The Second Rangdan War had come to an end!
This was an indisputable fact—no large-scale conflicts remained within the Rangdan domain, leaving behind only the fading embers of cleanup operations.
Even for the Shadow-Reapers—those individually formidable entities fiercely loyal to the Rangdan Overlords—their homeworld had been breached through the joint assault of the Ultramarines and the Imperial Fists, ultimately reduced to drifting fragments by a two-stage Cyclonic Torpedo.
Meanwhile, the Salamanders Legion pursued the remnants of the Aeldari, completely extirpating the ancient race that had aided the alien threat.
The Rangdan War was over!
Hearing these words directly from the lips of the Master of Mankind, hundreds of millions of warriors could no longer suppress the torrent of emotions surging within their chests, bursting into wild, earth-shaking cheers.
Shouts, roars, and stifled sobs intertwined, crashing like a mountain collapse or a tidal wave, proving immeasurably more thunderous than any artillery salvo.
Mortals raised their weapons to proclaim victory. At this absolute moment, the taut strings of their nerves finally slackened. Some fainted from sheer euphoria, while others wept openly amidst the roars of celebration, entirely unable to contain themselves.
The moment the Emperor declared the war's conclusion, it felt as though an excessively strained wire across the Imperial body politic had finally been eased.
Thunderous shouts echoed across the plaza in continuous waves as the gathered masses vented their hearts without restraint. Standing atop the high platform and gazing down, the Master of Mankind did not command His Custodes to enforce order or suppress the ecstatic outbursts of the mortal soldiers.
Venting such emotion was fundamentally human, as well as the earned right of the victor.
Observing the soaring tide of acclamation, beneath the concealment of His golden radiance, the corners of the Emperor's mouth curled into a faint smile, a gleam of quiet gratification flickering in His eyes.
Not since the dawn of humanity's stellar colonization era, through the sunset of the Age of Technology, up until this very day, had He witnessed such a grand celebration of victory.
During the colonization period, the Human Federation encountered no truly formidable alien empires, leaving wars modest in scale. Later, as humanity entered its Golden Age, it clashed head-on with countless mighty alien star-empires. Although the post-colonial federal system existed in name only, with major factions carving out independent territories, humanity never once lost an external war.
Humanity was immensely powerful; wherever the iron tide of Iron Men pointed, alien species were reduced to ash. Ultimately, what lay before the rulers was a cold sequence of statistics compiled by artificial intelligence—war was entirely rational, precise, and scientific.
War had been separated from mortal flesh and blood, rendering victory celebrations utterly insignificant. The people had no need to mourn the dead, devoid of grief or honor, and thus no victory celebrations existed.
Standing atop the dais, listening to the tsunami-like cheers echoing beside His ears, the Emperor smiled from the depths of His heart.
Rooted in the Segmentum Solar, the Imperium of Man had endured countless campaigns, ultimately using this victory over the Rangdan to proclaim to the galaxy that the true overlord had returned!
Though mortal flesh was frail, bleeding and weeping, it was far more real than cold, unfeeling statistics. They cheered for war, and through it, they would learn to revere war.
Allowing the emotions to vent for several minutes, the Emperor raised His arm.
As His arm rose above the high platform, the wild, chaotic outbursts below ceased instantly. The soldiers fell completely silent, their seemingly shattered military discipline restored to pristine perfection in a fraction of a second.
"One alien empire falls," the Master of Mankind raised a hand, pointing toward the void. The starry vault seemed to rotate beneath His fingertips, symbolizing boundless domains and ever-present perils: "Yet another alien threat rises in its wake."
"The galaxy is encircled by foes; the non-human races have never disguised their insatiable greed for humanity's domain."
The Emperor's majestic voice was borne by psychic resonance, firm and filled with expectation and encouragement: "In the future, countless wars await us. The Great Crusade has no end!"
"THE GREAT CRUSADE!"
"THE GREAT CRUSADE!"
"THE GREAT CRUSADE!"
The brief address atop the platform acted like a massive boulder cast into a quiet pool, setting off soaring waves of zeal.
The Emperor turned His head to glance at His sons standing on either flank, then cast a final look over Victory Plaza, softly uttering two words: "Strive together."
With that, the Master of Mankind turned and departed, His Custodes immediately falling into step behind Him.
"THE GREAT CRUSADE!"
"THE GREAT CRUSADE!"
Below the dais, voices cried out until hoarse, dropping to one knee to see the Emperor off.
The Master of Mankind had offered no impassioned, sweeping rhetoric; with simple words, He had set a singular destination. The Great Crusade—that grand ideal was like a dream, perhaps even more ethereal than a dream itself.
With the Emperor's departure, the Primarchs before the platform exchanged subtle glances, following behind their father toward the staging area.
"The commendation ceremony has concluded," the Mechanicus Archmagos assumed control of the speaker arrays, deploying the next phase of arrangements: "Will all participating units clear the central avenue in an orderly fashion."
"Decorated personnel will assemble at Victory Plaza for the victory reception."
Across Victory Plaza, the celebration continued, set to endure for a long time to come.
---
Beneath the spaceport, several Primarchs bade one another farewell.
"What a shame," Fulgrim remarked with a look of genuine regret, shaking his head sorrowfully. "A brief reunion, only to part once more."
"The victory celebration has barely commenced, yet I must depart for the Segmentum Tempestus to rendezvous with my Legion."
The Phoenician let out a long sigh, a trace of helplessness settling over his exquisite features, his purple eyes flickering with a somber light: "During the Rangdan War, the Third Legion patrolled the Segmentum Tempestus and Segmentum Pacificus to suppress internal rebellions across the Imperium. The Legion was fractured into scattered elements, and long-term pacification operations have impacted our overall combat effectiveness."
"Now that the war has concluded, I must rapidly assemble the fleet, conduct integrated drills, and redeploy to the Great Crusade."
"I shall take my leave." He turned, offering a respectful nod toward the spaceport. At the far end of his vision, a magnificent purple-and-gold warship flashed its departure signals: "My Legion awaits me."
That was the Pride of the Emperor, the Gloriana-class flagship of the Emperor's Children.
"I must depart as well," Guilliman spoke his farewell, a look of refined, reluctant parting crossing his brilliant features: "The defensive lines leave behind far too many unresolved issues, and Greater Ultramar is currently in its planning and construction phase—I cannot afford a single moment of rest."
Blazkowicz stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand onto Guilliman's shoulder, offering a deep farewell: "Do not drive yourself to exhaustion."
Guilliman might not be straightforward, calculating even his subtle expressions during brotherly gatherings to ensure complete propriety. Yet his sense of responsibility was perhaps the strongest among all the Primarchs. He earnestly managed his relationships with his brothers, earnestly developed Greater Ultramar, and earnestly deliberated over every single problem he encountered.
In numerous battles, Blazkowicz had observed that Guilliman never threw himself entirely into the fray; even while swinging his blade, he was likely calculating the supply logistics for the grand army.
With his brother's heavy palm resting on his shoulder, Guilliman was visibly unaccustomed to such casual contact, lacking a pre-formulated response in his mind.
"I shall keep that in mind," his voice sounded slightly rigid, though his smile warmed with genuine feeling.
"There is no need to rush," Blazkowicz lowered his arm, turning to address Fulgrim: "Restoring a Legion's combat effectiveness is hardly an overnight affair."
"Farewell." They waved in parting—directed toward Blazkowicz, as well as toward Russ standing behind him.
"Until we meet among the stars."
Exchanging final farewells, Fulgrim and Guilliman turned, stepping into the orbital elevator bound for the high spaceport. Separated by the transparent glass of the elevator car, the brothers continued to wave.
Watching the elevator car ascend beyond his line of sight, Russ lowered his arm, a flash of distaste glinting in his golden feral eyes: "Fulgrim certainly loves to show off."
"Dressed up like a peacock, bringing a few hundred pretty boys to attend a celebration, only to end up standing below the platform."
He made no effort to lower his voice, his rough tone laced with utter disdain and a touch of schadenfreude.
Hearing this, the Imperial Fists legionaries guarding the elevator turned their heads toward the distance, pretending to be stone-deaf. They possessed clear self-awareness—the dynamics between Primarchs were under no circumstances something Space Marines could comment upon. Muting their auditory sensors was the wisest course of action.
"And that Guilliman," before Blazkowicz could speak, Russ pressed close to his ear, lowering his voice into a quiet murmur: "Ever since his return, he rarely ventures to other segmentums, operating his Greater Ultramar in complete isolation."
"Mark my words—" Russ glanced left and right with heightened caution, cupping a hand around his mouth to prevent his voice from carrying: "He wants to copy you—turn Greater Ultramar into a state within a state, and then raise the banner of a rebel traitor!"
BANG!
The frost-white master-crafted power armor known as the Armor of Eljudnir rang out with a loud thump beneath a palm as broad as a cattail leaf, as though his backplate was about to be shattered.
"Cough~ Cough~"
Russ stumbled forward violently, clutching his chest as he exhaled a puff of icy vapor, a trace of aggrieved resentment in his eyes.
"Mind your words," Blazkowicz's expression darkened, a clear warning flashing in his eyes: "You had best watch similar remarks in the future, lest they be exploited by those with malicious intent."
"Do not say things that undermine unity."
"No! No! No!" Russ uttered three consecutive rejections, the wildness fading from his face to reveal an expression far more serious than Blazkowicz's: "Brother, you must trust the instincts of a wolf."
He sniffed his nose slightly: "I can smell the scent of ambition."
Russ spoke with absolute conviction, his grave expression showing no hint of jest, offering a low, well-meaning warning.
"No," Blazkowicz shook his head, his gaze turning solemn, his lowered voice carrying resolute certainty: "This time, I choose to trust Guilliman's character and convictions."
"He initiated grand reforms and infrastructure projects in Greater Ultramar. While minor personal motives may exist, he harbors zero intent to establish a separatist domain."
"Guilliman is an exceptional statesman and strategist. He understands his positioning with absolute clarity and holds a firm baseline in his mind—he will under no circumstances choose division out of personal ambition."
"Furthermore—"
"What difference does that make?" Russ asked, still perplexed, his high golden ponytail swaying as he shook his head.
"Because—" Blazkowicz intentionally dragged out the sound, before uttering words that caused Russ's expression to drastically shift—turning pale and grim, far colder than the bitter frost of Fenris: "Guilliman has a pair of parents who love him."
Ignoring his brother's oddly uncomfortable expression, Blazkowicz continued: "He is neither paranoid nor extreme."
"Bound by family ties, Guilliman considers every action three steps further."
"Once a person develops the capacity to care for others, their way of thinking fundamentally transforms—they will always pause to reflect, weighing the greater good against their personal home."
Blazkowicz sized Russ up and down, offering an even more detailed explanation: "To put it simply, if placed upon the exact same battlefield, you would brandish your blade without a second thought, forging victory through blood and violence. Guilliman, however, would be calculating how to achieve victory through alternative means, preserving his life so he could return home to see his old mother."
"Hmph." Hearing his brother's explanation, Russ let out a cold snort, momentarily unable to refute it.
"There is no need for excessive suspicion," Blazkowicz shook his head calmly.
He had not spent much time with Guilliman, but toward that brother who operated like a political machine, Blazkowicz was willing to extend his trust at any given time.
"You trust him that much?" Russ smirked sideways. His brother's evaluation of Guilliman far exceeded his inner expectations.
Blazkowicz and Guilliman clearly had little contact, nor were they close in private, yet Blazkowicz chose to trust him.
"Ambition swells with strength; desires know no bounds."
Reaching the core of his argument, Russ twitched his eyebrows and gestured wildly, his face flushed with indignation: "After Solas died, the remnants of the Second Legion—who strictly maintained their baseline and remained loyal to the Imperium—were entirely absorbed into the Ultramarines."
"Sitting upon a vast territory, incorporating a remnant legion—his strength is no longer what it once was. It is more than enough to feed his wild, wolfish ambition."
"Guilliman is boundlessly ambitious!"
From Russ's words, Blazkowicz caught a rare trace of envy.
The Wolf pack had suffered catastrophic losses during the Rangdan Campaign, and the Great Wolf naturally wished that the leaderless Second Legion could be integrated into the Space Wolves to bolster their own strength.
Ultimately, Guilliman had proposed an unbelievable scheme—for the Ultramarines to absorb the Second Legion.
Not merely incorporating them as auxiliary forces, but fully assimilating them.
The Second Legion was integrated into the Ultramarines, their gene-seed intermingled and distributed, no longer distinguished as a separate entity.
This level of decisiveness and accommodation was almost unheard of in other Legions.
With this arrangement guaranteed, the Second Legion was publicly declared completely wiped out in action. In reality, its organizational structure was revoked as it dissolved into the Ultramarines.
The Emperor altered collective memories to facilitate the seamless merging of the two forces. Aside from the Primarchs, not even the Second Legion veterans themselves knew they had originally hailed from the Second Legion.
The nameless Second Legion vanished, and the troop numbers of the Ultramarines Legion exploded once more.
"Let us not talk about him anymore."
Unable to out-argue Blazkowicz, Russ hastily shifted the topic: "Tell me, did Fulgrim attend the celebration purely to show his face?"
As fellow Primarchs, Russ's image was rugged and wild, leaving him with little appreciation for the overly glamorous Fulgrim.
"His purpose was quite simple," Blazkowicz shook his head, raising his left arm: "He spoke the truth earlier."
A green projection lit up on his vambrace, displaying a complete holographic model of the galaxy map: "Ever since the start of the Second Rangdan War, rebel activity within Imperial borders has spiked over a hundredfold compared to normal times."
"The Emperor's Children extracted themselves from the Great Crusade, rushing across space to coordinate with other forces to suppress these rebellions."
"After twenty years of counter-insurgency warfare, maintaining the Legion's combat effectiveness became immensely difficult. Seeing no end to these pacification operations, Fulgrim sought a way to come to the front lines and assess the situation himself."
"Look," Blazkowicz pointed toward the magnificent purple-and-gold warship, "having confirmed the exact state of affairs, he could not wait to depart."
"Before leaving, he did not even say goodbye to the 'Gorgon'."
The Gorgon was the nickname Fulgrim had bestowed upon Ferrus, drawn from ancient Terran lore to represent a powerful monster. Because the Primarch of the Iron Hands was constantly unwashed, often rolling in coal ash and resembling a beast, he fit the moniker well.
Hearing a nickname that implied a monster, Ferrus had accepted it with pleasure, illustrating the deep friendship between the two. Ferrus had even declared in public that his other brothers could address him by this nickname, as it fostered greater intimacy among kin.
Yet to this day, no other brother besides Fulgrim had ever called him that.
Beyond their intimate forms of address, Ferrus and Fulgrim were sworn brothers who held mutual admiration for each other.
Given such a bond, the Phoenician's decision not to linger, choosing instead to depart at maximum speed, showed that the urgency in his heart could no longer be suppressed.
This clear, logical analysis made Russ nod in agreement. Though he spoke glibly without restraint, he too doubted that Fulgrim had traveled thousands of light-years merely to show his face at a ceremony.
"And what about you?" Russ looked at Blazkowicz, a deep sense of reluctance flashing in his eyes: "Are you leaving as well?"
Throughout the Second Rangdan War, though both had participated, they were deployed to different battlefields and had found no time to drink and gather together.
Some leisure time had emerged during the ceremony's preparations, but the sudden incident involving the Eleventh Legion and the final disposition of the Second Legion had required secret deliberations among the Primarchs to forge appropriate solutions.
As a result, whenever the brothers gathered, they mostly discussed official affairs, unable to relax for even a single moment.
"Yes," Blazkowicz nodded with a smile, lightly tapping Russ's vambrace: "I must travel to Terra to handle some minor matters."
"The main force of the Night Guards and Blazkowicz Slayers will return to Argent D'Nur. The Rangdan Campaign consumed a massive quantity of critical supplies that cannot be replenished from external sources."
"After I leave, I need you to keep an eye on things for me," Blazkowicz turned and raised a hand, pointing toward the war ring hovering near the star: "Keep a close watch on the red-robes of Mars."
"The Disorder Array is near its limit. It will use its final Warp jump to return to Argent D'Nur and sink into slumbers at the place of its birth."
Blazkowicz's voice carried a tinge of regret, a deep sorrow surfacing on his valiant features.
Having suppressed the J-11 battlefield and executed dozens of system-level purge directives, the killing artificial intelligence was covered in scars, its logical framework severely fractured, leaving its mind in a state of semi-delirium.
The final wish of this digital lifeform was to return to Argent D'Nur and execute its decomposition protocol.
"I will keep a close eye on them," Russ swore with teeth grit, a look of bitter hatred on his face: "To ensure no further 'accidents' occur."
The "accident" Russ referred to was the conflict that had erupted at J-11.
There were two World Engines—one largely intact, and the other a half-finished shell. Although the intact World Engine had lost its intelligent core systems and could no longer be reactivated, many technologies within its interior held immense value.
To commend the First Legion, or perhaps to curb the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Emperor had requested it from Blazkowicz and presented it to Lion. The half-finished shell was handed over to the Mechanicus.
Yet the insatiable greed of the Mechanicus burned on; they surreptitiously boarded the intact World Engine, using specialized methods to crack the alien technology.
The First Legion detected anomalous readings and caught them red-handed on the spot.
Since the Imperium was celebrating a fresh victory, making it improper to publicly broadcast internal friction, the Imperium and Mars entered negotiations, suppressing the First Legion's desire for retaliation. As a pacification measure, Mars paid a heavy price to compensate the First Legion for its losses.
With this precedent in mind, Blazkowicz dared not lower his guard, entrusting the Space Wolves to guard the war ring to prevent sabotage by those with ulterior motives.
"There is no need to be overly aggressive; simply stalling them will suffice," seeing Russ's solemn expression, Blazkowicz added: "The Wolves do not need to clash head-on with the Mechanicus. If you detect any anomalies, simply notify the Night Guards remaining on station."
"Try to avoid entering into direct hostility with Mars yourself—let the warriors of Argent D'Nur handle them."
"Easy enough," Russ grinned with a mischievous smirk, promising: "As long as it isn't a direct conflict, I have countless ways to handle those red-robes. The stench of oil on them cannot escape the noses of the Wolf pack."
"Stay vigilant in all things."
With a final reminder, Blazkowicz walked toward the elevator leading directly to the spaceport. His Primarch Guard followed closely behind. As the doors sealed, the elevator ascended, departing the Rangdan homeworld.
Russ waved goodbye from the ground before turning to leave with his Wolf Guard.
---
The elevator ascended rapidly; the ground receded further and further as the starry expanse drew near.
The war ring remained anchored beside the star, multiple functional sectors damaged, its intelligence core no longer possessing the energy to execute repair commands.
At the same time, a surge of golden light erupted from the Imperator Somnium, tearing through reality to enter the Warp—heading into the sea of stars to retrieve a son of the Master of Mankind.
A year before the conclusion of the Second Rangdan War, the Fifth Legion had brought back news of discovering an entity suspected to be a Primarch. With the war at a critical juncture, the Emperor had been unable to personally confirm His son's identity.
Now that the war was over and critical matters had been settled, the Master of Mankind set out immediately, heading toward a planet named "Olympia" to retrieve the lost Primarch.
The exquisite hull of the Pride of the Emperor cut through the void, engaging its Warp engines and eagerly departing the materiaium before even reaching a Mandeville point.
The Macragge's Honour departed the spaceport, followed closely by a massive fleet advancing toward the system's outer edge.
As he approached the spaceport, Blazkowicz looked down once more. He saw that the outer perimeter of the celebration ground was already being dismantled, structural materials transported back to supply ships via gravity wells. Once the celebration concluded entirely, the Mechanicus fleet would execute an Exterminatus, shattering the Rangdan homeworld into dust.
The Master of Mankind's order was simple and direct: trample the cradle of the Rangdan, and destroy the species' anchor.
On the outer fringes of the system, a Blackstone Fortress rotated as Lion prepared to set forth, continuing the grand species purge—hunting through the void to exterminate the Rangdan remnants.
During the Imperial purge of Rangdan territory, many Hive Cities on crucial worlds were found completely empty; before the Imperial forces had even arrived, the Rangdan had already fled into the deep void. The First Legion had a long list of tasks, chief among them extinguishing any re-ignited sparks of Rangdan civilization.
Meanwhile, Blazkowicz boarded the Royal Majesty, bound for Terra to verify a few lingering suspicions.
---
News of the victory in the Rangdan War spread rapidly through Astropathic broadcasts, permeating the entire Imperium as it flew from the Segmentum Ultima to domains in every cardinal direction.
The war was over, and the entirety of the Imperium of Man was bathed in a festive atmosphere of jubilation.
Vast armies were withdrawn from the front lines, fleets returned to home ports for replenishment, and Auxilia forces seized the opportunity during unit rest-and-refit periods to return to their homeworlds in glory.
When the soldiers set foot upon the soil of their birthplaces with eyes brimming with tears, accompanying them was a decree of tax reduction. The extraordinarily high tithes were rolled back to pre-war rates as a reward for victory, and numerous worlds were granted varying periods of tax exemption due to their outstanding wartime contributions.
Having vanquished the Rangdan Empire, the Departmento Munitorum issued an array of beneficial policies to alleviate burdens, fostering a swifter revival of the Imperium's vitality.
The War Council also became markedly more cautious regarding the initiation of foreign campaigns. Aside from the Space Marine Legions, the rest of the Imperial military apparatus required time to recover its strength.
Having weathered the existential crisis of its species, this gargantuan beast of an Imperium curled its body, catching its breath with deep gasps as it rested with closed eyes to lick its wounds.
Yet "crisis" implied that danger and opportunity existed side by side. Humanity had survived the racial crisis, and now came the moment to reap the spoils of war.
The Rangdan Empire possessed a sprawling territory, occupying nearly half of the Segmentum Ultima by flat spatial measurement alone. Technical personnel cracked the Rangdan databases, receiving the alien empire's vast legacy. Within this newly acquired space, countless high-value worlds were discovered, left entirely at humanity's disposal.
Fresh colonial fleets arrived in short order. They were the pioneers, as well as the prioritized beneficiaries on the roll of honor. As long as one was not utterly foolish, by seizing the first-mover advantage granted by the Imperium, descendants of military families could rapidly rise with the tide, becoming the new rulers of planets.
The former ruins of the Rangdan Empire became new homes for humanity.
The Departmento Munitorum issued documentation implementing new colonial initiatives, awakening the vitality of the Segmentum Ultima that had been suppressed by the war.
Guilliman acutely sensed the opportunity, executing an open-door policy that utilized Ultramar as a springboard to develop these new territories, riding the crest of the colonization wave. Across the entire Segmentum Ultima, all things strove forward in a sudden, vibrant flourish of life.
---
Simultaneously, a blue-and-white Gloriana-class warship berthed at the Lion's Gate Spaceport as the Royal Majesty arrived at Terra.
As the shuttle descended rapidly, Blazkowicz gazed at the scenery outside the viewport, moved by a flood of emotions.
Terra was the heart of the Imperium of Man, its construction seemingly eternal, its engineering projects never halting, and the face of its artificial continents transforming with each passing day. The tallest structure was no longer the shining Astronomican; though the Imperial Palace was far from finished, its height had already surpassed that of the beacon.
The Lion's Gate Spaceport was still undergoing expansion, developing from a thin orbital station into a massive outer-orbital continent.
The Imperium's domain was expanding at a breakneck pace, acquiring living space for humanity while simultaneously testing Terra's carrying capacity to its limits.
The moment Blazkowicz entered the Sol System, he dispatched an official letter to the Departmento Munitorum requesting an audience with the Regent of the Imperium, Malcador.
The protocol remained the same: advancing after submitting official documents, making his way through the corridors of the Imperial Palace.
Every corner of the Palace was under construction—new structures rose from the ground, radiant, gilded, and magnificent beyond equal, while old buildings were demolished and rebuilt for optimization. The complex corridors of Blazkowicz's memory had been dismantled and remodeled to be far broader, enhancing troop mobility while providing guardians with unobstructed sightlines.
As he walked through a specialized clearance corridor, those waiting in line for an audience fell to their knees one after another, shouting the Primarch's name aloud. The Adeptus Custodes maintained order under tight constraints, guarding key choke points throughout the Palace, while squads of Lucifer Blacks patrolled continuously to screen for potential threats without pause.
The audience line moved in fits and starts, entering from the right and exiting from the left, a scene of sheer frenzy before the Regent's mansion.
Malcador was simply too busy. Even with the Departmento Munitorum assisting in handling official affairs, the Regent's workload showed no sign of diminishing.
The Imperium was far too vast, its domain exceeding every known unified state in history. Even if the probability of a critical incident occurring was one in a million, against the backdrop of the Imperium's gargantuan scale, every single speck of dust piled up into a mountain. Furthermore, the boundaries of the Imperium were far from fixed—amidst rapid expansion, rebellions would erupt on certain worlds, pulling them from Imperial control, while other regions might fall to alien incursions. With this constant back-and-forth tug-of-war, the exact domain of the Imperium had never been a fixed number.
Blazkowicz sat in a specially prepared seat, waiting as he watched Imperial nobles file in and out.
Faced with a moment of boredom, he calculated the patrol routes of the Lucifer Blacks and the rotation schedules of the Custodes. Within a few short minutes, he identified multiple gaps in the Lucifer Blacks' patrol paths and deduced the general pattern of the Custodes' shift changes.
He did not bother to point them out, however—it was ultimately none of his concern. The Custodes conducted their Blood Games; given time, they would naturally discover these flaws and institute reforms. Besides, even if he offered a warning, it was practically useless for both the Custodes and mortals.
A defense that appeared airtight and hopeless to ordinary eyes was riddled with holes in the view of a Primarch, fragile enough to be shattered with a single poke. This was not merely a flaw in defensive organization, but an insurmountable physical disparity where a Primarch simply crushed all before him.
"Thank you for waiting, my Lord," after Blazkowicz had discovered a few more defensive flaws, an Imperial Palace attendant stepped out, standing respectfully at the doorway to guide him in: "The Lord Regent is overwhelmed with business."
"Understood," Blazkowicz stood up, brushing out the folds of his cloak.
He was clad in a blue-and-white robe, his arms braced with gilded vambraces, his waist bound by a royal sapphire belt, and a cloak bearing his lineage's crest draped over his back. For formal audiences, Blazkowicz had always dressed with solemn gravity.
Following the attendant into the Regent's office hall, the scene before him shifted once more, as if stepping into a different realm of space-time.
Before the office hall lay a plaza covered by a transparent glass dome spanning hundreds of square kilometers. Across the plaza, ornate tents of all sizes stood in dense arrangements; though varying in style, they were organized with strict discipline. These were nobles who had traveled from across the sea of stars, waiting for a chance to seek an audience with the Imperial Regent.
"So many people?" Blazkowicz's brows furrowed, clearly not expecting even more crowds inside the inner walls.
His nostrils flared slightly as he caught a scent—the air was thick with a mixture of heavy spices and body odor; the plaza had clearly been occupied for a long time.
"The Departmento Munitorum is undergoing reforms, but it cannot keep pace with the Imperium's development," the Custode leading the way also shook his head, his voice trembling slightly as if recalling something unpleasant: "Beside the central hall of the Departmento Munitorum stands a crematorium specifically used to incinerate civil servants who drop dead from exhaustion."
"Their ashes are pressed into bricks to continue building the Imperium block by block."
The Custode spoke slowly, a tinge of reverence mingled within his trembling voice: "Dying at one's post, giving one's all until the very end."
Blazkowicz raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, shaking his head helplessly as he took broad strides through the clearance corridor. His towering frame caused no small commotion, with Imperial nobles dropping eagerly to their knees to offer their deference to a scion of the Emperor.
The party moved in stops and starts, passing through countless security checkpoints before finally arriving at the Regent's private hall.
The interior of the hall was austere and simple, lacking the flashy, blinding golden light characteristic of the Emperor. Cyan draperies hung from the crossbeams, swaying gently in the breeze, their soft silhouettes reflected upon the polished obsidian floor, adding a touch of gentleness to the grand hall.
At the far end of the hall, Malcador sat upon a dark cyan dais, his withered frame stooped behind an exceptionally wide desk.
As Blazkowicz stepped into the hall, the final visitor concluded his audience, bowing to the Regent before turning to depart.
"Great King of Warriors!" the high noble gasped in awe, but Blazkowicz checked his gesture, waving his hand to signal the man to leave quickly.
"Dismissed," Malcador waved away his attendant servants, raising a hand to signal the Custodes to leave as well.
The heavy doors slowly closed. Within the vast hall, only Blazkowicz and Malcador remained, alongside the flickering glow of low flames.
Blazkowicz strode through the draperies, coming to a stop before the cyan dais: "Elder, do you know the purpose of my visit?"
For Malcador to dismiss his attendants and guardians meant he had long been prepared.
Upon the dais, the Regent of the Imperium slowly stood up. A smile rested upon his aged features, his voice calm and gentle: "It is not difficult to guess."
He rounded the wide desk, stepping down to sit casually upon the dark cyan steps, looking directly at Blazkowicz's valiant face: "The Custodes escorting the Eleventh Legion have already informed me of what transpired."
"What a tragedy," he sighed with quiet emotion: "The Imperium defeated the Rangdan in open battle, yet two Legions were struck from the records during this period."
"The specific cause was not the strength of the enemy, but problems emerging from within."
Malcador shook his head, a look of profound regret flashing in his eyes, the flame atop his Aquila staff flickering: "When I received word that the Royal Majesty was returning to the Sol System alone, I roughly knew you had come seeking the truth."
He looked at Blazkowicz, his gaze as still as dead water, the profound thoughts of the old man unreadable on the surface.
"And will you tell me?" Blazkowicz sat cross-legged upon the floor, his question posed with equal tranquility, as though discussing a matter of no consequence.
Beneath the surface of the Rangdan homeworld, Blazkowicz had witnessed the mutations among the Space Marines, giving rise to subtle conjectures in his mind. He knew the Emperor would not tell him, so taking advantage of the war's conclusion, he had come to Terra to question Malcador.
The Regent and the Emperor were bosom friends who had forged the Imperium of Man together, naturally sharing a common goal. The Primarchs were an integral part of their grand design—Malcador undoubtedly knew the truth.
---
"If it were any other Primarch, I would never reveal a single word."
"However—" Malcador offered a gentle smile, raising a withered arm to point at Blazkowicz: "You do not belong among 'the others'."
You do not belong among the others!
The Regent of the Imperium used a matter-of-fact tone to state the most profoundly unequal truth, causing even the draft in the grand hall to freeze in place.
Blazkowicz's features tightened as he slowly closed his eyes.
The words spoken by Malcador were cold and harsh, requiring a few seconds for him to compose himself.
What did it mean to "not belong among the others"?
Blazkowicz felt no secret joy over this partiality; instead, an icy chill slithered into his heart like a venomous serpent, biting into the bonds of brotherhood. He even felt a sudden impulse to turn on his heel and leave, abandoning any further pursuit of the matter.
"Where did we come from?"
A heavy voice echoed across the hall. Blazkowicz opened his eyes to fix his gaze on Malcador, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Having witnessed the mutations among the Space Marines and possessing a degree of understanding regarding the Warp, Blazkowicz had long harbored his own conjectures—genetics alone could under no circumstances induce mutations of that nature.
That was no ordinary mutation. The warriors of the Eleventh Legion had, in a certain sense, already ceased to be "human."
The Emperor's expression at the time had been one of utter detachment; He had clearly known the origin of the mutation all along, which was why He had not overly penalized the warriors of the Legion.
Blazkowicz had formed his suspicions back then, and today he had come specifically to claim the truth.
"The reality is exceptionally grim," the smile vanished from Malcador's face, his brows furrowing as the wrinkles on his weathered face drew taut: "If you truly wish to know, I shall tell you."
"However, the cost of knowing this truth will turn into a curse, tormenting the heart that holds it."
His aged voice carried a solemn warning as a emaciated finger pointed toward himself: "I guard countless dark secrets, and my inner soul suffers endless torment because of them."
"And then there are those," Malcador turned his hand to gesture toward the depths behind him, "deep within the Regent's estate, where I keep secret listeners imprisoned. Every single one of them has gone mad."
"Child," he looked at Blazkowicz, offering earnest counsel: "Out of duty, I can lay bare the cruel truth to you. Yet as an elder, I would rather preserve a well-intentioned lie."
"The choice rests entirely upon you."
As Malcador finished speaking, the palace fell once more into deep silence, broken only by the rustling of draperies stirred by the breeze.
"Tell me," Blazkowicz's voice remained calm, yet it carried an ironclad resolve: "My father once taught me: only by facing the darkness can one truly understand it, and only by confronting the darkness can one prevail over it."
As the words left his mouth, a resolute, unshakeable determination burned in his eyes, devoid of even a shred of fear: "I am a Night Guard. The blade in my hand cuts down the enemy, while the faith in my heart guards my principles."
"If the truth is dark, then we must face it all the more courageously. It will inevitably arrive one day—how could unprepared ignorance ever withstand the disaster when the truth is finally laid bare?"
With that, Blazkowicz looked straight into Malcador's eyes, prepared to listen to the dark secret.
Malcador shook his head helplessly, a trace of approval flashing deep within his eyes. With a flick of his fingers, he traced several arcane sigils in the air to construct a ward, severing all external observation.
"So that humanity might rise once more, the Emperor struck a bargain with the Dark Gods."
Within the barrier, Malcador's drawn-out, aged voice softly recounted the deepest hidden shadow: "The subject of that transaction... was all of you."
As the words were spoken, Malcador carefully observed Blazkowicz's expression, the fingers beneath his long sleeves quietly readying a teleportation rune. He lacked the confidence to overpower Blazkowicz; if an anomaly occurred, his only option would be to escape immediately.
At the same time, a swell of conflicting emotions surfaced within Malcador—he felt both a sense of profound relief and a faint trace of regret.
The relief stemmed from dispelling the risk bound to the secret, lightening the heavy burden upon his heart; the regret stemmed from fear—fear that the listener would be shattered by the brutal reality and lash out in a violent rage.
"That's it?"
An incredulous voice echoed through the empty hall, causing Malcador's fingers to tremble so violently that the arcane sigils nearly dissolved.
The towering youth opposite him maintained an entirely ordinary expression. Within his calm, dark obsidian eyes, there was not a trace of shock or terror, nor the disbelief one might have expected. The shock, fury, hatred, and self-loathing that Malcador had anticipated upon revealing their origins were completely absent.
"You... do not seem to care very much?"
Hesitating for a moment, Malcador actively dispersed the warding rune, his brow furrowing instead. His question was posed with extreme caution, terrified of provoking the youth into a sudden outburst from which he himself would be unable to escape.
"I do not care all that much," Blazkowicz nodded, his clenched fists opening to signal that he posed no threat: "The truth is unexpected, but entirely acceptable."
Hearing this peaceful response, Malcador found himself unable to comprehend it, scratching his head in sheer bewilderment. He had genuinely never imagined that anyone could remain so serene.
"You do not believe me?"
A flash of realization crossed his eyes; Malcador instantly understood—Blazkowicz wasn't unbothered, he simply hadn't believed him.
"I do," Blazkowicz nodded with utmost seriousness, his eyes filled with complete sincerity: "Aside from this, I can think of no other logical reason to explain the divine anomalies among my brothers."
"Selene's flames and short-range teleportation, or the Angel's pure wings—all of them serve as proof of our extraordinary nature."
In truth, there were details he left unsaid, such as the shadow abilities of the Nineteenth Legion.
Receiving this fragment of the truth from Malcador's lips actually brought him immense relief, causing many lingering doubts to evaporate. Like the Eleventh Legion, the Nineteenth Legion had also inherited their Primarch's capabilities; the only difference was that the former displayed explicit physical shifts, while the latter experienced no bodily mutations.
Or perhaps mutations existed, but simply could not be discerned from outward appearances.
Hearing this answer, Malcador rubbed his hood once more, feeling a sudden lack of confidence. In his imagination, upon learning that they were born of a bargain, any Primarch would find it utterly impossible to accept, requiring his consolation. Having anticipated Blazkowicz's arrival, he had long built up his psychological defenses and prepared soothing rhetoric to deliver after revealing the secret.
Was none of it needed now?
Feeling as though he had thrown a punch into soft cotton, Malcador's eyes flickered—did the youth of today truly possess such formidable mental acceptance?
Seeing Blazkowicz neither grieving nor overjoyed, he decided to deliver a heavier blow after a quick moment of thought: "Through that transaction, the Emperor obtained your souls from the Chaos Gods, using His own genome to forge physical vessels for you in the materium."
"You are demigods of the Warp—great souls imprisoned within mortal shells, granted vastly different destinies."
As Malcador continuously laid bare these dark secrets, he experienced an unprecedented sense of cathartic liberation, nearly roaring out: "Do you... not feel hatred?!"
His breathing grew slightly rapid as he stared at Blazkowicz, desperate for an answer.
"I feel no hatred," Blazkowicz shook his head, slowly standing up from the obsidian floor, his expression showing little change: "Because it is meaningless."
He looked directly at Malcador sitting upon the dais: "Back when I rode on my father's back, his very first lesson to me was to learn acceptance."
"To accept one's own extraordinary nature, and to accept the ordinariness of others; to accept the past, and to accept the present."
Blazkowicz's voice was exceptionally calm, devoid of fluctuation: "We are powerless to alter the past. It is far better to accept it openly and deal earnestly with the present and the future."
"At the very least, I feel the present is quite fine," Blazkowicz spread his hands casually, glancing around the grand hall: "Holding a noble status respected by the masses, with a grand ideal to strive toward."
"Should I abandon the present merely to pursue the past in reverse?"
"Throw away the humanity I possess today just to succumb to the instincts of dark wills?"
Listening to these questions, Malcador finally snapped out of his daze, pinching his aching temples. He felt as though the person standing before him was radiating light—a sublime understanding of the self and the world enveloped Blazkowicz in a quiet brilliance.
"King Norwick..."
Malcador murmured the name softly. He felt that if the opportunity ever arose, the Emperor Himself should go to the tomb and kowtow before King Norwick. That mortal king had possessed extraordinary wisdom; had he not been bound by the limitations of a mortal frame, his achievements would have been unimaginable.
"Then what was your purpose in seeking the truth?" Malcador raised his head, searching Blazkowicz's face for any sign of evasion: "If you do not care about these things, why come to me at all?"
"To verify a hypothesis," Blazkowicz made no attempt to conceal it: "I do not care, but what about my other brothers?"
"Just as you feared, Elder—if it were anyone else standing before you right now, would you have spoken of this secret?"
"I sought the truth to verify my conjectures so that I may plan for the future—to figure out how, amidst the grand game between the Emperor and the Gods, I might attempt to preserve as many of my brothers as possible."
Malcador fell silent.
Just as Blazkowicz had said, if any other Primarch had come to ask these questions, he would not have paid them the slightest heed.
"Your plans contain nothing but concealment," Blazkowicz's voice sounded once more, a faint trace of disdain lingering at the bottom of his eyes: "I assume you have no contingency plans whatsoever to explain their origins to the Primarchs."
"I can understand that as well. After all, the urgency of the Great Crusade and the Webway Project leaves both the Emperor and you, Elder, with no attention to spare for exploring the inner hearts of every brother."
Malcador nodded heavily, acknowledging the truth of Blazkowicz's words.
Supposing a Primarch were to discover the truth of their origin, the only contingency the Emperor and he possessed was imprisonment. All injustices had to yield to the Great Crusade and the Webway—including the personal growth of the Emperor's own scions.
The Emperor and the Imperium required conquerors to bring countless star systems to heel, using resources to build humanity's future in a short span of time. As for the disasters caused by flaws in character, so long as they did not derail the grand design, all could be endured.
Once the Webway Project was realized and the human race escaped the clutches of the Four Gods, there would be ample time to sit down and talk things through properly.
"You are sensible, and even more so, you save others from worry," Malcador snapped back to reality, letting out a long sigh as he sat upon the dark cyan steps: "A truly great man educated you, allowing you to stand fully independent and strong."
"He imparted his grand ideals to you without reservation. That gift, stemming from the soul, is more than enough to resist darkness and corruption."
"It does render things somewhat anti-climactic, however," Malcador rose from the dais: "I originally assumed you would roar in fury, loudly demanding answers from the Emperor and myself, torn apart by your own origins."
"I originally assumed you would roar in fury, loudly demanding answers from the Emperor and myself, torn apart by your own origins."
Malcador shook his head, his coarse linen hood swaying gently. Within the composed air of the Regent, who held the power of life and death over trillion-trillion citizens of the Imperium, leaked a subtle trace of self-deprecation.
"I was somewhat arrogant."
He leaned on his flaming Aquila staff to stand, a glimmer of self-reflection flashing across his age-weathered eyes: "Having worked alongside the Emperor for so many years to build and sustain a gargantuan empire, my way of thinking has inevitably shifted."
"People call it remaining unfazed while the stars turn upside down, but in essence, it is simply having seen too much. One's humanity becomes numb amidst countless grim choices, eroded into cold detachment."
"Sigh..." The elder let out a long, quiet sigh, his cloudy eyes trembling slightly as his dry lips moved faintly: "And at the same time, it has become tainted with a touch of indifferent arrogance."
Blazkowicz stood in silence, neither interjecting nor issuing a sharp rebuke.
He understood the hardship the Imperium had faced along its path; upon this frail old man's thin shoulders rested the future and the fate of humanity.
An empire of man spanning nearly the entire galaxy—a burden of this magnitude forced those managing it toward madness, driving them into a cold abyss where humanity was extinguished.
The scale of the Imperium was simply too vast.
At its current stage, humanity possessed over five hundred thousand major worlds with formal names and records. Among them were critical Warp-route nexus hubs, heavily fortified fortress worlds, idyllic natural paradise worlds, and functional worlds such as industrial forge hubs. They were scattered across the galaxy with meticulous order, forming the blood vessels and nerves that sustained the Imperium's survival.
Relying on these key worlds, the Imperium managed billions of vast star systems. These star systems bore no names; the Imperium archived them using simple numerical designations, yet they formed the very bone and muscle supporting the Imperium of Man.
Blazkowicz felt almost hesitant to speak aloud; the sheer thought of it was chilling.
Billions of star systems, vast as sea fog, operated without the governance of true artificial intelligence or basic AI, managed entirely through raw human effort. To maintain the present order, the administrative brass had sacrificed virtually every ounce of their intellect and vitality.
Those sparks of radiance shimmering across the sea of stars ultimately coalesced into a colossal weight that fell upon Malcador.
This perpetual Sigillite, though possessing immortal life, had been reduced to a emaciated frame by the crushing pressure upon his shoulders, his former majesty ravaged by time into his present haggard form.
"You have already done the absolute best that could be done."
A look of deep respect surfaced in Blazkowicz's eyes. Under current conditions, Malcador and the bureaucratic apparatus of the Departmento Munitorum had indeed pushed human capacity to its absolute physical limits.
The Lord Regent of the Imperium deserved respect, as did the mortal administrators he represented.
"Sigh..." Malcador let out another long sigh, a spark of hope and resolve flickering in the depths of his eyes: "Human strength has its limits. The Webway Project must succeed; when that time comes, restrictions on basic AI governance can be somewhat relaxed."
"Relying solely on the capacity of Cogitator arrays cannot meet humanity's needs for the future. Once the human race is secure, we can make bold endeavors for the sake of survival and advancement—"
Unknowingly, treating Blazkowicz as a peer and friend, Malcador began revealing even more intricate details of their grand design.
He spoke at great length. Those eyes, once cloudy, grew increasingly bright and expressive. An energy Blazkowicz had never seen before erupted from within that frail frame, as if he were laying out a sweeping, majestic epic.
Blazkowicz stood straight, listening to the vision of the future, nodding in agreement from time to time.
Within the ocean of the Regent's mind lay countless plans designed to pave a radiant future for mankind. Malcador was like a chatterbox engineer, actively constructing the future of his imagination.
Listening to all this, Blazkowicz could not help but make a mental comparison.
He felt that between the Emperor and Malcador, the former handled external affairs—creating and leading the Primarchs, serving as the supreme leader to conquer new territories for the Imperium, and using force and power to shield humanity. The latter acted more as the internal anchor; the Departmento Munitorum was the child of his intellect, utilizing political mechanisms and civil mandates to maintain the normal operation of the Imperium of Man.
Neither was superior to the other; their duties complemented each other seamlessly as they worked hand-in-hand to build the Imperium block by block.
"Ahem—"
Having spoken for so long, Malcador felt a wave of dry heat in his throat. His parched, aged voice came to a halt, and he stuck out his tongue to lick his dry lips.
The hope in his eyes remained, though it had grown more tranquil.
"It has been a long time," Malcador shook his head with a sigh, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling with a trace of memory: "I can no longer remember how long it has been since I talked to someone so freely and thoroughly."
"Back then, before the Cybernetic Revolt had even taken place, I met the Emperor. Together with many Perpetual friends, we drank and made merry, watching humanity reign supreme over the galaxy."
"I have said too much," he waved his hand dismissively, the smile brought on by his memories vanishing.
After a prolonged silence, Malcador turned to Blazkowicz with utter gravity: "The transaction between the Emperor and the Four Gods was cruel to all of you."
"In order to obtain the technology of the Dark Gods to assist humanity in achieving a rapid resurgence, the Emperor traveled into the Warp and signed a transactional pact with the Four."
"Of the twenty-one Primarchs, half were to belong to Chaos, and the other half to humanity."
Malcador's narrative was crafted with immense skill, concealing Blazkowicz's unique nature and making subtle alterations to the vast majority of the truth.
There were certain secrets that even he did not dare state openly.
"However, the Gods broke the contract."
"Broke the contract?" Blazkowicz caught the critical point, his gaze sharpening as his thoughts touched the perimeter of the hidden truth.
"Yes," Malcador nodded, recounting the buried past: "They seduced—"
His voice cut off abruptly. His withered lips parted and closed as he struggled, hesitating for a long moment before finally uttering the name: "Erda."
"Erda, the other half of the genetic source used to create your bodies, was—"
His voice paused once more. The old man's eyes rolled around a couple of times before he grinned to reveal white teeth, a playful, mischievous smile spreading across his face: "She was the Emperor's old flame. For a very long time, the two of them were inseparable."
"So that's how it is." Blazkowicz listened attentively without obsessing over the origins of their genetic mother, perking up his ears to listen quietly.
Certain deep secrets did not need to be understood in a rush. His focus remained on the bargain between the Emperor and the Four Gods, intending to concentrate on understanding that matter first.
"Erda was seduced and shattered the psychic barrier the Emperor had erected. The Gods seized the vulnerability and swept you all away with a Warp storm."
Malcador was immensely pleased with Blazkowicz's composure: focused on the matter at hand, never falling into the trap of boundless, insatiable curiosity, nor blindly chasing deeper obscurities.
The old man's voice sounded once more, detailing the Primarchs' origins: "The Gods stole you from the Emperor's side, leaving you as infants scattered across the galaxy."
"Yet the hasty greed of the Gods also handed the Emperor a pretext."
"He used the breach of contract as an excuse to withhold delivering the Primarchs to Chaos, stalling all the way until the present day."
"Of course," Malcador hastened to add: "Even according to the original plan, the Emperor never intended to execute the contract or offer His own sons to the Gods."
"From beginning to end, the Emperor was deceiving the Gods, never intending to join forces with the Dark Powers."
With that finished, he carefully observed Blazkowicz's expression, still feeling a slight unease, fearful that the youth might be enraged by these dark revelations.
As it turned out, Malcador had underestimated Blazkowicz's capacity for acceptance.
"I believe in His original intent," Blazkowicz remarked in a deep voice, sensing the scrutiny: "I can distinguish between the ultimate objective and the means used to achieve it."
Malcador let out a long sigh of relief: "Understanding is a noble virtue."