Dorn was extremely anxious about the Phalanx.
That fortress, like a small asteroid, could park more than a dozen Imperial cruisers on its forward deck alone.
It was not only the Imperial Fists' home and fortress-monastery.
It was also the largest space fortress known to have been built by humanity, a golden sentinel in Terra's far orbital reaches.
The Phalanx was so powerful it rivaled the Aeldari's smaller craftworlds, and it could move under its own power and travel through the warp.
More importantly, it was a relic of the Dark Age of Technology. Humanity no longer had the ability to build another.
If the Phalanx had been destroyed, the Imperium would lose its strongest void asset, and the Sol System's security could no longer be guaranteed.
"Please, let it be all right…" Dorn drew a deep breath.
He knew that if the Phalanx suffered a truly catastrophic failure, the Mechanicus tech-priests would not have the capability to repair it.
Under Dorn's tense stare, the short veteran happily pointed at his data-slate.
"Heh heh, found it. News from more than ten years ago. My memory's solid. I rarely forget things."
Dorn locked onto the slate, scanning the article and its accompanying vid-stills.
When he finally realized what he was looking at, his vision went dark.
"Dismantled… dismantled?!"
He stared at the footage of a half-disassembled Phalanx, his voice shaking so hard he nearly fainted.
"Yeah. It says it right there. The Phalanx was too old, too hard to repair. After the Departmento Munitorum discussed it, they teamed up with the Mechanicus and broke it down to study its fabrication technology."
The short veteran leaned in, pointing at the Low Gothic text, then sighed.
"Didn't expect you to be able to read, big guy. You're educated."
"Shame you're not an honored citizen yet. You don't have permission to use these slates. There's a lot of Imperial news on here."
"Look, the Savior even publicly thanked the Imperial Fists lords for their sacrifice. Said they advanced the Imperium's fortress-tech."
"Tch. No follow-up news after this. Classified. I don't have clearance. You'd need a higher authorization level to apply for archive access…"
As for dismantling the Phalanx, the New Imperium claimed it had little choice.
After thousands of years, continuous alert duty and war had inflicted enormous damage on the fortress.
Year after year, more of its systems failed, and the technologies needed to restore them had vanished from living memory.
Even the Imperial Fists struggled to maintain it, let alone truly repair it.
Once the Phalanx had loomed like a giant amid the stars, but through the long dark age it had dimmed. Even moving it had become extremely difficult.
So the New Imperium dismantled it to study its internal technologies, hoping to build new fortresses on the same tier.
Given the Phalanx's state, the cost of a full restoration might have exceeded the cost of building a replacement.
From Dorn's perspective, though, it was agony.
His breathing grew heavy. His temperature practically spiked with rage.
"This is… this is beyond outrageous…"
That void fortress was not only the Emperor's golden sentinel. It was also one of the great symbols of Dorn, the Lord of the Phalanx.
His most precious legacy.
Yet the Savior and the Mechanicus had dismantled it with casual ease for its technologies, destroying a fortress humanity could no longer build.
Worse, they likely used imperial authority to crush his sons into accepting the absurd order.
Without their gene-father, the Imperial Fists could not withstand the double pressure of the Emperor of the Imperium and the Mechanicus.
Dorn turned away, staring into the empty void. His wall-like frame seemed to hunch, just slightly.
He worried about the Imperial Fists. He did not know what cruel treatment his sons had endured.
He had learned of the darkness of the Age of Apostasy. After the Legions were broken, their status within the Imperium became precarious. They struggled to resist the commands of Terra's ruling bodies.
Many Space Marines were even sent into the Eye of Terror.
Perhaps the Imperial Fists, under a single decree from the Emperor of the Imperium, had been forced into a suffering crusade.
Terra's ruling court, the Mechanicus, the Ecclesiarchy, the Imperial Guard, the Space Marine Chapters.
Even Horus had never held power on that scale.
In that moment, the Lord of the Phalanx felt the Savior's pressure more deeply than ever.
The void outside was so dark, so suffocating.
If Dorn's judgment was correct, then the Savior was an enemy beyond terrifying.
"This big guy, why'd you go quiet again? Want to go get a drink or something?" The short veteran looked at Dorn's depressed air, scratched his head, and had no idea what was going on.
…
At the same time, on the far side of Holy Terra.
A colossal fortress anchored in orbit sat amid birdsong and greenery, a garden sanctuary the size of an asteroid.
It was filled with trees, streams, and solemn shrines, and towering above all of it stood a statue of the Primarch Rogal Dorn, impossible to miss.
That was the wreckage of the Phalanx.
After dismantling the fortress's key systems, engines, and weapon batteries, the New Imperium filled the remaining structure with vast quantities of fertile soil, transforming it into a small garden shrine.
It also served as a sacred world for the Imperial Fists, open to pilgrimage and visitation.
In addition, the Imperial Fists were compensated heavily, raising their military strength even further.
On this shrine-world now, aside from pilgrims arriving from across the galaxy to behold the Lord of the Phalanx, there were almost no Imperial Fists to be seen.
Because it was a special period.
A rare rotation and rest interval for the Imperial Fists, meant to ease psychological exhaustion.
From the Imperial Fists' shrine-world, one could see a vivid green planet like a jewel of the Sol System.
Holy Terra.
Humanity's cradle and the Imperium's heart was gradually changing from an administrative world into a garden sanctuary world, especially after the political center shifted to Dawnlight City's webway hub.
Over these years, Terra's steel hive-sprawls had been dismantled piece by piece. The environment was restored completely.
Green mountains, clear waters, blue skies, white clouds.
Rivers and seas once lost had returned.
Like the ancient era.
In fact, the New Imperium was determined to make Holy Terra the most perfect garden sanctuary world, distilling the best of the galaxy's garden worlds into one place.
Everything, all of it.
After all, most Imperial citizens lived on hive worlds. They traveled incredible distances to make pilgrimage to the Imperium's greatest world, only to arrive and see a bigger hive world with an environment worse than their own.
How embarrassing would that be?
Of course, pilgrims had their faith filter and would not necessarily feel disappointed, but for the New Imperium, "good enough" was not acceptable.
In short, Holy Terra's role was a pilgrim garden and convalescent sanctuary, a spiritual retreat and elevation for the Imperium.
A place every Imperial citizen must visit once in a lifetime.
As for planetary defense, it was primarily handled by the outer void. Plenty of defensive arrays were also hidden within the system.
At the current level of protection, if xenos and heretics ever broke the defenses and landed on Terra's surface, then the Imperium was already finished anyway.
On that blue-green world, an immense garden region covered an entire continent.
From primeval jungle to desert sunsets, natural wonders from across the galaxy were arranged in a breathtaking display.
It was a convalescent sanctuary provided to warriors, and in many areas sacred light shone down.
"By the Savior, this is so damn comfortable!"
Massive, scarred Imperial Fists Astartes lounged in hot springs, visibly at ease.
The very gene-sons the Lord of the Phalanx worried himself sick over were currently enjoying a thirteen-day all-inclusive convalescence vacation.
After that, they would go to pay homage at the Golden Throne.
One Imperial Fists warrior wiped his face with a towel and sighed.
"Brothers, they must've added new meds to the water again. The corrosive injuries I picked up fighting daemons last time are slowly healing."
He took a swig of strong liquor, then turned and asked,
"Captain, when do we finally counterattack Chaos? We've been waiting forever. Why is there still no movement?"
Rumors had begun to spread that the New Imperium would soon launch an organized counteroffensive into the warp.
Ten thousand years of Chaos incursions had left Imperial warriors with endless blood, tears, and humiliation.
They had wanted to strike back for ages.
Now, hearing that the Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium, intended to do it properly, countless soldiers were itching for war.
They wanted to charge in immediately.
"The Departmento Munitorum is preparing. The Imperial Fists will participate too, and we'll push for the forward fortress construction contracts…"
Third Company Captain Tor Garadon heard this and grew serious.
This warrior had white hair and a deep scar across his brow ridge. He looked at his brothers and said,
"But whether the Imperium can truly counterattack Chaos depends on how quickly the Lord of Iron can complete the relevant Blackstone facilities."
"That's the key."
The Imperial Fists warriors' feelings turned complicated.
Perturabo, the Lord of Iron, was undeniably an enemy of the Imperial Fists.
But the Primarch had returned, and he was now one of the Imperium's most critical figures, tied to humanity's survival and prosperity.
In that case, there was no justification for vengeance. That would only delight their enemies and make them no better than the heretics.
For loyal, upright Imperial Fists, perhaps the only answer was distance and restraint.
They could keep their distance from Perturabo.
They could not ignore the Iron Warriors.
"Hmph. Those bastards stole our defensive construction contracts again. Now they've even come to Holy Terra!"
An Imperial Fists warrior cursed the Iron Warriors under his breath.
Not long ago, the Iron Warriors had snatched a major engineering bid away from the Imperial Fists, and the anger still burned.
They wanted nothing more than to smash those freaks with their twisted augmetics.
Within the New Imperium, the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors were the two most powerful battlefield fortification engineering blocs.
They had never gotten along. Now, with overlapping business, the competition was intense.
"Chapter Master Gregor Dessian made it clear. We have to beat them with engineering skill to wash away the humiliation, not with fists."
Garadon fixed the warriors with a hard stare and warned them seriously.
"That's also the Savior's will. If we're not satisfied, we win it back with better craft."
"Not like barbarians who just brawl it back. That has no honor."
The Imperial Fists fell silent. Then their eyes sharpened with renewed drive.
Now that the two forces competed in the same arena, whether fortress construction or battlefield glory, none of them wanted to lose.
The Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium, used every method available to prevent a bloody internal conflict between the Imperial Fists and the Iron Warriors, converting it into a healthier competitive model.
Not a full-scale eruption.
Of course, if they truly could not control their anger, the Imperium had also built dedicated dueling arenas where Astartes could settle disputes under full medical coverage and safety measures.
Fight it out properly.
Beat the other side into the medbay, fair and square.
It could not be helped. The two Legions had fought for ten thousand years, trading blows and grudges. Some contradictions did not dissolve easily.
Conflict was normal.
The Savior forbade Imperial Legions from killing one another. Anyone who violated that would face severe punishment.
In short, the old kind of brutal internal war could never be allowed again.
Fortunately, the Savior could still hold the proud warriors in check. No one dared openly defy his will.
Even Perturabo quietly accepted his brother's advice.
Mostly because that brother offered too much, providing the resources and opportunities Perturabo had always craved, and the chance to realize his ideals.
The Savior believed that after a few more centuries, the two sides' relationship would gradually heal through continued war against Chaos, becoming less vicious.
Right now, the Savior had only one real worry.
Would Rogal Dorn's return completely reignite the hatred?
Perturabo and Dorn had fought each other with murderous intensity. Who knew whether, once they learned the other lived, they would go at it again.
In recent years, the Imperial Fists had grown more desperate for their Primarch, their gene-father, to return.
Without their Primarch, they struggled to compete directly with the Iron Warriors.
The Lord of Iron had poured immense resources and technology into the Iron Warriors, and the Imperial Fists had begun to fall behind in fortress-engineering capability.
"We can't rely on the Savior's favoritism forever. That would be dishonorable…"
Garadon thought to himself, a little heavy.
The Savior had consistently supported the Imperial Fists, approving large allocations of wargear and issuing mandatory orders to share technologies once exclusive to the Iron Warriors.
He even declared publicly that the Iron Warriors owed the Imperium, and they would have to repay it with more loyalty and blood.
Beyond that, the Savior had promised to build the Imperial Fists a new Phalanx fortress.
Two of them.
No other Imperial force received that kind of treatment.
It was naked favoritism, and it made the Imperial Fists feel even more guilty and uneasy.
Dorn's sons owed the Savior far too much.
In truth, this was just Eden, taking advantage of Dorn not being back yet, aggressively farming goodwill with the Imperial Fists, handing out comfort and benefits like a would-be godfather.
It was also a hedge against the possibility of future conflict.
Eden knew Dorn was a legendary hardhead, someone who had grudges with more than half his Primarch brothers, the kind of stubbornness that even Guilliman's patience could not endure.
Perturabo being able to throw down with Dorn was not exactly surprising.
Yes, the Emperor could restrain Dorn, but the old man was not lucid at all times.
So Eden needed to prepare in advance.
So that at the critical moment, he could at least pull Dorn back a fraction, leaving room to intervene and mediate, preventing a catastrophic clash.
For Eden, as long as Dorn did not return and immediately collide with Perturabo or the Iron Warriors, it would be fine.
If both sides started slaughtering each other before anyone understood the situation…
Then it would all be over.
"Form up!"
"Everyone, form up!"
At some point, the hot spring area suddenly became noisy. Captain Garadon's voice boomed like thunder.
The Imperial Fists warriors had received some kind of message. They surged out of the water and hurried away as a group.
Their faces were grim, as if something extremely important had happened.
(End of Chapter)
[Get +30 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 300 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]