Chapter 129: The Deal is Settled and the Split
The atmosphere in the Primarch meeting room gradually calmed, though the aftershocks of their brawl still lingered in the air like static before a storm.
Francis's face was covered in bruises. His nose was swollen, his left eye socket slightly blue, and a bloodstain at the corner of his mouth had not yet dried. He worked his jaw experimentally, testing for breaks.
"I was just joking with you. Did you have to be so ruthless?"
The three from Saint Gilles rolled their eyes at him, thinking this eleventh brother deserved to experience more brotherhood, preferably with fists.
"Why don't you tell us your opinion? Otherwise, we brothers should train together." Leman Russ's nose was red and swollen. The threat hung in the air, genuine despite the levity.
"Okay!" Francis cleared his throat, his voice slightly hoarse. He straightened in his seat, adopting the bearing of a commander rather than a brawler.
"Actually, the problem this time is that we are unable to establish stable communication with the Imperium on time. The existence of the large legion certainly presents problems, but what we need to deal with next is the enemy within the entire webway and other xenos. The expedition is far from over."
He paused, his gaze sweeping between each Primarch. Some met his eyes. Others looked away.
"Moreover, our brothers have been bewitched by Chaos and entered the Eye of Terror. Shouldn't we save them?"
Upon hearing this, everyone lowered their heads. Their hands made a constant metallic twisting sound against armrests and table edges, the unconscious fidgeting of demigods as they processed grief.
Clang!
Leman Russ took a deep gulp of ale and slammed the bottle on the table, staring at Francis with bloodshot eyes. "Is there any way to save them?! Then why don't you save Horus?!"
"He's our brother too!" Francis slammed his fist on the table and roared, the sound like a thunderclap.
"Because we couldn't win! If Father hadn't ascended, we might have lost completely!" The words came out raw, stripped of pretense. "We are not powerful enough to conquer the Warp. Otherwise, we would have stormed it, seized their gardens, and taken their thrones."
"Why can't we fight them? Are you afraid we can't save our brother?!"
Leman Russ lowered his head. He took another swig of wine in frustration and growled, "What kind of lousy wine is this? It's so bitter!"
Sanguinius, who sat to the side, had a calm expression on his face, though his wings remained tight against his back. Impossible to know what he was thinking behind that mask of nobility.
"So, what's your solution?" he asked.
Francis took a deep breath and adjusted his tone, forcing himself back to pragmatism. "The last point is that the Warmaster has too much power! If Horus weren't the Warmaster, he wouldn't have caused such devastation."
He let that sink in before continuing. "I think the position of Warmaster should be permanently shelved!"
Upon hearing this, all the Primarchs present were taken aback, with Lion and Ferrus showing the most obvious surprise. Lion's hand actually moved toward his sword hilt, old instincts.
"I agree!"
"I agree too!"
"Agreed!"
Guilliman, Magnus, Vulkan, and Corax all agreed, finding his statement quite reasonable.
"But if that's the case, who will command everyone? Who will manage all these expeditions, big and small?" Lion frowned, though he felt that with his strong will and being the first Primarch, he should be fine.
"Lion is right!" Ferrus chimed in, clearly believing he could do it too, that Chaos would not corrupt his steely will.
The others remained silent, especially Sanguinius, who was still smiling at Francis. That smile held secrets.
"That's easy! Just have the Emperor be the Warmaster!" Francis said. "That's how it was done before we had a Warmaster!"
Upon hearing this, the room fell silent. Leman Russ immediately retorted, "Aren't you being ridiculous? You know perfectly well Father can't leave Terra. How is he supposed to communicate with the various legions at the front?"
He leaned forward, jabbing a finger at Francis. "If it really splits up, not only will we lack enough powerful Astropaths, but what if something goes wrong in the Warp and we can't make contact..."
Leman Russ listed several reasons why this method was not feasible, his voice rising with each point.
"Yes! Yes, you're absolutely right!" Francis said. "Therefore, we are launching the Soul Drinkers Legion's latest technological products here!"
As Francis spoke, he pulled out an ork head with hundreds of eyes grafted across its surface.
Just as the Primarchs were looking on in confusion, Perturabo immediately stood up and said proudly, "I know that!"
Seeing the others' surprised expressions, Perturabo became even more excited and continued speaking, unable to help himself. "This is an ork communication device. It can use the psionic energy fluctuations emitted by orks fighting to simulate a call over a distance. The effect is really top-notch!"
The others immediately gave strange looks, a mixture of revulsion and reluctant interest.
Francis casually added the key point."Because we use orkish psionic energy, we will avoid the traditional Warp and go directly to the orkish gestalt field, which will effectively prevent any tampering in between."
He tapped the grotesque device. "Moreover, genetic encryption is used here, so different units can only connect to one designated recipient. So even if it's a Warp storm, its impact is minimal! In this way, the Emperor can maintain contact with all the legions at the front without leaving Terra!"
Francis's voice boomed like a bell. They all stared in shock at the palm-sized ork head on the table, its numerous eyes somehow still seeming to follow movement.
"Perhaps... the Imperium can subdue the greenskins..." Someone muttered it, then stopped abruptly halfway through the thought.
"If we do it this way, won't Father be too tired?" Sanguinius tightened his wings, feeling that doing so would place an enormous burden on the Emperor.
"How could that be! Father is a man destined to become a god!" Francis said. "How could something so trivial be tiring?!"
He gestured expansively. "He sits there all day without doing anything. Even if he doesn't get hemorrhoids, he'll get dementia! This is for the Emperor's own good! If all else fails, one of our brothers is good at handling government affairs. He and Malcador can assist Father in managing the administration. That way, we can just go ahead and wage war!"
Francis stroked his chin, genuinely thinking it was a good idea.
Sanguinius: "..."
Other Primarchs: "..."
Guilliman felt a chill run down his spine, as if someone was plotting against him. Somewhere on Terra, perhaps Malcador sneezed. It's unclear what remark provoked Magnus, but he subconsciously touched his seat as well.
The Emperor's gaze seemed to fall on Francis through the ceiling, through reality itself. Francis suddenly shivered.
"Then the legion won't be split?" Sanguinius continued to ask.
"We still have to split it, but based on the above, we can split it into battle groups according to a certain number, while retaining the existence of the parent legion." Francis's tone became more businesslike.
"Under the new wartime agreement, each battle group still obeys the command of its parent legion, but the Emperor's orders supersede those of the parent legion. What do you all think?"
Even the Emperor was brought into it, and they couldn't refute that. After all, he was their father. Their creator. Their gene-sire and general both.
"How many warriors do you think are appropriate for a battle group?" Leman Russ asked, ever practical.
"How about we all state how many sons we have left, and then we can analyze the situation together?"
Everyone nodded, then began to count off. The numbers came out reluctantly, each one representing both strength and loss.
"The Thousand Sons number thirty thousand."
"Twenty thousand Raven Guard."
"The Salamanders Legion numbers thirty thousand."
"Fifty thousand Blood Angels."
"Imperial Fists, fifty thousand."
"Seventy thousand Iron Warriors."
"Sixty thousand Iron Hands."
"Eighty thousand Dark Angels."
"Seventy thousand Space Wolves."
"Three hundred thousand Ultramarines."
"Three- wait what??" x10
When Guilliman announced the number of Ultramarines, all eyes turned to him. The disparity was staggering.
"I was building numbers because I was afraid Father would be in danger! I also lost over one hundred thousand of my sons!" Guilliman's defensive words only made the crowd's gaze even more intimidating, prompting him to urge Francis on quickly. "How many Soul Drinkers are left?"
Unfortunately, it would have been better if he hadn't asked. As soon as he did, he saw Francis's eyes bulge with poorly concealed jealousy.
Francis gritted his teeth and said, word by word, "There are two thousand Soul Drinkers!"
Hearing this, Guilliman was completely dumbfounded. He had more than two thousand Astartes in his fleet's reserve companies alone.
The Primarch's conference room fell silent, with only the faint sounds of breathing and the soft clanging of metal armor echoing in the air. They shifted in their seats, all thinking the same thing: if Francis was this aggressive with only two thousand warriors, what would happen if he had tens of thousands? He would probably invade the Warp itself.
Sanguinius hesitated for a moment, then broke the silence and asked in his usual gentle voice, "So, how many warriors do you all think a battle group should contain?"
In an instant, all eyes were once again focused on Francis. After all, his legion was the smallest here by a catastrophic margin.
"How about a battle group of ten thousand Astartes? If it's divided too much, then there will be commanders everywhere without proper strategic coordination." Francis took a deep breath and continued, keeping his voice level despite the bitter knowledge of his losses.
Most nodded. They found the number acceptable. They were used to this distribution in previous campaigns. The atmosphere eased considerably. The principle of asking for the highest and achieving the middle truly proved itself time and again.
"Then, shall we continue to implement the Codex Astartes in this way?" Guilliman held a thick tome in his hands, the cover engraved with the shining Imperial aquila. Years of work, distilled into doctrine and discipline.
He glanced around, his gaze sweeping over each Primarch, before finally settling on Francis.
"Um... this can be recommended, but not mandatory, okay?" Francis chose his words carefully.
"Your work is valuable, but it's too absolute. Astartes are not just weapons; they are warriors with thoughts and feelings. Such rigid provisions may limit their initiative and even weaken their effectiveness in certain theaters. Let the new recruits learn from this, and then it's up to each legion to decide whether they want to adopt it fully."
Francis's voice wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible in the conference room.
"I second that!"
"I second that!"
Seeing this, Guilliman felt disappointment settle on his shoulders. All of this was his work, his attempt to prevent another Horus. Those who saw his expression chuckled sympathetically, but before the moment could pass, Francis continued.
"BY the way, you all have so many Astartes remaining, surely none of my dear brothers would mind lending me some recruits, Hmm?"
[End of Chapter]
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