"Father, the First Legion should not involve itself in this kind of struggle."
Koswain looked on helplessly at the Lion, whose confidence was overflowing. The First Legion's reputation within the Imperium was not exactly sterling at the moment.
The Lion himself was regarded with suspicion by many of his brothers. Wherever he appeared, he brought not reassurance to the local population but a terrifying presence that made even battle-hardened Solar Auxilia tremble.
The First Legion was strong — but that didn't mean they had any business competing for the Warmaster position.
Koswain didn't even want to say it, but while the Warmaster title was important, the First Legion's standing with the Emperor had never depended on it. His father simply didn't understand what the First Legion truly represented.
He was too proud. Too calculating. Even if his loyalty was beyond compare.
"Should we not compete? Since the Great Crusade began, how many xenos has the First Legion exterminated? How many hard battles have we fought? Some campaigns we never even publicised — our brothers died in droves. And now you're telling me we shouldn't pursue this honour?"
"Koswain, does the First Legion's sacrifice and military record not deserve the name of Warmaster?"
Before Lion El'Jonson could speak, it was Luther who opened his mouth — Luther, who placed such weight on honour and reputation. And Koswain, who held genuine respect for this foster-father who had endured even without the enhancement surgeries and still commanded brilliantly at the front, cut him down without mercy.
"Our duty is what it is. The Emperor did not grant us this trust so we could chase hollow titles, Commander. Even without that name, we are still the First Legion. The Emperor's trust in us does not change."
But Luther wasn't listening at all. Most of the Calibanites present were the same.
Zabriel and others had quietly positioned themselves behind Luther, their allegiance declared without a word.
Galand, Astelan, and the other Terran-born supported Koswain. The Lion himself sat at the head and said nothing. For him, the Emperor's orders were paramount — but there were no orders right now, the honour was there before him, and he was fully capable and fully qualified to compete.
"We need to recruit more men, Luther."
The Lion finally spoke, but Koswain and the others understood exactly what he meant.
"Father—"
Koswain wanted to press further, but the Lion waved a hand and left. Luther and the others moved quickly to their preparations — the Dark Angels had always moved with decisive speed.
Seeing this, Koswain said nothing more. He glanced back at his brothers. Their eyes all conveyed the same message clearly enough.
We're meeting tonight.
The Imperium, which had been at a critical upswing, suddenly became treacherous and turbulent. The major Legions began furiously accelerating their rate of conquest, their methods growing far more brutal and extreme than before.
Even Horus, who had always favoured conciliation, became harsh. He employed attrition tactics with remarkable frequency. The Nineteenth Legion, already more or less indoctrinated, was now charging into the bloodiest fighting for Horus's glory without the slightest hesitation about their losses.
Ferrus and Lion El'Jonson were equally unwilling to fall behind. The heavy-armour Legion and the most comprehensively capable all-rounder Legion both doubled their usual rate of conquest, sending the Imperium's logistical burden skyrocketing instantly. More than a few Administratum officials had already dropped dead at their posts.
Only the Fifth and Sixth Legions showed no improvement in crusade efficiency. Even Lorgar had the Word Bearers accelerating their spread of the Imperial Truth.
Neither Malcador nor the Emperor had anticipated that the Primarchs would unleash such astonishing potential in pursuit of this position.
"Looks like they weren't really taking my words to heart before. I'll need to push them harder in future."
The Emperor remarked, in a fashion that showed very little concern for anyone, leaving Malcador somewhat speechless.
"At this rate, forget the Crusade — the Imperium's logistics will collapse first. Revelation, our supply lines have been stretched far too thin. The Warp lanes are consuming enormous amounts of our tax revenue. If we don't find a solution soon, we may not be able to hold together even now."
"Is it really that serious? Horus and the others seem to be doing just fine from where I'm standing."
Malcador, who had been managing affairs of state without rest, his temples now genuinely greying, turned to look at the Emperor with an expression of complete disbelief, then raised his staff and brought it down firmly against the Emperor's shin.
"Why don't you come and handle the administration yourself? Do you have any idea how many Administratum officials have already died at their desks? How many planetary governors have been crushed under the weight of these taxes? It's easy to stand there and say everything looks fine."
"If Perturabo weren't still supplying resources, the Imperium would have already imploded. You'd have rebellions you couldn't suppress fast enough! Doing just fine — the resources are all going into the Webway, and the Mechanicum is nearly at the point of revolt!"
"You have no concept of how many human beings have died because of the Great Crusade. And you have the nerve to say that. You deserve a beating. Now get back to building the Webway!"
Malcador made to swing again, and the Emperor said nothing further. The Webway construction did need to be pushed faster — otherwise it was an insult to all the resources being funnelled in from across the galaxy.
Yet at this very moment, the worlds under Perturabo's control were calm. Methodically, steadily, more worlds fell under his banner. His Legion had not deployed, yet the Expedition forces drawn from Olympia and his tributary worlds remained vast in scale, and the extent of his control over the Eastern Fringe continued to expand outward.
The edges of the Obscurus and regions beyond the Astronomican had already come under his hand. Add to that his conquests in the Tempestus sector and the worlds the Death Guard had taken, and Perturabo now held the largest domain in the entire Imperium. His daily resource intake would probably make even the Emperor envious if he knew the full figure.
But Perturabo had no interest in pandering to them. Simply supplying the Imperium's Great Crusade with materiel was already generous enough. If they kept pushing — fine, secession was always an option.
"Vulkan, how is the research going?"
Vulkan, who was in the middle of working his way through a watermelon and a plate of fried chicken, produced a white crystal from nearby.
"This is the closest material I've managed to develop to match the Webway's structural composition. It's made by combining the ossified bone technology with the alloy formulas you provided — it has both durability and compatibility with the material and Warp dimensions simultaneously."
"Going any further than this would be very difficult. I'm at roughly my limit. And that's not even considering the astronomical resources that material like this would require to produce."
"The Webway is enormous. Even if we scraped together every resource in the entire galaxy, we'd probably still not be able to produce enough of this material."
"I can't even imagine what the Eldar who built the Webway must have been like, to have accomplished something like this. These tunnels even self-extend and develop branch routes. I still can't figure out how they did it."
Alongside his wonder, Vulkan felt a deep and crushing sense of inadequacy. Perhaps even ten thousand more years wouldn't be enough for him to reach that level.
"Don't be discouraged. They were a race that once stood at the very peak of the galaxy. If we ever truly manage to free ourselves from the Warp's influence and recover to Golden Age technology levels, there's no reason we couldn't eventually develop something comparable."
Perturabo offered the reassurance, then continued.
"What are your thoughts on the cracked Necron tech I gave you? I think living metal might actually be incorporated into these materials as well — it only needs minimal maintenance to self-repair and grow."
"My suspicion is that the Webway's primary structural components probably include similar materials. The Eldar likely also installed maintenance mechanisms at certain nodes — something like the Necrons' scarabs, performing regular upkeep. Only they've been extinct for so long now that nobody knows how to locate or operate those systems anymore."
Perturabo and Vulkan began laying out their assumptions together. This was, after all, a matter of humanity's survival — no room for carelessness, and no precedent to draw on. They would have to feel their way forward.
"Having looked at it — the living metal really is exceptional material, far beyond what our own technology can produce. Based on the materials and data you gave me, I'm actually starting to think the Eldar may not have used purely material-universe substances to construct the Webway in the first place."
"You mentioned the Eldar were once at their peak in both the Warp and the physical universe, and could push psychic power to extraordinary heights. Brother, I'm beginning to suspect the Webway is actually alive in some sense — not instinctively, but deliberately. I think the Eldar also created a kind of entity capable of moving freely between the Warp and realspace."
"They used this living substance to build the Webway. After all, as you've said, Necron technology alone could never have matched the Eldar. If living metal had been applied at that scale, there's no way the Necrons wouldn't have known about it."
"The Webway must be predominantly a Warp construction at its foundation. Because even with living metal, there's simply no way to lay the Webway across an entire galaxy using only material-universe resources. The quantities required would be impossible."
Vulkan and Perturabo fell into silence again. The Warp — even the Emperor's understanding of it was limited. Even Nurgle, the oldest of the four, couldn't claim complete knowledge of it.
When the Eldar were still flourishing at the Eye of Terror, Perturabo had never doubted that their influence extended into the Obscurus and beyond the Astronomican's reach — along with whatever xenos remnants from that era still survived out there. The Webway almost certainly extended into regions beyond the light of the Astronomican, but right now Perturabo and his companions knew essentially nothing about those stretches.
Warp travel was genuinely unstable. The boundless darkness beyond the Astronomican's reach carried a dread that was difficult to overstate.
Even when Perturabo ventured out searching for resource worlds, he rarely strayed far from the Astronomican.
The Webway's reconstruction was proving extraordinarily difficult at every turn. Perturabo felt that even the C'tan, who had once casually bent physical laws at will, restored to their former peak, might not be able to perfectly replicate the Webway.
Having just developed a new batch of Necron-derived weapons, and carrying a small private satisfaction about it, Perturabo found himself deflated all over again.
Vulkan, for his part, was eating fried chicken and watermelon in large bites, his bubble tea and milk tea practically never running out. The pressure of recent months had been enormous, and food was his only outlet. Thank the stars he was a Primarch — anyone else would have ballooned into a round ball by now from three-high syndrome, instead of remaining perfectly unaffected.
"How are the brothers doing lately? Has the Warmaster position been decided yet?"
Vulkan asked suddenly. He had been cut off from the wider Crusade for so long that he'd paid little attention to the outside world.
The Salamanders had remained steadfastly stationed by the Webway, and had barely inquired about Imperium affairs at all. For news, Vulkan now relied almost entirely on Perturabo.
"Gone completely mad over it, what else. Tax revenue has been collected through to a thousand years from now. If it weren't for me supplying the materiel, the Imperium and the Great Crusade would have already collapsed long ago. Rebellions haven't stopped for a single moment. And nobody seems to ask whether any of this is actually worth it — reclaiming all these worlds."
Perturabo's sardonic tone left Vulkan somewhat pained. He genuinely cared about humanity — even when he was incinerating xenos children, he had never flinched in his duty.
"Is it really that chaotic out there?"
"Everyone's gone berserk. Especially Ferrus and the Lion — those two burned through eight of my Titan Legions in just six months. That's how hard they're pushing."
"That much attrition?"
"Yes. Both their Legions were already formidable, and now they've abandoned all their previous restraints and are optimising purely for speed and body count. Even Horus and Guilliman have doubled their equipment requests. What it'll look like by the time 900.M30 arrives is anyone's guess."
"Even the Angel and the Phoenix, who always fought with such precision, are now pushing hard on the Crusade. The Death Guard, known for their endurance above all, have practically gone on a massacre in the Tempestus sector. It's a good thing I'm the one absorbing those worlds — if they were left to pillage their way through and then get hit with heavy Administratum taxation afterward, the Tempestus sector would be half dead already."
Vulkan thought this couldn't be good. The competition between his brothers had gone far too far. At this rate, nobody could predict what state the people in the rear territories would be left in.
"A brother returned recently."
Perturabo's words pulled Vulkan out of his thoughts.
"Oh? Who?"
"The Eighth Legion's Primarch. Konrad Curze."
"Have you heard anything about what he's like?"
"Not much. Just that he barely manages his Legion since coming back, which has earned him no shortage of criticism from some of the brothers. Apparently his homeworld, Nostramo, is loaded with adamantium — what a shame. I didn't find out in time. I'd have claimed that planet regardless of the circumstances."
Perturabo was genuinely regretful. Better to have it under his control than to let that brooding bat and a den of criminals run a world so absurdly rich in adamantium — only for Curze to eventually destroy it with his own hands.
He could guarantee that under his iron rule, not even the bat prince himself would be able to find a criminal to speak of on that planet — and the Eighth Legion wouldn't be corrupted into its current state by the dregs it had recruited from Nostramo.
"I'm thinking of taking Nostramo for myself. It's technically a brother's homeworld, I know, but I genuinely feel these resources would be better in my hands. I'm the only one who can make proper use of them."
"And from what I've heard, the human population there has astronomical crime rates. Better to let me wipe out the criminal elements entirely, then repopulate it with people from my territories. A complete refresh. Isn't that the better outcome?"
Vulkan didn't know what to say. His brother was as relentlessly ambitious as ever.
"That is our brother's homeworld, when all is said and done. And he hasn't done anything seriously wrong yet. Directly moving on it like that might not sit well — and the optics could be bad."
Vulkan still tried to offer some gentle counsel.
"Who's going to say anything? Will the Eighth Legion say something? Who supplies their lightning claws and power armour? Who provides their armoured vehicles? Taking their homeworld doesn't mean I leave them with nothing — if they want a paradise world as a replacement I can give them one."
"The rest? What does it matter if the brothers hear about it? At most they'll grumble a bit. Anyone else who dares open their mouth about it — I'll take their head."
This...
Vulkan genuinely didn't know how to respond.
"Well, if you do go through with it — make sure you find them a decent replacement world. You said it yourself, their homeworld isn't exactly ideal living conditions. They'd probably welcome your help."
It was the best Vulkan could manage.
"Don't worry. If he plays it smart, would I really shortchange him? You know me."
Vulkan had no interest in arguing the point further, and steered the conversation back to the Great Crusade.
"Do you know how Dorn is doing?"
"Dorn? What else would he be doing — guarding the defensive lines I had built around Terra and the Sol System. He's taken control of the whole Sol System's defences now, constructing fortifications based on my blueprints. No time for the Great Crusade."
"Russ and the Khan are the same as ever — doing whatever they please, living by their own rules, not bothering to grow their Legions. Magnus is being kept on Terra under the Emperor's direct supervision. Not allowed back to the Crusade until the genetic flaw in his Legion is resolved."
"As for genuine contenders for the Warmaster position — it really comes down to Horus and Ferrus. The Lion is fool enough to think he's qualified, but he's been frozen out by the brothers since the beginning."
"Outside it's a mess of scheming and faction-picking. If you weren't here guarding the Webway, you'd probably have half the Imperium's courtiers lining up to flatter you."
Vulkan had been vaguely thinking about getting some fresh air after so long in the Webway — but just listening to Perturabo describe the situation outside was already giving him a headache. Any thought of actually going out evaporated.
"If you're starting to feel cooped up, it's fine to go for a walk — just don't stray too far from my territories. Some parts of the Maelstrom and the Galactic Core region are interesting enough, and rich in minerals. A little excursion with your sons wouldn't hurt."
"There are even some derelict ghost ships that drifted out of Warp rifts in certain areas — you could explore those too if you're inclined. Just be careful, especially you personally. The Webway is still counting on you."
Perturabo had noticed Vulkan's mood, and added the suggestion.
"Is it really alright for me to go out right now?"
"Why not? The research has hit a wall anyway. Better to clear your head — maybe the breakthrough will come when you're not forcing it."
"All right then."
"Father, you don't need to go personally — we can handle this."
Radulon watched as Sanguinius finished armoring up, the Spear of Telesto and the Blade Encarmine both in hand, and Radulon had already locked a teleportation beacon on the target with his psychic ability.
"We need to resolve this quickly. Otherwise competing with Horus is going to be very difficult."
Radulon was now convinced that the Warmaster position was genuinely harmful. For the sake of that title, even his father was being pulled into personally leading engagements.
They used to negotiate first and only strike afterward when it came to situations like this. Now, over the smallest friction, they were jumping straight to boarding actions and decapitating the enemy commander. What else would they do in the name of efficiency going forward — Radulon didn't want to think about it.
The Blood Angels' occurrence of the Red Thirst had been rising again. It was fortunate that the Legion's reputation had been rehabilitated before now — it was still just barely manageable. But a few more incidents like this and they'd be on their way back to being that infamous Ghoul Legion.
"Father, why are we pushing an assault on this planet? The Orks have already overrun it completely. Even if we reclaim it, the cleansing and reconstruction will massively slow our rate of advance. The Warmaster position might then—"
"Enough, Auguston. I've made my decision. Stop trying to persuade me. Prepare for ground operations. Make sure a Titan Legion goes down first — these Orks should not be underestimated."
Guilliman cut off his son's words. The planet was resource-rich, and even at a greater cost now, it could eventually be a beautiful world where people lived well.
Hierax and several of the other Tetrarchs knew that once their father made a decision, not even a Titan Legion could drag him back. So they let it go.
This was going to be another brutal engagement, though. Orks never made for easy fighting — everyone knew that. Their crusade efficiency would be badly delayed again.
Their father was always like this — too indecisive on certain things. The Ultramarines were among the best of any Legion, and yet their crusade efficiency was somehow still trailing the Death Guard. All for the sake of these mortal populations, their father held back constantly, preventing them from fighting at full capacity, and sometimes even requiring them to sacrifice more brothers to protect specific structures or institutions from damage.
In hindsight, those decisions always proved correct. But in the moment, every time it happened, the Ultramarines couldn't help feeling a quiet frustration.
Guilliman had a splinter lodged in his heart that hadn't shifted. The Osirian xenos that had inflicted such heavy casualties on his Legion — he still hadn't found them. The grudge remained unsettled. The whole of the Thirteenth Legion carried a subdued, underlying despondency because of it.
The Great Crusade could wait. Even the Warmaster position could wait. But this stain on the Legion's honour had to be addressed. A Legion without spirit or fighting heart couldn't be expected to perform well in the Crusade regardless — everything else was secondary.
"Ezekyle, are you ready?"
Horus looked down at the enemy main force that had fully committed below. The timing for a decapitation strike on the enemy commander was perfect.
"Long ready, Father. Watch from here — this battle will be over within three hours."
Looking at the confident Abaddon, Horus simply smiled and said nothing. His First Captain was ferociously capable. He lacked in certain technical areas, but in actual combat he had an uncanny ability to find ways to win against the odds — Horus trusted him completely.
"Go. I'll be here waiting for your triumphant return."
And at that moment, as Abaddon led the Justaerin toward the drop pods, Loken nearby had a different view of things entirely.
He found Syeonax and Torquatus, who were engaged in conversation, and laid out his concerns.
"Shouldn't we be helping our brothers in the Nineteenth Legion right now? They were never supposed to be used like this. They're not suited for front-line assault."
Loken was deeply critical. He had always opposed attrition tactics, and using brothers from other Legions as sacrificial fodder to purchase glory sat very badly with him.
Especially now — in the race for the Warmaster position, the Luna Wolves had been burning through the Nineteenth Legion so heavily that they'd nearly halved the Legion's effective strength.
And those brothers received almost no honour in return. For the sake of one man's Warmaster candidacy, other Legions were being used as stepping stones — no credit, no equipment shared with them. This was genuinely outrageous.
Loken couldn't stand it. Even if his father eventually won the Warmaster seat this way, what respect would the other Primarchs have for him? What would the other brother Legions think of them?
Trading brothers' lives for the Luna Wolves' glory — Loken didn't think glory earned that way was worth any praise at all.
"Loken, Father is doing this for our sake as well. And the Nineteenth—"
"Are we just supposed to watch our brothers die as cannon fodder? We haven't even issued them any proper equipment. Commander — don't forget, the gear the Lord of Iron supplied to the Nineteenth Legion is sitting in our holds!"
"If we keep doing this and still claim the honour afterward, how many brothers will actually respect us? How will Father have the prestige needed to replace the Emperor and command the Expedition forces?"
Loken's words made both of the Mournival members frown. They admitted — Loken was right. But attrition tactics were the primary strategy by which the Luna Wolves could maintain their full fleet strength.
If not for the Emperor's favouritism, the Sixteenth Legion, in certain respects, wasn't actually the strongest. They couldn't claim to be the most comprehensively capable when compared to the First Legion.
Without other Legions taking the brunt of the fighting, they'd have to pay a very steep price themselves to secure the same victories, which would badly slow their crusade efficiency — and that would displease the Emperor.
And the one thing their father couldn't stand was the Emperor being displeased. He didn't want to disappoint the Emperor. He didn't want his brothers taking away the Emperor's favour from him. He thought he hid it well, but Torquatus and the others had seen through it long ago — they just never said it aloud, an unspoken understanding between them. Only Abaddon was oblivious enough to have missed it entirely.
"Loken, I'm afraid we can't help you."
In the end, the two of them refused.
"Why not? Can't you even let me go speak to Father about it? At this rate the Nineteenth Legion won't survive many more engagements before they're finished as a fighting force."
"Every time they're used as bait — their equipment withheld, made to absorb the heaviest enemy fire, pinned down soaking up all the incoming firepower — when this comes out, do you have any idea how badly it will damage Father's honour?"
"I'm asking you, please. Commanders — at least let me go down. Let me take the equipment the Lord of Iron gave us and go to their relief. If Father demands accountability afterward, I'll bear it alone."
Syeonax rose to his feet. He hesitated. Because Loken was right, and they knew it — they'd already pushed things too far in the name of efficiency.
He remembered how their father had been genuinely uncertain when the Warmaster position was first announced — and then something had evidently lit a fire under him, because the pace suddenly surged. On Cthonia alone, eligible children had been taken by the half-legions and rushed into accelerated recruitment programs.
These new recruits had barely undergone any trials at all. Given such extraordinary power without proper tempering, they'd actually brought Cthonia's worse cultural habits into the Legion with them. The warrior lodges were becoming something different from what they'd always been.
Something needed to change. Otherwise this was going to spiral somewhere nobody could pull it back from.
"Loken, go. Take the Tenth Company and the Lord of Iron's equipment and go relieve the Nineteenth Legion. We'll speak to Father."
"Good."
Loken didn't waste another word. He'd been ready long before this conversation — even if he hadn't gotten agreement, he would have gone anyway. If it meant exile, so be it. He was not going to watch this happen again.
Syeonax and Torquatus were left to work out between themselves how exactly to bring it up with their father. The Crusade pace needed to be eased. The Warmaster position — it turned out — was not such an easy thing to hold.
From the very moment the announcement first reached them and their father made his decision, the worlds their father had reclaimed and the general sentiment in the Imperium had already swung strongly toward Horus as the most likely candidate, with very vocal support.
Even with all of their father's genuine prestige, nobody could amass that volume of supporters and financial backers in such a short span of time naturally.
The Mournival — apart from Abaddon, who operated on pure martial instinct — were not unintelligent. They'd noticed this anomaly early.
None of them believed there wasn't the Emperor's quiet hand behind it. Who else in the Imperium had that kind of reach? And the materiel arriving for the Luna Wolves was consistently nearly double that of other Legions — and most of it went unrecorded.
There was clearly something going on beneath the surface. And yet that was precisely why they wanted their father to win the Warmaster seat — because with the Emperor secretly backing him, how could anyone's odds be better? They were his sons. Of course they'd do their part to help.
But now it was starting to look like their father had gone too far. Even their own people were finding it hard to stomach. If this continued, something was going to break.
"Brother, you described the outside as chaotic, and I wasn't fully registering it — but now that I'm reading the data coming through the Abominable Intelligence, I think 'chaotic' might have been an understatement."
Vulkan took a huge gulp from his enormous bucket of milk tea, expression somewhat strained.
"Chaotic doesn't begin to cover it. It's an absolute disaster."
"What year is it now — 872? If this keeps going, I don't think we'll make it to 900. Give it two or three more years and the Imperium could genuinely fracture."
Vulkan had no real head for politics, but even he could feel the current situation was precarious. Perturabo knew it too — the consequences of the Imperium's expansion without consolidation had arrived.
The Eastern Fringe and the Pacificus sector were faring better than most. The Obscurus was ablaze with constant fighting against xenos. The Tempestus sector was deteriorating rapidly. The Sol System's logistical burden had reached breaking point. The mortality rate among Administratum officials was climbing sharply.
Billions of officials, every one of them running on dark circles and life-extension injections and pharmaceutical stimulants just to keep upright. Malcador himself was working like a draft animal. Only the Emperor remained oblivious, head down in the Webway.
Malcador was starting to regret ever making that suggestion. At least — he shouldn't have raised it so soon. The Imperium was still in its fragile early growth period, and already the internal logistics couldn't keep pace. That wasn't even counting the worlds that had been pushed beyond their limit and were actively rebelling. The Imperium right now was nothing but a machine held together by force.
It was one small push away from total collapse.
"What? Declare the Warmaster early? Malcador, how would that satisfy anyone?"
The Emperor looked up at Malcador, who had come to him, surprised by his old friend's suggestion.
"You were the one who proposed the original plan, and now you want to change it."
"Yes — because I never anticipated that someone would be utterly shameless enough to use their own influence to openly and blatantly tip the scales in one person's favour. Who, exactly, gave them all those expectations and all that pressure?"
At those words, the Emperor's mouth shifted into a faintly guilty expression.
But Malcador was past the point of restraint. He raised his staff and brought it down with a zero-warning strike, sending the Emperor flying.