While Blazkowicz sought answers in the Imperial Palace on Terra, inquiring after the truth from the Regent of the Imperium, the Imperator Somnium arrived in the Olympia system.
Olympia—where a burning meteor had once cut across the starry vault, plunging straight into a sprawling chain of snow-capped mountains.
The amniotic pod bearing the Primarch had crash-landed here, yet it failed to draw much notice.
Within the deep crater left by the falling star, the pod lay quietly inside the scorching pit, the ancient Roman numeral "IV" etched upon its outer hull.
BANG—!
Inside the gestation pod, a fair-skinned, infant leg kicked open the sealed hatch, and a baby crawled out.
There was no confusion upon his youthful face as he looked at the Roman numeral on the pod: "Four? Am I Number Four?"
"No." The young Primarch swiftly dismissed the thought, a resolute glint filling his eyes: "I am Perturabo."
Perturabo was unique; when the pod breached the Warp and re-entered realspace, he had already awakened from his slumber.
Through the glass viewport, Perturabo had looked down upon the passing landscapes—rivers, mountain ranges, and the names and meanings of all things unfolding within his mind. He was born with innate knowledge, understanding the secrets of the cosmos as well as his own name: Perturabo.
The young Primarch glanced back at the amniotic pod, quickly burying it deep beneath the dirt, before stepping out into the wasteland.
With baby fat still gracing his cheeks, Perturabo possessed a crystal-clear understanding that he had to survive.
As he traversed the dense forest, he spotted a flock of sheep, realizing he still lacked clothing. Thus, clad in a blood-soaked sheepskin and chewing greedily on a raw lamb leg, Perturabo found himself pursued and pelted by angry shepherds.
It was not that he was incapable of fighting back, but rather because he knew that those chasing him were his own kin, and by stealing their property, he had acted wrongly.
"ROAR~~~!"
A beastly roar shattered the silence of the forest, abruptly interrupting the chase as a foul, metallic stench instantly filled the air.
A colossal black serpent slithered violently out of a cavern, coiling toward the shepherds and swallowing several of them in the blink of an eye.
Perturabo halted, his instincts driving him to lend a hand, yet he hesitated.
His innate, cold logical intellect issued an immediate warning, telling him: If you intervene now, the probability of victory is miniscule.
He turned and departed without hesitation, following the scent of the shepherds to their settlement until he arrived at a blacksmith's forge.
"Refined iron, high-temperature fuel, and a forging hammer."
In a cold, detached voice, Perturabo stated his requirements. Under the terrified gaze of the blacksmith, a mere child lifted the heavy hammer and began to strike the anvil.
Simultaneously, vast reserves of metallurgical knowledge surfaced within his mind.
A short while later, Perturabo forged a longsword and charged into the forest without looking back, leaving the crowd of onlookers gaping at one another in sheer disbelief.
The child-Primarch slew the massive serpent as it was digesting its meal. Dragging the beast's severed, giant head, he tracked down the fleeing shepherds.
"I have killed it," he stated, casting the serpent's head upon the ground before them. "From this day forth, you need no longer fear its attacks."
The shepherds recognized the lamb-thief, yet now they trembled in sheer terror, realizing the child had shown them mercy earlier.
"You killed seven of my sheep," one shepherd stammered fearfully. "But the serpent killed far more of our people. What reward do you seek?"
They simply wished to placate this blood-drenched child, terrified that he might harbor a grudge and turn on them.
Perturabo stood before them, shaking his head with utter gravity: "I am stronger than you. It is my duty to protect the weak."
The shepherds froze in stupor, before their faces settled into a distinct expression.
Perturabo furrowed his brow with deep distaste; he understood that look—it was an expression that represented greed and avarice.
"Very well," he agreed nonetheless.
A shepherd pointed toward the deepest thickets of the forest, awe and dread gleaming in his eyes: "Over there lies a Hydra. We hope you will slay it for us as well."
"Very well." His response remained icy as Perturabo turned and strode into the depths of the forest.
The battle generated a massive commotion. Hours after the beast's roars finally ceased, the boy emerged from the forest dragging the carcass of the Hydra.
The shepherd settlement wept with joy. They cheered at the top of their lungs, hoisting the young warrior high onto their shoulders to celebrate the removal of danger from their home.
The settlement made merry for a long time, singing and dancing in wild celebration. To express their gratitude, the shepherds presented Perturabo with ancient technological relics passed down from antiquity.
There were far too many of them. A staggering volume of data flooded Perturabo's mind, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.
No one knew what happened afterward. The brave youth who had slain the monsters vanished without a trace.
Hearing rumors of this marvel, nearby city-states dispatched search parties to find the champion, but having found nothing, they returned to report to their Tyrant.
---
Long after the hero's disappearance, deep within the untracked, snow-covered forest, a biting cold wind howled mercilessly.
A tiny figure walked amidst the blizzard—a human boy, completely naked, his eyes filled with profound confusion. He did not know where he had come from, nor where he was going.
Before him lay a vast expanse of blinding white and rolling mountain ranges. Ice crystals shattered beside his ears as the freezing gale swept past, brutally carving into his skin.
The boy did not know which way to walk, instinctively pursuing a single direction: a place where warmth existed.
By the time the boy regained full consciousness and recognized his "self," he was already suspended upon a freezing cliffside—below him lay a bottomless white abyss, while freezing mist hovered above.
And behind that impenetrable fog hung a mottled ring of hazy purple—hollow, mysterious, and looking down upon all living beings from high above the heavens.
The boy stared in awe for a long time, repeatedly confirming that the eye-like ring was incapable of causing him physical harm.
He quickly grasped his current predicament.
He was clinging to a crack in the rock with one hand, his other arm dangling, suspended precariously over the freezing precipice. He hastily gripped the stone fissure with both hands to keep from falling.
His brain rapidly compiled the situational data, analyzing environmental threats and his own physical state.
A sharp, bone-deep pain shot through his hands from the effort. The biting cold had frozen his flesh, leaving his fingertips a dark, bruised purple, while large cracks split across his palms and nails.
The skin on the back of his hands was peeling away to reveal bone beneath, and his wrists had been carved open by blades of bitter frost, exposing dark purple muscle and blood flecked with ice shards.
The boy could clearly sense his body temperature dropping rapidly—the extreme cold was about to claim his life.
Yet he did not panic, merely puzzled by the terms surfacing in his brain.
Temperature, predicament—words associated with his current state naturally welled up from the depths of his consciousness.
After a brief moment of thought, the boy did not dwell on it. He was in a dire situation and needed to make a choice.
He looked upward, but the hazy white mist obscured his vision, leaving it impossible to discern how high the cliff stretched. He tilted his head to look downward, and though his sight was obstructed, he could make out a wide, snow-covered plain below.
The boy closed his eyes. He understood with absolute clarity that he was facing a choice that would dictate his life or death.
He possessed no prior memories, no lingering impressions of the lands below, and zero knowledge of what lay at the top of the frozen wall. Meanwhile, though the deep abyss below offered no means of long-term survival, it presented no immediate, life-threatening danger either.
It was a difficult decision. Hanging from the cliff face, the boy closed his eyes and pondered in silence.
After a long while, he moved.
Gripping the stone fissures, he continued upward, advancing boldly toward the unknown.
The boy possessed no memory of how he had come to climb the cliff, and knowing nothing of what lay ahead, this decision could very well prove fatal. Yet he did not hesitate, taking a deep breath of freezing air and enduring the piercing cold as he scaled the rock face.
The howling wind battered him with ice shards, splitting his skin, yet the boy's face remained resolutely firm. He did not know what lay above, but he was certain that if he were the version of himself from before his memory loss, he would unequivocally press upward, never abandoning his resolve to reach the summit.
The boy's arms alternated relentlessly, enduring the frost scraping at his bones, allowing the flesh of his fingertips to freeze and shatter.
One stroke after another, his bruised purple arms took turns plunging into narrow rock cracks. Having set his objective, he climbed for a long time, yet there seemed to be no end in sight.
The roar of the freezing wind grew even more piercing, battering the boy's flesh and mind alike. As the bone-scraping cold raged on, bringing unbearable physical pain, his spirit was subjected to equal torment.
Should I give up climbing?
The boy questioned himself as he ascended, staring fixedly into the clouds and mist, wild thoughts beginning to sprout in his mind.
What if I made the wrong choice earlier? What if this cliff face has no summit?
No one could answer these questions. The howling gale grew increasingly ferocious; the mountain remained silent, and so did the boy.
He still wanted to see what lay beyond the summit of this sheer cliff.
In the end, it was fear that banished doubt. The boy's absolute horror of failure shattered his physical agony and mental torment, setting his course toward the peak once more.
After climbing for a long while longer, relying on his superhuman vision, the boy caught sight of light filtering through the freezing mist. A flash of joy gleamed in his eyes, and amidst his delight, he climbed even faster.
Using hands and feet in seamless rhythm, he soon breached the bitter cold and hauled himself onto the peak. Through the hazy cloud cover, he beheld a grand palace bathed in radiant light, solemn and divine.
At the edge of the peak, the boy spotted several armored guards.
Humans. Deep within his consciousness, knowledge surged once more, recognizing the creatures' species as his own kin. They were guards, tasked with defending the palace.
Just as the boy noticed the guards, they noticed him.
Several soldiers fetched ropes and cast them down before him, shouting to the boy: "You need help! Grab the rope, and we will haul you up!"
The boy had never learned spoken language before, yet now he understood the call of his kin. Several linguistic systems surfaced in his mind, bearing the name "Gothic."
"I require help from no one!"
He cold-heartedly rejected their aid. Under the astonished eyes of the guards, he accelerated his climb, executing a series of nimble leaps to stand before his fellow man.
Having climbed to the top, the soldiers surrounded him in a circle. The guard captain stepped forward, hand resting upon the hilt at his waist, asking warily: "Who are you? What brings you to Lochos?"
Standing within the encirclement, the boy displayed not a trace of panic, confident in his ability to slaughter everyone present.
Ignoring the captain's question, he pointed toward the ornate palace in the distance and asked: "This is Lochos?"
The guard captain did not speak, but nodded in affirmation to the boy's query.
Having received confirmation, the boy gave a subtle nod, speaking in the tone of a commander: "Take me to see its master."
A sudden rasp of steel echoed as the guards drew their blades, pointing them at the arrogant boy before them.
Yet they failed to notice that their own swords were trembling.
The innate majesty of a Primarch caused the soldiers to hesitate; they felt the boy before them possessed a solemn, ancient air—a distinct authority belonging to a high ruler.
The guard captain pressed down his men's blades and sized the boy up carefully.
He appeared intensely cold, with a mop of messy short hair, a body caked in dirt, and severe purple frostbite covering his limbs. Though youthful baby fat had not entirely vanished from his face, it had already been replaced by sheer tenacity and calm.
The frost had sculpted the contours of his face, causing it to shed a child's rounded soft edges early on to reveal a rock-hard silhouette. Though his skin appeared somewhat weathered by the elements, his eyes were where his true visage resided.
The guard captain exchanged a brief glance with him, only to quickly avert his gaze.
It was an "unhuman" look.
Beneath those lead-gray eyes lay a penetrating observational capacity that saw through everything, as if all matter was being analyzed by the boy's gaze, exposing the underlying logic of the world.
"Put this on," the guard captain's voice softened considerably as he unclasped his cloak, rolling it into his hands to offer it to the boy, his posture instinctively lowering: "I will take you to see the Tyrant of the city-state of Lochos—Dammekos."
"Though you may not mind," he pointed at the boy's naked frame, "covering your body is a basic courtesy."
The boy did not refuse, recognizing this as "etiquette." He took the cloak and wrapped it around himself.
"Let us go," wrapping the cloak loosely around his shoulders, the boy raised a hand to summon them, as though he were the true master of the guard.
The soldiers felt bewildered, yet none raised an objection as they fell into step behind the boy with broad strides.
A massive flight of stairs stretched upward, terminating in stone pillars and arched gates.
To the boy, it was purely novel; wherever his eyes fell, the architecture unfolded before him like a blueprint.
The boy walked up the stairs of the divine palace under the sunlight, curiously studying these entirely new surroundings. The world before his eyes was being deconstructed into countless fine details.
The structure of the palace, the geometric significance of its angles, the masonry joints of the stone blocks—from the macro to the micro, his eyes functioned like precision instruments, dissecting everything he saw layer by layer.
Ascending the stone steps, the party arrived at the grand hall.
Through the solemn, majestic gates directly ahead, one could take in the view within the palace at a single glance.
The palace was constructed from marble, its walls carved with archaic yet irregular patterns—a design of clean simplicity that exuded an air of grandeur.
The midday sun shone at its fiercest, its rays angling past the stone pillars to cut deep into the hall. The sharply defined division of light and shadow sliced the palace into two distinct realms.
The boy followed the guard escort further inward, observing officials standing in opposing flanks across the hall, as well as the man seated high upon the royal steps at the far end of his line of sight.
In his eyes, the man was not particularly tall. He possessed a stocky frame clad in low-grade armor, sitting squarely upon the throne.
There was little majesty to the man; he possessed a broad forehead, narrow eyes, and a thick, bushy beard. Even seated upon the throne, his demeanor was not that of a true king, but rather carried a unique brand of tyrannical swagger.
He was none other than the Tyrant of Lochos, one of Olympia's twelve city-state rulers—Dammekos.
"Is it you?"
At the absolute center of light and shade, Dammekos spoke from his throne. His voice was not high-pitched, but rather deep, clear, and laced with a touch of astonishment: "The boy who slew two monsters for the shepherds, and who wielded a forging hammer with absolute perfection to craft a sword?"
The Tyrant's inquiry caused the civil officials and military generals throughout the hall to cast curious glances toward the boy.
They knew precisely who the Tyrant was referring to.
Six months ago, across the borderland wastelands between the twelve city-states—the homeland of the nomads—rumors exceeding all common sense had begun to circulate.
A young hero had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, possessing mind-boggling intellect, and had slain the terrible beasts plaguing the nomadic tribes.
The city-state had dispatched emissaries to investigate, but the champion had vanished, leaving the messengers to return emptied-handed to report to their lord.
With the messengers returning with nothing, the tale of the young hero fell by the wayside.
The high command of the citadel assumed it had merely been a fabricated story spun by the nomads to draw attention, a simple ploy to drive up the price of their sheep. After all, with the backing of a grand legend, someone would surely pay the markup on their goods.
Today, however, as the city-state Tyrant spoke of the youth's identity, people could not help but recall those heroic rumors once more.
"I do not know who you are talking about." The boy halted at the base of the throne, his brow furrowed. He searched every single fragment of memory in his mind, but found no related records.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Dammekos burst into three booming laughs, a lordly swagger surfacing across his features as he remarked dismissively: "We shall find out soon enough."
"Since you have come to face me, demonstrate your talent."
The Tyrant waved his hand, instructing his throne retainers: "Grant him the opportunity to showcase his skills."
Several retainers bowed in obedience and departed, hauling a blacksmith's forging station out from the throne's side ante-chamber.
"Young man—" Dammekos pointed toward the forging station.
"I have a name," the boy interrupted the Tyrant outright, his impolite gesture sending a wave of commotion through the throne guard: "My name is Perturabo."
Dammekos raised a hand to restrain the guards who were drawing their swords, a grin spreading across his rough features: "Perturabo, I do not blame you for your insolence; I recognize your name."
"So, what do you have that can earn my approval?"
Perturabo walked over to the forging station, gripping the heavy hammer. Feeling metallurgical knowledge flood his mind, he inquired with utter confidence: "What do you require?"
"Arrogant!"
"Insolent fool!"
The ministers berated him in hushed tones; the arrogance displayed by this youth exceeded the limits of their endurance.
Instead of selecting the craft he was most proficient at, he had asked for their requirements instead—this was not the steady confidence of a master, but the boundless conceit of someone who held everyone in contempt.
Dammekos ignored the ministers' shock, voicing his request with intense anticipation: "A perfect longsword."
"As you wish."
Perturabo agreed to the terms, unbinding his cloak and tying it around his waist, revealing skin that was still bruised and purple from frostbite.
His frame was lean, his muscle definition razor-sharp, with faint traces left behind by long-term starvation visible upon his form.
"Wait." A voice called out from the throne, halting Perturabo just as he was about to begin.
"Do you have new specifications?" He was bewildered, stopping his movements to look back at the Tyrant upon the throne.
"Eat something first," Dammekos nodded, signaling for a retainer to go down and prepare food: "Only a full belly allows one to work at their best."
Perturabo's grip on the hammer tightened slightly as he felt an unprecedented warmth—the feeling of being cared for and valued by another.
"Very well," he agreed with a subtle smile, accepting this gesture of care.
Before long, retainers presented various meats and fine wines on platters, placing them before Perturabo for him to enjoy at his leisure.
The court ministers waited in quiet silence, watching this youth of unknown origin gorge himself.
They no longer raised objections; the moment Perturabo had shed his wrappings, the physique he revealed had already proven his extraordinary nature.
Now, the boy's body seemed like a bottomless pit, devouring colossal quantities of food.
As the nourishment went down, an even more miraculous sight unfolded.
The purple frostbite marking Perturabo's body rapidly faded away, giving way to a healthy wheat-toned complexion that emitted a faint, subtle radiance. Even the emaciation caused by hunger was swiftly filled out by the rapidly absorbed nutrients.
The hall remained dead quiet, filled only with the sound of the youth swallowing hearty gulps of food.
As time trickled past, the palace gradually filled with people standing in hushed expectation, silently waiting to witness the performance of this miraculous youth.
At the curtain of the side chamber, a beautiful young girl poked her head out. Her obsidian-like eyes studied the scene with intense curiosity, her gaze falling upon the scruffy, unfamiliar boy.
"My Calliphone," Dammekos' eagle-like eyes softened as he opened his arms to the girl: "Come here to your father."
Hearing his call, the girl trotted gracefully up the royal steps and sat beside her father.
Calliphone prepared to ask about the youth's identity, but her father raised a hand to stay her, signaling for her to watch in silence.
Having eaten and drunk his fill, Perturabo wiped the grease from the corners of his mouth, glanced briefly at the maiden beside the throne, and walked over to the forging station under his own lead.
The surrounding crowd held their breath, an unprecedented look of anticipation gleaming in their eyes.
Under the gaze of the crowd, Perturabo displayed not a shred of panic, executing his work in methodical order.
Kindling the flames and elevating the heat, he cast in fuel pieces one by one, precisely controlling the furnace temperature. Without requiring any auxiliary tools, the furnace fire licked at the iron materials fed into it under Perturabo's absolute control.
CLANG~ CLANG~
The striking of iron echoed through the solemn palace, yet it felt not the least bit out of place, as though this very hall had become the temple of the Forge God.
Sparks showered in every direction, flickering in a unique, rhythmic cadence that left the spectators utterly spellbound.
The youth swung the forging hammer, sweat trickling down the defined lines of his muscles, pouring his soul into the glowing red billet upon the anvil through every strike.
Perturabo was fully immersed, his lead-gray eyes reflecting the crimson iron, calculating the force of every single blow as he shaped it into form.
The mortals fell into complete silence.
Unbeknownst to themselves, the master blacksmiths who had come to watch dropped to their knees one by one, bowing in reverence before the youth's silhouette, not daring to utter a single sound for fear of disrupting the birth of a perfect weapon.
Upon the throne, Dammekos' eyes shone with an unreadable, tightly suppressed excitement.
Calliphone's beautiful eyes sparkled with brilliant splendor; she clenched her small fists nervously, her breathing growing slightly rapid.
TSSSSS~
As the scorching metal billet was plunged into water to quench, Perturabo chose not the safer method of oil quenching, but executed a high-risk water quench in a single, fluid motion.
Under his flawless calculations, the hazards of quenching simply did not exist.
The blade billet was pulled from the water; with merely a few brief passes of polishing, it radiated a blinding, razor-sharp edge.
Sweat reflected the fiery glow as Perturabo held the sword aloft in both hands, stepping toward the throne one stride at a time.
Amidst the dead silence, the surrounding crowd parted to make way for him, witnessing the birth of a truly perfect longsword.
Receiving the longsword from the hands of an escort guard, Dammekos' eyes widened, his gaze scrutinizing every single inch of the blade as he attempted to locate even the slightest flaw.
"Flawless! Absolutely flawless!"
A deep voice boomed in admiration. Running his fingers along the blade, the Tyrant clicked his tongue in awe at the cold, deadly edge.
"I can find not a single imperfection."
He had a retainer pass the longsword down to be paraded among the ministers for their appreciation, drinking in the praise carried within their gasps of wonder.
When the perfect longsword was returned to the throne once more, Dammekos turned his gaze upon Perturabo, his eyes brimming with excitement and his features filled with intense admiration: "You are indeed that boy."
"The one who wielded the forging hammer to perfection and crafted a legendary weapon."
This time, there were no denials or doubts within the hall.
The reality stood before their very eyes; the skill and divine wonder displayed by the youth far surpassed the rumors, transcending the boundaries of ordinary human comprehension.
Perturabo made no response, his brow knitting together in a subtle, imperceptible twitch. From the eyes of Tyrant Dammekos, he had decoded the underlying meaning behind that gaze—it represented greed and avarice.
He felt an immediate aversion to that look, a wave of revulsion rising within his heart.
"Perturabo," Dammekos stepped down from the throne, his admiring gaze unwavering as he looked down at the youth before him and asked: "Do you wish to follow me?"
His tone was grand and generous, his narrow eyes filled with expectation.
"Very well." Perturabo nodded in agreement. Feeling that he ought to have a place to settle down, he agreed to stay with the Tyrant in the city-state of Lochos.
Moreover, he had noticed the subtle, vigilant movements of the throne guards behind Dammekos. Though the motions were minute, they could not escape his penetrating observation.
The Tyrant was a ruler whose logic was rooted in top-level governance. Perturabo understood crystal-clear that if Dammekos allowed him to walk away, he would be letting a threat capable of overthrowing his citadel leave unchecked.
Yet Perturabo paid little mind to the threat, as such methods aligned with the behavioral logic of a ruler. Most importantly, he needed a place to provide him with the nourishment to grow.
His body was currently in a rapid phase of development; without sufficient nutritional intake, it would lead to stunted growth, bringing immeasurable long-term consequences. Perturabo knew subconsciously that he was a engineered being, waiting on Olympia to be reclaimed. If he failed to meet his creator's standards, the consequences were unpredictable.
"Excellent!" Overjoyed, Dammekos pulled his daughter to his side and declared to Perturabo: "From this day forth, Calliphone shall be your sister."
As his words fell, a wave of commotion rippled through the grand hall.
Calliphone was Dammekos' daughter. Having an outsider call her "sister" signaled the Tyrant's clear intent to adopt him as a foster son. Furthermore, on Olympia, women could not serve as city-state Tyrants; Dammekos clearly intended to groom this foster son to become the next ruler of the realm.
The stir caused by this decision was far from small, yet quiet quickly returned to the hall. After all, every minister and lord present had witnessed the creation of the perfect sword just moments ago.
For Perturabo to possess such world-shaking talent at such a young age meant that with a bit of grooming, he was bound to become a grand, dominant ruler of his generation.
Having realized this, accompanied by the rustling of fabric, the ministers in the hall fell to their knees before Perturabo, using their actions to signify their complete submission.
Perturabo understood everything. He gave Calliphone a slight nod, offering no further words.
---
Time slipped by silently. Secured with a stable supply of resources, Perturabo grew at an astonishing pace.
His intellect was beyond imagination. No tutor could teach him, for no ordinary mind could keep pace with his logical processing. He possessed both a formidable physical frame and a profound, boundless intellect.
As the foster son of the city-state Tyrant, the talent Perturabo displayed won the absolute devotion of the mortals.
During this period, he also recalled the memories that had previously vanished.
Dammekos was immensely proud of his foster son, frequently inviting Tyrants from other city-states over to show off his extraordinary child. Perturabo never once called him "Father," nor did he deny his status as a foster son.
Amidst Dammekos' boastful gatherings, Perturabo represented Lochos in debate and trial.
He engaged in a grand debate with a high priest over the question of whether gods existed. Most people, along with the priest, maintained that gods were real and believed Perturabo himself was a son of the gods—for only the greatness of divine blood could explain his origin.
Yet Perturabo shook his head, stating to the priest and the faithful: "I was created for a specific purpose, but the being who created me is by no means a god. Bound by your narrow horizons, you simply slap the title 'Son of God' onto existences you fail to comprehend."
Unable to refute his logic, the priest was forced to concede defeat.
With the battle of wits concluded, trials of physical force began. Facing fully armored opponents, Perturabo claimed victory with effortless ease, shattering heavy plate armor with his bare hands.
Whether in intellect or martial power, Perturabo swept through the other eleven city-states in a posture of complete dominance, securing effortless victories.
Yet alongside the cheers of victory came endless waves of assassination.
Perturabo's very existence had shattered the balance among the twelve city-states. The other rulers united, determined to nip this terrifying threat in the bud.
Within the shadowy corridors of the palace of Lochos, Perturabo relied on his strength and intellect to evade countlessly perilous assassination attempts. Had he not been a Primarch, his life would have ended long ago.
The assassins did not rely on simple blades and swords; their arsenal hailed from the Dark Age of Technology: instantaneous deadly neurotoxins, reagents that dissolved blood and carved bone, and extreme long-range sniper fire.
Over the span of a year or two, Perturabo survived virtually every form of assassination, narrowly evading them all.
As time marched on, the threat of these attempts grew increasingly trivial. In the end, the foreign city-states' assassins served merely as a routine mechanism to keep Perturabo vigilant in times of peace.
To a growing Primarch, very little in the galaxy could truly threaten his life.
Yet Perturabo found himself increasingly miserable.
During one particular attempt, he assembled high-tech weaponry from crude scrap materials, shielding his foster sister behind him as he drove off the assassins.
Dammekos was exceptionally sharp, instantly noticing his foster son's even greater aptitude and demanding that he design armaments. City walls, heavy artillery, and all manner of lethal weaponry were forged by Perturabo's hand.
The city-state of Lochos leveraged these weapons to wage war upon the other city-states, reducing their cities to smoldering ruins.
After every battle, standing atop the rubble, Perturabo felt a deepening revulsion for it all. In his heart, his talents were meant to serve civil development—building bridges, designing homes, and elevating the living conditions of the populace.
The application of technology strictly for war drove Perturabo into ever-deeper isolation.
Furthermore, once the gears of war began turning, they could not be halted. The threat posed by Lochos was obvious to all; the remaining city-states forged an alliance to resist their common enemy.
As the intensity of the war escalated, Dammekos demanded more and more from Perturabo: artillery of greater destructive power, firearms with longer effective ranges, and technology of devastating lethality.
Early on, seeing through his foster son's internal turmoil, the Tyrant would offer sweet comfort: "When everything is over, we shall rebuild everything upon the ruins."
Yet as the war grew increasingly brutal, even those comforts vanished. When facing Perturabo, Dammekos spoke of nothing other than demanding greater power. His eyes held only the wild ambition to destroy and conquer the whole of Olympia.
Perturabo was in agony. Beneath his expressionless facade, his heart suffered endless torment.
If his foster father truly desired it, he possessed countless ways to conquer Olympia—war was merely the most foolish and primitive method. Yet his excessively withdrawn nature rendered him incapable of bringing it up himself.
From beginning to end, he was the one being demanded from; he did not know how to voice his own needs, nor could he seek external help based on his inner feelings.
Ultimately, Perturabo's endless giving allowed Lochos to conquer every single citadel on the planet.
Looking out over the shattered, crumbling ruins, he walked away without a word, locking himself in his room to construct miniature scale models of his ideal architecture.
"Bo."
A affectionate call echoed as an elegant silhouette stepped into the dim room, her shimmering silk gown acting almost as a second light source within the shadows.
The woman was poised and graceful, carrying a tray bearing a modest meal.
The giant seated beside the stone table turned his head away from the spotlight. As his gaze fell upon the doorway, a fleeting warmth flickered in his eyes: "Calliphone."
That warmth vanished as quickly as it had appeared, his lead-gray eyes returning to their usual cold detachment. The giant turned back, focusing intently on the unfinished scale model before him.
It was a sprawling open-air arena sculpted from marble, exquisite to the absolute extreme, down to the miniature cheering figures that appeared vividly lifelike.
"Eat something," accustomed to his coldness, Calliphone set the meal down on the far corner of the stone table as she cleared away the previous dishes. "You haven't eaten in a very long time."
Perturabo said nothing. Setting down his chisel, he stuffed a large piece of steak into his mouth.
"The war is over," Calliphone said, cleaning the old dishes without raising her head, her ethereal voice softly recounting: "The reconstruction of Olympia has begun. Have you considered using your true talent to help rebuild Olympia?"
She spoke of the changes occurring in the outside world, and after clearing the food tray, she used a silk cloth to carefully wipe away the dust on the display cabinets.
Those miniature models represented the absolute pinnacle of human imagination; her movements were exceptionally gentle, fearful of leaving behind even the slightest flaw.
By reading those wondrous architectural marvels, Calliphone could touch her brother's inner heart and understand the agony of his misplaced identity. She had known long ago that Perturabo was born to be a builder and a protector, yet he had been forced by their father to become a pure destroyer.
No one answered her. The coarse sounds of heavy chewing within the secret chamber seemed to be the sole melody present.
Perturabo remained silent, meat juices dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes fixed on the tabletop model as he planned how to realize the next step of the design.
"Father has grown old. The future of Olympia belongs to you."
Calliphone's voice echoed repeatedly in his ears. His eyes narrowed slightly, yet he offered no response.
From the corner of his eye, watching her slender silhouette, Perturabo knew she was using their emotional bond to try to move him.
Yet he had to admit that he held special feelings toward Calliphone: a respect born of family ties, and a love that transcended familial bonds. But above all, it was a reliance on a kindred spirit.
Yes, Perturabo believed that he and Calliphone shared identical traits in certain respects.
She possessed exceptional capabilities, sought after by Dammekos and Lochos alike, yet because she was a woman, she was sidelined from the core of power.
Perturabo was much the same—his extraordinary talents were required by all, yet because of his supernatural insight, he was feared and alienated.
And there was one most vital point: he cherished Calliphone's uncalculated, selfless care above all else. His foster sister's affection was pure, given without expecting anything in return.
"Do you wish for me to do this?"
Out of habit, Perturabo's voice sounded stiff, as if he were confirming something of vital importance: "If you wish it, I will rebuild Olympia."
Calliphone turned to look at him, wiping a tower sculpture in her hands: "That depends on you."
"I came to see you for your own sake."
Perturabo set down the steak in his hand, looking into those pure, obsidian-like eyes, nodding for her to continue.
"Father is old; his life is reaching its end."
"Bo," Calliphone said with utter gravity, her voice rising a few notches, "the future belongs to you."
"Can you imagine Olympia's future? Will it remain scarred by war, or will you use your talents to rescue it from its wounds?"
She took a few steps forward, holding the tower sculpture up before him: "Do you believe it belongs standing tall on the lands of Olympia, or gathering dust here in a display room?"
Perturabo stared at the marble carving, his eyes trembling slightly. He reached out to take the tower, gently rubbing its smooth surface.
In his design, this structure was a soaring observation tower, built beside the most breathtaking natural landscape.
The future?
Those two words hit like a heavy hammer, shaking his frozen heart.
The corners of Perturabo's mouth twitched, a faint smile flashing across his face before he placed the tower at the edge of the arena model.
"Very well," he bowed his head slightly, accepting Calliphone's proposal.
His foster sister's demeanor differed from everyone else's. Every word Calliphone spoke carried a sense of compromise, clearly setting forth the pros and cons while leaving the choice entirely to him.
Compared to the endless demands of others, Perturabo cherished this respect—one completely detached from personal gain—above all else.
The giant agreed to rebuild Olympia. He slowly rose from the stone bench, his imposing frame reaching a full five meters in height.
The moment he stood, every trace of despondency washed away from him.
The youthful innocence had long faded from his face, leaving features as resolute as an Olympian sculpture, set with a pair of cold, penetrating lead-gray eyes that flickered with icy logic.
Inside the dim chamber, the air felt as thick as solidified lead; the oppressive presence radiating from the giant made breathing difficult.
Calliphone, who paid close attention to her brother at all times, trembled inwardly. The sheer pressure of the giant standing up felt like a thousand-pound boulder crushing down hard upon her chest.
"Then... let us go."
Her ethereal voice quivered slightly—a primitive, instinctive awe toward a higher form of life.
Perturabo did not move right away. Reaching into a drawer of the stone table, he retrieved a sculpture and held it out before his foster sister: "This is for you."
His authoritative voice felt powerful enough to shatter the chamber, yet in this moment, it carried an almost imperceptible tremor and awkwardness.
Noticing the tight, bashful expression on her brother's face, Calliphone's eyes flashed with surprise as she hurriedly reached out to take it.
The sculpture was cool to the touch, smooth as mutton-fat jade—it was clearly polished with immense care and devotion.
"I love it." Calliphone's lovely eyes sparkled with brilliant splendor as her fingertips caressed the carving, cradling it in her hands with delicate care.
The sculpture was a portrait figure—a meticulously carved depiction of Calliphone herself by Perturabo's hand.
"As long as you like it," Perturabo said stiffly, like a shy young boy, turning his head away to hide his embarrassed expression.
Calliphone shook her head gently. Beneath her brother's powerful, detached exterior lay nothing more than an ordinary boy starved for affection. He was accustomed to fulfilling requests from others, yet remained utterly unskilled at expressing his own emotions.
A warm smile graced her pale, clear face. Placing a slender hand on Perturabo's muscular arm, she said softly: "Let us go."
Perturabo nodded in silence, a subtle joy lingering in the depths of his eyes.
Side by side, the two figures slowly stepped out of the dark chamber, making their way toward the council palace of Lochos.
---
When an extraordinary Primarch decided to act, mere mortals possessed no means to stand in his way.
If Perturabo resolved to claim supreme authority, then supreme authority would inevitably be his.
Dammekos had grown old; his frail body could no longer support the weight of the future. It was only natural for him to hand over power and retire behind the scenes to live out his remaining years in comfort.
Having emerged from the fires of war, Olympia welcomed a rebirth following its immense trauma.
Perturabo brought his talents into full play, planning the reconstruction of the entire world; his majestic blueprints left mortals utterly spellbound.
Countless decrees issued forth from the palace of Lochos—rigorous in logic and pragmatic in data—outlining every necessity for Olympia's revival.
Unlike the pure destruction of war, construction was a complex, multi-dimensional system of engineering, yet Perturabo pursued it with tireless passion. He possessed pure ideals and a burning, heartfelt enthusiasm.
Advanced machinery rolled off assembly lines; this time, they were no longer bringers of ruin, but heralds of unprecedented new life.
Under Perturabo's reign, everything fell into place. Olympia's landscape transformed with every passing day, its technological advancement progressing at a mind-boggling pace.
---
More than a decade later, within the grand hall of Lochos—now transformed beyond recognition—Perturabo suddenly turned his head, gazing far beyond the palace gates.
Beneath the throne, the ministers gasped in shock, bowing low to the floor one after another.
Calliphone quietly paused her address, waiting in silence for Perturabo to return to his senses.
An absolute hush fell over the palace; no one dared breathe heavily for fear of disturbing the giant's thoughts.
Over the past decade, Perturabo had come to be known as the "Hammer of Olympia." He had shattered the old order and crushed everything that stood in defiance against him. He was a genius inventor and engineer, and even more so, a monarch who ruled with thunderous resolve.
"Did you not see it?"
A question boomed from the throne. The court ministers exchanged bewildered glances, looking left and right in confusion.
None of them knew what the Lord of Iron had spotted.
"We saw nothing out of the ordinary," Calliphone shook her head gently, her voice soft as sand, speaking on behalf of the trembling ministers.
Having received her answer, Perturabo rose from his throne and strode toward the hall's exit, leaving behind a word of instruction: "Do not follow. Proceed as usual."
Without a moment's hesitation and with singular intent, he sprinted toward Olympia's highest peak—Mount Typhon.
Just moments ago, Perturabo had witnessed a beam of golden light pierce down from the heavens, coming to rest at the summit of Mount Typhon.
From that golden radiance, Perturabo sensed a tremor deep within his bloodline—an outburst of raw excitement from the very core of his being.
He knew that his creator had come to collect him.
---
Perturabo ran faster and faster, breaking through multiple sonic booms as he rushed toward Mount Typhon.
In his eyes, the light atop the mountain grew increasingly brilliant, emanating an irresistible warmth.
At the foot of Mount Typhon, howling cold winds blew, and ice crystals condensed in the air.
Gazing up at the golden flames, Perturabo did not hesitate; he immediately began ascending the peak to reach that golden light.
Mount Typhon towered nine thousand meters high, its summit untouched by any mortal before.
Perturabo climbed with his bare hands, his tall frame bursting with formidable strength as he trod upon the ancient permafrost, ascending against the icy elements in pursuit of the warm light.
The closer he drew to the golden light, the higher his emotions soared, yet the more uncontrolled they became.
The logical reasoning he took such pride in was shattered by emotion in this moment. A burning surge from deep within his soul transformed into crystalline tears.
In this very moment, Perturabo was beyond certain that a living being existed within that golden light atop the peak.
That was his true father—and the true familial love he had craved all along.
He climbed faster and faster, using both hands and feet with tears welling in his eyes. His heart pounded wildly against his chest, his breathing grow so rapid he could hardly contain it.
CRACK~
The sound of shattering ice snapped him out of his fervent dream. Perturabo's pupils contracted instantly.
Not good!
An agonizing howl echoed in his heart. In his intense excitement, he had climbed too fast and forgotten his calculations—the ice spire he gripped could not bear his weight.
No!
Perturabo wanted to roar out, yet feared the person atop the summit would despise his vulnerability. Despair seized him as his body fell backward, about to plunge into the bottomless abyss.
He feared not being broken to pieces; his sole dread was that the person within the golden light would leave out of disappointment.
At the critical juncture, the golden light flashed brilliantly. A powerful arm reached down, catching the despairing, falling Perturabo.
In an instant, Perturabo felt an unprecedented warmth—so overwhelming he almost closed his eyes to savor it.
He was pulled up to the summit, where he finally laid eyes upon the figure within the golden light.
Perturabo had never seen anyone like him: muscles woven into a form of absolute strength, pores aligned with flawless logic, and a countenance radiating the brilliant light of wisdom. Yet when he spoke, it was the softest of calls: "My son."
Hearing that call, Perturabo fell to one knee, his deep voice trembling: "Father."
For the first time, he uttered the word "Father"—a word Dammekos, his foster father, had never heard him speak.
"Perturabo," the figure responded, lowering his eyes to behold the youth before him. "I am the Emperor, the Master of Mankind, and your father."
"I have seen your valor and fearlessness, just as I intentionally designed."
"Who are you?!"
"I am the Emperor, the Master of Mankind, and your father."
The Emperor extended his arm, pulling up his son who knelt on the ground, and called him by his name: "My son—Perturabo."
"I have seen your valor and fearlessness, just as I intentionally designed. And you have created a peaceful world."
"Will you serve me? Will you join me, ensuring that you dedicate yourself to humanity?"
The Father's words struck directly at the depths of his heart, reminiscent of the feeling once brought by his foster father and those who sought his aid. Yet this time, Perturabo felt no revulsion—only a sense of pure, sacred purpose calling out to him.
Without a moment's hesitation, Perturabo looked up at his father: "I ask for nothing else. I shall serve You faithfully forever; this is my solemn oath."
"Ah..." Perturabo heard a soft sigh, sounding exceptionally sorrowful amidst the howling wind and snow.
He felt a wave of tender compassion as his Father's hand rested upon his shoulder.
The golden light within the Emperor's eyes flickered—for the first time, He showed a flicker of emotion when facing one of His sons.
The Master of Mankind had pierced through countless futures. Perturabo, His fourth son, stumbled forward amidst infinite suffering in so many of them. In some timelines, he endured the hardship through sheer resilience; in others, the crushing weight broke his inner soul completely.
The Emperor let out a faint sigh, laced with subtle melancholy: "Your path ahead will be arduous. Very few could ever bear such a heavy burden."
"Never weary, never yielding, ever relentless. You shall be my Lord of Iron."
Hearing this melancholic yet comforting encouragement, Perturabo was deeply moved, falling to his knees once more before his Father. In this very moment, he felt an unreserved acceptance, love, and unshakable trust radiating from his Father.
Looking up at the perfect being, his gaze was resolute, his trembling voice cheering in reply: "May it ever be so!"
The Emperor pulled his son up once more and turned to look toward the human city-states: "Settle your affairs here, and come with me."
"Very well!" Perturabo nodded heavily, his heart leaping with joy.
To leave Olympia, step onto a grander galaxy-wide stage, follow his Father, accompany his brothers, display his true talents, and be needed by those who truly required him—such a life seemed to exist only in dreams. Yet now, it had materialized into reality, standing by his side and extending a generous invitation.
Perturabo held no hesitation nor lingering attachment; he wished only to leave Olympia as quickly as possible.
True to his decisive nature, he leaped down from Mount Typhon and made his way to the royal court of Lochos to announce everything he had experienced.
Before long, Perturabo finalized his plans, conferring supreme authority upon Calliphone, leaving his foster sister to govern Olympia in his stead.
Having settled all relevant affairs, he boarded a shuttle at the plaza of Lochos and departed under the watchful gaze of the populace. Through action, he struck terror into any who harbored wicked thoughts: his departure was merely temporary, and Olympia remained firmly under the reign of the Lord of Iron.
---
Having retrieved His fourth son, the Emperor immediately instructed the Fourth Legion to assemble on Terra, awaiting their Primarch to take command.
Terra at this moment was incomparably bustling.
The Rangdan Xenocides had drawn to a close, and many Legions were returning to the Solar System from the void to resupply materials and repair their warships.
The War Council convened the mortal Auxilia forces, capitalizing on this massive period of rest to have high-ranking officers report for duty and reorganize new Imperial Army regiments.
---
"Swallowing wine and meat down my throat, even Father the Emperor can't match me!"
In the Primarch's courtyard, a boisterous, rough voice echoed with wild arrogance, casually tossing out treasonous remarks: "Father is truly pitiable!"
"Supposedly the Master of Mankind, but he's just so-so."
"What do you think he eats on a regular basis? Nothing more than aged wines of Ancient Terra, along with ham and cured preserves locked in stasis fields."
"Aside from sentimental value, those things have no practical worth at all."
The Custodes guarding the entrance felt their lips twitching. Yet upon careful thought, the logic was surprisingly sound.
"Pitiable, I say!"
The boisterous voice refused to stop, accompanied by the muffled sounds of hearty swallowing: "Those ancient collectibles of his aren't even enough for me to pick my teeth with. Eating them requires such delicate care—not satisfying in the slightest!"
In the courtyard of the Sixth Primarch, three giants sat cross-legged on the lawn, holding a small gathering.
Leman Russ held a massive beast leg, devouring it greedily with grease glistening on his lips, speaking as he ate: "After a war, real enjoyment means gulping down fine wine and tearing into big chunks of meat!"
The silent Dorn nodded, looking thoroughly agreeable: "After a war, a full sense of satiety can indeed ease the weariness of the soul."
Once the roasted meat reached his belly, he turned to ask Russ: "Has the Space Wolves' attack route been replanned?"
"The War Council has already issued the proposal."
"Once the pack finishes gathering supplies, the Legion will rejoin the Great Crusade," Russ answered offhandedly. Yet his feral eyes flickered with a dim shade of envy as he said to Dorn, "Must be nice being you."
"The Imperial Fists temporarily stationing in the Solar System to assist in building the Imperial Palace—now that is a sweet assignment."
Russ felt thoroughly glum in his heart. Leaving the Rangdan front, the Space Wolves had to endure a brief refit before embarking on another crusade.
The Imperial Fists, on the other hand, had it easy. Skilled in defensive and counter-attack operations, they had been handpicked by Malcador to temporarily station in the Solar System, plan inner-system defenses, and assist in constructing the Emperor's Palace.
They called it a temporary stationing, but if they performed well, a permanent stay was hardly out of the question.
This caused the look he cast toward Dorn to turn exceptionally aggrieved: While the rest of us brothers are running ragged outside, bitterly fighting xenos, you've managed to turn into the "Imperial Guard" protecting the capital.
"Assisting in the construction of the Palace?" Blazkowicz expressed slight surprise. The Imperial Fists had quietly secured a massive engineering project.
"It was the Regent's command; I could not refuse," Dorn answered as rigidly as always, speaking and acting with absolute precision.
"Hmph!" Russ snorted coldly, biting through the beast leg, bone and all, using the sound of crunching to vent his dissatisfaction.
"This is a heavy burden—one that concerns the safety of the Empire's very heart," a peculiar glint flashed in Blazkowicz's eyes.
The Imperial Fists' temporary stationing on Terra signaled that the Webway Project was likely about to commence.
The Emperor needed to construct a psychically attuned machine beneath the Imperial Palace on Terra to breach the outer walls of the Old Ones' Webway. That was a colossal engineering undertaking whose initial construction alone would span decades. With the Emperor drafting vast numbers of master craftsmen, the construction of the Palace naturally required additional hands to compensate.
The Imperial Fists specialized in defensive fortifications, making them a natural fit to assist in the Palace's construction.
"It is merely a temporary co-defense and co-construction effort," Dorn said with an utterly serious expression. "The main force continues the crusade, while a small detachment of Legion warriors stations on Terra to gradually take over the outer construction of the Palace..."
Russ hastily waved his hand to stop him, terrified that a lecture on duties would hit him next. Dorn was a stubborn blockhead; if he let the conversation go further, Dorn would insist on explaining every single detail step by step.
"Drink!" Russ called out, gesturing for his brothers to clink their cups.
As the fine wine gurgled down their throats, Dorn looked at Blazkowicz and asked: "What about you? What are your plans for the next step?"
As he spoke, a trace of envy flickered in his eyes.
Blazkowicz stood independent of the Imperium with complete freedom of action. Whatever he wished to do required no reporting to others, nor did it need to pass through layer upon layer of approval from the War Council. That degree of carefree freedom was something few brothers could ever dream of.
"Staying on Terra," Blazkowicz flicked his left arm, donning the C'tan Gauntlet and projecting a diplomatic dispatch: "With the Rangdan Xenocides concluded, a delegation from the Nûr royal family is making a diplomatic visit to Terra."
"I will receive the royal delegation first; my next move remains undecided for now."
"Ho!" Russ gasped, widening his eyes to inspect the diplomatic dispatch, his face filled with regret: "What a shame! The timing doesn't align."
"In just seven days, the Space Wolves must depart. We won't make it to see the delegation arrive."
"Honestly speaking," he stroked the mane at his cheeks, a soft expression coloring his features: "After all these years, Luoxi must have grown into a fine young lady by now, right?"
"Pretty much," Blazkowicz calculated the lifespan of the Nûr populace in his mind, translating it to mortals, "Equivalent to a human in her early twenties."
"Hmph!" Another cold snort escaped Russ as he crudely smashed a deep crater into the lawn with a heavy fist. "I really wonder which lucky brat is going to end up with her in the future."
The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. His chest heaved as he panted heavily, ferocious light glinting in his eyes as if his beloved had been stolen away.
During his year in the Nûr sector, Russ had adored Luoxi, treasuring her like the palm of his hand and showering her with endless affection.
"No way! I have to wait for my dear little niece."
He let out a low growl, grabbing a vox-communicator from the side: "Report an engine fault on the Hrafnkel—repair period roughly ten days."
With that, without caring about the response from the other end, he casually tossed the Legion communicator aside.
"This behavior of yours is improper," Dorn's brow furrowed, opening his mouth to remind him of his duty: "We—"
"Don't you start," Russ interrupted Dorn impatiently, pulling a delicate projector from his belt pouch: "Look at this."
A beam of light flickered to life, projecting a vivid holographic image: a young girl was riding atop Russ' neck, both of them laughing radiantly under the sun.
"When I left her, she was still so small..."
Russ' eyes turned slightly red, his voice trembling as he lamented the passage of time: "Now, she's already reached the age to marry."
Seeing his brother grow somewhat solemn, Dorn's lips twitched. He hesitated, ultimately holding back his words, helplessly waving his hand to indicate he wouldn't press the matter further.
Carefully putting away the projection, Russ concealed the cunning hidden within his smile, subtly making a hand sign to Blazkowicz in secret: Handled!
Just as he raised his wine cup to continue drinking, his body suddenly froze.
Blazkowicz and Dorn stood up in a flash, turning their heads to look toward the Eternity Gate—the Emperor had returned.
"Let's go," Russ scrambled to his feet, shaking off the oil-stained robe he wore, letting out a broad, hearty laugh: "Time to welcome our lost brother home."
Dorn picked up a data-slate, tapping it a few times before stating: "Four days ahead of schedule."
Blazkowicz asked him: "How are the welcoming ceremony preparations coming along?"
Prior to arrival, the Imperial Bucephalus had sent an astropathic message to Terra, confirming they had retrieved the Primarch and reminding the Administratum to organize a homecoming ritual. Having assisted in administrative duties at the Imperial Palace for several years, Dorn was thoroughly familiar with the procedures, making him the natural choice to oversee the ceremony.
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, forming a confident smile: "Everything is proceeding according to standard protocols—there will be no flaws whatsoever."
With the Rangdan Xenocides drawn to a close, beyond the victory celebrations proclaimed across the Imperium's borders, a joyous occasion was desperately needed to dispel the grief left behind by war. The return of a Primarch from the sea of stars was as timely as divine providence itself.
As the Imperial Bucephalus made its transition into realspace, participants of the homecoming ceremony put on fine attire and gathered at the Imperial Palace plaza, awaiting the arrival of the Primarch.
As though an acceleration button had been pressed, equipment and personnel flooded the area at breakneck speed, instantly transforming the quiet plaza into a bustling spectacle.
Hundreds of meters above, hot-air balloons bearing the Imperial Aquila suspended holographic projectors, broadcasting the grand homecoming ceremony to distant crowds.
Holders of noble titles stood along both sides of the grand avenue bearing their family banners, unable to hide the thrilled expressions in their eyes as they prepared to witness the return of a great Primarch. Clad in resplendent vestments and laden with medals of honor, their house crests were adorned with shimmering gems—a display of lineage backed by military merit and honor.
To the left of the red carpet, Custodians stood clutching Guardian Spears, red silk cloaks draped over their shoulders, single hands resting upon their waists in an embodiment of the Master of Mankind's supreme majesty.
On the other side of the red carpet, the Fourth Legion stood in razor-sharp formation. They stood ramrod straight, their iron-gray power armor gleaming with a subtle sheen of oil, chests puffed out as they awaited their genetic father.
At the top of the steps at the end of the red carpet stood the most powerful figures in the Imperium. Hailing from every major faction, they attended on behalf of the formidable power bases behind them: Rogue Traders, Tech-Priests, Imperial Governors, Sector Governors, and the High Nobility of Terra.
For people of such vast authority, under ordinary circumstances, not only would the commoners at the bottom of the Imperium find them untouchable, but even most high-ranking Imperial officials would consider getting a single audience with them a rare luxury. These powerful figures were the very incarnation of authority itself.
Yet these grand personages could only stand in the second row today.
Before them, three giants stood with relaxed posture, yet the overwhelming aura of Primarch majesty pressed down so heavily that none dared look at them directly. Those were the sons of the Emperor; their exalted status rendered mere "political power" pale by comparison. Their mere presence caused all mortal, worldly things to feel utterly diminished.
Beside the Primarchs, Chief Custodian Constantin Valdor stood tall with spear in hand—the Voice of the Emperor was, in himself, the absolute pinnacle of authority.
By his side stood an old man wrapped in coarse robes.
Regent Malcador—the architect of the Imperium's existing order and the ultimate source of Imperial authority.
The most exalted figures in the Imperium stood side-by-side, awaiting the docking of the Imperial Bucephalus.