Just as Halsey's jab at Leman's appetite set the Wolf King Primarch roaring with laughter, the youngest Primarch, Chaghatai, stepped forward from her side of his own accord.
His eyes, as they passed over Fulgrim, then Angron, and finally settled on the loudest voice, Leman, held the respect due to elder brothers—and a touch of unobvious curiosity.
He dipped slightly and gave a standard Imperial military salute. His voice was clear and strong, carrying the vitality unique to the young:
"Chaghatai greets Elder Brother Fulgrim, Elder Brother Angron, Elder Brother Leman. It is an honor to meet you all formally here."
His manners were proper—soldierly crisp without lacking courtesy—plainly the fruit of careful instruction.
"Hah! Good! Another handsome brother!"
Leman reacted first and loudest. His great hand smacked warmly onto Chaghatai's back—hard enough that, had Chaghatai not also borne a Primarch's frame, he might have staggered.
"Forget the stiff stuff! Come on, drink with your brother! And the meat—grilled to perfection!"
Saying so, Leman grabbed a Primarch-sized goblet—more like a small barrel—and tried to push it into Chaghatai's hands, while the other pointed at the mountain of special cuts on the table, roasted just for the Primarchs.
"Leman! Mind your manners."
Fulgrim spoke at once. A trace of helplessness crossed his perfect face as he pushed the over-ardent Leman back a little and stepped between him and Chaghatai.
Turning to Chaghatai, he smiled—a warm, magnetic expression that, at once, smoothed away the rough edge of Leman's charge.
"Pay no mind to this reckless wolf, Brother Chaghatai."
Fulgrim's voice sounded like a finely tuned instrument—pleasant to the ear. "Since this is our first meeting, I as elder brother regret not preparing a proper gift in advance."
As he spoke, Fulgrim moved with effortless grace, unhooking the sword at his own waist.
The scabbard gleamed in dark gold, carved over with exquisite, intricate patterns—Imperial dragon motifs woven together with Fulgrim's own hallmark flourishes of spirals and feathered lines. The hilt was set with several flawless gems. It looked as much a work of art as a weapon.
Fulgrim offered the sword with both hands and smiled:
"This 'Rite of Flowing Flame' is one of the pieces I forged myself in spare hours. Though not my primary weapon in war, its edge and temper are first-rate. I hope you won't disdain it."
!
Chaghatai clearly froze. For a moment he did not reach for the gorgeous sword before him.
Then he waved his hands quickly, his tone sincere with a hint of alarm:
"Brother Fulgrim, this is far too precious! I… I've yet to win any noteworthy merit for the Empire. I've just grown in peace under Father's, my brothers', and the Empire's shelter. How can I accept such a gift without earning it? I would be unworthy."
He knew well that honor should match achievement.
At that, Fulgrim's smile only deepened. A glint of approval flashed in his eyes as he kept the sword extended and explained:
"Don't refuse, Chaghatai. To me, swords like this fill my stores beyond counting. They're the byproduct of honing my craft and passing the time.
Take this one as a simple token—an elder brother's first meeting gift to his younger brother, a keepsake."
He paused, and his tone grew more earnest, with a note of expectation:
"And if, in time, you carve out your own great name among the stars—by your own courage and wit—building a glory that belongs to you, Chaghatai, then I will personally forge for you a true, one-of-a-kind weapon that befits your deeds. This one is merely the beginning."
At that, Angron also stepped up.
On his always slightly distant, thoughtful features, a gentle smile appeared.
Angron was neither as overt as Leman nor as refined in gifting as Fulgrim. He only laid a hand lightly on Chaghatai's shoulder and spoke calmly—with a strength that ran deep:
"Welcome home, Brother Chaghatai. Feel no pressure. There is no need to rush to prove anything.
Everyone has their own road and their own timing. Your vigor and humility are good traits. Keep your heart true. In the vast star-sea ahead, there will be ground enough for you to ride."
Angron's words carried a peculiar soothing force. It was not the flare of psychic power, but a steadiness and clarity rooted in his nature itself. They eased away the thin layer of tension and constraint in Chaghatai's heart at facing so many mighty Primarchs for the first time—and left a different kind of quiet and ease.
In truth, since his "birth," Chaghatai had lived in universe "20"—the Dead Space universe.
He grew up there—studying under Dr. Halsey: Imperial history, science and technology, and many vast bodies of knowledge, and, under his elder brother Sui Meng, training hard in combat, Legion command, and Imperial military law.
Their father, Emperor Samuel Young—though burdened with endless duties—still made time often to visit universe 20, to see him and give the guidance and care of a father.
So Chaghatai's youth had not passed in lonely or brutal training, but in care, systematic education, and upright value-shaping. That made him what he was now—confident but not arrogant, humble but not timid.
"Alright, alright! Gifts are given, encouraging words said!"
Left aside for a moment, Leman could hold no longer. His thick arm came down again around Chaghatai's shoulders, and he shoved the huge goblet into Chaghatai's hands without argument—raising one just as big for himself, amber liquor sloshing inside with a rich bouquet.
"Come on! If you're my brother, you're draining this first!"
His voice, like a war drum, beat with a heat that would not be refused.
"…"
Holding what would be a small bucket to normal men, Chaghatai instinctively glanced at Halsey standing nearby.
His look held a question—and the faint, childlike appeal for "permission."
In his heart, Halsey's place was as Athena's to Sui Meng, or Alexia's to Guilliman: the one who had given him knowledge, watched his growth, and played a key "mother" role in his life.
Halsey saw it all, her smile warm with understanding.
Looking on Chaghatai—poised between seasoned warrior and youth still needing guidance—she gave the smallest nod, and her eyes said yes.
With that sign, it was as if an unseen restraint had fallen away.
He clinked his cup against Leman's first—trying to copy the Wolf King's force—and the dull boom rang out. Then he took a deep pull.
The special spirit burned hot down his throat—and sent his blood to boil.
Under Leman's infectious gusto and his "mother's" sanction, Chaghatai soon lost his reserve.
He began to truly open up—drinking the elephant-killing liquor as Leman did, one great swig after another, grabbing big, crisp-charred, tender-centered slabs of meat from the table and tearing into them with relish.
His neatly gathered black ponytail bobbed with his movements. His face glowed with the pure joy of being allowed to "cut loose."
In that moment, he was no longer only the young Primarch in training—but a brother joined fully to this band of very different, but blood-tied, sons—tasting the unique, fiery bond among Primarchs.
"…"
Watching Chaghatai, quickly drawn into the circle of his brothers by Leman's boisterous lead—drinking and laughing—Halsey could not hide her satisfaction.
She did not intrude on this rare time of fraternity. Instead, she turned quietly away—like an observer—leaving the noise behind and walking alone toward another building at the far side of the terrace.
It was a hall rich with Huaxia style—soaring eaves and carved brackets, beams and painted rafters—in sharp contrast to the futurist lines around it, yet strangely in harmony.
Walking along the edges of the still-bustling crowds, Halsey's eyes swept faces lit with genuine joy.
She knew well that, nominally, this grand banquet celebrated the Emperor's "birthday," but its core was not so simple.
It was as much a rich reward and emotional tie from Samuel Young to all imperial subjects—
from babes in arms to those at life's dusk.
On this day, by law, the Empire rests and rejoices.
Of course, key posts still had to be manned to keep it running. But for those sacrificing their holiday, the Emperor offered more than empty praise—he "paid from his own pocket," granting six times pay for overtime as a sign of care and recognition.
Yet what delighted the people most—especially the children—was the Emperor's "red envelope."
Every citizen registered in the Imperial household system—regardless of age, including those born today—would receive an electronic red envelope from the Emperor.
For newborns, the gift was deposited straight into their guardians' accounts, to be held until they came of age.
In the crowd, no one was happier than the students.
Many families strictly controlled pocket money. The Emperor's gift, however, came with usage rights personally specified by him—meaning the receiver alone decided how to spend it.
Though Imperial law—and the Emperor himself—would never meddle in ordinary family life or childrearing, his near-divine authority in the people's hearts made his words as good as highest guidance in many homes.
So children now held, for the first time, a "little purse" they could truly control.
And the Emperor had decreed that every May 30 from now on would be the same.
That gave countless dreamers—saving for a coveted tool, a limited model, or a special trip—a reliable, recurring lift and something bright to look forward to.
As for the Emperor's wealth, its sources were plain.
In law and fact, the Empire belongs to him. Without him, there is no Empire.
Yet within the Imperial banking system there still exists a distinct personal account in his name.
Most of its income comes from profits of the Empire's great state enterprises, the largest part from the Atlas Group and its many holdings.
And all the welfare payouts he uses to reward the people, subsidize workers, and honor soldiers and officials are, on the books, drawn from that personal account—a true "out of pocket."
It's a habit far older than the Empire itself—rooted nearly three centuries back, when he still walked as an "entrepreneur" leading Atlas in the fights of Old Earth.
In those distant days, Atlas staff might not have fully grasped their boss's ultimate grand aim, but they were willing to struggle—and even die—for it.
The reason was simple: that boss never shorted anyone who gave their all.
Pay well above industry norms, comprehensive benefits, care for families, and shelter without stint in crisis—these built in Atlas's core staff a clan-like belonging and loyalty.
The "people-first, wealth-shared" corporate culture ran so deep that, by mid–late 20th century in the prime universe, when Atlas began to rise, staff at many other big firms felt an "itching envy" by comparison.
Atlas's road was not smooth. It faced coordinated blockade and pressure from traditional capital. But with roots in the military–industrial complex, Atlas dared the most direct—even forceful—"physical business war" when dealing with malicious competition.
And its core employees—driven by that deep bond and shared interest—truly were "ready to die," with staggering cohesion.
Back in the present:
Halsey shook the dust of history from her thoughts. Her gaze grew more intent.
She believed that the Emperor's lavish birthday celebration served far more than simple cheer and reward.
It was a special measure:
First, to greatly boost the sense of belonging and collective honor across the Empire.
To let every individual—wherever they lived—feel directly, through tangible benefit and shared joy, how tightly their fate was bound to the Empire's, strengthening their identity as Imperial citizens.
Second—and more crucial—to draw every Primarch briefly from their heavy charges and bring them together.
At this moment, borders were relatively firm. Outside threats—especially the Warp and Chaos—were in a phase of suppression and monitored calm.
Using this strategic lull for face-to-face Primarch talks was of immeasurable importance.
Aside from the youngest Chaghatai, every Primarch commanded a vast Astartes Legion and governed great swathes of space.
Their meeting in person did more than let them share insights on rule and local challenges. It directly enabled cross-Legion, cross-universe, and cross-sector cooperation—in war, in technology, in trade.
Beyond all that business, though, lay something deeper: family.
Harmony, understanding, and mutual support among the Primarch brothers are pillars of unity at the Empire's top. Their importance cannot be overstated.
Thinking, Halsey had already walked to the hall's Huaxia-style gate.
There, Custodians in black-and-gold power armor stood like immortal statues.
Their cold helms turned toward her. Once they identified who approached, they asked nothing more, simply stepping aside in perfect unison to open a path within.
She was long used to it. With steady steps, she crossed the threshold into the dimmer interior—scented faintly with sandalwood and the must of old books.
At once, her eyes fixed on the figure at the far end of the hall.
She stopped—and a smile rose, one she showed only to a very few, tinged with that special note of teasing.
Drawing out her tone just a little, she said clearly:
"Long time no see, Your Majesty."
______
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