"It comes from you!"
Four short words—like a dagger driven into Sanguinius' chest. It was as though the Primarch's divine strength had vanished in an instant; he staggered and fell back into the chair behind him.
The truth was so brutal it stole one's breath: the bloodthirst that tortured the Legion half to death was a hereditary curse.
And the source of the curse was none other than himself.
"Old one." After a single breath the Primarch, relying on indomitable spirit and will, cast off the negative emotions. Sanguinius shook his head. "I—I cannot accept such a fact."
He looked toward Blazkowicz and the mysterious old one, shaking his head again and again, unable to believe the terrible truth.
Blazkowicz too was stunned; he turned a questioning gaze toward Prima, who gave a firm nod.
"When your father created you, he used—"
Halfway through the word "W—", Prima swallowed the sound, almost revealing the truth of the Warp Demigod.
"He used a shard of his own soul." The Old Sage hastily changed tack. "bloodthirst and fury are also part of him—part of you."
"Then why am I unaffected?" Sanguinius still could not accept it; his blue eyes were dim, the corners of his mouth pulled into a pale question.
"You are a Primarch." The Black-Robed Figure's answer was well-founded. "Great beings who walk the cosmos—few creatures can match your will or strength."
"The craving for blood is part of you; when you release your killing intent, it becomes pure rage—an ally."
But your scions are different: mortals who merely inherit your bloodline. The thirst will crush them, unleash the madness within. Their battle-prowess will surge even as they lose themselves.
Prima spoke each word slowly, sentences leaving the chamber like bullets, riddling Sanguinius with wounds no blade could make.
The Saint's eyes held pity. This Warp Demigod before him should have been a ferocious, blood-hungry beast, bringing savage punishment upon the living.
Yet fate proved so fickle.
Through unknown causes he grew wings, cultivated extraordinary virtue, and became the legend of mankind's "holiness."
For reasons still unknown, the violent will was passed to his sons, while he himself remained untouched—stronger still through his clarity of mind.
Sanguinius shook his head in silence, listening to the end, offering no concrete reply.
He shifted his gaze from the Black-Robed Figure to his brother, eyes full of entreaty, hoping for an answer.
Blazkowicz read the meaning in that look—grief laced with a plea for confirmation.
"The old one is worthy of respect, possessed of ancient wisdom and trust; even the Emperor once sought its counsel."
His tone remained calm, every word meant to soothe, yet he had to speak the harsh truth: "Let us hear what the old one says."
"No matter whose blood the curse springs from, our purpose is to face it—and find a way to end it."
"It cannot be rooted out." Cloaked in darkness, Prima deliberately twisted his voice into a sharp blade that pierced Sanguinius' heart again. "The crimson curse comes from the soul; to eradicate it would mean your death."
"The curse shares your very origin and root; it is an inseparable part of you."
"So it can never be fully removed?" Grief-stricken, Sanguinius weighed the stranger's words carefully and soon spotted a loophole: "Is there, then, a way to lessen or suppress it?"
Hope piled in the Angel's eyes as he strained every nerve to find a means to save the Legion born of his blood.
"I offer only two choices." Prima pointed at Sanguinius; the darkness split like two fingers. "Whichever path you take is yours alone."
"Speak, old one." Sanguinius sat upright, ears twitching with concentration, afraid to miss a single detail.
What he sought now was not merely his own decision, but the very survival of the Blood Angels Legion.
"The first is 'Selective Evolution.'" Prima swept an arm; darkness rippled in the void. "This requires no outside force, and I believe it suits you well."
"Let your nature run free, no longer suppressing the blood-urge; then select those warriors who do not succumb to the thirst and pass on their gene seed."
"In short, abandon the 'weak,' keep only the strong who can endure the blood-hunger, carefully choose the gene seed—after a thousand generations there may be improvement."
Sanguinius listened, thoughtful, yet his brows knit tight. He offered no immediate verdict; reluctance was plain on his face.
Selective Evolution—through long intervention, purge the gene seeds prone to the thirst, a form of cold-hearted 'culling.'
"Tell me the second, old one." He exhaled slowly, giving a slight shake of his head—clearly displeased with the first choice.
The method is stable; the old one also recognized the Legion's taboo against outside meddling in its bloodline and only offered suggestions, taking no part in the execution.
But problems remain.
The initial phase of directed screening would kill most aspirants—too dangerous for any Legion.
In the Emperor's Great Crusade, the Astartes Legions are the spearhead, sent to break every human enemy and scour the galaxy.
The result: even while constantly replenishing their ranks, the Legions are still short of Space Marines and must rely on vast numbers of mortal Auxiliary troops.
No Legion can afford large-scale, non-combat losses.
For a long time to come the Blood Angels would be combat-ineffective, answerable to Terra's War Council—and perhaps even to the Emperor.
This approach can only be used after the Great Crusade ends, when enemies are fewer and war less fierce.
Sanguinius quickly concluded: keep the plan as a fallback; once the galaxy is calmer, try it on a small scale and decide its fate then.
"The second option—"
The voice drifted up; Sanguinius could feel the Black-Robed Figure's gaze beneath the hood settle on him.
Prima's voice cut off abruptly, as though something held it back.
"Speak freely, old one." Sanguinius rose again, resolute: "I came seeking help; I will hear any counsel."
"Sigh—"
A sigh escaped the robe. Prima lifted one hand and, after a pause, spoke a Word of Creation: "Create!"
Air molecules quivered; motes of prismatic smoke and drifting atoms snapped together. With a sound like forming ice, a black cubic stone floated above the shadow-wrought hand.
"Bound by law, I cannot meddle too deeply in mortal affairs, but a method is recorded here."
As it spoke, the figure rose from its recline and stepped before the Primarch, looking up at the towering giant: "Every detail is inside. Use it or not—the choice is yours."
"I never asked your name; I would not invite the karma of this world."
Sanguinius gazed down at the small black-robed being without a trace of scorn, dropped to one knee and took the cubic stone between finger and thumb.
He had noted that the old one kept one hand always on its orb, hidden behind a barrier—clearly staying outside the chain of cause and effect.
"Once I leave, I hope you forget me as well."
The Black-Robed Figure tapped the cube: "With psyker sight you may read the secrets within."
Its tone shifted; through the rasp came the sternest warning: "You must reveal it to no one."
A shadow-arm gestured toward the long-silent Blazkowicz: "Not to him, nor to your Imperial father."
"Let this knowledge remain forbidden—known only to you and me."
Straight-backed, Sanguinius grasped the cube tight and swore: "Your warning shall be kept."
Blazkowicz opened his mouth, saw their grave faces, and closed it again.
Clearly the knowledge the old one had shared was not for other ears—his own included.
"Curiosity will serve you no better Slayer" Prima told Blazkowicz, summarizing: "In three words: a scapegoat."
Scapegoat!
At the word Blazkowicz's already grim face grew heavier; the name alone reeked of ill omen.
Sanguinius clenched the cube and vowed: whatever its worth, its secrets would never pass his lips.
"My task is done; I take my leave." With a nod to Blazkowicz, Prima turned and swept from the chamber.
Harlan, waiting at the door, stepped forward to escort the ancient sage back to the Crystal Cave.
It was his duty—seen through from beginning to end.
Blazkowicz and Sanguinius rose and, without asking him to stay, watched the black-robed old one depart in respect.
"One more thing." At the threshold Prima glanced back at the angelic Primarch: "A word of advice."
Sanguinius stood attentive, every sense straining to listen.
"The bloodthirst cannot be uprooted. Whoever claims it can be cured bears you no good will."
After stepping out of the hidden chamber, the two Primarch brothers tacitly agreed never to mention it again.
Because of the Old One's stern warning, Sanguinius dared not breathe a word of it, and Blazkowicz naturally would not ask.
He reminded Sanguinius that, though the Old One could be trusted, anything touching the Blood Angels Legion must be handled with utmost caution.
Sanguinius understood his brother's concern; during his stay on Nul he did not seek out the black-stone lore, instead bringing his Legion officers to exchange courtesies with the Sentinels.
Time slipped past, and today all Nul was rejoicing—the Emperor was visiting the Nur Stars for the first time.
The Emperor's Dream was gliding slowly toward the port. At this moment the Emperor wore formal armour, a ceremonial sword at his hip and a golden laurel on his brow, standing before a mirror while attendants arranged his appearance.
On this first visit to Nul he wished no discourtesy, no lapse of protocol.
The Emperor's eyes were vacant; he spread his arms and let the servants work while his own mind had long since left his body, roaming the void to gaze upon Nul's primary world.
His consciousness covered the entire starscape, learning every mortal's joys and sorrows.
His body stood before the mirror; on that usually expressionless, radiant face there now appeared a faint smile.
The Emperor's will pierced straight to the soul; wherever his mind reached he could read, in the subtlest tremor of a human spirit, the feelings hidden within a mortal heart.
The humans of the Nur Stars lived under Blazkowicz's rule; their souls glimmered softly, bright with confident light that rivalled the brilliance of the galaxy itself.
For a moment the Emperor felt dazed, as though his thoughts had returned to ten thousand years past, to that Golden Age when humanity strode the stars.
"Father." From the shadow beyond the dressing-room door came a call. A tall figure stood in the gloom, clad in heavy plate, his voice so deep and solemn it sounded almost stiff: "After the thirteenth salute we may depart."
He was a mystery, dwelling in darkness like some watchful knight-errant.
The Emperor nodded without a word; the battleship's deck slid open beside him, revealing the star-studded void.
The golden Emperor's Dream glided through space, flanked by silver-white warships in perfect ranks, forming a beacon-road to guide the flagship into port.
Suddenly the escort ships' upper-deck turrets swivelled, all training on a point high above—directly at the Emperor's flagship.
BOOM!!!
Flashes of gunfire tore the void; the silent heavens seemed to quake as the first courtesy, the thirteen-gun salute, thundered in welcome.
Battleships and orbital stations fired macro-cannons like fireworks; golden blossoms lit the entire system, turning night into day on every planet.
The golden radiance was dazzling; the Emperor's gilded armour blazed, and the tall shadow in the darkness was revealed.
The man was built like a titan, clad in black heavy knight's plate engraved with cryptic sigils and hung with disparate trinkets that looked mismatched yet were connected by hidden meaning.
He rested one hand on the pommel of a knightly greatsword, body rigid, head slightly bowed beneath his hood, standing in the corner like a speechless statue.
His face was all sharp planes, the corners of his mouth turned down in utter gravity. Deep sockets held emerald eyes that now reflected the golden fireworks outside, yet those eyes were abyssal, unreadable.
He had a mane of blond hair falling loosely, sideburns merging into a full beard that joined his moustache, making him look like a lion with a thick ruff.
There he stood in silence, an aura of majesty so intense one instinctively thought: if authority could take flesh, this would be its perfect image.
Were any mortal or Astartet to face him now, no words would be needed—one glance from those eyes and even the toughest warrior would kneel.
"Bring your retinue."
The Emperor turned his gaze upon the splendour beyond the armourglass, his words sounding in the man's mind: "Come with us and witness this eternal glory."
After a pause the Emperor added: "The prosperity you see rests upon the broad heart of your brother."
The man answered with silence, lifted his greatsword and turned away. heavy armoured boots rang against the metal deck, the tread mingling with the tremor of the salute as he strode from the chamber and faded into the distance.
He would carry out the Emperor's order with loyalty, yet none could guess his thoughts.
Across the star-sea the thirteen guns thundered, beginning with the first golden blast and ending in a riot of colour.
Bathed in that glory, the Emperor's Dream eased into the ring-port of Nul, great metal arms clasping her fast.
In an unnoticed shadow a tiny shuttle crept closer, its drive-flare masked by the fireworks as it slipped quietly into the flagship's under-deck.
As Sanguinius stepped from the shuttle, his soft shoes touched the deck and his slender golden brows knitted; inside the Emperor's Dream he sensed, besides the Emperor, another extraordinary presence.
A flash of delight sparked in his eyes—his father was accompanied by a brother.
Yet he could not tell which brother stood beside their father; the aura exuded a primordial vitality, silent and unyielding.
At the same instant, the tall figure striding along the steel causeway halted, feeling the blood-bond call.
Without doubt the man was a Primarch, only lately returned to the Imperium of Man.
He sensed another brother and looked deeper into the warship.
The two Primarchs felt one another, their gazes seeming to pierce the steel decks as they greeted with superhuman senses.
"What is it?"
Someone behind the Primarch asked, puzzled why he had stopped to stare at an empty steel deck.
He gave no answer, merely glanced back at the foster-father who had raised him and now followed him, offering no explanation.
His stiffly silent face relaxed a fraction; lips parted, and his voice ground like millstones: "Nothing."
Then the Primarch set off again, hastening toward the rally point set by the Emperor.
The attendants were bewildered, yet dared not defy his authority and followed in silence.
The party reached the embarkation deck in haste, and even a Primarch was awed by the sight before him.
The Emperor's Praetorians stood in perfect ranks, their golden armour polished to blazing brilliance, well-oiled, draped in brilliant scarlet cloaks.
He raised a hand to halt his own column, signalling them to withdraw into the corridor.
"Polish." The Primarch lifted a hand toward his retinue; at once a block of grease was tossed to him. "Wax and oil."
The squad hesitated, then obeyed, swiftly buffing their armour until it gleamed like mirrors.
The Primarch had not expected the proud golden Custodians to take this meeting so seriously, and realised he could not afford to lose face.
He smeared the grease quickly, glancing sidelong at the powered deck with a silent sigh of relief.
The Custodians were boarding their craft; the winged brother knelt before their father—perfect timing for his own squad to finish their preparations.
When ready, his party strode from the passage, heads high, looking every inch a company of drilled knights.
"Faster."
The Emperor's psychic voice urged haste; his son's near-tardiness on so solemn an occasion irked him slightly.
Sanguinius caught the scent of polish, saw the faint sheen on the dark-green armour, and knew at once what his brother had been doing.
He smiled toward the unseen brother, a smile warm and radiant, and waved from the stern hatch for them to board quickly lest the auspicious moment pass.
The golden craft was already lifting; the Primarch dared delay no longer and led his squad at a run into the lander.
A nod of greeting to his brother—no time for more—before the ship lurched into weightlessness, bound for the brother's home world.
"I am glad to set foot upon your world."
Seated amid the jolt, he felt he should speak.
He studied the winged, angelic figure before him. "This is not my world," Sanguinius replied, smiling. Though the words were stiff, the goodwill was real. "This is Blazkowicz Nowick's birth-world, the warrior realm of Argent Nur."
The knight's eyes trembled; he said no more and lowered his head, lost in thought.
Blazkowicz gazed into space as golden landers descended in swarms, Custodians stepping forth with heads high.
Clearly the golden warriors had prepared meticulously, daring not the slightest lapse as they arrived in the Nur Stars.
Ranks snapped into place, the Custodians' gold gleaming as they marched to one side of the carpet, opposite the Sentinels upon the blue.
As the last lander touched down, Blazkowicz sensed something unfamiliar and raised a brow in surprise.
Then joy flared—meeting a brother on his own soil filled him with bright anticipation.
Pffft—
The airlock cycled open; three mighty figures appeared, and the silent square erupted in a thunderous ovation: "Welcome, Emperor, to the realm of warriors!"
Amid the cheers Blazkowicz strode to the hatch and opened his arms toward the unknown brother.
"Blazkowicz Nowick."
"Lion El'Johnson."
A drop pod engraved with the numeral 'I' pierced through the Warp turbulence and landed on a mist-shrouded jungle world.
A young Primarch crawled out from within; he did not understand where he came from, nor what mission or meaning he carried on his shoulders.
From that moment on, silence always accompanied him, and observation was the first talent the First Primarch learned.
Silence and observation were his innate gifts. He measured the world through his eyes, capturing every advantageous factor and utilizing the environment to survive.
Though he didn't know why, he quickly realized that the place he was in was a jungle, and a quite dangerous one at that.
A low mist blanketed the jungle, tree trunks grew irregularly, leaves were extremely sparse, and the trunks and canopies took on various twisted postures.
The haze formed a veil, and the gnarled branches coiled like dragons.
Such a dense forest should have been filled with the sounds of birds, beasts, and insects, yet it was deathly silent. A faint, rustling sound reached his ears—the sound of the jungle growing, releasing its vitality.
But what was a bird? What was a beast? What was a cry?
Many nouns surfaced in his mind, gradually coalescing into concrete concepts, yet they had no physical reference and existed only in the depths of his consciousness.
As the concepts became clearer, he was able to understand the root of various abnormalities—the jungle was full of danger, and he had to move away quickly.
Making a swift decision, the Primarch looked back at the creation he had crawled out of, memorizing every specific detail, and then buried it beneath the decaying leaves.
Once he finished this, a cool breeze swept through, dispersing the mist that shrouded the gloomy forest.
Buzz~~~~
A ringing in his ears accompanied by a wave of dizziness hit him; the young Primarch nearly lost his footing as a certain sound went straight to his heart, echoing in the depths of his mind.
It was a whisper, filled with blurred and abstract concepts, guiding his thoughts toward certain conscious notions: bloodthirsty violence, indulgent pleasure, hallucinatory knowledge, and deathly peace.
The Primarch wanted to respond to those voices; after all, this was the first thing to actively reach out to him since he became conscious.
Danger!
Just as he tried to contact those consciousnesses, an instinct deep within his body issued a sharp alarm, calling back his extending awareness.
The Primarch snapped awake, immediately drawing his consciousness into a solid fortress to resist the whispers invading his soul.
The rejected whispers turned into a tyrannical howl. A frantic aura swept through the jungle, the twisted trees creaked, and countless predators were startled awake from their slumber.
Malicious thoughts attacked from all directions, and the young Primarch knew they were difficult to withstand.
However, he did not panic. Instead, he calmed his mind at the critical moment, silently crouched down, carefully observed the weaknesses in the predators' auras, and searched for a chance of survival in this desperate situation surrounded by enemies.
He pushed aside the layer of decaying leaves on the ground, slowly lay down in the foul-smelling silt, and smeared his naked body with the soft, rotting mud to mask his body temperature and scent.
The roars of beasts echoed around him, the ground vibrated continuously, and beastly paws crunched through the leaves as predators approached the area.
The young Primarch was in no hurry. His fair body was covered in filth, his breathing was so slow it was almost non-existent, and his aura merged with the ground, leaving only a pair of emerald eyes to observe his surroundings.
His superior perception detected a large lifeform approaching. The visitor was massive, its nostrils drawing breath with heavy snorts as it captured the residual scent particles in the air.
The Primarch also saw the giant beast clearly.
Its body closely resembled the 'lion' in his memory, but its form was twisted and bloated. Its hairless body was a filthy purple, sinewy and powerful, with fangs longer than blades.
One person, one beast. The beast stood in the jungle, slightly lifting its head to sniff the air, searching for the source of the scent.
The person was hidden in the silt, his body sunken into a cold, deathly stillness; even his blood flowed with abnormal slowness. His eyes were unfocused, calmly looking up at the giant beast's belly, observing the appearance of his future prey.
That's right, prey.
The young Primarch knew the giant beast was currently invincible, but there was no fear in his heart; he was waiting for his future.
Because he could clearly feel that even as he lay on the ground, his body was slowly growing. In time, he could easily defeat the lion before him.
For now, there was no need for impulsive attacks; he just had to wait quietly for the giant beast to leave.
As he expected, the giant beast searched for a while to no avail, then turned and left the crash site to look for other prey.
The Primarch did not rush to stand up. A sense of weakness called 'hunger' surged in his abdomen, urging him to find food to sustain his growth needs.
He did not feel anxious about the hunger. His body maintained a low level of operation as he patiently waited for the giant beast behind the trees to depart.
Indeed, the lion-like beast was not only physically powerful but also possessed a cunning intelligence.
It pretended to leave, only to hide in the shadows of the forest, waiting for its prey to let down its guard and emerge from its hiding place before launching an attack.
The forest remained deathly silent. The man and the beast were locked in a stalemate until the seventh night of the forest had passed.
The lion lost its patience—or perhaps it had confirmed the prey had indeed left—and finally departed from its hiding spot.
The Primarch's nerves relaxed slightly. Once he confirmed the giant beast was truly far away, he quietly rose from the silt without making a sound.
His first action was to pull blood-sucking leeches from his body and stuff them haphazardly into his mouth, enjoying the first 'feast' since his consciousness had awakened.
The Primarch's childhood was far from smooth. The whispers tempted him constantly, and hunger plagued him at all times, forcing him to repeatedly risk his life to hunt.
Maggots hidden in the silt and animal cubs were all delicious meals, swallowed into his stomach to be converted into nutrients for growth.
Dark murmurs accompanied him everywhere, and his will was constantly mired in temptation and threat. In every dream during his sleep, there was only storm and darkness.
An unknown amount of time passed, and a tall human figure began to appear in the forest, moving through the dark shadows and fighting life-and-death battles with various giant beasts.
Life in the forest was fraught with danger, which also honed the Primarch's hunting skills. The dark whispers gradually subsided because, as the Primarch grew, his mental barriers became strong enough to resist the darkness.
His combat was silent and wordless. Every ambush was swift and sudden, striving to kill the giant beasts in a single strike.
After another successful ambush, the Primarch sat beside the giant beast's corpse and began to skin and gut his prey, chewing on the still-warm beast meat.
The sound of horse hooves came from behind, but the Primarch still did not look back.
He knew there were observers in the dark, but he didn't pay them much mind because they possessed limbs just like his; they were of the race called 'Human.'
"What is it?"
The mounted knights questioned each other, their hands quietly reaching for their waists, preparing to draw their guns to kill the humanoid creature before them.
The knights did not believe the humanoid creature skinning the beast was human, because it was impossible for a human to survive in the wild, let alone alone.
Even though its stature was grand and tall, its burly frame reaching over four meters in height.
The sound of hooves rang out again as the knights guided their horses to quietly change formation, surrounding the 'human-like' individual with a formation used for hunting mutant giant beasts.
"Wait a moment."
Just as the group was about to act, a knight observing the tall humanoid creature suddenly spoke to stop the hunt: "He seems to be a human?"
The knight dismounted, his heavy armor clanking as it hit the ground. Holding the longsword at his waist, he cautiously stepped forward, approaching the blonde savage dressed in beast skins.
"Hey!"
The human's call drew the Primarch's attention. He slowly turned his head, his face still expressionless, observing the man approaching him.
He could not understand the human language, but he could discern the intent within the speech.
Seeing the tall human attracted by the greeting and focusing on the longsword at his waist, the knight quickly spread his arms to show he was not a threat.
The knight removed his helmet, revealing a face somewhat flushed from the heat, and broke into a friendly smile: "Who are you?"
The Primarch pondered for a long time after hearing this, eventually deciding to respond with a shake of his head. He could understand the meaning of the words, but it was difficult to describe his thoughts.
"He can communicate!" The knight called out to his companions in surprise, as if he had made a remarkable discovery: "He grew up in the jungle alone; he must possess great strength."
"If we can adopt and educate him, he will be a powerful asset for future hunts."
Hearing him say this, many knights were swayed and returned their guns to their waists.
The leader, seeing that the majority were convinced, did not insist on killing the giant. He pointed at the knight with his whip and said, "Luther. He will be under your care from now on. You are responsible for guiding him to become a proper knight."
"Understood, my lord."
Luther walked up to the tall human, carefully took that large, rough hand, and said in a solemn voice: "From now on, you shall be called Lion El'Johnson."
"In our language, it means King of the Forest, the Lion. it symbolizes the strength of the Caliban Great Beasts, and also carries the meaning of light."
Not quite understanding the complex meanings, but in order to have contact with humans, the Primarch followed the hunting knights back to their town, learning about his own kind for the first time.
He quickly learned the human language and knew his own name.
After joining The Order, the Primarch soon displayed his extraordinary abilities, achieving great military feats and quickly rising to a high position.
After taking complete control of The Order, he launched a crusade to exterminate the giant beasts, eliminating all the Great Beasts of Caliban over the course of ten years.
With the end of the war against the beasts, Lion became the de facto ruler of the planet, governing the world with his extraordinary intelligence.
During his reign, however, the Primarch felt increasingly lonely. His extraordinary wisdom and strength placed him far above Mortals; there was an unbridgeable chasm between them.
Even his foster father, Luther, who had brought Lion back in time and was highly charismatic and skilled at persuasion, had thoughts that the Primarch could see through at a single glance.
Until one day, Lion felt something in his heart. A golden warship appeared in the planet's night sky, and a familiar, dazzling radiance descended from the heavens.
He saw the man beneath the golden light, wearing a black robe, his face enduring and resolute, as taciturn as himself.