[Sigismund, one of the Three Greats of the Great Crusade, the Sword of the Emperor, the Emperor's First Chosen, the greatest man beneath the Primarchs.
He once served as the First Captain of the Seventh Legion - the Imperial Fists, and was also the adjutant to the Legion's Primarch, Rogal Dorn.
Born in the ruins of Terra, he rose under the Emperor's banner to become the most lethal warrior in the military.
His swordsmanship was peerless, his will as solid as rock, and the blade in his hand was stained with the blood of heretics and traitors.
He was the vanguard of the Great Crusade and the Emperor's most steadfast defender during the Horus Heresy.
During the Siege of Terra, his roar was like thunder, his blade piercing the hearts of countless traitors, becoming a nightmare for Chaos.]
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Warhammer World
"A mortal..." Perturabo's somber voice carried undisguised contempt.
"You bestow so many titles upon a mortal who will eventually decay?"
"He is more than just a mortal, Perturabo," Sanguinius's voice rang out gently.
His compassionate eyes reflected Sigismund's figure, as if he could see the burning soul beneath that mortal shell.
"I can feel the fire in his heart, a pure flame burning for the sake of protection."
"Fire? Humph, fire only brings ashes." Angron let out a pained, distorted sneer, twisted by the Butcher's Nails.
"I only see another slave bound by chains, wielding a weapon granted by a Master, thinking he fights for glory."
Rogal Dorn ignored these remarks, quietly watching the screen, his face as resolute as stone.
For the first time, a trace of imperceptible, complex emotion—a mix of sternness and approval—surfaced.
To him, Sigismund was not just a warrior, but the perfect warrior of his ideals—sturdy, reliable, and always in his proper place.
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[If anything can perfectly illustrate the epic journey of the Imperium of Man from its glorious rise to its gradual decline,
then nothing embodies this grand historical trajectory better than the life of Sigismund.
Sigismund was born in the ruins of Terra, a World torn apart by war, where blood and ash wove an eternal veil.
Back then, he fought only to survive, knowing nothing of what combat techniques even were.
The one who changed his fate was a woman named Thera.
That day, Sigismund, Thera, and the other children were cornered in their hiding place by the Corpse-Grinder gang.
Unlike before, the Corpse-Grinder gang had deployed more men this time, determined to completely wipe out the children.
Sigismund's group were all children; only Thera was slightly older, and she usually looked after the small group.
Facing this unavoidable battle today, most of the children huddled in the hiding spot, blinking, not knowing what to do.
Sigismund pulled her back and asked, "Why are you doing this?"
Thera didn't answer; she just walked outside.
Sigismund pulled Thera and said, "Don't go."
Thera didn't answer, just walked out. Firelight and smoke shadows flickered across her scarred face as she looked back and said, "This must end today, or it will never stop."
Sigismund murmured, "There are too many of them." But Thera did not waver and resolutely walked out the door.
Then came the clash of weapons from outside, a dull thud, followed by silence. Sigismund, in a daze, asked as if talking to himself, where Thera went.
None of the children around him answered; the oppressive silence almost drove Sigismund mad. He shouted again, "Where did Thera go?"
At that moment, another shout came from outside. The sound exploded in their ears like a thunderclap. He closed his eyes, used his breath to feel the blood flowing through his body, and then pushed open the door.
Members of the Corpse-Grinder gang stood at the door, holding chains, boulders, knives, and iron bars.
Not far away, Thera's body was still bleeding.
"Do you want to be like her, or will you kneel?" a gang member shouted.
Sigismund remained silent. He stepped over Thera's body, picked up the iron bar she had dropped, and, like her, pressed the bar against his forehead.
The question he had once asked Thera echoed in his ears: "Why are you doing this?"
And the answer to this question was also the conviction Sigismund held during the Great Crusade.
He answered the question like this: "If I don't stand up, we will lose everything."
"Who are we? Those who are not as strong as I am."
Sigismund, because of Thera's death, changed his mindset from simply surviving to fighting for others, for those who cannot fight.]
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"Ha... Hahahaha!" Angron's laugh, like a broken bellows, suddenly exploded, filled with extreme pain and mockery.
"Look! Look! This is your so-called 'nobility'! One slave dies, and another picks up her chains and wears them as a crown!"
"He doesn't fight for freedom; he fights for a dead ghost! For a debt he can never repay! This is more pathetic than the gladiator pits of Nuceria!"
"You are wrong, Angron."
This time it was Rogal Dorn who spoke, his voice as firm as iron, without a hint of emotional fluctuation.
"He is not bound; he has found a cornerstone. A fortress must be built upon an indestructible foundation."
"His oath is his foundation. This is not weakness; it is the ultimate strength."
"Strength? Hehehehe..." Konrad Curze's laughter came from the shadows, cold and sharp.
"I see it... I see what's in his eyes. That's not a fire of protection, Dorn."
"It's an abyss, just like mine. He hates sin, he hates weakness, and he hates himself for being powerless to protect Thera."
"So he chooses to become a greater violence, using slaughter to 'protect'."
"He is just using a bigger lie to cover up the corpse of that small, helpless boy. He is no different... from us."
"Be quiet, Curze." Lion El'Jonson's voice rang out, like the winter of Caliban.
"His sword is pure. Whatever the motive, a warrior who can strike such a blow deserves respect. But... that is all."
"Anger driven only by an oath is not enough to be called 'the first.' True strength is mastering anger, not being driven by it."
Jaghatai Khan lightly stroked his chin: "He has found a path for himself—a straight, solid path, but one without scenery."
"He will become the sharpest spear, the strongest shield, but he will never know the freedom of the wind. A pity."
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[Sigismund's life continued until one day a Thunderhawk appeared, with a tall figure emerging from the roar.
This figure's eyes flashed with an ominous red light, and his deep blue armor was engraved with lightning and an eagle's head.
The figure walked up to Sigismund, who was already dizzy from the Impact of the Thunderhawk's landing.
He only heard the words 'We have come for you,' and then he passed out.
But as the testing continued, Sigismund's tolerance for pain was deemed more suited to the Seventh Legion, the Imperial Fists.
At the same time, because of his strong desire for combat, he was evaluated as also suitable for the 12th Legion, the World Eaters.
It is worth mentioning that besides the World Eaters, Sigismund also showed adaptability for the 16th Legion, the Luna Wolves, and the 19th Legion, the Raven Guard.
But the awkward part was that Sigismund actually had no affinity for the Night Lords; he just happened to be in the Night Lords' recruitment area.]
Curze made a disappointed clicking sound with his tongue, as if an interesting toy had been snatched away.
"How boring. He could have been my greatest masterpiece."
Angron snorted in contempt: "If he had joined my Legion, the first thing I'd do is have him smash that ridiculous oath in his head!"
"Either become a true warrior or die in the gladiator pits!"
"He is going nowhere." Dorn's voice finally rang out with unquestionable finality, putting an end to the discussion.
"His will, his resilience, his determination to fight for protection... from the very beginning, he was an Imperial Fist."