"We've succeeded, perhaps we can go even further!"
A near-divine radiance flowed through Sanguinius's eyes, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
The warriors inside the cultivation pods were gradually shedding their deformities and being reborn, and it filled him with exhilaration.
A crack of hope had been torn open in the shadow of Baal Secundus radiation curse. This was not only the salvation of two mutants but the rebirth of Baal's civilization itself.
Yet even in this moment of triumph, Sanguinius remained clear-headed. He clearly recognized its limitations; the cure at its core was essentially a black box.
Dr. Iven's genetic serum could create a "prison boss," violently suppressing the genes that attempted to "escape prison."
Every step of her experiments had detailed data, but Eve destroyed all of it and killed Dr. Iven, turning the serum into a black box.
Sanguinius's own blood acted as a pardon from the Supreme Court, allowing the genetic locks to permit escaped prisoners to return to confinement.
The Primarchs were the pinnacle of the Emperor's genetic engineering; the complexity of their genomes far surpassed that of ordinary humans of the 30K era. Even a Primarch could not fully decipher the mysteries within.
As for the genetic lock, an encrypted program carefully woven during the Golden Age and embedded deep within the human genome, Sanguinius had no understanding of it at all.
The experimental results showed that the synergy of the three could indeed cure mutants, and they could roughly infer the role each played in the system. But the mechanisms, interactions, and underlying logic remained shrouded in heavy fog.
They could reproduce the results on other mutants, yet still knew nothing of the fundamental laws behind the phenomenon.
Three black-box systems interacting with one another created a strange harmony, forming an even more complex super black box. Hidden dangers might still lie within, perhaps even the influence of the Warp.
Fulgrim said, "Your blood can heal Baal's mutants, but it cannot save all mutants in the galaxy. If the cure is to spread across the entire Imperium, it must be separated from reliance on your genes!"
A smile softer than dawn touched Sanguinius's lips. "Do not worry, brother. I will fulfill my promise of salvation, but I will not become a prisoner myself."
When a cure expands from individual cases to a population, any undiscovered variable could cause a catastrophe. Expanded to the entire Imperium, his blood alone could never suffice.
He was a Primarch created by the Emperor and bore a higher mission.
The Great Crusade needed his protection, and countless human worlds not yet ravaged by radiation awaited liberation.
To abandon a greater purpose for the sake of curing mutants would be like saving a single withered branch while sacrificing the whole forest.
It would be no different from the other Sangunuis, damming himself for his legion.
Thus, Sanguinius intended to continue the experiments, using massive data to build models and countless trials to discover patterns. Even if the black box could not be fully decoded, at least part of its workings must be clarified and understood.
Fugrim's lips curved with pride. "Your awareness comforts me, brother. The people of Baal await our salvation, the Legion awaits our return, glory awaits reforging, and the Imperium awaits our protection. Countless souls look to us, for we bear a sacred mission!"
"We are not only Baal's saviors, but we shall also become the guardians of human civilization. Only then will we be worthy of Father's expectations."
The smile at the corner of Sanguinius's mouth gradually faded.
'Yes… the Legion was coming.'
He had seen it.
...
"I will save the Legion!"
Fabius Bile stood in his apothecarion, eyes closed as though immersed in the calm rhythm of a Terran concerto.
He was busy. Yet even amidst endless work, he sometimes allowed himself moments of leisure.
Abdemon paused at the doorway, tilting his head to listen. The composition lacked elegance but carried a savage cadence.
"Lieutenant Commander Abdemon, you came to see me?"
Fabius slowly turned. Under the cold lumen lights, his pale face looked especially gaunt.
From beneath Abdemon's helm came a heavy question: "Fabius, how many gene-seeds remain?"
"Three hundred," Fabius replied. "But with the Legion's reputation, no one will willingly send recruits to us."
Once, the Third Legion had been glorious.
Europa's nobles competed to send their finest sons to it, hoping they would earn honor in the Emperor's Great Crusade.
Those proud warriors expected to win glory for Legion and family, yet they did not die in battle.
They died from the Legion's genetic flaw.
They died at the hands of their own brothers.
Warriors diagnosed with the Blight were executed in batches; their bodies and gene-seed stocks burned.
The Third Legion lost all honor.
They once numbered ten-thousand strong, under numerous companies. Abdemon had commanded one.
Now, only two hundred warriors remained, the smallest of all Legions.
To preserve their gene-seed, they were forbidden from combat. The Emperor himself ordered them back to Terra to recuperate.
But with only three hundred gene-seeds left, they could never catch up to the other Legions. The Great Crusade had moved on without them.
Worse, the Legion's curse was widely known.
The same Europa nobles who once eagerly offered their sons now shunned them.
It was humiliation. But who could they blame?
The survivors, those two hundred warriors, were themselves Europa's sons.
If sons died heroically in battle, it was honorable and glorious, but who would knowingly send a child to die from disease?
Even if the Blight was cured, who would believe them?
The nobles would not. It was only the Legion's word, without proof. Proof meant admitting they had executed their own infected brothers.
No one could guarantee the disease would not return.
How could they guarantee the disease would never return?
No one dared promise. And even if someone did, no one would trust it.
Unless the Emperor himself vouched for them, but he would never favor any Legion beyond the First.
The Third Legion were not masters of the Imperium, nor were Europa's nobles their servants; they were kin.
They could not threaten their own kin at gunpoint to hand over children.
They could recruit themselves, but that too required the Imperial Administration's approval. Without administrative support, no Legion could recruit on Terra.
And time pressed. Even if the Administratum approved, most candidates were already taken. They would get only leftovers.
Rebuilding the Third Legion was nearly impossible.
Abdemon's voice echoed low in the chamber: "The problem of recruits is solved. Other Legions are willing to support us. In three days, the first batch will arrive."
Fabius looked up from the gene-analyzer. "Which Legions?"
"All those we could reach."
Fabius snorted, "So now the whole galaxy knows the Third Legion is begging? Let me guess, they'll never send us the best candidates. It's the rejects, isn't it?"
Even among recruits selected by the Legions, there were always "adjusted" candidates. The finest warriors were claimed by the finest Legions, while the leftovers were distributed to the rest.
The Third Legion once had the best recruits. Now they were reduced to scavenging scraps, a bitter irony.
Abdemon replied, "You underestimate the Primarchs' generosity. The Eighth and Twelfth Legions have already offered us priority selection from their Terran recruits."
A flicker of surprise crossed Fabius's eyes, followed by a thoughtful expression. "Then I must prepare carefully. Did the other Legions also offer apothecaries to assist us?"
"They did, but our Legion Master refused."
Fabius lowered his head. "If we've fallen to begging, why cling to scraps of dignity?"
He was the Third Legion's only surviving apothecary. Even with three hundred new recruits, he could not perform all the surgeries alone.
Yet he understood the Legion Master's reasoning. Refusing outside apothecaries was unwise, but if even their recruits had to be operated on by others, what would remain of the Third Legion?
They had no honor left, but they would not abandon their pride.
Abdemon said, "The other warriors will assist you."
Fabius shook his head. "Too late. None of you have the proper apothecary training, and I have no time to teach you from scratch, nor would you want me to."
"What if we used hypnotic training?"
"That technique is not mature enough. It can't produce qualified Apothecaries in time."
"Is there no other way? We only have two hundred men left," Abdemon pressed.
Fabius slammed his fist against the metal table.
"This is not my fault!"
"No one blames you, Fabius." Abdemon watched the haggard Apothecary, showing unusual patience.
Fabius was reclusive, rarely speaking to other warriors outside of treatment. His only friends had been apothecaries, and they were all dead. Some on battlefields, some executed by his own hand.
"You provided the diagnostic criteria. The Legion Master made a decision in the Legion's best interest." Abdemon paused briefly, the servos emitting a soft hum. "We all know, at the time, there was no better choice."
"Every survivor is a butcher. Our hands are stained with our brothers' blood."
They could not let the Blight consume the Legion. They could not cure it. Death was the only end.
Fabius invented the method for detecting the Blight, but the one who ordered the execution of all afflicted warriors was the Legion Master.
Nevertheless, Fabius remained deeply mired in self-blame.
"No one blames you. No one condemns the Legion Master's orders. We had no choice."
"Lies." Fabius's voice was hoarse. "Abdemon, I appreciate your comfort. I am reclusive, but not deaf."
If they were purely rational, they would not blame him. But even Astartes could not escape human frailty. Survivors called the Legion Master a butcher, and Fabius a spider.
They spoke of the "spider" with no respect, only hatred.
In their eyes, it was Fabius and the Legion Master who together destroyed the Third Legion's foundations.
Not all warriors afflicted with the Blight would show symptoms. When the Blight was latent, they were still noble and powerful Astartes.
In the warriors' imaginations, these brothers should have died on the battlefield, wrapped in their cloaks, composing the final chapter of their glory with the most heroic sacrifice.
Yet Fabius's diagnosis labeled them as deviants, exposing the Legion's flaws in broad daylight, and the Legion Master ordered their execution, "curing" the Blight in the most decisive way.
The tragedy was that these angry survivors never considered that if a warrior afflicted with the Blight suddenly showed symptoms on the battlefield, it would not only cause a tactical rout, but also stain their honor and disgrace the Third Legion.
But it was precisely this cruelty that shattered their illusions, causing the surviving warriors to pour all their resentment onto the "culprits."
They would rather believe it was Fabius's paranoia and the Legion Master's coldness that destroyed the Legion than admit the Third Legion had long been terminally ill.
Abdemon was almost the only one who could maintain rationality. That's why the Legion Master sent him to find Fabius.
He would use lies to soothe Fabius, not shoot him twice in the back.
Fabius also gave others this opportunity.
Fabius gave others the chance. He locked himself in the apothecarion, but never locked the door. Even for a recluse, his brothers' disgust was a wound.
He bore it alone. They blamed him, and he blamed himself just as much.
Fabius hated himself for failing to cure those warriors, and despised his own cowardly survival even more.
He let a loyal brother die in his place, surviving by using curing the Blight as an excuse.
But he was now the only one with the Blight. Even if he said the flaw of the Blight existed in the Third Legion's genes, who would believe him?
His brothers would only despise him.
Fabius's voice was calm and low. "Do not worry for me, brother. I will fulfill my duty as apothecary."
He and Abdemon were neither comrades-in-arms nor close confidants.
For Abdemon to step into his apothecarion at this moment was already care beyond his duty.
Fabius knew better than anyone that this commander could have simply ignored him; after all, Abdemon owed him nothing.
A heavy sigh came from Abdemon's rebreather. Finally, from between his teeth, he squeezed out a whisper almost like a prayer: "As long as the Primarch returns, the Third Legion will be redeemed!"
"But the Mentor has not turned his gaze to us!"
Abdemon countered, "The Master never measures a Primarch's worth by the size of their Legion. Otherwise, how could the First Legion's Primarch still not have returned?"
Fabius nodded.
The order in which the Mentor chose the Primarchs was still undetermined, but it was acknowledged that it had nothing to do with the honors their Legions earned.
Some speculated that the order of the Primarchs' return depended on which Primarch the Master preferred.
Fabius also longed for their Primarch to return and save the Legion. But whether the Primarch returned had nothing to do with the suffering the Third Legion endured. Fabius wouldn't pin his hopes on the Mentor's mercy.
His research would continue.
Suddenly, Abdemon's body shuddered violently, as if struck by an invisible electric current.
Fabius remained focused on his experiment, not even lifting his head.
"Orders from the Legion Master?"
Abdemon's voice trembled. "The order comes directly from the Master of Mankind. He is on Terra!"
Fabius's head snapped up. "What is the order?"
The Emperor rarely commanded Legions directly.
Not long ago, the Emperor's order was for the Third Legion to return to Terra to recuperate.
They needed at least ten years of rest on Terra to rebuild the Third Legion to a strength capable of independently commanding fleet operations.
Yet the Emperor had issued them another order. This was unusual!
A heavy breath came from Abdemon, "The Emperor commands us to assemble!"
Fabius's eyes shone with disbelief, his voice trembling with excitement. "But the Third Legion only has two hundred warriors now!"
In Imperial history, the Emperor personally ordering a Legion to assemble meant either the Imperium faced a major threat requiring concentration of forces, or a Primarch was about to return!
But with the Third Legion's remaining strength of only two hundred warriors, they were barely able to independently conquer a technologically advanced civilized world, let alone deal with such a scale of enemies. The Emperor would not send them on campaign.
Then there was only one possibility left!
"Our Primarch," Fabius's voice was so light it was almost inaudible, "is coming back?"
Abdemon trembled with restrained excitement. "It must be so. The Mentor has found our Father. They are coming back to the Imperium!"
This sudden hope made Fabius feel that the heavy burden pressing on his heart for so long seemed to lighten. The Primach's return meant not only a new beginning, but redemption for the Legion.
A hint of hesitation crept into Fabius's voice, "You said… they?"
The Mentor would not return until all Primarchs did. Why "they"?
"Because the Ninth Legion," Abdemon replied, "is also assembling on Terra."
.....
15 chapter ahead in [email protected]/DaoistJinzu