the gilded shuttle's baroque archway, their auramite armor catching the artificial light of the ship's bay like captured starfire. Each guardian was a living monument to human perfection, their crimson cloaks billowing behind them as they took position with parade-ground precision.
The Aquila banners they bore were not mere cloth and thread, but sacred artifacts woven with golden wire and blessed by the Emperor's own touch. They raised these standards high, forming an honor corridor that spoke of ten millennia of unbroken tradition and absolute devotion.
A carpet of the finest Terran silk, dyed the deep crimson of noble sacrifice, unfurled across the deck plates like a river of blood. The very air seemed to thicken with incense and expectation as the Master of Mankind himself prepared to descend.
When the Emperor finally emerged, reality itself seemed to bend around His presence. His golden Power Armor was not merely protective equipment but a work of art that transcended human craftsmanship, each plate inscribed with microscopic prayers in a dozen dead languages, each joint blessed by the Mechanicum's greatest artificers.
The armor sang with barely contained power, humming with energies that made the very atoms of the ship vibrate in harmony. His red cloak, cut from fabric that had witnessed the birth of civilizations, flowed behind Him like liquid fire.
At His waist hung the legendary Golden Sword, its blade forged from materials unknown to lesser minds, its edge sharp enough to cleave not just flesh and bone, but the very fabric of space-time itself. When He moved, it was with the measured grace of someone who had walked among gods and found them wanting.
Behind Him came Vulkan, and if the Emperor was radiance incarnate, then the Eighteenth Primarch was the very embodiment of enduring strength. His midnight-dark skin bore the ritual scarifications of Nocturne, each mark telling a story of triumph over adversity.
Standing nearly twelve feet tall, he was a black iron tower of muscle and sinew, his presence both terrible and oddly comforting. The fire-drake scales that adorned his shoulders and arms were not mere decoration but trophies taken from the greatest predators of his volcanic homeworld, each one harder than the finest ceramite.
His eyes, those crimson orbs that glowed like dying stars, swept the assembled crowd with paternal warmth despite their fearsome appearance. There was something profoundly peaceful about Vulkan's expression, a serenity that spoke of inner strength and unwavering compassion. When he smiled, which he did often and easily, it transformed his fearsome features into something almost gentle.
At the far end of this imperial procession, Blazkowicz waited with patience. He had witnessed such ceremonies countless times across a hundred worlds, had seen the pomp and circumstance of Imperial might displayed for emperors and kings, for space marine chapters and planetary governors. The grandeur no longer impressed him; he had long since moved past the need for such displays.
Yet despite his apparent disinterest, his posture remained rigidly correct. Every line of his superhuman frame spoke of discipline and respect, not for the ceremony itself, but for what it represented. He understood the importance of symbols, the power of pageantry to inspire loyalty and awe in lesser minds. And so he stood at attention, offering the Emperor and His retinue the respect they had earned through their service to humanity.
Beside him, Guilliman was experiencing something entirely different. Where Blazkowicz saw familiar ritual, the Lord of Macragge saw wonder incarnate. His analytical mind, trained from birth to catalog and understand every detail of human interaction, was working frantically to process the sheer majesty before him. Every aspect of the ceremony spoke to deeper meanings, hidden layers of symbolism that would take years to fully unpack.
His pulse quickened involuntarily as the two towering figures approached along the crimson path. The golden figure radiated authority so absolute that it seemed to bend the very laws of physics around Him, while the midnight giant beside Him carried himself with such quiet dignity that even his monstrous appearance became somehow noble.
Guilliman found himself studying Vulkan with the keen eye of a strategist evaluating a potential ally or enemy. The Primarch's features were indeed grotesque by conventional human standards, his skin bore the texture of volcanic rock, his teeth were like ivory daggers, and his hands ended in claws capable of rending ceramite.
Yet there was something in his expression that spoke of deep wells of compassion and wisdom. The way he moved, careful not to disturb the ceremony or intimidate the mortal crew members who watched from the shadows, revealed a gentle soul housed within a terrifying frame.
He seems like an honest person, Guilliman thought, and the assessment came with the weight of absolute certainty. In his years as a ruler, he had learned to read character in a heartbeat, to see through deception and false courtesy to the truth beneath. This black giant, for all his fearsome appearance, radiated integrity like heat from a forge.
When his gaze shifted to the Emperor Himself, Guilliman felt the world tilt on its axis. The Master of Mankind's true face was hidden beneath layers of psychic energy so dense they warped perception itself. Those who looked upon Him saw not His actual features, but rather what their souls most desperately needed to see, the perfect father, the ideal leader, the embodiment of humanity's greatest aspirations.
What Guilliman witnessed in that golden radiance was a face of perfect serenity and absolute wisdom. The features were ageless, neither young nor old but timeless in their perfection. The eyes held depths that spoke of eons of experience, of sorrows beyond counting and joys that transcended mortal understanding. There was authority there, yes, but also profound compassion, the face of someone who had carried the weight of an entire species for millennia and had never once considered laying down that burden.
In a moment of hallucinatory clarity, Guilliman's vision overlaid the Emperor's features with those of his adoptive father, Konor Guilliman. The two faces, one divine, one mortal, merged and separated in a dance of recognition and longing. Both had been fathers to him in their own way, both had shaped him into the man he had become. The synchronicity was overwhelming.
Something deep within Guilliman's enhanced physiology responded to the sight, some genetic imperative coded into his very DNA that recognized its source. His knees buckled not from weakness but from the sheer rightness of the moment. This was his creator, his gene-sire, the architect of his very existence. Every fiber of his being sang in recognition.
Without conscious thought, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed in profound respect. The gesture was not one of submission but of acknowledgment, son recognizing father, creation honoring creator. The moment stretched between them like a bridge across the void.
From the instant their eyes met, the Emperor knew the truth with absolute certainty. The golden-haired giant before Him was unmistakably one of His lost sons, the genetic markers were written in every line of his face, every gesture of his superhuman frame. The XIII Primarch, lost to the Warp storms decades ago and presumed dead, stood before Him alive and glorious.
The Emperor's pace quickened, His usual measured stride replaced by something approaching eagerness. The Custodian Guard shifted to accommodate His sudden acceleration, their formations flowing like liquid gold around their master. On the crimson carpet, separated by mere yards but feeling like light-years, father and son moved toward their destined reunion.
"Please rise, My lost son, " The Emperor's voice was like distant thunder, like the crash of waves on ancient shores, like the whisper of wind through mountain passes. It carried within it the weight of absolute authority and the warmth of paternal love.
"I have anticipated this meeting countless times in My dreams and visions, and today it has finally come to pass."
The Emperor bent forward, His towering frame folding with surprising grace, and extended one golden-gauntleted hand. The gesture was intimate despite the formal setting, a father helping his child to his feet, a creator welcoming his greatest work home.
When Guilliman's fingers closed around that offered hand, the universe seemed to exhale. The touch confirmed what both had known from the moment they saw each other, the genetic bond was undeniable, the connection absolute.
In that instant, Guilliman understood his true nature with crystalline clarity. He was a Primarch, one of twenty demigod sons scattered across the galaxy by the machinations of the Dark Gods. The black giant was his brother, as was the stern warrior who had defeated him in combat hours earlier.
The web of relationships that had seemed impossibly complex suddenly resolved into perfect clarity. He was no longer alone in his superhuman existence, he was part of a family that spanned the stars.
"Come with me." Blazkowicz's voice cut through the emotional moment like a blade through silk. His tone was not harsh, merely matter-of-fact, but it shattered the intimate atmosphere with surgical precision. He turned on his heel and began walking toward the ship's interior, gesturing for the others to follow with casual authority.
Blazkowicz understood better than most the dangers of emotional excess, even positive emotions. There would be time for reunion and bonding later; for now, they needed to move to more secure surroundings where they could speak freely without the eyes of the crew upon them.
The Emperor straightened, helping Guilliman to his feet with gentle pressure. Then, in a gesture that spoke of infinite paternal pride, He took both of His sons by the arms, Guilliman on His right, Vulkan on His left. The three figures, surrounded by their golden guardian retinue, made their way deeper into the ship's labyrinthine passages.
The garden was a masterpiece of terraforming artistry, a pocket of Old Earth transported across the void. Ancient oaks spread their branches over emerald lawns that had never known the touch of natural sunlight, their leaves rustling in carefully recycled atmosphere.
Flower beds bloomed in impossible profusion, roses from Terra, crystal blossoms from Prospero, flame-flowers from Nocturne, all sustained by technology that bordered on the miraculous.
At the garden's heart, a spring bubbled up from hidden reservoirs, its water pure enough to cleanse not just the body but the soul. The sound of its gentle flow provided a counterpoint to the distant hum of the ship's engines, creating an oasis of peace within the iron halls of the Imperial ship.
The Emperor had exchanged His battle-plate for garments more suited to peaceful discourse. His white robes, threaded with gold in patterns that hurt the eye to follow directly, flowed around Him like liquid starlight.
He settled cross-legged upon the grass with the fluid grace of someone who had mastered every form of movement known to humanity. Vulkan had found himself drawn to the garden's living beauty like a moth to flame.
On Nocturne, plants were scarce and precious things, carefully cultivated in underground chambers where they could be protected from volcanic ash and toxic gas. Water was liquid gold, too valuable to waste on anything but the most essential needs. The idea of grass growing simply for the joy of it, of flowers blooming purely for beauty's sake, was almost incomprehensible to someone raised in such harsh conditions.
He moved through the garden with the careful reverence of someone exploring a temple, his massive hands gentle as he touched flower petals and leaves. When a butterfly, a creature that could never have survived in Nocturne's hellish atmosphere, landed on his scarred knuckles, he froze in wonder. For long minutes he simply watched it, afraid to move lest he disturb this small miracle.
Blazkowicz had lingered at the garden's entrance, his mind cataloging exits and approaches even in this place of peace. When the others had moved deeper into the green sanctuary, he whispered urgent instructions to his aide, Sophia.
"In my name, inform the Thirteenth Legion to come and welcome their Gene-father. Bring specifically the personnel who participated in the boarding action against the Argent Nur reconnaissance vessel."
His words were carefully chosen, each one weighted with political necessity. The Fourth Company of the Thirteenth Legion had answered their allies' call for aid with characteristic valor, their Space Marines boarding what they believed to be a hostile vessel with typical Astartes courage. The irony was bitter, in trying to help their new-found brother, they had unknowingly committed what could be considered the gravest sin possible for a Space Marine: raising arms against their own Primarch.
The political ramifications were staggering. A Primarch's authority over his Legion was absolute, extending to the power of life and death over every warrior who bore his gene-seed. Space Marines who attacked their genetic father, even unknowingly, would face not just execution but eternal shame. Their names would be stricken from the Legion's records, their deeds forgotten, their very existence denied.
But Blazkowicz had not survived countless battlefields by ignoring his responsibilities to those who served beside him. The Thirteenth Legion warriors had acted in good faith, responding to a call for aid with courage and determination. They deserved protection, not condemnation, and he would provide it through careful political maneuvering.
After delivering his instructions, he joined Vulkan in exploring the garden's wonders. The two Primarchs moved together in comfortable silence, one pointing out particularly exotic specimens while the other marveled at the diversity of life that thrived in this artificial paradise.
Meanwhile, the Emperor and Guilliman sat facing each other on the soft grass, their conversation ranging across topics that spanned millennia and light-years. The Master of Mankind spoke of the galaxy's vastness, of the countless human worlds that had been cut off from each other by Warp storms and alien predation.
His voice painted pictures of wonder and horror, gleaming hive cities that scraped the clouds, feral worlds where humanity had regressed to stone-age savagery, worlds enslaved by xenos and much more.
He described the Great Crusade in sweeping terms that made Guilliman's strategic mind race with possibilities. Two hundred Expeditionary Fleets spread across the galaxy, each one a combined-arms force capable of bringing entire star systems into compliance. The Legiones Astartes leading humanity's expansion, their superhuman warriors serving as the tip of the spear that would reunite mankind under one banner.
"Your Legion," the Emperor said, His voice carrying particular warmth, "the Thirteenth, has distinguished itself in countless campaigns. They call them the War-Born, for they have known nothing but battle since their creation. Their gene-seed is stable, their tactics sound, their loyalty absolute. They have been waiting for you, My son, as a sword awaits its wielder."
Guilliman listened with the focused attention of a born ruler, his analytical mind filing away every detail for future consideration. The scope of what the Emperor described was breathtaking, an empire that would dwarf even the greatest achievements of Macragge's golden age. Yet beneath his excitement, he felt the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.
When the Emperor spoke of the Imperial Truth, the philosophical foundation that would underpin this new human empire, Guilliman found himself nodding in agreement. The principles were sound: reason over superstition, science over sorcery, human unity over tribal division. He had seen firsthand the damage that religious extremism could cause, had studied the historical records of worlds torn apart by sectarian violence and mystical madness.
"These are necessary principles," he acknowledged, his diplomat's training keeping his voice measured despite his inner enthusiasm. "The alternative is chaos, division, and ultimately extinction."
The Emperor's eyes glowed with approval at His son's understanding. Too many humans clung to their primitive beliefs even in the face of overwhelming evidence, but Guilliman possessed the intellectual clarity to see past such weaknesses.
After hours of discussion, as the artificial sun that illuminated the garden began to dim in simulation of natural circadian rhythms, Guilliman finally spoke the words that would change the course of history.
"I am willing to lead Ultramar to join the Imperium of Man."
The Emperor leaned forward slightly, sensing that more words were to come.
"But, " Guilliman's eyes flashed with the steel that had made him master of five hundred worlds, "I request that You descend upon Macragge personally. We need more detailed negotiations regarding the terms of integration."
The words hung in the air between them, charged with political significance. Guilliman was not merely offering submission, he was proposing alliance between equals, or at least between superior and subordinate who retained certain rights and privileges.
A lesser ruler might have taken offense at such presumption, but the Emperor had not conquered most of the galaxy by dismissing pragmatic concerns. His son was not just another warlord to be crushed or coopted; he was the legitimate ruler of a thriving interstellar civilization. Ultramar deserved respect, and its integration into the Imperium would require careful negotiation rather than simple conquest.
"Very well," the Emperor said after a moment of consideration. "We shall travel to Macragge and discuss the terms of Ultramar's integration. You have built something remarkable, My son, and it would be folly to destroy such achievement through haste."
Guilliman inclined his head in gratitude, inwardly relieved that his boldness had not given offense. The Emperor's willingness to negotiate showed wisdom and flexibility, qualities that would be essential for ruling an empire that spanned the galaxy.
"Set course for Macragge," the Emperor commanded, His voice carrying effortlessly to the ship's central cognition systems. The artificial intelligence that governed the vessel's functions responded instantly, its mechanical mind calculating the optimal route to the Ultramar system.
A holographic star chart materialized before them, its three-dimensional display showing the local sector in perfect detail. Guilliman studied the map with professional interest, noting shipping routes and defensive positions with the eye of someone who had spent decades managing interstellar logistics.
With practiced ease, he manipulated the display to highlight Macragge's location, indicating the safest approach vectors and the locations of Ultramar's outer defense stations. The process was almost meditative, this was his realm, his responsibility, and soon it would become part of something infinitely greater.
"Set course for Macragge," the Emperor repeated, His command rippling through the fleet's communication network. Around them, reality began to shift and waver as the Royal Majesty's Gellar Field generators spun up to full power. The transition to Warp travel was always disconcerting, the moment when the solid certainty of realspace gave way to the maddening geometries of the Empyrean.
As they plunged into the Warp, dragging the rest of the Imperial fleet in their wake, Guilliman experienced his first taste of humanity's most essential and most dangerous technology. The Immaterium pressed against the ship's protective fields like a living thing, its impossible colors and non-Euclidean angles making his enhanced senses struggle to process what they were experiencing.
For just a moment, he thought he heard something calling to him from the depths, a voice that promised knowledge and power beyond imagination. The sensation was gone so quickly he might have imagined it, but it left him with a lingering sense of unease that he filed away for future consideration.
"It's so peaceful here," he murmured, gazing out at the swirling energies that surrounded their vessel. His studies of ancient history had taught him that Warp travel had once been far more dangerous, that the storms which had isolated human civilization for millennia were only recently beginning to abate.
The Emperor followed his son's gaze, His ancient eyes seeing far more than the simple beauty that Guilliman perceived. Where the Primarch saw peaceful currents and gentle eddies, the Master of Mankind witnessed the constant struggle between order and chaos, the eternal dance of predator and prey that defined existence in the Immaterium.
"Peaceful?" He asked, setting down His wine cup with careful precision. "It is never peaceful here, My son. What you perceive as calm is merely the absence of immediate threat."
He gestured toward where Blazkowicz and Vulkan were engaged in animated conversation near the garden's far end, their voices carrying the easy camaraderie of brothers who had fought side by side.
"It is peaceful only when he is here," the Emperor continued, His voice carrying undertones that Guilliman was not yet equipped to understand. "In the Warp, will is absolute, and some wills are more absolute than others."
Guilliman studied his brother with new interest, his politician's instincts telling him that he had drastically underestimated the scope of Blazkowicz's abilities. The warrior who had defeated him in single combat was apparently far more than just a supremely skilled fighter. The Emperor's words suggested depths of power that were not immediately apparent, capabilities that went far beyond physical prowess.
His analytical gaze was interrupted when Blazkowicz suddenly turned and looked directly at him, those cold eyes seeming to pierce through flesh and bone to examine his very soul. The moment stretched between them, predator acknowledging predator, before the other Primarch's attention shifted away.
"Let's go," Blazkowicz said to Vulkan, his voice carrying easily across the garden's expanse. "They should be finished with their diplomatic discussions."
Vulkan nodded and carefully released the butterfly he had been studying, watching with quiet satisfaction as it fluttered away to find new perches among the flowers. As the two Primarchs approached, the garden's tranquility was suddenly disrupted by the sound of marching feet and clanking ceramite.
A thousand Space Marines in blue power armor appeared at the garden's entrance, their formation perfect despite the evident tension that radiated from their ranks. At their head marched Captain Gaius of the Fourth Company, his face a mask of barely controlled anguish. Behind him came the boarding party that had fought so valiantly against their unknown enemy, an enemy who had turned out to be their own genetic father.
The irony was crushing in its completeness. Every instinct bred into their enhanced bodies had screamed warnings about the strange warrior they had encountered, but they had interpreted those warnings as evidence of alien contamination rather than recognition of their own bloodline. The familiar sensation they had felt when facing him had been the genetic imperative that bound all Space Marines to their Primarchs, and they had fought against it with valor that now felt like betrayal.
Captain Gaius's weathered features showed the strain of command decisions made in impossible circumstances. His warriors had acted correctly according to all tactical doctrine and strategic thinking, but the outcome had been catastrophically wrong. They had raised weapons against their Gene-father, committed what amounted to the ultimate heresy for a Space Marine.
As they entered the garden proper, their enhanced senses immediately identified the blue-robed giant as the source of the familiar sensation that had haunted their dreams since the boarding action. The genetic connection was undeniable now, blazing like a beacon in their modified nervous systems. This was their Primarch, their creator, their father in all but blood.
"We greet the Emperor and the great Primarch, our Gene-father!" they chanted in unison, their voices carrying perfect military precision even as their hearts broke with shame. As one, they dropped to one knee, their power armor servos whining under the stress of supporting their massive frames.
The Emperor observed this display with growing puzzlement. This should have been a moment of celebration, of joy at the reunion of gene-father and gene-sons. Instead, the Space Marines radiated guilt and anguish so profound that it was almost tangible. Their faces, visible through their helmet optics, showed expressions of men expecting execution.
Curiosity overcoming discretion, the Emperor extended His psychic awareness and gently touched the surface thoughts of the assembled warriors. What He found there made His ancient features shift into an expression of profound surprise, followed quickly by something that might have been amusement.
These Space Marines had not only fought their Primarch, but they had also fought against their own genetic programming to do so.
Their dedication to duty and their brothers had overridden the instinctive obedience that He had coded into their DNA, which made them the perfect soldiers.
They had felt the pull of genetic recognition and thought it was the enemy's doing, so they fought against their own nature to do what they thought was right.
His genetic engineering was both the biggest failure and the biggest success at the same time.
Even when it went against their most basic programming, they had shown that they could think for themselves and make moral decisions.
Even among his enhanced warriors, such strength of will was very rare. Guilliman stood up from where he was next to the Emperor and brushed off invisible dust from his robes as he got ready to speak to his gene-sons for the first time.
This was the most important moment in the relationship between Primarch and Legion, and he couldn't afford to mess it up. He had already figured out what the situation meant politically by carefully watching people's faces and body language.
Blazkowicz's earlier plan was now clear: by making sure that the meeting happened in front of the Emperor, he had put moral pressure on Guilliman to be wise and merciful. The test was subtle but clear: would the newly discovered Primarch be worthy of his Legion's loyalty?
Guilliman moved with purpose and grace, putting himself in front of the kneeling warriors. His larger frame cast long shadows over their formation. He could feel their pain, their desperate desire for forgiveness, and their willingness to accept whatever punishment he thought was fair. "Please raise your heads," he said, his voice full of authority and conviction.
"My proud sons." The simple words changed the whole situation. Instead of "my guilty sons" or "my ashamed sons," say "my proud sons." Guilliman made it clear with just one word that he wasn't angry with them, felt betrayed, or let down. The Space Marines all looked up at once, their enhanced vision focussing on their Primarch's face with a desperate intensity.
What they saw there wasn't anger or judgement, but fatherly pride and real love. Guilliman went to Captain Gaius and offered him his hand. He helped the older officer get up by putting gentle pressure on his hand. Then he spoke to the whole formation, and his voice could be heard all over the garden.
"Get up, everyone. Right now, you don't need to feel guilty or ashamed. I'm so proud of how brave and dedicated you were in everything you did.
"You showed that your hearts were willing to bear any burden for the sake of your allies. You didn't hesitate or wait when someone asked for help; you acted right away.
You weren't afraid of the unknown and were ready to fight any enemy, no matter how strong they seemed. You showed perfect loyalty by following your orders without question, even when things got tough and other warriors would have given up. Guilliman walked through the formation as he spoke, making eye contact with each Marine so that they knew his words were meant for them.
When he reached the boarding party members, he paused to place his hands on their shoulders, a gesture of acceptance that sent visible relief through their ranks. "There is no shame in what transpired," he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word.
"You are my pride, and I am proud of you. Even I, in our hasty encounter, raised arms against you. I may have hesitated where you showed resolve, but an attack is an attack, it cannot be denied or dismissed."
Captain Gaius stepped forward, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "Gene-father, surely there is a difference between, "
"No," Guilliman said firmly, raising his hand to forestall the objection.
"There is no difference, my son. I declare you innocent of any wrongdoing, just as I declare myself innocent. This was a beautiful misunderstanding that has allowed us to understand each other more deeply. Is that not a gift worth celebrating?"
The words rang through the garden like a bell, dispelling the atmosphere of guilt and shame that had hung over the Space Marines like a shroud. For the first time since entering the garden, genuine smiles began to appear on their battle-scarred faces. Blazkowicz watched from his position near the Emperor, his own expression revealing a flicker of approval.
The test had been passed, Guilliman had shown both wisdom and mercy, demonstrating that he understood the difference between justice and vengeance. The Thirteenth Legion had found themselves a worthy father. The Emperor nodded slowly, His ancient eyes reflecting satisfaction at His son's handling of a delicate situation.
Leadership was not just about commanding others, it was about understanding when to show strength and when to show compassion. Guilliman had proven himself capable of both. As the sun began to set over this artificial garden, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, a new chapter in the Great Crusade began.
The Thirteenth Legion had found their Primarch, Ultramar would soon join the growing Imperium, and the galaxy had taken another step toward unity under human rule. But in the depths of the Warp, ancient powers stirred and took notice. The reunion of gene-father and genesons had not gone unobserved, and there were those who viewed humanity's growing strength with malevolent interest.