"It truly is a sorrowful sight."
Aboard the Fist of Iron, the Gloriana-class flagship of the Iron Hands.
Raldoron gazed down at the planet below, a world both familiar and foreign. His voice came from beneath his tactical helmet, carrying a faint sigh. "Baal is no different from how it exists in my memory."
As the least renowned among the "Three Peers of the Great Crusade" and the former First Captain of the Blood Angels Legion, Raldoron always remembered Sanguinius's praises, expectations, and hopes for Baal. Yet, ten thousand years had passed, and the planet's environment remained as harsh as ever.
Reddish-brown soil covered the plains of the entire world, where tribes faithful to Sanguinius continued their endless skirmishes with mutants. They shouted slogans of faith in Sanguinius while struggling to survive on that barren, water-scarce planet. Raldoron even believed that, compared to the era of the Great Crusade, their living conditions had worsened due to the depletion of resources.
All of this caused the Blood Angel—who had followed the Great Angel ten thousand years ago to cleanse the galaxy—to feel a deep sense of lament. He had firmly believed his gene-father would lead them to a better future. His loyalty had even wavered once during the Siege of Terra when he crossed blades with his gene-father, mistakenly believing him to be a traitor. But seeing this familiar scene now, with the Emperor's beautiful promises for humanity turned to ash and scattered by the wind, Raldoron still felt a pang of regret.
Raldoron knew he shouldn't be overly critical of his so-called successors. As the First Captain of the Blood Angels Legion and the first Chapter Master of the Blood Angels Chapter, he understood the heavy burdens on their shoulders and the horrors they faced.
"However, I harbor hope for this."
At that moment, a massive figure stepped forward onto the bridge. Raldoron moved back a few paces, offering a calm gesture of respect. Even he had to show reverence to this individual. This person's loyalty had been perfectly proven ten thousand years ago at Isstvan V.
The Primarch, gene-father of the Iron Hands, Master of the Legion, and Son of the Gorgon—Ferrus Manus—peered through the viewport at the crimson surface below and continued.
"Now, after ten thousand years of decay and silence, we shall change. A sliver of dawn has already pierced the sky. We will make this planet prosperous once again."
"The Empire is no longer under the pressure of the Great Crusade, nor do we need to rush to unify the galaxy before a final deadline."
"We now have the capability to launch another Great Crusade, bringing security and prosperity to those Imperial worlds still mired in poverty and corruption."
"And once Sanguinius is resurrected, the scions of the Angel will be reborn from the flames. They will be free from the influence of the Red Thirst and the Black Rage, truly becoming the perfect scions of Sanguinius."
"...That is my wish as well." Raldoron nodded calmly in response.
Thirteen Terran hours later. Baal, Starport.
"The Blood Angels Chapter welcomes your arrival."
Dante, the current Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, looked up to witness the massive military force before him. His pupils contracted sharply at the sight of a Gloriana-class battleship—a vessel that, according to rumors, had not left port in ten thousand years. He couldn't possibly imagine what was happening.
What is going on with the Iron Hands? Even the Fist of Iron had been deployed? Even Dante, who had served as Chapter Master for over nine hundred years, found this sight utterly alien.
Then, a rhythmic, powerful marching sound accompanied by a low rumble echoed from the other end of the passage. A squad of massive Astartes Terminators, painted entirely in black, appeared. They marched in silence, carrying an aura of unbelievable stillness. The weaponry mounted on them was varied and numerous, leaving no doubt about their firepower.
Dante's gaze narrowed. With his vast experience, he recognized them quickly. They were clearly the Helfathers, the hidden elite of the Iron Hands. Even an veteran like Dante had never seen them fighting alongside him. He knew that these Helfathers were composed of the most elite Terminators, and the extent of their cybernetic modification was staggering even by the standards of the Iron Hands. Their rate of fire could easily create a barrier of destruction that would leave any enemy of the Empire in despair.
Following the Helfathers was a figure Dante was quite familiar with—Kardan Stronos, the de facto leader of the Iron Hands. Seeing the Iron Hands leader step forward, Dante moved to greet him. However, Dante felt a growing confusion. Why would the Iron Hands arrive at Baal in what looked like a full mobilization? What did this mean? A vague intuition manifested in his heart, though he couldn't tell if it was good or bad.
Wait... what is this? Dante stopped in his tracks. He saw the leader of the Iron Hands step to one side and raise his power stave, standing as if he were a common guard. This was not in accordance with etiquette. Who in the Empire today could command such respect from the leader of a First Founding Chapter?
Could it be? A flash of realization struck Dante's mind. Could the astropathic messages about Roboute Guilliman's resurrection be true? If so, it might make sense. But then again, why was the Gloriana-class battleship the Fist of Iron, the flagship of the Iron Hands, and not the Macragge's Honour?
Before Dante's confusion could find words, a massive figure appeared in the view of all Astartes present. Dante was completely stunned. This figure instantly drew every eye. It was a silhouette far taller than any Astartes, covered in power armor bearing the distinct mechanical modifications of the Iron Hands.
His arms, from the elbows down, were cast entirely in shimmering silver metal—not ordinary mechanical prosthetics, but a living metal that emitted a dark luster. His face was as hard as iron, and a pair of iron-grey eyes burned with a flame that had not been extinguished in ten thousand years.
Dante recognized that face. Even if one had never seen a Primarch in person, any citizen of the Empire would associate that face with one name.
Ferrus Manus.
The Primarch who had supposedly died at the hands of Fulgrim on Isstvan V ten thousand years ago. Now, he stood upon the red soil of Baal.