Chapter 61 Children, I'm Back
"Fulgrim… is humility truly so difficult for you?"
"Come now, brother," Fulgrim replied with an untroubled smile. "The outcome was satisfactory, was it not?"
Mordecai resisted the powerful urge to strike that smiling face.
"Satisfactory? Hardly."
After Fulgrim's spirits had stabilized, Yuki assigned Fulgrim and Mordecai to guide Vulkan.
Her reasoning was simple:
Fulgrim inspired.
Mordecai stabilized.
Between brilliance and restraint, Vulkan would learn balance.
Mordecai accepted without protest.
Fulgrim, however, wished to impress his newly found brother.
The Eight-Man Compliance
When the expeditionary fleet encountered a human world still ruled by fractious techno-guilds, Fulgrim volunteered to conduct negotiations personally.
He descended with seven attendants.
What followed was not diplomacy so much as a performance balanced on the edge of catastrophe.
Assassination attempts.
Poisoned chalices.
Hidden las batteries.
At least three attempts at orbital sabotage.
Had Fulgrim been anything less than a Primarch, he would have died many times over.
Instead, he disarmed each threat with surgical precision — equal parts grace, intimidation, and theatrical brilliance.
Within forty-eight hours, the planet accepted Imperial Compliance.
Minimal civilian casualties.
Infrastructure intact.
Cultural institutions preserved.
When Fulgrim returned to the fleet, resplendent and radiant, Mordecai could only sigh.
He was determined not to scold.
Fulgrim made that impossible.
"Brother, look!" Fulgrim spread his arms. "A world brought to Compliance with only eight of us. Which of our brothers could claim such elegance?"
"Fulgrim, listen carefully."
"I am listening."
"Arrogance invites decay. Desire invites excess. Pleasure invites weakness. Ambi—"
Fulgrim raised a hand.
"Must every lesson sound like a funerary sermon?"
"What kind of young man is not impetuous?" Fulgrim continued.
Mordecai jabbed a finger toward Vulkan.
"Look at him! Younger than you — yet composed!"
"You are one year older than I am," Fulgrim replied. "Do not pretend seniority."
Vulkan watched the exchange with increasing distress.
"Brothers… please. Let us speak calmly."
He glanced helplessly toward Yuki, who was seated nearby enjoying tea.
"Sister… should we intervene?"
Yuki took another sip.
"No. Let them argue."
She set the cup down.
"Brothers who argue remain brothers. Silence breeds distance."
Vulkan's Doubt
She motioned for Vulkan to sit.
He did so immediately.
"Sister… my brothers are extraordinary. I…"
She stood and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Vulkan, strength is not measured by resemblance. You need not resemble them to equal them."
His legend had already spread through the Third Legion.
Because when a giant over four meters tall stood between civilians and incoming fire, no warrior failed to notice.
Fulgrim had noticed.
Deeply.
Yuki's description echoed in his thoughts:
In Vulkan you will see a nobility not born of pride — but of humanity.
Fulgrim had attempted to emulate that example.
His eight-man compliance was not mere vanity.
Fewer troops meant fewer misunderstandings.
Fewer misunderstandings meant fewer civilian deaths.
But elegance is easily mistaken for arrogance.
Mordecai saw pride.
Fulgrim had intended mercy.
The Difficulty of Kindness
Fulgrim attempted conversation.
"Brother… are you fond of philosophy? Music? Sculpture?"
Vulkan scratched the back of his head.
"I know metal. Fire. Stone. And people. The rest… not so much."
Fulgrim hesitated.
They had little common ground.
Humor did not come easily to Vulkan.
Art did not guide his thoughts.
So they spoke of forging.
And oddly, that was enough.
Yet even as his brothers respected him, Vulkan sensed a quiet distance.
Yuki watched the exchange and thought:
It is difficult to be a good man in a violent age.
The Eighteenth Legion's Trial
"How is the situation?"
"The enemy continues to advance. Thunder Warrior instructors hold the line, but ammunition reserves are critically low."
Atalus Numin, acting commander of the XVIII Legion's forward force, forced his breathing to slow.
Nineteen thousand Astartes.
One hundred Thunder Warrior veterans.
Against over a million Orks.
The Thunder Warriors held the breach line like living bastions, buying time with brutal efficiency.
But attrition was inevitable.
If supplies failed, annihilation would follow.
Numin closed his eyes.
He remembered Terra.
Without Yuki's intervention, his Legion might not exist.
This felt frighteningly similar.
"Reinforcements?"
"Negative… wait — signal received!"
Numin seized the vox.
"This is Atalus Numin of the XVIII Legion. We are besieged by Ork forces exceeding one million. Request immediate reinforcement."
A deep, calm voice answered:
"Children… I am coming."
Numin blinked.
"…did he just say children?"
"I believe so."
The Arrival of Vulkan
The strike cruiser Divine Intervention translated from the warp.
Three thousand newly raised Astartes of Nocturne deployed with disciplined precision.
Vulkan descended at their head.
His presence alone altered the battlefield.
Where he stood, the line did not break.
Where he advanced, the greenskins faltered.
Evacuation corridors opened.
Defensive withdrawal became organized redeployment.
Casualties dropped immediately.
Numin approached the towering figure once the extraction concluded.
"You… you are our Primarch?"
He already knew.
Every gene-wrought instinct confirmed it.
Vulkan rested a massive hand on his shoulder.
The weight felt immovable — yet gentle.
"Yes, my son. I am Vulkan."
Numin's voice faltered.
"Father… we thought…"
"That I would arrive too late?" Vulkan asked softly.
He stepped forward to face the Terran veterans who had gathered nearby — warriors hardened long before Nocturne ever saw him.
"Children," he said,
"I am home."
A Role Yet to Be Played
Vulkan's imminent formal return meant Yuki could finally begin one of her most ambitious reforms.
Training had curbed arrogance.
Law had restrained abuse.
But respect born from regulation was not respect.
Very few Astartes truly believed mortals were their equals in humanity.
The XVIII Legion could change that.
If any Legion could.
Orders drafted by Yuki began circulating among the Legions.
New standards.
New expectations.
New cultural directives.
Unseen currents stirred.
On the Vengeful Spirit
Horus studied the document in silence.
"Father?" Abaddon asked quietly.
"Read."
Seyjanus accepted the data-slate and skimmed its heading.
Selection Criteria for Model Legions
Standards of Conduct for Adeptus Astartes
He looked up.
Horus's eyes were thoughtful.
"What must we become," Horus asked,
"to deserve to be called exemplary?"
Seyjanus blinked.
That was his concern?
He almost smiled.
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