Chapter 130: The Emperor Picks His Feet
The air fell silent for a moment.
Leman Russ was looking down at his spear, seemingly oblivious to Francis's words, as if the request had never been spoken.
"Then I'll split it according to the Great Company structure. I have thirteen Great Companies in total, so from now on they'll be called Space Wolf First, Second, Third..." He spoke to Guilliman in a low voice, completely bypassing Francis.
Guilliman took over the conversation, his brow furrowed, sitting upright and serious. "Russ, I agree with your point of view, but the number of splits needs to be carefully considered. We can't rush it... Oh, by the way, shouldn't we further refine the specific details of the reorganization?"
Throughout the room, the other Primarchs took turns discussing the details of dividing their legions, their voices rising and falling in overlapping debates, completely ignoring Francis's earlier request.
Francis: "..."
What happened to the brotherhood we promised?
...
After the meeting, Francis stopped them, leaving Guilliman and the others somewhat confused.
As the gates opened and rows of white orks appeared, they remained completely unfazed by the sight of so many Primarchs watching them. Their confidence was almost offensive.
"Wot you lookin' at?"
"Why's ya lot wit da boss?"
"Wot level is ya?"
The fully armed white ork boyz had a disturbingly wise look in their eyes, intelligence that shouldn't exist in greenskins.
Primarchs: "..."
Francis handed clusters of white orks and several ork communication devices to Guilliman and the others. "From now on, you can contact each other through these devices!"
He tapped the grotesque technology with something approaching pride. "The ork in the golden armor is the primary unit. You can use this to call Father directly from now on."
Francis grinned as he promoted his technological products. He promised that once they became dependent on his ork communications, they would trade for equipment, technology, xenos specimens, and other such items.
'First, I'll establish a market for free. Later, when there are more users, this will be a huge business opportunity! He-He'
Guilliman and the others looked at him suspiciously. They had only seen such a treacherous expression in black markets, and he was definitely up to no good.
Francis then walked over to Guilliman and handed him a collection of silver potions. "Remember to carry this with you at all times. If you encounter a traitorous brother, remember to drink it immediately." He said it mysteriously, like a conspirator sharing secrets.
Guilliman accepted the gift, his expression somewhat troubled. "Brother, your concoctions are effective. But can you eliminate these side effects?"
His tone grew pained. "The smell is overwhelming! I can't wear my old power armor anymore!"
Upon hearing this, Francis's expression hardened. He ignored him, thinking, 'He's getting gifts for nothing and still complaining! Tch, rich bastard.'
Then he approached Rogal Dorn, handed him several bottles of potions and a brocade pouch, and said, "If you encounter traitors, remember to open my gift!"
He paused, then added casually, "Well, I was recruiting on Terra and happened to see many fine recruits in the Phalanx. I'm a little short on manpower, brother."
Dorn was initially pleased to hear this; it was the first time his brother had given him a gift. But upon hearing the rest, the slight smile that had been playing on his lips vanished instantly.
He looked at Francis with extreme vigilance, like a fortress commander spotting siege engines, and replied with utmost seriousness, his voice like granite: "I am Rogal Dorn!"
"Huh? Wha-"
"I am Rogal Dorn."
Francis: "..."
Finally, he approached Lion El'Jonson and handed him a massive blackstone chest containing some potions. "When the Dark Angels storm into Chaos territory, the blackstone chest will grant you new capabilities."
The Lion looked at the gift, his eyes flickering with calculations known only to himself, but finally accepted it and said in a calm tone, "Francis, you really are different from before!"
This gave Francis a sharp pain in his head; it was utterly illogical what that meant.
Francis also distributed potions to the other Primarchs, and everyone's face was filled with cautious appreciation. They then left the conference room one after another.
The golden glow of the sunset outlined three tall figures. Francis, Perturabo, and Ferrus stood there, watching their brothers board the warships one by one, leaving Terra to embark on their respective campaigns.
A moment of silence enveloped the three of them, while the distant roar of the fleet's engines sounded like a deep war song, vibrating in everyone's chest.
"Is it because they might encounter danger during their missions that you prepared these things?" Ferrus crossed his arms and watched as Guilliman's flagship took off, engines flaring against the dying light.
"More or less!" Francis spoke languidly, as if he hadn't basked in the sun like this in a long time.
Ferrus and Perturabo turned their gaze from the fleet to Francis, seemingly wanting to know why he had done this, what plans lay behind the gifts.
"We are brothers."
"Yeah, we're brothers!"
A gentle breeze swept by, carrying away the farewell and the brothers.
Suddenly, Perturabo said with some hesitation, "Speaking of missions, regarding the webway... do you really think we can succeed this time? That place is the Eldar's domain."
He glanced at the empty sky. "And the Khan hasn't shown up yet. What's he doing? Is he dead?"
Before the words were finished, a deep rumble came from the distant horizon.
The three on the platform instinctively looked up and saw a formation of jetbikes tearing through the clouds, rapidly approaching with dazzling exhaust flames. The leader was a tall figure wearing a white robe that fluttered in the wind, and the dazzling sunlight reflected off his silver armor.
Jaghatai Khan's jetbike glided gracefully to the edge of the platform, its anti-grav field barely disturbing the ground, before it executed a stylish tail swing and came to a steady stop. His gaze, sharp as an eagle's, swept over everyone present, a faint smile playing on his lips, his voice carrying the unrestrained confidence of a steppe storm.
"HA-HA-HA Perturabo, don't rush to write my epitaph. I've heard about the webway plans. Don't worry, when the time comes, the wind will carry me back."
As soon as he finished speaking, the jetbike's engine roared up again, and the Khan immediately turned the handlebars. The bike whipped up a gust of wind, turned around, and flew into the distant horizon. His escort followed closely behind, a fleet of jetbikes lined up in neat formation, quickly disappearing beyond the horizon.
Perturabo: "???"
Francis: "...0_0"
Ferrus: "..."
They'd never seen anyone so ostentatious. The Khan made even simple departures into performances.
....
Meanwhile, inside the throne room, the psionic flames illuminated the Emperor's imposing figure as He quietly worked upon His throne, maintaining the Astronomican's unceasing light.
Suddenly, a few strange cries echoed in the silent space.
Poru-Poru-Poru-Poruru...
The Adeptus Custodes quickly became alert, and several fully armed warriors simultaneously placed their hands on their guardian spears. Then they realized that the ork communications array in the corner had activated. Six or seven ork heads of various shapes were now emitting discordant buzzing vibrations.
A Custodian Shield-Captain slowly stepped forward and answered the transmission. Guilliman's familiar and confident voice came from the other end.
"Father, we're departing on our missions!"
Almost simultaneously, several other transmissions were answered, with different voices coming through, some were the composed Dorn, some the rugged Leman Russ, some the eager Magnus, and even the calm and somewhat enigmatic Lion. Their voices were perfectly synchronized, as if by prior agreement, each sentence conveying the same message.
"Father, we're departing on our missions!"
The Custodians in the hall were all stunned, their hands trembling slightly as they held the grotesque devices.
They looked at the Emperor in disbelief. The sound of ceramite boots being fastened could even be heard through the transmissions; the Primarchs were still preparing as they called.
"..."
The Emperor closed His eyes, His hands resting on the Golden Throne, making a metallic twisting sound, His chest heaving with what might have been exasperation.
He gently raised His hand, and an indescribable psionic power gathered at His fingertips, shining as brightly as a star. Then a giant, illusory hand of psychic energy suddenly swung toward the void.
In an instant, a desolate prison world deep within the galaxy was locked onto. On the planet's surface, criminals were engaged in endless battles, and beneath the high walls of the prison, violence and chaos reigned everywhere.
Suddenly, a psionic storm split open in the sky, enveloping the entire planet in vast psychic energy that trembled violently. The planet's surface began to crack, buildings turned to dust, and raging winds carrying billowing flames devoured everything. Ultimately, the world was reduced to nothing in a silent explosion, leaving only fragments of dust floating in the darkness of the void.
Before the Golden Throne, the Emperor slowly lowered His hand, and His previously furrowed brow even relaxed considerably. The stress relief was apparently effective.
The Custodians were relieved to see this, but their gaze swept across the throne room, and the scene before them was nothing like the solemn sanctum they were familiar with.
On one side, several crude psychic bone factories were making a rumbling noise. The robotic arms operated at high speed, continuously transporting newly forged spirit bones to the end of the assembly line, accompanied by piercing buzzing sounds.
Occasionally, one could see several Soul Drinkers wearing Imperial laurels, solemnly inspecting the devices, muttering something under their breath, as if these xenos constructs were works of art.
On the other side, what shocked the Custodians even more was the sight of rows upon rows of communication devices shaped like ork heads, neatly arranged, some even painted with different colors and armor, looking both comical and absurd. Several white orks were grappling with each other, bellowing something incomprehensible.
"Is this... the throne room? Or the camp of some ork warband?" One of the Custodians silently questioned. His helm covered his face, but if anyone could see him, they would find that his expression was already rigid with disbelief.
"We are the Adeptus Custodes, warriors who protect the Emperor and the last hope of Mankind..." Another Custodian thought to himself, but found himself standing next to these ridiculous contraptions, feeling like the caretaker of some deranged experiment.
Even more outrageous, not far away, one of the Soul Drinkers seemed to think the work atmosphere wasn't energetic enough and started humming a strange tune. This made the whole scene even more surreal, now resembling some manner of forge-zoo filled with noise and xenos stench.
The sound of countless auramite boots shifting in unease echoed through the chamber.
....
The forests of Caliban were shrouded in night, and the ancient canopies swayed in the breeze like shadows creeping silently in the darkness.
Luther stood on a high platform, looking down at the warriors gathered before him, his face gloomy and cold.
"Caliban does not need Terra's enslavement! We are the sons of Caliban, the masters of Caliban!" His voice rose, carrying across the gathering.
"The Imperium's iron fist will only crush our homeworld into dust, and their bureaucrats have betrayed us! They want to destroy Caliban! Do you agree?"
Luther's voice echoed through the forest, shaking everyone's hearts like thunder.
"No!"
The surrounding Dark Angels looked at Luther with complex expressions. Some, ignited by his passion, echoed him loudly, their loyalty to homeworld overriding oaths to distant Terra. Others struggled with loyalty and suspicion, torn between two masters.
[End of Chapter]
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