Hearing Adam's words, everyone was momentarily speechless.
Calling the Emperor "that guy"—did that count as a form of blasphemy? Yet, no one spoke up to caution or question him. After all, the Emperor himself didn't seem to have an objection. Clearly, there was a connection between Adam and the Master of Mankind that they couldn't fully comprehend—a bond perhaps not always clear, but one that commanded the most primal reverence from those present.
Thus, they simply followed Adam's light footsteps in silence.
The heavy metal doors slid open with a low hydraulic hiss, and the group entered a vast hall. Cold white light poured down from the high ceiling, reflecting off the seemingly infinite metal floor. On the surrounding walls, one could faintly see massive murals depicting the glorious epics of the Great Crusade.
However, the erosion of ten millennia and the influence of the Ecclesiarchy had rendered these murals somewhat distorted in the eyes of the heroes who had actually lived through those times. But for now, no one focused on the inaccuracies of the art.
In the center of the hall stood living epics.
Over thirty Astartes in power armor were active within the hall. Some stood alone, adjusting their weapons; others gathered in small groups, conversing in low tones; and near the edges, several pairs were engaged in intense combat simulations. The roar of bolters, the hum of power weapons clashing, and the thud of heavy armor on metal floorboards filled the air.
On their power armor, the Legion heraldry and campaign honors—still clear after ten thousand years—shone brightly under the cold light. This was one of the results of Adam's preparations over the past period.
The moment the group entered, an Astartes nearest to the door sensed their arrival. He immediately cut off his conversation, turned, and strode toward the entrance.
"Hey! Dantioch!" The Astartes' voice crackled through his vox-grille, carrying a familiar warmth. "Long time no see—or rather, see you in a bit?"
He walked up boldly, completely ignoring Adam and the others. He raised a fist encased in adamantium plate and gave Dantioch's breastplate a friendly, solid thump that rang with a sharp clang.
Dantioch recognized the man almost instantly.
"Alexis Polux?" His voice wavered with emotion. "...It's you. Indeed, it has been a long time."
During the silent, eternal death-march of the Legion of the Damned, they had belonged to different detachments and rarely had the chance to meet. To reunite in the material universe in such a "vibrant" state was a first.
Polux—a Captain of the Imperial Fists and the first Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists, a hard-bitten survivor of the Heresy's bloodiest battlefields. His combat prowess was unquestioned, but more importantly, during the darkest days of the Horus Heresy, he had fought side-by-side with Dantioch against the traitor tide. They were brothers-in-arms who trusted each other implicitly.
"Looks like the Lord 'fished' you out too?" Polux's voice carried a smile as he finally removed his helmet, revealing a face weathered by time but still as resolute as stone. His grey-blue eyes sparkled with that familiar, inextinguishable fire of battle. "Excellent. I was just betting with Garro on who would be next."
As Polux moved, the other Astartes in the hall ceased their activities. They rose in an orderly fashion and gathered quickly, forming a loose but solemn line before Dantioch and the others. One by one, they removed their helmets.
Faces young and old, calm or impassioned, all bore the same mark of iron will. To Dantioch, many of these faces were as familiar as yesterday.
"Nathaniel Garro, Death... no, 'Dusk Raider', Seventh Captain. It is an honor to serve with you again." A warrior with a slightly melancholic expression but eyes as steady as a deep pool spoke first.
"Saul Tarvitz. A true Son of the Emperor." A warrior with a determined face stepped forward. His demeanor was a far cry from the elegant and ornate Emperor's Children Dantioch remembered; instead, he felt more like the silent, mountain-like Imperial Fists.
"Andnowi, Warsmith of the Iron Warriors," a deep voice boomed. It was a particularly massive Iron Warrior with eyes as sharp as blades. Dantioch remembered him—a Warsmith famous for his ferocity during the later stages of the Great Crusade.
"Fel Zharost, Terran-born, Chief Librarian of the Night Lords... and one of the founding Grand Masters of the Grey Knights." A pale-skinned Astartes nodded slightly.
Name after name, title after title—pieces of history that had been deliberately buried or distorted by the Imperium—were now standing here in the flesh. They came from different Legions and different worlds, but in the betrayal that tore the galaxy apart, they had all made the same choice.
They were the Loyalists of the Traitor Legions.
Dantioch's expression was solemn as he struck his fist against his left chest, offering the most formal salute to every comrade. He turned to Adam, his voice low: "So, this is your preparation?"
"Yes," Adam nodded seriously. He gestured toward the silent, powerful warriors. "I won't say I have everyone, but for the most part, the Loyalists of the Traitor Legions who meet the criteria and whose state allows for it are here."
For instance, Adam's favorite Knight-Errant, the last Luna Wolf, Garviel Loken, was unavailable. Because of the nature of his death—backstabbed by Erebus with a ritual dagger—his soul had been utterly extinguished, making resurrection impossible. Adam would likely have to wait until he became a Level 4 Reality Warper to change that.
Just thinking about it made him grit his teeth. Erebus is just so damn evil! I'd shoot him twice if I could!
"The bodies they are using now," Adam continued calmly, "have undergone some necessary adjustments, but they still carry the gene-seed of their original Legions. In a way, it's the perfect foundation for a disguise."
Dantioch looked thoughtful, his gaze instinctively falling on Polux, who was conversing in low tones with Garro. Doesn't Polux seem a bit out of place?
Adam caught his look immediately and said knowingly: "Oh, his situation is special. Imperial Fists gene-seed... that is indeed different from the 'Iron Warriors' disguise warband you'll be leading. However, it's not a big problem. You see, since Chaos warbands suffer from gene-seed corruption and recruitment difficulties, they often raid Loyalists for gene-seed to replenish their ranks."
"And for the Iron Warriors, in a certain sense, Imperial Fists gene-seed is the best choice."
These words caused several warriors of Iron Warrior origin, including Andnowi, to twitch their lips slightly. Dantioch had to admit that was exactly the kind of thing Iron Warriors would do; it could even be considered a "tradition."
"Speaking of which," Adam rubbed his chin with a hint of regret, "on my original shortlist, I wanted to include a few more... heavyweight names. Like, say, Sigismund."
At the mention of that name, even the calmest warriors looked over. The founder of the Black Templars, the legend of the Imperial Fists, the Emperor's Champion... if he were here, the significance would be entirely different.
"But unfortunately," Adam spread his hands with a mix of helplessness and subtle mockery, "'That One' wouldn't allow it."
Well, that settled that. Understanding who "That One" referred to, the hall fell into a brief silence. Adam quickly steered the conversation back to the task at hand, his expression turning serious as he looked at Dantioch.
"Back to the point. Dantioch, you will be the core and leader of this special unit. Not only will I help you 'awaken' these comrades, but I will also gradually supplement you with over eight hundred iron-willed Loyalist Iron Warrior Astartes as your direct command. You need to fully integrate into this era, posing as a sizable 'Renegade Warband' operating on the edge of the Eye of Terror. You will wander the galaxy and await my call."
Dantioch took a deep breath and nodded firmly. "Yes, Lord Adam."
Just then, Dantioch's gaze drifted past his Loyalist colleagues toward a group of figures deeper in the hall, near the shadows of a corner. There were about a dozen of them, remaining silent and not stepping forward to join the gathering. While everyone else wore various Legion colors, the silhouettes and armor outlines of these Astartes, as well as that classic, solemn deep blue tone recognizable even from a distance...
"Ultramarines?" Dantioch whispered, unsure.
The armor styles of those Astartes also carried a heavy Great Crusade to Horus Heresy influence, overlapping with his memory of the 13th Legion's elites.
Adam followed his gaze, that playful smile returning to his face.
"...No, they aren't with you." He shook his head lightly. "That is preparation for another 'gift'."
Think about it: when someone who has slept for ten thousand years finally wakes up to face a mess of an Imperium and a mountain of "spaghetti code" left behind by his successors—already wearing a mask of pain—only to find he isn't alone... that a group of very familiar veterans are willing to help him rebuild...
Adam's smile deepened, as if he could already see the scene.
"I imagine he will be quite moved, don't you think?"