Badab Prime.Surface.
Adam sat in his seat, surveying his surroundings with curious eyes.
Before him stretched a wide dueling arena, its walls built from packed earth and stone — clearly rammed from the distinctive reddish-brown rock soil native to Badab Prime.
The spectators surrounding it were Astartes in great numbers. Space Marines clad in power armor stood in solemn rows, gazing toward the center of the arena, their expressions grave, the atmosphere heavy with tension.
As for why Adam was here at all?
The answer was simple.
My Necron technology is unmatched beneath the stars!!
The moment both parties had agreed to an honor duel, Adam had traveled directly from Mars in the Sol System to the Badab System via micro-wormhole.
The Eternity Gate had been deployed across every major fleet of the mobile task forces assembled by the Custodes, and one of their primary missions was to quietly extend this network to all strategically important worlds of the Imperium.
Even for the Necrons, masters of advanced dimensional technology, it would be an absurd luxury to scatter transit nodes of this caliber across the entire galaxy.
— But before Adam's reality-warping ability, creating a micro-wormhole that could be sustained long-term through Necron technology was nothing more than a casual gesture, barely worth mentioning.
And this was precisely why Diocletian had felt confident enough to openly berate Huron's conduct on the spot — because his dimensional transit was the real kind, the kind where ten thousand troops could appear at a moment's notice.
"Lord Adam, I must confess I don't entirely understand why you hold a single Astartes in such high regard."
Standing to one side, Diocletian turned his head slightly, his golden helm tilting as the voice that came through his faceplate carried obvious puzzlement.
Adam gave a small shake of his head, his gaze still resting on the two figures preparing themselves in the arena below.
"Because talent is rare."
He said, "And if the Imperium ever wishes to conquer the Maelstrom region, my judgment is that Lufgt Huron's help will be absolutely critical — he is irreplaceable."
As Chapter Master of the Astral Claws and Tyrant of the Maelstrom, Huron's intimate knowledge of that star region was something no other human being could match.
In the original timeline, after the Badab War ended with Huron dragged off by the remnants of his shattered forces — half his body melted away — he barely escaped into the Maelstrom. Yet within a remarkably short span of time (a mere century), he had built the galaxy's second-largest Chaos warband: the Red Corsairs.
His organizational capacity and resource-management ability essentially outclassed a certain pointy-helmed Chaos Warmaster in every measurable way.
Every campaign a victory, every campaign a victory.jpg
In the history of the Imperium, there was no shortage of those who could charge headlong into battle with exceptional personal martial prowess, nor of those brilliant commanders who could direct armies with calm authority.
But those talented at governance and administration — they were rarer. Especially one as formidably capable in that domain as Huron.
"That does surprise me," Diocletian's voice carried a note of confusion.
"In my eyes, you differ greatly from the Emperor. You seem to pay close attention to these... fine details, rather than focusing on the grand picture as my master did."
Adam heard this and let a faint smile curl at the corner of his mouth.
"There are many reasons for that."
He began to explain, "First, there are indeed significant differences between the Emperor and myself."
After all, the Emperor had never had the luxury of being a reality-warper who could continuously advance in power, as Adam was.
Adam understood the significance of his own path of growth clearly.
— When he ascended to Tier 4 Reality-Warper, the balance of power between the Imperium and Chaos would shift, and it would be Chaos scrambling to solve the new puzzle.
— Should he ever reach Tier 5, the four Chaos Gods would likely need to start searching for a more suitable physical vessel than Horus — otherwise in the material universe, Adam would simply be invincible, much like the Emperor at the height of the Great Crusade.
— As for Tier 6, still impossibly distant even now, something Adam himself didn't know if he could ever reach—
If that day ever came—
To bring the entire universe to its knees, by his will alone!!!
"The second reason is that I have absorbed certain lessons from the Emperor's example."
Adam continued.
A certain socially anxious golden being, eager to clock off early, had during the Great Crusade habitually skipped all intermediate steps to reach the end result directly — and carelessly skipped right over his own life in the process, ultimately left with no choice but to wither upon the Golden Throne.
That was no small lesson.
"Enough of that — let's watch the match."
He waved his hand, closing the subject.
At that moment, in the arena.
Endymion had removed his ornate Achilles Terminator armor.
Now he stood clad only in a form-fitting black training suit, his frame straight as a pine. Though stripped of his power armor's augmentation, the aura radiating from him had not diminished in the slightest. In his hand he gripped a training longsword — unsharpened along its blade, yet still catching the sunlight with a cold and piercing gleam.
Facing Endymion stood the Astral Claws' Champion, Corien Sumatris — fully armored in Terminator plate and armed with a power sword. It looked deeply unfair on the surface, yet not a single Custodian believed that Tribune Ra Endymion would lose this contest.
"The first-blood duel — begins now!"
The Chaplain serving as referee announced in a booming voice.
Corien moved.
His foot struck the ground, and the explosive power granted by his power armor launched him forward at lightning speed, crossing the distance of a dozen meters in an instant.
He swung — a downward cleave!
The air shrieked, like a blade parting waves!
And yet, faced with this staggering blow, Endymion did not dodge.
He didn't even move his feet.
In the instant before the strike reached him, Endymion's training longsword shifted.
The parry didn't look fast — but its timing was suffocatingly precise.
The mighty, crushing blow skimmed past his body and fell away to the side.
Simultaneously, Endymion's left hand shot out like a viper's strike. In the split second that Corien's swing had carried him slightly off-balance, a palm slammed squarely into the center of his chest plate.
Thoom.
A dull, heavy impact rang out.
Corien was hurled bodily backward, crashing hard into the floor of the arena.
The power armor's servo systems screamed in protest at the overload. He struggled to rise — and his pupils contracted sharply.
How is this possible?
There, on his chest plate, was a clear palm-shaped dent.
This Custodian, with nothing but his bare physical strength, had left a mark in ceramite armor!
How could anyone fight this?
"Fsssh—"
A rush of displaced air came straight at him!
The tip of the training sword came to rest gently before the eye-lenses of Corien's helmet.
"You are defeated."
Endymion said, his voice perfectly calm.
The entire arena fell silent.
From beginning to end — no more than five seconds.
Corien rose with difficulty and bowed his head in submission.
Whatever his expression beneath his helm, the honor of his Chapter demanded he accept the outcome.
But then — at that moment —
Two Custodians stepped out from the spectator stands, each bearing a weapon in both hands.
They approached Corien and extended them forward — a masterwork power sword and a masterwork bolt pistol of exquisite craftsmanship, clearly the work of a master artificer, far beyond standard Space Marine issue.
"Your valor is worthy of praise," one of the Custodians said. "These are pieces from the Custodian Vaults. They are presented now to a worthy opponent."
Corien went still.
He was silent for a moment. Then, with great solemnity, he accepted the weapons, bowed to Endymion and to the one who had offered the gifts in turn, and quietly withdrew back into his ranks.
The atmosphere began to shift in subtle ways.
The initial tension and hostility gradually dissolved.
Before the match had begun, three things Endymion had done had proven pivotal:
First, before stepping forward, he had clearly stated his own honors — recounting how he had witnessed the Emperor walk among men, seen the glory of the Great Crusade, and stood before Guilliman — thereby making the assembled Astartes take stock, while also making it plain he had no intention of intimidating or insulting them.
Second, he had voluntarily removed his armor, framing it with skillful words as a matter of fairness — rather than as contempt or an insult directed at the Astral Claws.
Third, he had reframed the honor duel as a sparring exchange between himself and any Astral Claws who wished to face him. Should any challenger win, he would personally offer an apology to Diocletian on behalf of the Custodes; even in defeat, each challenger would still earn his recognition and a gift from the Custodians' stores, making it clear this was to be a contest of friendship.
And so, through Endymion's deft maneuvering, what might have escalated into a bloody conflict was transformed, at a stroke, into something closer to a competitive exchange of skills.
"Next," Endymion said from the center of the arena, his voice as steady as ever.
Another Astartes stepped out, then another—
One bout, then another.
The Custodian Tribune fought as if he did not know what fatigue was.
His combat style was elegant and efficient, without a single wasted motion. Every dodge, every counter-strike was devastatingly precise. Even facing a continuous rotation of Astartes, he showed no sign of pressure — his breathing remained even, not a drop of sweat on his brow.
In the stands, Adam watched with great enjoyment, while Diocletian beside him stood with arms folded, his golden armor gleaming in the sunlight.
Neither of them showed the slightest concern for Endymion.
What a joke.
Ra Endymion was a Tribune who had claimed 871 names during the Great Crusade, who had cut down elite warriors of the Soul Drinkers during the War in the Webway like harvesting grain, who had defeated the Champion of a Great Crusade-era Legion in a single exchange — a legend among the Legio Custodes.
A rotating relay of this kind? For him, it barely counted as a warm-up.
Never mind the other Astral Claws — even if the Chapter's own spiritual successor, Ultramarine Second Company Captain Demetrian Titus, had stepped forward himself, he would likely have faced this as the most harrowing challenge of his life.
The contest in the arena continued.
Finally, when the thirteenth challenger lightly tapped his own throat with the hilt of Endymion's training sword and conceded, Huron raised his hand — enough.
The entire arena fell silent.
Endymion raised one hand, planted the training sword into the earth, and swept his gaze across every Astartes present.
His voice rang out, clear and strong, carrying through the air:
"Today's fighting has shown me the valor and resilience of the Astral Claws. The martial skill of every one of you is worthy of praise, and your devotion to honor leaves a deep impression."
He paused, then continued:
"I believe that in the years spent guarding this region of the Maelstrom, you have made sacrifices beyond imagining. Those deeds will not be forgotten by the Imperium — nor by humanity."
These words made many of the Astartes draw themselves up taller.
For ten thousand years they had fought alone, and rarely had acknowledgment come from Terra.
And now, a Custodian Tribune — a Warden of the Emperor himself — had given voice to their sacrifice.
"As for the matter of the Maelstrom Crusade..."
Endymion shifted course. "I believe the Imperium will give it fuller consideration. The Crusade will not be cancelled — but neither will it be launched carelessly. What is needed is a planned, well-prepared campaign, not an impulsive sacrifice."
He looked toward Huron, his words sincere: "Chapter Master, please trust that Terra has not turned a blind eye to the crisis of the Maelstrom. The Imperium's domains are simply vast beyond measure, and every border demands its defenders. When the moment is right, the Crusade will come."
The expression on Huron's face grew complicated.
The anger that had blazed when Diocletian had challenged him had fully subsided, replaced now by a deep, quiet contemplation.
In the end, somewhere inside, he allowed himself a quiet breath of relief.
So it seemed that the treatment he had received was not the Custodes' collective judgment of him — only the personal displeasure of that one Tribune. His most pressing task now was simply to correct the behavior that had drawn that censure, one matter at a time.
After all, with the Custodes' support now secured, though Huron could no longer turn the Badab System into his private pocket domain as he once had, neither did he need to dread a future where the Badab Sector might fall.
If the Huron of before had been the tallest figure standing within the Maelstrom, things were simply different now.
Thinking on it, Huron even felt a somewhat uncomfortable sense of relief.
And so he stepped up onto the arena, and gave Endymion the Aquila salute.
"The Tribune's martial skill and bearing command admiration," Huron said, his voice notably calmer than before. "It was I who failed to think things through—"
His words were not yet finished.
At that moment —
A piercing klaxon tore through the entire fortress.
Everyone present — Astartes and Custodians alike — reacted almost simultaneously, hands going to their weapons, while urgent confirmation calls crackled through communication channels from squad commanders on every frequency.
And everyone linked to the ships and defense platforms in orbit received the same signal:
[+ LARGE-SCALE WARP TRANSLATION DETECTED AT MANDEVILLE POINT +]
[+ TARGET CONFIRMED: CHAOS SPACE MARINE BATTLE BARGE +]
[+ ALERT: TRANSLATION FROM THE WARP COMPLETE +]
Huron's expression changed instantly.
Endymion and Diocletian exchanged a glance, both their brows creasing slightly.
Adam rose slowly from his seat, tilting his head back to look up beyond the arena at that blood-red sky above.
"...An encore?"
He remarked with interest, not quite able to resist the commentary.