"This is how the vast majority of people live across the colossal Imperium of Man."
Blazkowicz stood outside the wall, his towering figure indistinct within the shadows, watching the mortals who held their hands over their mouths in absolute terror.
A family of four was crammed inside a six-square-meter room. Years of dwelling in such a hostile environment had left them sickly and emaciated, their filth-smeared skin mottled with patchy radiation mutations.
The mother clutched her children to her chest, her face pale with fright, her withered arms tightly clamping her kids' mouths shut.
The father did not resist. He fell to his knees before the four towering giants, his trembling hands interlocked over his chest to form a rigid Aquila salute.
"He's sharp," Dorn noted in a low, somber voice.
Russ slowly crouched down. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a chunk of dried meat from nowhere and tossed it in front of the mortal: "If he wasn't sharp, he wouldn't have survived long enough under the underhive to sire and feed two children."
Indeed, the mortal before them was exceptionally quick-witted. The instant he realized he and his family had no power to resist, he had dropped to his knees in total submission. Offering the Aquila salute was a testament to his survival intellect. Throughout the Imperium of Man, most oversized humans belonged to official Imperial organizations; presenting the Aquila could spare one a world of trouble.
Paying no heed to the giant's muttered reflections, the mortal father scrambled frantically to scoop up the dried meat, tearing it into pieces and thrusting them straight into his family's mouths.
He knew his family was safe for the moment, and he immediately converted the giant's gift into the tangible hope of living another day.
Such was the law of survival at the bottom of the hive: only what entered your stomach truly belonged to you.
Blazkowicz pointed at the shattered wall and looked at Perturabo: "Aren't you going to fix this?"
"That punch of yours shattered their shelter, causing this family's chances of survival to plummet. If we leave now, they won't last a few hours."
Perturabo said nothing. He crouched down in silence, using his armored hands to reshape the broken bricks and stone. Under the mortal's ceaseless, reverent prostrations, he flawlessly restored the wall he had destroyed.
Once the repairs were complete, he extended a hand toward Russ. Under his brother's inquiring gaze, he remained silent for a long moment before grunting out a single word: "...Meat."
Russ gave him a strange look, rummaging around under his cloak before pulling out several strips of Fenrisian dried meat and placing them in Perturabo's palm.
Perturabo gently closed his fist. Looking at his wild brother, the mouth hidden beneath his hood opened and closed several times, before stammering out with immense awkwardness: "Th—Thank... you..."
Russ didn't take it to heart, carelessly waving his hand dismissively. At that moment, Russ failed to realize just how monumental a feat it was to make his iron-hearted brother utter the words "thank you."
Perturabo slid the dried meat through a gap in the door, stating in stiff, heavily accented Low Gothic: "Compensation."
With that, he ignored the mortal's overflowing gratitude. Tightening his cloak, he turned and left the alleyway, fearful that his brothers might see the expression on his face.
Blazkowicz and the other two quickly fell into step behind him, and the group vanished into the dim bioluminescent glow of the alley.
---
The four genetic Primarchs ascended all the way from the underhive. Passing through the lower hive, they saw that the living conditions of the mortals had barely improved—they still lingered in agonizing poverty along the line of starvation.
Compared to the underhive, the lower hive at least had bulkhead plates shielding it from reactor radiation, resulting in fewer radiation complications and longer lifespans for the populace. Yet basic order remained nonexistent, with governance enforced by an intricate web of ruthless gangs.
They preached the greatness of the Emperor and extolled the glory of the Primarchs, shouting "For the Emperor!" at the top of their lungs as they fought with crude weapons over gang turf.
In short, the lower hive was the most chaotic sector of the city—a place where tangled factions ran deep, a melting pot of scum and villainy locked in perpetual turmoil.
As Blazkowicz's group passed through the lower hive, they even spotted a Space Marine from the Eighth Legion lurking in the shadows, watching a gang turf war unfold. The Eighth Legion held a unique position in the Great Crusade; steeped in gang culture, they executed "fear tactics" to crush worlds in rebellion.
Blazkowicz and his brothers did not linger. Perturabo forged a high-tier security key, allowing them to board a freight elevator and enter the middle hive.
The middle hive was the vital operational core of the entire structure.
Here, the air was saturated with industrial exhaust, the floor vibrated with a constant hum, and a chaotic buzz echoed in their ears.
Because this sub-continental hive stood closest to the Imperial Palace, its registered population in the middle and upper sectors exceeded twenty billion, while the lower hive and underhive were simply beyond counting.
To sustain the hive's immense appetite, countless factories were built in the middle tier. They operated day and night, pumping out industrial goods to meet the city's gargantuan consumption.
Due to these massive demands, the vast majority of middle-hive residents worked in these factories, earning a wage and making their homes within the industrial zone. Compared to the hellish underhive and the chaotic lower hive, life in the middle hive was a paradise beyond the wildest dreams of most lower-tier mortals.
Precisely for this reason, the elevators connecting the middle and lower hives were heavily guarded, fortified with airtight screening checkpoints to prevent lower-hive denizens from smuggling themselves upward.
After a brief pause in the middle hive, the group forged another security key and proceeded toward the upper hive.
---
"They certainly know how to live."
The moment the upper-hive elevator doors slid open, Dorn's face turned iron-gray, his armored fists clenching until the gauntlets creaked.
In just a few short hours, the sights from the underhive to the upper hive had brought about a seismic shift in the genetic Primarch's worldview.
Looking at the scenic, fresh-aired cityscape of the upper hive before him, he could not stop the shuddering deep within his heart.
They were in the exact same hive city, separated vertically by barely more than ten kilometers, yet the difference was as stark as heaven and hell.
In the lower hive, gangs fought vicious gun battles over a single sewage outlet, taking dozens or hundreds of lives and affecting thousands more. Yet here at the upper-hive elevator entrance stood a grand fountain, gushing crystal-clear, purified water.
Russ and Perturabo looked equally grim. Having walked all the way up, witnessing countless struggles and tragedies, stepping into the upper hive felt like entering a different universe entirely.
They were genetic Primarchs; their usual haunts and travels were confined to the most exalted sanctuaries of the Imperium. Leave aside the hellish lower hive—even the upper hive where the nobility lived, or the spire where the hive governors ruled, were places they rarely set foot in.
Upon returning to Terra, they had resided continuously within the Imperial Palace. The true suffering of the mortal world was far too distant from them.
Now, they were witnessing it firsthand.
A overwhelming sense of disparity and guilt surged through them, making it impossible to digest all at once. They could only steady their internal turmoil by harboring a sharp hostility toward the nobility's opulence.
Blazkowicz remained silent, continuing to lead the way. He had long anticipated his brothers' reactions; now that cracks had appeared in their rose-tinted view of the Imperium and the Emperor, his subsequent task would be far easier.
With heavy footsteps and concealed by their Phantasm Cloaks, the group bypassed the elevator guards without alerting anyone, seeking out the next elevator going up.
As they ventured deeper into the upper hive, the atmosphere shifted quietly, growing even more oppressive than in the lower levels.
The upper hive was orderly and immaculate. Luxurious anti-grav vehicles glided smoothly along the avenues, flanked by gleaming storefronts showcasing a dizzying array of luxury goods brought in from countless worlds.
Noble ladies and young heiresses strolled together in opulent attire, wearing elegant smiles, trailed by retinues of dozens or hundreds of servants. The gemstones adorning their dresses were valuable enough to arm an entire Imperial Army auxiliary regiment, while the food they casually discarded possessed flavors lower-tier residents could never even fathom.
All along the way, Perturabo's rage hovered on the brink of explosion. His hands clenched and unclenched, filled with the urge to choke those pampered aristocrats to death a thousand times over.
This journey was far too shocking. His heart was being mercilessly lashed by brutal reality.
Before today, Perturabo had never imagined that the splendor of the Imperium of Man was built upon such endless suffering.
On Olympia, Dammekos had destroyed all the city-states. Yet as post-war reconstruction got underway, peace brought a better life, and the people gradually pledged their hearts to Lochos amid wealth and stability. He had believed that peace and prosperity ought to be the norm—and even more so under the rule of the Imperium and the radiance of their Father, the Emperor.
Yet everything he had seen and heard in this hive completely inverted Perturabo's understanding.
Only by experiencing it firsthand could one truly grasp that bitter sting.
---
Standing before the entrance to the spire, Blazkowicz pulled down his hood and offered a faint smile. It carried not a shred of warmth, but a chilling coldness that froze the blood: "Don't do anything impulsive in a moment."
No one answered. Perturabo stepped forward and inserted his security key decrypter into the access terminal. Before long, the most stringent mortal security codes fell before the device crafted by the genetic Primarch.
The ornate elevator doors slid open smoothly, and the group stepped inside. Blazkowicz pressed the ruby-studded upward button.
The noble elevator rose in complete silence, filled only with the heavy, measured breathing of the genetic Primarchs.
When the doors opened once more, they had arrived at the spire—the seat of absolute power for this sub-continental hive.
Overhead in the spire city hung an artificial light source, illuminating a circular region spanning dozens of square kilometers in the dead of night. Massive Gothic portholes sealed out the freezing cold, revealing the Terran stratosphere outside, while one-way winds passed through filters to become part of the spire's curated natural climate.
The city was lush with greenery, crisscrossed by artificial rivers. The owners of its grand manors were all immensely wealthy or powerful, clustered around a central palace.
At three in the morning Terran time, the central palace was still ablaze with lights. Shadows flitted across the window sills as servants bustled back and forth carrying luxury delicacies.
A grand banquet was underway inside the palace.
"Let's go," Russ snorted, a cold, ruthless smile creeping onto his lips: "Time to pay a visit to the party."
Although the palace defenses were heavily fortified, to the genetic Primarchs, they were practically nonexistent.
If infiltrating the Imperial Palace on Terra was a simple matter for a Primarch, an ordinary mortal official's residence was exponentially easier. The mortal guards merely felt a faint breeze sweep past, entirely unaware that four colossal figures had just walked right in front of them.
It helped immensely that they were clad in Phantasm Cloaks.
The palace corridors were exceptionally wide, lined with luxurious handmade carpets and flanked by graceful, beautiful attendants. Every high-ranking Terran official harbored the daydream that one day the Emperor or a Primarch might pay a personal visit; thus, their estates were built with massive hallways and grand rotundas precisely to accommodate such giants.
It was three in the morning, and the palace attendants' concentration was already beginning to drift.
Had they been attentive enough, they would have noticed massive footprints appearing out of thin air on the soft wool carpet.
The only thing the mortals could register was an increasingly suffocating atmosphere settling around them, accompanied by a sudden wave of primal terror rising from the depths of their hearts.
---
Inside, a grand banquet was in full swing.
Beneath the simulated starry dome of the central garden, crystal glasses clinked in endless toasts. The topmost elite of the hive city were present in full force.
These were true high aristocrats. To govern a hive city directly on Terra meant their lineages far eclipsed those of star-faring nobility.
Holding high-stemmed goblets, the mortal nobles drank blood-red Argent wine, heaping lavish praise and sycophantic flattery upon the Hive Governor seated atop his throne.
"Praise the Emperor! We bask in the light of the Master of Mankind!"
As the banquet reached its crescendo, the obese Governor raised his golden goblet. A oily, greasy smile squeezed across his bloated face, revealing a mouth studded with sparkling gemstone teeth.
"Praise the Emperor!"
The nobles cheered in unison, their expressions painted with the utmost reverence.
'BANG—!'
A deafening crash shattered the drunken daze of the nobility. Wine glasses slipped from hands, smashing across the floor in a chorus of shatters.
They turned toward the source of the noise, only to see the massive adamantium double doors collapsing inward, slamming onto an astronomically expensive flower bed and sending a cloud of petals flying into the air.
"Who dares offend my majesty?!" A greasy roar thundered from the throne. Though choked and muffled by fat, the voice still carried the lingering authority of a long-time ruler.
The nobles' bodyguards surged forward, drawing an assortment of precious power weapons and pointing them toward the ruined entrance.
As the shower of petals drifted down, four colossal outlines were traced into the air.
Being well-versed in high technology, the nobles realized that someone was using optical camouflage to infiltrate the hall. Amused, mocking smiles crept onto their faces as they waited to watch the intruders brutally cut down, eager to add a touch of bloody entertainment to the feast.
"You filthy vermin!"
An oppressed roar of pure rage echoed out, compelling the nobles to drop to their knees almost by instinct.
At the entrance, a massive, muscular arm materialized from thin air, ripping off the Phantasm Cloak. "How dare you defile my Father's glory!"
A giant stood there, fury blazing in his lead-gray eyes. His features were twisted into a terrifying, horrific scowl, his gaze looking as if he wished to devour everyone present alive.
"The Lord of Iron!" someone gasped in terror, scrambling to throw themselves onto the floor.
'The Lord of Iron!'
A tremor ran through the hearts of everyone in the banquet hall. Their drunken haze evaporated in an instant; their knees reacted faster than their minds, slamming into the ground as they shouted in terror: "Great Son of the Emperor!"
Barely a week had passed since the homecoming ceremony; the high nobility present naturally knew to whom the title "Lord of Iron" belonged.
The Fourth Son of the Emperor—Perturabo!
'Why was he here?!'
The nobles knew all too well that the Lord of Iron was definitely not here to attend a dinner party.
The Hive Governor was terrified to the point of incontinence. His round, bloated body rolled straight off his luxurious throne, scrambling on all fours to kneel and bow.
Yet in the very next second, the nobles were completely stunned by what unfolded before them.
An invisible hand seemed to choke off their voices and crush their trembling, plunging the central garden into absolute, deathly silence.
Behind the Lord of Iron, optical camouflage cloaks were pulled down one after another, revealing even more majestic figures into the nobles' sightline.
Blazkowicz Novick, King of Warriors; Leman Russ, the Great Wolf; and Rogal Dorn, the newly appointed Terran Praetor from the Departmento Munitorum.
They stood behind the Lord of Iron, their expressions icy and iron-gray, their sweeping, cold gazes weighing down on the room so heavily that no one could draw a breath.
'What was going on?!'
The nobles turned deathly pale, a creeping confusion rising from the depths of their minds. What had happened?
When a single Primarch appeared, they would be terrified, fearing punishment from a Primarch conducting an incognito inspection. But with four Primarchs appearing together, the nobles asked themselves: even if they had committed a crime that reached the heavens, it would hardly warrant four Primarchs arriving in person!
If that were truly the case, dying here would almost be an honor!
The Hive Governor went completely limp on the floor, frantically reviewing every crime he had ever committed since childhood, unable to conceive what sky-shattering treason he had done to draw four genetic Primarchs to his doorstep.
He opened his mouth, yet like a fish stranded on land, he could not produce a single sound.
"You filthy parasite!"
A thunderous roar shattered the simulated starry dome, causing several nobles to faint on the spot.
In the blink of an eye, Perturabo charged straight to the Hive Governor, seizing him by the throat with one hand and lifting him off the ground.
"How dare you?!" The Primarch struck out in absolute fury. Even with his power suppressed, his grip squeezed so hard that the fat on the Governor's neck burst open, oozing yellow-white lipids between his armored fingers.
"Our Father entrusted you to govern His people, yet you have betrayed Him!"
"Countless souls are dying in the lower hive, while you indulge in drunken stupor up here in the spire, gorging yourself until your head is full of grease!"
When Perturabo had heard the nobles shouting "Praise the Emperor" outside the garden gate, his rage had finally broken its banks, driving him to kick open the adamantium doors.
The anger accumulated along the entire journey had finally found an outlet.
Holding the Governor aloft with one hand, his venomous gaze swept across the banquet hall. His voice was as cold as ice: "A swarm of useless parasites... how dare you sit comfortably atop a pile of corpses and indulge yourselves in decadent pleasure?!"
The garden banquet fell into a deathly silence; the high nobles were as quiet as winter cicadas, terrified out of their wits.
Choked by the neck, the Governor's face gradually turned an asphyxiated shade of blue-purple. His legs kicked wildly in the air in an instinctive struggle for life.
Yet even so, he did not dare use his hands to push away the arm crushing his throat, clutching tightly to his own lavish robes to resist his natural reflexes.
'The flesh Son of the Emperor—how could a filthy body dare touch Him?'
"Cough... 'ack'..."
The Governor's eyes rolled back, white showing as saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. His heavy body made his spine creak under its own weight.
He was dying. Dying under the fury of a Primarch.
"My Lord..."
Just then, a soft, beautiful voice broke through the dead silence of the hall. An elegant lady raised her head, revealing a fair and exquisite face.
In the very next instant, the Wolf King reached out his hand, his sharp, rough nails digging into that fair neck as he hoisted her off the ground.
Russ looked ominous, a sinister glint flashing in his beast-like eyes as his coarse voice growled: "What? Are you begging for his life?"
"Little... assassin!" He spat out each word, laying bare the true identity of the person in his grip.
Terrified by the Primarch's irresistible physical power, the assassin's body rapidly morphed, shifting into an alluring female clad in a black bodysuit.
"My Lord," she modified her physical frame to ensure she could speak under the Primarch's grip: "I am not here to protect him."
The moment the words fell, the pressure on her neck abruptly vanished. The assassin adjusted her balance mid-air, landing gracefully on the ground.
"The Governor of the Sub-Continental Hive has exhibited severe dereliction of duty. I was ordered by Regent Malcador to come here and conduct an evaluation."
Having narrowly escaped death, the assassin immediately declared her operational intent and presented her clearance authorization.
In the presence of Primarchs, any concealment or trickery was futile. The Assassinorum's teachings explicitly stated: do not attempt to deceive or mislead a genetic Primarch; human lies cannot fool their superhuman intuition.
Dorn looked down at the assassin, keeping his words brief and direct: "The verdict."
"The Governor's administrative capacity is unfit to continue ruling this sub-continental hive. I have already submitted the full record of his crimes."
The assassin dropped to her knees before Perturabo, speaking respectfully: "Great Lord of Iron, he is unworthy of dying by your hands."
"The Departmento Munitorum has approved the review. Terra will publicly announce his incompetence and foolish misdeeds, surrendering him to the judgment of the law."
With that, the assassin bowed her head, not daring to look directly upon the Primarch's face.
She could feel the Primarch's burning gaze scrutinizing her, causing her body to tremble uncontrollably. Even having undergone brutal conditioning that excised human weaknesses, she could not entirely overcome this primal, biological dread.
Before an enraged genetic Primarch, her body still shivered helplessly in instinctive terror. Genetic Primarchs were not merely oversized Astartes; they were demigods.
She had been completely helpless against the Wolf King's grab just now, unable even to muster the thought of resistance.
"Brother," Blazkowicz spoke softly, gesturing for Perturabo to drop the ball of fat in his hand. "Mortal law is their sole anchor."
There were no fools present; the King of Warriors had made his point abundantly clear. Mortals had their own legal systems; since someone was already handling the matter, there was no need to intervene with higher-dimensional force.
Perturabo glared at the fat in his grip, his gaze almost piercing straight through the man. Taking several deep breaths, he cast him onto the floor like garbage.
His sharp gaze swept across the banquet hall as he commanded the assassin: "Handle them thoroughly. Let no guilty soul escape."
Under the stunned, disbelieving gazes of the nobility, the assassin answered respectfully: "As you command, My Lord."
Even now, the Governor was utterly bewildered: the favorite concubine he had shared his bed with night after night was actually a covert agent sent by Regent Malcador to investigate him.
"Brothers," Perturabo let out a long sigh, "let us leave."
The Primarchs departed from the garden banquet. Before leaving, Russ casually snatched up all the bottles of Argent wine.
Atop the spire dome of the hive city, the biting wind of the stratosphere blew harshly, snapping their Phantasm Cloaks in the gale.
Under a canopy of stars, Luna reflected the brilliance of the sun, and the Imperial Palace shimmered with golden light in the faint moonlight.
The four figures stood at the edge of the hive dome, looking down upon the bustling, lit-up eastern hemisphere of Terra.
With the glittering, golden palace mirrored deep within his eyes, Perturabo glugged down bottle after bottle of wine. Seeing fine liquor wasted like this brought a look of sheer heartache to Russ's face.
Perturabo didn't want to think right now; he just wanted to get himself drunk.
'What on earth had gone wrong with the Imperium of Man?'
He longed to drown his troubles in alcohol, yet a Primarch's physiology made it impossible for booze to take effect, forcing his mind to retrace those agonizing thoughts over and over again.
Right here on Terra, the very ground where his Father's light shone brightest, the mortals beneath the hive could not even catch a glimpse of His glory.
"Brother..." Perturabo called out. The word drifted away with the wind, sounding frail and powerless. Then he asked: "What is it you wanted to say?"
Though he hadn't named anyone directly, everyone present knew exactly who Perturabo was asking.
Blazkowicz raised his wine bottle, offering a silent toast toward the Imperial Palace, and spoke casually: "Do you think the Emperor loves humanity?"
His question caused both Russ and Dorn to perk up their ears, as though even the wind had hushed slightly.
"He does," Perturabo answered without hesitation, his tone resolute. "If He did not love humanity, there would be no glorious Great Crusade, nor would we have been brought into existence."
On this point, Perturabo was absolute. With their Father's immense power, He could easily have ignored humanity altogether, yet He chose to step forward and become the Master of Mankind. If He did not love humanity, He could have simply done nothing.
"Mm," Blazkowicz nodded gently, a smile gracing his face. "Indeed. He loves humanity deeply."
He turned his head toward Perturabo, speaking in a measured voice: "And this answer resolves another question as well."
"We 'are' tools—and that is the firmest proof of His love for humanity."
"He needed reliable tools to accomplish His grand love for mankind, and so He created us."
"You must never confuse the cause and effect here. He loved humanity first, and only then came our creation. It was never a matter of creating us first, and loving humanity afterward."
'CRACK—'
The wine bottle was crushed in Perturabo's grip, the sound of shattering glass drifting away on the wind as red liquor seeped through his fingers.
Once again, he remained silent, yet he gave a heavy nod, acknowledging Blazkowicz's words—that he and his brothers were born from their Father's overarching love for mankind, serving as His most capable instruments.
Faced with the boundless stars, even a being as powerful as the Emperor could not be everywhere at once. He needed sons who inherited His bloodline to conquer the cosmos in His stead.
"His love is far too vast, encompassing the entirety of human existence."
"He does not love you," Blazkowicz said, looking at Perturabo, tapping his own chest before pointing at Russ and Dorn. "Nor does He love me, or them."
His arm dropped, pointing toward the brightly lit sub-continental hive below: "He loves those tens of thousands of souls down there as a whole, not any single individual."
"He knows everything happening on Terra. He knows that most mortals live in a hellscape, and He knows of the nobles' boundless greed and decadence."
"Yet the Emperor loves them all with an impartial, absolute love. He does everything within His power to secure the future of the human race."
"Of course," Blazkowicz looked left and right, taking in his brothers' solemn faces before continuing, "Within that grand love, there is also a sliver of favoritism, simply because we are His sons."
"Yet that favor is limited. He lacks the energy to love every single brother individually, let alone fixate His gaze upon any one person."
As his words were carried off by the wind, Blazkowicz explained the Emperor's abstract love to his brothers in a way they could finally comprehend.
The Emperor was the magnificent Master of Mankind. From the moment He chose to step out from among the masses to shoulder the rise and fall of the entire species, He was destined to no longer possess ordinary personal sentiments.
"I understand," Perturabo let out a low sigh. Taking another bottle of wine from Russ, he mimicked Blazkowicz, offering a brief toast toward the Palace.
"We are... tools..."
Perturabo let out a helpless, mournful sigh. His voice trembled and his face turned pale gray, yet he finally accepted the truth.
Even so, he could never forget the warm, unreserved acceptance and the burning embrace when the Emperor had held him on Telephus.
Seeing his brother hanging his head in defeat, stripped of his former high spirits, Russ clapped a heavy hand onto Perturabo's shoulder and gave it a firm pat.
Russ, for his part, found this realization quite easy to accept. His canine genetic traits made him naturally loyal to the Emperor, obedient to every command.
As for love or lack thereof?
He simply felt the question was far less fierce than Fenrisian spirits, and nowhere near as rich as fine Denurian wine.
Dorn shook his head as well, raising his bottle to toast the Imperial Palace before taking a long, deep swig. He had always exercised strict restraint over his desires; today was a rare moment of self-indulgence.
Being a tool wasn't necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it stripped away needless grief, allowing one to focus entirely on the Imperium's directives.
"Is being a tool really so terrible?" Blazkowicz stood up from the edge of the dome, opening his arms wide as if gathering the entire starry night into his embrace.
His voice echoed thunderingly through the howling wind: "We are tools, yes—but we have been endowed with a great mission!"
"We are unique, magnificent creations, born with an extraordinary purpose, destined to forge monumental achievements beyond the imagination of ordinary men."
"I have never been fixated on bloodlines. Perhaps I once was, but now I have no desire to obsess over that fatherly love."
"Brothers!" Blazkowicz lowered his gaze, his obsidian-black eyes shining with a crystal-clear radiance. "Clinging to petty, individual love narrows our vision and betrays the very mission the Emperor entrusted to us."
Faced with his burning gaze, the three Primarchs instinctively straightened their posture, looking up at the figure standing with open arms.
It was as if he were draped in the night sky itself, shining brilliantly where he stood.
"If we are reliable tools, then let us make the stars tremble! If we cannot claim a fleeting, intangible love, then let us earn the reverence of trillions!"
Beneath the radiant starlight, his declaration possessed a strange magic, seeping bit by bit into their hollow hearts.
Russ's face flushed red, his breath coming in fast, heavy gulps. Dorn's golden eyes burst with light as a surge of emotion made him nod heavily. Perturabo clenched his fists tight as a new purpose slowly took root in his mind.
"Think about it," Blazkowicz didn't stop, continuing to paint a grand picture of the future.
He raised a hand and pointed at Russ, his voice ringing with absolute conviction: "The pack sweeping across the void, carving an illustrious name across countless worlds."
Blazkowicz understood Russ; beneath that wild, savage exterior lay a pursuit far beyond the ordinary. Sure enough, hearing this vision of the future, the Great Wolf slowly opened his eyes, visibly stirred.
Having addressed Russ, Blazkowicz turned his hand toward Dorn: "The indestructible fortresses you build will continue to protect the human race even ten thousand years from now."
Dorn said nothing, silently suppressing the ambition stirred within him, unable to resist imagining the magnificent blueprint his brother described.
"And you!" Blazkowicz fixed his gaze on Perturabo.
Walking his brother through the hive city hadn't been a pointless exercise in inspecting the common folk; it had been a deliberate observation of this newly returned sibling.
From rebuilding the wall in the underhive, to effortlessly cracking the elevator security keys, to his outburst of fury against the nobility... Blazkowicz had realized that Perturabo possessed a talent for creation, as well as the merciful heart to protect the weak.
"The vast knowledge you possess can be used to benefit all of mankind, leading countless souls to sing the name of 'Perturabo' with love and admiration."
"You no longer need to beg for the Emperor's love or attention—because there will 'always' be people who love you, and 'always' people who remember and look up to you!"
'BOOM—!'
It was as if thunder had flashed across the night sky. Perturabo trembled violently, the corners of his eyes reddening slightly as a moist haze swept over them.
"I am grateful to the Emperor," Blazkowicz said with a proud smile, "for granting me the strength to fulfill these grand ideals."
"As a tool, to be born with glory and mission, executing undertakings beyond common imagination!"
"Our extraordinary status has pushed us onto the stage of history. Let us accept our historical destiny with open minds, rather than wrestling with whether we are loved or not, and carry the entirety of the human race forward!"
Blazkowicz tapped his foot lightly against the hive dome beneath them, smiling at Perturabo: "We have the power to change everything we saw today—to shatter suffering and darkness, and create a bright future."
"Provided we hold fast to an ideal. It will sustain us as we march through the dark, all the way to the glorious end."
---
When his voice fell, no one spoke atop the hive dome. Only the roaring wind and the heavy breathing of the Primarchs remained.
Within the rustle of the cold gale, another sound seemed to echo—the rush of blood pumped by mighty hearts, surging wildly through their veins.
The three sat on the ground, fists clenched tight, remaining as unmoving as iron statues.
The future their brother had painted, alongside the heavy destiny resting upon their shoulders, burned like roaring fuel inside their chests, driving their bodies into involuntary, intense tremors.
That future was so grand that it made even genetic Primarchs feel their own smallness, driving them with a fierce desire to reach out and grasp that almost dreamlike reality.
'Tools of the Emperor?'
'Yes! That was an undeniable fact.'
'Yet even tools possessed a great mission—to carve a glorious, indelible mark into the history of this vast universe!'
Perturabo closed his eyes, a tight, forced smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Hearing his brother's clear understanding of himself and his profound reflections on the future, Perturabo felt that his own previous obsessions had been utterly childish.
Atop the dome, Perturabo reached out his hand, his rough palm seemingly capable of touching the starlight in that radiant void across billions of light-years.
Boundless ambition and glory were hidden out there.
"As genetic Primarchs, when we stand in the future and look back at the past, we should not hesitate or wander lost for that unattainable fatherly love—we should be proud of the great cause we created ourselves!"
Perturabo looked at his brother. Blazkowicz was high-spirited and overflowing with grand ambition, entirely unlike his own former pettiness.
Yes, Perturabo now felt only a profound sense of pettiness within himself.
For the sake of that fatherly love, he had used decimation to prove his Legion's resolve, hoping his Father might spare him a single glance. Now that his servile mindset had dissolved, thinking back carefully, turning his entire Legion into a bargaining chip just to court that fleeting attention was truly foolish.
Perturabo could now say for certain that even if he displayed extraordinary resolve, the Emperor would never view him with special regard. In that man's eyes, it was merely a high-level tool sharpening a secondary tool, making the instrument more useful for His own ends.
'But were he and his brothers truly just tools?'
Everything Blazkowicz had said clearly proved that genetic Primarchs were born for a great mission, serving as the Emperor's most effective instruments. Yet his brother, realizing this, had not fallen into despair; instead, he had courageously looked toward the future, shouldering that mission with crystal clarity.
Perturabo gazed at his brother as Blazkowicz spoke passionately, discussing his vision for the future, his eyes reflecting the brilliant galaxy. It was as if in Blazkowicz's eyes, fatherly love and the Emperor's attention were completely secondary to the great cause of human renewal. His brother had never begged for fatherly love; his sight was set solely on the glorious future belonging to humanity.
'When we look back at the past, we should be proud of the great cause we created ourselves...'
Blazkowicz articulated his grand ideals, putting his innermost thoughts before everyone with an open heart. He was not a citizen of Olympia, harboring no greedy demands; nor was he the Master of Mankind, receiving the total devotion of those created.
He was Blazkowicz—their brother by blood.
He treated everyone as equal kin, without any misplaced hierarchy, outlining their self-awareness and the future of humanity. He hadn't directly demanded his brothers do anything; simply voicing these noble ideals stirred a swell of emotion, driving them to imagine that future, drawing their hearts toward him naturally.
Yes, Perturabo could feel his heart beating with a restless impulse. Inside, there was no nauseating feeling of being exploited; a red flame ignited in his heart, making him want to actively participate in the blueprint his brother had drawn—using his gifted talents to personally shape the future that reason and conscience demanded.
This intense sense of mission, this urge arising from deep within, was gradually melting his cold, logical mindset. Driven by a burning heart, he felt an urgent, desperate need to act.
No longer for his Father, but for humanity!
---
The same was true for Russ and Dorn. Though each possessed their own resolve, at this moment, the realization hit them far deeper.
Since his return, Russ had acted according to his Father's commands, leading the Space Wolves across the stars to fulfill his Legion's and his own mission during the Great Crusade. He had long realized that being created by the Emperor meant becoming the edge of the blade in the Master of Mankind's hand; the Wolves would fulfill everything through unyielding loyalty.
To him, apart from loyalty to the Emperor, nothing else mattered. Whether it was Legion honor or external perception, Russ had never cared much, seeking only for his Legion to practice loyalty.
Yet right now, his blood brother was telling him that beyond loyalty to the Emperor, the Legion had another objective: no longer blindly following the Emperor, but reshaping their goals around the inherent mission they were granted, pursuing it with unyielding resolve.
With his brother's guidance, that goal became crystal clear—humanity and its future.
Inside Russ's chest, a heart belonging to the harsh winter of Fenris began to beat with a wild, restless desire.
Dorn was equally shaken. He had finally gained insight into Blazkowicz's inner drive. His brother harbored both personal affection and a grander love—loving his blood kin while caring deeply for ordinary mortals.
Compared to the Emperor's abstract love for humanity, Blazkowicz's love was far more tangible. His goal was simple: through his own efforts, to continuously improve the state of the human race.
It was a simple goal, yet all the more noble for it.
The Emperor had never cared about how mortals lived day-to-day. He only cared that humanity kept moving forward, accepting any sacrifice as long as progress continued.
After hearing his brother's heartfelt words, Dorn remained silent, yet a rare look of deep emotion crossed his face. He was an unyielding rock, yet even his stone heart was shaken.
His conviction to "serve the Emperor faithfully" shifted slightly, taking on a new shade named "the human race." His complete, unreserved faith in the Emperor quietly transformed, giving rise to deeper reflections on the greater good of mankind.
---
Blazkowicz quietly observed the expressions on his brothers' faces, letting out a long breath in his heart.
Bringing his brothers to the hive city had ultimately been aimed at guiding Perturabo, while instilling a few broader concepts along the way. As more brothers returned, Blazkowicz had been forced to abandon his previous neutrality, compelled to unite certain brothers around him.
He had planted a seed called "the greater good" in their hearts, hoping it would take root and sprout.
Blazkowicz lacked the power to reshape all existing perceptions and make all his blood brothers trust him completely. He only hoped that once this seed sprouted, more brothers would break free from individual dependence and stand on the side of the human race.
Yes, Blazkowicz wanted his brothers to stand with humanity, rather than strictly with the Emperor.
While the Emperor represented humanity in certain aspects, the human race was not the Emperor.
If...
A concern lingered in Blazkowicz's heart: if one day in the future, the Emperor stood opposed to the human race, the Primarchs might become accomplices to tyranny through blind faith.
He wanted to make an effort to break his brothers' obsession with the Emperor. He hoped that one day, the war cry of the Astartes Legions would be "For Humanity," directing their absolute resilience toward the whole of mankind rather than a single individual or object.
By standing on humanity's side, they would become natural allies. Blazkowicz disliked forming cliques, yet he could not avoid the natural bonds between people; thus, he sought a different path, finding and forging natural allies who shared a common ideal.
"Standing in the present, we look toward the distant future. We should not commit irrational acts just to compensate for past shortcomings, failing both ourselves and those who love us."
He delivered his final words, turning his gaze toward Perturabo, who sat with his head bowed in silence.
Everything that needed to be said had been said; if his brother still failed to understand, then everything done tonight would be in vain.
Perturabo heard him. He raised his head, staring blankly at the Imperial Palace on Terra.
How could he not know that his brother was doing this for his own good?
The brotherly affection Perturabo felt was unreserved, surging from all sides to envelop him tightly—carrying not only care and love, but a clear articulation of right and wrong.
Bracing his hands against the edge of the dome, Perturabo stood up in the howling wind. The muscles on his face twitched rigidly, forcing a fierce, steel-like smile:
"I was wrong..."
Perturabo looked straight ahead at the shimmering golden palace, convincing himself in a low, heavy tone: "Pleading for expectations is far too humble. I shouldn't have wagered my entire Legion just to gamble for the Emperor's attention."
"He is first the Master of Mankind, then the Emperor, and only lastly our father by blood."
His voice was low, and his sense of relief scattered with the biting wind: "The emotional warmth I craved is something He bestows upon all of humanity."
"Even if He were to cast a glance down at me, His eyes would turn away in the very next instant."
"What was I supposed to do?" Perturabo let out a self-deprecating, cold snort, a bitter twist at the corner of his mouth: "Continue using self-destructive actions to catch His fleeting attention again?"
"And what if even that failed?"
He answered his own question with a light, reflective sense of relief, his tightly furled, thick brows gradually unclenching as he shook his head: "Would my actions have grown even more ruthless, venting my rage upon the entire Legion?"
"I would have..." A long sigh escaped his lips, firm and unshakeable.
Perturabo understood himself all too well. He had simply been caught in an emotional impulse that compromised his judgment. Only now, looking back, did he realize what an utterly foolish thing he had done.
He turned to face Blazkowicz. A complex emotion flickered in his silver-gray eyes as his dry lips twitched, stammering out: "Thank you. If not for you, I don't know what terrible crime I would have gone on to commit."
Perturabo stood rigidly, deeply unaccustomed to offering thanks. On Olympia, he had almost never uttered the words "thank you"—yet here he was, having said them twice in just a few hours.
Faced with his brother's selfless guidance and help, Perturabo had nothing else to offer right now except those words. For the first time in his life, he had received an emotional gift from another that could not be measured by value; he simply did not know how to express his gratitude, and a verbal acknowledgment was all he could manage.
"No thanks are necessary," Blazkowicz said gravely. "Because we are brothers, bound by ties thicker than water."
"The future is long. In our immortal lives, we will walk side-by-side for a very, very long time..."
As he spoke, a warm smile spread across his face, his gaze sweeping over his three brothers: "We ought to watch over and help one another."
"When you need help, do not hesitate to speak up. When facing hardship, do not stubbornly bear it alone."
Blazkowicz's gaze rested on Perturabo, his meaning abundantly clear.
From the very moment he first met his brother, Blazkowicz had been observing him. Perturabo had an awkward disposition—his eyes always held a thousand unspoken words, and he would reach firm conclusions about what he heard in his heart, yet never voice them of his own accord. If this twist in his character went unguided and led to more foolish deeds, the ultimate outcome would leave everyone in regret. Offering a gentle reminder while he was in an emotional lull meant Perturabo could digest it and pay mind to it in the days ahead.
Perturabo nodded heavily, expressing his gratitude in silence.
From the Emperor, he had felt unreserved acceptance; from his brother, he felt genuine care. His shallow emotional experience on Olympia made Perturabo exceptionally cautious, accepting this brotherly affection with delicate care.
"I will stop the decimation," he swore solemnly, looking at Blazkowicz with burning intensity: "I will draft a new plan to reshape the warriors of the Legion, forging them into Iron Warriors who are unyielding inside and out!"
Hearing his response, not only Blazkowicz, but even Russ and Dorn let out a quiet sigh of relief.
The brutal punishment meant for the Legion had finally been stopped. Had Perturabo insisted on carrying it out, they would have been forced to intervene, which would have ended in bitter estrangement. And even if they stopped it this time, what about the next? They couldn't monitor the Fourth Legion indefinitely or step in every time to prevent a tragedy.
Now, with a binding promise that the decimation was called off, the dignity of the Fourth Legion's warriors was finally preserved.
Noticing his brothers' relaxed expressions, Perturabo tightened his fists slightly, belatedly realizing he had gone too far. He exhaled a breath of stale air, his impressive shoulders sagging slightly: in his eagerness to prove himself, he had made an impulsive decision, and naturally, he had to bear the penalty for that impulsiveness.
Yet while making the pledge, Perturabo also felt a sense of relief. Fortunately, his brothers had come to stop his folly before a grand mistake was made, averting an irreversible outcome.
'Sigh...'
The sigh vanished into the wind, and he said nothing more. To put his brothers' minds completely at ease, he needed to achieve the best results with his Legion's reorganization plan, rebuilding the Legion inside and out.
---
The repeated sighs caught Dorn's attention. Furrowing his brows, he asked: "Reorganizing a Legion is crucial. If you need some inspiration, I can offer my assistance."
'Oh, boy!'
The corner of Blazkowicz's mouth twitched. Dorn certainly had a helpful heart, but the conflict and crisis had only just been resolved. What was needed now was a peaceful transition where nature could take its course. Dorn's sudden interjection—what he likely thought was a completely normal suggestion—sounding like something else entirely in Perturabo's ears.
The moment Dorn finished speaking, Russ held back a twitch on his face, squinting one eye as he turned to look at Blazkowicz. Winking frantically, his expression conveyed a message of schadenfreude: 'Dorn means no harm, he's just blunt enough to say whatever pops into his head.'
Blazkowicz shook his head almost imperceptibly—this emotional intelligence was truly tragic.
Sure enough, Perturabo's face went completely dark, nearly merging with the night behind him.
Dorn's intentions might have been good, but speaking up in this context sounded as if he were pointing a finger and asking, 'Are you even capable?'
No genetic Primarch could ever tolerate another interfering with their Legion—even if that person were another Primarch brother! Unless the two shared a close relationship and the request was made voluntarily. But in Perturabo's view, his relationship with Dorn was far from close, nor had he asked for input. Dorn's impatient interjection felt like an insult to his dignity and that of his bloodline Legion.
"That won't be necessary," he rejected the "provocation" with a tense, low voice. Beneath his long robes, his iron fists creaked within his wide sleeves.
Fortunately, the wind atop the dome was strong, carrying away the crisp sound of cracking knuckles.
"Oh," Dorn muttered, sensing the hostility swirling in the wind. His face turned cold as he looked away into the distance.
"Ha~"
"Let's get going," seeing the awkward stand-off between the two, Russ quickly let out a yawn to break the tension: "The matter with the Legion is settled."
His sharp, clawed finger pointed down beneath the dome: "And the business down there is over too."
Within the Primarchs' senses, the last batch of nobles boarded a prisoner transport and departed from the spire helipad toward the Departmento Munitorum's interrogation facilities. The assassin had disguised herself as an attendant, quietly slipping away with them.
"Let's go," Blazkowicz agreed with a nod, leaping straight off the edge of the dome.
The others followed suit, jumping off the spire and driving a single armored hand into the hive's outer wall to decelerate, trailing a shower of sparks and lightning as they plummeted vertically.
---
After they had departed, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the dome. He wore power armor belonging to the Fourth Legion, featuring a stocky build and an unremarkable face.
Standing at the edge of the dome, the icy crystals in the wind clinked against his ceramite plate. Watching the retreating figures of his brothers, he murmured in a low voice: "The ideal of being a tool... and the great mission bestowed upon us."
A smile tugged at Alpharius's lips as he walked elegantly down from the dome to leave, leaving behind no trace unlike his brothers.
The Imperial Palace of Terra stood towering and majestic.
Perched atop the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, it gleamed with golden light under Luna's soft radiance, radiating the glory belonging to the Master of Mankind.
Beneath that brilliance, the palace served as the icy heart of the Imperium of Man, driving this colossal beast of an empire to greedily seize everything within the galaxy.
Backing against the Himalayan mountain range, the palace's Lion's Gate faced east, greeting the rising sun. Though technically called a "gate," it was in truth the primary grand fortress-pass of the Imperial Palace.
Magnificent beyond measure, Lion's Gate stood against the biting plateau winds. Hundreds-of-meters-high walls extended from both sides, undulating continuously like a great dragon crouching among the mountains until disappearing past the horizon.
It was now the hour before dawn. Clusters of lights flickered along the rim of the high walls, casting beams down the hundred-meter drop into the abyss below.
Activity on the ramparts never ceased. Construction machinery turned tirelessly day and night as oversight technicians directed bond-slaves, using smelting rigs to inject adamantium powder into dense gold bricks that constantly raised the wall's height.
While the illumination on the ramparts burned relentlessly, the scene before the gate was a bustling river of traffic.
A straight thoroughfare extended from Lion's Gate, resting upon elevated trestle bridges. Its surface—paved smooth to molecular precision—led straight to the Lion's Gate Spaceport.
Transit between the spaceport and the gate was stratified into several three-dimensional levels.
The upper level was an aerial corridor reserved for the Legions or stellar rulers, allowing high-priority Imperial personages to pass through swiftly.
The middle level consisted of antigrav platforms. Scores of repulsor vehicles crisscrossed back and forth, using both the ornate heraldry of nobility and the austere styling of high officials to jointly express elevated status.
The lowest level was an endless sea of people. Crowding forward until they reached the palace walls, they pressed their foreheads against the golden stone, murmuring prayers and praises to the Master of Mankind.
They were pilgrims who had traveled thousands of light-years from every corner of the galaxy, enduring ascetic suffering just to offer their heartfelt blessings.
---
Off to the side of a dedicated express lane, several tall figures concealed beneath Cameleoline cloaks moved quietly through the dim shadows.
With no major military formations currently stationed on Terra, the scene was managed mostly by roving patrol craft and guard towers lining the thoroughfare. This basic setup made it easy to move unnoticed.
"What are you looking at?"
The giants beneath the cloaks conversed in low, sporadic whispers.
"The wall construction," Perturabo replied, lowering his voice.
"Is there a problem with it?" Dorn asked. The eyes beneath his hood flickered slightly, a quiet pride undercutting his neutral tone.
The Imperial Fists Legion had already assumed control over a portion of the outer works. Sons of Dorn frequently appeared atop the high walls to offer technical guidance.
It was a mark of deep trust from the Master of Mankind—placing the defensive perimeter around the heart of the Imperium in the hands of the Seventh Legion.
"Nothing," Perturabo withdrew his gaze and shook his head slowly, occasionally glancing at the procession of mortals on the central avenue.
He would never admit to Dorn that he wished to participate in the construction of the Imperial Palace.
Nor would he point out that the ratio of adamantium powder to plasticine cement was slightly flawed. Though it wouldn't impact the wall's structural integrity or noticeably alter its finished defensive yield, it fell short of perfection.
Perturabo refused to say a word, let alone offer Dorn a correction.
He quietly filed the detail away in his mind. The day a flaw developed in the wall, he would bring it up openly, brush Dorn and the Imperial Fists aside, and redesign and rebuild the entire Imperial Palace himself.
Hearing his brother's vague response, Dorn lapsed into silence, his hands tightening beneath his cloak.
Perturabo had clearly spotted something; he simply refused to share it with him.
"Do you have a plan for restructuring your Legion?"
As the tension between the two simmered, Blazkowicz's calm voice cut through. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
"I have a few ideas," Perturabo replied softly, raising his head toward the ramparts once more.
Atop the walls, warriors of the Imperial Fists worked meticulously alongside oversight technicians, carrying out technical directives.
Glancing at the silent Dorn, Perturabo said, "Complete annihilation."
"Back on Olympia, I viewed myself as an architect. I couldn't bear to see exquisite city-states ruined by my own hands."
"But now..."
Perturabo let out a cold snort as he stared at the golden walls, a chill gleam flashing in his lead-gray eyes: "I will forge my Legion into pure destroyers!"
The Iron Lord's voice tightened, rustling harshly in the cold air: "With a resolve forged of iron inside and out, we will shatter everything standing in the path of conquest!"
Speaking his mind aloud, Perturabo felt a weight lift from his chest, as if past regrets were evaporating.
Once, he had considered himself a master builder, mourning over the ruins of civilization. Now, that bitter knot of regret no longer choked his heart.
He had thought deeply on the journey back, adjusting his perspective toward the reachable future.
He wanted to smash the remnants of the old world, tear down every obstacle blocking the Crusade's path, and then rebuild new cities and order from the ash.
Destruction before creation!
Grind the old and flawed to dust, then rebuild it as he envisioned.
---
Blazkowicz nodded at his brother's words, sensing the genuine resolve behind them.
In Blazkowicz's eyes, destruction was not inherently bad.
As the Great Crusade pushed forward, countless xenos and holdout factions born of ancient powers resisted. Using absolute force to obliterate them was neither cruel nor barbaric; it was necessary.
Certain threats had to be wiped out with swift, overwhelming power. The Imperium possessed neither the time nor the energy to tolerate greed and decay. Absolute authority was the fundamental theme of the Crusade.
The Imperium's enemies had only two choices: submission or destruction.
Those who submitted were taken over by the Departmento Munitorum, who established planetary governors to collect Imperial tithes.
For those who refused, destruction was the only outcome.
"You will face heavy criticism," Blazkowicz said smoothly, a quiet sigh lacing his words. "From others, and from within yourself."
"Unforgiving destruction invites accusations of cruelty. Doubt and self-reproach will gnaw at your mind."
Blazkowicz swerved around an oncoming vehicle and looked at Perturabo: "Brother, the path you have chosen is far from easy."
"It doesn't matter," Perturabo shook his head, his voice heavy yet unconcerned. "I choose to be a destroyer. Unfavorable views are a trivial price to pay."
"Besides..." a rare note of powerlessness entered his voice, "the choice was never mine to make."
"I was created by Him. I am His Lord of Iron."
Perturabo's eyes remained shadowed beneath his hood, obscuring his expression: "We are His tools. We accept this glory... and this destiny."
"The Imperium cannot wait," the Lord of Iron raised his chin, gazing up at the sea of stars. "He ordered me to lead my Legion deep into the Great Crusade."
"When He brought me back, He made it clear aboard the 'Bucephelus': after the Rangdan Xenocides, too many brother Legions required time to recover. The Fourth Legion must shoulder the burden—maintaining the speed of conquest at any cost."
---
'The Rangdan Xenocides.'
At the mention of the war that had devastated the Imperium, silence fell over the group.
The urgent reality could not be ignored; the Emperor's demands on the Fourth Legion were indeed borne of practical necessity.
"The Rangdan Xenocides... three hundred thousand Space Marines fell, and two Legions were erased," Dorn said softly. Searching his memory, his voice trembled slightly with lingering sorrow: "Two of our brothers... one fell in the Rangdan encirclement, and the other remains missing without a trace."
He stated what was accepted as fact by most of the Imperium, seeing nothing amiss with the statement.
Beside him, Russ—who had remained silent—shuddered. He let out a cold, snarling laugh and turned his gaze toward the pale rim of the horizon.
When the Rangdan war ended, Dorn had been unable to endure Solas's betrayal and Selene's weakness. He had petitioned the Emperor to purge those memories, forgetting his two blood brothers forever.
What Dorn remembered matched the official Imperial records perfectly.
And it wasn't just Dorn. The Emperor had personally altered the memories of the other brothers as well. Aside from a select few, the truth had vanished forever into the depths of memory.
"I mourn the loss of our brothers," Perturabo placed a hand over his chest, feeling a dull ache for their fall. "Yet I missed the Imperium's hour of peril."
"That is why He demands that my Legion and I shoulder these duties while our brothers recover, maintaining the Crusade's momentum at all costs."
"And a conquest at all costs..." He glanced left and right at his brothers, offering a carefully measured conclusion: "...requires a legion of pure iron and blood."
Perturabo said no more.
At times, he could not tell whether the madness of the decimation order had been driven by his own internal craving for recognition or a subconscious urge to obey the Emperor.
Looking back now, he still felt a lingering wave of dread.
When it came to the binding mandate regarding conquest speed, no one could question the Emperor—and even Blazkowicz fell silent.
Unlike his brothers who remained in the dark, Blazkowicz understood far better why the Emperor was so fixated on the pace of conquest: humanity had to conquer the galaxy during this calm window in the Warp storms, gathering resources to drive the Webway Project forward.
For the sake of the Webway Project, the Emperor had to bleed the entire Imperium dry.
He spared no expense, funneling ninety percent of the Imperium's vast resources into the Great Crusade to grasp at a slim chance of survival in the narrowest of windows.
The Rangdan Xenocides had dragged on for an entire generation, forcing several major Legions into a period of recovery to replenish their depleted ranks and war materiel.
Within the Rangdan territories, the Dark Angels and the Ultramarines maintained a constant oppressive presence. While this operation prevented any resurgence of the Rangdan species, it also tied down two of the Imperium's most powerful Legions.
As for the other Legions, each sought their own means to recover their losses.
The Salamanders, Blood Angels, and Iron Hands returned to their homeworlds, while the Space Wolves and Imperial Fists docked at Terra.
After the total war drew to a close, Magnus departed Terra for the Prospero system, setting about the conquest of its neighboring sectors.
In the galaxy as it stood, the Imperium of Man had no full-strength Legions led by their Primarchs in active deployment, save for the Luna Wolves and the Emperor's Children.
The major Legions had suffered catastrophic casualties, while those remaining were bound to their respective duties and could not be redeployed. Though the Imperium had emerged victorious over the Rangdan, it now faced an unprecedented military vacuum.
Perturabo's timely return had indeed resolved a pressing crisis for the Emperor.
By whatever means necessary, He needed the Fourth Legion deployed into the Great Crusade as swiftly as possible to sustain the momentum of conquest.
"A firepower supremacy doctrine?"
Amidst the silent crunch of footsteps, Dorn posed the question abruptly. His golden eyes shifted toward Perturabo, who remained equally silent beside him.
A doctrine of firepower supremacy fit the theory of a destroyer perfectly.
Dorn's tone was somewhat heavy. He had no objection to the role of a destroyer, but he disliked the frequent side-glances Perturabo cast in his direction.
Those dark, unreadable eyes burned with a strange, inexplicable hostility.
Dorn knew not where this enmity originated, nor did he deign to ask, accepting his brother's hostility with total composure.
Most Primarchs were fiercely proud, and hostility from a peer only stirred a sense of aloof pride in Dorn.
'To be unenvied is to be mediocre.'
Even when facing a brother, the proud heart of a Primarch never yielded an inch.
"Yes," Perturabo admitted openly, making no attempt to hide his intentions. "My Legion will thoroughly implement a doctrine of firepower supremacy."
The visible half of his face beneath his hood remained expressionless, yet the eyes shadowed within burned with a terrifying intensity. Raising a massive arm, he hovered his hand over the distant walls of the Imperial Palace, his five fingers clenching into a fist that made the air snap and pop: "With devastating artillery barrages, we will shatter any wall blocking our path—we will crush the enemies of Mankind!"
His voice rang with immense weight, as though pronouncing a solemn judgment.
'A doctrine of firepower supremacy!'
Hearing this, Russ raised an eyebrow. He turned to look at his expressionless yet high-spirited brother, mentally calculating the potential threat level.
As the Emperor's loyal hound, he had to remain ever vigilant toward the other Legions.
A doctrine of firepower supremacy applied to the Fourth Legion posed a formidable threat.
The Fourth Legion's gene-seed possessed an exceptionally high compatibility rate, allowing for a massive force. Paired with a Primarch and potent tactical doctrines, they could rapidly assemble a terrifying power projection.
A colossal Legion combined with heavy firepower—the Fourth's rapid rise was easily foreseeable.
Though war materiel had to be procured through the Mechanicum, Russ believed that in adopting this doctrine, his brother was bound to have made preparations of his own.
Vulkan and Ferrus were prime examples: adept at forging and masterful at crafting wargear, they significantly reduced their reliance on the Mechanicum for supply.
Russ eyed Perturabo intently, mentally marking him as a "high-risk target" before withdrawing his gaze before his brother could notice.
"It suits the Fourth Legion well," Blazkowicz said with a deep nod. Once Perturabo had settled his emotions, the development path he chose aligned perfectly with the Fourth Legion's operational requirements.
While Perturabo himself was a towering figure, the gene-seed of the Fourth Legion not only offered exceptional compatibility, but its inductees also tended to be slightly stockier and shorter compared to those of other Legions once transformed.
High compatibility combined with a dense, solid build made these twin gene-seed traits remarkably suited for trench warfare and battles of attrition.
A doctrine of firepower supremacy—a straightforward, brute-force tactical philosophy seeking ultimate fire saturation—might initially seem ill-suited for the Fourth Legion, but upon closer reflection, it made eminent sense.
The Fourth Legion was not only vast in scale; they were Astartes with two hearts and three lungs.
Nineteen genetic procedures granted these Space Marines the physical capacity to endure the most hostile environments. With their gene-seed infused with the Primarch's divine power, their minds and bodies were forged purely for war.
When a Legion-sized force of Astartes adopted a doctrine of firepower supremacy, they could deliver fire support accurate to the millimeter across any battlefront, shattering enemies entrenched in fortifications with an unrelenting chain of bombardments.
Blazkowicz did not hold back his expectations: "For the Fourth Legion, this is also a bold endeavor."
"You possess ample resolve and talent to reshape the Legion, adapting your Space Marines to your grand design."
Perturabo lowered his arm and glanced at Dorn once more. "The decision is largely made. I will refine it into a concrete framework and personally oversee the Legion's rapid reorganization."
Dorn felt the provocation in his brother's gaze and returned it without hesitation. Their eyes locked, as if sparks might fly between them.
Truthfully, even with a Primarch's superhuman intellect, Dorn could not comprehend why his brother harbored such thinly veiled hostility toward him.
Yet soon enough, Dorn would understand where this malice originated.
---
Noticing the intense glare exchanged between the two, a spark of inspiration flashed through Russ's mind, and a mischievous question surfaced.
He quickened his pace, stepping out in front of his three brothers before turning around to walk backward, facing them.
"Tell me..."
Russ's feral eyes flickered, darting back and forth between Dorn and Perturabo. A wide grin spread across his face, exposing gleaming white fangs before his gaze finally settled on Dorn. "If you were to build a fortress, could it withstand Perturabo's heavy artillery assault?"
"Or rather," Russ added, stoking the flames with obvious glee as he turned to Perturabo, "if you were to set up your siege lines, could you break a fortress defended by Dorn?"
'BOOM—'
It was as if thunder exploded in the empty air. The mortals on the central thoroughfare felt a crushing pressure descend, casting themselves to the ground in terror.
They felt as though an invisible hand were clutching their throats, leaving them unable to breathe!
Unseen by the crowds, the four Primarchs came to a halt, the atmosphere growing suffocatingly tense.
Realizing he had touched a raw nerve, Russ could only manage an awkward grin.
He had meant to stir up a little banter, not ignite two live warheads.
"It could," Dorn answered firmly, without a moment's hesitation, seemingly blind to Perturabo's rigid, pale face.
His confidence radiated brightly, his eyes calm and unruffled, offering a sincere and unwavering response.
Dorn was precisely that kind of man: he spoke what was in his mind, and he acted upon what was in his heart.
As the Primarch of the Imperial Fists, tested by countless battles, he possessed absolute confidence that a fortress built entirely under his direction could never be breached.
The future Fourth Legion might well become powerful, but right now, there was no way they could defeat the Imperial Fists!
Thus, his answer was simple and direct.
Beside him, Perturabo's face darkened so severely it looked ready to drip ink. Beneath his robes, his hands trembled as his breathing grew rapid and ragged.
The disgust in the look he shot Dorn deepened by another margin.
In his heart, Perturabo considered himself a master architect, a role he had actively pursued back on Olympia. He had constructed numerous wonders that enriched the lives of Olympia's people.
Even now, as he prepared to head to the frontlines to act as a destroyer of civilizations, a deep-seated obsession with creation lingered in his soul.
Thus, Perturabo held a special disdain for Dorn, occasionally dwelling on a single thought: 'If Dorn and the Imperial Fists did not exist, would I have been the one stationed on Terra, entrusted with the sole responsibility of building the Imperial Palace?'
It was precisely this lingering thought that gave rise to his natural hostility toward Dorn.
Now, Dorn's unhesitating answer had dragged Perturabo's pride through the mud without a shred of mercy.
"I can!"
To retaliate against Dorn, Perturabo intentionally raised his voice, his answer ringing out with indisputable force.
Sure enough, upon hearing his brother's absolute reply, both Primarchs stood sideways to face each other, their presence flaring up in sharp confrontation, neither willing to yield an inch.
Golden eyes met lead-gray ones, the corners of their eyes reddening slightly, neither man so much as blinking.
The unyielding aura of the two Primarchs caused the surrounding air to stagnate, as if frost were forming in the cold night air.
Thanks to Russ's unintended provocation, Dorn and Perturabo locked eyes, their piercing glares looking ready to bore holes straight through one another!
"This is a meaningless hypothetical."
As tension flared between the two, Blazkowicz stepped into the space separating them, his towering form cutting off their sharp glares.
With their line of sight blocked, Dorn and Perturabo finally looked away, bringing a brief end to their silent clash. Yet their faces remained as cold as stone walls, unyielding as forged steel.
Though both possessed stubborn, reserved temperaments, their strategic doctrines diverged completely—their Legions developing along opposite ends of the spectrum.
Dorn excelled at defensive counter-warfare. The warriors of the Imperial Fists were master builders, erecting fortresses to secure themselves before seeking the vital seam to launch a thunderous counterattack, crushing the foe in a single decisive strike.
Perturabo's devotion to the doctrine of firepower supremacy led him to wield artillery like a maniac with a warhammer, using sheer, unrelenting fire saturation to pulverize everything in his path.
Offense and defense. The spear and the shield.
Regardless of who observed—even the spear and shield themselves—everyone wanted to know whether the tip was sharper or the plate stronger.
Standing between them, Blazkowicz turned his head to glare at Russ, who merely offered a sheepish grin.
---
Perturabo strode forward in silence, his heavy steps declaring his inner resolve without a word.
He said nothing, yet implied everything.
Dorn glanced at his brother's retreating back before catching up, walking silently alongside him. Separated by a few paces, the silent clash of their stubborn pride caused the air between them to hum with tension.
Like silent phantoms, their conflicting auras carved out a suffocating sphere of influence as they swept down the central avenue.
Wherever they passed, pilgrims instinctively trembled, prostrating themselves before the invisible pressure as they bowed and scraped in bewildered reverence.
Mortals could not see the massive figures beneath the cameleoline cloaks, yet they felt the crushing weight of their presence. By the time the shadows passed, the crowds lay limp upon the ground, gasping for air as they tried to steady their hammering hearts.
---
Lion's Gate was colossal. As the primary grand fortress-pass of the Imperial Palace, the area before its adamantium doors was exceptionally complex.
Custodes stood guard here, Lucifer Blacks maintained order, and armored contingents drawn from mortal auxiliary forces were stationed nearby.
Two Emperor-class Titans served as loyal sentinels flanking the gate. Glorious banners fluttered alongside their mechanical frames as their massive heads looked down upon the sea of people, optical sensors sweeping back and forth to log data.
Before Lion's Gate, the stream of pilgrims split.
The dark mass of humanity parted down the middle upon hitting the barrier, surging toward both flanks of the gate.
Taking a step and bowing at every turn, tearful pilgrims knelt weeping before the golden walls, kissing the palace stone as their lips whispered: "Master of Mankind!"
Meanwhile, young hopefuls who had traveled across the stars or braved perilous journeys stood tall, passing trials of endurance as they marched toward the Space Marine recruitment stations.
Amid the crowds, excited sobs and cries of grief intertwined. Some were reborn in tears of joy, while others collapsed silently into death.
For many, the moment they reached Lion's Gate marked the fulfillment of their life's purpose. They drew their final breath and passed away peacefully, arms crossed in the sign of the Aquila.
Life beneath the walls unfolded in every conceivable form: soldiers dragged away corpses while women gave birth to children of the pilgrimage; Arbitrators apprehended criminals while Custodes distributed bowls of gruel.
---
Suddenly, the Custodes paused their duties and looked in unison toward one side of the thoroughfare.
To mortal eyes, there was nothing there, but the Emperor's loyal guards detected an anomaly.
As the morning sun evaporated the dew, subtle distortions flickered within the mist.
It was a barely perceptible trace—invisible to ordinary humans, yet unable to escape the all-seeing eyes of the Adeptus Custodes.
Fifty meters!
The Custodes brought their Guardian Spears to bear, the crackle of disruption fields startling the crowd as soldiers snapped to alert.
In an instant, arrayed weaponry leveled toward the mist, poised to sound the intrusion alarm.
"No need for alarm."
A heavy voice echoed as massive hands pulled back a hood, revealing an imposing, radiant face.
The Custodes raised a hand, signaling the defensive units to lower their weapons.
---
'Clatter—!'
Recognizing the face of a Primarch, the mortal guards fell to their knees, crossing their arms over their chests as they performed the Aquila with trembling reverence.
"My Lord Primarch!"
The cry echoed like a crack of dawn thunder, shattering the morning quiet and rousing the surrounding pilgrims.
They rushed to kneel, offering profound homage to the glorious figure, inhaling the very air he breathed as they basked in the reflected light of the Emperor's son.
Dorn gave a terse nod, pulled his hood back over his face, and melted away from the worshipful gazes of the crowd.
A Custodian opened a side hatch, withdrawing his gaze from the Primarch. The guards could clearly sense that at least three other individuals accompanied the Regent of Terra.
Who were these tall figures traveling with the Primarch?
For the Custodes, the answer was self-evident without a second thought.
Rather than kneeling, the Custodes bowed respectfully to the Primarchs, watching the direction of their departure before slowly sealing the hatch shut.
Whatever the Primarchs were doing was not for them to question. The fact that the Primarchs had not hidden their presence from the guards was already the highest mark of respect extended to the Custodes.
---
Once inside Lion's Gate, Perturabo boarded a shuttle and departed to oversee his Legion's reorganization. He was pressed for time; every moment counted.
Dorn turned and climbed the battlements, intending to patrol the construction sites under his cameleoline cloak to ensure no overseers were cutting corners or neglecting the palace fortifications.
Russ accompanied Perturabo, as the Sixth Legion's garrison was not far from the Fourth's, making it convenient to travel together.
Left alone, Blazkowicz concealed his form and wandered casually through the Imperial Palace.
The Imperial Palace of Terra was far more than a mere palace. It was the largest architectural complex on the planet, spanning the entire Qinghai-Tibet Plateau—far exceeding the scale of any conventional city, resembling an entire continent draped over a mountain range.
Nor was it merely a colossal urban sprawl; it contained all fundamental infrastructure, functioning as a massive hive home to hundreds of billions.
Though situated within the outer ring of Lion's Gate, the residents here were far from ordinary.
Commoners were practically nonexistent; the enclave was populated by noble dynasties, where even the servants tending the gardens were cadet offspring of lesser houses.
Blazkowicz observed a noble matriarch.
Taking advantage of the morning light, she stepped out from her estate draped in a veil of white as sheer as dawn mist, walking barefoot down the avenue.
Surrounding nobles bowed as she passed, murmuring prayers to offer blessings for the infant in her arms.
It was a farewell ritual. The baby girl she carried might survive alchemical modification to one day join the Adeptus Custodes.
Dressing in pure white for the send-off signified that the child in her arms no longer belonged to her bloodline. For the remainder of her life, the child's existence belonged solely to the Master of Mankind.
Blazkowicz followed the matriarch at a distance, watching as she placed the child into a Custodian cradle before departing in tears.
The handover took place without witnesses.
After a long silence, the infant's cries grew faint until stopping altogether. A Custodian emerged from the shadows and carried the cradle away. The Custodian knew nothing of the girl's past and would ask no questions; the noble family would never know who took the child, nor would they ever seek a reunion.
Exemplary children of noble bloodlines served as one of their minor tributes to the Emperor. Once offered, those children retained no connection to their families of origin.
They arrived with nothing, and once forged into ultimate human specimens by the Emperor, they offered their lives—and everything that followed—entirely to the Master of Mankind.
---
Having witnessed the Custodes' dedication ritual, Blazkowicz quietly departed.
The origins of the earliest Custodes were shrouded in mystery. Legend had it that before the unification of Terra, the Emperor personally traveled to distant corners to seek out candidate bloodlines.
Constantin Valdor was one such powerhouse found by His hand.
From the Unification Wars to the present day—as the Imperium's domain expanded and practical demands grew—the recruitment process for the Custodes had evolved.
The Emperor had launched His campaign from the Himalayas. Weak local factions had submitted willingly, becoming nobility elevated by His decree, and the candidates for the Custodes were subsequently supplied by these families.
It served as a reward of sorts—the Master of Mankind's acknowledgment of their timely submission.
---
Over the days that followed, Blazkowicz wandered aimlessly through the palace grounds.
At times, he looked out over Terra from the heights of the Astronomican, taking in half the world at a glance; at other times, he frequented the various hives, observing how the gangs and guilds navigated survival.
In the subterranean residential sectors beyond the palace walls, he caught sight of surviving Thunder Warriors.
Whether out of lingering concern or precautionary vigilance, a disguised Custodian kept watch over their lives from the shadows.
'The Thunder Warriors.'
Junior had once detailed their legendary exploits—key architects of Terra's unification.
Regrettably, birthed to fulfill an urgent need, the Emperor had disregarded their genetic stability, treating them as disposable tools.
The Thunder Warriors were more savage and formidable than Space Marines, yet their genetic modifications and mental states were volatile in the extreme—prone to violent psychological breaks and horrific physical mutations.
In the Emperor's grand design, they were built for obsolescence.
Unlike the Astartes, the Thunder Warriors could not adapt to the demands of the Great Crusade, and so they were destined to be phased out of history.
Back when the Imperium had yet to reach the stars, the Emperor had taken the time to plan the fate of the Thunder Warriors. Even with their volatility, they might have been allowed to await death on Terra.
Yet they chose rebellion, ultimately meeting their end in a purge led by the Custodes and the First Legion.
Junior had openly admitted that during the final battle of the Unification Wars—Ararat—he had led his fellow Destroyer Marines in executing the purge against the Thunder Warriors.
The rebels were slaughtered down to the last man, though those who fled or abstained from the uprising were left unpursued by the Emperor.
---
Of course, Blazkowicz's aimless strolls were not entirely devoid of purpose.
He established contact with the Alpha site to update intelligence, checked in on the progress of Perturabo's reforms, and purged several Chaos cults hiding in the depths of the lower hives.
Even on Terra—where the Emperor's light shone brightest—Chaos remained rooted in the misery of the underhives; unable to grow into a true threat, yet impossible to fully eradicate.