"Rest in peace!"
Lion raised his spear with trembling hands, his voice raspy and choked with grief. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth clenched tight.
Faced with the grave sin of kinslaying, the fearless Lion trembled all over, gasping to maintain his composure.
"It is fine," Solas said, his voice magnanimous. "When I passed the first piece of Imperial intelligence to the Rangdan, I already foresaw my end."
"Do not hesitate, and do not grieve."
"Think of the mortals who died indirectly by my hand." Solas almost seemed to smile, filled with the lightest sense of relief. "I have nothing else to offer in amends, save for this life."
"After I pass, please cast my body into the light of a star."
Hearing his fallen brother's desire for death, Lion nodded heavily and took several deep breaths to steady his trembling body.
The Spear of Dionysus rose, executing a few circles in his grip to trace a graceful flourish.
He would deliver the most beautiful strike to allow his brother a swift release from the cold gloom of death.
Golden light traced a magnificent arc—a peak thrust fusing skill and power in perfect union. Lion achieved the absolute best he could offer.
The Spear of Dionysus descended, piercing the center of the dark silhouette's brow, ending his brother's agony in the swift manner possible.
"Thank you."
Before his consciousness slipped into darkness, Solas's voice bore no pain, conveying only ease and serenity.
A dense aura of life dissipated rapidly, power draining from the Primarch's frame. The ultra-strong self-healing capacity that mended his wounds ceased alongside his dying consciousness.
Solas was dead.
Solas had finally escaped the entangling web of hatred, resting peacefully surrounded by his brothers.
Lion pulled out the spear, cast it toward Leman Russ in disgust, and stared at his hands stained with his brother's blood, his face hidden in shadow with an unreadable expression.
Despondent, he stepped aside, his body so devoid of strength that he nearly tumbled into the crater.
Blazkowicz knelt, working alongside Guilliman, Dorn, and the others to wrap Solas's remains tightly within a cloak.
Two hammer handles were inserted into the gaps of the cloak, placing the body upon a makeshift stretcher. Ferrus and Vulkan, along with Dorn and Guilliman, lifted the remains and walked back along the path they came.
No one spoke throughout the entire process; sorrow compressed into a dead silence, weighing heavily upon the hearts of the Primarchs.
Selene walked parallel to the stretcher, holding the bone scepter high, chanting the requiem pastoral songs passed down by the steppe priests to bid farewell to the soul of their departed kin.
At the same time, within the pyramid sanctuary of the Blackstone Fortress, the Emperor returned from the Warp.
He held a soul in both hands, an unusual display of grief veiled beneath golden light: "When the Great Crusade concludes, I will mend you."
When the Primarchs emerged from the barrier, the Wolf King marched at the head of the procession, raising high the blood-stained golden spear—he had executed the Rangdan commander.
"Victory!"
Legion warriors fell to their knees before the Primarchs, shouting victory at the top of their lungs, singing praises to the great triumph of the Primarchs.
Like the receding tide of an ocean, the crowd knelt sequentially to pay tribute to the great Primarchs. Even the proud Knight armors knelt upon the ground.
Mortals bowed their heads and wept, hot tears falling like torrential rain tapping against the silent earth.
They had achieved an unimaginable, glorious victory!
Ferrus stepped out from behind Russ, gripping his brother's raised arm, and roared: "Reorganize for seven Terran days, then strike into the Rangdan domains!"
"Our enemy has collapsed! Pursue the victory and eradicate this abominable alien species!"
"Attack! Attack!"
Space Marines and mortals raised their weapons high, unleashing a roar of vengeance that pushed morale to its absolute zenith.
The sheer depth of accumulated hatred from fifteen years of attritional warfare was immense.
A single spark was all it took for the igniting fires of revenge to scorch the inner territories of the Rangdan Empire.
The warriors now harbored neither fear nor reverence in their hearts.
Victory swept away the gloom.
The xenos host had been defeated in open battle, their remaining military strength reduced to less than one percent, leaving them powerless to stop the vengeance fleet from entering their core territories.
In the ensuing counteroffensive, human victory was an absolute certainty.
The Primarchs departed aboard shuttles, several brothers transferring to warships to approach the high-temperature zone of the pulsar.
They held a simple funeral, honoring the wish by casting Solas's body into the pulsar.
Under a surface temperature of ten million degrees, even a Primarch's body burned to a handful of ash in moments.
With virtually no delay, the fleet reformed after its brief respite, entering the Warp channels at the Mandeville point to surge toward the Rangdan inner domains.
The flames of war reignited.
This time marked the vital shift for humanity: moving from passive defense in the First Rangdan War, to the stalemate early in the Second Rangdan War, and finally to active offensive operations.
The fleet blotted out the void as the Primarchs led the massive armada to launch a comprehensive purge against the Rangdan.
Indeed, a purge.
The population within the Rangdan Empire was desolate, resources severely depleted, and world after world plummeted into widespread famine.
Deprived of Rangdan psychic command, the slave races offered no resistance whatsoever.
As subordinate species beneath the Rangdan, they possessed neither the understanding nor the authority to utilize the technological relics left behind before the main Rangdan forces fled.
They were primitive creatures, attempting to arm themselves with autogun weaponry to resist human ground forces.
The outcome was obvious: humanity wasted no time.
Except for Rangdan supply hubs and resource worlds—where humanity deployed ground forces to launch landing operations and seize strategic material—every other world was subjected to total purge.
Orbital bombardments, virus bombs, cyclonic torpedoes. The human fleet deployed every means of extermination to thoroughly cleanse the Rangdan infection.
Hive cities burned; vaults of knowledge were destroyed.
Everything pertaining to the Rangdan—military, political, cultural—was entirely erased, leaving no possibility for a resurgence.
The human fleet pursued a singular goal: after this campaign, the existence of the Rangdan species would no longer serve as a nightmare for human descendants.
The only place they would exist was within the official written records of the Imperium.
The flames of war spread across all fronts. Southeast of Greater Ultramar, across half the Eastern Fringe, the brilliance of stellar destruction erupted continuously.
In the dense core zones of the Rangdan, the Adeptus Mechanicus triggered supernovas, utilizing gamma rays to annihilate vast regions spanning tens of light-years.
The Imperium committed immense manpower and material resources to conduct dragnet searches, hunting down every lost world of the Rangdan.
The Great Purge lasted for five years, with the majority of the Imperium's military strength active inside the territories of the Rangdan Empire.
The defensive ring of the Rangdan homeworld was shattered by the war belt. Lion led the Dark Angels Legion in a boarding action, dragging the final Rangdan Overlord—the Peacemaker—from the species' sacred temple.
It did not struggle; it did not resist.
It allowed itself to be humiliated by humanity, acting as if it were the gravedigger for the Rangdan Empire, quietly awaiting the total extinction of its species from the galaxy.
A temporary tribunal tried the Peacemaker, binding it to a pyre where, under the gaze of the masses, it was burned to death with white phosphorus.
The overlord species that originated from the azure ocean ultimately fell at the hands of humanity, bringing an end to a terrifying reign birthed from psychic corruption.
The majority of the Imperial fleet continued the purge operations.
The Adeptus Mechanicus construction fleet from Mars shipped building materials from the Solar System to prepare for a grand celebration.
Mechanicus Arks dropped virus bombs, setting the oceans of the Rangdan homeworld ablaze.
When the flames subsided, the birthplace of the Rangdan was left as nothing more than a yellowed, rugged landmass.
Scattered across the stars, the remnants of the Rangdan suddenly sensed the tragedy, an uncontrollable sorrow surging from deep within their hearts.
The sea of origin had evaporated; the symbol of the Rangdan was gone.
With the death of their homeworld, the Rangdan lost their species anchor, becoming aimless wanderers.
From this moment forth, they belonged to the cold void, entering an eternal exile.
Deprived of their homeworld, the very concept of the Rangdan began to slowly fade from the galaxy; they would never rise again among the stars.
Humanity cared nothing for this, welcoming the outcome instead.
Working without pause, the Mechanicus used construction materials brought from humanity's home system to rapidly terraform the environment and prepare the celebration.
They had to be fast; time waited for no one.
The Emperor and the Primarchs—those great individuals—could not rest for even a moment.
With the Great Crusade in full swing, Space Marine Legions usually departed immediately once a local Rangdan purge was completed.
The Supervising Magos calculated the timeline so that, at a precise juncture, the Emperor and all participating Primarchs would gather at the celebration.
One year after the engineering project began, the Great Purge of the Rangdan territories neared its end.
Ferrus detached a fleet from the purge operations, making haste toward the Rangdan homeworld to stage a grand victory parade.
At the same time, the Emperor issued personal invitations to the Primarchs, summoning them to attend the commemoration of the Rangdan War.
"The Emperor invites you to attend the victory celebration of humanity's campaign against the Rangdan."
Inside the reception hall of the 'Royal Majesty', the Custodes honor guard stood in rigid formation, looking magnificent in their ceremonial attire.
At the head of the formation, the envoy held a parchment invitation in both hands, presenting it to the King of Warriors.
An honor envoy of the Night Watch stepped forward, executing a solemn martial salute before accepting the invitation from the Imperium of Man.
Beside the throne, the vox-attendant chanted aloud, using ancient verse to proclaim the contents of the invitation.
This was a formal ceremony conducted with the highest protocols of diplomatic etiquette.
One sovereign leader had invited another.
Though the Stars of Nul and the Imperium of Man were close strategic partners, they remained two distinct sovereign entities.
Certain special events required the issuance of formal invitations.
"The senior leadership of the Legion and the Night Watch shall accompany me to the Rangdan homeworld."
At a delicate juncture before the close of the Rangdan War, the main forces continued along their designated routes to execute the Great Purge.
Concurrently, by order of the Emperor, the Primarchs returned to the Rangdan homeworld ahead of schedule to prepare for the victory celebration.
When Blazkowicz arrived at the Rangdan homeworld, the azure ocean world had vanished. The once-beautiful archipelagos were transformed into new mountain ranges.
The planet's surface displayed an eerie, earthen yellow, as though silently voicing a grievance against the ruin of the Rangdan civilization.
The mechanical constructs of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Titans were still at work, tearing down Rangdan ruins and crushing the remnants of the alien civilization into dust to pave the foundation for humanity's triumph.
The celebration zone was situated on the former site of the Rangdan sacred temple, now altered beyond recognition.
Harnessing immense mechanical power, the Adeptus Mechanicus had constructed an unprecedentedly magnificent structure to showcase humanity's unprecedented achievements.
Across the surface of the earthen-yellow planet, a central avenue ran along the equator, designed to display the parade forces.
The central avenue was ten kilometers wide, its length still expanding as construction stretched toward the horizon.
The avenue's foundation was bone-white; the Adeptus Mechanicus had incinerated multiple Rangdan hive worlds, casting the alien bones into bricks to lay a bone-white roadbed.
The surface pavers were dark bluish-black, remolded from the dismantled sacred halls of the Rangdan. They now served as a walkway for humanity to tread upon at will, bearing the merits of the victors.
Along the outermost edge of the road, the Titan Legions stood like solemn sentinels in immaculate formations.
One layer inward, mortal armored formations assembled in blocks. The soldiers, faces lit with joy, repainted their vehicles to welcome the grand celebration.
One layer further inward, various Space Marine vehicles were arrayed across land and air in vast diversity.
Legion warriors had set aside their power armor, wearing informal attire as they worked alongside mortals to maintain the vehicles participating in the parade.
On the inner side of the avenue, open zones were marked off with lines; on the day of the ceremony, these areas would be packed with honored soldiers.
In the innermost area, personnel from various legions coordinated alongside members of the Custodian Guard, clearly reserving positions for the honor guards of each legion.
Down the middle of the avenue stretched a thousand-meter-wide red carpet, brought from the Terran Court and hand-sewn by female artisans. The carpet featured a base of the most brilliant crimson, embroidered with gold thread depicting every battle of survival since the birth of the Imperium.
On the day of the celebration, the most honored war heroes would walk across it, receiving the blessings of billions.
At the far end of the long red carpet lay a massive square plaza, its foundation crafted from obsidian with gold flooring interspersed throughout.
The sheer grandeur of the plaza could only be fully appreciated from planetary orbit.
Upon the bone-white square plaza, pure gold flooring assembled into the Imperial Aquila. At its chest, pigeon-blood rubies were inlaid to form the mark of destruction, symbolizing victory.
As for the structure at the end of the Avenue of Victory, it remained unfinished, covered by a construction canopy bearing a gear symbol.
Descending via the orbital elevator, Blazkowicz took in the full scope of the grand scene, inwardly marveling at the sheer investment of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
He could tell that Mars had poured vast amounts of manpower and resources into preparing this victory celebration.
Every single paver of the Avenue of Heroes and Victory Square had been laid with meticulous precision, declaring the rigor of the Machine: the architectural angles were delicately calculated, fusing the beauty of truth derived from mathematics.
When the orbital elevator cabin touched down, the Imperial ceremonial guard had already been waiting for a long time.
Both sides exchanged diplomatic documents, held welcome ceremonies, and completed the tedious visitation procedures.
The Blazkowicz Slayer Honor Guard and the Night Watch Honor Guard followed the Custodes to familiarize themselves with the parade order, leaving Blazkowicz and a few others free to act on their own.
"My Lord," Junior said, pulling a gold belt ornament from his tunic and facing Blazkowicz. "I have some personal acquaintances to attend to."
"Go ahead," Blazkowicz nodded, gesturing for Junior to make his own arrangements.
The gold belt ornament came from the Custodes—a handcrafted personal gift.
Having fought side by side with the Custodes and forged a deep friendship, Junior had been invited to attend an internal funeral held by the Custodian Guard.
During the Rangdan War, the Custodes had suffered unprecedentedly heavy casualties.
Over three hundred Custodian warriors had perished directly, upholding the dignity of the Custodes through their sacrifice; over one hundred were gravely wounded, entombed within advanced Contemptor Dreadnoughts and other honorific chassis.
Such losses were a severe blow to the Custodes.
Even equipped with golden power armor and dimensional shields provided by Nul, they had still paid a tragic price.
"Take some gifts with you," Blazkowicz instructed Junior. "Present them to the Custodes in your own name."
The Custodes were a powerful force; since a friendship existed, it was naturally worth maintaining.
"Understood." After a moment's thought, Junior agreed. He activated the tactical terminal on his vambrace and selected gifts from the armory.
Blazkowicz turned and led Harlan away, following a guide toward the Primarchs' quarters.
Matters like these were best left to Junior, who would handle them well.
The temporary structures were not as complex as the Imperial Palace; the corridors were straightforward, and the functional areas were clearly laid out.
Wherever Blazkowicz passed, Custodes guards bowed their heads in respect, and Space Marines dropped to one knee.
The garrison zone was vast, and the Custodes were severely understaffed, leading the Imperial Fists to assist with security and patrols—a task the Sons of Dorn excelled at.
Blazkowicz boarded various vehicles, traveling without impediment until he reached the temporary residences.
Twenty-one Gothic-style manors stood with varying designs. Most were vacant, though a few were brightly lit, with Primarch honor guards moving in and out.
"Huh?"
A soft sound of surprise broke the quiet. Harlan paused, stepped back, and raised a hand to point through a gap between the manors, noticing something unexpected.
Blazkowicz looked in the direction of his gesture and saw a flash of ornate purple-and-gold armor between the buildings.
"The Phoenix Guard?" He recognized the livery of the Emperor's Children—gorgeous and eye-catching, much like Fulgrim's flamboyant nature.
"Fulgrim? When did he arrive?"
The presence of the Phoenix Guard meant Fulgrim was here.
Blazkowicz shook his head and walked forward. Looking up, he saw no sign of the 'Pride of Emperor', nor was the fleet of the Third Legion present.
Furthermore, according to the latest intelligence, the Emperor's Children ought to have been in the Tempestus Segmentum, purging xenos that occupied human worlds.
He did not go out of his way to greet them, looking instead toward a distant manor engraved with "XXI".
Though they were brothers by blood, Blazkowicz held only an average impression of Fulgrim.
The Phoenix of the Purple Court appeared humble and gentle on the surface, but possessed a streak of paranoia at his core. An obsessive pursuit of perfection could easily drive one to extremes.
Currently, he was a refined gentleman whose striking and noble demeanor commanded attention.
Yet if that paranoia reached an extreme peak without self-reflection, he could plummet into the abyss in an instant.
At that point, without the resolve to destroy the old to build the new, self-destruction was highly probable.
Such a reversal between poles could drive a person from one extreme to another.
Waving for Harlan to follow, the two departed silently before the Astartes could notice, avoiding the attention of the Phoenix Guard.
"What are you two doing?"
Though they deliberately lightened their footsteps, someone still spotted them.
At the entrance of Manor XI, Selene asked in a low voice, his fiery red eyebrows knit tight.
The master and servant before him looked thoroughly suspicious, clearly trying to avoid someone.
"Just didn't want to disturb anyone," Blazkowicz offered with a sheepish wave, not keen on elaborating.
Looking at Selene's current appearance, Blazkowicz felt a bright sense of novelty.
His brother had shed his beast pelts for a silver-gray robe patterned with fire motifs. Holding a bone staff, his sharp brows and bright eyes gave him the look of an ancient sage from legend.
"Where are you off to?" Blazkowicz looked behind Selene, where several natives from the steppe world stood carrying local specialties.
Noticing his brother shifting the topic, Selene did not press the matter. A radiant smile broke across his face: "Heading to the Legion encampment."
"Since returning, I studied ground warfare under Lion and void fleet tactics under Ferrus, but I have yet to formally take command of the Legion."
"With the Rangdan War coming to an end, I feel I have gained a baseline understanding of warfare and can attempt to take over the Legion."
His expression was spirited, eyes shining with confident light as he looked forward to meeting his Legion.
"I see," Blazkowicz nodded in sudden comprehension, remembering that since his return, Selene had rarely interacted with the Eleventh Legion.
After the battle at J-11 concluded, the Eleventh Legion remained stationed on-site while their Primarch accompanied Ferrus deep into Rangdan territory to learn void fleet command.
A flash of admiration passed through Blazkowicz's eyes; Selene possessed extraordinary wisdom.
Upon his return, he had avoided taking command of the Space Marine Legion prematurely, choosing instead to strengthen his own capabilities amidst the great species war.
By the time he assumed command, he would already possess a comprehensive understanding of Space Marine Legions.
A Primarch's prolonged absence naturally left the Legion's senior officers anxious, making the eventual handover smoother and setting a favorable foundation for subsequent Legion reforms.
"Then hurry along," Blazkowicz said with a warm smile, pointing toward his own manor. "I'll get some rest and await the start of the celebration."
Selene waved for the natives to move out, turning back to bid his brother farewell: "With the celebration at hand, the Legion will soon undergo a renaming and reform, allowing our brother Legions to reacquaint themselves with us."
Smiling as he saw his brother off, Blazkowicz and Harlan entered Manor XXI, where they washed up under the care of attendants.
"My Lord," a semi-cybernetic maid knelt and said respectfully, "a visitor has arrived."
She raised her mechanical arm, and from her palm projected the image of the manor's main gate, where a pure white figure stood erect.
Wearing a bathrobe and without even taking the time to put on shoes, Blazkowicz stepped barefoot onto the cobblestone path to welcome Sanguinius's arrival.
A joyous smile lit up his face: "Broth—"
"NO—! NO—!"
Before he could finish his sentence, a roar saturated with tragic grief detonated into the air, its psychic shockwave driving thunder that swept across the entire Rangdan homeworld in an instant.
The sky instantly changed color as black, wrathful lightning crackled out of thin air, and a rain of silver-white fire collapsed from the void.
Countless emotions surged within the roar: disbelief, unspeakable rage, and grief, all blending into a storm of uninhibited, tyrannical frenzy.
This abrupt surge of madness interrupted the opening motion of Blazkowicz and Sanguinius's embrace, sending a flash of horror into their eyes as they met each other's gaze.
The psychic eruption was sudden and intense, violently contorting the laws of physics as the planet trembled beneath the grief-stricken roar.
That silver-white flame was exceptionally recognizable—only one person could wield it, and its user was simultaneously blessed with formidable psychic power.
'BANG—!'
The main gate of the Gothic manor was blown off its hinges by brute force, the heavy crash snapping both men out of their shock.
Russ was almost entirely bare, a towel wrapped around his waist, with a trace of water still clinging to his golden hair; he had clearly rushed straight out from the baths.
"Selene!"
The three spoke in unison, realizing a horrific event had just transpired.
Exchanging glances with turbulent eyes, their complexions grew dark and cold. The unexpected emergency cast an ominous shadow over the victory parade in an instant. The Primarchs' strength erupted simultaneously, and the three vanished from the spot, leaving behind only the bewildered guards.
Blazkowicz was the fastest, his mighty physique accelerating into a run six times the speed of sound, turning into a series of sonic-boom afterimages.
It was not that he could not go faster, but rather that he had to account for the ground environment.
Had he increased his speed any further, the pressure waves and sonic booms generated in his wake would shatter mortals and send Space Marines flying.
Covering thousands of kilometers in mere moments, Blazkowicz relied on his astonishing memory to recall the distribution of garrison modules he had observed while descending in the orbital elevator.
Traversing over a hundred kilometers, Blazkowicz arrived at the Eleventh Legion's encampment and charged into the subterranean bunker.
"WHAT?!!"
Upon storming into the epicenter of the psychic eruption, what met his eyes caused Blazkowicz's eyes to widen, his pupils shrinking abruptly.
Perhaps for reasons of security and secrecy, the Legion warriors had assembled in an underground training square. Inside the brightly lit steel bunker, a violent, tyrannical aura was rapidly coalescing.
Blazkowicz leaned against the forced-open door, his mind violently shaken, unable to process the scene before him.
In the assembly square, three ten-thousand-strong battle formations were arrayed in neat ranks, the Legion warriors exuding an unspeakable sorrow.
Selene was screaming and roaring hysterically, the area around him resembling an asura hellscape.
Behind him, the heads of his steppe countrymen had burst open, red and white matter splashing all over the floor. Their corpses were still twitching unconsciously, clearly having met a sudden death via head explosion, their bodily nerves still sending signals to their absent brains.
Before the Primarch lay another scene of pure madness.
The limbs of Space Marines were shattered, their bodies encased in ceramite power armor beaten brutally into raw pulp, with bone splinters and armor fragments crushed into the flesh. The thick blood displayed an unnatural, dark hue beneath the lights.
Selene was still attacking relentlessly!
His silver-gray robe was drenched in blood. A sweep of his iron fist snapped a Space Marine at the waist, while a strike of his bone staff unleashed another tempest of gore.
His enraged shrieks echoed through the subterranean space, revealing unlimited hatred as he slaughtered the genetic offspring created from his own genetic template.
Gore splashed freely, casting grotesque graffiti across the ceiling; intestines writhed, retaining their unspent warmth.
In this slaughterhouse of flesh and blood, over a thousand Legion warriors had perished like livestock offering no resistance.
"AAAH! AAAH! AAAH!"
The Primarch was roaring, his eyes blood-red, burning with the fires of grief and rage: "WHY? WHY?!"
He was weeping, tears of blood streaming down his face, his pure countenance twisted in sheer disbelief.
Blazkowicz analyzed the situation on the field in an instant and hurled an alloy door panel, blocking the path of the frantic Selene.
The bone staff swung down toward a Legion warrior, striking the door panel that suddenly interceded with a resonant metallic clash.
Transforming into a streak of lightning, Blazkowicz whipped up an air current that blew back the formations at hyper-speed, charging straight to Selene's side.
Blazkowicz reached out, seized the bone staff, ripped it from his brother's grip, and tossed it far away into the distance.
Though he did not understand what had transpired, he had to halt this massacre.
Grabbing his wrist, Blazkowicz leveraged his position to get behind Selene, using his knee to pin him face-down against the floor while sweeping his arms back across his shoulders.
Once Selene realized what was happening, he attempted to struggle, only to find his brother's hands were like vice grips he could not break; the knee pressing down on him was as heavy as a mountain, immobilizing him entirely.
"WHAT HAPPENED?"
The moment he subdued Selene, Blazkowicz let out a thunderous shout. He needed to ascertain the specific situation, while simultaneously snapping the Legion warriors out of their daze.
They stood somewhat bewildered, maintaining a silent, wordless shock.
Seeing no immediate response, Blazkowicz shifted his gaze away from the warriors clad in fire-patterned black armor, looking down at his brother pinned beneath him: "Naxiel Selene!"
He raised his voice to a booming, thunderous roar.
Selene seemed to be awakened by the cold floor beneath him. He turned his head back toward his brother, his crimson eyes filled with absolute revulsion: "Brother!"
His voice carried an indescribable sorrow. His usual clear tone was torn apart, raspy like a torn cloth blowing in the wind, carrying a broken sense of helplessness.
"THEM!" He struggled to raise his head, glaring with gnashed teeth at the warriors rising from the impact of Blazkowicz's arrival: "Their filthy bodies are unfit to be my genetic offspring!"
"Beneath that armor lies nothing but a desecration of humanity!"
That final sentence felt like a desperate roar squeezed from the absolute depths of his throat.
The tragic accusation caused Blazkowicz's heart to tremble.
He looked up; the Legion warriors were turning their bodies slightly, instinctively dodging their Primarch's gaze.
It was glaringly obvious that the Legion warriors were intentionally avoiding eye contact, keeping certain secrets hidden.
"They are not my genetic offspring!"
Selene denounced them bitterly, the disgust in his eyes unhidden: "Nor are they fit to be my sons!"
Blazkowicz did not offer a reply, refusing to further escalate an unknown breaking point.
He kept Selene pinned down to prevent him from taking further extreme action, sweeping his eyes back and forth across the corpses.
Relying on his keen observation, Blazkowicz discovered something unusual amidst the mangled flesh, broken bones, and corpses.
Through the gaps in the ceramite armor and upon the exposed skin, the secret they had strived so hard to conceal was now laid completely bare before his eyes.
The skin of the Eleventh Legion's Space Marines was entirely un-human!
Coarse, hideous—these were the words Blazkowicz used to describe it.
The exposed skin was far from smooth; instead, it resembled an intricate, crisscrossing web of fine wounds, like ugly scars left behind after severe burns.
"Whatever happened, calm down!" Blazkowicz growled softly, attempting to ease the pressure on his knee and hands slightly to test Selene's movements.
"Calm down?"
Selene fiercely refuted the notion, utterly unable to accept those two words as his struggles grew increasingly violent.
In the next second, Blazkowicz pressed down with both hands and exerted force through his knee, subduing him once more.
"Brother," Selene groaned, shaking his head, his gaze sweeping across the Legion warriors.
At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill the warriors before him and destroy the monsters posing as his offspring!
His brother Blazkowicz did not understand at all, nor could he comprehend the agony of having one's expectations crushed by horror after witnessing the hideous truth.
From heaven to hell took only a single glance at the venomous truth.
That intentionally concealed, hideous flesh, covered in non-human, twisted scars—it absolutely did not belong to humanity.
Their very existence was a stain that humanity could never tolerate!
Selene recalled the moment just prior, when he had arrived full of anticipation and commanded his offspring to remove their helmets, only for what he witnessed to strike his heart like a poisonous serpent, leaving behind nothing but utter revulsion.
Beneath those suits of fire-patterned black armor lay mutated, contorted humanoid entities.
Selene recalled the moment just prior, when he had commanded his Legion warriors to remove their helmets in eager anticipation, only to witness a horrific sight.
The Legion Commander had hesitantly removed his helmet, revealing a withered head. The terrifying appearance looked as though a sheet of dried skin had been stretched across the surface of a skull.
His eye sockets were deeply sunken, filled with emptiness and void, utterly devoid of human warmth.
The cartilage of the bridge of his nose was nowhere to be found, leaving behind two empty caverns; every breath he took was searing hot, exhaling air accompanied by burning sparks.
His skin was dried and shriveled like something charred by fierce flames, his upper and lower lips entirely gone, leaving a row of white teeth exposed and clamped together, rendering his appearance all the more eerie and ghastly.
Yet the mutation and contortion were not isolated instances.
The overwhelming majority of the Legion warriors exhibited mutations, and the forms of these mutations varied wildly.
Beyond the withered, burnt forms, there were fleshly mutations.
Beneath the armor, many organs of these humanoid bodies grew upon the surface of their physical frame, with eyeballs and tentacles sprouting from their skin—the degree of mutation far more severe.
Upon seeing his Legion's mutations, Selene was utterly horror-struck.
What he could accept even less was the flickering look of expectation within those lifeless eye sockets as the mutated warriors gazed upon him.
"NO—!"
Violent emotions raged within Selene's heart. Amidst his horror, he let out a roar of utter disbelief, triggering a psychic storm.
Almost instinctively, he charged into the Legion's battle array out of control, brandishing his staff in a frantic slaughter.
Ever since gaining self-awareness, Selene had possessed a fierce soul-deep purity, believing the human form to be perfection itself and harboring a deep-seated revulsion toward xenos and heretics.
He could not tolerate non-human existences.
After eradicating the native goat-headed beastmen on his steppe world, and learning from the preserved histories of his kin that humanity originated from the stars, Selene had secretly sworn to purify all non-human existences.
Since his return, the Rangdan War had broadened his horizons, allowing him to witness the fall of his brothers and the hideouts of hideous xenos.
Selene had learned much, and already held a vision in mind for his Legion's identity.
In his heart, the Eleventh Legion was to become the absolute force for striking down xenos powers, establishing a glorious reputation for humanity across the galaxy.
However, ideal and reality ran in completely opposite directions!
The truth before his eyes caused his convictions to collapse with a crash. The moment the Legion warriors revealed their true visages, his heart endured an unprecedented ordeal.
Holding fast to his inner ideal, Selene raised his weapon without hesitation, swearing to purge the impurity before him.
Effortlessly, he tore through the ranks of the Space Marine formations.
The psychic shockwaves triggered by the deaths of his genetic offspring continually tore at Selene's sanity, shaking his once-firm convictions.
With the death of every single son, he could clearly feel a soul-deep interrogation.
Through the psychic shockwaves, Selene seemed to see the pain his sons endured while hiding their mutations beneath armor, staying far away from brother Legions, and carefully concealing the Legion's unspeakable genetic defects.
They fought valiantly, attempting to prove themselves through practical action.
Beneath those polluted husks burned brilliant souls.
The Legion warriors offered no resistance to their genetic progenitor's slaughter; as their souls shattered, there was release within the fragments, along with a serene willingness to face their end.
They held no shock or lingering resentment, having long anticipated the arrival of death.
This calm composure had been rooted in their hearts from the very first moment they set eyes upon their genetic father.
For a Primarch of absolute purity, his genetic offspring had suffered systematic, force-wide mutation.
A purge and slaughter delivered by their genetic progenitor was entirely within their expectations.
Not even a Primarch could tolerate offspring inheriting his bloodline if they were riddled with twisted, hideous mutations.
As psychic shockwaves lashed at him continuously, Selene's inner state shifted repeatedly—from initial rage to shock, then to grief, and finally to bloodshot eyes reflecting deep mental anguish.
They were all loyal warriors.
As soul fragments splattered in all directions, boundless information surged in with the psychic impacts, repeatedly ravaging Selene's mind.
His mental state grew extremely unstable.
Hatred, rage, shock, and pity acted like relentless heavy blows, repeatedly torturing Selene's sanity, driving him to the very brink of madness.
It was only when Blazkowicz charged into the subterranean bunker and subdued him that his collapsing mind was barely pulled back from the edge.
"Look at them... look at those filthy bodies!"
Selene let out a raspy, desperate growl, endless tragedy spreading through his voice: "Are they my offspring?"
He lowered his head in anguish, shifting his gaze away from the Legion formations, unwilling to let the impurity sting his eyes any longer.
"Why did it turn out like this?" Selene buried his head against the cold floor, his body trembling, his voice choked with overflowing grief: "Why did it turn out like this?"
Blazkowicz gently released his grip, his expression complex and unuttered.
He could not answer, nor could he truly experience his brother's intricate agony; at this moment, any words of comfort were pale and powerless.
The sound of tearing air echoed from outside the bunker gate as Sanguinius descended like a meteor, hovering above the battle formation.
The Great Angel descended, his pure white wings emitting a hazy glow, seemingly attempting to disperse the dark gloom blanketing the ground.
The sound of footsteps accompanied heavy breathing as Leman Russ sprinted full-tilt on hands and feet, not far behind.
The two looked toward the front of the battle array: among the pile of corpses, Selene lay prostrate on the ground sobbing, while Blazkowicz crouched beside him, his brow furrowed in a complex expression.
With a Primarch's meticulous sight, both instantly took in the messy corpses, non-human mutations striking their vision to tell the tale of what had just transpired.
Their breathing hitched instantly; Sanguinius and Russ's complexions turned dark, their eyes trembling as they grasped the general sequence of events.
Taking in the tragic scene, their expressions grew exceptionally grave.
This was because both the Space Wolves and the Blood Angels possessed varying degrees of genetic mutation within their ranks.
In order to survive on the frost-world of Fenris, the native humans injected the "Canis Helix" genetic agent, altering human genetic structure to combat the eternal, brutal cold.
The Canis Helix was a temporary compromise, manufactured using incomplete Dark Age technology—a concession made in the face of life-or-death survival.
Manufactured with incomplete technology, the agent naturally carried inherent dangers.
Those who received the Canis Helix needed to combat the feral nature triggered by the drug, lest they succumb and turn into beasts.
Wolves were vast in number, scattered across the entirety of the frost-world, yet a proverb echoed across Fenris—there are no wolves on Fenris.
Indeed, Fenris possessed no natural wolves.
The packs roaming the icy wastes were merely the failures who had succumbed to the Canis Helix.
The wolf packs roaming the frozen wastes were victims of the Canis Helix, existing on Fenris in an alternate form of life.
Even for those who successfully underwent the transformation, it did not mean they were free of hidden dangers.
In certain moments, the risk of transforming into a beast remained.
Such genetic flaws could not be fully eradicated, even after becoming an Astartes warrior.
Space Wolves Space Marines faced the constant threat of turning into wolves at any moment.
Russ's face looked grim as he remained silent, while Sanguinius's exquisite features turned deathly pale.
For the Blood Angels Legion, the shadow of the Red Thirst had never truly cleared, hanging permanently overhead like the Sword of Damocles.
Wulfen transformation and the Red Thirst—the carefully concealed genetic mutations of both Legions.
As the genetic Primarchs of their Legions, they exercised extreme caution, terrified that their secret might be exposed to the light of day.
Yet met with the scene before their eyes, even seasoned veterans like them could only respond with silence.
Compared to the Space Wolves and the Blood Angels, the genetic mutation of the Eleventh Legion was far too severe!
Though wolf transformation and the Red Thirst were terrible, their occurrence rate was merely one in a thousand or ten thousand.
The Eleventh Legion's genetic mutation was far more terrifying; judging from a simple glance across the pile of corpses, it virtually covered the entire Legion.
The subterranean bunker fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
The Space Marines said not a word, standing there quietly, awaiting judgment from their genetic progenitor.
Blazkowicz and the others could not truly empathize with Selene's despair; they could only watch as their brother wept uncontrollably.
Yet another Primarch arrived in haste: Fulgrim, clad in ornate purple-and-gold armor, hurried through the entrance, his eyes swiftly scanning the faces of his Primarch brothers.
When he saw the tragic sight on the floor, his amethyst-like eyes shrank abruptly.
"Genetic mutation—" His elegant voice rang out in utter shock. The Phoenix of the Purple Court turned pale, clapping a hand over his mouth before he could finish his sentence.
Not far away, Russ turned back with a fierce glint in his eyes, raising a hand to glare and point savagely at him.
Fulgrim hurriedly waved his hand, signaling that he had merely blurted it out in a moment of panic, with no intention of accusation or offense.
The Great Angel flapped his wings and landed gracefully, patting his beautiful brother's shoulder, sighing softly with a shake of his head: "Mind your words."
The atmosphere was currently stifling in the extreme; certain sensitive terms could easily trigger Selene.
Fulgrim kept his hand over his mouth, swallowing his words back down his throat. Sympathy flickered in his eyes, accompanied by a deeper layer of disdain and revulsion.
The Emperor's Children's gene-seed was exceptionally stable, free of physical mutation or latent defects—a cornerstone of the Phoenix's pride.
He himself pursued ultimate perfection, naturally holding genetic mutation in utter contempt.
Hearing the offensive remark, Selene—despite his inner grief—accepted this undeniable fact.
Yet the unhidden disdain and revulsion in those eyes pierced his heart deeply.
Selene was acquainted with the one hailed as the "Phoenician," Fulgrim—a proud brother obsessed with the pursuit of perfection.
When the other brothers arrived, their eyes held mostly sympathy; only the Phoenician displayed revulsion, maintaining a haughty posture to distance himself.
"Help me up," Selene said, suppressing his grief as indignation surged in his chest. He extended a hand toward Blazkowicz, signaling for assistance.
Hearing the request, Blazkowicz stepped forward to support his brother, placing a palm on his shoulder, prepared to restrain him again at any moment.
Selene's capabilities were formidable; in the next instant, he could easily vanish from the spot to purify the unholy at all costs.
Seeing that their brother had calmed down, Sanguinius and Russ hurriedly approached.
"What do we do?" Sanguinius asked. Anxiety flickered in the Great Angel's eyes, his gentle voice unable to conceal his concern.
The entire Legion had suffered genetic mutation; concealing it was practically impossible.
The earlier psychic storm had drawn widespread attention; many people would arrive shortly.
"He... is coming," Sanguinius's voice trembled slightly. He did not even dare to utter that title, as if speaking the true name would invite immediate detection.
Who was "He"?
The Emperor!
The Master of Mankind held zero tolerance for genetic mutation; he would never allow such corruption to persist.
Within the Imperial Truth, the decree regarding genetic mutation was compressed into a single word: purge.
It was precisely because of this that every Legion strove to conceal gene-seed instability, terrified that the Emperor might discover it and jeopardize their Legion's future.
Selene had calmed down somewhat, yet his mind remained in state of turmoil. He shook his head listlessly: "I do not know what to do."
His voice was laden with exhaustion and a fractured sense of detachment.
It was clear that he was entirely out of options; everything that had transpired in such a short span had nearly shattered his force of will.
The guilt of slaughtering his own genetic offspring, coupled with his revulsion toward mutation, had even evolved into self-doubt.
This was no exaggeration; the doubt stemmed from the profound connection a Primarch shared with his Space Marines.
The strength that allowed Space Marines to conquer the stars was inherited directly from the Primarch's gene-seed.
The purity of the gene-seed was inextricably linked to the Primarch; the source dictated the continuity of the line.
With his Legion experiencing systemic, force-wide genetic defects, Selene succumbed to severe self-doubt, questioning the purity of his own genetic makeup.
External pressure and self-doubt left the Primarch fragile and thoroughly lost.
"Let him come quickly," Selene murmured, lowering his gaze and shaking his head to hide the bitterness in his eyes. "I will accept whatever judgment he renders."
"These monsters!" Unable to tolerate the impurity, he raised his voice slightly, pointing a finger at the neat battle ranks before gesturing back toward himself: "And me as well."
"Whatever future awaits, I no longer care."
With those words, Selene's expression turned ash-gray. His shoulders slumped as his body stooped, and Blazkowicz's supporting hand slipped away.
In stark contrast to their genetic father's despondency, the Legion warriors remained calm and composed, entirely indifferent to the impending judgment.
A few bolder warriors stepped out from the ranks, quietly walking over to the corpses to collect their fallen brothers' belongings.
Perhaps they did not know whether such actions held any meaning, yet they chose to do something nonetheless.
"They possess humanity," Blazkowicz sighed, shaking his head gently. "Along with the resolve and honor of warriors."
"The suffering born from genetic mutation failed to destroy their fervent souls; instead, it tempered an unyielding willpower."
"The warriors have long since made peace with it..."
Within the warriors of the Eleventh Legion, Blazkowicz observed many noble traits: loyalty, resilience, fortitude, and a calm acceptance of reality.
Adhering to code despite mutated frames, demonstrating resilience without falling into despair—the harsh reality had failed to break these warriors.
Hearing his brother's compassionate words, Selene raised his head to look at his Legion.
Sensing their Primarch's gaze, the warriors squared their shoulders one after another, silently answering his scrutiny.
With merely a glance, Selene hurriedly shifted his vision away, forever unable to confront this mutated bloodline directly.
His immortal form seemed shrouded in a deathly aura of despair; his once-radiant countenance was haggard, carved with the weathering of age by an invisible burden.
With his core convictions shattered, even a Primarch found it difficult to steady his psychological state.
The subterranean square lapsed back into silence as the Legion warriors stood in neat formations, accepting the scrutiny of their Primarch's gaze.
'Clatter...'
A dense succession of footsteps echoed from the entrance, accompanied by the clash of steel—a rhythmic, powerful cadence.
A torrent of golden light streamed in, capturing everyone's gaze. A golden giant marched forward with measured strides, flanked by two squads of Custodes, stepping into the subterranean square step by step.
'BOOM!'
The Legion warriors dropped to their knees in unison, the impact of their armor rustling like heavy rain as they offered tribute to the Master of Mankind.
Except for Blazkowicz, the other Primarchs also knelt to greet their Father's arrival.
Amidst the golden light, the Emperor merely raised a hand slightly. The kneeling Primarchs felt a gentle yet irresistible force softly lifting them to their feet.
The Emperor's pace did not falter as he advanced surrounded by the Custodes, coming to a halt before Selene.
"Naxiel Selene," He called out softly.
Selene attempted to kneel and pay homage once more, yet found himself unable to descend. He raised his ash-gray face to look up at the golden giant.
Just as in his previous audience, what met his eyes was not a true physical face, but a majestic, near-perfect silhouette enveloped in golden light.
The perfect human had black hair cascading over his shoulders, his upper torso bare, with every inch of his skin emanating a hazy aura. The contours of his musculature were delineated with absolute clarity—a manifestation of perfection beyond the descriptive capacity of human tongue.
That countenance was pure and flawless. Upon closer inspection, it bore a subtle resemblance to Selene, yet possessed far more of the stern majesty that looked down upon all living beings.
He lowered his gaze, surveying everything before him.
"Father," with only a brief glance, Selene immediately bowed his head in shame, not daring to look upon the perfect being any longer.
Selene felt utterly inferior, believing he had failed the purity granted to him by his Father. The mutation of his genetic offspring was a disgrace brought upon the Master of Mankind.
The Emperor's indifferent gaze swept across his sons. With a wave of his hand, he brought down a golden barrier that sealed off the subterranean square.
His action tightened the hearts of those present—isolating the area with a barrier: was He preparing to purge the Legion?
Though Selene had prepared himself mentally, as the moment arrived, he could not help but clench his fists, oblivious to his sharp nails piercing his palms.
Sanguinius and Russ instinctively glanced at Blazkowicz. At this juncture, beside their Father, only this brother possessed the influence to affect the outcome.
The subtle movements of the two also revealed their hope that mercy might be granted to the Legion warriors.
Russ even contorted his face in a series of winks, signaling to Blazkowicz: 'These warriors once bled across the galaxy for humanity.'
Blazkowicz shook his head slightly, signaling him to remain calm.
Fulgrim stood elegantly to one side, his hand resting on the hilt of his fire-blade, his narrow eyes scanning back and forth with keen interest.
As the technological barrier descended, the Emperor issued no purge order to the Custodes, taking in every nuance of his sons' expressions.
He observed the priest's lost wandering, the Angel and the Wolf's reluctance, the warrior's composure, and the Phoenician's detached observation.
The four Primarchs, entities transcending mortal humanity, exhibited distinct expressions, yet fully displayed the spectrum of human emotion and coldness.
Taking in these subtle micro-expressions, the Emperor raised his hand, sweeping a vast expanse of psychic energy toward the Space Marine formations.
The vast psychic power erupted, illuminating the varying countenances of the Primarchs as it descended upon the Legion warriors.
The kneeling warriors of the Eleventh Legion remained silent, their bodies trembling slightly. Faced with the judgment of the Master of Mankind, they could not resist, nor would they try.
The Emperor had bestowed divine strength upon mortals, reshaping weak bodies to ascend into Astartes.
Everything they possessed was granted by Him: glory and conquest, as well as rebirth and death.
If He required their lives back now, the Legion warriors held no complaints.
As the golden light descended, the expected cold darkness did not follow. As the radiance washed over them, their ceramite power armor stripped away into golden particles.
The psychic particles hovered like golden quicksand, reassembling beside the warriors as their power armor rematerialized in reality.
In the center of the square, the Space Marines stood completely bare, exposing every hideous detail.
'Hiss—!'
Before anyone could marvel at the Emperor's exquisite control over psychic energy, the sheer severity of the mutations caused everyone to gasp sharply.
Blazkowicz's brow furrowed tightly, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.
Relying on his extraordinary precision of observation, he noticed a peculiar pattern embedded within the wrinkles of the dried skin covering many of the warriors.
The skin of the Eleventh Legion warriors was not ordinary flesh; it was dark and dull like ancient cast iron, utterly devoid of luster, crisscrossed entirely with arid, cracked patterns.
Deep within the fissures, a faint dark red glowed—it was not fire, but resembled magma that had been flowing for ten thousand years. The skin appeared hard and rough, completely lacking the vital aura of a living organism.
This withered, cracked skin, seemingly composed of ash and molten rock—Blazkowicz had only ever witnessed it on a single species: Warp Daemons!
He examined them intently: the missing noses, exposed teeth, and daemon-like skin. Had a pair of hideous horns been added, these warriors of the Eleventh Legion would look precisely like humanoid daemons.
His eyes narrowed slightly. While the others remained in shock, Blazkowicz quietly glanced toward the Emperor.
He never believed in coincidences; skin so strikingly similar to that of a daemon was undoubtedly the phenotypic expression of some underlying genetic code.
Witnessing this, Blazkowicz held grave doubts that certain Space Marine genetic technologies were definitively intertwined with the Warp.
And as the genetic origin, the Primarchs—
His jet-black eyes reflected the majestic silhouette enveloped in golden light, his gaze sweeping over the Emperor repeatedly like something tangible, as if seeking to pierce the shadow behind that glorious splendor.
As if sensing something, the Emperor glanced back, meeting the inquiring gaze head-on. Two pairs of black eyes locked in silent confrontation, as though striking sparks in the mid-air.
The atmosphere underwent a subtle shift—though extremely faint, it could not escape the heightened senses of the Primarchs.
Blazkowicz's gaze clashed with the Emperor's, a subtle shift ripple through the tense atmosphere.
Inquisitive scrutiny met unblemished composure in mid-air—in that wordless moment, question and answer were fully exchanged.
After a long pause, both broke eye contact, as if nothing had transpired.
"Do you have any thoughts on this?"
when the Emperor spoke, his voice was utterly stripped of human warmth, echoing like the unfeeling, majestic wrath of heaven above.
His emotionless eyes shone through the golden radiance, settling upon Selene—a son who had returned only recently, yet had devoted his entire soul to practicing the doctrine of human supremacy.
A flash of relief washed over the eyes of Sanguinius and Russ; the fact that the Emperor took the initiative to ask signaled that the matter was open to negotiation.
Had there been no room for compromise, the Master of Mankind, with his absolute authority and autocratic nature, would never have bothered to query.
They turned their eyes toward their blood-brother, whose silver-gray robe was stained with blood.
All it required was a brief plea for mercy, a reasonable concession, and the Eleventh Legion could be preserved intact.
Though the Legion's genetic mutation was severe, if the Emperor chose to intervene, a resolution could certainly be found.
Even if the issue could not be resolved in the short term, a proper arrangement would still be made.
Yet as their gazes fell upon Selene's face, the expressions of both Primarchs changed slightly—what met their eyes was a countenance of pristine purity, yet so dead and lifeless that not a single trace of vitality remained.
'Something has gone terribly wrong!'
Their hearts sank. Sanguinius and the Wolf King realized with a jolt that their blood-brother felt nothing for his genetic offspring save for sheer revulsion.
Furthermore, as a person of absolute purity, Selene had always held deformities and mutations in deepest abhorrence.
Hearing the Emperor's question, Selene jerked his head up as if snapping awake, sensing the urgent, burning gazes of his brothers.
He did not offer an immediate answer, turning his head instead to gaze at the Legion array.
Their power armor stripped away, the Legion warriors stood with their mutated bodies exposed, yet they remained on their knees, offering homage to their Father, the Emperor, and their Primarch brothers.
Selene felt an overwhelming sense of absurdity.
Fate was far too volatile, as though it were playing a cruel joke on him, mocking him with taunting irony.
How could it be that he himself was blindingly pure, yet his genetic offspring were so thoroughly polluted?
Why was it that bodies so contorted and hideous could still radiate the brilliance of humanity?
Self-interrogation and doubt blended together into a swirling black hole, swallowing Selene's tottering sanity whole.
A pure spirit and a polluted frame—two extreme poles coexisting within a single entity. These opposing forces tore viciously at his brilliant, fervent soul, which could tolerate not even the slightest speck of impurity.
'Hah...'
The suffocating silence was broken by a long exhale. Selene vented a breath of stagnant air, his shoulders slumping heavily as though his very essence had been drained away.
His gaze drifted away from his genetic offspring, appearing as though he had aged ten thousand years in a single instant.
"Everything..." The focus faded from Selene's eyes. Turning his head away, he dropped to one knee before the Emperor, his once-clear voice now hollow and utterly devoid of strength: "Everything shall be as You decree."
'BOOM!'
The air crystallized into a dead, heavy silence. That silence carried more force than thunder, slamming heavily into the hearts of everyone present until sparks danced before their eyes.
The Legion warriors looked up in unison at their genetic progenitor, the hollow cavern of their eye sockets flickering with light of sheer disbelief.
They knew their Primarch held the Legion in revulsion, yet they had never imagined that their genetic father would refuse to even deliver the judgment himself.
With a single sentence, the Primarch had surrendered the fate of thirty thousand Space Marines into the hands of another to decide.
Following the initial shock came deep bitterness; they lowered their heads in profound disappointment, awaiting the Master of Mankind to pronounce the life or death of the Legion.
Hearing their brother's evasive answer, Sanguinius's long brows knit tightly.
The Great Angel viewed his Legion as his sacred responsibility, a driving force that spurred his resolve to press forward; he could neither comprehend nor bridge the chasm to such a ruthless decision.
Russ widened his feral eyes, a glint of disdain flashing in their depths.
The Great Wolf loved his pack dearly; even when faced with Wulfen-transformed warriors, he had never surrendered hope, attempting countless methods to cure his mutated sons.
In the face of Imperial scrutiny, Russ strove with all his might to conceal the existence of the Wulfen, refusing under any circumstances to abandon a single member of his pack.
He could never understand a heart so resolute in casting aside an entire Legion.
Fulgrim shook his head, his phoenix eyes sweeping across the Legion warriors before closing to hide his disappointment.
Though the Phoenician abhorred imperfect mutations, he lacked the cold courage to commit such a ruthless act of abandonment.
Tilting his head slightly, he refused to look at Selene.
His brother's obsession with purity left even the perfection-seeking Phoenician feeling outmatched in comparison.
Blazkowicz looked at his brother kneeling on the ground with his face buried in shadow. Saying nothing, he closed his eyes to conceal the tremor within them.
He did not see an extraordinary Primarch; kneeling upon the floor was merely a mortal whose convictions had shattered, one who no longer dared to face reality.
It had taken a mere few minutes to fall from a spirited Primarch into an avowed runaway from reality.
The horrific mutation of his genetic offspring—this crushing blow had utterly broken the pure one.
When convictions were smashed to pieces by reality, and ideals became stained with filth, the simplest escape was retreat—
Selene had chosen the most direct and effective method to reject the revulsion he refused to touch. It might have been cowardly, yet it was decisive and devoid of hesitation.
He was a man who would neither compromise nor yield.
If he could not fulfill his grand ideals and ambitions, he would not tolerate a harsh reality, nor force himself to accept it.
Blazkowicz would not hurl accusations or offer empty platitudes to rally his brother to take command of the Legion and fight for humanity.
That would be far too painful.
Whether for the Legion or for Selene, forcing them together would inevitably lead to a tragic, gruesome end.
Sighing inwardly, Blazkowicz shook his head at Sanguinius and Russ, signaling with his eyes that no further words were needed.
The Emperor lowered his gaze, looking down at his son kneeling before him, remaining silent for a long while.
"So be it," He spoke slowly, his voice completely stripped of emotion. "I shall handle the Legion."
"I will not purge them," the Emperor made his promise. "From setting forth from the Solar System to committing themselves to the Rangdan War, they have rendered distinguished service across nearly a century of warfare."
"However, from this moment forth, they shall no longer participate in the Great Crusade."
He raised his hand and waved it lightly. A golden radiance flickered, and the ceramite power armor was clad once more upon the bodies of the Legion warriors: "I have other arrangements for them."
The Emperor's promise brought nods from those present; refraining from purging the Legion was already an act of exceptional mercy from the Master of Mankind.
Upon hearing the verdict, a flash of relief crossed the eyes of Russ and Sanguinius, their breathing leveling out.
With the Eleventh Legion safe from destruction, they felt a wave of joy for their own Legions as well.
The Emperor's ruling regarding the Eleventh Legion served as a signal—it demonstrated that within certain parameters, he could tolerate genetic mutation.
After all, both the Space Wolves and the Blood Angels harbored gene-seed mutations, and the severity of these variations was far from comforting.
Should the truth ever come to light, today's ruling over the Eleventh Legion would serve as a concrete template for how the matter would be handled.
"And what of you?" the Emperor continued. "If you are willing, upon our return to Terra, I can forge a new Legion for you."
Selene stared fixedly at the floor, his eyes dull and his voice weary: "I am tired."
"I cannot accept the present, nor do I dare to face the future. For widespread mutation to manifest across the Legion, it is highly probable that the defect lies within the gene-seed itself."
He remained on his knees and raised his head, his bloodshot eyes fixing upon the Emperor, his exhausted voice raspy: "The source of this mutation is me. I will not permit this genetic corruption to persist, poisoning more valiant warriors who undergo transformation."
"Please take me back to Terra," Selene requested mournfully. "Remove me from the Great Crusade."
Looking at his near-collapsed son, the Emperor's voice remained steady, yet held a cold, disappointed fury: "Very well."
"At the victory celebration, I shall announce to the citizens of the Imperium: during the Rangdan War, the Second Legion was ambushed by xenos, and Warmaster Moribas Solas died a heroic death."
"The Eleventh Legion encountered a fierce counterattack from Rangdan remnants during the purge, resulting in the destruction of the Legion's operational strength, while the Primarch Naxiel Selene went missing."
He lowered his finger and pointed directly at Selene, furious at his son's lack of resolve: "I shall regard you as dead."
Having heard the complete arrangements, Selene nodded without objection, his spine stooped in absolute despondency.
His Father's disappointment; his genetic offspring's numbness.
He could feel those gazes scraping across his body like a series of tiny, sharp blades, flaying his very soul.
A father disappointed by his son's cowardice; this Primarch, possessed of an extraordinary mind, was now fragile beyond measure, voluntarily withdrawing from the Great Crusade.
The offspring's numbness stemmed from abandonment; they could not comprehend why their genetic progenitor would surrender his own Legion.
And as for his blood-brothers, they could not understand his cold-heartedness—why he would abandon his Legion, withdraw from the Great Crusade, and bow out of humanity's noble endeavor to reclaim the galaxy.
"Take them away," the Emperor commanded the Custodes, issuing the order verbally to his servants rather than transmitting it via psychic power.
It was glaringly evident that his heart burned with disappointed fury, taking out his wrath upon everyone present.
The Custodes said not a word, steadfastly executing the Master of Mankind's command.
The golden-armored guards directed the Space Marines to depart, contacting Custodes vessels to quietly transport the warriors of the Eleventh Legion away.
"You shall return to Terra with them," the Emperor said, gesturing at Selene. "Confine yourself within the subterranean dungeons of the Imperial Palace."
Selene slowly stood up, waving a quiet farewell to his blood-brothers.
He was now a stain upon the Emperor's radiance, feeling deeply ashamed, not even daring to offer a verbal goodbye to his brothers.