The return of the Second Primarch sent shockwaves through the Empire. For the Emperor and the Primarchs, they gained another child and a new brother.
However, for the Empire's political landscape, it meant the arrival of a powerful new player outside the established hierarchy.
It was a major shift in power—at least for the middle and lower strata. After all, the Second Primarch's return meant he would inevitably build his own Chapter. Thousands of worlds would soon become recruitment grounds, with their surrounding systems and sectors defaults to the Chapter's oversight. This meant many interest groups had to surrender their hold on power.
Naturally, the Empire's heavy hand would smooth everything over in silence; no one would dare object.
Draco Sugar stood atop the Eternity Wall, the very spot where the Emperor had launched the Great Crusade and the Revenge Crusade, looking down at how Terra had transformed.
When he had first returned, Terra was nothing like this. It was far from prosperous. Strip away the massive hive cities, and it looked more like a ruined, desolate feral world. Draco had wanted to rebuild Terra back then—after all, according to the Emperor, this was humanity's homeworld. How could a homeworld be so broken and decayed?
However, the Emperor and Malcador disagreed. After a brief period of training, they sent him out on the Great Crusade. Draco had planned to renovate Terra once the Crusade ended, but only a few years in, tragedy struck. He had slept until now to fully recover.
The Empire had certainly lived through a magnificent millennium. Draco felt a pang of frustration for not being there to help his brothers, yet felt slightly relieved he had been sealed away—given his state back then, there was no telling if he would have joined the Loyalists or the Traitors.
His heart ached most for his sons. They were fine men, yet ruined by his condition, pleading with the Emperor not to purge him even in their final moments. Looking at the Terra rebuilt by Dorn and Perturabo—with its dense orbital networks and the massive ice sphere above—Draco felt a deep sorrow. The Second Legion would never get to enjoy this prosperity.
"How are you recovering, brother?"
Perturabo approached his brother, who had been sealed away before Perturabo's own return.
"Not bad, just unused to it. The Empire has developed so fast," Draco smiled warmly, possessing an approachable charm that had always made him popular.
"Take your time. The Empire is in no rush. Your sons are being recalled, and your gene-seed production is being accelerated. Your Legion will return soon, though it will still need to be split."
"My sons still survive?" Draco was surprised.
"Yes. Those without psychic abilities were distributed into the Imperial Fists and Ultramarines by the Emperor and Malcador. They didn't know their own identities, but they prospered in both Legions. After you awoke, the Emperor unlocked their memories with Dorn and Guilliman's consent."
"They will be here soon. You will command quite a few Chapters, so prepare yourself. Taking on so many Space Marines at once might feel overwhelming," Perturabo said, his expression turning strangely subtle.
Draco noticed it. "What do you mean? Did my sons not fade away, but actually thrive?"
"You owe Roboute a debt of gratitude. His recruitment and organizational methods saved many of your sons and gave them room to grow. Though... it was a bit of a shock for the Ultramarines."
Perturabo recalled Guilliman's sour face—that rare look of helplessness and bitter resignation. It was the first time Perturabo had ever seen Guilliman look like that.
"Oh? How so?"
"Roboute treats his sons well; he's arguably the most responsible father among us. That allowed the Ultramarines to expand rapidly. Since the Great Crusade and the Revenge Crusade, their growth matched my Iron Warriors."
"Not even the Dark Angels or Word Bearers could compete. But I doubt even Roboute expected that a quarter of the Chapters under his command weren't even his own flesh and blood."
"In fact, I doubt those Chapters knew either. I heard that when many were summoned to Terra to meet their father, almost every one of them sent multiple astropathic messages back to double-check."
"It's clear they don't fully accept you yet. After so many years, they've gotten used to Guilliman and Dorn." Perturabo watched closely to see how his brother would handle this. A Primarch needed to be in unison with his sons; how would he bridge centuries of estrangement?
"I failed them back then," Draco said softly. "If they don't wish to return, I will wipe their memories again and let them stay with the Ultramarines and Imperial Fists. I've been gone too long. It was my failure."
"I failed my duties as a father and a Warmaster. I have no right to demand their loyalty now. Doing so would insult them and offend my brothers."
Draco lacked the stubbornness typical of most Primarchs. If his sons had thrived under his brothers and earned glory, he shouldn't force them back.
"But they are your sons. That is undeniable. An Astartes will always honor his true father."
Guilliman walked over, setting aside his administrative duties to speak with his brother. He still had mixed feelings. When he first learned that another Primarch's offspring were placed in his ranks, he hadn't cared—they had served him for so long that he viewed them as his own.
What he never expected was that a full quarter of his entire force wasn't his. He had been completely stunned. No one had ever mentioned that so many of his "children" weren't actually his.
"It isn't fair to you," Draco noted.
"They have the right to know who their true genetic father is. The two aren't mutually exclusive," Guilliman replied with no real resentment. The Ultramarines could expand quickly even without these Chapters, as that quarter consisted of standard Codex-compliant sizes. The core strength still lay with his own direct descendants; even losing these hundred-or-so Chapters, the Ultramarines Legion still boasted a staggering 2.8 million warriors—a terrifying number among the Legions.
The Ultramarines were all-rounders. They might not excel in siege, defense, or specialized warfare like others, but they were like the star pupil who scored exceptionally high across all subjects. They had no glaring weaknesses, yet brought absolute destruction to their enemies. Often, their opponents couldn't even comprehend how they lost when they seemed to be evenly matched.
Thanks to this versatility, the Ultramarines flourished across every galaxy. Had Guilliman not authored the Codex Astartes and imposed strict numbers, their forces would be even larger.
This was why Guilliman didn't mind losing them. What he cared about was whether these "sons" would be treated just as well under his brother.
"What do you plan to do?" Perturabo asked. "Lead the Legion like the rest of us, or leave them be and stay on Terra—or explore?"
"I want to do something useful," Draco said. "At least to make up for my absence when the Empire needed me. Even if it sounds like I'm trying to share in your victory, I don't want to idle away on the Empire's laurels."
Perturabo looked into his deep brown eyes and saw a familiar spark: a desperate craving for purpose. It was the same look Perturabo had when he proposed building a grand architectural marvel across five major sectors.
"The Empire's Infrastructure Construction Initiative lacks a Chief Overseer," Perturabo offered. "You would oversee construction progress across various worlds, coordinate resource allocation, and resolve technical bottlenecks. It involves constant travel across the galaxy and dealing with all kinds of factions. Guilliman originally wanted Dorn or me to handle it, but now that you're back, do you want to try?"
Draco's eyes lit up. "I can do that?"
"You clearly have a knack for it. Even if you run into trouble, the Logic Engines can assist you. A Primarch learns fast. It won't be easy, but it's straightforward."
Draco truly needed work; idling around made him feel immense guilt.
"Don't get excited just yet. Look at what the job actually entails," Perturabo warned, handing him a data-slate.
Draco's heart sank as he read it.
Spanning five galaxies across the entire Empire... tens of thousands of solar systems... billions of projects... from planetary terraforming to urban utility networks, interstellar logistics hubs to remote colony comms...
Every single project had strict timelines, budgets, and technical specs. Every detail required tracking, auditing, and coordination. One wrong move could derail a project and impact trillions of citizens.
"Has the Empire grown this massive?" Draco murmured, realizing he might have spoken too soon.
Still, seeing how hard his brothers worked, he couldn't back down. It was just a heavy workload—if his brothers could handle it, so could he!
"It's manageable," Guilliman said, suddenly admiring this young brother who dared to take on such a burden. "We could expand more, but administrative work is overwhelming. New worlds are constantly joining, and the Logic Engines need updating again."
"Are you sure you want this? Aside from Perturabo and Dorn, almost no one else in the Empire can handle it."
Guilliman felt Draco had returned at the perfect time. The Empire had plenty of warriors, but lacked leaders who could both fight and handle administrative burdens. Most Primarchs ran at the sight of paperwork, claiming bad Warp signals or active warzones just to avoid it. Sanguinius was the worst offender, using every excuse in the book to dodge administrative duties.
"I can do it," Draco asserted, unaware of the trap he was walking into. Driven by guilt over his long absence, the honest Primarch had just made a decision he would regret for the rest of his life.
"Excellent," Guilliman smiled. "Sign here, brother, and the decree takes effect. And these as well... don't rush, it's only a few dozen documents. Take your time..."
---
Traffic around Terra had ground to a halt once again. A fleet of over a hundred Space Marine Chapters had suddenly entered the crowded Sol system routes, causing massive gridlock.
Atop the Eternity Wall, Draco stood wearing dark red armor crafted by Perturabo's own hands, staring up into the void at the massive fleet. He could tell his sons looked solemn—there was no excitement about meeting their genetic father, only conflicted, complex emotions.
"Nervous?" Perturabo asked, stepping beside him to look up at the fleet. He knew this wouldn't be an easy meeting for his brother.
"Yeah."
"What are you going to say to them?"
Draco didn't answer. He simply stared into the void with a complex expression, light flickering within his deep brown eyes.