"Address that question to my master in person," Malcador said.
What could he say? He certainly couldn't admit she was right—that he'd once been a thorough gambler and had only now come to his senses, finally letting go of the Webway.
"Very well. Corax and Mortarion will be counting on you, Lord Regent," Swain told Malcador.
Malcador was, without question, a phenomenally versatile Psyker. His power ranked second only to the Emperor's, his application of the Warp was masterful, and—most importantly—his grasp of statecraft was total. Guilliman himself could not compare.
Guilliman governed the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar; Malcador governed the entire galaxy. The gap was like the difference between running a village and running an entire nation.
"By the way, who commands the First Legion's fleet, and where are they now?" The Emperor had promised to send him a fleet to find Johnson, but so Fal he had no idea where it was.
"Urien Bendraeg's flotilla will reach the Gate of Hades tomorrow," Malcador replied after checking the latest logs.
"Hard-core," Swain blurted, stunned.
The First Legion was packed with killers, but this one was in a league of his own—the Grand Master who had led fifty thousand First Legion Astartes to victory in the First Randan Xenos War.
He was not only brutal but utterly ruthless. Only the First Legion, with its vast resources, would dare turn a Gloriana-class battleship into a bomb and obliterate the Randan Xenos's war-moon.
For most Legions a Gloriana was unique, the Primarch's flagship. Even though the Litany of Hate had been crippled, overloading its reactor as a weapon was unthinkable. The First Legion had possessed only three, and now one was gone after first contact with the Randan Xenos—an irreplaceable loss.
"How do you intend to tame such proud warriors?" Malcador asked.
The First Legion was the Emperor's earliest Astartes, the keenest blade in His hand. In their eyes they were the elder brother of every Legion; all others were mere juniors. Even the Sixteenth, first to reclaim its gene-sire, was beneath their notice.
Though the Emperor's writ would make them accept Swain's command, true obedience had to be earned. A Primarch could demand it unchallenged, but the second-in-command of the Raven Guard—an exile from the Primarch's own world who had only returned with Corax—what right had he? Even the Raven Guard's former Lord, Fal, would never claim such authority over them.
"Simple: I'll fight ten at once!" Swain declared. He would beat the fleet into submission—blade, bolter, their choice.
Wherever soldiers gather, might makes right. The best fighter may not be the Commander, yet every Commander must be formidable—doubly so for Astartes, living weapons forged for war.
"You plan to knock down all ten thousand?" Malcador exclaimed.
"What—ten thousand? How many damned men does the First Legion have?" Swain stared at Malcador in shock.
He had assumed a modest flotilla might hold two thousand at most. The Raven Guard in its entirety numbered barely twenty thousand; the disparity was absurd.
"The First Legion's duties are unique; its size is unrestricted. At present it fields roughly one hundred and fifty thousand," Malcador replied—double the Raven Guard's peak strength.
"A hundred and fifty thousand? Do they breed like sows, litter after litter?" Swain's jaw dropped. This was still the early Great Crusade.
The Emperor's Children and the Thousand Sons would probably slit their own throats at the news.
"Do you still intend to defeat them all?" Malcador asked.
"Of course. A man's word is his bond. Once they're humbled I'll tell them what to do; otherwise they can sit on Terra and rot. I'm in no hurry," Swain said, unmoved. He had fought a Primarch for three days; ten thousand Astartes were simply a matter of pacing himself.
"Then may victory ride with you." Malcador raised his goblet; golden liquor swirled, its rich malt scent drifting upward, then he drank it dry.
U=U=U=U
"Wonders doom empires! Wonders doom empires!" Outside the Death Guard barracks, Swain—together with Corax and Mortarion—raged at the Emperor's extravagance after touring the Lion's Gate.
Every Astartes Legion maintained quarters within the Palace, though once a gene-sire returned most would withdraw to his homeworld, leaving only an honor guard—a permanent, ceremonial post.
The Imperial Palace, Terra's most famous landmark, sprawled across most of the northern hemisphere. Swain intended to tour it thoroughly. Within its walls stood not only the Legionary garrisons but also the Astronomican, the Tower of Hegemony, the Tower of Heroes, the Departmento Administratus, the War Council, the Adeptus Arbites, the Astropathic Choir, and countless other vital organs of the Imperium.
Malcador had personally granted Corax and Mortarion this leave, and Swain himself would soon depart Terra for his next assignment.
Visiting the Lion's Gate had been his suggestion; while there he mentioned to the two Primarchs that he would be away for a time. The details, for now, remained classified.
"Hmm—is that the War Hounds' cantonment?" Swain spotted the snarling hound banner of the Twelfth Legion not Fal from the Fourteenth and suddenly remembered something.
The Legion garrisons were arranged in numerical order, so their quarters were close together.
"Attend to your duties. I'll stroll a bit more on my own." Swain waved Corax and Mortarion off; the Primarchs' holiday was over and their coming days would be anything but easy.
After bidding the Primarchs farewell, Swain squatted on a nearby curb and thought. The Emperor had tasked him with locating the Primarchs, but the galaxy was vast and Warp travel capricious; even if he ran himself ragged he might never find them all.
He could exit the Warp one day to find rebels at Terra's gates. Choosing whom to seek first was vital, yet some who might still be saved—whose grim fates could perhaps be averted—didn't necessarily have to be found by him.
He stared at the War Hounds' fortress in silence. How to tell them? Walk up and say, "Hey brothers, your gene-sire's being paraded like a monkey for slave-owners on Nuceria"? They'd explode on the spot.
"Where exactly is that hell-hole Nuceria again?" He racked his brain—somewhere on the border of Ultima Segmentum and the Storm Sector; specifics escaped him.
Nuceria was cursed. Its slavemasters possessed a narcotic called "Sea-King" that could drop a Primarch in his tracks; even their monstrous adaptability built no immunity. Angron had been repeatedly floored in the arena by the stuff. Swain suspected the Emperor himself, minus his gilded armor, might keel over there. Best course: arrive with a fleet, sealed inside power armor, and flatten everything in a steel tide.
"Angron, don't say I'm heartless—that place is just too treacherous. I'd rather not die there."
"Whether you escape your fate is up to the War Hounds. Consider it their penance for you; after all, you left the Legion, yet they'd dig through planets to find you and lead them once more." Swain marveled at the bond between Primarch and sons.
What else could he say?
Even while still sane, Angron had hidden himself; the World Eaters later tracked him down anyway, and after that the War Hounds could never free themselves of the nightmare their father brought.
"Take me to your Commander. I have vital intelligence for him." Swain strode to the gates of the Twelfth's cantonment and addressed the sentry.
"This way, Lord Deputy-Primarch." The guard escorted him inside while voxing the Legion's senior staff.
Moments earlier he had strolled past with two Primarchs, drawing envious stares from Astartes still scouring the galaxy for their own fathers.
Now his face alone sufficed; every garrison knew him as the Deputy-Primarch of the Raven Guard.
"Please wait here, Lord Deputy-Primarch." A War Hound set down a cup of fragrant tea and withdrew. Wisps of steam curled up like waking mist, soft and light, soon dispersing. The unmistakable clank of Mk II plate announced Commander Locke. "How may the War Hounds serve you, Lord Deputy-Primarch?"
"At the last banquet I sensed you were no ordinary warrior. Yesterday a sudden premonition—call it a prophecy—came to me. It may aid the War Hounds. Will you hear it?"
"It concerns your Primarch." Swain fell silent, awaiting the reaction.
"Where?" Locke sprang to his feet so fast his chair scraped. Even the door guards pricked up their ears, discipline alone keeping them at their posts.
"The recent return of two Primarchs was no accident. I traced Mortarion by following the resonance between him and Corax."
"Yesterday a flash of insight revealed another Primarch on a world near the Ultima–Storm border. I regret I could not pinpoint it—only this region." Swain opened the star-chart and circled the approximate location of Nuceria.
"How can Lord Swain be sure that's the Primarch of the War Hounds? Or rather, why approach us?" Locke inquired.
"He's a Primarch after all. Whether he belongs to the War Hounds or not, it's a cause for celebration for the Imperium, and a great achievement for the War Hounds, isn't it?" Swain retorted.
"The War Hounds will dispatch a fleet to search for this Primarch's whereabouts in this area. Regardless of whether he is the War Hounds' genefather, your Lordship will gain the War Hounds' friendship," Locke stated with conviction.
As the other party said, whether he was the War Hounds' genefather or not, this matter held no downside for the War Hounds. As for the other party's intentions, Locke didn't dwell on it. If it were just a common soldier, Locke would have unhesitatingly tied him up and tortured him.
But the other party was the Deputy Legion Commander of the 19th Legion. This was the authority that came with a different status and position. The same message, if spoken by a common soldier, would only lead to torture, but if spoken by Swain, it would earn the War Hounds' friendship. It was that simple.
"Oh, right, the prophecy warned to be cautious," Swain added, remembering something.
He suddenly recalled that the Emperor had directly thrown Angron back onto the War Hounds' ship from his flagship. A furious Angron had killed several high-ranking War Hounds officers who tried to approach him before finally calming down.
Why was that again? The War Hounds seemed to have slaughtered Angron's slave brothers? Swain could no longer recall these details. These reminders were the final warning to the War Hounds.
If they could find Angron before he was implanted with the Butcher's Nails, the War Hounds Legion and Angron still had a chance... If not... then it would be regrettable. Angron would not be allowed to destroy the entire War Hounds. Swain would absolutely not permit a mad Angron to implant the entire Legion with the Butcher's Nails, transforming the honorable War Hounds into the mad World Eaters.
As for whether Angron had already been marked at this point, Swain knew nothing. Warp travel was too unreliable... "The message has been delivered, so I shall take my leave." Swain achieved his goal and departed from the War Hounds'station. As for whether they were in a hurry, that was their business.
War Hounds Outpost Meeting Room
"Commander, do you think this message is true?" Other high-ranking officers under him looked at Locke with uncertainty.
"Regardless of whether he is our Primarch, this message is worth us finding him. Check which fleet is closest to this location and send them to find this Primarch!" Locke made the final decision.
"Khârn of the Eighth Company just finished a campaign in the Ultima Segmentum and is currently resting," Locke's adjutant immediately retrieved and reported the locations of the various units in the Legion.
"Send him!" Locke issued his military order.
Anyway, Khârn's forces were currently resting and wouldn't delay the Legion's mission.
The prophecy from the Raven Guard, which was previously called the Pale Nomads. What would the War Hounds be renamed in the future? Locke looked at the military order submitted by the Astropathic Choir and the communicated replies, full of anticipation... The astropathic message traversed the Warp, steadily advancing towards its predetermined target. The gears of fate began to turn at this moment... His life was one of slavery, a life of constant struggle. From the moment he landed on this planet, he began to fight against fate.
From the strange, sprout-like xenos who inexplicably hunted him, to the ubiquitous slave-catching teams on this planet, and the damned anesthetics that rendered him utterly helpless, Angron failed repeatedly in his struggles, until one day, the slave masters could no longer tolerate Angron's resistance.
Sharp blades cut open Angron's tough skull, and long, ghost-like nails drilled into Angron's brain. His comrades turned into piles of shredded flesh amidst the clamor of the Butcher's Nails.
He couldn't change anything. He was still a slave. The Butcher's Nails were taming its new toy. Angron was still struggling; he hadn't given up. Nothing could make him give up!!
Eighth Company Flagship, War Hound.
Khârn, not wearing his helmet, stood stern-faced beside the holographic projection, examining the area sent by the Legion Commander.
Since receiving the order, he had led the Eighth Company fleet, which had just begun its rest, to this star sector for patrol.
He needed to find the Primarch mentioned in the Legion Commander's letter, and he even hoped that it was their genefather. For this, he refused the gracious invitation of the planetary governor of this star sector, which had already rejoined the Imperial worlds.
The level of civilization in this region of worlds was not very high. If not for specific information, the Imperium would not have known that a gene-Primarch might be hidden in this area.
The War Hounds' fleet swept past the worlds that had already rejoined the Imperium, heading towards the unknown region. The main battleship's augur arrays were at full power, locating planets hidden in the dark void one by one.
Finally, a dazzling planet was detected by the War Hound's augur array. Mountains perpetually covered in white snow, and dense jungles adorned this ancient planet.
Technology and culture presented a harmonious scene here, unlike the polluted and chaotic Hive Worlds Khârn had seen. The air here was so fresh, and the people were so happy. This was a prosperous planet, where the people lived in peace and contentment.
"This is it, Nuceria!" Khârn's body trembled slightly, the genetic resonance constantly telling him, this was the place.
"Find him, find him!" The War Hounds' genes continuously urged these giants to act.
"Be cautious, Khârn!!" Khârn recalled the Legion Commander's instructions.
"Transmit the Imperial request for an audience to this world, and reduce the augur array's scanning power," Khârn ordered.
He did not wish for the War Hounds' rashness to disturb his father. This was a beautiful planet, and his father was naturally the ruler of this beautiful planet. Khârn and the War Hounds firmly believed this.
The War Hounds were very fortunate that their Primarch had a beautiful planet, unlike Lord Russ who only had a world of ice and snow, or Lords Ferrus and Mortarion with their death worlds. It was even countless times better than Lord Corax's mining world. The War Hounds were lucky.
Feeling the restless hearts of his War Hounds brothers behind him, Khârn began to deploy... Nuceria, High Knight Fortress.
The meeting between the War Hounds and the ruling class of this planet went unexpectedly smoothly.
The rulers of this planet showed no resistance or probing, as if they were specifically waiting for the War Hounds' arrival.
Unfortunately, this was Khârn's illusion.
The ruling class on Nuceria panicked after seeing the terrifying warships suddenly appear in the sky. After understanding the military might of this vast Imperium, they quickly opened their arms to the Imperium.
There was even an incredibly precious STC here. The planet's rulers were willing to hand over the STC to the Imperium and pay the tithe to maintain their rule.
The War Hounds naturally agreed to this request.
Annoyance, immense annoyance, enveloped Khârn's heart.
This was the third day since the War Hounds landed on this planet. The War Hounds had not yet found any trace of their genefather, but the genetic connection told all the War Hounds brothers that he was here, he must be here.
"Get out!" Khârn roared, resisting the urge to cleave these overly flamboyant fops with an axe!
The powdered pores on their faces seemed to mock Khârn.
These were all candidates the ruling class had offered to Khârn over the past few days. Khârn even saw several familiar faces, with different makeups, parading before him. How could these weaklings, whose steps were so unsteady, possibly be his gene-Primarch!
"My Lord, these are already the most outstanding noble offspring on Nuceria. If you still haven't found someone who meets your requirements, perhaps you're looking in the wrong place," a fat, obsequious nobleman said.
Even through his thick helmet, Khârn could almost smell the fat emanating from the other party's body, which made Khârn's mood even worse.
"Let's search ourselves!" Khârn suppressed his anger, deciding not to waste any more time with the other party. Since the planet's rulers couldn't find him, the War Hounds would search themselves. They would dig three feet deep if necessary to find their gene-Primarch.
Perhaps this was a test from the Primarch, Khârn thought.
"Lord Khârn, searching for someone cannot be rushed. The gladiatorial arena is currently holding a grand duel to celebrate Nuceria's return to the Imperium's gladiatorial activities. The strongest gladiators from various regions have gathered here," the nobleman suggested to Khârn.
"In that case, take us to see. Perhaps there will be suitable individuals who could become our new recruits," Khârn suppressed the anger in his heart, as Nuceria's ruling class was very cooperative with the Imperium.
Bringing a planet into the Imperium in such a short time was a very good thing, and Khârn showed a little more patience with these nobles.
Gladiatorial Arena
"Surrender now, and you can keep your life. If we fight, I won't be able to control myself," Angron, with shackles on his feet and a stun collar around his neck, said to a gladiator opposite him who was even more muscular than himself.
"Son of the Mountain, you know I have no choice. Either I die here, or you die here. There is no other option. Surrendering would only lead to my companions being executed as well," the burly gladiator's deep voice resonated. He knew he was no match for Angron, but he had no choice.
"Then let's fight!" Angron said no more.
"Mountain, Mountain, Mountain..." On the massive circular grandstand, countless spectators continuously cheered Angron's nickname, urging the powerful Son of the Mountain to tear apart his enemy once more, just as he had countless times before.
Would their wishes come true? They would!
By the time the planet's rulers, along with Khârn and other War Hounds officers, entered the highest level of the grandstand, Angron had already torn the burly gladiator into shredded flesh. A conscious Angron, just like before, helplessly looked at the gladiator who shared his tragic fate, silent.
His struggle had failed again.
The Host beside them was loudly shouting about the Sons of the Mountain's latest victory, fueling the audience's frenzy.
"Let's just take a look and leave!" Khârn heard the cheers and knew the person he was looking for wasn't here. These Gladiators, bred solely to entertain the audience, were unworthy of becoming Noble War Hounds.
Khârn naturally knew what these Nobles were plotting; he had seen too much of it on countless reconquered planets.
Khârn remained silent, turning his gaze toward the massive Arena.
Khârn's tall body instantly froze.
At this moment, his blood boiled, and a blazing rage nearly destroyed Khârn's consciousness.
The War Hounds behind him sensed Khârn's distress and roughly shoved aside the fawning Nobles surrounding them, following Khârn's line of sight—
The War Hounds froze.
Shame, disgrace, an unprecedented sense of humiliation left the War Hounds nearly suffocating.
"My Lords, what is wrong?" Sensing Khârn's abnormality, the Nobles assumed it was because the duel wasn't exciting enough.
Khârn stood on the high platform, staring intently at the Slave in the mud pit below.
He stood there helplessly in the mud pit, beside the broken body of his Gladiator companion. He raised his head, looking with hatred at the audience on the platform, those Nucerian Nobles he despised so much.
Khârn's mind went completely blank.
The War Hounds' silence lasted for what felt like a century, yet also only an instant.
"Be cautious, Khârn, be cautious." The Legion Commander's message echoed constantly in Khârn's mind.
"Eighth Company, this is Khârn. Blockade Nuceria, cut off all external communications, and destroy all major anti-air facilities."
"Everyone get down!!!"
"Issue the Highest Mobilization Order to the Legion."
"Prepare the Bipolar Cyclone Torpedoes..." Khârn muttered to himself.
The jarring sound of the Vox Channel shut off, and Khârn finally recovered from his mental blankness.
Khârn gripped the Chainaxe in his hand, and the sound of the chain tearing through flesh echoed throughout the stands.
"Father."
Minced meat flew off the Chainaxe.
The Massacre began the moment that piece of greasy minced meat fell to the ground.
The guest from beyond the stars leaped down from the highest stand, his tall body kneeling heavily before the towering figure submerged in the mire, his immensely precious Power Armor covered in mud mixed with blood and filth.
The cheering audience and Nobles instantly fell into dead silence.
"Father, we are sorry, we arrived too late." The voice, filled with shame, came from Khârn's mouth.
"Who are you?" Angron asked, sensing the mysterious connection within his genes.
"We are your Sons, loyal Sons who bring you glory." Khârn bowed his head heavily.
There was no glory, only endless disgrace. He was the lucky Son of the War Hounds, but he had failed to bring glory to his father.
Angron revealed a bloodthirsty, cold, and savage smile.
"Then slaughter them all for me!"
The War Hounds' Chainaxes roared to life.
The spectators in the stands were still immersed in the shock of the high and mighty Imperial Lords kneeling before a swine, unaware that Death had already unsheathed its Scythe.
The slaughter began... thousands of Drop Podss screamed as they tore through the blood-red setting sun. Lances and Macro Cannons blasted all defensive nodes skyward. Accompanied by violent explosions, Angron, unbound, charged into the countless enemy forces like a God of War.
Countless War Hounds poured out of the Drop Podss, converging from all directions toward the location of their father.
Melta and Plasma screamed. The Emperors Wrath blasted open the towering City walls, and magnificent banners burned, falling helplessly to the ground.
City after City was breached, countless Slaves were liberated, picking up weapons from the ground and transforming into a surging sea of people.
Slaughter, countless Massacres, were constantly unfolding on Nuceria. The glorious War Hounds abandoned all discipline solely to wash away the humiliation suffered by their father.
All life on this planet should be purged. The War Hounds would absolutely not tolerate such a blemish on their Gene-Father.
"Enough!" Angron punched Khârn, who was swinging his Chainaxe at fleeing Civilians, sending him flying.
"I said enough!" The Primarch's roar stopped the War Hounds mid-slaughter.
Khârn was puzzled, but he still obeyed the Primarch's command. Only then did the War Hounds remember what they had done, and they looked at the ragged Refugees with expressions of shame.
"Those who deserved to pay the price have already had their heads cut off. Some lives should not bear this cost." Angron's reason regained the upper hand. The War Hounds, who had been searching the ruins for any survivors, also stopped, silently looking at the devastation they had caused, and silently approaching their Primarch.
"Father, we arrived too late." All the arriving War Hounds knelt down, begging forgiveness from their father. Only now did Angron have time to properly examine these Sons who called him Father.
Were they Slave Masters? No. Their equipment was superior to the Slave Masters', and their killing efficiency was countless times greater than the Slave Masters' most elite Mercenary Soldiers.
They were tools, instruments of slaughter capable of consuming a world. Now, these tools named War Hounds willingly offered their collars.
"Get up, I do not require your Prostration." Angron commanded.
"I don't know why you came, but you helped me. You helped me escape this Sea of Suffering, and you helped me cut off the heads of these Slave Masters."
"Now you can choose to leave, or you can choose to follow me. If you follow me, Angron will never abandon you!" The Sons of the Mountain's powerful voice echoed across the sky.
The War Hounds stood up, but not a single one left.
"In the legends of Nuceria, those invincible armies were called the World Eaters; they would devour world after world. Starting today, you are the World Eaters! I will lead you to devour the lives of those Slave Masters!" Angron completed the change of his Legion's name... "What's the situation?" Khârn and the other High-Ranking Officers of the Eighth Company anxiously cornered the Apothecary emerging from the warship's Medical Bay.
The Butcher's Nails on the Primarch's head troubled not only Angron but also them. No one was willing to accept that their father would periodically descend into madness without intervention.
"Father's condition is quite severe. The Butcher's Nails have penetrated deep into his brain, and any rash action could cause even more serious damage." The Apothecary removed his Helmet, wiping the fine beads of sweat from his forehead, and spoke with great shame.
"The Legion Commander is already on the way. Should we ask His Majesty for help?" An Officer offered a suggestion to Khârn.
They had only informed the War Council that the War Hounds had recovered their Primarch, but no one would reveal the specific details. Khârn didn't even know how to explain things to the Legion Commander.
"Send the message to His Majesty. Paper cannot wrap fire." Khârn made his decision.
The Emperor would see his Son sooner or later; it was only a matter of time. If their concealment delayed the optimal treatment time, the entire Eighth Company would have to slit their throats to apologize.
"Apothecary, help me remove the Butcher's Nails! I don't want to endure this damned thing buzzing and screaming in my head for another moment. It's delusional to think I will appease it with rage and slaughter!" Angron interrupted the silence of all the Eighth Legion high command.
"Father, we cannot agree to your terms. The current Medical Team and technology cannot guarantee that you won't suffer irreversible damage." The Apothecary refused Angron's request.
"If you are unwilling, my Slave brothers and sisters certainly will be. They understand the dangers of this thing better than you do." Having said this, Angron walked toward the Landing Pad.
After a satisfying slaughter, the Butcher's Nails had achieved immense satisfaction and fallen silent. But Angron knew very well that this eternally insatiable Fiend had only granted him a moment of respite.
Soon this Fiend would return, bringing more desires and demands, forcing Angron to constantly satisfy it through slaughter, ultimately consuming Angron's sanity entirely and becoming Angron's master.
"Father!" The War Hounds knelt and pleaded desperately with Angron. If Angron wanted to leave, he would have to kill his way out.
"Get up, I do not require your Prostration!" Angron emphasized again. He utterly detested such behavior that clearly indicated Hierarchy, and his Legion should not be like those Slave Masters.
"Either you remove this thing for me, or you clear the way, and I'll do it myself!" Angron was exceptionally forceful. He immediately placed his strong hand on his head, preparing to use brute force to yank out the Demon on his Scalp.
The dreadlock-like Butcher's Nails, resembling the hair of a Vengeful Spirit, was utterly silent now, allowing Angron to pull it. It had endured too much; no one had ever been able to pull it out using brute force.
Streams of blood seeped from Angron's Scalp, and the previously pliable Dreadlocks began to tighten.
"Father, I will perform the Surgery for you, but please give me time to find knowledge on this subject here on Nuceria, to increase the possibility of a successful operation." The Apothecary requested of Angron.
"You have two weeks." Angron released the Vengeful Spirit's hair in his hand and showed a victorious smile.
"Father, please stay in the Stasis Field for these two weeks. Your rough actions just now have increased the activity of the Butcher's Nails." The Apothecary pleaded.
"Fine. Remember, you only have two weeks. No one can deceive me." Angron agreed to the request and allowed someone to lead the way toward the Stasis Field.
Time within a Stasis Field is nearly stopped, which can effectively stabilize the injuries of the wounded, store important data, and can even be fashioned into a Time Stasis Bomb, causing momentary cessation for enemies.
"Fleet, set sail and proceed toward His Majesty's location!" After Angron personally set the time for the Stasis Field release and entered it, Khârn commanded, almost roaring.
The Eighth Company needed to race against time. If they hadn't rendezvoused with The Emperor's Fleet in two weeks, the Legion's Apothecary would be forced to perform the Surgery on the Primarch. Just as Angron said, no one could deceive him.
Simultaneously, an urgent Astropathic Message was transmitted once more toward The Emperor's location. Khârn sent his humble request to The Emperor, begging him to save his Gene-Father.
The Emperors Dream.
"Your Majesty, the War Hounds have found their Primarch." As he spoke, Angron's information was transmitted.
"Notify the War Hounds that we shall rendezvous here. I will prepare a Surgery for Angron." The Emperor circled a location on the Star Chart.
"So Angron still couldn't escape the fate of the Butcher's Nails?" As The Emperor pondered, the Custodes Fleet once again departed from the front lines of the Great Crusade.
Number 12 is damaged, but if we fix it, we can still use it.