Eight hundred and eighty warriors of the 8th Assault Company joined the rebellion's fight.
They were the first of the War Hounds to land on Nuceria, an honor well deserved.
Angron was meant to personally lead and command them, yet he chose instead to stand aside, entrusting the command decisions to Gheer and Oenomaus.
Gheer did not rush to demonstrate the War Hounds' renowned tactical prowess. He merely observed quietly as the rebel high command argued fervently.
If he were to summarize their strategy in a single phrase, it would be: "Blow open the gate, then rush in and butcher the knights."
"What do you think?" Oenomaus asked.
Gheer looked down at the scarred veteran before him, a man over two meters tall, nearly the height of an unarmored Astartes.
He had once been a gladiator, a skilled duelist.
But in matters of command, the rebel leaders were complete amateurs.
Such crude tactics would be mocked even by the ganglords of hive worlds.
"Your strategy… has the flair of a lightning assault," Gheer said carefully. "The War Hounds can serve as the vanguard, since you seem to lack the heavy firepower needed to tear open enemy lines."
He did not intend to correct their disastrous plan. Even a crude assault like this could still be executed efficiently by the War Hounds.
And if he showed ambition for command or disdain for mortals, it might lower him in the eyes of the Gene-Father, something he would never risk.
"The rebels will support your assault. This is your honor," said Oenomaus, extending his hand. "In the name of our leader, we shall fight as one."
Gheer hesitated briefly, then clasped the veteran's hand with his ceramite gauntlet.
"In the name of the Primarch," he replied, "the War Hounds have always taken pride in fighting alongside mortals."
He knew his words were hollow. Once, the War Hounds held nothing but contempt for mere men. But for the Gene-Father's glory, they were willing to reshape themselves.
BOOM!
The War Hounds' armored beasts roared from two kilometers away. The plasma cannons of their super-heavy tanks unleashed tongues of deep blue annihilation.
The steel-forged gate shuddered violently at the subatomic level, twisted, and then blossomed into a flower of death.
The point-blank barrage wasn't because of limited range, it was to synchronize perfectly with the infantry assault. Before the defenders could even think of forming a line, the Father's judgment was already upon them.
Mammoth tanks howled as they crushed through the field, their void shields flaring with blue ripples under enemy fire.
Any fool who stood before these hundred-ton monsters was ground beneath their adamantium treads, flesh and bone turned to pulp.
The battle unfolded exactly as Gheer predicted: the armored herd thundered through Devash's defenses, and the blood sprayed beneath their treads marked the opening verse of conquest.
"For the Primarch!"
The Mammoths' front hatches burst open like the jaws of steel beasts. The War Hounds surged forth, carrying the Primarch's holy wrath.
Their bolters sang hymns of death, each burning shell tearing sulfurous trails through the air.
Mortal flesh could not endure the baptism of bolter fire, bones shattered like glass, spraying crimson mist into the smoky air.
But then, something unexpected happened.
Just as the bolter rounds were about to shred their targets, silver tendrils unfurled from the mortals' backs, intertwining to form a writhing shield that blocked the deadly barrage.
The explosions tore cracks through the silver vines, but the bizarre implants held their defensive form.
The War Hounds adapted instantly. In less than a second, three bolts struck the same defense node, and the fourth shot punched through the crack; the mortal behind it burst into a cloud of red mist.
"Their defense… is nearly on par with ceramite power armor!"
Gheer's pupils narrowed in shock. He dismissed whatever trace of arrogance he still had toward these mortals.
The Primarch's warning was proving true, the warriors of Nuceria were not to be underestimated.
But they were War Hounds, the Primarch's sharpest fangs.
No enemy in the galaxy could halt their charge.
Within moments, they had analyzed their foes' weaknesses. The mortals' implants were powerful, but their flesh was too weak to wield them.
Their reactions lagged behind their augmentations, fatal, in a battle fought at such speed.
They weren't warriors so much as vessels for the silvervines.
"For freedom! For our leader!"
The gladiators, a raging tide of flesh and fury, joined the Astartes lines.
Oenomaus swept past Gheer like a storm. The silver shields that could block bolter fire were torn apart like paper by his power axe. The knight behind it was cleaved clean in half, his two halves spraying ionized blood into the air.
Gheer watched in awe.
Every swing of the old warrior's axe carried thunderous might. The air screamed as it split.
He had thought the man merely a master of mortal combat, but now he saw differently. Even an Astartes in full armor might not survive that blow.
The rest of the rebels fought just as fiercely. Their strength defied reason; each one could match an unarmored Astartes, some even an armored one.
'Were these still humans?'
The War Hounds' initial shock turned into a fire of pride.
If mere mortals could fight so valiantly, how could they, the sons of the Gene-Father, shrink back?
They would not shame the Primarch.
"For the Emperor! For the Primarch!"
"For the Primarch! For the Emperor!"
On the battlements, Caelan and Angron stood side by side, watching the battle below.
Caelan said, "Are you satisfied with the warriors who bear your bloodline?"
Angron replied, "Their courage is… acceptable."
His sons were worthy of the War Hound name, fearless, loyal, ready to die for mankind's cause.
But it was still early in the Great Crusade, and many War Hounds carried contempt for mortals in their bones.
It was not the same as arrogance. The arrogant still saw themselves as human. The War Hounds, instead, saw themselves as beyond it.
As Angron watched his warriors, fighting bravely in his name, a deep sorrow stirred in his heart.
Not all were so blind. Gheer, for instance.
Though proud and stern as any Astartes, he had observed his Gene-Father's respect for mortals and learned to temper his pride, showing patience and honor toward them.
Caelan asked quietly, "Will you abandon them?"
"No," Angron said, voice like iron. "I will teach them myself. I will lead them back to the right path, to rediscover the dignity of humanity, as you once taught me."
He raised his head, eyes fierce.
"I will never abandon my sons. No father would."
Caelan murmured, "Your father should feel ashamed."
"Why should you feel ashamed?" Angron asked, confused.
"I meant the Emperor," Caelan replied.
"He is not my father." Angron's voice hardened. "A true father never abandons his son. The moment he left me, he ceased to be mine."
Caelan chuckled weakly. "That's only the future that hasn't happened. You and he are not bound to become that way."
"It's not the same!" Angron shouted, losing control.
Caelan stared, surprised; he had never seen Angron so agitated.
Realizing his outburst, Angron's face went pale. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean-"
Caelan opened his arms and embraced the trembling youth. "No, my child. I should be the one apologizing. I forgot your humanity."
All Primarchs had humanity, but Angron had it most of all.
The deeper his humanity, the stronger his emotions burned.
And as their parting approached, the wound in his heart deepened. The closer the farewell, the sharper the pain.
They had been together for months, and yet Angron remained a boy.
It did not change his essence as a Primarch, but it revealed something Caelan had long ignored: a Primarch's growth was tied to his environment.
The harsher the world, the faster they grew.
Horus spent over a decade without displaying any true Primarch traits; his life had been too safe.
Curze, Lorgar, and Russ were the opposite; born to struggle, they grew swiftly to lead their people.
And Angron?
He understood his mission better than any of his brothers, sharing Caelan's very memories, and yet he grew slowly. Because deep down, he resisted growing up.
He knew only children could cling to a father's embrace.
He didn't want to stop being a child, but he couldn't stay one forever. And so he was trapped between the two.
"Have I disappointed you?" Angron asked.
"How could you?" Caelan smiled. "If you asked me my age, I'd tell you I'm eighteen, because a man remains a boy until he dies."
"And the Emperor?"
"Him too," Caelan smirked. "He just hides it better, but deep down, he's more childish than anyone."
Angron knew the Imperial fleet's arrival meant their parting was near. He had pretended to let the War Hounds and rebels fight together, but in truth, he was afraid Caelan would vanish mid-battle.
His humanity made him more vulnerable to loss than any other Primarch.
But that was no flaw, and Caelan would never scold him for it.
After all, if the Emperor wouldn't act like a father, someone had to.
Caelan sighed inwardly. He'd been cleaning up the Emperor's messes for years, raising his sons, patching their hearts.
He patted the boy's back. "Angron, it's time for you to have a son of your own."
"I know." Angron lowered his head. He still had fifteen brothers scattered across the galaxy. Caelan had to find them.
He knew he couldn't stay selfish; others needed him too.
But he was still a child.
And if he couldn't be selfish now… he never would again.
"Father," Angron asked softly, "what about Sister Claudia?"
Caelan grimaced. "Give her Nuceria. Make her the planet's governor, but don't give her too much power. Something about her… feels off."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Just a feeling."
Caelan had scanned her countless times, not with eyes or hands, but with psychic sight.
Every test came back clean. No corruption. Her attendants were the same.
Even Angron's empathic senses detected nothing, no trace of deceit or warp taint.
If neither of them could find anything wrong, then she was likely clean, just mysterious.
Angron nodded. He trusted his father completely.
Nuceria would become the new home of the 12th Legion, the first ground for Angron's ideals.
Claudia would rule in name, but her power would be limited.
Gheer removed his helmet. With a hiss of pressure, the scent of smoke and blood filled his lungs.
Across the battlefield, rebels and Astartes fought side by side.
The mortals admired the Astartes' power armor and bolters; the Astartes, in turn, began to respect the mortals' tenacity.
These unaugmented men had stood shoulder to shoulder with gene-forged super-soldiers, a truth that stirred something unspoken in many Astartes.
Normally, a Primarch would designate his homeworld as a recruiting world. Many of these young rebels would soon become War Hounds.
Once they underwent gene-seed implantation, their strength would surpass ninety percent of current Astartes, a thought that pricked the warriors' pride.
They did not resent it, but the feeling lingered.
Gheer looked skyward. High above, riders on grav-lances danced among the enemy knights. Mira's pale-blue psychic barrier shimmered as it deflected the incoming fire, while Clest's bladed mount struck down another foe.
Their coordination had grown flawless, their kill count unmatched.
Clest landed her steed before Gheer, while Mira said softly, "Lord Gheer, the remaining knights are fleeing north."
The Stormbird had already fed him the data, but Gheer, ever courteous, inclined his head.
"Margo, Ioka, Kharn, take your squads and cut them off at the northern gate. Leave none alive, but protect the civilians first."
The three Astartes saluted and moved to embark on their Mammoth transports.
"Wait," Gheer said suddenly. Trying his best to sound approachable, he forced a rare smile.
"May I ask you a question?"
"Now?" Mira blinked. "In the middle of battle?"
"It's important."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Our Gene-Father… how old is he?"
He knew it was impertinent, but he couldn't help it. Their father… was still a child.
Not that he minded. Their little father was adorable. That would never shake their loyalty.
He was just worried about something else.
Had they… come too early?
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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