"We have our own Primarch now!"
The Legion Master stood before the flagship's observation deck, gazing down at the world beneath the panoramic viewport. Scalding tears traced paths down his unhelmeted, resolute face as the metal deck beneath his boots trembled faintly.
"Our Primarch is the seventh to return!" Nathaniel Garro was equally unable to contain his excitement.
Beneath the eternal darkness of the nebular veil, Barbarus revealed its savage silhouette.
Its curved horizon was outlined by the dim light of a dying star, like a rusted scimitar hanging in the void.
Sickly orange-yellow cloud vortices churned across the planet's surface, writhing slowly like the exposed entrails of some rotting beast.
Only occasionally, through gaps torn in the cloud layer, could one glimpse the vague, distorted outlines of land below.
Even measured against the many worlds the Dusk Raiders Legion had conquered, Barbarus was arguably ranked among the most hostile.
Every inch of its land was steeped in deadly malice; the atmosphere drifted with toxic miasmas that could scorch even a Astartes's enhanced lungs.
Garro stared at the rolling poison clouds and sighed softly.
"If not for the toxins, it might have been a beautiful world. It's hard to imagine our Primarch was born here."
The Legion Master's voice was deep and steady.
"But our Primarch conquered it, by his own strength alone!"
Garro's pupils contracted slightly, realizing his words could be misinterpreted. "I am in no way denying the glory our Primarch achieved!"
"I understand you, Garro," the Legion Master said. "You should be more cautious by nature. The Primarch's return is imminent, I don't want him to misunderstand the Dusk Raiders in any way."
"I understand." Garro lowered his head.
Perhaps the Legion Master was being overly sensitive, but at such a crucial moment, no degree of caution was excessive.
"Our Primarch will rename us," the Legion Master continued. "The Dusk Raiders will cease to exist, along with our former glory. Will you regret that, Garro?"
"No." Garro's voice rang like steel. "Without a Primarch, there is no Fourteenth Legion. Only the Primarch has the right to lead us."
Not every Primarch believed in his Legion, but every Legion longed for their Primarch's return.
Though they understood that once the Primarch returned, their old name and past honors would be no more. Otherwise, clinging stubbornly to past glory would only plant seeds of division within the Legion.
But they firmly believed the Primarch would lead the Legion to create even greater glory!
"And the Emperor?" the Legion Master asked.
The question struck Garro like a heavy hammer.
His pupils shrank abruptly, and for the first time, his iron resolve wavered.
"Fal…" Garro's voice trembled despite himself. "What exactly are you trying to say?"
Huron-Fal shook his head. "Perhaps I'm overthinking. Forget I said anything."
Their Primarch was the seventh to return, but every returned Primarch shared a deep bond with the Mentor.
This title was spread by the Twelfth Legion, once the War Hounds, now the World Eaters. It was a request actively put forward by that person, because he seemed to dislike the You-Know-Who form of address.
On the surface, the Imperium appeared to be flourishing.
Primarch after Primarch was rediscovered across the galaxy. People believed they would lead their Legions to greater victories and guide the Imperium toward a brighter future.
But with each return, the seeds of division were quietly planted.
They were the Emperor's sons, yet not raised by Him.
They were raised and found by the Mentor.
Though the Mentor was a close friend of the Emperor, and at the behest Emperor went to retrieved the missing Primarchs, but what if one day, just what if, their visions for the Imperium or for the future of humanity diverged?
And in the end if that divergence became civil war… what would become of the Imperium?
Huron-Fal's heart clenched as though seized by an invisible hand.
He shut his eyes tightly, trying to crush the thought beneath sheer will.
He hoped it was nothing more than a absurd fantasy born of exhaustion from endless war.
Yet the idea clung to him like a parasite, gnawing at his mind.
If the Emperor and the Mentor ever came into conflict, whom would the Primarchs support?
Emotionally, Fal wanted the answer to be the Emperor.
The Legions were the Emperor's blade.
The Great Crusade was his vision.
Even the demi-gods who walked among men were extensions of his will.
The Imperium, the galaxy, all of humanity, should bow only to the figure upon the Golden Throne.
But reason told Fal otherwise.
The bond between Primarchs and the Mentor transcended blood. This bond would drive them to follow the Mentor, who had personally shaped them, rather than their biological father.
Why did Fal understand this?
Because he knew the answer all too well!
Searching in his heart, if one day the Emperor and his Primarch ever turned against each other, whom would he choose?
Fal yearned for the Primarch's return. He believed the Legion would flourish under him. He would obey every command. He would die gladly for his Primarch.
And yet-
If that day came, Fal would still choose the Emperor.
They revered the Primarch. They loved him. They would give their lives for him.
But it was the Emperor's dream, the rebirth of human civilization, that had sent them into the Great Crusade.
If even Fal would choose the Emperor over his Primarch, how could he expect the Primarch not to choose the Mentor over his genetic father?
The Emperor created the Primarchs in the light.
But it was the Mentor, standing in shadow, who truly shaped them.
Fal swallowed hard.
"If that day ever comes… I hope I'm already dead."
To sleep forever at the Great Crusade's glorious height was better than witnessing the fall of that ideal realm.
Moreover, this was merely the most pessimistic outcome; perhaps that day would never even happen.
The Emperor, the Mentor, and the Sigilite were each other's closest friends. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, together at the pinnacle of human civilization, forging the Great Crusade's grand design. Their wills intertwined like stars; how could they fall apart? Their ideals were iron, unbreakable.
How could they ever fracture?
They wouldn't.
They couldn't.
They mustn't.
"Look at the bright side… if a rift ever forms between the Emperor and the Primarchs, perhaps the Mentor could mediate and fix it."
"Legion Master? Are you listening? Legion Master! Fal! Huron-Fal!"
Garro's voice rose, dragging Fal back from his dark reverie.
Fal turned slowly. The Seventh Captain stared at him, solemn and grave.
"The Emperor has issued his decree. Our Primarch has summoned us."
Garro frowned. For a Legion Master, of the Fourteenth, no less, to lose focus at such a moment was disgraceful.
What if the Primarch learned of it?
Would he think the Legion indifferent, or worse, unwelcoming?
If so, the Legion would abandon Huron-Fal instantly.
Legion Master?
What Legion Master?
Never heard of him.
There are only two suns in our hearts, the Primarch and the Emperor.
"Assemble the Legion warriors," Fal's voice was hoarse and low, as if suppressing an indescribable emotion.
Garro stood at attention and replied, "They have long been arrayed on the deck, awaiting orders."
Since the day they arrived at Barbarus, the Legion had been stood in formation on the decks.
Had the Emperor not forbidden them to land, they would have already welcomed their gene-father in person.
The Primarch's summons spread through the fleet like wildfire. Every Astartes burned with anticipation.
The Legion was the Imperium's sharpest blade. Hundreds could take a city in hours. Thousands could conquer a world in days.
And now, a full twenty thousand veterans descended from orbit.
Stormbirds roared. Dreadclaws tore the sky, plasma trails blazing, they descended like hammers of judgment towards the designated coordinates!
Their gene-father awaited them.
Was it inefficient to deploy twenty thousand warriors merely for a meeting? Certainly. It would have been cheaper to bring the Primarch to the fleet.
But who would dare raise such a question?
That was their gene-father.
What was a little expense?
Criticize him, and you'd be lucky not to be beaten by your brothers.
.....
At this moment twenty thousand Dusk Raiders stood like statues of steel, power armor gleaming coldly through Barbarus' poison haze, ranks as unbroken as a grey fortress wall.
When their gene-father emerged from the ship, every warrior held his breath facing the inspection.
They gazed upon their creator, their Primarch, pale, gaunt, towering.
Forge by Barbarus's poison. He led mortals to triumph over the once-invincible Overlords.
The people of Barbarus hailed him as Savior, Liberator, Reaper, Lord of Death, Leader.
But to the Fourteenth Legion, he was first and foremost, their father.
Thud!
Without any command, twenty thousand warriors dropped to one knee in unison. The sound of ceramite knee guards striking the ground merged into a thunderous crack.
Where they knelt, the ground cracked beneath the weight of their devotion.
Mortarion did not tell them to rise.
When hands lifted toward helmet clasps, he raised his arm.
"Do not remove your helmets. I will see your faces, but not today."
Mortarion was never a man of detailed plans.
He had plans, but he always lacked a long-term one.
He climbed the peak because he couldn't contact the Emperor, so he had to make the Emperor come to him.
He summoned his sons here, not out of arrogance or disdain, but to bear witness here.
But he forgot one thing.
Barbarus' mountains were toxic.
Only Caelan's psychic barrier kept the poison mist at bay. Even a Primarch could not endure prolonged exposure.
Had they removed their helmets, the poison would have killed them.
The Fourteenth Legion would have been forever branded in shame.
Mortarion spoke, his words sharp as his scythe.
"I have no mother, but I had have three fathers." Mortarion's voice was low and raspy. "A sire, a teacher, and a foster."
"My sire-father gave me blood."
"My teacher-father shaped my soul."
"And my foster father-"
Mortarion slowly shed his robes. The fabric slid away like dying wings, revealing the a crisscross of scars underneath, long since faded white, like dry riverbeds.
"...gave me a body covered in scars."
Rage spread like a plague among the Dusk Raiders.
They had just arrived at Barbarus, knowing nothing of their gene-father's past.
They knew the Primarch had two fathers. Every Primarch did.
But the existence of a third father tore through their heart.
And when they saw the horrifying scars upon Mortarian, they knew these were not honours of battle, but marks of humiliation and torment!
The souls of the Legion warriors burned!
Suppressed fury churned within their chests, transforming into silent roars that found no release.
Their fingers trembled with rage, teeth grinding behind respirators.
Yet what could they do?
The shame was seared into their gene-father's flesh, while they, his children sworn to guard his honour, could only kneel, souls scorched by anger.
This was no battlefield; no foe existed to vent their seething bloodlust upon.
They tasted the greatest agony of all, powerless fury.
"My foster father, the High Overlord Necare. A xeno who enslaved mortals through sorcery."
"He raised me for three years. He tortured me for three years."
Motarian's tone suffocated his sons, as if even breathing might touch the his scars, becoming an act of sacrilege.
They wanted to beg their gene-father to stop, but their throats felt constricted by some invisible force. In the end, they could only bow their heads in this suffocating silence.
"Raise your heads. Look at me."
Mortarion's voice was as still as frozen darkness in the abyss.
The Dusk Raiders raised their heads. Their armoured faces betrayed no emotion, yet faint grinding sounds emanated from beneath the visors, many warriors had grounded their teeth.
Agony and blood filled their mouths, yet compared to the torment endured by their gene-father, this pain was utterly worthless!
"The Overlords were claws of the Dark Gods. My coming was their scheme. Barbarus was the cage they prepared for me. Necare's raising was their trap. That pain and torment were the chains they prepared."
"They sought to force my knees to the ground with the shackles of agony, to compel my submission with the chains of despair."
"But I did not kneel."
"I call this, Resilience."
"Resilience is not born from pain, and it never bows to suffering."
"Their schemes dissolved into thin air; their snares failed to shackle my will. With my own hands, I kindled the flame of rebellion, setting the skies of Barbarus ablaze with beacons hope."
"But the chains of the Dark Gods still cling like maggots gnawing at my throat!"
Mortarion clenched the invisible shackles around his neck, his normally calm voice rare with suppressed fury.
His knuckles turned white at the gesture, making the kneeling legionnaires grit their teeth.
That shackle did not exist on a material level, but it was entwined with the Primarch's soul!
"Before my sire-father descended, I had already scaled the poison-shrouded peaks with my father! I came here solely to sever these chains of shame and demand reckoning from my foster father, yet that coward fled into the garden of the Dark Gods'!"
"Now these chains remain clutched in his grasp, and he seeks to torment me with them for eternity!"
........
15 chapter ahead in [email protected]/DaoistJinzu