The Settan's Thunder, a Goliath-class battleship, bore the markings of the 13th Legion on its hull. As the flagship of the 12th Expeditionary Fleet, it had witnessed all the honors Vosotho had won commanding the War-Born during the Great Crusade.
From the Unification Wars to the Great Crusade, Gren Vosotho had led the War-Born for a century. His artificer power armor was heavily decorated, each honor earned in battle. His honors were surpassed only by other Legion Masters. But as the Crusade progressed, other Legion Masters had gradually faded. Their Legions had Primarchs now; they no longer needed a Legion Master.
This undoubtedly diminished a Legion Master's prestige, but a Primarch's return brought far more to a Legion than any individual's gains and losses. Vosotho had a dream. He didn't care about his position. He only wanted to see his Primarch return before he died.
"For the Emperor! For the Primarch!"
Vosotho's commanding voice boomed over the fleet's speakers, reaching every compartment, every warrior.
"War-Born! Now is the time to prove our loyalty!"
No cheers. No war cries. The two thousand Astartes left with the fleet answered with solemn silence, broken only by the faint hum of power armor servos.
On the bridge's holographic tactical display, the crimson icons of the Ork fleet floated like festering wounds. Gork and Mork had revealed the Primarch's location, and every Warboss yearned to decapitate him!
Vosotho wasn't rash. He knew a direct assault on a fleet dozens of times his size was suicide. The Primarch's order was merely to harass, to buy time, not to fight directly. The two thousand Astartes weren't for offense, but to defend against Ork boarding. All they had to do was delay. The Primarch would handle the enemy.
.....
The Imperium and the Orks fought a desperate battle around the Phalanx. War in the void is silent. Macrocannons spat death; lances blazed. Deadly fire crisscrossed in the dark. Explosions bloomed silently, like fleeting fireworks.
No gunfire, no shouts, no screams, only casualty figures and damage reports on tactical screens. Every lost ship meant hundreds of thousands of lives extinguished. Their names, their dreams, their futures, all gone, lost to the cold dust of space. But their sacrifice would have meaning.
BOOM!
Tank guns roared. Armor-piercing shells screamed through the air, striking a heavily armored Nob. Its scrap-metal breastplate shredded like paper, blowing the Nob apart.
The Orks were endless. The Astartes had almost exhausted their bolter rounds. The Inwitans had no bolters; resupply on the Phalanx was difficult. But they still wielded chainswords, their monomolecular teeth tearing through Ork bodies.
BOOM!
Tanks fired again and again, each shell shredding scores of Orks. But just as another volley was about to hit the green tide, the shells suddenly froze mid-air, as if trapped in invisible, viscous gel. The second volley also hung motionless. From the Ork horde, a huge machine was pushed forward, glowing green, projecting a strange force field that protected the Orks from all ranged attacks.
"WAAAGH!"
The Boyz roared excitedly, charging the mortal lines under the field's cover. But the Astartes stood firm before the mortals, like impassable mountains, their chainswords killing any Ork that neared the line.
"WAAAGH!"
With an eardrum-shattering roar, a six-meter-tall Ork strode towards the line, flanked by dozens of Nobs like moons around a planet.
"He must die!"
Gage gripped his chainsword, about to lead a decapitation strike, when the Primarch's steady voice came over the comm, "Hold the line. He's mine."
"Grakgul. I am Rogal Dorn!"
The voice wasn't from Gage's helmet speaker. It was close. Gage spun. A towering giant stood at the corridor's entrance. Unarmored, he was still half a head taller than the tallest Astartes! Gage's breath quickened. This was a gene-Primarch! Though not his own gene-father, the innate authority and power still inspired awe.
"WAAAGH! Golden big 'Un!"
Grakgul roared, charging. Each step was an earthquake. Dorn met him.
He had been there all along. All part of his plan. All his tactical deployments had aimed to find the Warboss, then decapitate him. The Warboss had hidden, but with the Ork advance stalled, he could no longer contain himself.
"War-Born! Protect the Primarch!" Gage's shout sent the War-Born charging the Orks.
"WAAAGH!"
The Nobs roared, meeting the tin cans, unwilling to interfere with the great duel. Gork and Mork watched! Even if they couldn't kill the golden big 'Un, killing tin cans would make them bigger and greener!
...
When the 3rd Expeditionary Fleet translated from the Warp, the ongoing void battle shocked them. The fight was still ongoing; they weren't late. But the scale was absurd.
The Legion Master frowned. "Isn't this just an agri-world? How many reinforcements did the 7741st call for?"
The captain answered, "We have a signal from the 12th Expeditionary Fleet. Astropathic link established, my Lord."
CRACKLE!
A hologram flickered to life. The Legion Master recognized the Astartes. They had fought together during the Osiris Rebellion a few years ago. Unfortunately, both the 13th and 7th Legions had performed poorly, each losing over a thousand Astartes.
If not for the timely arrival of the 14th Legion, they might have been forever shamed. That battle had also been Primarch Mortarion's first. He had demonstrated outstanding military skill, achieving a great victory.
The Legion Master's tone held surprise. "Vosotho, you're also reinforcing the 7741st. How goes the battle?"
Vosotho frowned. "Scott, at a time like this, you have time for pleasantries?"
"Is it really that dire?"
Maximian Scott's heart sank. 'No chance even to ask for a briefing? The situation must be critical.'
Vosotho sensed his surprise. "Scott, why are you here?"
Scott answered, "The 7741st reported a possible greenskin empire. We were answering their call."
He couldn't admit he'd come for a Primarch on a tip. Finding a Primarch defied the Emperor's orders. Reinforcing an ally did not.
Vosotho fell silent. "So... you didn't come for a Primarch?"
Scott was stunned. "Primarch? What Primarch?"
"Your gene-father is under attack by Orks! Coordinates sent!"
"Send all your Astartes to the Phalanx! Then have your fleet support me in blocking the Orks!"
Vosotho laughed bitterly. Some people have all the luck. They had been first, so why wasn't the Primarch theirs?
Scott's voice cracked with shock, "Apius! Assemble the Legion! Immediately reinforce those coordinates!"
Primarch under attack! He didn't care if it was true or not. He couldn't take that risk! After reading the 12th Fleet's report, Scott understood. The 7741st's astropathic message had been delayed. They'd first sent a call for help against greenskins. When they announced the Primarch's presence, the 3rd Fleet was already in the Warp. Worse, though Warp travel allowed reception, they'd missed that crucial message! Shocked, Scott was also filled with regret. Why had the 13th Legion gotten there first?
Scott's fist slammed down, denting his armrest. "Full speed! Whatever the cost! I want the Phalanx in sight within the hour!"
....
"That accurate?"
Sigismund murmured, deep in self-doubt. Had his random choice truly led to a Primarch? Sigismund didn't believe in luck, nor coincidence. So this must be the combined result of the two Primarchs' prophecy and numerology. Prophecy was a rare gift; he knew he lacked it. But numerology seemed learnable. If it was as effective as Primarch Mortarion had demonstrated, perhaps it was worth studying.
"If I survive."
Sigismund sat in the Stormbird, anointing his power sword with sacred oils. He wasn't the type to prepare at the last minute. His sword was daily maintained by servants. Anointing it now was pointless; just a way to hide his nervousness, like his battle-brothers.
Though helmeted, Sigismund knew they all felt it. They might have been the first primary fleet to respond, yet they arrived late. The Primarch, if gracious, wouldn't fault their delay. But they still carried a burden of guilt.
...
Dorn had no time to consider his sons' feelings, nor to follow the battle's shifting tides. He just kept swinging his sword. Attack. Defend.
"WAAAGH! Good fightin'! Golden big 'Un, me gonna put his head on me armor!"
The Warboss beat his scrap-metal chest with bloody fists, making a thumping sound. Dorn had left dozens of wounds, but thick armor and thicker hide had turned them aside. None were fatal. Not weakening Grakgul, they only fueled his fury.
He grew bigger, greener, in the fight. Though he hadn't yet won, Gork had already blessed him with greater power. If he could defeat Dorn, that power would be his forever. He would be the galaxy's greatest Ork!
Grakgul was now several times Dorn's size. Each charge shook the ground. Each swing carried devastating force, easily crushing a tank. Dorn, using his superhuman skill, dodged the beast's berserk attacks, but the rhythm was shifting. Dorn had abandoned his shield. Smashed by Grakgul's fist, it was useless. All he had was his sword. And his father, watching. If his father intervened, he could end it easily. But he couldn't always rely on Father. He would ask if he faced an insoluble problem. But not yet. If he lacked the courage to try, he had no right to be a Primarch.
"To the Primarch's side!" Gage's shout echoed. The Astartes had killed all the Nobs guarding Grakgul. But as they charged the Warboss, a glowing psychic barrier blocked their path.
"Stand down. Your courage is noted, but you will only hinder Dorn."
Gage slammed into the barrier. He recognized the psyker. Reluctantly, he bowed his head. "My Lord, must we just watch?"
Primarch-level combat is beyond an Astartes's ability. Even the most elite can barely defend themselves. Rushing in would not turn the tide; it would only disrupt the Primarch's rhythm. Their sacrifice might buy a moment, but at great cost. If the Primarch was gravely wounded, any sacrifice to save him would be worth it. But not now. It would just be wasted lives.
"Hold the line. Help the mortals stop the Ork reinforcements. You can die, but let it be for something."
The commanding voice made the Astartes spin. The tall figure approaching made them bow their heads again.
Caelan said, "A-Bo, Dorn won't ask for help. Go to him."
"That's why I'm here, Father."
The void battle around the Phalanx was ending. Only the Space Hulk and a few hulks remained of the main Ork fleet. The 3rd and 12th Expeditionary Fleets were cooperating to contain the Ork reinforcements. He wasn't needed there. Ending the fight inside the Phalanx was now urgent.
"Dorn! I'm here!"
Perturabo, war-hammer in hand, flanked the beast, his heavy hammer smashing into its knee. The blow staggered Grakgul, who roared with even greater excitement.
"WAAAGH! Two big 'Uns!"
"Me gonna stick your heads on me helmet! I'z gonna be a Warlord!"
Perturabo stood beside Dorn. "Let's fight together!"
Dorn had no objection. Perturabo wouldn't end it as easily as Father, and Dorn himself was feeling the strain. Not enough to ask for help, but a brother's aid was welcome.
The two Primarchs attacked from both sides. Grakgul roared in answer. No Ork retreats. A cowardly Ork doesn't deserve Gork and Mork's blessing. Only by proving their worth in battle can they earn a greater WAAAGH!
"CLANG!"
The clash of metal echoed through the corridor. Three powers beyond mortal understanding met at lightning speed. Gage tried to follow, but the Primarchs' movements were faster than even Astartes senses could track. Gage lowered his head in frustration. He now understood Caelan's earlier warning.
He had taken orders from a Primarch before, during the Osiris Rebellion, but this was his first time seeing one fight. Astartes have unparalleled power in mortal eyes, but they lack the qualifications to join a Primarch's battle. The gap between an Astartes and a Primarch is wider than that between a mortal and an Astartes.
"Big 'Un! Try dis!"
Dorn slid under Grakgul's punch. The iron fist smashed into the floor. Cracks spider-webbed ten meters from the crater. In that instant, Dorn's blade drove into the Ork's hamstring, where its scrap armor joined. The blade tore through rough green hide, tough muscle, and lodged deep in its knee joint, piercing it from below.
"WAAAGH!"
Grakgul roared in pain, forced to one knee, swinging his fist at Dorn's head. That blow would have killed even a Primarch. But a heavy hammer head blocked the iron fist. The shockwave sent metal debris flying for three meters.
"You still have me!" Perturabo parried the fist, then swung at the beast's head. A hammer can forge, defend, and attack! With him there, no one hurt his brother!
Grakgul's head snapped sideways. Dorn seized the moment, leaping, driving his sword into the Ork's neck.
"For the Primarch!"
The Imperial Fists' warriors roared, punching through the Ork line from behind, ignoring casualties. When they arrived, Grakgul was already falling. The fight was over.
...
30 Chapters patreon.com/DaoistJinzu