"They are truly magnificent, little brother."
Calliphone stood on the high balcony, marveling at the legion bathed in sunlight, their grey iron power armour gleaming with a cold luster.
Fifteen thousand Astartes stood in silent, perfectly aligned formation.
These giants from the stars averaged over two point four meters tall, a head taller than Olympia's most imposing warriors.
The power armour they wore was a perfect fusion of art and power. The masterfully crafted boltguns and powered weapons were also technologically ages beyond Olympia.
When such a legion stood in formation, their mere presence was enough to terrify their enemies.
The sheer, palpable pressure could make even the bravest warrior tremble.
These were the Astartes, the Emperor's perfect warriors!
"They have yet to reach their full potential, sister."
"My Legion is steel, but it has not yet been tempered."
"Your standards are too high. I have never seen warriors as mighty as them."
Phrixus lowered his head, humbly accepting his father's criticism.
Calliphone was the Primarch's sister and the Tutor's sister as well. Her status surpassed that of the Astartes.
She could argue with the Primarch, but Phrixus could not.
Calliphone asked, "Phrixus, how many of you are there?"
"The 4th Legion currently has sixty-four thousand warriors, my Lord."
"We are the third Legion to be deployed en masse, after the 1st and 15th Legions."
Phrixus's voice carried an uncontrollable pride. It was indeed an honour for the 4th Legion, thanks to the exceptional purity of their gene-seed.
Their father was naturally the same; his purity might very well rival that of the 1st Legion's Primarch.
The First Legion was merely founded earlier. They were luckier than the other Legions, having gained the Emperor's favour.
Perturabo asked, "Phrixus, do you harbour resentment towards my assessment?"
Phrixus immediately knelt on one knee. "My Lord, I would never dream of such a thing!"
Perturabo said, "I have never questioned your strength. You have been forged in battle. You are honourable and powerful warriors."
"But you have not yet been tempered by humanity. You are too cold."
A Astartes's gene-seed originates from their Primarch. The nineteen organs implanted in them are simplified versions of the Primarch's own genes.
But Primarchs also possess dozens of other organs and tissues with unknown functions—potential genetic treasures.
Those nineteen organs are merely the simplest and easiest to implant, not the most powerful.
If the Imperium could continue to analyse the functions of the Primarch's unique organs, they could design more powerful upgrades for the Astartes.
They might never match a Primarch, but perhaps one day they could surpass the Custodes.
Yet a Primarch remains stronger than these warriors, for a Primarch possesses a Warp essence, a gap that no amount of genetics can bridge.
Perturabo could embrace his gene-sons, whether they were strong or weak.
But humanity, that is not something gene-implantation can bestow.
On the contrary, the gene-forging surgeries suppress a Astartes's humanity, making them cold and unfeeling.
Steel is cold, and that is only natural.
But when cold steel is used to protect the people, it can be warmed by the light of humanity, no longer remaining cold.
Perturabo is like that, and he wishes his gene-sons to be like him as well.
"Humanity may be temporarily suppressed by iron and blood, but it should never be buried completely."
"That is our most precious quality, the sole standard that distinguishes a warrior from a butcher."
"We must guard our human light, forging it into an anchor that can never be worn away!"
Phrixus lowered his head. "The 4th Legion will uphold your will to the very end, my Lord!"
The Astartes knelt simultaneously on one knee. The sound of ceramite greaves striking the stone floor was as stirring as war drums.
Perturabo needed no impassioned speech. His voice carried through the comms channel, reaching every warrior's ears.
The warriors maintained solemn silence, offering their silent loyalty to their gene-father.
No one is content with mediocrity. They had merely lost their way in war.
They knew who to strike with their swords, but not why they were swinging them.
The Emperor gave them a reason: for unification, for revival, for the future of all mankind.
And now, their gene-father had illuminated the path like a guiding light. How could they not surge forward!
"I have never sought honour." Perturabo gazed at his gene-sons. "And in you, I see the same precious quality."
"I am gladdened by this."
With just these words, fifteen thousand Astartes trembled.
"The Master of Mankind forged you into swords and shields."
"You do not fight for vain glory, but bear an inescapable mission entrusted to you by the Master of Mankind."
"I despise the glorification of war. War is merciless and cruel. Warriors who wallow in it will inevitably fall into an irretrievable abyss!"
"But the unification of humanity requires iron and blood. The revival of civilisation must tread mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Therefore, we will fulfil our mission!"
"For we are steel, and we will shed our blood for it!"
"But one day, the war will end."
"We defend the embers of civilisation amidst the flames of war, and then we must build it!"
"Then, we will shed our armour and take up other tools with our hands, no longer for killing."
"My dream is to become an architect, to build grand cities upon the ruins."
"On Olympia, my proudest work is that theatre, not the towering walls and fortresses!"
"And you, my gene-sons of whom I am proud, you too must find your place in the future of humanity!"
"Steel can be forged into the blade of conquest, or cast into the fortress of protection!"
"We are the sinews of war, and also the foundation of civilisation!"
"From this moment on, I shall give you a new name-"
"The Iron Warriors!"
Perturabo slammed his fist against his chest, saluting his warriors. "Iron within and without!"
THUD!
In response, fifteen thousand warriors answered with a single, synchronized iron fist salute, and a thunderous battle cry.
"Iron within and without!"
...
The Plemmora Hall was packed with people.
The towering forms of the Iron Warriors filled nearly every inch of space. Many warriors had to stand.
Mortals huddled in their seats between these giants, their eyes filled with awe and unease.
Phrixus keenly sensed a gaze.
It was a young child, staring at him with wide, curious eyes, even reaching out a small hand to touch his power armour.
The child's mother hurriedly pulled him back into her arms, her eyes filled with panic.
Phrixus was silent for a moment, then slowly removed his helmet.
He knelt on one knee, trying his best to contort his facial muscles into a stiff but sincere smile. "Hello, little one. What's your name?"
This was not easy for him. Even among Astartes, he was one of the proudest.
Phrixus rarely smiled. He had always believed no one could match him, not even his fellow warriors of higher rank.
But their gene-father wanted them to change, so he would try his best.
The little fellow curiously sucked on his fingers. "Kroger."
Phrixus said, "You can touch it. Don't worry about breaking it."
The little boy's round eyes widened. He reached out a chubby little hand and cautiously touched the cold ceramite armour.
The chill of the metal made him gasp in surprise. He tentatively knocked on it.
It was hard, as solid as a city wall.
Phrixus didn't know how to interact with a child. He was an experienced warrior, but completely inexperienced in this area.
The little boy looked up, his eyes sparkling with longing. "So cool! Can I wear armour like that when I grow up?"
Phrixussmiled, "If you can pass the trials, you can become one of us."
Kroger asked "What happens if I fail?"
"You might die."
Phrixus's answer scared Kroger, but the boy still clenched his little fists. "Then I will definitely succeed!"
Phrixus gazed at the boy. The boy stared back fearlessly.
The trials of a Astartes are brutal.
For Astartes Legions never lack qualified candidates eager to join, yet the Legions' resources cannot be squandered.
The production of each set of power armour involves tens of thousands of components. The production cost is extremely high.
Forge Worlds must also expend vast industrial resources. Production capacity is not unlimited.
Therefore, Legions must choose the very best. Only the most outstanding candidates receive this honour.
Among the many assessment criteria, willpower far outweighs physical fitness.
After all, once the implantation surgery is complete, any neophyte will gain a physique far surpassing ordinary humans. Any innate advantages of a mortal body become insignificant.
"Your chances of success are high," Phrixus said sincerely.
That fearless courage in the boy's eyes was the most crucial quality for passing the trials.
Phrixus said, "If you successfully join the Legion, I will train you personally."
"Today is my adoptive son's naming day!" Dammekos stood and announced loudly.
The hall fell instantly silent. Tens of thousands of Astartes and mortals turned their eyes upon him.
Mortals revered the king's authority. The Astartes also respected the adoptive father of their gene-father.
Though he was merely mortal, though the Tutor had raised the Primarch, he had still earned the Primarch's recognition.
"He is the most valiant warrior, the most outstanding commander, the most brilliant designer born in Olympia's thousand-year history!"
"He ended the chaos of Olympia, unified the twelve city-states, and protected the people of Olympia from the Black Judges' depredations."
"And now, his Legion has crossed the sea of stars to come here."
"They have fought countless powerful enemies among the stars, and from now on, they will fight to protect our world."
"For this is his home!"
"The date of his birth remains a mystery, but we believe today marks his coming of age!"
The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers. This indisputable fact filled every face with reverence and pride.
Yes!
No matter how powerful these warriors were, they had come for Perturabo. And Perturabo was an Olympian!
They shared in the glory!
The Astartes also stood straighter, equally filled with pride.
They were witnessing their father's coming of age. Could any other Legion boast of that?
The mortals' gazes shifted from awe to reverence. This subtle change also subtly shifted the Astartes' mindset.
They greatly enjoyed this attention and craved more. And this desire would drive them to protect these people with even greater dedication.
Dammekos said, "It is time to choose your name!"
Perturabo slowly rose, looking around the hall. "Perturabo. My name is Perturabo. Perturabo of humanity!"
"Just like my Legion, my gene-sons. They are the Iron Warriors, the Iron Warriors of humanity!"
"We will fight for humanity. This will be our lifelong mission!"
Calliphone stepped forward, presenting a dagger crafted personally by Caelan.
Perturabo took the dagger and, without hesitation, sliced a thin wound across his palm.
As blood welled up, his superhuman genes immediately began repairing the wound, but a single crimson droplet still fell into the bowl, sending ripples across the clear water.
He raised his arm, his voice like thunder:
"Iron within and without!"
"Iron within and without!" the Iron Warriors answered with a synchronized battle cry.
...
After Dorn left Inwit, hundreds of Expeditionary Fleets had gradually gathered in the Phaethon system.
Mainline battleships filled the starry sky like a steel torrent, numbering in the thousands.
The Imperial Fist Legion had fully assembled, reinforced by aid from other Legions flocking to their banner.
In Dorn's absence, command of this vast fleet fell to the Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion.
"A pleasure, Lord of Death."
"A pleasure, my brother."
Under the watchful eyes of their gene-sons, Dorn and Mortarion solemnly clasped hands, then embraced tightly.
Mortarion asked, "Is Perturabo well?"
Dorn answered, "His Legion has arrived. The crisis is averted."
The locations of the Primarchs' homeworlds were widely scattered, with no discernible pattern. For example, Nostramo, Nuceria, Chogoris, and Baal were in the Segmentum Ultima; Fenris was in the Segmentum Solar ; Medusa in the Segmentum Obscurus ; Colchis in the Segmentum Pacificus.
The Primarchs also expanded outward from their homeworlds. Barbarus, like Inwit, was located in the Segmentum Tempestus, which was why Mortarion could reinforce Inwit so quickly.
Though Deliverance was also in the Tempestus, Corax was currently visiting Nostramo.
As a Primarch, Mortarion had naturally taken on the responsibility of commanding the ad-hoc fleet.
Now that Dorn had returned, Mortarion would return command to him.
But before the handover, Mortarion had to ask.
"Where is our Father?" Typhon asked eagerly, his voice loud.
Dorn's gaze fell upon this warrior. The Death Guard's grey-white livery marked his Legion allegiance.
Yet Mortarion was standing right here. Why did he ask?
"Skorvall. Garro!"
At Mortarion's low growl, two Death Guard warriors immediately stepped forward, seizing Typhon on either side and forcibly dragging the impatient warrior away.
"I have served the Legion! I have bled for the Legion! You can't do this! I want to see Father! I want to see Father!"
"Let go of me! Skorvall! I'll f*** your..."
Typhon's struggles only brought more warriors to restrain him. His power armour was also forcibly taken over by a Techmarine, physically silencing him.
Mortarion frowned, his voice tinged with resignation. "Brother, you'll have to excuse him."
Dorn replied politely, "Your gene-son has quite a personality."
The stilted phrasing made Mortarion realise his brother was clearly not skilled at giving compliments.
"Father encourages him to maintain his individuality. He is the exception."
Mortarion's explanation enlightened Dorn. Father did indeed want each Primarch to maintain their unique personality.
Mortarion asked, "So, brother, where is our Father?"
"Father has already departed." Dorn shook his head slightly. "After sending me back to the Phalanx, he set off. Perhaps he did not go to Olympia."
Not on Inwit. Not on Olympia.
Where Caelan had gone was obvious.
Mortarion murmured to himself, "I wonder which brother will be next? Only four remain."
Dorn frowned slightly, his voice tinged with confusion. "Why not six?"
Counting himself and Perturabo, the Imperium had fourteen returned Primarchs. Yet there were twenty Primarchs in total.
Mortarion answered, "The Second and the Eleventh. Their fates are shrouded in dense fog. I cannot calculate them."
"They have not returned, and likely never will. Or even," Mortarion paused, "they may never have been born at all."
"And their Legions?"
Mortarion looked at his brother with surprise. "Like our brothers, their Legions were never created either."
Dorn's pupils slightly contracted. "That's impossible!"
Mortarion replied calmly, "Since the very beginning of the Great Crusade, the Imperium has only had eighteen Legions. The Second and Eleventh have always been just numbers, placeholders."
"Then why do you remember the Second and Eleventh?"
"Of course I remember them. Even if their names are unknown, they are still our blood."
"Has Father ever spoken to you about their past?"
"No."
"Father once told me," Dorn said, "that in the chronology of the Eagle 40K, the Second and Eleventh Primarchs were expunged for some reason. Their sons were absorbed into the Seventh and Thirteenth Legions. Yet you insist they were never born, and their Legions never existed."
Mortarion fell silent for a moment. "That is indeed the case."
"It seems there is a divergence in your memory and Father's."
Mortarion slowly shook his head. "No, I don't believe so."
"This is not a memory discrepancy. It is an alteration of the very essence of existence."
"Those whose existence is erased would disappear completely from the material universe, leaving no trace."
Dorn said, "But we still remember those two brothers, even if we don't know who they were."
Mortarion assumed, "That means they were not erased, but deliberately hidden."
"Who hid them?"
"Perhaps our father."
"Which one?" Dorn asked.
"The Master of Mankind."
The two Primarchs looked at each other in silence. Words failed them.
...
30 Chapters [email protected]/DaoistJinzu