"Hmph."
At the palace banquet, the Primarchs watched in cautious silence as Mortarion demolished his third serving.
Fulgrim glanced at Ferrus Manus.
Ferrus shrugged.
Fulgrim looked toward Sanguinius.
The Angel smiled and gently nudged Horus.
Horus sighed and moved closer.
"Little Mortarion, don't be angry. The brothers are only… adjusting. No one meant disrespect."
Mortarion glared.
"Why are you calling me Little Mortarion too? I'm older than you."
Horus coughed awkwardly.
The Problem Was the Air
Mortarion's return to Imperial society had not been smooth.
After leaving Barbarus, he immediately noticed something wrong.
The air.
It was clean.
Thin.
Empty.
It lacked the heavy chemical bitterness of home — the metallic sting, the damp rot, the acidic weight that filled the lungs like armor.
Clean air felt wrong.
So he solved the problem.
Mortarion built a respirator that filtered and recirculated trace compounds approximating Barbarus' toxic atmosphere.
To him, it was comfort.
To everyone else, it smelled like a plague swamp had learned to breathe.
Even Astartes found the odor overwhelming.
Mortals nearly suffocated.
Most people instinctively kept their distance.
Mortarion noticed.
Mortarion remembered.
Mortarion became irritated.
Yuki did not interfere. From Mortarion's perspective, nothing was wrong. He forced no one to endure it.
Still, she sent advance notice to Terra:
Prepare yourselves. Do not create distance during first contact.
Everyone believed they understood.
They did not.
Several Primarchs showed momentary stiffness upon meeting him.
Only Horus stepped forward without hesitation, clasping Mortarion's forearm in greeting.
Mortarion noticed.
He remembered.
He evaluated.
He approved.
Internal Ranking System (Mortarion Edition)
Tier One:
Yuki
Horus
Tier Two:
Most brothers
The Emperor:
same table as the dog
Mortarion resumed eating.
He wiped his mouth.
"Are you all eating or not? If not, I'll finish it."
Horus laughed.
"Eat, brother. This feast was prepared for you."
Mortarion snorted and returned to his assault on the table.
Privately, he felt faint satisfaction.
This smell is mild compared to Barbarus. If they cannot endure it, that simply means I am stronger.
This thought improved his mood considerably.
The Emperor Problem
Mortarion despised sorcery.
He had watched Necare raise undead hosts with warp-tainted rituals.
He had seen humans reduced to test subjects in necromantic experiments.
He associated psychic power with tyranny.
So when he learned the Emperor wielded immense psychic power…
…while restricting its use among others…
Mortarion exploded.
On the voyage to Terra:
"He uses psychic power himself and restricts others! Hypocrisy!"
Yuki sipped tea.
Compared to prior Primarch meltdowns, this barely qualified.
She beckoned.
"Little Mo, I'll explain. But this stays between us."
Mortarion sat stiffly, fuming.
A whisper brushed the edges of his mind:
They are lying.
You are being deceived.
Yuki began calmly:
"There are entities in the Warp who call themselves gods—"
They manipulate you.
"They whisper. Influence. Corrupt."
This is theater.
"Oh, and they whisper into minds. Mortarion, you haven't heard anything strange, have you?"
Mortarion: …
Nurgle: …
Mortarion listened.
He did not accept.
He remained a staunch materialist.
"Warp 'gods'? Ridiculous."
"Who said they were gods?" Yuki asked calmly.
Mortarion froze.
"You just—"
"They call themselves gods."
Mortarion's mental processes stalled.
"Then your powers… the Emperor's…"
"Warp science," she said.
Mortarion stared.
"…science."
"Another dimension's physics are difficult to explain."
Mortarion's brain attempted to revolt.
Ultimately, Yuki coaxed him into uneasy acceptance.
He still hated psychic power.
He still distrusted the Emperor.
But he trusted her.
Before leaving, he warned:
"Use that power less. If it corrupts you, I won't forgive it."
Yuki smiled.
Children were simple.
Meanwhile — The Fourth Legion
"Go defeat Sigismund."
Dantioch pointed to himself.
"Me?"
Perturabo nodded.
"Yes. You."
Dantioch considered carefully.
"Do you mean tactically… or in personal combat?"
"I mean defeat him in every way."
Siege Masters and Stone Walls
Perturabo's rivalry with Rogal Dorn was escalating.
Both Legions specialized in siege warfare.
But Dorn had returned earlier.
The Imperial Fists' reputation had spread.
Perturabo found this unacceptable.
If I had returned sooner, that honor would be mine.
Therefore:
He sought the hardest wars.
The cruelest fortifications.
The most punishing campaigns.
To prove superiority.
The result?
Usotan: "I disagree."
Perturabo: "Who asked you?"
Yuki had not removed Perturabo's command.
But she ensured oversight.
Usotan was appointed Chief of Staff.
No one more qualified existed.
Usotan stood unflinching.
"The Legion is weakened. It requires recovery time. We cannot accept extreme assignments."
"I am the Primarch," Perturabo replied coldly.
"And the most capable man for the role," Usotan said calmly. "No one disputes that."
"You are disputing it now."
They stared at one another.
Perturabo looked away first.
Sulking.
Before departing Terra, Yuki had warned him:
Listen to Usotan.
He files your reports.
If you strike him, I will scatter you across the stars.
Perturabo remembered.
Reluctantly.
Usotan had deciphered Perturabo's operating system:
Appeal to logic.
Appeal to pride.
Apply political leverage.
Success rate: acceptable.
"If you wish to test superiority," Usotan suggested, "why not a formal exercise against the Imperial Fists?"
Perturabo considered.
He would obviously win.
Obviously.
Time gap was the only factor.
Not ability.
Never ability.
A direct comparison would prove everything.
There remained one problem.
Sigismund.
Dorn's favored champion.
A swordsman of terrifying reputation.
Perturabo could defeat Dorn.
Obviously.
But the Legion must also prove superiority.
Therefore…
He selected a promising recruit:
Barabas Dantioch.
Future Warsmith material.
Brilliant defensive strategist.
Exceptional tactical mind.
Perfect.
"If a new recruit surpasses Dorn's champion," Perturabo reasoned,
"it proves the Iron Warriors' superiority."
Dantioch felt his soul leaving his body.
Strategic warfare? Yes.
Single combat with Sigismund?
Had his father inhaled too much promethium?
"Father… perhaps reconsider—"
Perturabo glared.
If he hadn't protested, reconsideration might have occurred.
Now it would not.
"It is you."
Dantioch: …
Elsewhere, Sigismund sneezed.
"Achoo."
He frowned.
"…someone is about to make a mistake."
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