Heroic valor was never diminished by mortal flesh and blood.
Throughout the Rangdan Campaign, countless mortal heroes worthy of remembrance were born. Their unyielding, courageous spirit should shine like a eternal spark, passed down through all generations.
The mortal units ascending the high platform were many, yet they were also few.
They were many because far too many forces had earned distinction, forming an endless queue of collective commendations; they were few because the delegations were tragically incomplete, with some units reduced to a mere handful of survivors.
Carrying flags marked with their numerical designations, they strode before the magnificent Primarchs, holding their heads high and chests swelled as they awaited their honors.
"You are thoroughly deserving of this," Blazkowicz said, his voice soft yet filled with encouragement as he took a banner from an attendant and formally presented it to the unit representative. "The Imperium shall forever remember your contributions."
The mortal regiment standing before him had fought on Planet VIII of the J-11 System. Ten thousand strong, they had repulsed dozens of charges by Rangdan slave armies numbering in the hundreds of thousands, holding the line until reinforcements arrived.
The price for that stand was a full-strength regiment reduced to just thirteen survivors.
"By the King of Warriors!"
Tears filled the representative's eyes as he took the banner of honor, dropping to his knees. "Thank you for your recognition."
Blazkowicz leaned down to catch him, speaking to the others who were kneeling behind him: "There is no need for thanks. Honor stems from valiant battle—it is the mark you have rightfully earned."
An Adeptus Custodes warrior stepped forward from the side, guiding the mortal representatives off the commendation platform. It was not that the Emperor's personal guard were unfeeling or unwilling to allow a few extra words. Rather, the units receiving honors were simply too numerous; a moment's delay on the platform would create a monumental backlog below, risking the delay of the entire ceremony.
The Emperor sat upon His throne, flanked by mountain-like piles of various medals. Those with distinguished military merits were personally decorated by the nine Primarchs, but the timing had to be strictly managed. Having nine Primarchs gathered on an alien homeworld had already delayed numerous offensive operations; it could not be dragged out any longer.
The first batch of honorees departed swiftly, descending a different staircase to wait along one side of Victory Plaza.
People came and went across the platform. Honors that were ordinarily a rare sight were now being handed out like an assembly line by the sons of the Master of Mankind.
As each honored unit stepped up, an attendant beside them held up a data slate displaying their specific exploits. Blazkowicz handed out banner after banner. At times, the feats accomplished by these mortals struck him as almost unbelievable.
He was not alone; occasionally, certain outrageous combat records caused the Primarchs to whisper to one another in astonishment.
There were company-level units that fought with such tactical flexibility that they destroyed multiple Bio-Titans using melta bombs.
There were hundred-man squads that had infiltrated Rangdan territory disguised as human slaves, providing continuous intelligence for a thousand years—a contribution so stellar it defied easy calculation.
There were full mortal regiments that, before the Space Marines could arrive to reinforce them, mounted a fierce counterattack against a thousand Rangdan elites, cutting down over a hundred of the enemy.
The list went on; the heroic groups forged on the battlefield were beyond counting.
As the banners of honor were continuously handed out, the expressions of the Primarchs grew increasingly solemn. The mortals who earned the right to step onto this platform were heroic groups deserving of profound respect.
The first segment comprised collective honors for surviving units. Even with every second accounted for, it took three full hours to complete. The "survivors" were units that had endured the war with their original organizational frameworks intact.
The second segment belonged to the successor banners—honored units that had demonstrated monumental valor but had seen their original designations wiped out by the Rangdan, now replenished with new recruits to carry on the heroic legacy.
For this segment, Blazkowicz and his brothers expressed deep sorrow; the fighting had been truly horrific.
During the early and mid-stages of the war, when both humanity and the Rangdan were at the height of their military might, elite forces forged in other warzones were deployed on a massive scale. The fighting was at its most intense, and full-strength elite units vanished like snowflakes. A vast portion of the Imperium's trillions of troop casualties hailed from this very period.
The successors received their banners from the hands of the Primarchs, swearing resounding oaths to inherit the spirit of their forebears.
After several more hours, the mountain of honor medals had lost only a small fraction of its volume.
With the collective unit awards concluded, it was time for individual honors.
There were simply too many people!
Aside from the highest tier of individual merit, who received personal commendations from the Primarchs, the remaining tiers were presented by representatives of the War Council to avoid consuming the Primarchs' valuable time.
Among the individual honorees were many formidable mortals: those who had single-handedly ambushed and slain a Rangdan Overlord, snipers who had eliminated over ten thousand slave soldiers alone, heroes who had rallied collapsing lines to turn the tide, and specialists who had detonated Rangdan shield generators.
The battlefield records of these highest-merit mortals outshone even most of the superhuman Astartes. Their contributions were far more direct, their wisdom and martial prowess reaching the absolute limits of what a mortal individual could achieve.
There were over ten thousand mortals receiving top honors, over a hundred thousand receiving first-class honors, and lower-tier honorees were as numerous as hair on an ox, with millions ultimately receiving medals. Standing there, despite their diverse backgrounds, they radiated an overwhelming aura of heroism.
Next came the honors for armored units—mortal armored regiments, Knight Houses, and Titan Legions were all grouped into this category.
Armored units did not receive medals. Instead, their representatives walked up to the platform, surrendered their existing banners to the Imperium, and received brand-new battle standards in exchange. The new standards or heraldic crests bore honor marks added by the Imperium, signifying that the Titan or Knight had achieved great distinction during the campaign. Every badge and icon had been decided in advance; today was merely the final conferral and coronation.
The Titan Legions and Knight Houses had also suffered immense losses in the Rangdan Campaign. Out of the more than one hundred Titan Legions that entered the war, only fifty survived as organized units, representing a survival rate of less than half.
The Knight Houses fared even worse. The nimble Knights were often thrown into brutal melee engagements, leaving their exact casualties unquantifiable, with many Knight chassis obliterated without a trace. Data provided by the Adeptus Mechanicus indicated that only two-fifths of the Knights had survived. Many houses were left with only one or two machines to preserve their lineage, while many more vanished completely.
Among the surviving Titans and Knights, nearly all Princeps and Knight pilots held personal honors, and their war engines bore honorary titles as well.
Then came the fleets, ships, and captains. The void fleets received countless commendations; these iron behemoths had successfully held the line in the cold expanse of space. Due to the integration of Nul's advanced vessels into the human fleet formations, naval losses were comparatively acceptable. Having lost a third of its strength, the Imperium's expeditionary fleet still retained ample capacity to continue its conquest of the stars.
When the most outstanding mortal commanders descended from the platform, the commendations for the Imperium's vast military apparatus were fully concluded.
Next was the Adeptus Mechanicus of Mars. The Skitarii had fought with immense fury, and their logistical support for the front lines had been executed at maximum effort. In the war against the Rangdan Empire, the Mechanicus had held nothing back, supplying half of all ammunition and consumable materials used by the Imperium.
The Fabricator-General understood that the war between humanity and the Rangdan was no simple skirmish. Mars and Terra shared a common fate; if the Imperium fell to the Rangdan, the Mechanicus would be driven into exile. They needed a stable Imperium to safeguard the preservation and pursuit of knowledge. The Mechanicus had thrown itself into the war effort unreservedly, exhausting a third of its overall military strength and paying a heavy price for victory.
Finally came the heavyweight ceremony of the celebration—the Space Marine Legions.
Lion strode to the edge of the high platform, raising a clenched fist as he bellowed: "The First Legion!"
BOOM—!!
Mortal soldiers dropped to their knees, rendering the Aquila salute to pay their highest respects to the black-armored warriors marching down the red carpet.
A mixed delegation of a hundred Space Marines advanced: warriors with master-crafted power swords at their waists led the formation; flanked by Terminator-armored veterans whose heavy footsteps echoed with immense weight; followed at the rear by four ancient Dreadnoughts, underscoring the Legion's ancient glory.
Only a hundred participated in the ceremony, representing the most legendary warriors of the First Legion. Ascending the platform, they knelt in tribute to the Master of Mankind and the Primarchs before taking their positions behind the dais. Space Marine Legions received no medals—their Primarchs already held immense power and authority—but the Legions required honor, which was why they stood atop the high platform.
"The Space Wolves!"
Following the same protocol, the Wolf veterans marched down the central red carpet onto the platform. They wore no helmets, projecting a fierce, untamed aura.
"Imperial Fists! Blood Angels! Iron Hands! Ultramarines! Salamanders!"
The roars of the Primarchs sounded one after another as they stepped to the edge of the platform to call upon their genetic scions. Each delegation maintained the same hundred-man scale, complete with Dreadnoughts and Terminator armor.
While the victory celebration was underway, the vast majority of the Legions were still sweeping through Rangdan space, carrying out the grand purge of the alien threat. Those participating in the ceremony were legendary warriors meticulously selected from across the Legions.
"The Doom Marines!"
As the final roar echoed, another group of dark-armored warriors marched from the far end of the red carpet. They were even taller, their footsteps falling in absolute unison. The kneeling mortals hastily adjusted their stance, placing hands over their chests to offer a warrior's salute.
They were also a hundred strong, yet there were no Dreadnoughts in their ranks. The only striking detail was their varied array of weaponry; though marching in flawless formation, the diverse armament gave them a rugged appearance. Furthermore, beyond the base design of their gilded armor, their personal armor adornments differed greatly.
Many mortals understood the reason behind this unique style. The Doom Marines possessed no central recruiting world; their legionaries hailed from every corner of human space, each warrior representing a distinct culture.
"The Night Guards."
Harlan led a hundred-man squad of Night Guards down the avenue of kneeling mortals, ascending toward the platform. As a vital fighting force in the war, the Night Guards had been invited as special guests to join the Imperium's victory celebration, sharing in the same glory.
Finally, Fulgrim stepped forward, his elegant voice calling out to his Legion: "The Emperor's Children!"
"Emperor's Children! Slayers of the Father's Foes!"
The purple-and-gold Phoenix Guard marched forward, roaring their battle cry as they assembled in the plaza below the platform. The Emperor's Children had not directly participated in the Rangdan War, and thus could not stand atop the high platform.
With all preparations complete, a Custodian whispered into the Emperor's ear, rousing the resting Master of Mankind.
The golden figure stepped to the foreground, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with His Primarchs: "The Second Rangdan War has ended!"