Sometimes, Fujimaru Ritsuka couldn't decide which was more exhausting: spending what felt like centuries in an illusion governing a rotten planet, leading a Legion across the galaxy, only to be thoroughly killed in a rebellion—or realizing that Primarchs, psychologically, never seemed to mature past the age of five.
At the very least, the current spectacle before her—Conrad Curze and Ferrus Manus—was a prime example.
"Gentlemen. I know this gold-drenched void lacks reference points, but do you really think I can't tell a typhoon passed through here?" She massaged her temples. "Also, last time I was here, I did leave some basic furniture. Even if no one wanted to use it, it at least marked orientation—so where is it now?"
"What 'typhoon'? We merely engaged in some... brotherly reunion." Conrad Curze, his form now more unstable than ever—edges dissolving into viscous black tendrils after Ferrus' assault—chuckled without remorse. Having spent his final years embracing monstrosity, his standards were, in a word, flexible. Ferrus, however, stiffened at the second question, his golden-flame visage flickering with something like guilt.
"Father confiscated them during his last inspection," Ferrus admitted bluntly. "Creating matter from psychic energy is rare. He wished to study your method."
Fujimaru stared at the two Primarchs—or rather, their faint, flickering afterimages—for a long moment. For the sake of her sanity, she decided not to ask why they'd been brawling.
As the only one present with a physical body (and the ability to return to reality at will), she opted for magnanimity.
With a sigh, she reached forward—and plucked a cluster of colorless, translucent crystals from thin air, as if they'd been hanging there all along. "Like this. Where I'm from, large-scale projections are harder, but the technique itself isn't complicated."
Though she was clearly demonstrating for Ferrus (and, by extension, the Emperor), the act defied logic even in the warp. Some things, no matter how often witnessed, remained inexplicable to minds bound by rationality.
"The principle is similar to evocation magecraft—gathering ambient ether but withholding directive intent. If stabilized, you get these 'ether clumps.'" She waved the crystal cluster. "Useless, but since ether obeys mass-energy equivalence, you can—"
She pivoted and hurled the cluster skyward—
Boom.
The crystals detonated midair in a flash of light.
"—Do that. But it's inefficient." She turned back, preempting their thoughts. "Tactically niche, but straight-up explosion magecraft works better."
"Now, if you impose a concept during ether convergence—" Another reach, another pluck—this time producing a ruby-pommeled ceremonial dagger. "—That's 'creation from nothing.'"
Ferrus studied the blade. "Limits? Does volume, mass, or complexity affect the output?"
"Not for me." Fujimaru shrugged. "Most 'creation' magecraft relies on the caster's imagination to imprint structure—'Gradation Air.' But that requires atomic-level comprehension of the target. I'm a summoner, so my version is technically a manifestation ritual."
Curze perked up. "Manifestation? As in summoning spirits of the dead?"
"Well, 'spirits' in the broad sense. Animism—everything has a 'soul,' even rocks or old tools." She conjured a bolter mid-explanation, tossing the oversized weapon to Ferrus. "I pull mana, then graft a 'soul'—a concept or legend—onto it. The soul's influence shapes the ether automatically. No precision needed, just mana. As for limits..." She grinned. "Why not ask the Emperor? His employees deserve better accommodations!"
Ferrus blinked. "How? Telepathy?"
Then he noticed the golden scepter in her hand—ornate, eagle-topped, very Imperial.
A symbol-laden artifact Fujimaru would never choose to make.
"The Emperor's work." She deadpanned. "I asked about architectural preferences, and he handed me this. He's definitely watching."
"What is it?" Curze asked, not about the design.
"Like... admin privileges for his corner of the warp?" She sighed. "Lets me borrow his psychic power as ether. I'd complain about the gaudiness, but—"
Closing her eyes, she focused.
Instantly, the Primarchs understood her earlier "typhoon" remark.
Ether converged in a raging tide, a pressure like storm winds battering the void. The process defied description—much like the warp itself. Fujimaru stood motionless, scepter raised, as the currents obeyed unseen laws.
First came gravity. The Primarchs lurched as weight returned, only for polished marble to solidify beneath them—followed by carpets, pillars, murals, furnishings... A grand hall bloomed around them, gold-leafed and resplendent, its expansion unchecked.
Curze was the first to explore, drifting toward a mural of the Emperor at some Great Crusade victory. After a moment's scrutiny, he dug his claws into the wall and—with surgical precision—scraped the Emperor's face clean off.
Whether spite, rebellion, or sheer mischief motivated him was unclear. What was clear: Ferrus' roar of outrage pleased him immensely.
Yet before conflict could erupt, the vandalized mural repaired itself.
"The 'concept' I imposed was 'a moment of the Imperial Palace in the 30th millennium.'" Fujimaru's voice cut in, her eyes now open. "A 'frozen instant,' so damage reverts. The ether clings to the template."
Curze tsked. As he turned to resume his defacing, Fujimaru added:
"Oh, and the Emperor wants a word, Lord Curze. Privately."
She strode forward, the gilded aquila on her scepter gleaming as brightly as the palace around them.
"Psychic call?" She thrust the scepter at him, unfazed by his disgusted scowl.
"Can I refuse?" he asked.
But his outstretched hand answered for him.