Chapter 63 The Road to the Future
Vulkan: "My Legion should not deploy rad-phage or phosphor weapons against populated zones. War must not become annihilation."
Ferrus Manus: "So you will not burn the enemy alive with promethium?"
Vulkan: "…I did not say that."
— Excerpt, The Imperial Record on Civilian Protection and Conduct of War
From the day Vulkan formally returned to the Imperium, the Primarchs understood something immediately:
the first Model Legion had already been chosen.
Not by decree.
By example.
The Return of Vulkan
Vulkan refused the triumphal procession.
He refused the elevated chariot.
He refused the honor guard.
At first, he even refused the public celebration.
"I am one man among millions," he said. "Resources should not be spent glorifying me."
Yuki answered gently:
"Your presence brings hope. Hope is never waste."
Vulkan relented.
But he walked to the palace.
On foot.
Among the people.
Ferrus Manus understood instantly.
This was not ceremony.
This was instruction.
He sought Fulgrim later.
"What do you think of our new brother?"
Fulgrim considered carefully.
"He is… remarkable."
Ferrus studied him.
Fulgrim smiled faintly.
"And I suspect this time the honor was never meant for us."
Ferrus snorted softly.
"That changes nothing. We improve regardless."
Fulgrim laughed.
"And here I thought competition was the point."
"It is," Ferrus replied. "Self-mastery."
Ferrus then did what Ferrus always did when confronted with a problem:
He sought a forge.
Within hours, he had dragged Vulkan — and an amused Fulgrim — to the nearest industrial complex.
The banquet had barely ended.
The anvils were already ringing.
A Rare Reunion
As the Great Crusade expanded, gatherings of the Primarchs became increasingly rare.
Horus had not returned.
Russ had not returned.
Yuki sighed softly.
Horus was burdened with command.
Russ…
Russ avoided Terra.
She understood why.
And because she understood, she went to him.
The Wolf Who Would Not Return
Leman Russ did not shirk duty.
He never had.
The Wolf King was perceptive, cunning beneath the barbarian mask, and possessed of a brutal clarity about the Imperium's realities.
He had accepted the role his father had prepared for him.
The executioner.
The sanction.
The blade reserved for brothers who strayed.
And because of that knowledge, Russ had withdrawn.
Not from duty.
From closeness.
If he allowed himself to love too deeply…
could he carry out that duty when the day came?
So he remained away.
Even when he was bored enough to sleep entire days.
"Russ," Gunnar sighed, "how long do you intend to lie there?"
Silence.
"You ignore the Model Legion. Fine. But will you not greet your brother?"
A grunt.
"You'll grow mold."
"If the Allfather wills mold, mold shall come."
Gunnar rubbed his face.
"I am leaving."
He turned—
—and opened the door to find Yuki already entering.
Gunnar stepped aside immediately.
"No one could stop her," he muttered, retreating.
Russ did not look at her.
"What do you want, sister? If nothing, I sleep."
"Can I not visit you?"
"You can visit."
"Are you sulking because I have not written enough?"
Russ turned slowly.
"…you are describing someone else."
She laughed softly.
"Let me see the spear."
A pause.
"…lost."
"Lost?"
"Yes."
She said nothing.
She only looked into his golden eyes.
Russ looked away.
Time stretched.
Then she spoke quietly.
"That day will not come, Russ. I promise you."
"What day?"
"You know."
He laughed harshly.
"And why are you certain, sister? Why are you certain they will not force Father's hand?"
"There is no path laid for us," she replied calmly. "Not for me. Not for you. Not even for him. There are only choices."
Russ sat up, laughing like a storm breaking.
"You believe that?"
"It does not matter whether he expects it. What matters is whether you accept it."
Silence.
"Refuse it," she said softly. "Be what you were. Your brothers would welcome you."
Russ's voice dropped.
"Someone must do it. Why not me?"
He meant it.
Not as martyrdom.
As responsibility.
He rose, towering and wild.
"I will visit the new brother," he said. "Every time."
Yuki watched him a long moment.
The burden remained.
But the isolation had cracked.
Before leaving, she said quietly:
"Remember my promise."
Aboard the Vengeful Spirit
"Pong!"
"Abaddon! Put that tile down! I've already won!"
If the Luna Wolves could not be first Model Legion…
they would become the second.
And the third.
And every one thereafter.
Encouraged to cultivate pursuits beyond war, the Mournival had discovered an unexpected pastime:
mahjong.
The fate of tiles was debated with the same intensity as planetary assaults.
"Horus," Torgaddon said, shuffling, "where's Loken?"
"Lower decks," Horus replied. "Working with the crew."
The Vengeful Spirit had aged through relentless campaigning. Maintenance had lagged.
Horus ordered Astartes to assist the mortal crew.
Not as overseers.
As workers.
Seyjanus glanced at Abaddon.
"I hear you have taken employment."
Abaddon coughed.
"I am training recruits."
Torgaddon grinned.
"That suits you perfectly."
Abaddon squinted.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Seyjanus intervened smoothly, "you are formidable and inspire discipline."
Abaddon accepted this.
Little Horus frowned at his tiles.
"I do not understand hobbies."
Many Astartes did not.
They had been forged for war.
Purpose had been singular.
Now, the Imperium asked them to become more than weapons.
The request was… disorienting.
Seyjanus smiled.
"There is time, brother. The Imperium has time. We have time."
Outside the strategium, mortal crew worked beside transhuman giants.
Elsewhere, Vulkan walked among citizens.
Russ stared at the stars, thinking.
Ferrus hammered steel.
Fulgrim searched for meaning beyond perfection.
And across the Imperium, something subtle and unprecedented began:
The Legiones Astartes were learning how to be human.
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.