The verbal jabs between Russ and Magnus gradually escalated into a full-blown brawl right on top of the table. Cups were thrown, plates of food were hurled, and dirty insults flew through the air, prompting the rest of the Primarchs to join the fray.
This was no time to save face—if they didn't fight for the title now, when would they ever?
Initially, Lion managed to maintain some composure, staying aloof while his brothers turned the Throne Room into a free-for-all. Even as stray cabbage leaves and steak grease rendered his power armor sticky and filthy, he kept his patience.
That was until a chewed-up cabbage leaf courtesy of Russ landed right on his top lip. The Lion, who had been trying so hard to play it cool and preserve his stoic image, snapped.
He lunged forward in a single bound, pinning both Russ and Little Magnus—who were mid-boxing match—straight to the ground before unleashing a flurry of fists and kicks.
With Lion's entry, the scene degenerated into complete chaos.
The Throne Room descended into madness once more. None of the Primarchs used weapons or psychic powers; they relied purely on raw physical muscle to beat the hell out of each other.
The normally gentle Vulkan was forced to cower behind the Emperor. Ferrus had used psychic invisibility right from the start. The Khan hadn't wanted to get involved either, content to watch the show, until a battered and bruised Sanguinius accidentally collided with him, breaking his nose.
At that point, the Chogorian trash-talker lost his cool and dove headfirst into the "battlefield."
The Emperor, Perturabo, and the others watched the whole spectacle with cold indifference. Guilliman and Old Malcador were already off to the side, using logic engines to cross-examine the Primarchs' physical metrics and analyze who had the highest mathematical probability of coming out on top.
The two even brazenly set up a betting pool right then and there, wagering on who would be the last one standing.
The Emperor, Perturabo, and Olly Piers placed their bets one after another. Vulkan, Corvus, and Fulgrim also put down their wagers from behind before resuming their analysis of the Primarchs' combat data.
Midway through the brawl, Vulkan suddenly leaned over to Guilliman, whispering that he wanted to change his bet.
He had just seen Dorn—renowned for being as unyielding as solid rock—get flattened by a single punch from Angron, rendered completely unable to get back up.
"You've already lost, Vulkan. No reneging allowed," the Emperor cut in, putting a swift stop to his son's attempt to cheat. "Remember to hand over that warhammer of yours. My vault happens to be missing a fine weapon."
Vulkan let out a long sigh. Great, another artifact gone. Gambling really was a curse.
After placing so many bets with his brothers and the Warmaster over the millennia, he had win-rates near zero and had paid out a small fortune in relic weapons. If he didn't have such a massive forge-stash to his name, he would've jumped straight off a battleship into a star by now.
Though, given his current state, dying wasn't really a concern anyway.
The chaos in the Throne Room lasted for three full hours. The Emperor simply sat there watching these sons of his—beings who struck terror into the hearts of xenos across galaxy-spanning warzones—brawling like common street thugs, throwing raw, brutal punches with zero elegance.
Half of Russ's face was swollen, while the other side was an equally horrific sight, with both eyes beaten black and blue. The Wolf of Fenris couldn't bring himself to laugh even if he wanted to.
Lion remained standing, though his condition was hardly better than Russ's, his face painted with an equal array of bruises and cuts.
In contrast, Angron and Ferrus on the opposite side were still standing tall. One relied on sheer physical absurdity, while the other used a pair of iron hands to slap practically every brother who had joined the melee.
Now, those two powerhouse Primarchs were locked in a grapple. It was obvious they weren't in great shape either; after all, they were all Primarchs, and the force behind those hits was no joke.
Their struggle had reached a critical juncture, both near total exhaustion. The pain from their injuries had them gritting their teeth, but the one who would ultimately decide the victor was Lion.
The cunning Lion had not only fooled the Wolf, Russ, but had also pulled the wool over everyone else's eyes.
He charged forward, knocking Russ clean out with a massive headlock punch. He then hoisted Russ's heavy frame and hurled him across the room, the immense impact sending both grappling Primarchs flying.
Immediately after, Lion grabbed Curze—who had dealt him the nastiest beatdown earlier—and charged ahead, using him as a battering ram to knock out the struggling Angron as well.
With that, Lion claimed final victory in the most dramatic fashion possible.
"I'm docking a month's worth of supplies from the Dark Angels' First Chapter!" Malcador barked, fuming after losing his bet on Russ staying up.
"You are merely the Regent; you don't have the authority to allocate military supplies," Guilliman pointed out.
"I'm docking them anyway!" Malcador retorted fiercely.
"No, you aren't, but I am! I'm finding a reason to dock Lion's supplies for the month!"
Even Guilliman, as the Imperial Regent, had lost his wager on Ferrus. Nobody had expected Lion to play dead, only to rise back up like a monster after being beaten into a swollen mess.
"Strange. Lion never used to be like this," the Emperor muttered softly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. After all, this was the son he had once raised as his ultimate weapon.
While the dirty tactic appealed to his taste, the setting was admittedly a little inappropriate.
Olly Piers sat beside him, setting down his untouched glass of liquor.
"It's just been too long since you've seen what they're really like. People change."
The only one who hadn't uttered a single word the entire time was Valdor. The Captain-General of the Custodes was honestly having a hard time enduring the atmosphere, but unable to leave, he could only watch with a pounding heart as these demigods brawled with terrifying speed and strength.
Valdor had considered slipping away more than once, but seeing the Emperor and the others enjoying the show with such relish, he couldn't bring himself to leave. He just sat there in the Throne Room like a man serving a prison sentence.
Lion, having fought to the very end, stood panting heavily as he looked over at the Emperor and the spectators.
"Father," he called out, his voice hoarse, though every word was delivered with absolute clarity. "I won."
The Warmaster's seat—who else could claim it!
Today, that position was his!
The Emperor nodded, setting his wine glass onto the table with a crisp clink.
"A bit unsportsmanlike, perhaps, but a win is a win."
Lion's cheek twitched slightly. Unsportsmanlike? He had won fair and square, thank you very much.
Russ crawled out from under Angron, rubbing his shoulder while cursing under his breath.
"Gah~ Since when did you get this tough, you bastard?"
"If I hadn't hidden a bit of strength, you all would've kept assuming the Emperor's Firstborn had nothing to back it up."
"You—" Russ tried to snap back, but the movement pulled at his swollen face, forcing the words back down his throat.
Eventually, the rest of the Primarchs were roused one by one. Perturabo tended to their injuries before they all sat back down around the battered, cracked Great Round Table.
The Emperor scanned the faces of all his sons before his gaze settled back on Lion.
"Your tactical command and combat prowess are beyond question, and your resolve is obvious to all. But you must understand, my son: the seat of Warmaster cannot be kept secure merely by winning a fistfight."
Lion straightened his back, lifting his head high.
"I know, Father."
"You will have to learn to do many things you despise."
"You will have to work with people you dislike, endure processes you find utterly tedious, and deal with troubles you thoroughly hate—"
"I will ask you once more, Lion: are you truly prepared?"
Lion fell silent for three seconds. Then, he lowered his proud head slightly—a detail everyone caught.
A moment later, Lion raised his head high again, his eyes burning with unwavering resolve.
"I am ready, Father."
The Emperor looked at him, a subtle trace of approval finally surfacing in those golden eyes. He nodded and turned to address the room.
"Then it is decided. Lion shall assume the title of Warmaster, overseeing all military affairs. Perturabo's tech production lines and supply systems will be transferred to Guilliman's management, while Lion takes charge of strategic command and military deployment."
Guilliman stared at the Emperor in sheer disbelief. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, the Emperor vanished into thin air.
'Seriously? Leaving me holding the bag like this?'
Lion sat in his chair, feeling the sudden, crushing weight settle onto his shoulders.
He had won, yet he didn't feel as overjoyed as he had imagined.
The pursuit of the goal had filled him with grand ambition, but now that he had actually secured it, that surge of excitement washed away.
He looked around at his brothers.
Russ was grumbling under his breath, but there was no resentment in his eyes.
Ferrus showed a hint of regret, yet no hostility, while Fulgrim offered a light chuckle from the side.
Angron couldn't care less—he had joined the brawl purely for the thrill of the fight anyway, and the World Eaters' role was never suited for a Warmaster candidate.
Magnus and Mortarion were whispering off to the side, but when Lion glanced over, neither bore any defiance. They knew their own limits well enough and accepted the outcome.
Lion suddenly realized that while he had won the fight, he couldn't walk the long road ahead alone.
"Congratulations."
A voice came from behind him, followed by a heavy pair of hands resting on his shoulders.
Perturabo, the former Warmaster, had approached unnoticed. Those deep blue eyes held no trace of bitterness—only a faint sense of liberation and the sheer relief of a burden lifted.
"Warmaster—"
Lion had yet to adjust to his new title. He opened his mouth to say something, but Perturabo had already turned toward the side door of the Throne Room, walking away.
"You can coordinate the rest with Guilliman; he'll help you," Perturabo said without looking back. "I'm heading out. When you all have time, feel free to visit me on Olympia. I'll have a grand feast prepared for you."
His figure faded into the light beyond the doorway, his pace unhurried—like a traveler who had finally put down every heavy pack and set off on the road home.
---
The morning sun over Olympia was far gentler than Terra's, thanks to an artificial mini-sun Perturabo had constructed to restore light to the world after shipyards and orbital docks had blocked the sky.
Perturabo stood on the balcony of his estate, clad in a plain linen shirt, holding a warm cup of tea. He gazed out over thousands of acres of fertile farmland below, where a swarm of Abominable Intelligences darted back and forth, planting tea trees and medicinal flowers.
These crops were also things Perturabo had developed back in the day, cultivated across various Agri-Worlds in the galaxy. Olympia had never grown them before, as everything had always been sacrificed for industrialization and output.
He took a small sip of the hot tea, savoring the cool breeze. Ever since laying down the heavy duties of Warmaster and all those responsibilities, an unprecedented sense of ease had washed over him.
He hadn't touched a single piece of tech in a month—something that would have been virtually unthinkable over the past thousand years.
Back then, he had felt compelled to bring every single idea in his mind to life: constructing weapons, war fortresses, and galactic wonders one after another.
Yet reality often fell short of grand ambitions. Perturabo had failed, even if he could easily have built it all up again.
"Still feeling out of place, Bo?"
Calliphone's voice came from behind. She walked over carrying a plate of freshly baked bread, set it on the small round table on the balcony, and leaned into Perturabo's embrace.
Perturabo looked down at the tea in his cup, where a mint leaf Calliphone had grown herself floated on the surface.
"A little."
"Just a little?"
"Would anyone tear apart an agricultural irrigation rig and rebuild it from scratch just because its watering wasn't perfectly even?"
"Well, it is watering unevenly. The field on the left dries faster than the one on the right, which means the spray nozzle angle is off. I should—"
"Stop."
Calliphone pressed a finger against his lips.
"You're not out in the Imperium anymore, you're not in the Terran Throne Room, and you don't need to spend your days in that Daemon Forge researching technologies. You are on Olympia, your home world. You're drinking tea I grew, eating bread I baked, and taking in the scenery you built with your own hands."
"You don't need to fix those things anymore, nor do you need to worry about campaigns and wars. You've done everything you possibly could. Now, all you need to do is enjoy yourself."
Perturabo fell silent for a moment, then took another sip of tea. The warm liquid glided down his throat, carrying the crisp scent of mint.
Setting the cup down, he watched the Abominable Intelligences working in the distant valley. They were all his designs, moving slowly under the sunlight, tireless and flawless.
"I never noticed it before, Sister," Perturabo spoke up suddenly.
"Noticed what?"
"Back in the court, you used to tend to plants and flowers. Every day you'd water them, prune them, and build trellises for them yourself. Back then, I thought it was a complete waste of time."
"Because those things were purely decorative. They couldn't be used in war, they couldn't fortify a stronghold, and they certainly couldn't be turned into weapons. They just sat there blooming, serving no functional purpose."
Calliphone didn't interrupt, simply listening in quiet silence.
"While I still hold that view, I have to admit one thing: they really are quite nice to look at."
Calliphone burst into a soft laugh. Her face retained its youthful grace; the Perpetual conversion had been a resounding success all along, its sole drawback being that their fates were tied to Perturabo—a Warp entity that could potentially suffer catastrophe.
Her eyes held that same familiar warmth from Perturabo's fondest memories.
"That's a good change, isn't it?"
Perturabo didn't say another word. He simply pulled his sister closer into his arms, gazing into the distance.
"Sister."
"Hmm?"
"Back when I turned you into a Perpetual... were you scared?"
"Not at all."
"Why?" Perturabo looked down into her lively eyes.
"Because I believe in you."
Perturabo froze for a second, then let out a genuine laugh.
Holding her close, Perturabo stood up and walked to the balcony railing. Down on the hillside, a group of children were playing—the descendants of mortal commissars and officers who had rendered great service to the Imperium.
They laughed and waved up at him.
It had been a very long time since Perturabo had laughed from the bottom of his heart, but today, he smiled for a long time. The setting sun over Olympia was just right—neither glaring nor scorching—casting a gentle glow over everyone, washing away the shadows that had gathered in Perturabo's heart for so many years.