[After the end of the Horus Heresy, the Imperium welcomed a fragile peace.]
[To prevent a rebellion of such scale from happening again, a brand-new decree was placed on the agenda of the High Lords of Terra.]
[Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar, with his unparalleled foresight and organizational talent, compiled a massive tome titled the 'Codex Astartes'.]
[Its core concept was to split the once massive, centralized, and family-like Space Marine Legions into several smaller, more decentralized independent combat units with a maximum strength of one thousand men—Chapters.]
When the core terms of the 'Codex Astartes' were presented before every Primarch like a cold death warrant,
An uproar erupted within the Throne Room that was more complex than any moment before, a silence that could be called deathly.
This was no longer about the fall of a brother or the tragic future of their Father.
This was directed straight at the very existence of each and every one of them—their power, their legacy, and the irreplaceable bond between them and their hundreds of thousands of sons.
"...No."
The first to speak was not any of the Primarchs known for their violence, but Fulgrim.
The Phoenician slowly stood up, his face, which once pursued ultimate perfection,
Was now filled with a soul-deep agony and hatred caused by seeing his masterpiece brutally shattered.
"Guilliman... my brother, how dare you?"
His voice trembled, losing its former elegance.
"The Legions... are our most perfect works! They are eighteen unique epics written in blood and fire!"
"And now you want to use your cold bureaucratic scissors to cut this magnificent poetry into a pile of unrelated, ugly, scattered phrases?"
"This is not destruction, Fulgrim, this is the construction of a firebreak."
Guilliman's voice was frighteningly calm as he faced the gazes of all his brothers.
"A great fire has nearly burned down the entire forest. A Primarch, a Legion—such massive power concentrated in the hands of one person is in itself the Imperium's greatest structural risk."
"Horus's tragedy has proven that we... all of us, could become the spark that ignites the forest."
Before Guilliman's words had even finished echoing, Horus Lupercal, who had been silent all along, slowly raised his head.
His face no longer held the previous panic and self-reproach, leaving only an endless exhaustion and sorrow that had seen through everything.
"Thank heavens..."
The Warmaster's voice sounded as if it were squeezed out of a rusty pipe.
"My folly has finally come to a full stop."
"But look at these Legions being hacked into pieces—it's like a repeat of the tragedy of the Thunder Warriors."
His fingers traced the organizational charts of the scattered Chapters in the projection, his voice carrying self-deprecation and a deeper worry: "Can mortals truly hold this riddled Imperium?"
Horus's words were like a key, opening a new door of fear that all Primarchs tacitly understood but were unwilling to touch.
Yellow-green mist seeped out from under Mortarion's plague mask.
The Primarch of the Death Guard struck the ground heavily with the handle of his massive scythe, letting out a dull, booming sound:
"The irony is even greater; we are being exiled by the very Imperium we created."
He pointed to the projection of the latest decree from the Council of Terra, where the complex heraldry and seals were clearly visible.
"Look at the wax seals on those documents; not a single Primarch's signature is on them."
"That old fox Malcador, the Father's golden casket hasn't even cooled yet, and he's already starting to clip our wings."
"Don't forget our Archon brother."
Magnus's single eye suddenly burst with bright psychic fire, illuminating the massive emblem symbolizing the Inquisition on the dome of the Throne Room.
"The administrative system of the Five Hundred Worlds can completely replace many functions of the Legions, and combined with Malcador's political maneuvering... this power reshuffle was destined from the moment the Great Rebellion ended."
The words of the Master of the Thousand Sons carried the bitterness of insight into the truth, revealing that this was not just a military reform, but a carefully planned political purge.
"The limitations of mortals are like quicksand in the desert."
Jaghatai Khan's White Tiger Dao suddenly unsheathed half an inch, its cold blade-light sweeping across the vast territorial map of the Imperium in the projection.
In his pupils was reflected the vision of border systems continuously collapsing.
"They fear a second Horus Heresy, yet forget that it is precisely this fear that allows the tragedies of the Old Night to repeat."
"Let those bureaucrats take their ink and paper documents to fight Chaos!"
Perturabo's roar shook the dust from the dome, and high-pressure steam hissed from the gaps in his power armor.
"Look at how the administrative Planets we conquered fell—when demons tear open the veil of reality, those useless wastes who only know how to stamp and sign won't even have time to scream!"
Just as Perturabo's fury reached its peak, a voice as low as a shadow came from a corner.
"My sons are accustomed to acting in the shadows, Guilliman."
Corax, the liberator of the Raven Guard, emerged from the shadows of the throne.
His face was pale, his gaze sharp as a blade's edge.
"Tactically speaking, small-scale, independent units are better suited to our way of war. But what you are dismantling is not units, but trust."
His gaze swept over Guilliman, then looked toward the spot where Malcador used to stand.
"We fought for the liberation of mortals, to rescue them from the tyrants of the Old Night."
"But now, you and those bureaucrats of Terra are using ink and decrees to weave a new, more hidden web."
"We are no longer fathers and generals, but monitored weapons."
"This isn't preventing betrayal; this is using a gentler way to slip the chains back onto our necks and the necks of our sons."
Corax's words sent many Primarchs into deep thought.
However, a more unsettling voice followed immediately after, a voice that seemed to come from all directions, yet also seemed to ring only within everyone's minds.
"We think... this is very reasonable."
Alpharius's figure flickered in and out of the light and shadow of the projection; his voice was calm and waveless, yet it sent a chill through everyone present.
"Dividing a great beast into a thousand hungry wolves indeed prevents the beast from losing control."
"But brother Guilliman, you seem to have forgotten one thing..." Alpharius's finger traced lightly in the air, as if sketching an invisible network.
"A thousand scattered hungry wolves also mean a thousand gaps that can be infiltrated, a thousand souls that can be corrupted by whispers."
"It is much easier to sow seeds of discord among a hungry wolf pack than to persuade a single beast of firm will."
A mysterious smile curled at the corners of his mouth:
"You think you are severing the heads of the HYDRA, but in reality, you are merely cultivating a broader wetland for it to grow in."
"From this perspective, we... thank you for your foresight."
These words caused the temperature in the entire hall to plummet.
If Corax's warning was born of concern for freedom, then Alpharius's 'agreement' was a naked mockery from the abyss.
"Enough!"
Lion El'Jonson could finally no longer endure this bizarre atmosphere, his roar like a mountain collapsing.
"Whether it be liberation or infiltration, the prerequisite is that the Imperium still exists!"
"To hand the power of guarding the borders to a group of mortals who can't even withstand the recoil of a Bolter is in itself the greatest betrayal of the Imperium!"
Just as this fury was about to erupt completely, a warm and heavy voice rang out.
Vulkan's obsidian body suddenly blocked the path of the enraged Perturabo and Lion El'Jonson, lava-like patterns flowing slowly across his pitch-black skin.
"We cannot dismiss mortals as worthless simply because of their flaws."
"Do not forget for what purpose our Father created the Imperium."
"If even the people abandon us, then from where shall we come to save humanity?"
The voice of the Lord of Drakes calmed the scorching anger in the air somewhat.
"It was these mortals you call 'weak' who, during the Siege of Terra, used tens of billions of lives to exhaust the rebels' ammunition reserves."
Guilliman's star chart of Ultramar expanded at this moment, the administrative network of the Five Hundred Worlds pulsing clearly like golden veins.
He finally spoke again, his voice carrying an unquestionable decisiveness.
"The dismantling of the Legions is not an end, but a brief compromise."
"Once the Legions are dismantled, every Chapter will be a self-sufficient sword; Chaos will never again be able to destroy an entire Legion through a single betrayal."
His gaze swept over every brother, finally landing on Horus, his tone softening but remaining firm.
"Besides, we are still here."
"As long as we are still here, we can reassemble the Legions at any time."
Who will dominate the future of the Imperium?
This unspoken question became a shadow more terrifying than any of the Chaos Gods, looming over the heart of every Primarch.