The resting garden fell into an abyss of silence, as though the very air had been drained of life. That fleeting moment of sorrow struck Lady Euten's heart like a blade of ice, the weight of unspoken grief settling heavy between them. She remained paralyzed, her elegant composure cracking as she realized she had torn open wounds that had never truly healed within the Primarch's immortal soul.
The Lady's lips parted, desperate to voice an apology, yet the words withered and died before they could take form. Guilt crashed over her in suffocating waves, each breath becoming a struggle as shame constricted her throat like a vise.
Blazkowicz observed her distress with the practiced eye of one who had witnessed countless souls buckle under the weight of their own conscience. He shook his head with infinite patience, his massive hand rising in a gesture both gentle and commanding.
"Peace, my lady. This was merely an oversight, nothing more." His voice carried the weight of eons, yet remained surprisingly tender. "Life and death are constants that all beings must face. Regret serves no master but sorrow itself."
The words fell from his lips with the measured calm of one who had long since made peace with loss. Yet beneath that serene exterior, he buried his anguish deeper still, compartmentalizing pain with the ruthless efficiency of a weapon forged for war. His smile, when it came, was like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, warm, reassuring, and utterly genuine.
"My deepest condolences," Lady Euten whispered, her voice barely audible as regret painted shadows across her noble features. In her mind, she constructed a comfortable narrative, surely the Warrior King's mother had passed peacefully in her twilight years, explaining his philosophical acceptance of mortality.
Only the Doom Slayers, bound to their Primarch through psychic resonance, felt the truth that lurked beneath his composure. In the shared consciousness that connected them all, a monstrous hatred flashed like cosmic lightning, raw, primal, and utterly devastating, before vanishing without trace, buried once more beneath layers of iron discipline.
"My lady, duty calls me elsewhere." Blazkowicz descended gracefully, his movements possessed of a predator's fluid precision. He extended his gauntleted hand with courtly elegance, lifting Lady Euten's delicate fingers to his lips. The kiss was brief, ceremonial, a warrior's farewell.
"Sir, have my careless words given offense?" The warmth of his lips lingered on her porcelain skin as understanding dawned in her azure eyes. Fear crept into her expression, delicate features twisting with self-recrimination. "Have I driven you away with my thoughtless questions?"
"You did not." Blazkowicz rose to his full, imposing height, his figure casting a shadow that seemed to stretch beyond mere physics. He gazed down at her with eyes that held the depth of ancient seas, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "You have done nothing but honor me with your presence and wisdom."
His expression grew distant, touched by the weight of countless responsibilities. "I have lingered too long in paradise while war waits in the void. The First Fleet searches for our enemies even now, and they do so without their commander."
From his departure to Nocturne until this moment, nearly half a Terran year had slipped through his fingers like stardust. The Rangdan lurked somewhere in the cosmic dark, and when they were found, their retaliation would come swift and merciless.
Billions of warriors depended on his leadership, their lives a sacred trust he carried in his soul. As their commander, he had failed in his most fundamental duty, to be present when the storm broke.
"I understand completely," Lady Euten replied, her voice carrying the wisdom of one who had navigated the treacherous currents of politics and war for centuries. She recognized the burden that sat upon a ruler's shoulders, the weight of worlds, the responsibility for countless souls.
With practiced grace, she lifted her skirts and performed the traditional curtsy of Macragge's nobility, her voice rising in formal benediction: "May your wishes find their mark, and may your blade drink deep of your enemies' lifeblood."
Blazkowicz inclined his head with solemn reverence, accepting her blessing. His own voice took on the cadence of ritual as he offered his response: "May health and longevity be your companions, and in the trials to come, may you continue to guide my brother with your wisdom."
With ceremony concluded, the Warrior King turned and strode away with purposeful elegance. His ceremonial cloak billowed behind him like wings of midnight, each footfall of his ornate boots ringing against the marble with the finality of fate itself. His destination: the council halls where duty waited.
Lady Euten remained motionless, watching until his majestic form disappeared around a distant corner, swallowed by shadows and stone. Only then did she allow herself to straighten, her keen intuition painting a picture of the burden that weighed upon those broad shoulders.
The departing figure seemed to carry the sorrows of the galaxy upon his back, countless griefs held in check by will alone. Her intuition, honed by decades of political maneuvering, whispered truths she could barely comprehend. The Emperor and Blazkowicz were cut from the same cosmic cloth, both titans condemned to bear loneliness as the price of their greater purpose.
"Perhaps," she murmured to the empty garden, her voice carrying notes of profound pity, "perhaps this is what it means to stand beside gods, to shoulder darkness so others might know light."
---
The council hall buzzed with activity as Blazkowicz announced his departure. Despite the protests of his brothers, Guilliman's earnest pleas and Vulkan's stoic disappointment, the decision was final. Duty brooked no argument.
The journey to Macragge's primary spaceport became a procession of reluctant farewells. Guilliman and Vulkan flanked their brother.
"Wish we had centuries to speak of all that burns within my mind," Guilliman confessed, his patrician features etched with genuine sorrow. His massive hand engulfed Blazkowicz's in a grip that could crush ceramite. "When you find the Rangdan, send word. Maccrage will stand with you against whatever horror emerges from the dark."
Blazkowicz's smile blazed with warmth as he pulled his brother into an embrace. "Your path leads first through Macragge's reformation. Master your Legion, unite your people, and when the Great Crusade calls, answer with thunder."
"By my oath, it shall be done," Guilliman vowed, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. The embrace ended, but the promise lingered.
Vulkan's farewell carried a different weight, the sorrow of one who knew too well the price of separation. "The void is vast, but bonds of brotherhood span even infinity." His scarred hand gripped Blazkowicz's with surprising gentleness for one so massive. "I await the day we stand shoulder to shoulder against the darkness."
"Today's parting births tomorrow's reunion," Blazkowicz replied, drawing Vulkan into an embrace.
The Thunderhawk's engines awakened with a cerulean growl as the Primarch boarded, his honor guard of Sentinels and Legion warriors following in precise formation. The craft lifted with graceful power, its hull gleaming like a star against Macragge's pristine sky.
Guilliman and Vulkan watched until the ship became nothing more than a glimmering point among the stars, then turned toward their own duties with renewed purpose. Separation was temporary, destiny would reunite them when the galaxy burned brightest.
---
Aboard the Royal Majesty, Blazkowicz shed his ceremonial regalia. The ornate armor that spoke of diplomacy and pageantry gave way to his preferred attire, practical, deadly, comfortable. Black cloak, shoulder guards, green half-plate armor that allowed for fluid movement. This was the garb of a warrior, not a courtier.
"Set course for the First Fleet's position," he commanded from his private chambers, his voice carrying across the ship's communication arrays. "Maximum speed."
"Warp translation commencing," came Navigator Fransisca's crystalline voice, precise and cold as the void itself. "Geller Field engaged. Estimated arrival: fourteen Terran days."
The ship shuddered as reality tore open before its prow, the ship sliding into the nightmare realm of the Warp. Blazkowicz settled into meditation, then rose to complete business the Emperor had interrupted, the training of his warriors.
The vessel's training decks thrummed with controlled violence and disciplined chaos. Here gathered the finest warriors in the galaxy, Custodians testing their perfection against each other, Doom Slayers pushing their enhanced forms to new limits, Sentinels maintaining their edge through constant practice, and mortal soldiers striving to match superhuman standards through teamwork and determination.
The mortals, three full Auxiliary Legions, thirty thousand soldiers in total, engaged in holographic warfare against simulated Rangdan forces. The scenarios were brutal, unforgiving, designed to prepare flesh-and-blood humans for enemies that defied sanity itself.
Blazkowicz reviewed their performance with satisfaction. The Nur Auxiliary understood their limitations with clarity that bordered on wisdom. They could not match Space Marines for individual prowess, but they compensated through coordination that approached art. Every second of training was precious, every drill a step closer to survival.
The dueling pits told different stories. Here, superhuman warriors tested themselves against equals, Custodians moving like liquid death, Doom Slayers unleashing their fury, Sentinels demonstrating techniques honed across decades. Even the Iron Men watched with mechanical interest, their optical sensors recording every technique for later analysis.
The sight of their Primarch brought immediate silence and salutation. Blazkowicz waved them back to their practice, his attention drawn to a solitary figure seated at the arena's edge.
Phoenix. The warrior bore his new name like both blessing and burden, his enhanced form radiating power. Once a Sentinels on death's threshold, now reborn through gene-seed as something greater, and more conflicted.
"How does rebirth treat you?" Blazkowicz settled beside his transformed warrior, his massive frame somehow managing to convey approachability despite its intimidating proportions. "Death touched you, yet here you sit. What wisdom has the experience granted?"
Phoenix's expression remained stoic, though conflict burned in his enhanced eyes. "My lord, I am... confused." His fists clenched unconsciously, feeling the surge of power that never ebbed. "What am I now? Still a Sentinels? A Doom Slayer? Your gene-son? I no longer know where I belong."
The question hung between them like a blade. Phoenix had gained incredible power, but at the cost of his identity's certainty.
Blazkowicz studied the sparring warriors before speaking, his voice carrying the weight of deep contemplation. "You are something unique, Phoenix. A bridge between two worlds, living proof of what's possible when necessity meets opportunity."
He gestured toward a group of Sentinels, their weathered faces animated with discussion. "Look at them, full of life, rich with experience. But time remains their enemy. Bodies that once danced with death will slow, hearts that thundered across battlefields will be caged by failing flesh."
His hand settled on Phoenix's shoulder with gentle weight. "Your existence offers hope to every warrior whose spirit burns bright while their body grows dim. You represent the possibility of return, the chance for those who still hunger for battle to answer that call once more."
The concept resonated through Phoenix's confusion like a clarion call. He had thought himself caught between worlds, but perhaps he was the foundation upon which new worlds could be built.
"Now observe the Doom Slayers," Blazkowicz continued, indicating his gene-sons with paternal pride. "Children of distant stars, warriors without a home to call their own. They fight for humanity's future, yet possess no ground to call sacred."
His voice grew warm with hope. "Brave souls deserve more than mere duty, they deserve belonging. You can be the bridge that brings Argent Nur and the Legion together, creating bonds that will endure long after the last shot is fired."
Understanding blazed across Phoenix's features like dawn breaking over mountains. "Argent Nur has never been exclusionary," he said with growing conviction. "We need dialogue, connection, shared purpose beyond mere warfare."
"Excellent." Blazkowicz smiled with paternal satisfaction. "The path forward lies in your hands now. Build those bridges, Phoenix. Create the bonds that will unite us all."
Rising from his position, the Primarch moved to join the general sparring, his presence alone elevating every warrior's performance. Phoenix remained behind, his mind already working on ways to fulfill the vision his father had shared.
---
Time in the Warp held different meaning, flowing like honey through the ship's corridors. When the Royal Majesty finally burst back into real space, it rejoined a fleet that defied comprehension, nearly a thousand vessels arranged in perfect formation at the edge of a dying star.
The First Fleet had grown beyond all recognition since the search for the Rangdan began. One hundred heavy battleships formed the core, their weapons capable of shattering worlds. Two hundred cruisers provided operational flexibility, while fifty carriers housed enough fighters to blot out stars. Destroyers, frigates, and support vessels completed the armada, a force capable of bringing entire sectors to heel.
To crew such a massive force, Blazkowicz had conscripted cadets from every Naval Academy in the Imperium. They learned their trade in the void itself, theory and practice merged into a single, deadly curriculum. Veterans served as mentors, passing down wisdom earned in blood and void-battle.
The fleet's mission remained unchanged, hunt the Rangda, and when found, deliver Imperial justice with prejudice. Three months had passed since Blazkowicz's return, three months of training through combat against lesser xenos breeds.
"My Lord," Sophia's voice cut through his sleep with surgical precision, "priority astropathic communication from Terra."
The Primarch rose instantly, his enhanced physiology banishing sleep like morning mist. Sophia would never disturb his rest without cause, her judgment had proven flawless across countless crises.
"Lord Malcador sends word directly," his aide continued, her expression carrying subtle warnings that only he could read.
Direct communication from the Imperial Regent meant either opportunity or catastrophe, and sometimes both.
"Speak," Blazkowicz commanded as hot water cascaded over his frame, washing away the last vestiges of rest.
"Beyond two weeks' Warp travel lies a human faction," Sophia recited with mechanical precision. "Their integration negotiations near completion. They appear eager to join the Imperium."
"Good news, then?" The Primarch's tone carried skepticism born of hard experience.
"They control over one hundred primary worlds." Sophia's holographic display materialized through the steam, showing star charts and fleet dispositions. "Such wealth and power, yet they accept every Imperial demand without question. They practically beg for rapid integration."
Blazkowicz released a long breath, understanding immediately flooding his enhanced mind. "Prepare an assault fleet. We depart within the hour."
No human civilization controlling a hundred worlds would surrender such power willingly. Something waited in those distant stars, something that had Malcador concerned enough to call upon a Primarch's attention.
The crisis he sensed went deeper than mere territorial expansion. The Imperium's integration demands were deliberately harsh, designed to break the will of conquered peoples before rebuilding them in Imperial image. For any faction to accept such terms eagerly suggested either desperate fear or calculated deception.
Neither possibility boded well for the Imperium.
---
Two weeks of Warp travel brought the assault fleet to coordinates provided by Malcador's intelligence network. Real space welcomed them with deceptive calm, no hostile fleets, no defensive positions, only a modest Interior Department contingent maintaining peaceful watch.
Yet Blazkowicz's enhanced senses screamed warnings. Something lurked beneath the system's tranquil facade, a wrongness that set his teeth on edge and made his gene-sons restless.
The Interior Department responded to Argent Nur's arrival with appropriate ceremony. A delegation launched within minutes, their shuttle bearing the elaborate seals of high-ranking bureaucrats.
"Great Primarch, your presence honors us beyond measure!" The officials prostrated themselves on the ship's landing deck, their reverence both genuine and terrified. "Monsignor, Senior Representative of the Imperial Interior Department, offers his deepest respect!"
The delegation's leader wore robes of office that strained against his corpulent frame. His face gleamed with perspiration despite the controlled atmosphere, nervous energy radiating from every pore. The rank insignia adorning his chest and shoulders indicated significant authority, this negotiation clearly held Terra's attention.
"Rise," Blazkowicz commanded gently, allowing the bureaucrats to regain their dignity before gesturing toward a waiting Thunderhawk. "We have much to discuss."
The craft's interior accommodated the Primarch's massive frame while providing comfortable seating for the mortal officials. As the ship descended toward the world below, Blazkowicz fixed Monsignor with a stare that could melt ceramite.
"Explain the situation completely. Leave nothing unsaid."
"I... that is..." Monsignor's nervous gestures painted his anxiety in broad strokes. His hands twisted together as though seeking anchor in a storm. "The faction calls itself the Shaping Union, my lord."
The name hit Blazkowicz like a physical blow. Shaping. The word carried implications that made his gene-seed boil with barely contained fury. Shaping what? Shaping whom? And for what purpose?
"The Fifth Legion discovered them during routine exploration," Monsignor continued, oblivious to his audience's growing tension. "Initial negotiations proceeded smoothly, remarkably so. The Shaping Union expressed eager willingness to abandon their independence for Imperial protection."
The bureaucrat's face twisted with remembered confusion. "I arrived with full authority to conclude the integration, but what I found defied all expectation. Everything about them is..."
He paused, groping for adequate description before settling on the only word that seemed to fit: "Strange."
"Define 'strange,'" Blazkowicz commanded, his voice carrying enough menace to make Monsignor visibly quail.
"You'll understand when you see them, my lord," the official replied, his entire body trembling with barely controlled fear. "Words fail to capture what they've become. But you'll feel it the moment you set foot on their world."
The Thunderhawk shuddered through atmospheric entry, its hull heating as physics reasserted dominion over Imperial engineering. When the landing ramp finally lowered, a welcoming committee waited in perfect formation.
Blazkowicz stepped onto alien soil and immediately understood Monsignor's inadequate description. The representatives of the Shaping Union were indeed human, but humanity twisted into forms that violated every natural law. Their bodies had been reshaped, remolded, crafted into configurations that spoke of technologies both advanced and utterly wrong.
The Doom Slayer Primarch's eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. He had seen such work before, in the depths of hell itself. This was not mere genetic manipulation or cybernetic enhancement, this was something far more sinister.
The Shaping Union had found ways to reshape the human form itself, to mold flesh like clay in service of purposes that remained hidden. And they wanted to share their gifts with the Imperium.
Blazkowicz's hand moved instinctively to his weapon as a terrible understanding bloomed in his mind. The real question wasn't what the Shaping Union wanted from the Imperium.
The question was what they planned to turn humanity into.
The welcoming committee stepped forward with movements that were almost, but not quite, human, and the Primarch prepared himself for whatever horror lay ahead.
He would see for himself if these people are still human or not.