Sorry for the late upload guys, I thought I had already posted today's chapter's.
--
Inside the command tent of the Tenth Company, the soft glow of the floodlights spilled across the makeshift strategy table.
Vespasian raised his metal goblet, the amber liquid inside catching the light with a crystalline gleam.
He took a small sip.
Then, his usually calm, serene eyes shot wide open.
"This..."
He looked down at the remaining liquid in his cup, his face a picture of pure disbelief.
"What kind of liquor is this?"
Tarvitz was also holding his goblet, sheer shock written all over his chiseled face.
"I've drank the finest aged vintages of Chemos, tasted the thousand-year-old private reserves of Terran nobles, and even had the special ceremonial wine served at Macragge banquets..."
He paused, then took a massive gulp.
He let the burning, intensely pure liquid slide down his throat, erupting like a ball of blazing fire right in his chest.
"But not a single one of them has ever given me this kind of feeling."
"Pure."
"Blazing."
"Like the glow of steel being forged in a blast furnace."
"It's got one hell of a kick!"
Tarvitz set his goblet down, his eyes shining. "Now this is what a warrior should drink!"
"Compared to this, those fruity, flashy Chemosian wines are practically mouthwash for noble ladies!"
Paul picked up his own cup and spoke slowly.
"It's called vodka."
Vespasian repeated the oddly pronounced word.
"Vod... ka?"
He took another sip, a much larger one this time.
The 192-proof liquid scorched its way down his throat.
The fiery sensation blazed a trail straight down his esophagus, detonating in his stomach and radiating outward to his limbs.
The Lord Commander, famous for his stoic self-control, actually showed a rare look of... absolute enjoyment.
"Excellent liquor," he praised softly.
Tarvitz had already drained his first glass. He grabbed the bottle off the table and poured himself another.
The bottle had no elaborate labels on it, only the simple, striking emblem of Crimson Dawn.
"Lord Gabriel."
Vespasian set his cup down, his tranquil eyes turning to Paul.
"I didn't expect you to not only be incredibly powerful, but also possess such excellent taste in spirits."
He paused, a rare note of genuine curiosity entering his tone.
"Which star system and planet produces this liquor?"
"If we ever pass by, I absolutely have to buy a few crates to take back to Chemos."
The corners of Paul's mouth quirked up slightly.
That was exactly the opening he was waiting for. He naturally wasn't going to pass up a chance to build up Crimson Dawn's reputation with two of the Emperor's Children's greatest Loyalist representatives.
His voice remained cold and hard, bearing the signature rasp of the Iron Hands.
"It's produced on a world we previously garrisoned."
"Aurelian IV."
Vespasian raised an eyebrow.
Aurelian IV?
He quickly ran a search through his memory banks, confirming he had absolutely no impression of it.
The Imperium's territory was vast, and fringe systems were as common as hairs on a grox. It was perfectly normal not to have heard of it.
"There's an organization on that planet called Crimson Dawn."
"They're the ones who brewed this."
Paul raised his goblet, staring at the clear liquid inside.
"The quality is excellent, though the production volume is a bit low."
"Their management system is also incredibly interesting."
Tarvitz chimed in from the side. "If an Iron Hands Commander praises it, no wonder it tastes so damn good."
He took another sip, looking thoroughly satisfied.
But Vespasian caught onto the other detail.
"Lord Gabriel, you mentioned that this Crimson Dawn's management system is interesting?"
Paul set down his cup, a hint of approval surfacing on his rigid face.
"Yeah. The happiness of their citizens rivals that of Ultramar."
"They don't rely on nobles, they don't exploit the commoners. They ensure that every person capable of working can live with absolute dignity."
"An eight-hour workday, free education, guaranteed healthcare..."
"They've even moved miners who used to scrape by in the lowest depths of the underhive up to surface-level cities."
Tarvitz was completely engrossed, forgetting to even drink his vodka.
He couldn't help but ask, "What about their Imperial Tithe, then?"
"Are they able to meet their required quota to the Imperium?"
Paul's smirk deepened, displaying the cold pride of an Iron Hand.
"They didn't just meet it; they completely blew past expectations."
"Because citizens who are actually treated like human beings are willing to give everything for their home."
"They handed over their entire mineral output. No one complained, and no one rebelled."
"Because they know that what they produce buys them the Imperium's recognition and protection."
Hearing this, Vespasian's eyes widened slightly.
Ultramar.
The home of the Ultramarines, the crown jewel of Guilliman's Five Hundred Worlds.
It was universally recognized across the Imperium as the absolute gold standard of governance.
It was a model of human civilization that even the Emperor Himself had publicly praised.
For the Commander of the Iron Hands' Morlock Guard to say this place rivaled Ultramar...
"To earn such high praise from you, Lord Gabriel."
Vespasian's tone grew serious. "It seems this Crimson Dawn organization is truly extraordinary."
He sighed, a look of genuine regret crossing his face. "It's a shame the 28th Expeditionary Fleet's crusade has only just begun."
"According to the schedule, we have many more star systems and territories to conquer."
"Who knows when we'll ever get the chance to visit that planet and see it with our own eyes."
Tarvitz silently sipped his drink, saying nothing.
But a flash of longing also crossed his eyes.
A world capable of brewing a liquor this good had to be an incredibly fascinating place.
The tent fell quiet for a few seconds.
Tarvitz set his goblet down and looked up at Paul.
His chiseled face turned deeply serious. "Lord Gabriel."
His voice was low and resolute. "What happened today does not represent the entirety of the Emperor's Children."
"I am just as furious at Lucius and Fabius's actions as you are."
He paused, raising his goblet in a toast. "The brotherhood between the Emperor's Children and the Iron Hands Legion will always remain as unshakable as the bond between our Primarch Fathers."
Paul looked at Tarvitz's earnest face and his clear, honest eyes.
He sighed internally.
As unshakable as the bond between Fulgrim and Ferrus?
If you actually believe that, then you're truly screwed.
In just a few short years, Ferrus would be personally decapitated by Fulgrim, cementing his place in Warhammer lore as the infamous 'Headless Senpai Ferrus' meme.
Under the watchful eyes of millions on Isstvan V, Fulgrim would use the Blade of the Laer to chop off his closest brother's head, and even those iconic iron hands wouldn't escape the fate of being turned into grotesque art pieces.
And this fiercely loyal man sitting right in front of him would die even before that, glassed from orbit during the virus bombing of Isstvan III.
Paul's face betrayed absolutely zero emotion.
He just gave a slight nod. "I naturally believe that."
He paused, his tone taking on a loaded, meaningful edge. "However, Tarvitz, Vespasian..."
"I've noticed that certain members of the Emperor's Children Legion..."
"Seem to have pushed their pursuit of perfection far beyond the boundaries of what a warrior should be."
Vespasian's hand froze holding his cup.
Paul continued, "Lucius's performance today reminded me of a world our Iron Hands once encountered."
"It was a planet called Lax III, inhabited by an xenos civilization known as the Oranids."
"They pursued absolute, extreme beauty, believing that all combat should be an expression of high art."
"Their warriors wore the most dazzling, ornate armor, wielded jewel-encrusted weapons, and danced elegantly across the battlefield like ballerinas."
Tarvitz frowned. "And then?"
A cold sneer tugged at Paul's lips. "And then our Iron Hands Legion blasted them into bloody paste."
"That flashy armor crumbled like paper against our bolters, and those jewel-encrusted swords couldn't even scratch the paint on our power armor."
"They modified themselves into useless trash, completely incapable of fighting a real war."
Vespasian fell dead silent.
His thumb gently rubbed the rim of his metal goblet.
A flurry of complex emotions flashed through his pure eyes.
What was Gabriel trying to hint at?
Vespasian looked up, meeting Paul's gaze. His voice was heavy.
"What exactly are you implying, Lord Gabriel?"
Paul raised his goblet, offering a distant toast to the two of them.
"I'm simply saying..."
His voice was as hard and cold as living iron.
"A warrior's perfection lies in victory."
"Not in..."
He paused, his gaze drifting toward a specific direction outside the tent... toward the clearing where he had utterly humiliated Lucius.
"How flashy their sword is, or how flawlessly their hair flows."
The tent fell into a heavy silence.
Vespasian's expression turned grim.
Paul's words were like a scalpel, surgically cutting into the underlying anxieties they both harbored but never dared to analyze too deeply.
He obviously understood what Gabriel was hinting at.
He knew the recent cultural shifts within the Emperor's Children better than anyone.
Ever since their grand victory in the Ullanor Crusade and the Emperor's Children officially forming their own expeditionary fleet, their Father's obsession with perfection had grown increasingly extreme.
This culture of perfectionism had rapidly trickled down from the top, infecting every single company.
The entire Legion had sunk into a restless, superficial atmosphere.
Warriors began chasing flashier armor, more exquisite weaponry, and more elegant combat stances.
They treated warfare like a stage performance and killing enemies like a personal talent show.
And the result? This Laer Cleansing campaign, which should have been wrapped up in a month, had incurred casualties far exceeding any of their projections.
Four hundred and seventy-seven Astartes dead.
Two thousand, two hundred and thirty-one heavily wounded and combat ineffective.
Vespasian raised his cup and took a massive gulp of vodka.
The fiery burn exploded in his stomach, but it completely failed to chase away the deep chill settling in his heart.
He understood everything.
He understood that this obsession with perfection was quietly rotting the Legion from the inside out.
Vespasian also knew exactly where the root of the problem lay.
The root lay with their Father.
Fulgrim's insatiable thirst for perfection was subtly and irreversibly influencing the entire Legion.
But he was completely powerless to change it.
Tarvitz was also silent.
He was younger than Vespasian and had less experience, but he could just as easily feel the changes within the Legion.
The brothers he used to fight shoulder-to-shoulder with were no longer discussing how to kill the enemy more efficiently on the battlefield.
Instead, they were arguing over how to make their killing strokes look more graceful and flawless.
"Lord Gabriel."
Vespasian opened his eyes, a bitter tinge lingering in his calm gaze.
"You're right."
"Some individuals... have indeed lost their way."
He didn't offer any elaborate explanations, nor did he try to make excuses.
He just raised his goblet and took another heavy swig.
Paul looked at the two men sitting across from him.
Vespasian. Saul Tarvitz.
The two Astartes with the strongest moral compasses and the best character in the entire Emperor's Children Legion.
They had obviously noticed the problems within their ranks.
They obviously knew that this toxic perfectionism was eating away at the combat resolve of the Emperor's Children.
But they were powerless to stop it.
Because the source of this change, the person they would have to confront...
Was their own Father.
"Tarvitz."
Paul spoke up suddenly, his tone turning dead serious.
"Vespasian."
Both men immediately looked up at him.
"Over the years I've spent conquering countless worlds alongside my Primarch Father, I've witnessed the death of far too many civilizations."
Paul's voice was low, carrying a heavy sense of world-weariness.
"And I've slowly come to realize one thing..."
"Right before any civilization faces extinction, they will leave behind their most alluring, tempting prize as a trap."
"Those prizes are meant to mire their conquerors in ruin."
Vespasian's brow furrowed slightly. "What exactly do you mean, Lord Gabriel?"
Paul didn't answer directly.
He grabbed the bottle, poured himself another glass, and downed it in one shot.
"These Laer."
He set the cup down, his gaze shifting back and forth between their faces. "They enshrined that sword in the deepest depths of their central temple."
"It's almost as if they're saying..."
His voice took on a deeply meaningful, ominous tone. "'Come. Come attack our final stronghold.'"
"'Here lies the crown jewel of our civilization.'"
"'Here lies the perfect sword that can end all wars.'"
"'As long as you destroy this place and claim the perfect blade, you will earn absolute honor, achieve true perfection, and gain everything.'"
Vespasian's pupils contracted.
The hand Tarvitz used to hold his cup violently clenched tight.
"Are you saying, Lord Gabriel..."
Tarvitz's voice went hoarse. "That the sword... is a trap?"
Paul shook his head. "I don't know."
"But the creed of the Iron Hands is..."
"Always suspect the gifts of your enemies."
He stood up, walked to the entrance of the tent, pushed aside the flap, and stared out into the deep blue of the night sky.
"That sword has been hyped up to godlike proportions."
"I haven't even been here that long, and I'm already hearing the Emperor's Children warriors gossiping about it left and right..."
"Saying it's a perfect sword that can end all wars."
He turned around, his gaze landing on their faces. "But ask yourselves honestly..."
"Can this endless war truly be ended by a single sword?"
Vespasian didn't speak. He slowly stood up, walking over to the tent entrance and gazing up at the starry sky.
"How long has our Great Crusade been going on?"
Paul's voice echoed slowly. "How many wars have we fought? How many civilizations have we wiped out?"
"Out of all those civilizations we destroyed, which one didn't have its own holy relics? Which one didn't have its own faith?"
"But where did those relics and that faith end up in the end?"
He walked back to his seat and sat down.
"Will this sword put an end to war..."
"Or..."
"Will it put an end to the wielder's sanity?"
A deathly silence fell over the tent.
Vespasian's face turned pale.
Tarvitz furrowed his brow deeply.
Paul looked at them, his tone softening. "If my father, the Primarch of the Iron Hands, were here today..."
"I think he would just scoff and say..."
He mimicked Ferrus's gruff, boisterous tone. "Only a wielder forged of iron can truly and perfectly end it all."
Vespasian offered a bitter smile.
He knew Gabriel was right.
He also knew that sword was likely bad news.
But he was genuinely powerless. He wanted to reason with his Primarch Father too.
But he was just one Lord Commander among many.
He wasn't the Lord Commander Primus, Eidolon.
He wasn't the Chief Apothecary, Fabius.
He wasn't the First Captain, Kaesoron.
He wasn't the Blademaster, Akurduana.
He wasn't the Legion's Ancient, the Standard Bearer Rylanor.
With his standing, he didn't have nearly enough pull to sway the will of a Primarch.
Tarvitz remained equally silent.
His status was even lower.
He was just a Company Captain.
If even Vespasian couldn't do anything about it, what could he possibly do?
Paul looked at the two silent men in front of him and suddenly spoke up.
"Tarvitz."
Tarvitz looked up.
"When Fabius and Lucius brought their men to surround the camp today, did you notice something?"
Tarvitz frowned. "Notice what?"
"Fabius only dropped a single mention of the 'perfect sword' in front of Lord Fulgrim."
Paul's voice grew loaded with meaning. "And right after that, Lord Fulgrim's entire attitude shifted."
Tarvitz's pupils contracted slightly.
Recalling the scene that just played out, his face turned increasingly grim.
"If that had been my Primarch Father, Ferrus..."
Paul continued, "And someone dared to frame a warrior of the Emperor's Children like that, my father would've immediately smashed their head in with his hammer."
"But Lord Fulgrim..."
"Seems to care a little too much about that sword."
Vespasian snapped his head up. "Are you questioning my Father, Lord Gabriel?"
Paul shook his head. "I'm just saying..."
"There might be something seriously wrong with that blade."
He stood up, walking to the center of the tent, his gaze sweeping over both their faces. "Tomorrow on the battlefield, if Lord Fulgrim displays an abnormal obsession with that sword..."
"I hope the two of you can keep a clear head."
Vespasian and Tarvitz both looked at him.
"Don't try to question him or challenge him."
Paul's voice was low and deadly serious. "Try to reason with him."
"If he's being manipulated or clouded, I hope you can snap him out of it."
"But if the situation is beyond saving..."
He paused, his tone softening. "Don't butt heads with your Father too much."
"Just protect yourselves."
Vespasian and Tarvitz were both stunned.
They stared at the Iron Hands First Captain, taking in his cold, rigid face and his deep, profound eyes.
What exactly did he mean by all this?
Why was he so absolutely certain there was something wrong with the sword?
And why did he care about them so much?
Paul didn't give them a chance to ask any follow-up questions.
He picked up his cup and downed the rest of his liquor in one shot.
The fiery burn seared its way down his throat and into his stomach, but his expression didn't change in the slightest.
He looked at the two of them, his tone even.
"Here's hoping tomorrow's battle goes smoothly."
He slammed his right fist against his breastplate, emitting a dull metallic boom.
"For the Imperium."
Vespasian and Tarvitz stood up simultaneously, slamming their own breastplates in unison.
"For the Imperium."
Paul turned around, pushed the tent flap aside, and walked out into the night.
His silver-grey Gorgon Terminator armor gave off a cold, hard gleam under the moonlight.
Back inside the tent, Vespasian and Tarvitz exchanged a look, neither saying a word.
Vespasian picked up his cup and sipped the last drop of liquor.
The burning sensation flared up once more.
But this time, what he felt wasn't a satisfying buzz, but rather... profound uncertainty.
Tarvitz also downed the rest of his drink and slumped back into his chair.
"Vespasian."
His voice was low, tinged with confusion. "Do you think Lord Gabriel... knows something we don't?"
Vespasian stayed silent for a few seconds.
Then, he spoke slowly. "I don't know."
"But everything he said..."
He paused, a flicker of light passing through his clear eyes. "Is definitely worth thinking deeply about."
"Tarvitz."
"Tomorrow... no matter what happens..."
"Remember Lord Gabriel's words."
"Keep a clear head."
Tarvitz nodded. "Understood."