"Court dismissed!"
Clatter.
The resonant cadence of armored footsteps rang out before the Plaza of Proclamation at the Imperial Capital's Grand Palace. The towering palace gates—so tall their proportions seemed distorted—were pushed open by pairs of powerful hands. The enormous gilded doors, engraved and painted in radiant gold—no, calling them mere doors would be inaccurate. They were more like walls—groaned with solemn, muffled creak creak sounds under the structural pressure deliberately preserved within their design.
The metallic echoes, sharp as clashing halberds and battle-axes, reverberated through the silent and austere court like ceremonial cannon fire. Gongs and drums seemed to resound in spirit, injecting a measure of life and liveliness into halls that had long remained magnificent yet deeply quiet.
When the Astartes Legion Masters, led by the three founding heroes—Budo, Leiva, and Alex—stepped out of the main hall of the Proclamation Palace under the escort of the Imperial Guard clad in resplendent golden armor, sashes draped across their shoulders, laurel plumes adorning their helms, and wine-red sable cloaks flowing behind them, they came to a halt upon the heavenly stairs paved in white marbel. In that instant, the plaza below rang with the sharp sound of weapons being brought to ready.
Across the palace square, honor guards from the various Astartes Legions struck the butts of their weapons against the ground three times before standing at attention, arms held firm, paying respect to the Legion Masters at the summit of the celestial steps.
The Sangheili Honor Guard, the Protoss Honor Guard, the Winged Folk Honor Guard, the Dragonkin Honor Guard, the Abyssal Demon Honor Guard... powerful and legally recognized alien species from across the Sacred Selene Empire's vast territories—under heaven and across the seas—also solemnly rendered their armed salute.
Budo paused at the head of the stairs, his gaze settling upon the iron-silver phalanx representing the Second Punishers Legion. His cold, razor-sharp eyes swept across the young halberdiers selected from his own ranks.
A few seconds later, the stern lines of the Lord of the Punishers softened slightly. "Passable, you brats." Turning his head toward his colleagues—who were almost perfectly synchronized in examining their own legions' next-generation reserve officers—he forced a faint smile and inclined his head.
"Gentlemen, since Her Majesty's sacred decree has descended and we have received grace along with weighty duties, we must honor the command and carry it out. The court session has ended. This old man still has legionary campaigns and military affairs awaiting him. I shall depart the capital at once."
"When we next gather, I will host personally. We drink without restraint."
With that, the Second Legion Master cupped his fists in farewell, swept his cloak aside, and strode down the imperial steps toward the palace gates.
Alex, First Legion Master, exchanged a glance with Leiva of the Third Legion. Both wore faint smiles of familiarity.
"General Budo remains as disciplined and exacting as ever. Senior Leiva, allow me to offer congratulations. I heard that Her Majesty previously made a private visit to your legion and even stayed several nights at the garden world-palace you constructed?"
"Haha... blessed by Her Majesty's affection. Alex... the drive of youth truly puts pressure on an old man like me."
"..." Alex brushed back his pale golden bangs and rubbed his forehead in silence. I'm such a fool, truly. Knowing Senior Leiva's personality, I shouldn't have asked.
You're showing off, aren't you? You definitely are.
"Senior Leiva, now that you've returned to the capital, are you planning to rest for a while—"
"Not resting," Leiva replied with a smiling stroke of his mustache, cutting him off in advance.
"Ah?"
"Aren't you the same?"
Leiva patted the lion-shouldered pauldrons of his junior's snow-carved armor. "General Budo can't wait to leave and develop the new power granted by Her Majesty. How can we afford to fall too far behind? The 'Limiter'—who knows what kind of vast difference it may create while I'm dozing?"
After exchanging a few brief words with Legion Masters such as Perturabo, Jaghatai, Robert, and Lorgar, Leiva waved without turning back, his violet-gold cloak trailing behind him. "Until next time. I'm off."
"Sanguinius, Rogal, Leman Russ, Curze, Horus... we'll talk when there's a chance."
"It seems none of us can hold back from developing and realizing the power bestowed by Her Majesty. Very well—let's make it interesting. After leaving the capital this time, let's compete. Once we return to our respective domains, whose troops will improve more? Starting from the moment we arrive, whoever achieves the highest comprehensive conquest efficiency wins."
Sanguinius laughed heartily.
His pristine white wings unfurled in a graceful sweep. His simply arranged golden hair shone with translucent radiance, purer than gold itself. With a casual gesture, he plucked a glittering crystal flower from thin air and blew it lightly like a blessing over the Legion Masters' supreme armor.
"The winner hosts. I'll coordinate with General Budo. A fixed format would be dull. Let's keep some suspense."
The Archangel spread his hands with a smile, adding one final remark. The genuine warmth in his luminous eyes diminished the competitive edge to its lowest point, preserving both amusement and camaraderie.
"Fine, fine... Every time we gather, it's either in the territories of you founding three, or in Robert's domain, or right here in the capital. You really should visit my World Eaters' dominion. It has its own unique charm. I guarantee you'll be captivated."
"Angron, visiting your artless war domain, I wouldn't be surprised if you made us tour gladiator pits or Titan war machines."
"Hah. Curze, that's still better than your place being run out of a prison."
...
Amid mutual teasing, Selene's Legion Masters embraced one another. In the cheerful atmosphere, more than a dozen towering figures standing at the pinnacle of the Empire's military authority descended the heavenly stairs in lively conversation.
Left behind were the Imperial Patriarch and his extended family from the A—13 Grand Sector Governorate (40K), staring at one another.
"Father, is this what you once hoped we would become?"
Guilliman's expression was complex. Anger flickered across his face, along with regret, remembrance, and even envy.
Murmuring softly, his gaze drifted toward the imperial avenue at the center of the plaza—toward the Legion Master of Selene's Divine Heralds.
As if sensing the stare, Lorgar turned and offered Guilliman a friendly smile, inclining his head gently.
"..." Guilliman returned the gesture.
This scene was far too warm and radiant. For him, it was dazzling to the point of unreality.
Back in his home universe, he had encountered only one or two Imperial Astartes Legion Masters at a time. After changing banners, he had been assigned to the Thirteenth Ultramarines Legion here, serving another "himself," Robert—acting as aide, administrator, chief of staff, and head of reserve construction departments...
Thus, he had not interacted much with his genetically different "brothers." So when he witnessed this other side shaped by Honkai—when he saw his gene-brothers gathered together in such plain, natural harmony—he was entranced.
"Perhaps."
The Emperor, increasingly serene in bearing and clad in a pure white Roman-style toga, stood upon the steps with a distant expression.
"I once wished to keep you all by my side. To raise you, to teach you, to let you grow together."
"And to have you become my support."
He said.
"But you know this well—the malice from the Sea of Souls exploited that pitiful 'mother's' maternal love. Her selfish and misguided psychic assault destroyed your cradle. You, still in swaddling clothes, were cast across the galaxy, scattered among worlds steeped in suffering and torment, separated by astronomical distances."
The Emperor's gaze swept across the varied expressions of his surviving gene-sons. "Sigh..." he exhaled softly.
"Prophecies shift constantly. Every second branches into infinite possibilities. There are too many uncertain factors in the future. A prophecy may be trusted, yet never wholly believed. Erda—the maternal source of the Primarch embryos—why could you never understand that..."
Whatever his original intentions—whether to raise them as weapons, politicians, generals, or chancellors—the outcome afterward was undoubtedly far worse than even the most dreadful scenario Erda had imagined in her self-hypnosis and self-induced fear.
Number Eight, who grew up gnawing on the flesh of the dead in darkness. Number Twelve, fitted with the Butcher's Nails. Number Fourteen, cast upon a death world ravaged by Nurgle's plague. Number Fifteen, raised in a lawless psychic world founded by refugee psykers. Number Seventeen, grown amidst a fanatical religious world polluted by the corruption of Chaos...
What loving mother would ever be so cruel?
They were, without question, the direct products of this tragedy.
Had they grown at the Emperor's side—especially during the early years when he still had time, when he was willing to outwardly display emotion and fatherly affection—would he truly have treated his gene-sons in such a manner?
Alas, there are no ifs.
"Perhaps if I hadn't grown up in that damned environment on Fenris, I might've turned out a bit cleaner."
Urged on by another version of himself—and thoroughly defeated—he had been forcibly shorn, washed, groomed, and subjected to a degree of personal upkeep. His hair and beard now shone smooth and glossy, free of tangles, sour wine stains, and food scraps. Even his armor gleamed anew, as though he had undergone a luxurious full-body treatment. Refreshed and radiant, Leman Russ of Fenris muttered under his breath.
"They call them Space Wolves, but their pups aren't wild enough. Sure, they love long beards, big bites of meat and deep draughts of ale. Sure, they favor hunting feasts and decorating themselves with the fangs and pelts of savage beasts as trophies of strength. But they're too... orderly. Too clean."
After struggling to find the right words, he finally gestured vaguely to emphasize his point.
Isn't that a good thing?
The Primarchs, remembering all the times they had to clean up after the Wolf Legion's excesses, cast sidelong glances at the Wolf King of Fenris, Leman Russ. The Wolves of the Sacred Selene Empire were practically the wolves of their dreams.
In comparison, your Fenrisian wolves were little more than a band of ruffians.
"It's just... not the same flavor."
Just as the Primarchs began sharing their experiences from the legions of their alternate "selves," the Emperor spoke softly once more. "Enough."
"Lion, Dorn, Russ..." He gently rested a hand upon his sons' shoulders.
"Do not belittle yourselves. What is past is past. Here, you have new lives. New missions..."
He raised the bestowed object in his hand—a cube suffused with colorless, faintly shimmering light, speckled within as though containing innumerable possibilities and branching veins.
"A crystallization of manifested law. The 'Limiter'... Her Majesty Selene has granted me a measure of discretion. You—and the successor chapters born of your bloodlines—I will select suitable candidates and bestow upon them Selene's grace."
"My sons, this is no time for complacency."
...
"The stage has been set. It is time, for the Empire and for myself, to sound the symphony called 'Limiter.'"
"The dream of ascension, where every man becomes as a dragon."
Slender, nimble fingers held the cluster of special law-veins extracted from Saitama and from the universe of his homeland. Corroded and assimilated by the creative power of Honkai, refined and sublimated, then abstracted and manifested into the cubic seed of the 'Limiter,' Selene stood beneath the grand throne at the far end of the great hall, an anticipatory smile curving her lips.
"I will not eradicate you, my predecessor—the 'Elder' of realms. Will you assimilate me, or will I supplant you? All remains within the rules. A duel or a tug-of-war? It matters little. Fate only loves those who understand that fate itself will stir waves—and yet still choose to resist."
"My move."
Selene gazed toward the open palace doors.
At the far edge of her vision, her masterpieces—each ruling a domain, each possessing strength, authority, and status worthy of pantheon sovereigns—'God of Thunder,' 'God of War,' 'God of Punishment,' 'Wolf Shepherd God'—the Lords of the Astartes departed the capital one after another, spreading the will of the Divine Empress to the four corners.
Through them—their warriors, their territories, their slaves, their enemies in conquest—across worlds countless as grains of sand, through innumerable high and low lifeforms, all would exert their utmost subjective initiative. With their finest facets, they would optimize, encompass, explore, and manifest every possible potential of Selene's Honkai-ascended 'Limiter'!
Night descended.
Beneath a sky radiant and pure as molten gold, Selene beheld the stirring of the Honkai Dimension's womb—that was new gestation...
Its intangible roots spread outward with every Honkai believer, extending toward the ends of their respective possibilities—some insignificant, some vast beyond measure—searching, racing like lightning, halting abruptly...
Yet never-ending!
"Honkai. How wonderful."
...
"War is truly awful. And this so-called trial to gain Honkai's recognition... that's awful too."
With the campaign in the current star system finally concluded in broad strokes, an utterly exhausted and battered Tony Stark limped toward the returning shuttle under the support of a servo-skull attendant. His Mark 47.5 Iron Man armor was in no better shape than its wearer. Sparks sputtered from multiple ruptured sections, and several dents were so severe they were horrifying to behold.
Judging by the patchwork, he had nearly been punched clean through.
Yes. After regaining consciousness a second time in the field hospital, Stark had once again been revived by medics. Following rudimentary treatment and stabilization, he had been promptly kicked back into the fortress ruins by the frontline commander to continue urban clearance operations.
If this was meant to be some kind of devil's training week, Stark would admit—they were indeed devilish.
The result was that, in the underground confined sweeps, he had once again nearly been killed by a Super-Skrull warrior.
While rescuing a mutant soldier whose shoulder had been half-severed by the surprise strike of a Super-Skrull's thermal blade, Stark had been impaled clean through the abdomen. His spine was damaged. For a moment, he truly believed he was finished.
It was that beautiful medic in a British red uniform who saved him.
Compared to the universe, Earth was still far too naive.
Stark let out a soft sigh.
Removing his battered helmet, he gazed out through the porthole.
The stars filled the heavens like a painting—beautiful beyond words—revealing to Stark the true face of the cosmos.
Beneath the rising "meteors" that followed the shuttles and transport craft in their wake, the battlefield he left behind—the once lush Skrull military homeworld—had already become a burning, smoking sphere of molten ruin.
And this was only the beginning.
"Recruits, congratulations. You've survived the first ordeal—and the deadliest one. The second round will make the trial routine. Are you ready?"
—
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