The dispute between Perturabo and Rogal Dorn had reached a fever pitch, their voices echoing throughout the grand hall. Imperial officials, nobles, and Space Marine in various colored power armour all stopped what they were doing, staring dumbfounded at the chaotic scene that was about to escalate into a "Primarch-level boxing match."
"Your design has absolutely no artistry!" Perturabo angrily waved his arm, pointing to Dorn's side of the arrangements.
"Cold, rigid, lifeless! This isn't the palace of a great empire; it's a temporary military command center! When Guilliman wakes up and sees this, will he think he was only unconscious for a few minutes?"
Dorn remained expressionless, his arms crossed over his chest, his tone calm and firm: "Function above all, efficiency first. This is a hall for wartime assembly, command, and evacuation, not your so-called 'art exhibition.' Flashy and impractical designs only waste resources."
"Flashy and impractical?" Perturabo's metallic arm heavily tapped a sculpture beside him. "This isn't simple decoration; it's a symbol of spirit! The Imperium needs more than just war machines; it also needs the support of culture and faith!"
"War is the foundation of the Imperium." Dorn responded coldly. "When the enemy besieges the city, can your murals block their bullets?"
"You!!!!" The veins on Perturabo's forehead visibly bulged, and he clenched his fists, looking as if he might rush forward at any moment to punch Dorn's impassive face.
Konrad Curze stood between the two, hands spread in a helpless gesture, looking left and right as if weighing which side would strike first.
"Alright, alright! Enough! I thought we were here to set up a welcoming ceremony, not to have an 'Imperial Decorative Style Debate.'" Konrad Curze showed a somewhat cunning smile.
"Can't you two just calm down? Perturabo, your sculptures are indeed very artistic, but do you really have to design Dorn's sculpture to be looking down? Isn't that clearly a provocation?"
Perturabo snorted coldly, crossed his arms, and turned his head away.
Konrad Curze then turned to Dorn, raising an eyebrow: "And you, Dorn, do you really think everyone prefers sitting on uniform metal chairs, looking at cold tactical screens, rather than an environment that makes people feel the glorious history of the Imperium?"
Dorn frowned slightly, seemingly pondering the question, but the corners of his mouth remained tightly drawn.
Perturabo's fist swung out with a whoosh, aiming directly for Rogal Dorn's cold, rock-like face.
Just as everyone thought this punch would trigger a Primarch-level close-quarters fight, Dorn quickly raised his arms, protecting his chin and torso with a highly practiced "Philly Shell" defense.
"What are you dodging?" Perturabo roared, his fist striking Dorn's shoulder with a crisp metallic clang.
"I'm just defending." Dorn responded calmly, his arms tight, his feet shifting slightly, always maintaining the optimal defensive stance, perfectly deflecting Perturabo's attack.
The hall fell silent. Imperial nobles, mortal officials, and Astartes all held their breath, watching wide-eyed as the two Primarchs staged a street brawl at the ceremony to welcome Guilliman's awakening.
Some younger Astartes even discreetly pulled out recording devices, attempting to capture this rare historical moment.
Seeing that his first punch missed, Perturabo's anger intensified. He immediately changed tactics, stepping forward steadily, his fists swinging like Warhammers in a continuous flurry, each strike carrying immense power.
However, Dorn seemed to have anticipated his tactics, adjusting his footwork nimbly, tilting his body slightly, always maintaining the smallest possible opening, his defense like an unbreakable bulwark.
Konrad Curze stood to the side, hands on his head, a look of disbelief on his face, saying pitifully, "Can't you two stop fighting...?"
Perturabo snorted coldly, thrusting his left fist forward, but Dorn agilely sidestepped, the fist grazing his shoulder. Seizing the opportunity, Dorn suddenly counterattacked, dropping his shoulder and delivering a heavy left hook towards Perturabo's chest... However, Perturabo was, after all, an experienced combat master, and he instinctively raised his arm, blocking the blow.
The atmosphere of confrontation between the two grew increasingly tense, as if they would truly tear each other apart in the next second.
Just as the two Primarchs were about to completely tear each other apart, and an earth-shattering battle was about to erupt, a tender voice suddenly echoed through the hall.
"Two big brothers, can you please stop fighting...?"
A golden-haired Boy, resembling a "young Gilgamesh," stood between the two, looking up, his blue eyes filled with innocence and confusion. His voice was not loud, yet it seemed to contain a strange power, making the surrounding air momentarily freeze.
Perturabo and Dorn's movements almost instinctively stopped. They looked down at the child, the anger in their eyes wavering slightly under that pure gaze.
Perturabo snorted coldly, crossed his arms, forcefully retracted his raised fist, and then turned his head away, looking as if to say, "I didn't stop because of him."
He said in a deep voice, "Hmph, that's enough for today."
Dorn, after a moment of silence, slowly lowered his defensive stance and walked to the side, as if nothing had happened.
The air in the hall finally began to flow again, and the surrounding nobles and Astartes exchanged glances, completely surprised that such a small child had brought the "Primarch-level Boxing Championship" to such an abrupt end.
Konrad Curze's mouth twitched, and he muttered under his breath, "If I had known this, I should have had the ninth one mediate from the beginning..."
Seeing this, the golden-haired Boy showed a satisfied smile, as if he had completed a great mission. He clapped his small hands, then turned and walked to the side, taking the hand of a tall female.
The female slowly lowered her head, a faint smile flashing in her golden eyes. She gently stroked the Boy's hair, then looked up at Perturabo and Dorn, the corners of her mouth slightly raised.
"It seems you both respond better to softness than to hardness," Sanguinius said calmly.
Perturabo's mouth twitched fiercely, and Dorn's hand imperceptibly clenched and then relaxed, but neither of them argued further.
After all, they had indeed just been defeated by a child... And that child was their brother, their most perfect brother... resurrected!
"Lord of the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels! The Great Angel! Sanguinius!"
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