While other fleets transited through the Khthonic Gate and Elysian Gate to enter the Sol System, the fleet of the Ninth Legion stubbornly emerged from the Mandeville Point instead.
The fleet's Navigators repeatedly calculated the coordinates for exiting the Warp, ensuring that the fleet's course towards Terra would pass by Neptune.
Ishidur Ossuros gazed out the observation window at that gradually enlarging ice-blue planet. Neptune's icy rings swirled silently in the void, refracting a dreamlike blue light, as beautiful as when he first saw them thirty years ago.
They had fought there in blood and lost twelve thousand warriors.
When Ishidur saw it, it was as if he could hear again the shrieks of the mutants, the hum of power swords, and the final war cries of his battle-brothers.
"For unity!"
....
"For unity!"
Ishidur's power sword carved arcs of ghostly blue light through the dim tunnels. Each strike of the blade was accompanied by the mutants' screams of torn flesh.
This bloody tug-of-war had lasted so long that Ishidur had long since stopped caring.
When the Emperor signed the treaty with Mars, when other Legions sang songs of victory on the moons of Jupiter and trumpeted triumphs at the Saturn Orbital Shipyards, only the Ninth Legion was exiled to the frozen purgatory at the edge of the Sol System.
They came here to die.
The Great Crusade was glorious, and the Legions basked in honor, but the Ninth Legion had never possessed it.
While other Legions meticulously selected their noble warriors, the Ninth Legion could only scour the ruins of radiation zones for the dregs struggling to survive.
Mutants with broken bodies were reforged into tall, perfect warriors. Their pale faces became sharp, their twisted features reshaped into nobility and elegance.
But beneath the polished exterior, their pitiful essence remained.
They were still dregs.
Throughout the monumental campaign of the Unification Wars, while other Legions won victories on the main battlefields, the Ninth Legion was always thrown into the most brutal war zones.
Whenever the smoke of battle cleared, they would again scour the devastated battlefields for the most valiant among the fallen, to feast upon their flesh.
This was the gift bestowed upon them by the Emperor. The Ninth Legion's Omophagea was exceptionally developed.
Other Legions could glean memories from flesh. Only the Ninth Legion could directly absorb the combat skills and tactical knowledge of their enemies, turning the strength into their own. The only cost was consuming the enemy's flesh.
But ignorant mortals, because of this, branded the Ninth Legion with the stigma of ghouls.
The Ninth Legion had no time to concern themselves with mortal slander.
There were no triumphant hymns on Neptune either. Only the eternal frost and the wails of mutants bore witness to their silent loyalty.
Neptune was ancient, colonized by humanity before the start of the Golden Age.
But during the Age of Strife, Neptune's colonists gradually devolved into horrors under the harsh environmental conditions.
The Ninth Legion was given this cruel mission: they had to conquer and cleanse the mutants infesting Neptune and its moons alone.
Ishidur's body crashed down. His blood-stained gauntlet clamped onto his Lieutenant's vambrace like an iron vice. The eyes behind his visor burned with the obsession of the dead.
"Do not forget me. To forget is to betray!"
In the comm channel, his roar, mixed with static, faded along with his vital signs.
The Lieutenant silently knelt on one knee. He removed the original Ishidur's helmet, gazing at that face, sculpted nearly to perfection by genetic engineering, now revealing a twisted expression.
With a sickening crunch of bone, the combat knife pried open the most noble head of the Ninth Legion.
The surface of that mass of crimson tissue was covered in deep sulci. Viscous cerebrospinal fluid flowed slowly along the gyri, steam still rising from its surface.
The Lieutenant licked it. He would waste nothing.
Gray-armored warriors swept past him, engaging in brutal close combat with the mutants, lest the filthy mutants defile the sacred ritual.
Ishidur's ate Ishidur's brain. He raised Ishidur's power sword high, his war cry shattering the frozen darkness:
"For Unity!"
.....
The Ninth Legion arrived with twelve thousand. They lost twelve thousand.
When the Imperium expedition fleet arrived, they still had twelve thousand men.
They had lost their Legion Master, yet their Legion Master still led the Legion.
They had lost twelve thousand veterans of the Terran Wars, yet they still possessed twelve thousand veterans of the Terran Wars.
Such was the unique legacy of the Ninth Legion.
Ishidur's gaze drifted from the ice-blue planet. Neptune's halo lingered as a hazy afterimage on his retina.
He turned towards the infinite void outside. The stars flickered silently in the eternal darkness, like countless cold eyes watching this solitary fleet.
"Outsiders can't stand us, and we can't stand outsiders."
The mortals' stigmatization of the Ninth Legion had even affected the Legion's relationships with other Legions.
The Ninth Legion always fought alone. They needed no allies, nor had they ever expected any.
They had long grown accustomed to facing the darkest, most brutal wars in the galaxy alone. Allies would only slow them down.
They had no need for the cumbersome cooperations, nor the constraints of tactical coordination.
They devoured the flesh of their enemies, absorbed their skills, turning death into their own strength.
Every battle made them stronger. Every sacrifice made the Legion purer.
They needed no cheers, nor any recognition.
The Emperor's will was their only guide. Conquest was their only mission!
So Ishidur could not understand why did the Emperor order them to fight beside the Third Legion?
The Ninth had cooperated with other Legions before, such as the savage War Hounds and the often-forgotten Fourth. They were all unsung Legions.
Ishidur refused to admit kinship. He believed they shared only solitude.
But since the War Hounds' Primarch returned, the Twelfth was no longer their ally. The World Eaters abandoned their old resolve. Ishidur began to despise them.
The Fourth remained silent as ever, but unfortunately, they had rarely cooperated together again.
Of all Legions, Ishidur hated the First and Third most.
The First always stood above all, looking down on all other Legions, even Primarchs.
The Third Legion basked in past glory, then wallowed in despair over a slight setback, praying all day for their Primarch to return soon and save the Legion.
In his eyes, the Ninth Legion was different from them all.
They needed no honor, no Primarch.
The Ninth needed no redemption, nor pity.
They were no one's vassals, not even their gene-father's.
"My Lord," the Captain reported. "The Legion Master of the Third Legion requests an audience."
"The fleet will arrive at Terra in eight hours. Have him provide coordinates."
Ishidur cared little for useless meetings. He had inherited many memories, but none taught flattery.
But if the Third Legion's Legion Master was willing to humbly set aside useless pride, he wouldn't mind reluctantly listening for a bit.
...
"Thrallas." In Terra's spaceport, the Legion Master of the Third extended his hand.
"Ishidur." Ishidur clasped the armored hand. "Why has the Emperor ordered our two Legions to assemble here?"
Deep confusion furrowed Thrallas's brow, as if shocked that the other was completely unaware of this matter.
"The Third Legion has only two hundred warriors left." Thrallas's gaze was meaningful, a subtle hint. "He would not place the burden of the main assault on us."
"That is precisely why the Ninth is here," Ishidur replied. "What is our objective?"
Ishidur's blunt, unyielding manner left even the usually composed Thrallas momentarily stunned.
He frowned deeply, scrutinizing Ishidur with piercing eyes. 'Did the Ninth Legion also possess a talent for humor?'
Ishidur scowled. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
Thrallas fell silent, then decided to remind him one last time: "The Imperium already has eight Primarchs. It has been a full three years since the last Primarch returned."
From the return of the second Primarch to the return of the eighth, the average interval between each Primarch's return was only about two and a half years.
It had now been three years since the last return, White Scars Khan of the Fifth Legion.
Three years!
If Ishidur still did not understand, Thrallas had nothing more to say.
Ishidur's voice turned dry, trembling. "You… you mean… the Ninth Primarch… is... is about to return?"
Thrallas replied, "According to reports, the Segmentum Solar has no war requiring entire Legions to be deployed."
The Emperor had not announced anything. Thrallas could only speculate. Even if intelligence suggested a Primarch's return, he could not promise Ishidur.
Ishidur questioned, "Which Primarch?"
"When the Fourteenth returned, the Fifth followed scarcely a month later," Thrallas said.
"Both Legions received assembly orders nearly simultaneously."
Ishidur's body shook with excitement.
'Could two Primarchs return this time?'
'One of them, the Ninth's?'
'We are to have our own Primarch?'
'Is it true?'
Thrallas saw Ishidur's barely contained joy. Marginalized Legions were always like this.
He remembered clearly: before the Twelfth's Primarch returned, the Ninth had briefly stirred with hope.
Many believed their Primarch was next. Their reasoning was illogical, yet strangely convincing.
But when the Twelfth's Primarch returned, all of the Ninth's hopes collapsed.
Their analyses became laughable self-delusion.
They were like fireflies trying to compete with a star. When the true light descended, they would again become the dust nobody cared about.
The Third and Ninth shared the same plight. Both longed for their Primarchs more than anyone. The Third needed redemption. The Ninth was no different.
Now, at last, fortune smiled. The Mentor had chosen them. Two Legions would see their Primarchs return.
The reasons were unclear; perhaps the Mentor tired of the slow pace of one-by-one returns had changed his strategy.
Whatever the truth, the Third would remember the Mentor's grace forever.
Ishidur suddenly let out a cold laugh. "Even if the Primarch returns, what can he change?"
Thrallas's gaze was piercing. "Why pretend before me?"
Even without seeing Ishidur's near-loss of composure, Thrallas was not fooled by his poor act.
The Third Legion and the Ninth Legion were in the same boat. Both bore unspeakable shame, struggling to survive in the shadows.
The Third Legion withered daily under the curse of the Blight, while the Ninth Legion, due to its genetic flaw, suffered the contempt and disgust of other Legions and even mortals.
The emotions deep in their hearts were all unease and anxiety.
The Ninth knew better than anyone of their infamy in the Imperium.
They were like a group of prisoners awaiting judgment, longing for their Primarch, yet fearing the reckoning that might follow.
The situation was the same for the Third Legion. They had failed to protect their Primarch's Legion. They were a bunch of defective products.
Both feared their Primarch's eyes would hold only disappointment. Both feared he would discard them like broken tools, destroying the Legion himself.
Faced with the Primarch's absolute authority, no one in the entire Imperium would dare to stop them.
The Emperor and the Mentor could stop them, but how could they possibly stop their own sons for the sake of dying Legions?
Ishidur's breath thundered, his voice boiling with rage. "Then tell me, what the hell are we cursed Legions supposed to do?"
Thrallas bowed his head. "Judgment. Redemption. All lies in the Primarch's will."
Fate was in their hands. What could mere warriors do?
Thrallas had ended his Legion himself. 3,426 warriors executed by his order, sick or not. 5,721 gene-seeds burned, despite desperate pleas.
Compared to that, Ishidur still had room to maneuver. He was far luckier.
But Thrallas felt no regret. The Blight was a cancer. Only purging could free the Legion.
Every order he gave was the price he, as Legion Master, had to bear. The Legion's purity must be maintained!
Ishidur was silent for a long time. "Where is the Emperor?"
"On Terra."
"The Ninth's fleet is not yet fully assembled. When do we depart?"
Surprise flickered in Thrallas's eyes.
Ishidur let out a bitter laugh. "If our Primarch intends to purge the Legion, we, these defective remnants, should not leave him any loose ends."
He had always been prepared.
The Ninth were refuse, freaks from Terra's radiation zones.
Even as angels, they could not change their thirst. Their heightened Omophagea were no excuse.
When he consumed Ishidur's brain, he understood: some defects are guilty simply by living.
Who was he? Ishidur, or some Lieutenant? The third? The fourth? He no longer remembered.
The Ninth clung to their savage rituals, as if an immortal Legion Master could erase their flaws.
....
"Our Legions have suffered. Our sons have endured hardship."
Fulgrim sat atop a cliff, Sanguinius beside him, slender fingers plucking grapes.
Caelan nestled between the Primarchs. Karin, bright-eyed, offered him a slice of melon.
Caelan's voice drifted in the dusk, "Suffering is not worthy of praise. But neither should it be forgotten. To forget is to betray."
"Father," Fulgrim asked, "will our Legion accept us?"
Caelan laughed, "I wager that if your sons know their Primarch is about to return, they are just as anxious as you are."
Since unifying Baal, they had awaited the Imperium's arrival.
Caelan believed the Emperor would come within half a year. Then he would seek the other Primarchs.
Sanguinius and Fulgrim would return to the Imperium, as their brothers had, to lead their Legions across the galaxy, expanding the Imperium of Man.
They knew their mission.
Caelan trusted they would not repeat past mistakes, nor would their Legions defy their Father.
"What do we wager?" Fulgrim asked.
"Anything."
"Then let's wager a lifetime." Fulgrim rose slowly, lips curved. "If we lose, we'll be your sons forever. If you win, you'll be our father forever."
Caelan chuckled, shaking his head. "Either way, you profit. Win-win."
Fulgrim arched a brow elegantly. "Do you not profit as well?"
"True. I win too."
Sanguinius smiled warmly. "Then all are satisfied."
Karin watched them gently, content with this simple harmony.
"Any more grapes?"
Fulgrim touched the fruit dish. The porcelain plate was empty.
He remembered taking only one bunch. How had the full plate vanished?
He narrowed his eyes, gaze sharp as a blade on Sanguinius.
Sanguinius only blinked his clear golden eyes, lashes trembling with innocent grace.
He hadn't eaten that much.
"Have some coffee," Fulgrim said, pouring a cup.
"Where is the sugar?" Sanguinius looked around.
"I threw it away." Fulgrim smiled mischievously. "Drink, dear brother. It will balance the sweetness."
Sanguinius lifted the fragrant cup.
Bitterness touched his lips.
For an instant, faint resistance flickered in his golden eyes.