Chapter 124 - Dismantling the Legions
Malcador listened quietly without responding. His eyes were calm and untroubled, as if he was assessing the feasibility of the suggestions while also revealing a hint of weariness.
A brief silence fell over the hall.
Another High Lord, dressed in a dark blue robe, finally spoke, his voice steady yet subtly sharp. "Lord Malcador, we understand the importance of the Primarchs. They are the Emperor's sons. However, for the survival of the Imperium, their military power must be limited. This is not only for our benefit but also for the Emperor's, after all..."
He didn't continue speaking but looked at Malcador, waiting for his response. The air in the hall seemed to freeze, so quiet that even distant chronometers could be clearly heard.
Malcador slowly stood up, his gaze sweeping over everyone present. Though not tall, he exuded an awe-inspiring authority. He spoke in a deep voice. "Oh? Why don't you tell them about this face-to-face?"
The High Lords: "..."
"Since you don't dare to speak up, then all of you should shut up!" Malcador continued. "And another thing, the Emperor is stable now! He doesn't need anyone's advice. You only need to focus on mining blackstone, establishing sacrificial worlds, and increasing productivity! And everything concerning those traitors..."
He spoke at length but did not mention disarmament again until the end of the meeting.
...
Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Roboute Guilliman entered the room. He was as tall and imposing as ever, his blue armor gleaming slightly, but a hint of weariness lingered between his brows.
"Malcador, what do you want?" Guilliman's voice was deep and powerful.
Malcador turned around, his expression as hard as iron. "Guilliman, we need to talk about the consequences of this Heresy, and the choices ahead."
Guilliman nodded and sat down in the chair in the center of the room, his hands clasped on his knees, his gaze fixed on Malcador. "Why did you come to me instead of Sanguinius?"
"Because your Legion has the largest number of warriors." Malcador nodded slightly, his tone calm.
Guilliman was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. "What are you trying to say? You want to dismantle the Legions!"
Malcador's gaze sharpened, and he stepped forward, his voice low. "Guilliman, do you think breaking up the Legions is necessary, or merely a compromise?"
Guilliman looked up, his brow furrowed slightly. "At least this Heresy proves the consequences of a single leader controlling a massive army. Perhaps some restructuring is necessary. In fact, all Astartes need to have a unified wartime doctrine."
Malcador pondered for a moment, then asked, "Do you think the other brothers will accept this decision?"
"They won't accept it easily. Dorn, Khan, and even Russ will oppose it. Each Legion is considered one's own progeny, and if you insist on doing so, it is tantamount to questioning their loyalty." Guilliman sighed, his voice filled with complex emotions.
"What if...someone refuses to accept it, or even rebels because of it?" Malcador asked slowly.
"We are the Emperor's sons!" Guilliman's eyes blazed with conviction.
The two remained silent for a while, as if the weight of their conversation was suffocating the entire room.
Finally, Malcador turned around and looked out the window again, his voice sounding heavy in the pale light. "I believe in your loyalty to the Emperor."
Guilliman stood up, turned, and left the meeting room, his figure gradually disappearing into the depths of the corridor.
....
Inside the Throne room, that radiance which once shone like the sun was gradually dissipating. The once surging tide of psychic energy was now much calmer.
"Father, you see! I was right! As long as you keep reloading every day and releasing your energy, you'll be able to better control yourself! This is what they mean by 'it's better to channel than to contain'!"
Francis leaned against the mountain of psychic bombs, extremely satisfied with the results of his treatment.
Behind them came a piercing mechanical roar. Hundreds of Soul Drinkers operated three or four automated assemblies. Mechanical arms passed by them quickly, handing over cold wraithbone materials.
The Soul Drinkers mechanically processed these wraithbone pieces into projectile casings like automatons.
When they were first called in this grand golden throne hall, they thought something momentous was going to happen, so they quickly volunteered. But they never expected to be here working in the Throne Hall.
It felt like they were back in the manufactorums at the underhive levels. They wanted to weep, but with the Emperor above them, they could not.
Francis quickly cleared his throat. "Ahem, for the Emperor! It'll be a minor inconvenience only a week before the shift changes."
"The Emperor's safety rests entirely on the shoulders of our Soul Drinkers Legion. Is this not an immense honor for you?! Look! As long as you participate in this, you will gain the honor of a true warrior."
Francis held up helmets engraved with Imperial laurel wreaths. He gently picked up a helmet with the Imperial laurel wreath and tenderly placed it on the head of a Soul Drinker.
The Soul Drinker's eyes gleamed with burning light, overwhelmed by a powerful sense of honor at this moment. The moment he donned the helmet, the whole world seemed to change. An indescribable sense of glory instantly replaced that feeling of tedium.
"Glory belongs to the Imperium, glory belongs to each and every one of you," Francis whispered, his voice filled with deep conviction.
"For the Emperor!"
"For the Emperor!"
The Soul Drinker's eyes gleamed with zeal, his hands frantically processing the munitions as if possessed. They wished they had more hands so they could work even harder.
Squelch!
Sure enough, someone inadvertently mutated their flesh, sprouting two additional pairs of arms.
Francis: "..."
Before leaving, Francis also crafted blackstone bracelets, blackstone ankle weights, and other items for the Emperor.
The Emperor's expression gradually darkened. Francis knew that the Emperor was indeed very fond of them, but the Emperor was just too reserved to say it.
"Sigh! This emotional distance is really affecting the father-son relationship." He shook his head helplessly, marveling at how filial he was.
The heavy golden doors swung open with a resonant groan. Francis slowly emerged from the Throne room, levitating a mountain of psychic bombs behind him.
These bombs emanated a deep, psychic luminescence, each engraved with intricate runes and patterns, seemingly capable of unleashing unimaginable destructive energy at the slightest mishap.
The Custodians around them all tensed, feeling a chill run down their spines. If all of these detonate, will Terra still exist?
"You bunch of novices! Look how scared you are. Hmph, Your Captain-General even dared to draw his guardian spear on me back then." Francis shook his head, but he did miss Constantin a little and wondered how his mission was progressing.
The Custodians desperately wished the Sisters of Silence were by their side. Only then would they feel secure.
Just then, a group of Silent Sisters appeared. The tension in their eyes vanished instantly. They firmly believed that with the Adeptus Custodes and the Sisters of Silence together, there was nothing they couldn't face.
Just as they were about to relax, they saw the Sisters walk to Francis's side.
When Francis walked out of the Throne room, he was met with a chaotic scene of arguing.
"The Legions' excessive size was one of the root causes of this Heresy. We need to re-examine this to ensure that such a tragedy does not happen again. Restructuring the Legions is the wisest option." Guilliman stood in the center of a group of Primarchs, his gaze resolute, his tone measured.
"Split the Legions? That's an insult to us loyal warriors! We are not traitors! The Legions' strength comes from unity. To weaken us is to weaken the Imperium!" Leman Russ roared furiously, his eyes burning with wolfish savagery.
The voices of debate echoed like thunder, while the other Primarchs held their own opinions. Sanguinius frowned slightly, seemingly agreeing with aspects of both positions.
Perturabo, on the other hand, watched coldly, a hint of disdain in his eyes. Meanwhile, Ferrus and Vulkan were whispering amongst themselves, seemingly weighing the pros and cons.
The massive psychic fluctuations made them turn around sharply to look at Francis and the psychic bombs behind him.
"Uh, the bombs Father made are still warm. Do you want to take some back with you?" Francis scratched his head.
Perturabo and Magnus immediately came to his side.
The assembly, which had been on the verge of conflict, now lined up to receive their bombs from Francis.
"This is the first bomb Father made. Although he is a bit unpracticed, please don't mind it, eldest brother." Lion El'Jonson, though still keeping a straight face, revealed joy in his eyes.
"This is the fourth one Father made for Perturabo! The fifth one goes to the Khan. The sixth to Russ. The seventh to Dorn..."
Finally, Francis gave Corax a brief embrace.
Corax felt a little confused, but it was definitely a warm gesture.
Now, each Primarch held a psychic bomb made by their Father, and their tempers had calmed down considerably.
"What do you think about the restructuring of the Legions? This is a crucial issue concerning the future of the Imperium!" Guilliman again continued.
All eyes of the Primarchs were on Francis, who now just wanted to curse.
'They've already taken the gifts. Why are they still dragging me into this?'
Next time, I need to add more ingredients to Guilliman's growth supplements.
[End of Chapter]
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