The Crimson King had returned.
The Photep brought the main fleet of the Thousand Sons to anchor at the Tizca starport, looking down upon their scarred and battered homeworld.
Before setting out on crusade, Prospero had been quiet and breathtakingly beautiful—a world where psychic winds blew carried with esoteric glyphs, resembling a paradise of arcana.
Upon their return, Tizca—the wellspring of wisdom—lay silent and stagnant, while other cities reeked of an ominous, twisted corruption.
Magnus stood beneath the golden pyramid dome of the Photep. As he looked down at his home world, he barely recognized it.
A cold, scrutinizing light glinted in his single eye as his gaze shifted back and forth between Prospero and his brother's flagship, taking in the battle-scarred world and that colossal, intimidating warship.
Before his brother had even arrived at Prospero, Magnus had received an astropathic message: the Emperor had dispatched Blazkowicz to present the Thousand Sons with awards for their distinguished service in the Rangdan Xenocides.
Magnus had been unable to refuse; he could only suppress the discomfort in his heart and accept the decree.
Even as the award fleet arrived, he had deliberately concocted a flimsy excuse to avoid a face-to-face meeting with his brother.
Truth be told, he did not particularly like Blazkowicz Norwek.
He had no idea where this aversion stemmed from. It felt innate—rooted deep within his very soul—such that merely hearing the name brought a wave of discomfort.
Magnus had once sought the origin of this revulsion.
When soaring through the Immaterium, he had marveled at the radiant glory mirrored by the souls of every one of his brothers—yet he could find no soul imprint for Blazkowicz whatsoever.
It was as if Blazkowicz did not exist at all: no trace in the past, no path in the future.
Where his brother stood, there existed only a vivid crimson rune mark—yet that was no soul projection; it seemed to be a unique mark of its own.
Magnus was deeply curious, yet he dared not draw near to observe it.
In his soul-sight, that space was a domain of pure, absolute pitch-black shadow—a darkness that suppressed everything within the warp.
He loathed that realm of dead silence. Around his brother, the churning warp seemed to die; any probing thought that touched it sank into an inescapable quagmire.
Knowledge ceased to flow, and the soul sank into darkness.
Now, Magnus stood by the flagship's viewport. His crimson skin masked his expression, but his red brows were tightly knit together.
Compared to that warp mark, he felt an even deeper revulsion toward the physical Blazkowicz in realspace.
Magnus was feeling deeply uncomfortable now; the psychic power within his body was gradually stalling, and his cognition had slowed by a fraction.
He felt like a fish pulled from its native waters, a hollow sense of thirst and suffocation surging from the depths of his soul.
The closer he drew to Blazkowicz, the more severe this sensation became.
He was forced to approach the dark shadow, letting that unspeakable suffocation choke his throat, gradually bringing his breathing to a standstill.
Sigh—
A faint sigh echoed through the long corridors of the pyramid. In a deserted corner, Magnus murmured to himself: "Perhaps our natures are simply incompatible..."
He knew that the essence of a soul did not dictate character or moral standing, yet he could not wipe away this innate revulsion.
Magnus harbored extremely complex feelings regarding Blazkowicz's visit to Prospero.
There was the joy of reuniting with a brother of shared blood, the revulsion born of naturally opposing natures, and a sliver of something he was entirely unaware of—or unwilling to admit: fear.
It was like encountering a natural predator; a single glance from afar sent a soul-stirring tremor through his being.
The flagship docked, massive mechanical arms clamping around its hull. The imperceptible vibration snapped Magnus from his thoughts.
Meeting his brother meant suppressing his nature, curbing this extreme revulsion, and putting on an air of warmth and friendliness.
For Magnus—who had never once constrained his true nature—achieving this was nothing short of torture.
Yet Blazkowicz enjoyed a stellar reputation; Magnus could not afford to slight a visiting brother merely because of an aversion born of mismatched natures.
Gathering his drifting thoughts, he cast a deep look toward that dark shadow he instinctively loathed. Brushing his cloak aside, he turned and departed.
Shuttles launched from the Photep as the main body of the Thousand Sons landed on Prospero.
Magnus descended from the sky, the Sekhmet Guard and his closest sons following closely behind him as he stood imposing upon the pyramid's landing pad.
"My Lord." Ahriman had removed his helmet, revealing his refined features. The deep gravity in his eyes dissolved the moment he beheld his genetic father.
The Gene-Primarch had returned—the true decision-maker of the Legion was back. He was the source and symbol of the Thousand Sons, the pillar capable of bearing a mountain's weight.
How the Legion would confront this crisis rested entirely upon the Primarch's singular judgment.
Though Ahriman was the Chief Librarian, acting with proxy authority on behalf of the Gene-Primarch, lacking the Primarch's absolute authority meant he always hesitated when making final calls.
Only with the Primarch's return was the Legion truly back on course.
"What exactly transpired?" The corner of Magnus's mouth curled upward, a warm smile brushing away the anxiety lingering on his son's brow.
He was no impulse-driven man; adhering to rigorous logic and knowledge, he needed to grasp the full context of events first.
Uncovering the specific causes came first; assigning blame would wait until the very end.
Beside the Primarch, Ankhu Anen—Guardian of Knowledge—unfolded a heavy tome of historical records. A quill hovered out of thin air, its tip resting against the parchment, waiting to write the Legion's new chapter.
Ahriman pressed a finger to his temple, drawing forth several glowing memory motes and presenting them to his Primarch and brothers. "Here is the sequence of events."
No verbal account could compare to the raw authenticity of an immersive memory.
As the memory motes dissolved into their brows, Magnus and the Legion's high command closed their eyes, absorbing the authentic external record.
Three seconds later, the surrounding air seemed to freeze instantly, and the howling winds across the landing pad fell dead silent!
The twin hearts of every Space Marine present seized as if clutched by an iron fist; instinctively, they dropped to their knees before the massive crimson figure.
Magnus's red face turned as dark as stagnant water. He had never imagined that his attempt to avoid his brother by leaving Prospero would spark such an unthinkable catastrophe.
The horrific truth of the Tutelaries, the rebellion of the mortal sorcerers, Tizca hanging by a thread, and the intervention of the Doom Mariness Legion to quell the uprising...
Every single revelation felt like a resounding slap in the face, slamming viciously into his pride.
"Rise."
The Primarch's deep voice dripped with suppressed shame and fury; those three simple words were uttered through tightly clenched teeth.
Magnus glanced at Ankhu Anen, overcome by an urge to crush the endlessly scribbling quill to pieces.
Yet out of respect for history, he forced himself to endure this monumental humiliation!
The Tutelaries had been a source of aid he himself had retrieved from the depths of the warp—yet now, they had backstabbed the Legion in the most disgraceful act of betrayal imaginable.
He wanted nothing more than to tear those avian abominations to shreds!
While still out in the sea of stars, upon learning of the Tutelaries' revolt, he had immediately inspected them and uncovered a horrifying truth.
The Tutelaries bound in the Legion's early days were indeed pure and benign; they had willingly opened their souls for inspection to prove their innocence.
However, the entities bound in the middle and later stages were infested with malicious parasites, disguised as benign spirits while feeding upon the souls of the Legionaries from the mental plane.
En route back, the Legion had already subjected those corrupted Tutelaries to absolute purging and banishment.
Yet confronted with the full truth, the fury in Magnus's heart remained unquenched; his clenched fists shattered the rings upon his fingers.
Beside his towering rage, a strange sense of intense humiliation seized his heart.
His brother had arrived at Prospero and seen through the disguise of the Tutelaries at a single glance.
Meanwhile, Magnus had acted like an utter fool—not only actively promoting the Tutelary pacts, but even harboring ambitions to spread the practice to every Space Marine Legion...
Magnus realized with hindsight that he had come dangerously close to committing a catastrophic mistake.
Beyond the Tutelaries, the rebellion of the mortal sorcerers struck like a sledgehammer, shattering the beautiful ideal he held in his heart.
He had believed that knowledge should be shared freely, enabling the people to acquire and master it at will.
Yet reality proved brutally cruel, carving another deep wound into Magnus's heart: the very citizens he had trusted most had broken their vows of fealty, seduced by raw power.
The rebellion had spread like wildfire, sweeping in with ferocious momentum.
While the spirit-possessions catalyzed by the Tutelaries played a role, far more had chosen betrayal out of fear that the power in their hands would be confiscated.
Unable to ever return to a life of mediocrity, they took up arms against those who had once granted and protected their power.
The rebels had forced the Thousand Sons defenders into a steady retreat, until a brother Legion had to step in to help quell the uprising.
Magnus closed his eyes tightly. Everything that had transpired seemed to be telling him that he was wrong.
When stripped down to its core, ever since Blazkowicz arrived at Prospero, everything could be summarized in eight words: transfer of knowledge, abuse of psychic power.
"Rise." The Primarch's voice weighed heavy with immense gravity, projecting a mystical cadence that echoed in the ears of every son of the Legion.
With a rustle of grinding power armor, the Thousand Sons legionaries stood up, remaining silent and not daring to make a move as they awaited their genetic father's next command.
Looking out over the sea of crimson, Magnus was momentarily struck speechless.
He desperately wanted to act like a scholar in an academic symposium—to generously admit his mistake and explain the root cause of the error to his children.
Yet the words stuck in his throat like a sharp thorn.
Magnus was learned and proud; he was capable of admitting his mistakes because a scholar possessed the noble virtue of humility.
He tolerated his children's questioning and differing viewpoints because, as a genetic father, a Primarch possessed the mercy and tolerance to bestow grace downward.
Facing the Emperor—his father—he carried out commands dutifully, striving to comprehend the admonitions issued from above.
Magnus respected those above and cherished those below, possessing an unyielding willpower and remaining an exceptional scholar who constantly engaged in self-reflection.
Yet when it came to his brothers—especially a brother he felt an innate revulsion toward—he had no idea what attitude he should adopt.
Deep down, Magnus even harbored a trace of resentment toward Blazkowicz.
Why?
Why was he so unsparing of his feelings, making his very first act upon reaching his brother's homeworld to ruthlessly expose every ugly sin for all to see?
And then leave behind a loose end, forcing Magnus to confront the exact nature of the mistake he had committed.
Magnus resented Blazkowicz for showing no regard for brotherly dignity. This matter could have been communicated in private and handled through far more diplomatic means.
At these thoughts, a wave of powerlessness washed over Magnus.
Everything Blazkowicz was doing now was no different than kicking open his door and violently slapping him across the face multiple times.
"Father?" Seeing his genetic father fall silent for so long, Ahriman inquired cautiously, "What should we do next?"
Magnus snapped back to reality, startled to realize he had drifted off several times.
He cast a glance at his most trusted son and declared with absolute finality, "Muster the Legion and purge every last traitor!"
"Zero tolerance! Zero mercy!"
"Let all betrayal be reduced to dust!"
Magnus practically roared that final sentence, his crimson neck flushing a deeper shade as he vented the fury in his heart.
"By your command!" the Thousand Sons Legion shouted in unison. Through their bloodline bond, they felt the suffocating gloom and wrath of their genetic father.
"All is dust!"
The Thousand Sons sorcerers let out a furious roar, turning around to board their transports and depart for every corner of Prospero.
Countless ships lifted off from the pyramid plaza as thirty thousand Thousand Sons warriors—carrying the unutterable wrath of their Primarch—surged toward the other cities.
The Legion's resolve was chillingly absolute: to grind the traitors to ash and erase this stain upon their Gene-Primarch and Legion.
"Ahriman." The flight craft's air currents whipped his cloak violently as Magnus raised his head, staring up at the Majesty of Kings and saying, "In nine hours, invite my great brother to make his descent."
With those words, the Crimson King turned and departed with his Sekhmet Guard.
Ahriman bowed deeply in farewell. Standing back up, he watched the Gene-Primarch's retreating figure, masking the deep reflection in his eyes.
Nine hours.
Based on flight speeds and Legion efficiency, that was more than enough time to purge Prospero and reduce the traitors' cities to ruins.
Yet, perceptive as Ahriman was, a faint tremor stirred within his heart.
He remembered clearly that the monster Viridis and its kin held a deep veneration for the number "nine."
Their incantations consisted of nine syllables, their spells took nine steps, their height was nine meters, and their names were composed of nine High Gothic pronunciations.
Ahriman did not believe this to be a mere coincidence; it surely held some hidden, esoteric significance.
Watching the towering silhouette vanish into the shadows, Ahriman pulled back his gaze, suppressing the doubt in his heart regarding the number "nine."
Right now, there were far more important matters at hand.
Three hours later, another Primarch would land on Prospero.
The timing was delicate, and its purpose was easy to discern.
At that specific time, the battle would be at its most ferocious, allowing the Crimson King to display his ruthless resolve in purging the rebellion to his blood brother.
Looking down from space within Prospero's atmosphere, a red "ant colony" set out from Tizca, launching a full-scale assault on the other cities.
The psychic index surged abruptly; powerful siege-class psychic spells were clearly visible even from high orbit.
Psychic lightning bolts a hundred meters thick shattered the psychic barriers, and Thousand Sons sorcery flooded into the cities, initiating an indiscriminate purge.
The cities had rebelled. Whether actively participating or passively swept along, the reality of rebellion was beyond dispute, and treacherous turncoats did not deserve tolerance!
The Thousand Sons warriors summoned magical flames, setting entire cities ablaze, reducing men, women, young, and old alike to heaps of humble ash.
Aside from Tizca, the other eight rebelling cities were subjected to an all-out, indiscriminate strike.
Lacking the aid of daemons and warp entities, the mortal sorcerers' resistance—though stubborn—could not hope to contend with Astartes sorcerers.
Once the numerical disparity shifted, the gap between the two was as vast as heaven and earth.
The Space Marines possessed resilient minds capable of channeling far greater psychic energy; a spell cast by them possessed power far exceeding that of a mortal. Thanks to their superhuman physiology, their mental recovery was faster, and their psychic buffs lasted far longer.
Three hours after the purge began, a landing craft etched with the mark of destruction descended from the orbital docks, coming to a steady rest atop the pyramid's peak.
Blazkowicz stepped out of the cabin, feeling only an extraordinary chill carried by the wind.
The quelling operation was at its absolute height. The large-scale deployment of psychic power had dropped Prospero's average temperature by five degrees.
He raised his eyes slightly, catching sight of the towering figure standing at the end of the red carpet—Magnus the Red, the Crimson King.
Magnus was also known as the "Red Cyclops," a terrifying moniker stemming from his crimson skin.
Psychic flames burned in his eyes, his face handsome yet imposing, his red complexion shifting like molten lava. A pair of psychic eyes shone deep and bright, radiating a scholar's wisdom and confidence, as if capable of perceiving every secret of the universe.
His crimson frame was tall and erect, standing only half a head shorter than Vulkan. Around his neck was a colorful ancient Egyptian copper collar; he wore a pure, sweeping robe, and nine golden rings of wisdom adorned his fingers, giving him an air of refined intellect mingled with nobility.
Blazkowicz observed Magnus, offering a warm smile: "Brother!"
Magnus froze slightly, returning a warm smile as he deactivated his psychic vision.
Just a moment ago, he had watched a psychic black hole step out of the landing ship, bearing a overwhelming field of psychic suppression as it stood right before him.
In his psychic vision, there was nothing to see except a dark, hollow void.
Only after deactivating his psychic vision did Magnus's ruby-like eyes clearly discern Blazkowicz's face.
His brother looked far more heroic and grand than his holographic projection—broad brows, bright eyes, radiating a gentle confidence in every gesture, possessed of a unique, compelling warmth.
"Brother!" Magnus took a large step forward, forcing down the chest-tightening dread brought on by the psychic suppression as he walked toward his brother.
Behind the Crimson King, a sea of Thousand Sons warriors dropped to their knees, their resounding roars shattering the cold wind: "Welcome, King of Warriors!"
The two giants embraced, and the Legion's remembrancers suppressed their excitement, recording this glorious moment with their own brushes.
The two giants walked hand in hand into the inner sanctum of the pyramid.
The pyramids of Tizca possessed a unique aesthetic: their exterior walls were smooth and pristine, reflecting the brilliance of the sun, such that when viewed from space, the grand monolithic architecture refracted a dazzling radiance.
Yet the interior was strikingly different from its ostentatious exterior.
Inside the pyramid was a calm, dark stone, its walls carved with deep, esoteric hieroglyphs and animal totems—the very symbols of the Legion originated here.
There were no open flames, only miniature fusion cores emitting a constant warm glow, maintaining the most comfortable reading light at all times.
The long corridors were far from dull. Rows of books were neatly arranged, and countless unique, solitary texts were displayed in orderly rows, awaiting deep excavation by scholars.
"I spent a long time turning this place into a sanctuary of lore."
The sweeping red carpet absorbed their footsteps, leaving the corridors in absolute silence. Magnus spoke with overwhelming pride, opening his arms wide as he generously introduced the origins of the library: "The first collection of books originated from Prospero's savage era, recording various ways of survival."
"The second collection was the psychic enlightenment lore I excavated after unifying the world."
"The third collection and those that followed were texts I brought back from the Imperial Library or plundered from alien worlds after joining the Great Crusade."
"These are all brilliant gems of knowledge. I exerted all my strength to uncover and preserve them, hoping that one day, I might glean the ultimate secrets of the universe from these ancient wisdoms."
Magnus spoke with deep emotion, his voice echoing through the continuous galleries. One could hear the pride within it, mingled with a touch of sighing over the primitive past—and, of course, an unreserved display of boasting.
The three pyramid libraries of Prospero represented the culmination of all his painstaking efforts, showcasing countless crystals of wisdom.
Blazkowicz's expression remained unchanged. His gaze followed his brother's introduction, scanning between the bookshelves and display cases, looking at scrolls, stone tablets, wooden slates, and various other mediums of written language. The light deep within his eyes flickered, dark and unreadable.
In his eyes, the magnificent library Magnus was so proud of was thoroughly infested with twisted impurity.
The alien texts of similar classifications were covered in xenos symbols, the strange scripts recorded in manuscripts condensing the insatiable greed of alien civilizations toward the universe.
Most importantly: on the arrayed bookshelves, xenos texts and human classics were sorted according to categories of knowledge, completely mixed together!
The Primarch came to a stop, and the honor guard behind him halted as well.
"Brother." Blazkowicz's voice was very calm, yet an element of admonition was easily discernible. "You should know that the Imperium forbids the collection of alien books."
He pointed toward the archive at the end of the corridor, his gaze gradually growing sharp. "Alien knowledge may be transcribed—that is respect for knowledge itself. But once the transcription is complete, the original manuscripts must be destroyed."
"The glorious library you take such pride in is entirely an act of defiance against Imperial bans, a blatant contempt for the Imperial Truth."
"How can sacrilegious collections of xenos lore be intermingled with the classics of humanity? That is a trampling of the wisdom of human ancestors."
"I see pure script wailing in agony, struggling within a twisted quagmire. The residual will of our ancestors is suffering utter humiliation, actively polluted by xenos knowledge!"
As the calm voice fell, it articulated a fiercely aggressive perspective, ringing out with ringing resonance throughout the library.
Others might not have understood, but Blazkowicz held absolute clarity in his heart.
In realspace, knowledge was not merely knowledge.
It was the crystallization of intellect—the imprint left by an intelligent species within both realspace and the Immaterium—possessing immense symbolic significance.
These symbols and imprints generated by written language became, in turn, the very foundation upon which a species stood.
The more powerful a species was, the more heavily it emphasized the protection of its own script and language. They would never allow their knowledge to be confused with that of other races, avoiding any contamination of their species' intellectual reservoir.
Script and language were concepts of extreme symbolic power; long-term coexistence would pollute a species' foundational concepts.
Particularly if the most representative figures of a species engaged in acts that blurred these boundary lines, the damage dealt to those concepts would prove irreversible.
The Emperor could not state these matters openly, which was why he used the Imperial Truth to constrain their actions.
Supremely exalted humanity must never be conflated with xenos species!
From the perspective of conceptual occultism, Magnus's actions were absurdly dangerous.
He was a son of the Lord of Mankind, possessing immense symbolic weight; his every word and action could represent the will of the Imperium of Man in certain domains.
The libraries of Prospero appeared open and glorious, yet in reality, they were digging away at the very roots of humanity's conceptual foundation.
A concept was something ethereal and intangible, yet undeniably real—it pertained directly to the survival of a species.
Even the Old Ancients placed paramount importance on safeguarding their concepts.
When bestowing knowledge, they never revealed their own species' culture; instead, they translated knowledge into terms understandable to humans before imparting it to Blazkowicz.
The existence of concepts was something powerful races had long perceived and taken seriously.
For instance, the Old Ancients and the Necrontyr—two overlord races that had warred across eons—coexisted for a very long time, yet no cultural entanglement ever occurred between them.
Even when facing total extinction, they still strove with all their might to preserve the purity of their own species.
Precisely because he understood the laws governing the protection of knowledge, Blazkowicz recognized the gravity of the situation. He spoke without a shred of leniency to lay bare the issue: "Human and xenos knowledge may overlap in certain aspects, but they must never be conflated as one!"
The central gallery fell deathly quiet. The Space Marines barely dared to breathe; only the joints of scribe-skulls hissed in the silence.
The King of Warriors' confrontation was unsparing, like a sharp blade pressed against the Crimson King's chest.
Magnus turned around. His superior height forced him to lower his head slightly, staring at his emotionless brother.
Listening to Blazkowicz speak, he felt only a wave of sheer boredom, a hint of disdain surfacing deep in his eyes.
He had thought Blazkowicz was an open-minded individual possessing an extraordinary comprehension of all things in the universe; now, it seemed he was merely another fool bound by prejudice.
"Knowledge is knowledge." Magnus lowered his eyes, the smile on his face vanishing completely as he spoke in a heavy voice: "They are the pure crystallizations of intellect, meant for minds to grasp—they possess no inherent stance or faction."
"We must view them from a proper perspective, using dialectical thinking. We should not put on tinted glasses based on racial positions."
"Knowledge has always been neutral. How it is utilized depends entirely on the person using it. Whether human or xenos, knowledge is never shameful or base—there are only different species uncovering and interpreting its meaning."
Magnus's voice gradually rose, as if delivering a spontaneous lecture, using the very meaning of knowledge to justify his actions: "Use it and advance; disuse it and wither."
"We walk upon the path of pursuing truth. Humanity and aliens alike are building paths toward the ultimate answer. Why question what color the road beneath our feet happens to be?"
Having finished speaking, he stared intently at Blazkowicz, his ruby eye filled entirely with scrutiny.
Hearing their Primarch's discourse, the Thousand Sons sorcerers could not help but nod slightly. Evidently, the concept of neutral knowledge resonated deeply with many legionaries.
The lore of different races was simply like different methods for solving a problem; different interpretations of a shared answer were all valid paths toward universal truth.
So-called "purity" was merely a restriction placed upon the exchange of knowledge.
Within the silent gallery, the two Primarchs stood face-to-face, the atmosphere suffocatingly tense.
Inhaling the faint scent of parchment, a wave of profound helplessness welled up within Blazkowicz's heart.
At last, he felt a sense of clarity—he finally understood why the Emperor had held back from Magnus, consistently concealing the true nature of the Warp from him.
Swallowing the words on the tip of his tongue, Blazkowicz raised his chin and once again scrutinized the figure standing before him.
Magnus: Fifteenth Son of the Lord of Mankind, one of his own blood-brothers.
Without a doubt, he was a man of vast erudition, his superhuman mind housing a reservoir of knowledge as boundless as the sea.
Yet he was not nearly as humble as he appeared.
Judging by the standards of Argent D'Nur, Magnus was an extraordinarily gifted archivist—a recorder of vital lore—yet he hardly possessed the true mantle of a sage. He was not even a good scholar.
A scholar approaching knowledge ought to possess the instinct to seek truth, but even more so, the caution to tread carefully.
Hypothesize boldly, verify meticulously—and seek truth from facts.
Yet Magnus lacked all sense of reverence. He sought knowledge with blind abandon, regarding the lore of humanity and xenos with equal favor, devoid of any discernment.
Under normal circumstances, such an unbiased mindset would be a tremendous boon to academic pursuits. But this universe was far from peaceful.
Reflected on the mirror-face of realspace, the Chaos Gods lurked in the shadows, watching intently.
To an intelligent species, knowledge was both the ultimate weapon to conquer the cosmos and a deadly poison consumed to quench a temporary thirst.
Just moments ago, Blazkowicz had invoked the Imperial Truth, probing to see if Magnus would understand why human and xenos knowledge must never be conflated.
Faced first with a brother's warning and aversion, and backed by the authority of the Imperial Truth, a normal scholar's immediate reaction should have been to ask a single question: Why?
Why?
Those three simple words could reveal a person's most fundamental attitude.
Had Magnus asked, Blazkowicz would not have minded revealing a fraction of the truth—explaining why human and xenos lore could not be blurred, and laying bare the nature of conceptual information.
Yet it was precisely those three unasked words that carved a chasm between Blazkowicz and Magnus.
Their brief exchange was like distant stars divided by an unbridgeable gulf.
Blazkowicz had sought to elevate the conversation to the realm of concepts, urging his blood-brother to exercise greater caution.
Yet upon hearing skepticism and admonition, Magnus had refrained from contemplating the why, immediately erecting a defense built upon his own predefined notions.
From those assertions, Blazkowicz had internally branded Magnus with two labels: arrogant and vain.
His arrogance stemmed from a vast reservoir of stored knowledge, which, left uncurbed by anyone, had further festered into pride.
And so, Blazkowicz understood the Emperor.
After the Battle of Requiem, Magnus had committed a grave error.
By all rights, the Emperor might have been expected to disclose a portion of the truth, instructing him to exercise vigilance and avoid repeating his mistakes.
Instead, the Emperor had revealed nothing. He simply commanded the Thousand Sons Legion to return to Terra, utilizing them as a psychic beacon for the Rangdan Xenocides.
Perhaps even back then, the Emperor knew: if he revealed the truth of the Warp to Magnus, the Cyclops would instantly become intoxicated by it. Sailing on a ship of hubris, he would ultimately drown in an ocean of his own self-righteousness.
It was all too easy for the web woven by the Chaos Gods to ensnare a Primarch blinded by pride.
Faced with the intangible corruption of the Warp and Chaos, no one lacking absolute clarity and self-awareness could ever hope to resist.
It was entirely foreseeable that once Magnus made contact with the deeper Warp, it would take very little time to bring about his complete damnation.
He was not a good scholar, and thus, he was unworthy of knowing more!
As millions of thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, Blazkowicz withdrew his intent to advise, the coldness in his eyes deepening.
Magnus was different from Perturabo. The former suffered from an internal flaw—a deep-seated hubris that would never allow him to easily admit fault. The latter acted without due deliberation, yet remained a decent soul who listened to counsel and actively sought to make amends.
Standing upon the shoulders of giants, Magnus was intoxicated by the sense of superiority that knowledge conferred. Yet he was also deeply blinded by it, incapable of perceiving his true self.
To make him yield and look inward would require knowledge far more vast.
Yet a vastness of knowledge transcending conventional reality was precisely what Magnus could not be allowed to touch; revealing it to him would only hasten his demise.
"Brother," Blazkowicz spoke once more into the heavy, suffocating silence, offering his sibling one final chance. "Do you not wish to ask why I specifically warned you that knowledge must never be conflated?"
This time, his tone was exceptionally grave, the frost deep within his eyes thickening by the second.
Magnus opened his mouth, instinctively preparing to offer a reply, but his heart suddenly tightened. His lips trembled, yet no words came out.
How could he fail to hear it? In his brother's question lay a sense of unspoken, absolute finality.
Confronted by such weight and gravity, Magnus experienced a moment of trance, as if beholding a fork in the road of fate looming directly ahead, waiting for him to step forward.
Silence fell over the corridor once more as the two Primarchs locked eyes, their gazes clashing in midair like sparks, neither yielding an inch.
As the Primarchs stood locked in confrontation, the harmonious atmosphere between the Legions vanished in an instant.
The Thousand Sons sorcerers slightly widened their stances, their lowered hands twitching subtly as they prepared to draw their sidearms. The Doom Mariness continued staring straight ahead, their grip tightening around their spears, ready to spill blood in the very next heartbeat.
Magnus's crimson brows knit tightly together as his mind combed through his mental storehouse, searching through countless recorded answers.
He had no need to think; the wisdom of human ancestors and the lore of xenos had already provided thousands of answers. He merely needed to give them voice.
This verified knowledge was, beyond doubt, the correct answer.
A few seconds later, Magnus offered a calm smile, declaring with absolute certainty: "Because of the decree of the Imperial Truth."
"The Imperium of Man is a regime of unprecedented scale. The law cannot reach every corner; instead, it requires an ideological compass to establish its core on a moral and conscious level, using the supreme common sense of humanity to constrain the minds of its citizens."
"I was meant to serve as an exemplar, yet my actions crossed the line, causing a fissure in the authority of the Imperial Truth."
"You wish for me to continue abiding by the Imperial Truth, to prevent the dogmatic framework of truth from being trampled and causing detrimental ripple effects?"
As his words fell, Magnus straightened his back slightly, seemingly proud of the answer he had delivered.
From a literal perspective, he was not wrong in the slightest.
A Gene-Primarch was obligated to uphold the Imperial Truth, setting an example for every citizen of the Imperium of Man.
Hearing the response, Blazkowicz turned his face away, masking the cold smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Magnus's answer was textbook—so formulaic that no flaw could be found in it, more than enough to make him a qualified imperial bureaucrat.
He had treated his brother's question merely as an exam prompt, hastily pulling an answer from his memory without ever actively contemplating the underlying cause.
Blazkowicz's shoulders sagged slightly as he exhaled a long breath of stale air.
For a moment, he found himself entirely at a loss for words, unsure of how to explain it to his brother.
He knew that no matter what he said, Magnus possessed a complete set of standardized answers waiting in his mind.
Yet those answers were nothing more than recycled wisdom—read aloud without a second thought, devoid of even a shred of genuine personal understanding.
"Brother..."
Blazkowicz let out a helpless, bitter laugh and shook his head. Looking at his brother, who was cursed by knowledge, he sighed softly: "You possess a reservoir of knowledge beyond my wildest imagination. But those things are merely answers—they merely exist inside your brain."
"You have not even stopped to consider from what stance I asked the question, or from what stance you gave your answer."
"Your brain holds boundless knowledge, yet it lacks wisdom."
"Knowledge is not wisdom. It is merely someone else's reference answer for viewing all creation—not the essence you truly possess yourself."
Looking at Magnus's rigid face, Blazkowicz asked with absolute gravity: "Please think back. Ever since you acquired sufficient knowledge, how much time have you spent actively thinking for yourself?"
"How long has it been since you felt the curiosity and impulse of your youth? And at what point did you lose that ecstatic thrill and deep emotion of arriving at an answer after long, agonizing contemplation?"
An awkward shadow crossed Magnus's crimson face. His hands clutched involuntarily within his sleeves, grinding his rings until they creaked.
Beneath the calm query, he could hear a distinct emotion hidden away—something called pity.
His brother was right. Before unifying Prospero, he had been like a curious child, rejoicing at every new discovery.
The faint vibration of sand, the sprouting of a twig—every brand-new, unknown revelation had once filled him with unadulterated exhilaration.
Where did it all begin to change?
Without a doubt, it was after returning to the Imperium of Man, wandering through the boundless sea of stars.
There were infinite mysteries there, waiting for him and his genetic offspring to uncover, bringing one surprise after another.
And at what point had he gradually forgotten that joy and wonder?
Magnus remembered the subtle shift clearly.
It was as his accumulation of knowledge grew greater and greater—so vast that he could discern every material, so vast that he could see through spells beyond the comprehension of ordinary men, so vast that every problem came with a standardized answer.
And then, he grew accustomed to retrieving answers from the past, forgetting how to think for himself.
Magnus closed his eyes, his breathing deepening as his muscular chest heaved more intensely.
He was soothing his own heartbeat, calming the unease stirred up by his brother.
"Brother," Blazkowicz called out softly, shaking his head with regret. "In ancient myths and legends, omniscient and omnipotent gods often perish from the emptiness of having no surprises left."
"When one comprehends every answer in the world, nihilism becomes the tomb of the all-knowing, its tombstone etched with pure emptiness."
Looking at Magnus, Blazkowicz was reminded of the notes left behind in the chambers of the Old Palace.
His father's evaluation of the Architect of Fate—eternal, ultimate emptiness, where change is the sole means to fill an everlasting, dead silence.
"The pursuit of knowledge—"
Magnus opened his eyes, his voice trembling slightly as it echoed through the gallery like a tightening blast of cold wind.
Before he could finish, he closed his mouth and ceased his defense.
Blazkowicz raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. "No need to say more."
He casually gestured toward a wall where psychic activity was particularly intense; the war was still raging on. He said, "Your legionaries are currently locked in battle. You might want to carefully consider why this fight broke out in the first place."
"I do not object to the pursuit of knowledge and answers, but there must be moderation. Just as psychic knowledge cannot be allowed to proliferate freely, the lore of different species must remain strictly segregated."
"A balance exists among all things; excess is as detrimental as deficiency. When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."
Looking at Magnus, whose expression shifted continuously, Blazkowicz offered a tone laced with warning: "I hope that in the future, whenever you make a decision, you will remember why Prospero burns."
"The universe is a treasure trove of knowledge, but it also harbors unimaginable dangers. If this holds true for the physical realm governed by physical laws, how much more so for the Warp, which possesses no laws at all?"
Having said this, Blazkowicz refrained from speaking further.
The deeper secrets of the Warp were truly not something Magnus was suited to touch.
During the days following his return, Blazkowicz had been meditating in the quiet room aboard the Majesty of Kings, monitoring everything unfolding on Prospero.
Ninety-nine Greater Daemons of Tzeentch hiding here was certainly no party; their plot ran deep.
To command Greater Daemons matching the sacred number and deploy them into realspace left no doubt as to the master behind the conspiracy.
And on Prospero, there was only one thing capable of catching the eye of the Architect of Fate—a Gene-Primarch.
Blazkowicz certainly did not believe Tzeentch had deployed Lords of Change to Prospero for the sake of the texts inside the pyramids of Tizca.
The god's Crystal Labyrinth encompassed virtually all knowledge of both realspace and the Immaterium, housing countless hidden secrets; it had no use for Prospero's meager collection.
To protect his brother, Blazkowicz said with an impassive face: "I will inform the Emperor to recall the Thousand Sons Legion. He will dispatch a psychic audit squad to Prospero to inspect the relevant lore and prevent the danger from escalating further."
Buzz—
The Primarch's words landed like a sledgehammer, causing the pyramid's gallery to hum with resonance.
The deserted gallery grew momentarily chaotic as the Thousand Sons legionaries exchanged looks, seeing utter astonishment in each other's eyes.
"This—"
Ahriman opened his mouth to speak, only to feel the hem of his sorcerer's robe yanked by Ahzek's companion, Ankhu Anen, who shook his head with an almost imperceptible warning in his eyes.
Catching that subtle warning, Ahriman snapped back to reality, breaking into a cold sweat upon delayed realization.
Two Gene-Primarchs were conversing, involving the Lord of Mankind himself. To rashly interrupt would mean losing one's head in the very next heartbeat.
Regardless of his standing within the Legion, in the eyes of beings at that level, he was no different from a mortal.
"This is a judgment upon the Thousand Sons, but it is also—"
Blazkowicz paused briefly, keeping his voice as gentle as possible: "It is also a measure of protection for you and the Thousand Sons Legion."
"Those filthy entities will never rest. They have set their sights on the Thousand Sons."
Silence. Once Blazkowicz finished speaking, the corridor plunged back into a dead hush.
Magnus had listened the entire time, waiting for his brother to articulate every point. His gaze shifted from deep contemplation to sharp intensity, never once leaving Blazkowicz.
Everything transpiring now felt like a bolt from the blue.
The Primarch's immortal body stood rigid, as if disconnected from his nervous system, rendered incapable of speech or movement.
The rebellion on Prospero, the blurring of knowledge in the libraries, his own answers to his brother's probing, and finally, the path of wisdom his brother had outlined...
These events linked together tightly, ultimately forming a chain of warning and judgment.
Only now did he realize that Blazkowicz's mission to Prospero had never been about conferring honors—it was to conduct an inspection and deliver judgment on behalf of the Emperor.
Evidently, his brother had acted with intent all along, and he had failed the test.
At this realization, the humiliation of being summoned back to Terra and the fury of undergoing an audit faded somewhat.
Magnus remained silent, his cheeks taut from the weight of his mood. He stood there like a crimson mountain peak, exuding an awkward sense of bewilderment.
He did not know how to face the Emperor's judgment.
The lighting was soft and the red carpet swept forward in an atmosphere that appeared mild, yet he felt cold all over, as if the heart in his chest had frozen solid.
Though only a few seconds had passed, it felt like centuries to Magnus. He asked with a complex expression: "Is this Father's final decision?"
Blazkowicz nodded slightly without a word. Stroking his left arm, he summoned the C'tan Gauntlet, opening a pocket dimension to retrieve a parchment scroll.
The scroll was ancient and unadorned, sealed with double-headed eagle wax that radiated a faint, golden aura.
Even in Blazkowicz's hand, the golden shimmer seeped through the parchment, revealing High Gothic script on the reverse side.
Rustle—
The Sekhmet Guard dropped to their knees in unison along the red carpet. They sensed the divine power contained within the scroll—the very will of the Lord of Mankind!
Blazkowicz placed the scroll in the palm of his hand, extending it toward Magnus. "Do you wish to read it?"
Magnus lowered his eyes. The color drained from his crimson face, leaving behind a subtle pallor, while a wave of powerlessness churned deep within his eyes.
He waved his hand dismissively, fine ring powder spilling from between his fingers as he let out a despondent sigh.
"No need."
Magnus let out a sigh, turning his head away from the Emperor's decree. His gaze drifted to the countless volumes lined along the bookshelves, his single eye filled with reluctant longing.
The matter was already settled.
The imperial edict presented by his brother contained only the header and the Emperor's imperial seal; the space reserved for specific text was entirely blank.
What manner of authority had the Lord of Mankind bestowed upon the King of Warriors?
A parchment scroll bearing a private seal on a blank sheet said everything that needed to be said.
"Brother." The call sounded somewhat despondent as Magnus raised a hand in a gesture of invitation, a bitter smile gracing his features. "Walk with me?"
Blazkowicz put away the parchment scroll and gave a subtle nod, gesturing for the entourage behind them to stay back.
One leading, one following, the two stepped off the red carpet. The miniature fusion lights softened their shadows until they vanished into the depths of the repository.
Magnus kept his hand raised. As he walked, his crimson palm gently brushed along the spines of the books, caressing title after title.
"Do you know?" As he touched the collections born of his life's blood, feeling the texture of paper and leather against his fingertips, every breath drew in the fragrance of knowledge, soothing his grieving heart.
"Ever since I possessed a will of my own, I have harbored an extraordinary craving for knowledge."
"Once, my foster father took me to hunt in the wilderness. Countless unknowns flooded into my mind, and that exhilarating sensation left me thoroughly intoxicated."
"Since then, I craved that feeling. I fell in love with collecting knowledge and every medium associated with it, embracing even more of the unknown."
He came to a stop, pulling out a copy of Outline of the Galaxy from the shelf and casually flipping it open.
Blazkowicz listened quietly, retrieving a xenos book from the shelf. Opening it with care, he read the alien civilization's comprehension of all things in the cosmos.
Within the xenos volume, Magnus's own handwritten annotations were interwoven with further interpretations by Thousand Sons legionaries, every line soaked in painstaking effort.
"This was the very first book I touched when I stepped aboard the Imperator Somnium." Handing Outline of the Galaxy to his brother, a hint of warmth returned to Magnus's cheeks, a nostalgic glow surfacing deep in his eye.
"Back then, I treasured it like a priceless gem—it felt as though I was embracing the entire galaxy."
Blazkowicz gently stroked the pages. Judging from the folded corners and worn edges, it had been carefully read and reread countless times.
The signs of wear made it clear that during a certain period, the book's owner had held it as a sacred treasure, studying it day and night.
Yet Blazkowicz's sharp eyes caught something else: the top edges of the pages were dusted with fine dirt, and as it was opened once more, a faint scent of long-standing neglect wafted out.
This book had been left sitting untouched for a very long time.
"Now, holding this book again..." The warmth in Magnus's eye dissolved, a different kind of ripple stirring across the crimson lake of his vision. "I can recite every single piece of its content—even the spacing between the words and the permutations of their phrasing."
"Yet..."
A sorrowful voice drifted between the bookshelves. His single eye was filled with heartbroken bewilderment; the hands supporting the book trembled, his face a picture of complete helplessness. "I... I can no longer remember the thrill I felt back then..."
Thump~~
The heavy book crashed onto the sound-absorbing carpet. Yet the dull thud of the closing pages sent ripples outward, as though the words themselves had shattered.
Magnus stumbled back a few steps, nearly failing to keep his footing. The blood drained completely from his crimson skin, leaving his immortal frame draped in utter despondency.
Blazkowicz reached out to steady him, only to be shoved away with brute force.
"This was the first volume of arcane lore... This was the first manual of engineering..."
Like a man driven mad, Magnus yanked book after book from the shelves, his roars growing increasingly raspy and desperate: "I remember every single word! I can recreate them all to perfection!"
"So why?!"
"Why in the world?!"
"I can't remember it anymore!" A shimmering tear glinted in his eye as the books in his hands were ground into a flurry of airborne shreds. A choked, sobbing voice issued a breakdown of a question: "The joy I once took such pride in—the joy I couldn't wait to share with others!"
Beyond the gallery, hearing the roars of their genetic father, the souls of the Thousand Sons legionaries felt as if they were being torn apart. One after another, they closed their eyes and shut down their five senses.
The heart-wrenching bewilderment and helplessness of their Gene-Primarch was tearing their willpower to shreds bit by bit, their souls suffering what felt like execution by a thousand cuts.
They, too, could not fathom what was happening.
The ancients had said: Reviewing the old brings understanding of the new. Re-examining past learning should ignite new enlightenment.
Reflecting upon stored knowledge ought to yield fresh comprehension and application, providing new answers to past doubts.
Yet as their Gene-Primarch roared in utter collapse, the Thousand Sons legionaries examined the knowledge within their own minds—only to be met with nothing but cold, unfeeling script!
Everything they had once craved, been thrilled by, or sought in vain had turned into lifeless, gradually withering words devoid of emotion.
Yes! Cold, ruthless words—nothing more. They could no longer stir a single ripple.
Never again could they feel the residual will and warmth left behind by the predecessors who penned those volumes; knowledge left behind nothing but a layer of frost in their memories.
Once they recognized this reality, the grand temple within their memories collapsed with a deafening crash, dissolving into an even more hollow void.
The Thousand Sons sorcerers spoke no more. Their minds sank into a barren wasteland of self-doubt, their entire beings exuding an aura of desolation.
The Primarch's influence and their own self-doubt intertwined, forging a frozen cage that locked away the heart that had once beat so vibrantly for knowledge, imprisoning it within a silent shell to drown in memories.
"Steady your minds—"
The Doom Mariness noticed the deteriorating mental state of their blood-brothers and voiced low warnings.
Though the psychic resonance was waning, it served to awaken many legionaries who had sunk into hollow introspection—including the Chief Librarian himself.
Ahriman snapped out of the nightmare, fleeing the depths of the gallery without a care for decorum. He yelled into the Legion's comms channel: "Do not overthink it! Hold your minds steady!"
A Gene-Primarch's influence over his Legion was beyond question. Ahriman was terrified—afraid that something might go terribly wrong on the front lines.
If a warrior on the front lines fell into self-doubt under the influence of their shared bloodline, it would be an absolute catastrophe for the Legion.
"Understood."
A response came through the comms channel. Though somewhat raspy, it remained clear and resolute: "We will sever the psychic link and cease using psychic powers."
"Even without psychic abilities, we are still the Astartes forged by the Emperor!"
The front-line reports and the Primarch's agonizing roars blended together. Exhausted in both mind and body, Ahriman slid down against the pyramid's main gate, relying on the sense of security provided by the cold stone to fill the void in his heart.
He turned his head to look into the depths of the library, where the faint sound of weeping echoed out.
The Gene-Primarch was weeping. As his sorrow spread along the bloodline, the eyes of every Thousand Sons warrior across Prospero grew stingingly sore, tears brimming at the corners of their vision.
"All is dust!"
Front-line warriors fired their bolters, tears streaming down beneath their helmets.
Enduring the sting in their eyes, they maintained their dignity through the Legion's battle cry, pulling their triggers to shred the enemies blocking their path.
"All is dust..."
The garrison warriors recited silently, throwing their heads back to force the tears back into their eyes, involuntarily glancing toward the pyramid library.
Inside the library, rows of display shelves had been knocked over and shattered. Servo-skulls and servitors numbly maintained an aura of neatness.
Beneath Magnus's wild, cascading red hair, his face was entirely drenched in tears. He sat numbly slumped amid a heap of shredded paper, his hands clawing through the debris in aimless desperation.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this... It wasn't supposed to be like this..."
He randomly snatched up handfuls of scraps, trying to piece them into new combinations of words, only to crush them again into even finer dust.