The eight-pointed star of the blackstone fortress rotated slowly, ripples spreading in the space before the bow as the massive fortress hull, shrouded in a halo of light, departed the Real Universe.
The technology of the Old Ones was exceptionally advanced; for such a mega-structure to enter the Warp felt incredibly smooth, as if it were a pure, natural instinct.
Compared to the Old Ones' understanding of the Warp, humanity was still in an ignorant stage.
As Blazkowicz drove the blackstone fortress into the Warp, a small fleet arrived at System 144, responding to the Primarch's summons.
The warships were iron-gray, and the Legion emblem on the broadside was unique: a book enveloped in burning flames.
The Seventeenth Legion, the Emperor's designated destroyers of religion.
The Legion fleet hovered in high orbit over the primitive world, launching drop pods to deliver a lightning strike against the primitive race.
Following the Primarch's orders, they were to erase all traces of the xenos' existence.
The primitive xenos rose from their kneeling, preparing to welcome the so-called "messengers of god," only to see dark muzzles pointed at them.
Another intelligent race vanished from the galaxy.
Such events were common during the Great Crusade—in this grand journey symbolizing the resurgence of humanity, countless xenos races met their end. The crusade forces would exterminate several xenos civilizations almost every terra day.
Blazkowicz set off once again to recover the next blackstone fortress.
Far on the frontiers of the Imperium of Man, several Legions arrived at the forge system. The Rangdan had withdrawn from Shana, choosing to temporarily avoid the brunt of humanity's force.
In the council hall of the Phalanx, heraldic banners hung from the ceiling, with a black iron fist printed on a red background.
The atmosphere in the council hall was solemn and heavy. The Primarchs Guard and Templar Knights stood on either side, witnessing an unprecedented grand occasion.
This moment was worth remembering; the Phalanx was filled with glorious honor.
Rogal Dorn, Sanguinius, Lion El'Johnson, Ferrus Manus, Roboute Guilliman, Leman Russ, Vulkan, Moribus Solas.
Aside from the four Primarchs—Horus Lupercal, Fulgrim, Magnus, and Blazkowicz Nowick—the other eight Primarchs were gathered here.
They looked extremely serious as they sat around a giant round table, discussing who would take the position of Warmaster for the Rangdan war.
In fact, many did not know that there was another Primarch present, hidden among the guard of the Second Legion, quietly observing the direction of the meeting.
"Who's going to be the Warmaster?" The speaker looked left and right, his legs propped up on the round table, showing no regard for his image.
He picked his ear with his pinky, looking defiant and unruly, clearly lacking interest in the meeting.
Yet, deep within those golden beast-like pupils, a sharp light flickered. He seemed to scan the room casually, but in truth, he was taking in everyone's expressions.
Deep down, Russ did hope someone could lead the entire army to avoid any strategic blunders.
The Lord of the First Legion sat as still as a bell, expressionless, though the occasional flash of desire in his eyes betrayed his longing for the position of Warmaster.
Guilliman rested his chin on his hand, seemingly weighing whom to support; Sanguinius wore a warm smile, hiding all emotions beneath that perfect face.
Dorn's brow was furrowed, "I am ill-suited for this task" practically written on his face, yet he was also considering a suitable candidate.
Brother Vulkan had a terrifying appearance but wore a kind smile; his looks and personality were a stark contrast, but kindness was not the primary requirement for a Warmaster.
Thus, the choice for Warmaster fell upon Ferrus Manus and Moribus Solas; they were the most suitable.
Who will be the Warmaster?
The wild brother Leman Russ was asking, throwing out the core of the meeting. Time waits for no one; the brothers had gathered during an emergency, and a Warmaster had to be chosen quickly for unified strategic deployment.
But the position of Warmaster was of great importance. The Primarchs had a clear understanding of themselves and knew whether they could serve as Warmaster.
The problem was that having a clear understanding of oneself did not mean understanding one's brothers.
Many of the brothers present were meeting for the first time; they did not know each other's talents and thus did not know whom to nominate as Warmaster.
The Primarchs remained silent; no one stepped forward to answer Russ.
The atmosphere was crushed by the Primarchs' silence. The surrounding Primarchs Guard lowered their breathing, not daring to make a sound that might disturb the Primarchs' thoughts.
"So indecisive," Russ muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. He took his legs off the table and pointed a finger at Solas: "I can't be the Warmaster myself, so I nominate Solas."
"I haven't had much contact with the other brothers. Aside from Blazkowicz, I only know a bit about Solas."
"Horus speaks very highly of him; he has a great strategic vision and is suited for commanding large battlefields. I recommend him for Warmaster."
Russ spoke with sound reasoning. Since he wasn't competing for the position and had interacted with Solas, his recommendation was perfectly reasonable.
The Primarchs nodded silently, agreeing with the Wolf King's recommendation.
Only Solas's silver-gray eyes narrowed slightly. He was surprised: On the Royal Majesty, Russ had clearly kept his distance; why was he actively nominating him now?
This move was too unusual. It wasn't out of sincerity or lack of choice; there had to be a deeper meaning behind it.
Why?
Solas's mind raced, considering every possible reason, but he couldn't find an answer, so he had to continue watching the situation unfold.
He did not speak up to refuse the nomination. The setting was solemn, and a great responsibility was at hand; it could not be evaded.
"Then I also vote for Solas." The black iron tower cast another vote, smiling at his brothers, his voice like a great bell as he gave his reason: "I have spoken with Horus and am willing to trust my brother's judgment."
"Since returning to the Imperium, I have led my Legion to war everywhere. Horus has a unique eye; he rarely praises someone unless he truly acknowledges them in his heart."
After Vulkan finished, he gave Solas a friendly smile. Though somewhat terrifying, it conveyed a warm sense of goodwill.
Solas stood and nodded to his brother. The Lord of the Drakes was a virtuous man, and he respected that kindness.
"I recommend Ferrus." Guilliman raised his arm, speaking eloquently about what he knew: "I have reviewed much data. The Iron Hands' speed of conquest is extremely fast, and their troop distribution is precise. Someone without a grasp of the big picture could not achieve this."
"Based on rational thinking, I recommend Ferrus Manus."
His reason was sufficient, excluding personal feelings and based on intuitive data.
"I also nominate Ferrus Manus." Dorn nodded heavily after thinking, joining his vote with Guilliman's.
The King of Macragge's opinion was worth considering. Guilliman had worked deeply in the Ultima Orientis Segmentum, and his political skill was superb, his foresight especially precise.
As a pragmatist, Dorn was willing to take his brother's advice and support another brother together.
Ferrus stood to acknowledge them and then slowly sat back down.
After some analysis, he understood that among the many brothers, only he and the Lord of the First Legion wanted to run for Warmaster; the others lacked enthusiasm.
But Lion had only just returned and lacked the connections and seniority to support him, so he was currently out of the running for the title of Warmaster.
Blazkowicz was not present for the election, so the only competitor left was Solas, the brother whose fame had spread through Horus's words.
Solas breathed a sigh of relief inwardly. The sense of conspiracy that had risen in his heart dissipated; he probably wasn't being plotted against. His brothers were nominating the Warmaster from their hearts.
Most people present had already stated their positions and voted. The brothers turned their gaze toward the Angel and Lion; they would decide who would serve as Warmaster.
"I have fought alongside Horus for a long time and am willing to trust my brother."
Sanguinius stood, acknowledging each of his brothers in turn, finally fixing his gaze on Solas: "My brother, in private, Horus has never stopped praising you."
After the Angel finished giving his opinion and sat down again, a sense of helplessness welled up within Solas.
Horus has ruined me!
Now he held three votes, two of which came from Horus's influence. That "good brother" had certainly made a name for him.
The Angel had made his choice through action and cast his precious vote. The brothers' eyes focused once more, looking toward the Eldest Son of the First Legion.
The brother had just returned and was not eligible to be nominated, but he had the right to make a choice—a power inherent to a Primarch.
The Eldest Son held the deciding vote: to make Solas the Warmaster or to tie the votes for Ferrus.
If they were tied, the voting might need to be suspended, and after a break, they would vote again, with the two candidates elaborating on their war strategies to attract more votes.
Under everyone's watchful eyes, The Lion's back was straight, his arms resting on the edge of the table, his inner pride immensely satisfied.
Since returning to the Imperium, he had experienced two major Imperial events, both of which could sway the future fate of the Imperium of Man.
The secret war was unknown to outsiders; that honor lay silently in the shadows, waiting for future generations to uncover it.
Now, the fate of the Imperium was once again held firmly in his hands.
His gaze moved slowly between the two brothers, his sight sharp as a blade, making those he looked at instinctively straighten their bodies.
"I choose—"
His lips moved, the name on the tip of his tongue, ready to be spoken.
Those present had extraordinary reflexes; their gazes moved faster than sound, waiting for the Emperor's Eldest Son to utter that name.
"I choose myself." Lion's downturned lips curled slightly. Contrary to his brothers' expectations, he didn't pick someone else, instead giving the perfect answer with a joke-like playfulness.
The Lion did not hide his ambition. As the Eldest Son, it was only right for him to hold the position of Warmaster; it felt like an innate duty.
Because Lion returned late and had just taken command of the First Legion, he hadn't yet led his scions to achieve significant victories. His seniority was indeed lacking, and he missed out on the Warmaster title in this vote.
But Lion boldly spoke those words, using a proud attitude to signal that he was determined to claim the position of Warmaster in the future.
He didn't need to name a specific candidate; his attitude of nominating himself was clear, and the Eldest Son respected his brothers.
Three to two. Moribus Solas won by a single-vote advantage over Ferrus Manus, becoming the overall Commander of the Rangdan campaign: Warmaster!
"I am willing to accept this result." As one of the candidates, Ferrus stood up from his seat and was the first to express his support.
Undoubtedly, as a candidate for Warmaster, the Primarch of the Iron Hands was very sensitive to the situation.
After the results were out, he showed no frustration or regret. Instead, he immediately deferred to the vote—respecting his brothers and smoothing over the undercurrents stirred by the election.
Solas rose slowly, his thin face tense and expression solemn. A hint of humble refusal showed between his brows: "My brothers' trust is too heavy; it makes me feel uneasy."
Those present couldn't help but frown, a hint of contempt appearing deep in their eyes.
Many brothers had nominated you, staking the lives of many scions from their respective Legions to let you unify command and fight for a future for the Imperium of Man.
Why shrink back when the moment arrives?
Solas could naturally feel the doubt and contempt in those burning gazes—this was exactly as he had expected.
The reason he deliberately showed hesitation was precisely because he had already smelled a strong scent of conspiracy.
He felt as if he were being pushed forward by a wave, with no chance for his subjective will to refuse. He had to maneuver to avoid being torn to pieces at the center of the storm.
"This burden—"
Beep~ Beep~
An urgent communication popped up before Dorn, stamped with the seal of the War Council and signed by Imperial Chancellor Malcador himself.
Since it concerned the highest orders of the Terra War Council, Solas stopped speaking and raised a hand, signaling his brother to reveal the urgent message from across the stars.
Dorn nodded to his brothers and tapped open the Terra dispatch. High Gothic text clearly displayed:
[By order of the Emperor: The War Council is assembling a fleet. Full responsibility for the front-line conflict is entrusted to the Primarchs. Should there be conflicting strategic views, a Warmaster may be elected for unified decision-making.]
The Astropathic Choir Message came from the Terra War Council, issued in the Emperor's name and bearing Malcador's mark, possessing supreme authority.
Before this, electing a Warmaster was merely an expedient compromise by the Primarchs to prevent the war effort from fracturing.
Now, with the endorsement of the Emperor and Malcador, the Warmaster's authority was legalized, leaving no room for retreat or refusal.
"I will not fail this burden." At this point, Solas understood that refusing would be counterproductive, so he had to accept the heavy responsibility of Warmaster.
He sighed inwardly: Forced by circumstances, he had to make a choice—
"Let's get on with the deployment." Seeing the duties clarified, Russ waved his hand, signaling the Legion Commanders to step forward and join the meeting:
"
The Wolf-cubs can't wait."
The Fifth, Eleventh, and Nineteenth Legions—three Legions without their Primarchs—though participating in the war, had less say than the Primarchs.
The Legion Commanders could not participate in the Warmaster election and had been waiting to the side. Now that there was a result, they naturally followed the Warmaster's orders.
The round table rotated slowly. Solas sat at the head as Warmaster, with the other Primarchs surrounding him.
The Primarchs sat upright. Regarding the war deployment, there was no room for error—the Rangdan war was too dangerous; the slightest mistake could lead to a Legion being struck from the records.
The three Legion Commanders stood below the round table, facing the Primarch of the Second Legion, standing tall and waiting for their respective Legion's orders.
As authority was established, a holographic sand table rose slowly from the center of the round table, making the current state of the war clear at a glance.
There were nine full-strength Legions, two half-strength Legions, eight Primarchs, and the Expeditionary Legions under the Primarchs.
The number of Astartes participating alone was nearly a million.
Among them, the Dark Angels, the Second Legion, and the Ultramarines each had over a hundred thousand members.
Guilliman's scions were the most numerous, reaching a hundred and fifty thousand after ten years of management by the Master of Administration.
Not counting the Mortal Auxiliary Army, such a massive gathering of Space Marines was unprecedented, possessing enough power to sweep across star sectors.
But the enemy was Rangdan, a xenos empire capable of contending with humanity for supremacy.
To ensure victory, the Imperium had not only dispatched a million Astartes but also countless Mortal Auxiliary Legions.
Two billion! The scale of the Mortal Auxiliary Army was immense, and the War Council in the rear was still deploying more, constantly pressuring Recruitment Worlds to squeeze out more troops.
*Hiss—*
Even for Primarchs, seeing such military strength made them gasp in shock.
The other Primarchs' eyes widened; the military data far exceeded their expectations.
Had they known they could command such a massive force, they would not have easily yielded the position of Warmaster.
Below the round table, Lion's fist tightened quietly, his heart racing, and a sharp glint flashed through his eyes.
He looked at Solas, a different thought growing in his heart: If, as some subtle hints suggested, Solas himself was suspect and this Warmaster position was merely bait—then his own opportunity might lie ahead.
The Lion's personal ambitions stirred; if Solas were taken away for investigation, he would have a great chance!
At another corner of the round table, Russ also sat up straight, the Wolf King's mouth slightly open, revealing sharp canines.
A million Astartes!
With this magnitude of transhuman soldiers, sophisticated maneuvering might not even be necessary; as long as the Commander didn't do anything foolish, normal leadership would likely secure victory.
The Primarchs' reactions varied, but most could not hide their shock—this level of military power was enough to sweep across star sectors.
Seeing his brothers' surprised expressions, a rare smile appeared on Dorn's eternally unchanging face.
He had worn the same expression when the statistics were first handed to him. It was hard to imagine that so many troops had been gathered in a mere few hundred light-years.
And Solas, who was about to take command of such military might, had an exceptionally solemn face, showing neither joy nor sorrow, keeping his shock buried deep inside.
Rangdan came like wind and fire, but the Imperium's response was even more thunderous.
The data continued to scroll. The surprise on the Primarchs' faces gradually faded, replaced by a deep solemnity creeping onto their brows.
The Imperium's military was vast, but Rangdan's forces were also numerous.
According to preliminary analysis, the Rangdan fleet's strength exceeded the Imperial fleet's, with an initial deployment of two million Elite Warriors and tens of billions of servant troops.
The situation was not optimistic. The Imperium of Man was reinforcing, and so was Rangdan, both sides constantly adding weight to the scales of war.
"The Fifth Legion's Rapid Reconnaissance Fleet broke through the Rangdan defense line a month ago and sent back much critical intelligence."
Dorn spoke to break the heavy atmosphere, continuing to brief his brothers on Rangdan intelligence: "The exact size of the Rangdan empire is unknown, but it should be comparable to the Imperium."
"Because the xenos empire excels at mind control and enslaves many sentient races, their social division of labor is very clear. The lower levels of society have an extremely high degree of devotion, making their war potential terrifying."
"The most important point—" He hesitated as the words reached his lips.
Dorn's white eyebrows knitted tightly, his firm voice uncharacteristically wavering: "The authenticity of some intelligence is questionable and still needs verification."
"Brother, please speak freely." The speaker was Guilliman, the King of Macragge, whose face was equally solemn.
He raised his hand, sweeping it across his Primarch brothers, his voice carrying a persuasive rationality: "With our blood brothers here, no difficulty can stop us."
"Indeed." Solas also chimed in, gesturing for Dorn to speak his mind: "Say it, and we shall discuss it together."
Encouraged by his brothers and with the Warmaster's stance clear, Dorn no longer hid anything: "At the peak of the Rangdan social structure, there are extraordinary individuals known as'Sovereigns' who rule the entire Rangdan society."
As he spoke, Dorn lifted his palm from the table, and a pyramid projection rose from beneath it: "Elite Warriors, Rangdan Overlords, and Rangdan Warlords. From low to high, they constitute the lower and middle tiers of Rangdan society."
"At the top of the social pyramid are the powerful and authoritative Rangdan Sovereigns."
"Beings similar to us?" Ferrus spoke slowly, his resonant voice like forged steel, offering a conjecture.
"Likely so." Vulkan's smile vanished, his burning eyes twitching in their sockets as he stared at the monster at the top of the pyramid: "It seems Rangdan hasn't gone all out yet."
"The first wave of attacks might have been just a probe for them."
The Great Angel tapped the table, a holographic image appearing before him. A bitter smile touched his handsome face: "It seems the Imperium of Man and all of us have been underestimated."