Inside the preparation chamber of the Thousand Sons, See You Tomorrow carefully checked over his equipment.
He wore the deep blue and crimson red power armor characteristic of the Thousand Sons, its plates etched with intricate geometric patterns and arcane symbols, faint halos of psychic light rippling across its surface.
What he held in his hands was no ordinary weapon: a force staff set with a gemstone representing the Eye of Knowledge, and an ornately decorated power sword that likewise carried psychic circuitry woven through it.
He needed no one to tell him. The moment he took these weapons in hand, he could feel the arcane power contained within them, a power that shared its lineage with the dark gifts of the Deceiver, yet felt older and purer.
In the viewing gallery, the sections belonging to the Thousand Sons and the Space Wolves stood adjacent to one another, though the atmosphere between them could not have been more different.
Magnus, the Crimson King, Primarch of the Thousand Sons, watched his "new son" below with unconcealed approval and pride.
His towering frame was clad in finely wrought power armor, and his single eye burned with the wisdom-fire of an endless hunger for knowledge and power.
His long crimson hair stirred though no wind blew, and a gentle yet immense psychic radiance, visible to the naked eye, wreathed his entire body. See You Tomorrow's calm, precise mastery over the very nature of power clearly pleased him deeply.
Yet this harmony was broken by a rough, cold snort from beside him.
Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves, the Wolf King. He stood like a war-god stepped straight out of the ice fields, thick of hair and untamed in bearing, radiating a heavy scent of beast and the rich smell of mead.
He frowned as he watched Magnus lost in admiration for the beauty of his psychic arts, and at last, unable to hold his tongue, he growled out a rebuke in that voice like sandpaper grinding on stone:
"Brother, I'll say it again. Leaning so heavily on that unseen, untouchable sorcery is no proper path for a warrior." The Wolf King gestured toward the warriors of the other Legions below, warming up, honing their blades, radiating raw, purely physical strength.
"Look at them! Muscle, steel, courage, and fang and claw bared straight at the enemy! That's what our kind is built on.
You'd do better teaching your children how to take an enemy's head off with a good honest blade, instead of fiddling all day with those dangerous tricks of light and shadow no one can properly explain."
Magnus's single eye flickered faintly at these words, but he showed no sign of anger.
Instead, an expression of scholarly tolerance mixed with mild helplessness, the look of a learned man facing a stubborn one, crossed his face. He turned gracefully, his voice calm yet carrying, laced with unquestionable authority:
"My dear Russ, what you call 'sorcery' is one of the most fundamental forces in the universe, woven into the very structure of reality itself.
It was through this same 'sorcery' that our Father, the Emperor of Mankind, pulled humanity back from the brink of the long night, and built this Imperium spanning the stars."
He raised a hand slightly, and a thread of psychic current coiled around his fingertips, docile as a tame pet.
"To reject the psychic arts is to reject fire, to reject gravity itself. I study it, I master it, so that I may better understand this world, and better serve our Father's great work. Is that not, in its own way, a higher form of ascension?"
Leman Russ opened his mouth as if to argue, staring at the arc of current dancing on Magnus's fingertip, then at that expression of his brother's, so utterly certain of itself.
In the end he only scratched irritably at his thick mane of hair and muttered gruffly, "Suit yourself, brother. Just pray you can actually keep a leash on that thing."
He said no more, turning his attention back to the arena below, though the distrust and wariness toward the psychic arts remained plainly visible in the set of his brow.
Magnus, unbothered, gave a faint smile and turned his expectant gaze back toward See You Tomorrow.
He believed that this new son of his would show everyone, in the battle to come, the wisdom and power of the Thousand Sons: elegant, lethal, and utterly unlike the savage brawling of brute strength.
---
At the far end of the arena, a gathering of crimson light.
[User114514] stood tall, his power armor a red as pure as fresh blood, the golden eagle emblem and its trim gleaming brilliantly against the crimson field.
This was the armor of the Blood Angels, symbol of sacrifice, glory, and an endless, thirsting rage (though it had yet to fully surface).
He carried a massive power lance, its blade gleaming with a cold, merciless light, and in his other hand he held an elegantly crafted bolt pistol.
He steadied his breathing, feeling the strength, the speed, and something else, buried deep in his very gene-seed, a burning pursuit of perfection and glory, all far surpassing anything he had felt in any character before.
In the Blood Angels' viewing gallery, Sanguinius, the Great Angel, Primarch of the Legion, watched his own "new son" with a gaze of boundless gentleness and satisfaction.
He was the most beautiful, the most noble of all the Primarchs, a hero stepped straight from classical myth.
He wore no armor now, only a simple robe, yet with his radiant golden hair, his flawless face, and above all the great white wings spread wide behind him, pure and unmarked, he seemed less a warrior than a god descended among mortals.
A stillness, a mercy, an absolute majesty radiated from him, standing in sharp contrast to Leman Russ's roughness and Magnus's erudition.
Sanguinius gave [User114514] a slight nod, his gaze carrying encouragement and expectation. He needed no words.
His very presence was the embodiment of every virtue the Blood Angels held dear: guarding all that was good with matchless strength in arms, interpreting loyalty through sacrifice, and even beneath a curse of fate, still capable of shining with the most dazzling light of all.
---
Below, the gates rose.
On the eastern side, [See You Tomorrow] stepped forward slowly, force staff and power sword in hand.
His armor, deep blue and crimson, looked mysterious and profound beneath the arena's lights, the gem set atop his staff flickering with an unstable arcane glow.
His steps were steady, carrying the calm, focused air of a researcher stepping into his laboratory, his gaze, even through his visor, already seeming to parse his opponent's energy field, movement patterns, and potential weaknesses.
On the western side, [User114514] strode onto the field, power halberd and bolt pistol in hand. His crimson armor looked like burning flame, the edge of his power halberd reflecting a cold, merciless light.
His bearing was solemn and full of power, each step landing firm and heavy, as though a crimson war-god had descended to earth.
Behind his visor his gaze was sharp and resolute, locked firmly on the blue figure across from him: the pure, appraising stare of one warrior sizing up another, mingled with anticipation for the battle of honor about to begin.