"Apostle of Extinction," Dorn uttered the alien's title.
His face remained completely devoid of emotion, his stern countenance offering a cold response: "Whether you leave or remain is entirely up to your own subjective judgment. There is no need to come and notify me."
"If you intend to depart, do so quickly. If you choose to stay, I shall accompany you to the bitter end."
His cadence carried no ripples of emotion. Dorn's deep voice merely laid out objective facts, entirely stripped of any personal inclination. As a theater commander, this quality was exceptionally precious; he paid no heed to the enemy's machinations, choosing instead to focus solely on the shifting realities of the battlefield. He ignored what the enemy said and watched only what they did.
Dorn's icy detachment deeply dissatisfied the Apostle of Extinction, and its bizarre voice suddenly spiked in pitch: "It is strictly out of recognition and respect that we came to offer a greeting."
"Heh." Dorn's response was laced with pure contempt.
A microscopic fracture finally split his rock-solid expression, a proud disdain rising to the surface: "I am a child of the Emperor. I have no need for the recognition of xenos."
"..."
"..."
The Foul Sage and the Apostle of Extinction were left momentarily wordless. They glanced at one another, shook their heads, and severed the communication.
"A mere boulder—"
Within the Rangdan psychic fluctuations, two helpless sighs echoed, though they found the situation somewhat comical: "Unamusing and obstinate, leaving us with no leverage whatsoever."
"All fleets, hear the command: abandon human territory and proceed to the rally points."
"Our probing mission has concluded. The humans are thoroughly prepared; breaking forward will be exceedingly difficult."
The two Overlords felt a wave of melancholy. To launch an invasion from the galactic rim only to collide with an unassailable defensive line laid out by a stubborn boulder left them genuinely unable to exert their strength.
With the Overlords' orders dispatched, the Rangdan fleet initiated their Warp drives, preparing to depart. The fleet's extraction appeared somewhat frantic; after all, during their engagements with the Imperial Fists, the various captains had fought with extreme frustration and did not wish to remain here for a single second longer.
True to the Rangdan Overlords' words, the alien fleets systematically departed.
Witnessing this, the Imperial Fists remained entirely unmoved, continuing to fortify their existing defensive lines and deeply entrenching their defensive works.
Three days passed in this manner until the Rangdan fleet had completely vacated the sector, and the material universe surged with tides once more. The Blackstone Fortress tore through the Empyrean, signaling the arrival of the Space Wolves' reinforcements.
"They ran?" Leman Russ leapt from his blackstone throne upon learning of the Rangdan fleet's departure, his face clouded with resentment and displeasure. "My grand toy hasn't even shown its teeth yet! How could they just retreat?"
That said, a flash of surprise lingered deep within Russ's lupine eyes—the Imperial Fists' achievements in defensive warfare had forced him to look at his brother in a new light.
Dorn's brow furrowed, and he spoke in his typical, matter-of-fact manner: "Given that the bio-pharmaceutical counter-agents from the rear have not yet arrived, I advise against engaging the main Rangdan host in a direct frontal confrontation for the time being."
"The combat methodology of the Space Wolves is wild. If subjected to cerebral-fluid needle-gun fire, your Legionaries will turn upon one another, severely crippling your combat efficacy."
He explained his analysis to his brother with absolute seriousness, sticking strictly to the facts without the slightest hint of disparagement or condescension.
Yet Dorn overlooked a fundamental truth: all Primarchs were fiercely proud.
Sure enough, when this analysis reached Russ's ears, it translated into his brother doubting the capability of the Space Wolves, sparking displeasure within the heart of the Great Wolf.
Dorn was not wrong; the Rangdan cerebral needle-guns were indeed highly troublesome—this was an undeniable, objective reality. However, his character was excessively blunt, and his timing was poorly chosen. Paired with his rigid, lecturing cadence, well-meaning advice sounded exactly like a stern reprimand.
Russ felt a wave of suffocating frustration in his chest. The Space Wolves had braved the Warp to get here without bio-agent support, fully prepared psychologically to pay a staggering price in blood. Though the xenos had retreated, the sincerity of their gesture was genuine. For the pack to undertake a long-distance forced march only to be met with a barrage of warnings from Dorn caused Russ's breathing to turn heavy as anger continuously churned within him.
Russ chose not to clash directly, knowing that locking horns with a brother who possessed negative emotional intelligence would only render the encounter far more unpleasant for both sides.
"Brother," he said, omitting any rebuttal as he bared his teeth in a grin toward the hololith projection, shifting the topic: "Did you see my grand toy?"
Failing to comprehend why his brother would phrase it that way, Dorn nonetheless gave a solemn nod of confirmation: "I have. The Blackstone Fortress is exceptionally powerful and will exert a monolithic influence in this campaign." He spoke with total honesty, offering a serious critique: "It can serve as a vital anchor point for the theater—"
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Russ looked entirely horrified, swiftly raising a hand to block his brother from launching into another long-winded technical lecture. "I already know all of that."
Dorn's brow knit in confusion, failing to understand his brother's intent. When it came to the Blackstone Fortress, he was already well aware of its formidable attributes and assumed his brother wanted to glean some operational advice from him. After all, he commanded the Phalanx and possessed vast experience in operating monolithic fortresses.
A smug expression spread across Russ's wild features, and he offered Dorn a beaming smile: "Brother Blazkowicz gifted it to me—it truly moves me to my core!"
"..."
"It is a loan," Dorn corrected sternly. "To be returned after the war."
Though he spoke those words, a wave of irritation welled up in his heart. He had a distinct premonition that Russ was absolutely asking a question he already knew the answer to.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk~" Russ acted as though he hadn't heard a thing, his face still flushed with an expression of deep sentimentality. "A loan is a loan, but the profound depth of this brotherhood is something I shall forever carve into my heart."
"Blazkowicz, my good brother. Not only did he refit the ships for my pack, but now he even provides a supreme engine of war. Truly a brother of boundless loyalty and affection!"
"Ah~" He placed a hand over his chest and let out a long sigh, a crystalline gleam appearing at the corners of his eyes as his voice carried a trace of a sob: "How can I ever repay him!"
"Thinking back to when I journeyed to Nuur, beyond the ties of our shared bloodline, we forged a deep and unbreakable friendship. My bond with him is as brilliant as the starscape itself."
As he spoke, Russ stole a surreptitious glance at his brother, only to be utterly disappointed. Dorn's countenance remained unyieldingly stern; he merely nodded occasionally, his eyes filled with nothing but deep, objective agreement.
This was entirely different from what he had envisioned! After hearing all of this, shouldn't Dorn be consumed by envy?
Seeing that the rigid countenance remained completely unaltered, Russ began to suffer a modicum of self-doubt. He could not help but wonder: Can a literal rock like Dorn even comprehend these concepts?
"Oh, by the way?" Russ asked with apparent nonchalance, acting completely boisterous: "Have you received gifts from any of our other brothers?"
He was doing it entirely on purpose! The Wolf King intended to give tit for tat, utilizing seemingly careless words to deliver a sharp sting to Dorn, forcing him to dedicate more thought to the concept of brotherly affection.
The moment the words left his mouth, Russ's expression underwent a dramatic shift. Without giving Dorn an opportunity to speak, he bowed in mock horror, offering a frantic apology: "Oh, I didn't mean it that way!"
On the opposite end of the hololith projection, Dorn's face remained entirely unphased, so rigid that one might question whether he was even capable of forming expressions. "It is of no consequence."
His voice was steady and calm, delivering another matter-of-fact response: "My brothers and I are bound by bloodline. There is no bond more profound than this; it is absolutely something that material objects cannot hope to measure."
Hearing his brother's response, Russ suddenly felt a wave of release. Dorn was simply a boulder masquerading as a Primarch brother; beyond the instinctual ties of genetic lineage, his capacity for post-natal emotion was pitifully sparse. No matter how much one provoked him, he would absolutely never register it, nor would he generate any other emotional responses.
"That is a fair point," Russ nodded profoundly, feeling as though he had thoroughly made a fool of himself for nothing. "Since the defensive line faces no peril, I shall take the pack and depart." He pulled up the star-chart to input his transit coordinates, preparing to vacate the Fourth Sector.
"I wish you fair winds." A rare trace of emotion rippled across Dorn's features. His brother had brave the void to reinforce him, and he felt a deep sense of gratitude in his heart, yet the words seemed to catch in his throat, leaving him unsure of how to voice them.
Russ merely waved his hand and cut the hololithic feed.
Deep within the central spire of the Phalanx, Dorn watched through the viewport as the Space Wolves' fleet plunged into the Warp and vanished from sight.
He slowly raised his right fist. When his palm opened, shards of crushed armor plating slid from his grip, clacking softly as they rained onto the marble floor.
The sole soft vulnerability within Dorn's otherwise unyielding heart was his bond with his Primarch brothers. Under Russ's repeated verbal provocations, he had maintained a surface of perfect, unruffled calm, yet the fist hidden beneath his heavy cloak had literally crushed steel into fragments. He too wished to grow closer to his brothers, but his rigid temperament denied him the capacity for tolerance; he spoke directly and bluntly, which naturally made him far from likable.
"My Lord," a Space Marine spoke up from behind him, having perceived the Primarch's underlying sorrow. "Wolf King Russ, he—"
"Silence." Dorn did not turn around. His deep voice carried a natural, crushing weight that forced the surrounding Legionaries to instantly drop to one knee.
"Do you find yourself lacking in duties?" He turned around, his cloak billowing through the air as he cast his gaze downward, locking onto the son who had dared to speak: "Divest your power armor and run one full circuit around the exterior perimeter of the Phalanx."
"By your command." The Legionary stood, bowed, and retreated to enact his punishment.
The Primarch's gaze swept like physical matter across the sons closest to him, his words carrying an implicit challenge: "Do any of you have further words to offer?"
Not a single Space Marine answered; none dared to cross the Primarch.
"Dismissed." Dorn turned and strode toward his private quarters, leaving behind a monolithic silhouette that left the Legionaries glancing at one another in silence.
He was naturally aware that Russ was flaunting his brotherly bonds, yet there was no malice in it—it was merely a petty retaliation for Dorn failing to express formal gratitude for the Space Wolves' timely arrival.
If given a second chance, Dorn would still choose to act exactly the same way. Though it rendered him unappealing to his brother, these bitter but honest words would force Russ to maintain his vigilance and raise his psychological expectations, ultimately averting countless instances of unnecessary sacrifice.