As they waited, Blazkowicz's eyes flickered with divine light as he scanned the welcoming crowd, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
The nobility is growing denser.
He recalled that when he had returned, the welcoming crowd was composed largely of commoners, with only a small faction of nobles. Now, among the array of over a million onlookers, representatives of common folk accounted for less than thirty percent—the remainder were all titled elites and aristocrats.
The noble class had sprouted like bamboo after rain alongside the expansion of the Imperium's borders, growing into a new entrenched interest group that constructed an intricate web of power through bloodline intermarriages and exchanges of favor.
Blazkowicz even caught sight of a minor noble amidst the crowd—specifically, his brother Alpharius, a master of disguise.
Right on cue, that elusive brother cast a glance over in greeting. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second—a ordinary, subtle glance, looking for all the world like two strangers making brief eye contact.
Playing the role of a terrified low-tier noble, Alpharius bowed slightly with a perfectly calibrated tremor of fear in response to the Primarch.
"The air smells a bit different today," Russ sniffed the breeze, leaning over to whisper with a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
His gaze swept back and forth across the plaza, lingering on several specific corners. To any ordinary observer, those spots held nothing beyond the fading echoes of the noisy crowd.
Dorn also checked the perimeter several times. He gave a nod to indicate he had noticed something, yet shook his head, unable to pinpoint what it was: "There are specialized entities concealed in the shadows. Had Russ not pointed it out, my senses would have struggled to detect the anomaly within such a complex environment."
His voice was deep and rigid, his stoic, stern visage darkening further.
A Primarch's senses were extraordinarily acute; if even he could only register a vague impression, it would be virtually impossible for Space Marines or mortals to detect these lurkers.
"Three thousand meters," Dorn estimated the distance softly. "The lurkers dare not draw any closer."
"Once they cross that threshold, I can pinpoint their presence with absolute precision."
"And look at them," Dorn gestured subtly toward the Space Marines and Custodes. "Even at a distance of one thousand meters, the Custodes haven't noticed a thing."
"That distance is dangerously close. They haven't detected the lurkers yet—if the enemy were to initiate a long-range sniper strike from there, they could secure a lethal hit and melt back into the darkness effortlessly."
Blazkowicz and Russ followed his cue. Sure enough, the Custodian warriors had not detected the hidden threat.
The gold-armored warriors stood with hands resting at their waists, turning their heads to scan the field, utterly unaware that someone within the crowd directly ahead was observing them from the shadows.
"Six of them," Blazkowicz narrowed his eyes as he swept over the anomalies, stating the precise count outright: "Three men, three women. Wearing specialized bodysuits, all sharing common traits—they likely belong to some covert organization."
"Their methods of concealment are quite unique. One has physically mutated their flesh to blend into the crowd; another is hiding within a dimensional pocket, observing the outside world through a sniper scope."
"There is also one in a semi-dormant state, their blood saturated with violent stimulants—like a ticking time bomb counting down."
Ignoring the looks his brothers cast at him as if he were a monster, Blazkowicz pointed toward a corner of the plaza and continued in a low voice: "There is a shadow over there, similar to the Pariah aura of the Sisters of Silence."
"And over there," Blazkowicz pointed to another spot, "the digital data streams across the plaza are fluctuating abnormally and routing underground. We are currently under digital surveillance."
In a span of barely two seconds, Blazkowicz had picked out every single lurker and pinpointed their exact locations.
Russ didn't bother asking how his brother had accomplished it. He casually shifted his position, stepping up beside Malcador and asking: "Lord Malcador, are these your doing?"
Among all the high-ranking figures present, aside from the Primarch brothers, there were only Valdor and Malcador. The Primarchs had been kept entirely in the dark, and the Chief Custodian commanded his own direct forces, leaving only the Imperial Regent.
As for the Imperial High Command or the Adeptus Mechanicus, Russ felt they lacked the capability to field assassins capable of stealthily approaching within three thousand meters of a Primarch.
That was a dangerous proximity—when paired with ultra-high-velocity sniper rounds, it posed a legitimate threat to a Primarch.
Malcador smiled faintly. As subtle psychomatic runes flickered between his fingers, he casually deployed an acoustic damping barrier before recounting a piece of history: "Long before the founding of the Imperium, a group gathered at the Emperor's side. They operated in the shadows, longing to realize the Master of Mankind's grand vision."
"They sought neither acclaim nor honor, dedicating themselves heart and soul. Those men and women were masters of murder and intrigue, hunting down the threats that sought to sabotage the Imperium from the dark."
"As time marched on, through centuries of inherited craft, they became the most lethal venomous thorn in the Imperium's shadows, protecting the realm amidst a dark galaxy fraught with peril."
The Imperial Regent raised a hand, calling forth a orb of psychic light that mapped out each of the hidden points across the palace plaza. The general positions aligned almost perfectly with what Blazkowicz had described.
"I codified the legacy of those shadow-walkers and established the 'Officio Assassinorum,'" Malcador looked toward Blazkowicz and Russ, a peculiar glint shining in his eyes: "How did you discover them?"
"Had you not raised the alarm, even Dorn merely harbored vague suspicions."
"Heh heh," Russ let out a goofy laugh, rubbing his nose with pride: "I caught an unusual scent."
Malcador shook his head helplessly. Russ' feral sense of smell was unnaturally sharp—an extension of his innate psychic instincts.
Blazkowicz turned his gaze toward the Assassinorum agents, pulling back his vigilant stance, and uttered two calm words: "Instinct."
"Instinct."
Blazkowicz looked at the Assassinorum agents, withdrew his vigilant gaze, and uttered those two simple words.
Naturally, he had no intention of revealing the full truth.
Instinct was indeed a significant factor; with his razor-sharp intuition, Blazkowicz had truly detected the unusual vital signatures of the lurking assassins, leaving them nowhere to hide in his eyes.
The full picture, however, stemmed from the Archon Armor's Authority of Insight.
Moments ago, the gauntlet of the Archon Armor had flickered across his hand for a fraction of a second, without raising anyone's alarm.
In that very instant, the C'tan Void Dragon activated its Authority of Insight, harvesting physical data from across the palace plaza.
The gaze of the overlord of the physical realm locked onto every anomaly within range.
The vibration of every single atom, the chaotic movement of loose electrons, the multi-layered alterations within genetic sequences, and the extra-dimensional isolation of the dimensional pocket—none of it could evade the close-range scrutiny of a C'tan.
Furthermore, Blazkowicz made a discovery: the assassin's dimensional pocket was constructed using Nûr Crystals.
Nûr Crystals were classified as high-risk materials. Strict regulations governed their distribution throughout the Nûr Stars, and exporting them was strictly forbidden to prevent compromising dimensional shields.
Moreover, these crystals were unique to the main homeworld of Nûr, making their circulation outside virtually impossible.
This was likely a limited-edition relic crafted by the Imperium after dismantling a Custodes dimensional shield and conducting numerous experiments.
Shaking his head slightly, he decided not to press the issue. Once a dimensional shield was gifted, the Imperium retained full authority to dispose of it as it saw fit.
"Instinct?" Malcador nodded thoughtfully, the composure on his face momentarily faltering: "I did not expect that the Officio Assassinorum's very first field deployment after its reorganization would be so easily spotted by you."
The Imperial Regent spoke in a somber tone. He had originally intended to test the assassins amidst the complex environment of the crowd, but the results proved to be quite polarized.
Neither the Custodes nor the Space Marines—two distinct breeds of transhuman warriors—had detected anything within lethal range, proving that the assassins' stealth techniques were exceptionally successful. Had they launched a surprise attack, a one-shot kill would have been highly probable.
Yet when facing a Primarch, three thousand meters was the absolute limit of their approach. Regardless of the environment, drawing any closer meant immediate detection.
At a distance of three thousand meters from a Primarch, even light-speed weaponry could hardly pose a fatal threat. Their reaction times were simply too fast; the instantaneous surge of killing intent released the moment an assassin pulled the trigger was more than enough time for a Primarch to react.
"Their training still needs reinforcement," Malcador lamented softly. He revoked the acoustic damping barrier and made a few subtle hand gestures into the air, signaling the assassins to leave the plaza.
Sure enough, several subtle presences vanished instantly, slipping away from the crowd using specialized concealment methods. The assassins moved without a sound, completely unperceived by ordinary mortals.
"The assassins are formidable," Dorn stated candidly, acknowledging their strength: "Their physical capabilities surpass those of many Space Marines."
"In terms of pure assassination or 1-on-1 combat, Legion warriors cannot match the specialization of an assassin."
"The Space Marine Legions are the Imperium's heavy warhammer, meant to smash head-on through the enemy's walls. The assassins are the poisoned sting, dealing an unexpected, lethal blow precisely where the enemy is most vulnerable."
Russ nodded in deep agreement, his eyes filled with intense vigilance as he watched the assassins depart.
He could rely on his superhuman Primarch senses to smell danger, but his wolf pups could not. By the time they sensed an assassin drawing near, their heads would already have hit the ground.
These all-pervading assassins were like a Damoclean sword hanging overhead, a constant source of unease.
Blazkowicz, on the other hand, was lost in thought, harboring immense interest in the assassins.
Among the Night Guards, there existed the "Phantom Squad," which hid within dimensional pockets to execute long-range assassinations. Back when they wiped out the Bonefang Tribe, it was precisely their relentless elimination of powerful Ork Nobz that consolidated Bonefang's unshakeable dominance.
Assassination tactics were lethal—and exceptionally effective against hierarchical, pyramid-style war command structures like those of the Orks.
Blazkowicz was already drafting a plan in his mind: once the homecoming ceremony concluded, he would select Legion warriors with an inclination toward assassination to form a dedicated strike team. Equipped with the most advanced gear, they would undergo specialized training for stealth and decapitation strikes.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The booming crackle of fireworks interrupted Blazkowicz's thoughts. As twilight drew near, a Custodes transport gleaming with bronze light descended slowly onto the red carpet.
The atmosphere grew instantly solemn. Under the watchful eyes of the vast crowd, the hatch doors slowly opened.
"Let us go," Dorn called out softly, stepping down the stairs to tread upon the red carpet to welcome their brother home.
Blazkowicz and Russ stepped forward to follow, with Malcador and Valdor joining them. Behind them, the representatives of various Imperial factions hastily fell into line.
As the hatch opened wide, golden radiance and the deep red carpet complemented each other, laying out a path of pure grandeur.
The crowd gathered to welcome the Primarch's return dropped to their knees one after another, forming the Aquila sign over their chests. Their eyes converged on the hatch, every face filled with tears of excitement.
A golden armored boot stepped forth out of the light. Beside the eight-meter-tall Emperor walked a five-meter-tall giant, side-by-side.
"For the Emperor! For the Primarch!"
The roar of a million voices coalesced into a surging tidal wave, booming and rushing forward, causing the inner bedrock of the soul to tremble.
Perturabo stood stunned, his pupils contracting slightly. This earth-shattering roar was meant solely to welcome his return.
During their transit through the Warp, he had asked his Father many questions and learned that the Imperium of Man was a galaxy-spanning human realm encompassing quadrillions of souls—a grand empire without precedent.
He had noted down the data at the time.
Now, as the deafening cheers of a million people echoed around him, Perturabo snapped back to reality, gaining a fresh appreciation of the Imperium's true majesty.
The cheering crowds wore magnificent garments; even the plainest among them was more luxurious than the attire of any monarch on Olympia.
They are nobles!
Perturabo recognized the social class of the crowd—almost every one of them belonged to an aristocratic house boasting prominent military merit. For a moment, he felt somewhat at a loss, awestruck by such an empire.
"Rise," the Emperor spoke softly, raising a hand to gather glowing light, whereupon the Imperial citizens stood up in unison.
They held their heads high and puffed out their chests to be inspected, casting respectful gazes toward the genetic Primarch.
In today's homecoming ceremony, the Primarch was the main protagonist. No matter how exalted and grand the Emperor was, in this moment, He played a supporting role to His son.
The mortals beheld the radiant face belonging to the genetic Primarch.
Tempered by the harsh wilderness and snow-capped mountains of his homeworld, his features bore a slight ruggedness; the bridge of his nose rose high like a mountain peak, his eyes were as deep as the ocean, his lips were slightly dry, yet his eyes shone with extraordinary clarity.
Those lead-gray eyes were particularly striking, appearing as though they could pierce through every secret.
He wore a gray silk robe; his chest bulged high, and his torso and limbs radiated brute strength.
There was no mistake—he was indeed a Primarch. Only the genetic offspring of the Emperor could possess such a majestic physique.
Under the gaze of a million onlookers, the Emperor adjusted His form to match Perturabo's height.
He reached out and grasped His son's hand. Perturabo was overwhelmed by the unexpected favor, feeling a warm fatherly love transmitted through the cold metal armor.
It was a sense of familial warmth he had never experienced before!
For the first time, his iron heart pounded violently for family affection. A wave of sorrowful heat welled up in his eyes, and he came close to weeping from sheer emotion.
The Emperor raised His son's arm high, turning to scan the plaza before roaring aloud: "My fourth son, the Lord of Iron—Perturabo!"
BOOM—!
The majestic voice detonated across the Imperial Palace plaza as the Master of Mankind proclaimed the return of His fourth son to His people!
"Lord of Iron, Perturabo!"
"Lord of Iron, Perturabo!"
"Lord of Iron, Perturabo!"
The waves of cheers from the crowd grew higher and higher, the sound waves causing the hot-air balloons to sway and shattering the drifting clouds above.
Holding his hand high as he gazed upon the sea of people, Perturabo's eyes turned bright red. From these people, he felt an unprecedented level of respect and genuine affection from the bottom of their hearts.
Emotions surged wildly within his chest, and a thundering roar erupted from his throat: "For Humanity! For the Emperor!"
"For Humanity! For the Emperor!"
A mountain-shaking roar answered the Primarch once more.
Amidst the roaring cheers came the heavy sound of marching footsteps. A group approached with measured, heavy strides, treading over scattered flower petals to the faint chant of reciting poets.
"Brother."
Russ was the most enthusiastic. He spread his arms wide and stepped forward to embrace his blood brother: "Leman Russ."
"Perturabo."
The Primarch brothers embraced each other, igniting yet another roar of applause from the crowd.
Once the two finished their embrace, Blazkowicz also stepped forward, pulling Perturabo into a firm hug: "Blazkowicz Norwik."
"Perturabo."
Dorn opened his arms wide, a rare, gentle smile appearing on his usually strict and stoic face: "Rogal Dorn."
Perturabo fought hard to restrain his emotion. His brothers' chests were so warm, their arms accepting him unconditionally.
He tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder, his trembling voice repeating his name once more: "Perturabo."
"This is the Imperial Regent, Malcador," Dorn shifted aside to clear the view, pointing a hand toward the coarse-robed elder, "The cornerstone of the Imperium, and Father's closest friend."
"Greetings, Elder," Perturabo offered an Olympian gesture of respect; he knew a bit about the Emperor's close confidant.
Malcador smiled faintly and offered a soft greeting: "Welcome."
"And this is the Chief Custodian, Valdor."
The leader of the Custodes gave a silent nod, his gaze sharp and devoid of warmth, filled entirely with quiet evaluation.
Out of basic courtesy, Perturabo offered a slow nod in response.
"And this is—"
As the host of the ceremony, Dorn led his newly returned brother along, introducing the high command of the Imperium of Man one by one.
As the welcoming ceremony drew to a close, the Emperor took the first step, treading along the red carpet toward the Inner Court of the Imperial Palace.
"Let us go," He called back: "A new war is upon us, and time is not on our side."
The most revered figures of the Imperium of Man stepped into the hall. The giants walked with strides as heavy as thunder, their mechanical limbs lifting and dropping alternately as their luxurious leather boots left faint gray prints upon the floor.
The Primarchs, Tech-Priests, and Sector Governors—the most exalted group within the Imperium—followed the Master of Mankind into the great hall of the Imperial Palace with a rustle of hurried, disorganized footsteps.
A low hum gradually vibrated through the air as the sleeping hall slowly awakened.
As the sleeping hall stirred, massive vertical windows inlaid with golden glowing stones rotated slowly, blocking out the fading light of sunset and casting a deeper shade of twilight across the interior.
The deep obsidian floor flickered with points of luminescence, projecting a radiant sea of stars.
It was a brilliant galactic map spanning over a thousand meters. The Milky Way slowly rotated, dragging its spiral arms along, with countless stars blinking bright and dim—an extraordinarily gorgeous sight in the dark environment.
With a flick of the Emperor's wrist, the river of stars descended from the hall, coalescing into a three-zhang-wide expanse.
The dozen or so individuals who held the fate of the Imperium in their hands stood quietly around the star map, calming their minds as they waited for the Master of Mankind's command.
"The Rangdan Xenocides have drawn to a close, yet a new threat is rising once more from the deep reaches of the galaxy."
Constantin Valdor, Chief Custodian, spoke up. He raised the Spear of Helios in his hand, pointing its tip toward the galactic star map.
With the Imperial High Command present, he acted as the mouthpiece for the Master of Mankind: "Here... here... and here."
His orders echoed through the quiet hall as the Chief Custodian used his spear to circle several sectors: "In these three sectors, Our Lord's visions of the future have revealed powerful threats to the Imperium of Man."
With that, he pulled back the Spear of Helios and planted its butt onto the ground, scanning the gathered crowd with sharp eyes: "Taking advantage of our engagement with the Rangdan, the Orks have risen across two sectors and are on the verge of launching a Green Crusade."
"In the Sparsely-Populated Sector, Aeldari Corsairs appear with high frequency, launching large-scale raids to plunder Imperial populations. It is predicted that an Aeldari Craftworld is active within that sector."
As Valdor spoke, his eyes flickered rapidly, observing the high-ranking mortals to record their emotional shifts.
Though the mortal Governors tried their utmost to conceal their reactions, micro-expressions could not escape the fiery, eagle-like eyes of the Chief Custodian.
Some exhaled a long breath of turbid air as if relieved of a heavy burden; some wore sorrowful faces with a glint of lingering hope in their eyes; others turned as pale as paper.
The domain of the Imperium of Man grew broader by the day, divided like a grid of squares that nestled closely against one another. Such a layout naturally produced geographical disparities.
The Chief Custodian had pointed out the conflict zones revealed by the Master of Mankind's foresight. Depending on their proximity to these sectors, the faces of the Sector Governors varied wildly.
Those on the outer ring of the conflict zones wore relaxed expressions; those in the middle ring looked somewhat worried; those in the inner ring bore sorrowful countenances; and at the core, the Sector Governors directly involved looked as pale as death.
These rotund, opulent Governors might be cunning or greedy, but they were anything but stupid.
A threat singled out by the Master of Mankind's foresight would have a radius of impact far beyond ordinary imagination—it might even carry the potential to topple the Imperium itself.
And the Imperium possessed only one method to eradicate a threat—war!
Once the fires of war were stoked, hundreds or even thousands of star systems would fall into ruin. Decades of prosperity built on development would be turned to ash in a heartbeat.
As Sector Governors, they were unwilling to see the sectors under their rule face annihilation.
"We fully support Terra's decision."
Among the Sector Governors, a chubby one dropped to his knees before the Emperor, his voice slightly strained under the pressure of his own weight: "We will unreservedly cooperate with the Crusade Fleets to confront the xenos threat."
It had to be said that while this chubby Governor looked simple and honest on the surface, his mind was the sharpest of them all.
The other Governors snapped back to their senses, dropping to their knees in unison and shouting urgently in one voice: "We fully support Terra's decision!"
Cold sweat soaked their backs as trembling hands raised handkerchiefs to wipe away the bead-sized droplets streaming down their temples.
Who among those holding vast power was truly dense? With someone setting the precedent, they immediately made their stances and loyalties clear.
They realized what was happening: the Master of Mankind was delivering a subtle warning to these highly autonomous Sector Governors.
War was on the horizon, and the Imperium needed its people united against a common foe; the Crusade Fleets required the unconditional support of local naval forces.
"You may take your leave," Valdor said, having secured their commitment, nodding to the Sector Governors: "Return to your respective sectors and prepare for the outbreak of war."
As if receiving a divine pardon, the Governors and representatives bowed low, slowly backing out of the hall.
A few minutes later, the massive doors of the palace sealed shut once more, leaving only the Emperor and the Primarchs.
---
"Green-skinned Orks." Russ walked over to the galactic projection, tapping it a few times to bring up the archived files on the Wheel of Fire Sector.
He cast a friendly look toward Perturabo, gesturing for his brother to take a quick look.
Receiving his brother's signal, Perturabo nodded solemnly. His lead-gray eyes locked onto the intelligence report, absorbing knowledge regarding the xenos race.
Silence settled over the hall once more—a Father waiting for His sons, brothers waiting for brothers.
Born with innate knowledge, Perturabo quickly grasped the nature of this alien threat, amazement and solemnity surfacing on his iron-colored face.
He finally understood what kind of terrifying xenos humanity had to face as they stepped into the sea of stars once more.
Greenskin Orks. Combining the advantages of flora and fauna, their asexual reproduction was extraordinarily efficient. War technology was encoded directly into their DNA strands, unlocking progressively as the intensity of conflict escalated.
They were endless, virtually impossible to purge from the surface of a planet once rooted.
Boundless in number, utterly fearless of death; war was a wild instinct branded into their very genes. The greenskins knew no fatigue, flinging themselves into battle with vicious grins.
Aeldari. A remnant ancient race commanding incomprehensible technology, piloting Craftworlds through the cosmos to preserve the surviving embers of their species. They frequently raided human worlds, treating mankind as livestock to be slaughtered for flesh.
Having consumed the intelligence in a matter of seconds, Perturabo did not speak up right away, choosing instead to step back into the background.
Having just returned from the distant stars, he had yet to assume command of his Legion. To be permitted to participate in pre-war planning and learn of the severe challenges facing the Imperium was already a stroke of immense fortune.
Having acquired the necessary information, he simply stood to the side, waiting for his Father and brothers to deliberate.
Seeing that his brother had grasped the situation, Russ turned to look at the Emperor, his feral eyes flashing with a sharp, icy glint as his rough, stern voice inquired: "In Your vision, did You see specific details?"
"The greenskins'..." His voice faltered briefly. He cleared his throat twice, threw his head back, and let out a savage, beastly howl: "Waaaaaagh!!! Is there a specific origin point for this crusade?"
The strange tone, mixed with the wolfish howl, echoed continuously through the palace, creating visible soundwaves in the air.
Blazkowicz felt his brother's "Waaaaaagh!!!" roar was certainly distinctive, yet he quietly took a step to the side, subtly distancing himself from Russ. His valiant face practically wore a sign that read: I don't know him that well.
"Ahem! Ahem! Ahem!" Just as Russ hit the crescendo of his roar, a flicker of golden light flashed in his throat, causing him to cough dryly.
"Don't look at me with that expression," he grumbled.
Evidently, the odd looks cast by his brothers brought a rare flush of embarrassment to his thick skin: "As far as Orks are concerned, every crusade is extremely Waaaaaagh!!!"
"I fought them in the Wheel of Fire system; I know the characteristics of the greenskin species all too well."
The grin faded from his face, replaced by an unprecedented gravity: "If the Orks are spreading outward, it means they have reached critical mass. Through internal infighting, a Warboss has emerged at the top."
"Those violent mushroom soups are currently crossing the void in ships cobbled together from scrap metal, launching a full-scale invasion of Imperial domain."
"Can Your visions be more precise? Where is the focal point of this Green Tide's outbreak?"
Russ looked at his Father bathed in golden light, his expression grave, his feral eyes gleaming with a somber glint. He knew all too well the horror of a greenskin wave.
Decades ago, when he fought the Orks in the Wheel of Fire Sector, even with Blazkowicz's intelligence support, things had not gone smoothly at every turn. Now, during the Rangdan Xenocides, a new Ork empire had risen, and it was coming with terrifying momentum.
Russ knew in his heart that when the Emperor unrolled the star map and used the hands of his loyal servants to point out the source of the crisis, it presaged yet another long, drawn-out war.
And compared to the Rangdan, a war against the Orks was far more grueling.
The war of attrition at which the Imperium excelled was entirely useless against the Orks; instead, it would only stimulate their war genes, sparking a collective evolution that defied common logic.
If they wished to settle this swiftly, they had to locate the center of the Green Tide as quickly as possible and slay the Warboss. Only by taking advantage of the chaos following the Waaagh's disruption—relentlessly hunting down the Nobs and strongest Boyz to systematically weaken the Orks—could they minimize the war's overall impact.
Hearing his brother ask the crucial question, Dorn also formed his own thoughts, his gaze sweeping back and forth between Blazkowicz and Russ.
Regarding the greenskins, the Imperial archives contained research materials provided by Nûr. He had not only read through all of them, but had also cross-referenced them with battle footage of the Space Wolves during the Wheel of Fire Campaign.
The most effective methods for striking down greenskins were decapitation tactics and swift, decisive victory.
Now, before the galactic star chart stood two strike Legions. If they possessed the specific coordinates of the Green Tide, the Space Wolves and the Blazkowicz Marines deploying together could shatter the gathering tide in the shortest time possible.
Realizing this, Dorn turned his gaze toward the Emperor as well, awaiting an answer.
"There are none," the Emperor replied in an even tone. "The massive massing of greenskins generates an immense psychically-driven field, severely interfering with psychic foresight."
He raised His hand, pointing at a red cluster in the galaxy: "I can see the approximate location from the future, but I cannot lock onto a specific planet."
"However, reconnaissance by the Fifth Legion has already been dispatched, requesting the relevant sectors to cooperate, organize local fleet patrols, and search for traces of the greenskin armada."
Seeming to notice Russ's disappointment, the Emperor offered a rare word of comfort to His son: "Rest assured. The greenskins are a violent species; they do not hide themselves."
"If anything, greenskins desire nothing more than to use system-wide broadcasts to announce their arrival to all living things."
Hearing this, Russ shook his head in regret, crossed his arms over his chest, and fell silent.
---
Flicking a beam of golden light from His fingertips, the Emperor drew a circle around the floating Aeldari crest on the star map, turning His head to say to His old friend: "Have the War Council issue an order to dispatch the Third Legion to destroy the Craftworld of these Aeldari Corsairs, or force them to leave."
Malcador accepted the order casually, flicking a psychomatic rune that morphed into the Regent's seal, covering the area of Aeldari activity.
Having dealt with the Aeldari, the Emperor turned His attention to the glowing green Ork markers. A burst of vibrant colors scattered from His palm, causing the crests of various Legions to rotate in the void.
Across the brilliant galactic plane:
The dark green winged-sword crest of the First Legion was pinned down in the Rangdan domains, currently conducting a self-directed purge to hunt down the remnants of the Rangdan Empire.
The Imperial Fists were temporarily garrisoned in the Solar System.
The Blood Angels had returned to Baal, resting and resupplying personnel and ammunition.
The Ultramarines' crest moved rapidly, traveling through the Warp toward Terra—evidently, Guilliman had official business requiring his personal presence.
The other Legions were busy as well; the Luna Wolves were currently assaulting a world, expanding the realm for the Imperium.
Looking around at the unassigned military forces, the only one remaining was Blazkowicz's Legion.
"I have business," Blazkowicz declared, sensing the gaze falling upon him, decisively shaking his head in refusal. "While I have no other engagements at the moment, in a few days, the Nûr royal delegation will arrive on Terra for a visit. I must personally receive them."
Hearing this valid reason, the Emperor quickly shifted His gaze. Blazkowicz possessed a high degree of autonomy; even the Emperor could not force His son to take on an assignment at times. Moreover, during this period, the Emperor hoped Blazkowicz would remain on Terra to jointly deliberate on how to steal fire from the gods.
"Will You let me go?"
While the Emperor hesitated over which Legion to dispatch, Perturabo stepped forward, chest puffed out, looking every bit the son willing to share his Father's burdens.
Perturabo's fingers twitched slightly; though calm on the surface, a storm was surging inside his heart. This was his first time boldly taking the initiative to make a request.
On Olympia, Perturabo was the person everyone needed, yet he hated the endless demands and greedy taking. Similarly, volunteering for this crusade was his way of proving his resolve and talent before his Father and brothers.
Perturabo's self-recommendation drew everyone's attention.
Bathed in the gazes of his brothers, the Lord of Iron did not falter. He stood even straighter, nodding proudly to reveal his rugged jawline.
"Two months," the Emperor did not reject His son's request, holding up two fingers to confirm: "You have only two months to reorganize and overhaul the Fourth Legion on Terra."
Perturabo let out a low growl, his solemn tone sounding almost like an oath: "Guaranteed to complete the mission!"
"One week!" He dropped to one knee before the Emperor, making another pledge: "I need only one week to complete the Legion's reorganization and overhaul."
"Very well!" Within the Emperor's dispassionate voice, a subtle wave of emotion finally stirred: "I see your determination, but I will not rush you."
Perturabo nodded heavily as a beam of golden light lifted him to his feet.
The Emperor cast out another Legion crest once more—a heavy iron hand representing resilience and strength—covering another area of Ork activity. For the remaining Ork empire, the Emperor stamped it with the Roman numeral "IV," trusting in his newly returned son's capabilities.
"The two Legions shall each fulfill their duties, stemming the greenskin tide from sweeping across human domains."
Feeling an unprecedented sense of importance, when Perturabo stood up from the ground, he was so moved that tears almost welled in his eyes. He clenched his fists tightly beneath his robes as his extraordinary, logical brain began planning how to reorganize his Legion and mold it into an invincible army.
Perturabo's eyes grew deeper still: this time, he was no longer merely being demanded upon. His passion for this war stemmed entirely from his true heart. He would ease his Father's burdens through his achievements, making his Father cherish him all the more.
The Astartes Legion—this extraordinary, powerful force—he would wield it to crush any enemy blocking the path of the human race and the Master of Mankind.
---
"Take this." Out of genuine admiration for his brother's sense of responsibility, Blazkowicz was willing to offer his aid.
He detached a microchip from the inside of his belt and flicked it into his brother's hand: "This contains in-depth research data on the xenos. It should be of use to you."
Perturabo caught it. His innate knowledge allowed him to read the data inside the chip with his bare eyes. Within the tiny chip, Blazkowicz had meticulously organized every detail regarding all the xenos he had encountered, providing top-tier intelligence.
"Thank you," his voice was muffled, still unused to offering thanks, "my great brother."
Blazkowicz answered earnestly: "As long as it helps you."
He had intended to say "think nothing of it" out of modesty, but caught sight of the intense craving for familial warmth deep within his brother's gray eyes.
Shaking his head with an imperceptible sigh, Blazkowicz could not help but feel that Perturabo was far too serious, yet his soul practically begged to be nurtured by genuine affection.
"Now that a decision has been reached, we shall proceed accordingly."
The Emperor raised His hand, dispersing the galactic projection, and turned to look at Perturabo: "You are to take command of the Fourth Legion, resolve all Legion affairs, and depart for the region where the Ork tide has erupted."
"Your primary task is reconnaissance: determine the scale of the Ork tide, transmit detailed intelligence to the War Council, and establish a course of action."
Fulfilling the heavy responsibility entrusted to him, Perturabo dropped to one knee and declared with absolute resolve: "Understood! I shall not disappoint You."
Observing his son's steadfast attitude, the Emperor nodded slowly, using psychic power to gently lift Perturabo back to his feet.
"Valdor," He summoned the Chief Custodian, turning to leave the great hall of the Imperial Palace.
After offering a gesture of respect to the Primarchs, Malcador followed in the Emperor's footsteps, heading deeper into the Imperial Palace. They had a mountain of tedious affairs to report to the Master of Mankind.
The Imperium was vast and boundless; though the affairs of the Primarchs and Astartes were undeniably vital, they represented merely a single corner of this colossal empire. The true bedrock of the Imperium was its mortals—the most crucial, yet most easily overlooked, component of all.
---
"Brother."
Seeing that the Emperor and Malcador had walked off into the distance, Russ hastily ambled over, extending an invitation to the newly returned Perturabo: "Care to join us?"
He pointed to the jarring, greasy stain on his frost-colored silk tunic: "Just a small gathering to unwind first."
Blazkowicz and Dorn both nodded in agreement, casting expectant gazes toward Perturabo.
"I am deeply moved by this invitation," Perturabo forced a faint smile, his tone carrying a note of apology, "yet please allow me to decline."
"The scout forces have already departed, and news will be relayed back shorty. Until then, I must swiftly integrate my Legion to ensure that our first mission unfolds without mishap."
His words were earnest and resolute, his face set in a strictly serious demeanor.
"Very well," Russ sighed, a trace of regret clouding his wild brow.
Dorn added in agreement: "Taking command of the Legion takes absolute priority. There will be plenty of opportunities for gatherings."
"Let us take our leave as well," Blazkowicz's gaze swept across the vacant hall. "This is no place for conversation."
The four turned and departed the hall, their steps somewhat hurried: Perturabo was eager to take command of his Legion, while the other three were set to resume their interrupted gathering.
---
After bidding farewell to his brothers, Perturabo requested a Custodian to guide him to the encampment of the Fourth Legion.
Following the expansion of the Imperial Palace, apart from the Blazkowicz Marines' encampment, all other Legions had been relocated outward. Those Legions that possessed homeworlds retained only a few offices on Terra, functioning as communication hubs between their forces and the Throneworld.
The Fourth Legion's encampment was located in the northwestern quadrant of the Imperial Palace, where Legion warriors stood arrayed in crisp inspection formations, waiting in full battle readiness to welcome their Primarch.
As the Custodes shuttle slowly descended, the Legion warriors puffed out their chests, ready for inspection by their genetic father. This was a moment of unmatched glory—since its inception, the Legion had finally recovered the source of its bloodline.
As the giant stepped out of the hatch, the Space Marines instantly felt a faint, innate connection through their veins, accompanied by a wave of warmth swelling from the depths of their souls. They knew beyond a shadow of a doubt in that split second: the giant inspecting their ranks was indeed the genetic Primarch of their Legion!
"Praise the Primarch!"
A roar of greetings mingled with the clashing of armor into a deafening wave as the Legion warriors dropped to one knee, shouting with intense fervor: "Hail the great Lord of Iron! The sons of Perturabo welcome your return from the sea of stars!"
Facing the pure reverence of his offspring, Perturabo remained noncommittal.
His scrutinizing eyes swept across the military formation, where over sixty thousand warriors stood in pristine alignment, gazing up at him with looks of utter veneration. Calculating in his head, Perturabo estimated that those gathered in the plaza accounted for well over half of the Fourth Legion, with the remaining units still arriving on Terra in waves.
"Rise."
The Legion warriors stood up with a booming crash, their movements perfectly synchronized, demonstrating to their genetic father that the warriors inheriting his bloodline were an ironclad army of flawless discipline.
Yet, facing the expectant gazes of his offspring, Perturabo delivered his very first command: "Dismissed."
The expectant looks on the Legion warriors' faces froze, morphing into utter confusion as they exchanged bewildered glances, unsure of how to react.
"Dismissed," Perturabo repeated. "Await the return of all remaining warriors before we undergo a unified reorganization."
The Legion warriors let out a long breath of relief, having briefly feared that their genetic father intended to disband the Legion entirely. Receiving the order, the warriors dispersed into smaller units, returning to their routine duties.
Nodding in satisfaction, Perturabo addressed the Legion Master standing on standby: "Lead me to the Legion Archives."
Ever since learning aboard the Imperial Bucephalus that he commanded a bloodline Legion, he had been planning to mold it according to his own vision. And the prerequisite for reshaping the Legion was unraveling its history.
The Legion Archives recorded everything concerning the Fourth Legion, containing all the detailed information he required.
Hearing the Primarch's authoritative, unquestionable order, the Legion Master snapped to attention and saluted: "Please follow me."
---
The Legion high command opened the doors to the Legion Archives, offering up everything from their past to their genetic Primarch.
As the storage vault opened, Perturabo beheld neatly categorized paper tomes and clearly labeled data-recorders. Upon the stone walls of the repository, anti-psychic runes were carved to prevent supernatural forces from altering the records.
"You may take your leave," the genetic Primarch dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The Legion high command bowed respectfully and departed.
As for whether the Primarch could find what he needed on his own, they harbored no concerns whatsoever. A genetic Primarch possessed superhuman intellect; in the eyes of the Emperor's offspring, the world was crystal clear and transparent—with just a fraction of focus, they could dissect any information they desired.
Just as the Legion warriors surmised, Perturabo required no assistance from them.
Stepping into the library, he glanced at the scribe servitors and servo-skulls, instantly divining their specific functions.
"Do not disturb me. I shall step out when the time is right."
"Understood."
With external matters settled, Perturabo strode with wide steps toward a stone table, commanding the servo-skulls to bring him the necessary files.
The entire archive sprang to life in an instant. Servo-skulls buzzed like industrious bees as their anti-gravity engines hummed, retrieving books from various shelves and depositing them before the genetic Primarch.
Perturabo read with absolute focus, turning pages in a blur and finishing an entire tome every dozen seconds. Utilizing his innate talent for effortless comprehension, he rapidly absorbed the knowledge recorded within the books.
The vast archive echoed with the continuous rustle of turning pages.
The Legion archives contained painstaking detail, documenting the Legion's complete history from its inception on Terra through the Great Crusade.
Yet as the volume of his reading mounted, the expression on Perturabo's face shifted continuously—moving from calm scrutiny to a dark, brewing displeasure.
He understood everything now, yet he was utterly disgusted by the current reality.
The Fourth Legion's performance during the Great Crusade filled him with extreme dissatisfaction. He felt the pathetic capability of his offspring had betrayed the Emperor's trust! He could hardly bring himself to believe that Astartes inheriting his bloodline could submit a battle record so hideous and disgraceful.
The most intolerable casualty record of all was when the Fourth Legion laid siege to a Forge World: in the span of a single year, thirty thousand Astartes perished in battle!
Such a staggering sacrifice was unthinkable for any other Legion. Had it been visited upon the Blazkowicz Marines, it would have been enough to wipe out the Legion entirely twice over. Yet this absurd, unimaginable casualty count was precisely what his genetic offspring had delivered—and recorded in agonizingly detailed fashion.
Upon finishing the campaign logs, Perturabo's rage nearly exploded! His face contorted with fury, and he slammed a fist down, nearly shattering the stone table, before forcibly restraining himself to continue reading through the Legion's history.
Fortunately, no battle record quite so absurd appeared again.
---
Perturabo remained seated at the stone table, reading for an entire week. When he finally snapped the last book shut, he rose slowly and walked toward the doors of the archive.
Having gained a thorough understanding of the Legion's history, it was time to take drastic action and overhaul the Fourth Legion once and for all.
Stepping through the doors, Perturabo's face was completely devoid of expression as he addressed the waiting Legion high command in an icy tone: "Assemble all warriors."
Seeing the Primarch's grim countenance, the Legion Master dared not ask questions, raising his arm to speak into his tactical vox: "By order of the Primarch, assemble the entire Legion!"
He followed carefully behind the Primarch, stealing glances at his genetic father's expression from time to time, his heart filled with uneasy dread.
On the other side, the encampment parade ground was a hive of activity as Legion warriors assembled at top speed, awaiting inspection by their genetic Primarch. Over the week the Primarch had spent inside the archives, virtually all personnel of the Fourth Legion had arrived; the parade ground was a dense, dark sea of over eighty thousand assembled Space Marines.
Under the scorching sun, a majestic figure cut through the blowing dust, entering the view of the gathered crowd.
It was the genetic father of the Legion, his posture towering and his gaze frigid, his stern face devoid of any emotion. Yet the Legion warriors felt an innate closeness stemming from their bloodline, a primal instinct of submission welling up from the depths of their souls.
Perturabo stood atop the high platform, looking down upon the Legion formation. His icy gaze caused frost to gather at the corners of his eyes.
He could not fathom how these Legion warriors dared to hold their heads high and puff out their chests!
They should be consumed by shame!
The Fourth Legion's battle record had betrayed his expectations, and it had betrayed the Emperor's trust.
With his lips twitching faintly, Perturabo remained stone-faced as his deep, muffled voice stirred a bitter, freezing wind, uttering a ruthless word:
"Decimation!"