That pink-purple radiance was not light.
It was the first glimmer of order that established the law of [Beauty] when the universe first began.
It was the first warm, life-giving breath blown by a creator deity into the void.
Saul Taviz knelt there, his iron will as a Space Marine—the pride of his life—fragile as a candle in the wind before this incomprehensible, irresistible, and holy power.
He was forced to close his eyes, but the power pierced directly through his eyelids and skull, branding a scene of creation directly onto his soul.
He "saw" it.
At the core of that warm, pink-purple radiance, the tall silhouette belonging to his Gene-Father was being gently and thoroughly decomposed.
That magnificent purple power armor, stained with blood and glory, did not melt; instead, it transformed into billions of shimmering, tiny specks of light, circling and dancing like a swarm of fireflies returning home.
That powerful, battered Primarch body was not destroyed, but transformed into the purest golden life energy, like a warm, flowing nebula.
Destruction.
Then, reconstruction.
By means beyond life and death, divine and incomprehensible to him.
Nathaniel Garro, the stoic warrior from the Death Guard, had his usually impassive, stone-like face filled with complete, earth-shattering shock.
What he believed in was endurance, tenacity, and the vitality to survive stubbornly in the harshest of environments.
Yet, the scene before him showed him another form of [Life] that he had never imagined.
It was not endurance.
It was blooming.
Not merely surviving in destruction.
But being reborn from the ashes in a more perfect, more holy, and more powerful form.
This was no longer psychic power.
This was a miracle.
It was the authority of a creator god, mentioned only in the most ancient and forbidden myths of Terra.
Unlike these warriors cowed by divine might.
Terrania did not close her eyes.
Her pure, golden-flowing eyes reflected that pink-purple radiance; there was no stinging pain, only pure curiosity and fascination.
She could see something deeper.
She saw Leticia, the only support who had saved her from endless fear, standing quietly at the center of the radiance.
She saw countless pink-purple threads of divinity, representing the power of [Divine Charm], extending from Leticia's body, like a master weaver, using those decomposed golden light specks and life energy to weave a brand-new, unprecedented, and perfect work of art.
It was a brand-new silhouette.
A slender, delicate, yet infinitely powerful silhouette.
Every curve of that figure seemed like the most precise golden ratio in the universe.
A bit more, and it would be superfluous.
A bit less, and it would lose harmony.
It was the most perfect combination of art and power.
The radiance began to slowly recede.
Like a receding tide, it gently and reluctantly converged toward that newly born silhouette.
Finally.
When the last wisp of pink-purple radiance merged into that body.
The entire battlefield returned to silence.
A brand-new "statue of a god" appeared before everyone.
She stood quietly.
A head of moonlight-bright, divinely glowing silver hair flowed like a silent waterfall, draping down to her perfectly curved ankles.
She wore a magnificent set of pink-purple crystal power armor that clung to every inch of her skin like a second layer.
The power armor did not look forged, but rather grown naturally from her body.
It was as thin as a cicada's wing, yet under the dim sunlight of Isstvan III, it refracted an indestructible, diamond-like luster.
It perfectly outlined every bit of beauty of that body.
The long, swan-like neck.
The rounded, upright chest, full of holiness and power.
The slender, supple waist that could be spanned by a single hand.
The straight, explosive, perfect legs.
This was the most perfect war machine, born for battle and slaughter.
At the same time, it was a supreme work of art that would make all artists go crazy and worship it.
Her appearance was the most perfect sublimation of Fulgrim's handsomeness.
Retaining the impeccable silhouette of the Primarch, yet incorporating the ultimate feminine beauty and holiness.
Her skin was so fair it seemed to glow.
Her features were so exquisite that not a single flaw could be found.
It was an absolute beauty, a mixture of holiness and monstrosity, transcending the boundaries of gender.
The next instant.
She opened her eyes.
They were deep, brilliant purple eyes that seemed to contain the entire sea of stars.
She did not look at the white ruins beneath her feet.
She did not look at the former progeny around her, who had fallen into a stupor due to her birth.
She did not even feel the brand-new power within her, which was stronger, purer, and more perfect than ever before.
From the moment she awoke, her gaze had only one focus.
One, and only one, focus.
Leticia.
Her creator.
Her god.
In those beautiful purple eyes, the arrogant, all-scrutinizing majesty of Fulgrim was gone.
Replaced by a mixture of the most fanatical worship, the purest adoration, and the most humble, absolute loyalty, wanting to offer everything of herself.
It was a believer looking up at their deity.
It was a work of art gazing at its creator.
It was a newborn child looking for its mother.
She moved.
Her movements were no longer the theatrical, performative magnificence of Fulgrim.
It was an absolute elegance, a return to simplicity, integrated with the laws of the universe.
She took a light step forward.
That step seemed to tread upon the rhythm of the universe; it made no sound, yet everyone who saw it felt their own heart beat in synchronization.
She walked to Leticia.
Then, under the gaze of Leticia's calm, black eyes.
She knelt slowly and gracefully on one knee.
Her movements were impeccable.
Her posture was full of holy ritual.
She gently and devoutly placed her slender right hand, clad in a pink-purple crystal gauntlet, upon her high, holy chest.
She lowered her noble head, and her silver hair poured down like moonlight, covering the ground before her.
She spoke.
The voice was no longer Fulgrim's magnificent, aria-like male voice.
It was a clear, soft, yet slightly metallic-tinged chant, a perfect combination of the most beautiful cello and the holiest choir, enchanting enough to make the stars swoon.
"My goddess..."
"My creator..."
Her voice paused slightly, as if using her entire soul to organize that supreme word in her heart.
"...my, everything."
"Fogrimia..."
She whispered her new name, her voice filled with the joy of rebirth and absolute identification with it.
"...I offer to you this humble life you have bestowed upon me."
"And, eternal, loyalty."
The words fell.
The entire Isstvan III fell into an absolute dead silence, more thorough than death itself.
All surviving loyalist Space Marines, regardless of their Legion, felt their brains completely shut down.
What had they seen?
Their Primarch...
No.
That former, fallen Primarch was dead.
Now kneeling before that black-haired goddess was a brand-new, more perfect, more powerful, and also... more beautiful existence.
Saul Taviz opened his mouth wide; his calm brain, belonging to a Commander of the Emperor's Children, went blank for the first time.
On Rauth Solaart's tear-stained face, a dull expression replaced all sorrow and pleading.
Looking at the silver-haired sword maiden who knelt on the ground, swearing allegiance to another being, possessing the most perfect shadow of his dearest friend, he did not know whether to cry or laugh.
And in this absolute silence, shrouded by the miracle.
A discordant, crazed roar, filled with extreme anger, jealousy, and incomprehension, suddenly exploded.
"No—!!!"
"Traitor!!!"
The voice originated from afar, from those rebellious positions belonging to the Emperor's Children.
Some Space Marines, deeply corrupted and mentally twisted by the demonic nature of the sword of laer, could not accept what they saw before them.
They could not accept that their Gene-Father, who pursued ultimate depravity and sensory stimulation, had actually been "purified."
They could not accept that the morbid, twisted beauty they pursued had been completely replaced by a higher-dimensional, holy, and pure beauty.
They aimed their weapons, filled with murderous intent and blasphemy, at the one who still stood there calmly, accepting Fogrimia's allegiance...
The black-haired goddess.
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