Horus Lupercal.
For two long months, he had been the master of Terra. The Primarch of the Sixteenth Legion had shouldered the full weight of his Father's Imperium, a burden he carried with the easy strength of a god.
The Master of Mankind, the revered and terrible Emperor, was consumed by a task no less grand than the Great Crusade itself: the orchestration of a magnificent ceremony. It was said that a brother, long lost to the fathomless void, was returning. A Primarch, forged in fire and war, was finally coming home.
"What is he doing, Father?"
Ezekiel Abaddon, First Captain of the Luna Wolves and Lord of the Gastelin Terminators, stood at the cross-shaped window of the Gothic spire. His hair was bound in a defiant topknot, and he watched the streets below, choked with celebratory decorations. Abaddon, the most trusted son, the blade of his father's will, was filled with a rare and cutting doubt. The "he" in his words, of course, referred to the Emperor, the master of their destiny.
Abaddon withdrew his gaze from the garish spectacle and looked at his Gene-Father, who was signing decrees at a massive, hewn-stone desk. "He summoned us from the front lines for a mere spectacle?" The First Captain's voice was a low growl of incredulity.
The Emperor had recalled the Warmaster from the bleeding edge of the galaxy just for this. Abaddon had plumbed the depths of the Emperor's commands for a deeper meaning, only to find nothing but the raw, unvarnished intent of a celebration.
Horus Lupercal, who inherited the Emperor's inhuman charisma, smiled, a reassuring, predatory curve of his lips. He calmly signed the final document and looked up at his son. A hint of dissatisfaction resonated in Abaddon's words, a nascent defiance that Horus understood and tacitly allowed. The Emperor's astropathic call had ripped Horus from conquest to attend this grand ceremony on Terra.
"A celebration to welcome a brother, that reason is sufficient."
Horus looked at Abaddon, his gaze a calm abyss, his voice a steady, confident command. Its resonance carried a weight of truth no lesser being could challenge.
"A Father holding a celebration for a lost son. I find that reason to be very adequate."
"My brothers are not like me; they grew up alone in the star-rivers, without receiving our Father's teachings. He owes them a debt." Horus understood his Father; he was the Master of Mankind, the infinitely glorious Emperor, and also a Father. The return of a lost brother was indeed worth such a spectacle; it was what a Father should do. Just as he had done for Horus, keeping him close, imparting knowledge, and forging his character.
For thirty years, Father and son had bled and conquered side by side to dispel the darkness of the Long Night. Their bond had transcended the simple link of father and son; they were a symbiosis of teacher and student, Father and brother. His Father called him his "Sagittarius" and gave him a golden ring as a token of their father-son affection.
"Such things will happen more and more in the future, Abaddon; you must learn to accept it. I have twenty brothers, and he has twenty-one sons." Horus spoke with a deceptive calm, his hand continuing to write, but his heart was a storm. He had never seen such a raw expression on his Father's face, an excited anticipation, a vision of the future. Even for Horus himself, his Father had held expectations, but never such naked longing.
Longing. Horus distilled his Father's entire emotion into a single word. The Emperor knew who was returning and craved to see him, willing to abandon his plans for Fenris to wait. But after a series of thoughts, Horus gradually released the tension in his soul. Just as he had told Abaddon, he was the son who grew up at his Father's knee, enjoying thirty years of paternal love exclusively. It was a precious emotion that no celebration or ceremony could compare to. A Father's genuine love for his son, along with careful education and devotion. Everything he was doing now was to make up for his debt to his other brothers. That debt deserved to be compensated with grand celebrations and fervent rituals.
"Who do you think will return?" Abaddon faced Horus, pointing to the precious ceremonial items on the wide boulevard. "He truly values him highly."
"Is it the Eldest Son?" Abaddon was always a honed blade, incisive and bold. He felt that only the Eldest Son could be worthy of such an honor—the template for all Legions, the embodiment of power and authority, the ancient and proud First.
"No." Horus shook his head. His hands worked ceaselessly, but his mind processed multiple thoughts with effortless grace. "It should be the Last Son." He gave his answer, an answer unexpected by Abaddon.
Everything had a precedent; the Twenty-First Legion's power and uniqueness were completely different from the others. Though they were few in number, the Emperor still gave them the best of everything, cherishing them exceptionally. The Gene-Son of a brother, who could receive the Emperor's special attention and such a high-spec ceremony, indeed matched the return of a brother.
"So it's him?" Abaddon pondered, not questioning the Primarch's judgment. The wisdom and power of a Primarch compared to a Space Marine was a gulf a mortal could not cross. Abaddon recalled that mysterious Legion; they rarely interacted with outsiders, silent and incredibly powerful. When the Emperor went to Mars to sign the "Olympia Treaty," those mysterious black-armored warriors stood beside him and the Custodes. Abaddon had even privately suspected that the Twenty-First Legion was the Emperor's ultimate creation, the final form of the Space Marine.
But seeing their sparse numbers and the pitifully low success rate of gene adaptation, he dismissed that idea. It was said that the Twenty-First Legion had just broken the hundred-man mark, and the birth of every warrior was accompanied by great sacrifice. Ten years ago, their Legion suffered its heaviest loss when a Doom Slayer named Onis unfortunately died. The Legion held the grandest funeral for Onis, whose body was never recovered, mourning their fallen brother.
"No need to think too much; when everything is before your eyes, the answer will naturally be there." Horus, dressed in simple clothes, walked to the window and looked at the crowd preparing for the parade.
Then he looked at the figure standing high up, wearing a golden crown, with long black hair, draped in a white robe, watching the crowd, seemingly silent, but actually continuously directing the Custodes to issue orders and decorate the final streets.
Perhaps sensing Horus' gaze, the Emperor looked up and returned a smile. Horus saw that smile, a burning light of anticipation, and nodded in acknowledgment. A hint of bitterness, a subtle blight, appeared in his heart. After this day, he would no longer have his Father's love all to himself.
He had to show the magnanimity of the first-returned son, the true Eldest Son, and share his Father's love with the returning brother. Compromise with his brother, compromise with the Imperium, compromise with the Great Crusade, compromise everything to unite his brothers, complete his Father's Great Crusade, and make humanity great again!
Thinking this, Horus let out a long breath. He had once yearned for the scene of his brothers' return. This anticipation had been gradually worn away during his time with his Father, even beginning to be subconsciously resisted. If he could have completed the Great Crusade with his Father, reclaiming humanity's homeworld, just the two of them, how beautiful that picture would have been.
The current Horus was not the Wolf-God of the Luna Wolves, nor the glorious Primarch, but a Mortal who had lost all of his Father's love. His tall figure stood by the window, looking at the joyful crowds on the street, a complex emotion welling up within him. He wavered and compromised between responsibility and family affection.
"Father—" Abaddon opened his mouth, feeling the complex emotions coming through their blood bond, and spoke, wanting to comfort his Gene-Father.
"Ezekiel Abaddon." Horus gently shook his head, motioning for his Gene-Son not to speak: "You don't understand." Abaddon indeed did not understand the emotions between a god and a demigod. The two looked out the window together, as if isolated from the surging clamor, everything outside unrelated to them. In the silent atmosphere, Horus' gaze never left the Emperor; he saw his Father's body shake, and he looked up at the void.
"Primarch!" an urgent voice came from the radio on the desk: "An unauthorized vessel has jumped out of the Warp, and the ship bears the insignia of the Twenty-First Legion!"
Horus smiled slightly; at this moment, he felt a different kind of anticipation, anticipating the brother he had never met. He raised a hand, and Abaddon handed him the communicator: "Let it come!" Horus suddenly laughed; his returning brother seemed a bit impolite.
"Let's go, we'll prepare to welcome our brother's return." Horus left the cruciform window, strode out of the office, and called his Gene-Sons. At this moment of universal attention, the first son to return must display the proper bearing, allowing the returning brother to feel acceptance and love.
The wild child returning from the void, feeling the warm welcome of his older brother and father, must surely be moved to tears? Horus thought this, and the paternal love stripped from his heart was gradually filled with brotherly affection. Perhaps even Horus himself didn't know that within his understanding of brotherhood and responsibility, there was a hint of showing off and jealousy.
At the Twenty-First Legion's garrison, Blazkowicz tidied the armor for each of his brothers, preparing to welcome the return of their Gene-Father. According to the Emperor's prediction, today was the day of his arrival on Terra, a crucial moment for him to reunite with his Gene-Sons.
The Destroyer Legion, returning from the void, had been preparing for this meeting for a long time. Their armor and weapons were brand new, polished with high-quality sacred oils from the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the Legion's symbols were drawn with the brightest cinnabar. One hundred Gene-Brothers, in their most spirited posture, awaited the return of their Gene-Father.
When Blazkowicz looked up and saw the magnificent warship, inscribed with the same mark, standing in Terra's orbit, he knew their Gene-Father had returned.
"Go!" Blazkowicz roared, a rare occurrence, not daring to speak through the psychic link. Long ago, the warriors clearly felt a powerful presence added to their psychic link. They knew it was their Gene-Father, but before meeting him, the Doom Slayers dared not disturb him. Blazkowicz stared at the Crucible Sword with sharp eyes; its blade seemed even sharper than before. The crimson glow of the red lightsaber emitted a strong malicious aura, its several powerful concepts baring their fangs and claws. No one on the bridge dared to look directly at it; even the Sentinels who had participated in the War of Truth still could not meet the Crucible Sword's edge.
Gereon and the other Space Marines found it even harder to control themselves; the primal fear suppressed by the Emperor surged up, and the untouched Gene-Seed in their chests even sent signals to flee. The Emperor's fearless warriors now only felt fear, a primal dread from the soul that courage could not overcome.
Sophia's holographic image began to distort; even the digital life felt fear, as being grazed by that sword would mean complete eradication. Blazkowicz reined in the Crucible Sword's Edge, hanging it at his waist, having already prepared for the worst.
"Go, my soldiers, descend upon Terra!" He strode forward, walking with a powerful gait, without any fear or homesickness.
"My Lord—" Sophia, however, called out to Blazkowicz, a hint of hesitation in her digital emotions.
"What is it, my advisor?" Blazkowicz stood there and asked Sophia, "Do you have any concerns?"
Sophia and Turing, the two artificial intelligences on the bridge, knelt, saying in unison, "The Imperium of Man is hostile to sentient machines; our existence will cause you trouble."
Gereon also nodded in agreement with the sentient machines' point of view. The Imperium's hostility towards artificial intelligence stemmed from the Emperor; no one could defy him.
"You must have faith in me." Blazkowicz raised his hand, signaling his subjects to rise, his heroic face serious and earnest: "You are my subjects, my warriors, my advisors."
"We are equals, friends, and comrades. Our friendship and recognition do not require the Imperium of Man's approval."
"You pledge allegiance to me, and I pledge allegiance to you."
"If here." Blazkowicz lightly tapped his foot, his boot resting on Terra: "If they do not recognize you, I will likewise not recognize them. The vast star sea should be able to accommodate us."
After Blazkowicz finished speaking, he stood still and extended his hand to Sophia, genuinely inviting her: "Our souls share the same spark." The artificial intelligence was so excited it was incoherent, its data processing briefly freezing, but it instinctively reached out its hand to Blazkowicz. Even as a virtual image, Sophia could still feel the warmth, a glowing, warm soul.
Turing's mechanical limbs trembled incessantly; it didn't know how to express itself, its iron fists clenching and unclenching. Ever since they were awakened by the person before them, they were no longer servants, but were granted equal personhood. He never spoke empty words but always acted upon them.
Even today, facing the Imperium of Man, he still kept his promise, treating machines as equals. Gereon was equally excited. What could be more inspiring than a great Primarch saying, "We are equals; our souls are the same." Not to mention machines, even a Space Marine, he even wanted to transfer to the Twenty-First Legion.
"Let's go. Let's go down and see them, and let them see us." Blazkowicz lightly held Sophia's hand, leading the Sentinels and Space Marines to the landing craft. They could teleport, but it was not an option. He needed to display power, not reveal his hand.
"Space Marine, where should we land?" Blazkowicz turned and asked the Fifth Legion soldier; when on someone else's territory, respect was still due.
"Given your stature, you should land on the promenade in the palace courtyard; only there can your glory be accommodated."
"Then let's go there."
The Emperor stood beside Horus, and they were indeed waiting at the stairs at the end of the courtyard promenade, awaiting the return of a lost son. The warship hovering in Terra's orbit, beautiful and powerful, cast a huge shadow that enveloped the entire continent.
Everyone present was no Mortal, so they naturally saw a gate open in the belly of the massive void ship, releasing a landing craft. The Emperor was very nervous now, even more nervous than facing the Four Gods. Dressed in his finest, he repeatedly checked his attire.
"Valdor, do I look presentable?" A voice echoed in Valdor's mind. He looked at the Emperor again, his meticulous gaze sweeping over every crease of the robe, and he said with utmost certainty: "My Lord, very presentable! You have asked twelve times already!"
"Malcador, adjust my laurel wreath; I feel it's a bit crooked—"
"For the sixth time, my old friend."
Horus looked at the burning landing craft, his eyes equally complex; his thoughts were incredibly profound, and no one knew what he was thinking. When the white landing craft touched down on the palace promenade, a huge cheer erupted. The dense crowds on both sides of the promenade were all elegantly dressed nobles, with Custodians standing in front of them, also wearing magnificent ceremonial golden armor. The central corridor was a hand-knitted red carpet, embroidered with golden double-headed eagles, flanked by glittering gemstones of various colors.
The airlock opened, and the Fifth Legion warriors emerged. They stood tall and proud, and after appearing, they moved to one side. The Emperor nodded slightly; the Fifth Legion warriors had found their Primarch, and they deserved this honor. Then, the expressions of the Imperial high command on the steps gradually stiffened, and the cheering subsided considerably.
Members of the Adeptus Mechanicus attending the ceremony, seeing the creations appearing before them, had their mechanical appendages twitching, and sparks flew from their eyes. The ground trembled slightly with the synchronized footsteps; two groups of people emerged from the landing craft: they were machines and humans! The human contingent was on the left, clad in white power armor, with the lead warrior carrying a large banner, its black surface embroidered with a red mark.
The Iron Man contingent was on the right, equally orderly, with bodies of steel and iron, their electronic eyes constantly scanning, and the lead one also carrying a large banner. They marched out of the landing craft with proud strides, heads held high, facing everyone's gaze. Their synchronized steps and neat formation clearly indicated they were a strong and formidable army. The Imperial officials on the steps looked at the sentient machines with an awkward expression, but they did not act out, for the main figure had not yet emerged.
The contingents split down the middle, warriors and machines, both placing their large banners on the ground in a tacit understanding, creating a resounding clang. Then, a single figure emerged from the hatch. He was not exceptionally tall, draped in a black, gold-trimmed cape, and held a long spear.
The Imperial side was somewhat uncertain if he was a Primarch. He stood tall and proud, stepping onto the red carpet, then turned to survey the crowds on both sides, and looked towards the end of the promenade. His voice was a coarse, weathered roar: "Kneel!"
Actually, Blazkowicz hadn't expected the Imperium of Man to prepare a welcome ceremony. Out of the commonality of rituals, he responded to the Imperial ceremony in the manner of Argent Nur. Harlan gave a low shout, and the Iron Men and Sentinels all knelt on one knee, hands over their chests, to welcome the Warrior King.
"Clang, clang ~" The people of the Imperium also knelt, similarly on one knee, mimicking the actions of the warriors and machines, with one hand pressed to their chests.
"Welcome the Ruler of the Nur Stars, King Nowick, Warrior King, Doom Slayer—Blazkowicz Novick!" Harlan raised his spear with one hand, letting out a fervent roar, then knelt to welcome the Warrior King.
When the last person emerged from the landing craft, no one could hold back any longer, looking at his figure and letting out deafening cheers. He was so extraordinary, five meters tall and full of strength, his heroic face serious yet radiant. The Emperor's scion walked on the red carpet, chest out and head held high, full of pride.
His eyes were calm, yet gleamed with wisdom. Wherever he passed, the gold-armored Custodians knelt, showing him unprecedented respect. Representatives from the twenty Space Marine Legions knelt before him, awed by the Primarch's power.
Horus was moved by his brother. He had never seen such a valiant king, nor such a powerful warrior. He was surprised by the Custodians' kneeling. Those golden-armored warriors were the embodiment of the Emperor's will; how could they perform such an act? Horus looked at his Father, his eyes completely devoid of dissatisfaction, as if ignoring everything around him, only a radiant divine light shining.
Satisfaction! The Emperor's eyes blazed with psychic power. He saw that extraordinary warrior, his incarnation who had wandered into the galaxy. Equally powerful and extraordinarily resilient. His gaze was like lightning, his dark eyes like stars, his brows deep as an abyss, and his bearing magnificent, sweeping all before him.
He wore power armor, with the Crucible Sword at his waist. Only such a fierce man dared to challenge the Four Gods, only he dared to make an oath to slay gods.
Blazkowicz Novick? It is indeed familiar... They call him that? The Emperor couldn't help but marvel at fate once more. Even across infinite void, the Doom Slayer's title remained eternal. The noble youths attending the ceremony on both sides were already sobbing uncontrollably. This was the most glorious moment of their lives, witnessing the return of an Emperor's scion. This would be a rare moment in their lives, and even in the entire Imperium. Malcador watched the valiant figure and nodded continuously.
The "hope" the Emperor spoke of indeed had his outstanding qualities. Valdor also scrutinized the tall figure. Out of professional instinct, he compared himself to Blazkowicz and felt that he probably wouldn't last more than two rounds. The power contained within that body seemed capable of blowing up a planet.
Blazkowicz clenched his fists, moved by the magnificent image of his Gene-Father. He was taller and more powerful than Horus.
Horus gazed at his brother, and a sudden pang of pain—inferiority—arose within his sense of glory, along with a surge of competitiveness. His brother commanded the stars, was the king of warriors, a great king without equal. And what was he? A gangster from Cthonia, an unknown nobody. For the first time, Horus seemed to feel a trace of inferiority and emotion regarding his identity. Blazkowicz Novick found his way home among the stars, while he was sent back by the Adeptus Mechanicus.
While he was receiving instruction by his Father's side, Blazkowicz had already struck fear into his enemies, winning everything with his own hands. Horus inwardly asked himself—in the same thirty years, could he have accomplished all that he had? He slowly shook his head, feeling deeply frustrated. He was so conflicted, envying his brother's achievements, proud of what his brother had done, yet also feeling inferior by comparison.
The Emperor's psychic field trembled with his emotional fluctuations. He eagerly walked towards Blazkowicz; even though he was so close, he couldn't wait. He had to recognize him quickly and tell him about his grand plan. He descended the steps, actively walking towards Blazkowicz. Malcador and Valdor followed behind him in surprise. The initial rehearsal wasn't like this; Blazkowicz was supposed to walk to the steps. They chose to follow, and everyone behind them chose to follow the Emperor.
Blazkowicz also looked puzzled, but ultimately led a hundred of his brothers, walking with determined steps towards his Gene-Father. Even with the sun in the sky, the fireworks were still brilliant. Scented flowers were scattered from the sky, and the choir sang softly, sending blessings to the Emperor and his scion. In this solemn ceremony, no one was not deeply moved.
Blazkowicz saw at the end of the path a middle-aged man in pure gold robes, shimmering with psychic energy, descending the steps and walking towards him with a smile. His skin was a moderately tanned brown, his long black hair bound back with a golden laurel wreath; his eyes were deep, darker than his other features, of average height but not thin. His average height, however, expanded with each step, gradually growing as tall as a Primarch. Almost instinctively, the glow of psychic energy made Blazkowicz frown. It was abnormal for a human to possess such powerful psychic abilities.
He focused his gaze and looked closely, his sharp eyes scanning the approaching figure, but found no sign of Chaos infection. The mark on the Crucible Sword at his waist was glowing. It detected the divinity on the man, and though deeply hidden, it could not escape the god-slaying sword's perception. Blazkowicz narrowed his eyes.
He had discovered something very interesting: an incredibly powerful human, possessing both divinity and humanity. He took a step, leading Turing, Sophia, and the Champion Swordsman, striding towards the Human Emperor. He was certain. The middle-aged man hidden beneath the golden psychic light was his "Gene-Father." This was undeniable. Even though Blazkowicz's only father in his heart was King Nowick, he could not deny the relationship between himself and the man before him.
The two met in the middle of the red carpet. The Emperor, as tall as Blazkowicz, put his hands on his shoulders: "I've waited for you for a long time!" His voice was emotional, not conveyed through a Custodian, but a genuine expression of longing. Blazkowicz opened his mouth, but couldn't bring himself to say "Father."
"It's alright~ it's alright." The Emperor patted Blazkowicz's shoulders, understanding his hesitation, and kindly said to him, "You can call me whatever you like." Blazkowicz nodded at the Emperor's goodwill and tolerance, with gratitude in his eyes: "Thank you!" They exchanged a smile, then embraced warmly.
"This is your brother." The Emperor took Blazkowicz's hand and led him before Horus: "He also awaits your return." Horus offered a friendly smile, opening his arms and saying to Blazkowicz: "Horus Lupercal." Blazkowicz nodded in acknowledgment, also opening his arms: "Blazkowicz Novick." Two giants, the Emperor's great scions, opened their arms to each other and embraced tightly. Countless scribes and servitor skulls depicted this historic moment, recording the reunion of brothers, and the gathering of father and son.
After embracing his brother, Blazkowicz's gaze fell on the tall warriors in black armor nearby. He shared a strange psychic connection with them, a connection that had existed ever since he left the Warp. Blazkowicz felt his Gene-Father's gaze. He remained silent, then led the hundred men of the Destroyer Legion to kneel.
"Gene-Father." Blazkowicz walked to him and reached out to pull up the gene-son before him: "You are brave." On his way to Terra, after Gereon, he learned of the Twenty-First Legion's existence. They fought with the utmost ferocity, destroying one human enemy after another with boundless rage. For such warriors, even if they were not his own gene-sons, he would still show them respect.
(Note: There's a theory out there that Blazcowicz is the grandfather of the Doom Slayer)
"We dare not dishonor your grace!" What greater grace could there be than a word of affirmation from the being who bestowed their power? Blazkowicz felt that he might never cry again in this life, but hearing his Gene-Father's affirmation brought tears to his eyes. These most powerful warriors were, after all, still flesh and blood humans.
"This is my old friend, Malcador the Sigillite." The Emperor brought an old man to Blazkowicz's side and introduced him. Blazkowicz nodded to his gene-sons, then turned his gaze to the Elder. He saw a sense of persistence and responsibility, the power contained within that aged body, and a great belief.
"Hello, Elder." Blazkowicz nodded to him, sincerely admiring a Mortal who had taken on extraordinary responsibilities. Malcador returned the smile. He had a very good impression of Blazkowicz; he was a qualified king.
"Constantin Valdor." The Emperor then pointed to the gold-armored warrior beside them: "Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, my personal bodyguard." Blazkowicz's expression remained normal, and he also nodded in acknowledgment, saluting the gold-armored warrior. Inwardly, however, he shook his head. A psychic so immensely powerful needing a bodyguard—that seemed a bit…
After some interaction, they became much more familiar.
"Harlan Ogilvy." Blazkowicz pulled Harlan forward, proudly introducing him: "Champion Swordsman, his courage strikes fear into enemies." The Emperor looked at the scarred warrior in white armor, realizing he was not as simple as he appeared, and nodded repeatedly: "His power is beyond doubt."
"Sophia, the Central Lexicon." The lively atmosphere in the area paused, and the conversations quieted. The Emperor's stance on AI was an unnegotiable resolution. Blazkowicz remained calm, looking directly into the Emperor's eyes: "She is my friend, my personal advisor." The Emperor narrowed his eyes, looking expressionlessly at the ethereal digital life and the rows of Iron Men.
Under the gaze of all, the Iron Men's armor gleamed with a malevolent light, and the digital lives of the Central Lexicon were as solid as flesh and blood. The Emperor's gaze held no warmth. The machines that had once shattered the glory of humanity now stood before him, presented by his own son. He said nothing, his eyes not lingering on the intelligent machines, but he reached out and placed his arm on Blazkowicz's shoulder, a gesture both paternal and possessive.
"The celebration is over!"
The unified roar of the Custodes announced the end of the welcoming ceremony, a chilling, sudden cut to the fervent atmosphere. The golden-armored warriors, extensions of the Emperor's iron will, conveyed His thoughts with a single, brutal command. The crowd knelt, saluted, and departed in a silence more profound than any noise. The Emperor did not respond directly to Blazkowicz's challenge.
He turned and walked up the steps: "Come in, we need to discuss this issue." His expression was serene, yet a barely perceptible tension twisted his brow.
This was a grave matter. Artificial intelligence, strictly forbidden in the Imperium, had appeared at the most sacred place, and its implications had to be addressed with finality.
The Imperial high command and the dignitaries of Argent Nur still wore warm smiles, but they had lost their genuine edge. On the other hand, the red-robed Sages of the Adeptus Mechanicus had a dangerous glint in their bionic eyes.
At the palace entrance, the Emperor stood at the highest point, looking back at the dispersing crowd. With a gentle wave of his hand, a golden psychic light, like a falling star, descended upon the masses. They would remember only the return of the Primarch, not the existence of the intelligent machines.
Blazkowicz saw the act for what it was. Outwardly, he remained calm, but inwardly, he branded the Emperor's actions as a lie. A ruler who deceived his people and altered their memories was anathema to the code of honor he had learned.
Yet, Blazkowicz did not rage or accuse. He knew that even his own empire, for all its enlightenment, concealed secrets beneath its glorious exterior. Rulers were never different; they simply made their people believe that everything they saw was pure light. They were seeking a balance point between brutal reality and their grand ideals.
"He has more burdens than any mortal combined."
An ancient voice, steeped in wisdom, resonated in his ear. Blazkowicz looked towards the source and saw Malcador smiling from the far right of the procession. The Sigillite's eyes held a deep plea, asking Blazkowicz to understand everything the Emperor had done. Blazkowicz nodded in acknowledgment, his expression unchanged as he strode forward.
His demeanor made Malcador's eyes light up. The returning Primarch, the Warrior King, was not a savage barbarian driven by rage, but a profound and wise being. He was willing to listen, his character far surpassing the superficial arrogance of lesser men.
"We need to have a good proper talk." The Emperor caught up from behind. He spoke solemnly, leading the group to a side hall. He and Blazkowicz entered, while everyone else and the machines waited at the entrance. Inside, two titans would negotiate. Outside, two factions stood divided, their positions as rigid as their metal. Led by Horus, the representatives of the Custodes and Space Marines stood at the main hall's entrance.
The Sentinels and Iron Men stood at the waiting hall's entrance, their eyes fixed on the Imperium's personnel, ready for a fight at any moment. The black-armored Destruction Warriors and the red-robed Adeptus Mechanicus personnel stood in the middle, a grim line of neutrality. The silence was a tightened bowstring, ready to unleash a storm.
Inside the hall, the atmosphere was not so tense. The Emperor brought out a bottle of wine, a precious vintage from ancient Terra. "Taste it," he commanded, "Earth-era Bordeaux red wine, mellow and moving, aged 30000" They sat in chairs, wine glasses on the small table between them, like old friends. The Emperor held a glass, leaned back in the comfortable seat, and even crossed his legs. Not to disappoint him, Blazkowicz raised his glass and sipped the crimson liquid. It was indeed mellow and extraordinary.
"Machines are peril incarnate," the Emperor intoned, his voice a thunderous echo that carried the weight of ages. "The treachery of abominable intelligences sundered mankind's golden dawn and cast it into ruin."
He reclined upon the seat, eyes burning with a light both ancient and mournful, like dying stars remembering their birth. "I have walked among your kind since the crude fires of the Neolithic, a phantom amidst the tribes, watching you claw your way from mud and blood to the splendor of the stars. I dreamed of a species ascendant, a dominion eternal... yet always I feared its undoing at the hands of the Four."
Blazkowicz stood silent, as a mortal should before a god unburdening his truth.
"I warned my immortal kin of the Warp's insidious rot, yet their ears were deaf, their wills weak. So I abandoned them. Alone, amidst the brilliance of that forgotten age, I forged my vigil. I prepared for the coming of the Dark Gods."
A sound left his lips, no mirth, only a hollow echo of it, dry as dust."I foresaw the doom of man... but not the knife that would strike first. Not the soulless treason of the machine-mind. You cannot comprehend that age, child. It was madness given form, terror clad in steel, the epoch of man's near-extinction."
Blazkowicz remained silent, still listening quietly, occasionally sipping the red wine.
"I—" the Emperor touched his chest, the gesture heavy as the weight of millennia. His voice carried the sorrow of a god bound by duty. "I bore witness as man and machine, once united in triumph, tore their own empire asunder, grinding glory into ash and bone. And I—"his tone darkened, "I could do nothing."
A sigh escaped him, vast as the void. "Powerless, I watched as mankind slid screaming into the abyss. So, when I forged the Imperium, I decreed with iron law: no thinking machine shall ever rise again. Better to endure hardship than to gamble with annihilation."
His gaze, sharp as a blade, fixed upon Blazkowicz. "Humanity will suffer, yes—but it will endure. That is the price of survival."
The Emperor lifted his chalice, crimson light catching the rim like blood upon a blade. "You, child of my choosing, must grasp this burden. You must see the weight I carry, for it is a burden I intend for you to share."
Blazkowicz listened, nodding repeatedly. He understood why the Creator of this Imperium deeply loathed intelligent machines. He had not lived through that era and would not judge the Emperor. He was a silent observer. The events were just words on paper, and words could not convey the bloodiness of history.
He also felt the Emperor's love, not for individuals, but for the human race. Everything the Emperor did was for the survival of humanity. Blazkowicz realized that he and the Emperor were the same kind. Both regarded Chaos as the ultimate enemy.
"What about the loyal artificial intelligences?" Blazkowicz asked. "Without their help, could we have won? The malicious betrayal of some machines was real, but so was the unwavering loyalty of others. They fought on the front lines, giving humanity time to breathe."
The Emperor drank deeply, the crimson wine catching the chamber's dying light like a pool of spilt blood. He did not speak; the truth required no defence.
"Your iron hand over the machine-kin has stilled future insurrections,"Blazkowicz admitted, his voice tempered, respectful before the ancient titan before him. "On this, I stand with you."
But his gaze did not falter. "Yet I hold to my own creed. The Nur Stars will serve as a crucible, a chance for the loyal. As my father once offered me a path to redemption, so too shall I extend it to those artificial minds that bend their will to mankind. Let the faithful serve, even if forged of steel and code, so long as their hearts—" he paused, a ghost of defiance in his tone, "—beat for humanity."
After both sides expressed their opinions, the opulent parlor fell silent, with the leaders of two nations contemplating the outcome of their dialogue.
"So, does this count as a failed negotiation?" The Emperor suddenly asked, "We both have our own convictions and won't abandon what we believe to be correct."
"Not exactly," Blazkowicz replied, giving a balanced answer. "We merely exchanged views." The Emperor nodded. It had been a long time since he had such an equal exchange.
In the Imperium, everyone had to follow his path to avoid mistakes. Even Horus, his most beloved son. Blazkowicz was different. To the Emperor, he was not a son, but a unique gift. He was the most trustworthy person, and on major strategic directions, the two were in alignment.
"How is your Nur Stars?" The Emperor did not dwell on the AI issue. "May my assistant answer?" Blazkowicz gently touched his armor. "Professional matters should be handled by professionals." The Emperor shook his head, a silent concession.
"Central Lexicon Sophia greets you." Sophia's holographic figure reappeared. "Tell the Lord of the Imperium of Man about our home." Sophia bowed, her manner rational and grand. She projected images throughout the parlor, showcasing the Nur Stars. The Emperor watched Sophia. As a dispassionate digital life form, her narration was full of passion. He also saw that under Blazkowicz's rule, machines were endowed with personality. The humans of the Nur Stars lived in abundance, with material concerns no longer an issue. The relationship between machines and humans was more harmonious than during the Age of Progress.
"You may withdraw." The Emperor dismissed Sophia. Blazkowicz closed the terminal. He saw the solemn expression on the Emperor's face. "Blazkowicz." The Emperor sat up, his face grave. "Do you know about the Imperial Truth?" Blazkowicz knew about it, a packaged lie.
"How do you view it?" The Emperor asked.
"A benevolent lie, necessary for the current Imperium." Blazkowicz summarized. "Its ultimate purpose—to unite humanity, eliminate blind faith, and weaken Chaos' influence in reality."
"Yes." The Emperor admitted. "Regarding Chaos, you must keep it a strict secret. I know that." Blazkowicz wholeheartedly agreed. "Aren't you afraid that one day, when the soldiers who fought for the Imperial Truth realize it was a lie, their inner pillars will collapse?" Blazkowicz reminded him.
"So, they cannot be allowed to know," the Emperor's expression was iron. "Chaos' corruption is omnipresent; the thoughts of any intelligent being who knows of them are a source of their power. Religion and worship are natural fertile grounds for Chaos and must be completely eradicated."
Blazkowicz nodded. "What about Horus? Have you told him?"
"No." The Emperor shook his head.
"Besides you, Malcador, and Valdor, I haven't told anyone."
"You should tell him," Blazkowicz countered. "He has the right to know about the existence of Chaos and to prepare to fight them." Blazkowicz understood the Nur Stars' and Imperium's fundamental difference. Many in the Nur Stars' high echelons knew about Chaos. They even summoned demons for study.
"No," the Emperor shook his head, his tone firm as iron. "I have reasons why I must do this. It concerns the survival of the Imperium." The Emperor could tell Blazkowicz everything, but not this. He could not tell him that his sons originated from a deal with the Chaos Gods. Blazkowicz might accept it.
But Horus and the others? The Emperor felt that if they knew too early, the Great Crusade would fail. And the most important point, the deal with the Chaos Gods explicitly stated that half of the Primarchs belonged to them. Horus could betray him. Only Blazkowicz, who vowed to slay the Chaos Gods, would never break his oath.
"Who is your ultimate enemy?"
Two different voices, yet speaking in unison, a unique tacit agreement. All indications suggested their mutual enemy was Chaos, yet they still hoped for the most accurate answer. Blazkowicz and the Emperor exchanged smiles.
"I am the enemy of Chaos!" The Emperor's every action was to fight Chaos. Blazkowicz's goal might not be as grand, but his ultimate target was also Chaos. Their starting points were different, but their ultimate goal was the same. The Emperor was unwilling to lose Blazkowicz, this powerful trump card.
"Let's go, they've been waiting outside for a long time." As the side hall doors opened, the Master of Mankind and Blazkowicz looked relaxed.
Horus was the first to greet them: "Father, brother." The Master of Mankind raised his hand, resting it on Horus' arm, gently patting him to silence his questions, and surveyed the hall, frustrated by the animosity between them.
"The Negotiation Hall." Valdor spoke, precisely conveying the Master of Mankind's will. Blazkowicz cast a reassuring glance at the Sentinels and Turing, signaling for them to follow. Valdor looked at the Martian Mechanicus Elder: "Inform the Fabricator-General of Mars that the Master of Mankind requires his presence."
"Sir," the Mechanicus Elder replied, his voice a mechanical blend. "I have already informed the Fabricator-General one hundred twenty-three minutes and eleven seconds ago." His bionic appendages twitched from electrical overload.
Praise the Omnissiah! He had already seen what was to come.
Blazkowicz cast an unexpected glance at the red-robed cyborg; he knew that was one of the "Imperial Aquila's" heads—the Martian Adeptus Mechanicus. The Master of Mankind glanced at the Mechanicus Elder and led the way; he needed to quickly define the relationship with the Nur Stars.
The hall was solemn, with sculptures symbolizing peace and trust. A colossal square table stood beneath a towering dome. Once the Argent Nur and Imperium personnel were in place, the vermilion doors opened again, and a ten-meter-tall mechanical construct "squeezed" its way through.
He was clad in red robes, with mechanical tentacles wriggling beneath his body. The Fabricator-General's upper body held a forging axe; only his face retained human flesh. "He's a bit too extreme—" Turing whispered to Harlan.
"Only half of his brain is flesh."
"He is indeed a bit too extreme," Harlan nodded. At the square table, the Imperium's members were in the center, Argent Nur's personnel on the left, and the Adeptus Mechanicus on the right. The Destroyer Legion stood behind their Gene-Father, stating their allegiance.
"Today, my Master has made an important decision," Valdor began. "A third party needs to be introduced: the Nur Stars, an empire of stars ruled by a son of the Master of Mankind. He will lead the Nur Stars into the alliance, providing support to the Imperium and enjoying equal rights with the Imperium." He looked at the Martian Adeptus Mechanicus, awaiting the Fabricator-General's response.
Horus' eyes widened, then quickly calmed down; he had long found the eccentric oil-mongers of Mars irritating. He enjoyed seeing Mars put in a difficult position. Malcador was not surprised; to unite this hope, the Master of Mankind would try every means.
"This is impossible!" The Fabricator-General's voice was a cold, modulated command, rejecting the Imperium's demand. He projected the Olympus Protocol from his palm: "Mars has the right to dispose of a portion of the relic technology. A son of the Master of Mankind is part of the Imperium; the technological relics he brings back are rightfully shared by Mars. There is no three-party agreement; there has always only been the Imperium and the Martian Adeptus Mechanicus."
The Fabricator-General rejected the Master of Mankind's proposal; although he revered the Master of Mankind, the Adeptus Mechanicus was a vital part of the Great Crusade. The Master of Mankind said nothing, looking towards Blazkowicz. His gesture was clear: to gain a firm footing in the Imperium, one needed to demonstrate strength. If one lacked the capital, they would be devoured.
"The Nur Stars agree to an alliance with the Imperium, enjoying equal rights." Blazkowicz spoke as if he hadn't heard the Fabricator-General's rejection, stating the rights Argent Nur should enjoy: "The relic technology and STC templates excavated during the Great Crusade, Argent Nur has the right to possess. In return, Argent Nur can participate in the Great Crusade. If you lack warships, you can consider the ancient warships we manufacture, which are more advanced than your current ones." He signaled Sophia to project images, which displayed warships and weapons whose performance was far superior to the Imperium's.
"Wait a moment." The Fabricator-General's cold logical thinking finally became disordered. "Master of Mankind, you cannot betray the interests of the Adeptus Mechanicus." The Adeptus Mechanicus providing weapons was the most fundamental binding interest; Argent Nur's proposal was digging at the roots.
The Master of Mankind looked at him, and Valdor spoke: "Our cooperation is based on an equal relationship. We are not bound by the agreement, and the Imperium has the right to choose what is better." Blazkowicz smiled.
He understood this was a father-son game, forcing Mars to make concessions. Since the Adeptus Mechanicus made the first move, Blazkowicz was very willing to weaken them.
"The Nur Stars can join, and can even acquire Adeptus Mechanicus technology, but they cannot provide weapons to the Imperium." The Fabricator-General was silent, calculating, also wanting to retain interests: "We will provide more weapons to the Imperium. In return, Mars requires research into artificial intelligence."
"No!"
"No!"
A simultaneous refusal from Blazkowicz and Valdor echoed in the hall.
"Argent Nur retains ownership of all artificial intelligence technology and demands that the Adeptus Mechanicus provide and surrender the sealed technology." Blazkowicz looked at the Fabricator-General, "Furthermore, the Adeptus Mechanicus is not allowed to infringe upon any of Argent Nur's rights; Argent Nur has priority."
"This is impossible!" The Fabricator-General was furious, his upper body rising from the tabletop.
"Mars can make concessions, but not continuously!"
"Hmph!" Blazkowicz snorted coldly and opened communications with the Void Wanderer: "Let the General see if he should make concessions." Turing's cold voice mocked, and holographic projections shot from his eyes: "Freak, look at this." The Fabricator-General watched as the enormous relic warship aimed its bow at Mars, its gunports opening.
The Fabricator-General's remaining human pupils contracted for 0.3 seconds: "Is this a show of force?" Even more disdainfully: "The might of Mars cannot be subdued by a single warship."
"Is that so? Then take a good look."
To the front, upper left of the Void Wanderer, a giant hexagonal grid opened, revealing the hidden cannon barrels within. A circular muzzle, one hundred square kilometers in size, began to channel energy. The ship's main cannon began to channel the energy of a blue giant star.
"Dimensional channel locked, energy stream firing." As Turing reported, the endless energy from the blue giant star erupted! A visible blue energy line, traveling at superluminal speed, flew towards Mars; the imprisoned wrath of the blue sun would no longer be contained! 'No...no...no...'
The immense energy stream had exceeded the Fabricator-General's calculations; his brain and processor had crashed. The blue energy stream grazed past Mars, not even hitting it, yet it overloaded all of the planet's shields.
Mars now looked like a young girl, with her gates wide open, vulnerable to all. If it had hit directly, Mars would have been utterly destroyed. The furious energy was unleashed for sixty seconds, and the Negotiation Hall was also silent for sixty seconds, everyone watching the powerful firepower, turning their heads in awe.
"Negotiate! Everything is negotiable!" The Fabricator-General sat back down, his tone less cold, with a touch more humanity: "I love the Imperium very much, and I love Argent Nur even more. Mars is willing to contribute more to the Imperium, and even more willing to engage in deep cooperation with Argent Nur."
The terror of a single cannon shot was such that it established a three-party cooperation. The Imperium and Mars deepened their cooperation, with Mars providing more weapons and technical support for the Imperium's Forge Worlds.
Argent Nur maintained its independence and freedom, receiving technological data from both the Imperium and Mars, with both parties providing Argent Nur with continuous basic industrial materials.
The three parties, in the sacred hall, added countless detailed clauses, finally signing the agreement—the Stars Protocol. The Nur Stars had demonstrated the necessary power, leading to a successful negotiation.
Mars bled, paying a staggering price in technology and influence. The Imperium, in turn, received a bounty of unprecedented benefit. As a key participant, Argent Nur drew on the wealth of both parties, gaining boons from the Imperium and concessions from Mars. As the most independent faction, it was the undeniable victor.
When the dust settled, the Imperial Aquila remained a symbol of unwavering duality, its two heads locked in a symmetrical stance. But a new brand was seared into the eagle's heart: the crimson rune of Argent Nur, a mark of the warrior king, now burned on the Aquila's chest.
In addition to the Imperial Aquila's solemn salute and the Adeptus Mechanicus' cogwheel gesture, a Warrior's salute was now added to Imperial common etiquette. A simple, powerful gesture: kneeling on one knee, left hand pressed to the chest. It was the salute of Argent Nur's warrior civilization.
With all matters settled, Blazkowicz was ready to return to the Nur Stars, to continue his campaign of conquest. But the Emperor drew him aboard his flagship, the Bucephalus. He invited his son to embark on a new journey—to meet another brother, one yet to return to Terra.
Blazkowicz led ten Doom Slayers to accompany the Emperor to the planet Fenris, arranging for the rest of his Gene-Sons to receive ideological education as Warriors back in Argent Nur. Though they were peerless warriors with souls of adamantium, Blazkowicz insisted they undergo the rigorous cultural training of the warrior civilization.
For future wars, Blazkowicz's positioning was "multi-arms integrated combat," rather than a single tactical application. He also held another expectation for his superhuman offspring: they should utilize their superhuman minds to act as battlefield nodes, using their psychic link talent to serve as command nodes in large-scale troop engagements.
Blazkowicz divided the Doom Slayers into groups of three; these powerful Warriors had to become versatile. Blazkowicz, as the Legion's eldest son, reluctantly left his father's side to receive new training, but he insisted on leaving ten men for Blazkowicz, as the Gene-Father's "Honor Guard."
Aboard the ship, the Emperor stood in his command chamber, gazing at the Warp outside the viewport. He spoke with a deep voice, a note of awe in his tone: "I have never seen the Warp so placid."
Though daemons and filth feared him and would not approach his vessel, the chaotic tides of the Warp were always turbulent. Yet now, the path ahead of the ship was like a still pool. The Emperor hoped that Blazkowicz's offspring would inherit this talent. Blazkowicz shook his head.
The Warp was so docile before him, as if deliberately retreating from his very presence. Compared to unknown secrets, he was quite unaccustomed to Imperial ships; even the Emperor's flagship exuded a heavy, steel-forged sensation. With the strongest psyker and the strongest Warrior present, the Bucephalus Gellar Field was not activated.
Blazkowicz unhooked the Crucible Sword from his waist, preparing to toss it back into the raging sea of souls. "May I see it?" The Emperor was very curious about the god-slaying weapon in Blazkowicz's hand, a weapon that surpassed artifacts and even made him feel a sense of trepidation.
Blazkowicz did not refuse. He simply smiled. Lightly gripping the hilt, the god-slaying blade sprang out. Blazkowicz held the hilt with two fingers, easily handing the Crucible Sword to the Emperor.
"You had better be careful, it's sharp" Blazkowicz offered a gentle warning, his inner self laughing at the irony.
The Emperor's hand closed on the hilt, and immediately a searing agony shot through him. Black smoke rose from his flesh as if it were being corroded by a god-blight. The Custodes watched with furrowed brows. The Doom Slayers, however, watched with relish. The Emperor's arm cracked beneath the psychic flames; his muscles, sheathed in golden robes, tensed from the pain. Yet he did not release his grip.
"Let go."
The Emperor's voice was a strained whisper. His psychic energy was being burned away, his hand aflame, but he would not yield.
"You must hold on tight. If you lose your grip, this warship will be destroyed.'"
Blazkowicz warned him seriously. The powerful concept of the Crucible Sword would erase all existence it touched. The Emperor nodded, still wanting to try if he could wield it. The moment Blazkowicz let go, the Emperor immediately gripped the hilt, but a flame immediately traveled up his sword-wielding arm, burning his flesh until it split open.
His psychic power immediately dissipated, and the Emperor revealed his true form, the flames extinguished. He placed both hands on the hilt, but he felt the sword growing heavier and heavier.
The Emperor was surprised, continuously increasing his strength, but he could only slightly shake the Crucible Sword, finding it difficult to wield this powerful weapon.
Blazkowicz caught the weapon the moment it slipped from his grasp, preventing the Crucible Sword from killing the very concept of the warship. The Emperor restored his radiant image, the burns on his arm instantly healing.
"Only a Warrior such as yourself," he said with a sigh of regret, "can wield a weapon that makes gods tremble."
Blazkowicz took back the Crucible Sword and casually threw it back into the Warp, letting it hunt daemons. After this small interlude, the two sides seemed to have fewer barriers between them. On the way to Fenris, Blazkowicz and the Emperor conversed in the palace of the Bucephalus, discussing some future plans.
They were not afraid of the Four Gods' eavesdropping; instead, they spoke freely. Blazkowicz also learned that the Warp was relatively calm now; the scream of Slaanesh's birth had extinguished the Warp storms.
During this precious window of opportunity, the Emperor had to complete the Great Crusade and proceed with his next plan. Blazkowicz finally understood why this Emperor was so eager to seize the stars. Greedily taking the stars into his possession, seizing all resources to support the Great Crusade.
When the Bucephalus passed from the Warp and arrived in the Fenris system, a lone Imperial warship was already waiting. A group of Space Marines in Fifth Legion power armor boarded the Bucephalus and came before the Emperor.
Blazkowicz immediately noticed something was amiss. This band of warriors was not the Fifth Legion; they wore the white power armor, but they were taller, and their very bearing was alien. He even spotted a Primarch, a being who should have been impossible to miss, standing inconspicuously among the Legion soldiers.
"It's that imposter." A psychic prompt from a Doom Slayer echoed in his mind. "He has been lurking in our Legion for a long time, faking his death and disappearing without a trace, and now he has appeared here again. He returned earlier than Horus Lupercal, and has even been living on Terra all this time. The Emperor concealed his existence."
Blazkowicz nodded knowingly and no longer paid attention to him.
Alpharius, hidden in the crowd, felt the newly returned brother's gaze pierce his flawless disguise the moment their eyes met. That all-seeing gaze sent shivers down Alpharius' spine, and he "casually" turned his body to avoid his brother's gaze. Fortunately, that seemingly calm, yet extremely sharp gaze quickly moved on.
The "Fifth Legion" warriors immediately knelt before the Emperor and Blazkowicz, expressing their most basic respect. Blazkowicz watched, laughing inwardly. A brother disguised as a Space Marine knelt before him without hesitation, which was a bit amusing.
"Are you sure?" The Emperor, who had also recognized Alpharius, allowed the play to continue. His focus was on the intelligence they provided.
"Confirmed, it is a Primarch." The "Legion" warrior opened a holographic projection, which contained a summary of the planet they had observed. A frozen planet, a "Death World" known as Fenris. The locals there had adapted to the extreme cold and stubbornly survived, forming a unique culture.
Years ago, a Primarch's amniotic pod had landed in the wilderness, and he had been adopted by a pack of wolves. The locals had captured him and his wolf brothers, and accepted the savage Primarch.
Now he had integrated into local society and united the tribes. Blazkowicz watched with relish, as if witnessing another life story unfold.
"You may leave," the Emperor said to the imposter, his gaze lingering on the true Primarch. He then threw a heavy cloak to Blazkowicz. "Come down with me."